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The picture he'd stolen of her, emerging from the hospital at the top of the steps under the classical pediment of the portico, stood in the middle of the board staring down at the things he'd spread before her.There were the cable ties that would grace her wrists and ankles; there the tape that would stifle any cry; there the mask and gloves that would hide his identity from her. He needed no more than that. He could tell that she was not weak but he knew that he was stronger. No need for weapons; no need for threats. He was fit; he trained his body for his mission and he trained his mind. Her slight build would present no threat. He could sense how she would feel in his arms; her thin waist gripped, pulling her back against him; her already pale complexion drained of blood by fear, those carmine lips pressed silent by his gloved hand. As always the sense of anticipation was sufficient to set his pulse racing.He looked again at where he would keep her; the small cabinet, the. At school he had traded naughty stories with his playmates. Once he had even purchased the services of a whore with money saved from his wage as an assistant clerk at the millinery shop on Main Street. It had been a sordid little affair -- over in a couple of minutes -- just a matter of sticking his organ into... And he had barely managed to catch a glimpse of her body. He still had only the vaguest notion of what a woman's body looked like, aside from her secret place.It had to happen. Late one evening he was on his way to attend to a call of nature. He pulled open the door of the outhouse... and there she was. Sitting there was his naked wife. He just stood and gawked, openmouthed."Howard!"He turned and fled.It was ten after two by the pendulum clock in the parlor. He hadn't been up this late in years. Burning precious lamp oil, too. The words in the book on his lap were blurring. Were those blots on the pages from his tears?There were soft footsteps behind him. He didn't turn.
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