Night Watcher by Chris Longmuir Read Free Book Online Page B

bits and pieces that jumbled about there.
    He knew what was in her bag, just as he knew what was in every room of her house and every inch of her office. He knew what she had in her dirty washing basket at this very moment, and was familiar with the smell of her and everything she used. He could close his eyes and know she was there just from her perfume and her more intimate body smells.
    She felt safe at home. This was her castle, her protection. She had not yet suspected it had been invaded, and that even here he was watching.
    That would soon change, for the time was drawing near.
    The house was in darkness, a brooding, pulsating darkness that pleased him. However, he knew the light in the lounge would come on in a moment for she always followed the same routine. He prepared for this by moving further into the shadows. He did not want her to find him here. Not yet anyway. But the temptation to let her know he was watching her was strong tonight. He wanted to destroy the illusion that even here, where she thought she was safe, there was nowhere she could go to escape him.
    But the time was not yet right.
    The light spilled out over the grass and he watched as she emptied her briefcase onto the table and sorted through the papers, selecting the ones she wanted to work on. Her workload seemed heavy, but he did not feel sorry for her because he knew that those with power had to pay a price, and that price was linked strongly to the expectations of those who were even more powerful. She had chosen what she wanted to be, but he knew this was not enough for her and she wanted even more. She wanted to be the one who would exact the price. He could not allow that to happen because then, she would take over everything.
    Power! The word buzzed in his brain like a saw. When she did attain the power she desired he would have to stop her, before it became too great and swallowed everything in its path.
    She dimmed the lounge light, flicked on a table lamp, pulled a chair over to the table and, resting her chin on her left hand, started to read. A halo of light surrounded her, making her dark-blonde hair glint with the reflected glow. It straggled onto her shoulders where it separated into strands which seemed to have no connection with each other. The fingers of her right hand opened and closed in a restless rhythm and eventually she moved her hand upwards, reaching into her hair to tease the ends round and round her fingers.
    He wondered whether she could sense his presence and if so, why she never closed the curtains or put blinds on the windows. But she was arrogant. She probably assumed she could not be overseen here, where she felt so safe. She had probably chosen to live in this house because of its location in the countryside, its high walls and electrically operated gate, which, she foolishly thought, provided her with privacy.
    The house reflected the woman. She called it a bungalow, but it was larger with wings and extensions sprawling in all directions. It was ostentatious and smelled of money, just as she did.
    And yet, it was vulnerable in its isolation in the same way that she was vulnerable. She was feeling vulnerable now. He could see it in the little girl lost look that only appeared when she thought she was alone. At these times she appeared to be on the verge of crying, but never actually gave in to it. In any case he had come to the conclusion the vulnerability was a façade, another tool she used to wield her power. He had seen her using it, so he knew. There were times when she presented her vulnerable image to others, but when she did so she would wait until she had the other person’s sympathy, then she would stamp on them. Flatten them. Disintegrate them. He was not going to fall into that trap.
    It was the power image, the one she presented at work that had marked her out as the one. The voice in his head reminded him of those other women who had encroached on his life – women who had no right to be