Covet by Tara Moss Read Free Book Online Page B

least. Luigi Valleto, an underworld price on his head, tossed and turned, racked with insomnia. Half-a-dozen other men dozed quietly in the darkness of their cells, snuggled into the canvas sheets that prevented suicide.
    But not Ed Brown.
    In his small dark cell, the killer who had not seen physical freedom for eighteen months was wide-awake and deeply immersed in a fantasy of recollection and sadistic desire. He recalled the pinnacle of his free life to date, the moment when he’d had in his possession a young woman he had devoted his time and energy to ensnaring. A woman he believed, from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, must be his.
    Yes. Perfect.
    ‘Perfect,’ he whispered so softly that not even Pete Stevens, who was walking past on his rounds, could hear him.
    In his fantasy Ed saw his supplies spread out over the table, as they had been eighteen months before. Supplies he had ‘borrowed’ from his workplace—the morgue.
    Scalpel.
    Shiny new enterotome with its bulb-ended blade and fierce inverted point.
    Toothed forceps.
    Rib-cutters laid out like pruning shears.
    All of the autopsy instruments were sharp and clean, glistening in the light like a child’s toys at Christmas.
    She will be my finest work, my finest possession.
    Deep within his fantasy, Ed could see her clearly. He could vividly recall the scent of the young woman’s fear, the texture of her fair skin, the look of absolute terror in her blue-green eyes when she realised that she could not break her binds, could not escape him.
    ‘Perfect…oh yes…yes…’
    The sweet smell of sweat and fear. The smell of blood. Ready for consumption. Ready for dissection.
    Under the canvas blanket Ed stroked himself, causing the cot to quietly shake. He could feel his pleasure rise, his heart beating faster.
    Mine!
    But just as he moved to finish his final act of possession, the fantasy shattered. There wasinterference. Things were no longer under his control. His visions of mastery and power faded to nothing, and all that he could see was that cop’s face.
    Andrew bloody Flynn.
    Ed gasped, overwhelmed by his frustration. A warm tear strayed from the corner of his eye. Even now he could almost feel the searing pain in his shoulder where the bullet had entered his body, signalling his defeat.
    The end of his perfect moment.
    The end of his freedom.
    Nooooo! Mother!
    It was predestined, he believed, and no passing of time could change destiny. The defeat had to be temporary. It had to be. And now Ed had a plan that would give him the second chance he needed to fulfil his destiny. That thought was the only thing that kept him going in this foul, stinking place.
    She will be mine. My perfect number ten. It’s destiny.
    Ed pulled a small, ragged newspaper photo of Makedde Vanderwall out from behind the unframed black-and-white snap showing his mother in her younger days. He kept Mak’s picture taped flat against the back. The corrections officers wouldn’t let him have a photo frame in his cell: too many sharp points. And his original photo of Makedde and her model friend Catherine— Me and Mak making it big in Munich! scrawled on the back—was forever taken from him as police evidence. They wouldn’t let him have it back,which secretly made him furious. But he had this news clipping. He had cut her face out and it was good. Anyone could see the resemblance was remarkable, particularly in grainy black-and-white newsprint.
    Mother. Makedde. Mother. Makedde. Mother.
    He enjoyed the sight of her for a few minutes, and then carefully taped the clipping back into place. In less than an hour the night-shift woman would begin her rounds, and Ed would give her the final instructions that would see him free in mere days. Everything was progressing better than he could have hoped. Yes, it was destiny. It had to be.
    I’m coming for you, Makedde.

CHAPTER 7
    At nine on Wednesday morning, Makedde Vanderwall took a seat in the chambers of William Bartel,