Look Behind You

By Lise Guilbault

Danger doesn’t always lurk in the shadows. Sometimes, monsters walk among us, learn our secrets, pretend to hold our hand when we need it the most. Claire unknowingly allows such a monster to enter her world, to become part of her life. Unfortunately for her, discovering his true identity might have come too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lise Guilbault
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310301995

Lise Guilbault

Lise Guilbault was born in Ottawa, Ontario Canada. She and her husband of 41 years have one daughter and two lovely granddaughters. Since retiring, Lise has published four novels, and is currently working on another exciting romantic suspense/thriller. When she is not writing, Lise enjoys painting, sewing and gardening. She and her husband also share a love of travel. Lise currently resides in Mississippi Station, Ontario Canada.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my husband,

Marc, for keeping my

insane world that much saner!

I love you. L.

Acknowledgement

To my beautiful niece, Mel, whose picture

graces the cover of this novel, thank you!

You were the icing on the cake!

Tante Lise xoxo

***

Peanut, thanks for the memories, honey.

You will be missed.

September 10, 2001 - May 19, 2015

"The walls we build around us to

keep sadness out also keep

out the joy."

- Jim Rohn

PROLOGUE

No doubt about it, killing is a dirty business, he mused, as he cleaned up after his latest victim. A meaningful kill, in his opinion, had to result in a bloody mess. The bloodier, the better. Otherwise, it meant he had let himself down, had rushed things. And he never rushed a kill. Ever.

The kill itself was always chillingly exciting. It was the aftermath which he viewed as grueling and tedious. After all, disposing of a garbage bag was one thing; disposing of a one-hundred-plus-pound body was quite another. One did not simply stroll over to the nearest dumpster and sling the body over the top.

And therein lay the problem. He was getting older and this was getting harder. It pissed him off to think he was no longer as strong as he used to be when he had first taken up his unusual 'hobby.'

Used to be he could pick off two of them in one

day without batting an eye. Now, here he was in his early forties, feeling like an old man.

The women fought, begged, most shit themselves. This had taught him there was no pride in dying. He was certain, had he been in such a situation, he would never debase himself in such a disgusting manner. He would beg for death rather than crap himself.

Ideally, he would have a crematorium on his property. This would make body disposal so much easier. Into the incinerator, push a button and presto, outta here! As it was, once he had killed them, he had no choice but to bundle them up, carry them to his car, drive until he found satisfactory dumping grounds, hoist them out of the car and plunk them down in the dirt. A bitch of a job, and the only part he hated.

Of course, having pride in his trade, he never just left them to be found as is. It was of the utmost importance that he pose them in a manner which showed who they truly were. Women - or girls in most cases - were whores, plain and simple. As such, it was important they be displayed in a manner befitting who they were and what they represented.

The newspapers always failed to mention that tiny

detail, how beautifully they were posed - with artistic flair - because they never found out about it. He knew why the cops were leaving out these details, of course. They always withheld the juiciest bits from any crime scene. Things only the killer would know, blah, blah, blah. It was 'Criminology 101.'

No matter. What he did or did not do to his pretties was not for their benefit; it was for his. As long as he was happy, it was all that mattered.

He had made a career out of torturing and killing young things. They were the tastiest morsels. He liked those with tiny waists and big tits the most. More fun to be had. Not that he cared about big breasts; he did not. To him, large breasts simply meant larger parts to play with.

But God, they had big mouths. Once they came to, it never failed, they screamed their fool heads off until he had no choice but to gag them. Usually with their own underwear. Unfortunately, some got so scared, they pissed or shit themselves, in which case he would be forced to find an alternate way to shut them up, like sewing up their lips. He enjoyed sewing and was quite good at it, but despite his sewing knowledge, he rarely used this particular skill for that purpose. Too many other fun things to do!

If asked, he would concede to being an old pro at this killing business. If colleges ever added serial killing to the curriculum, he laughed to himself, he could teach it. Bet he could get tenure in no time, he thought, giving the table one last swipe with a moderately clean cloth.

He didn't remember any other way, actually. He'd made his first kill at eighteen. Stupid virgin had been batting her eyes and shaking her ass at him for weeks. Thought she was all that, he supposed.

He had worked at Jimmy's Garage that summer. Old Jimmy had hired him on as a gas jockey, but he had been doing such a great job, he had soon graduated to occasionally subbing as a grease monkey. Oh, what a thrill, he thought, and rolled his eyes. Poor Jimmy believed he was bestowing the greatest honour on his newest employee.

The job was okay, he supposed. It paid a shit salary but it gave him a few bucks to buy the things he needed to set up his secret hideaway. Well, hideaway was overstating it a bit, he conceded. It was more of an old shed he had found in the woods behind his house, about three hundred yards in. The thing was falling apart. Literally. It was hanging by the proverbial thread.

Standing and stretching his stiff back, he grabbed the soiled rag he kept on the shelf below the

window. As he once again wiped down his work bench, he thought back to the battle he had fought with his latest victim. She could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, but damn if she didn't fight him every inch of the way.

She had pissed him off to where he had cracked her skull on the table just to stop her from moving. He had been furious with himself for losing control. Because of his nasty temper, he had screwed himself out of some prime fun by killing her prematurely.

No matter, he thought. To him, she represented nothing more significant than a few moments of total exhilaration. Pure bliss. That moment when he placed his hand over their heart to feel their life force slowly ebbing from their body. Never failed to make him hard. To thrash around to the point where he lost his temper and was forced to kill them prematurely was beyond maddening.

The problem was The Rules. He had worked long and hard determining the rules he would expect his girls to abide by, and he felt it important that he explain these rules to them before the fun could begin. To do that, he needed absolute quiet. Few understood this. Was it too much for him to insist on a mere two minutes of their undivided attention? He thought not. Young people just did not know the meaning of respect these days.

Growing up, he learned the meaning of respect. If he forgot himself, even once, he was reminded. The reminder, usually administered by his father, was swift and harsh, guaranteed to improve his memory.

He had not exactly been a typical youngster, hiding in his bedroom, peeking at girly magazines while he jerked off under the covers. That was not for him. He got his rocks off staring at pictures of small animals and fantasizing about new ways of torturing, killing and dismembering their tiny bodies. His favourite technique remained cutting them open while they were still alive and staring them in the eye, knowing they were about to breathe their last. It was a powerful feeling unsurpassed by any other.

Had his mom ever caught him, he would not have feared her reaction. Her sweet boy was studying - a science project, one might say.

In his teens, he'd found the fun to be diminishing, the thrill of the kill had fizzled out. His only choice had been to kick it up a notch. Although he had occasionally abducted and tortured young girls, it had taken a few years before he found the courage to actually take a girl's life.

His first kill had been his most memorable. That was when he'd come to understand the drug

addict's need to 'chase the dragon.' No matter how many kills he had under his belt, none ever equaled or surpassed his first. He suspected none ever would.

That first time, he had cried afterwards. Not out of sadness or shame for his actions. His tears were borne of pure joy. He had finally discovered his purpose in life, the reason he had been put on this earth. His mission was clear and he would fulfill it to the best of his ability.

Unfortunately, he had been forced to slow down somewhat in the last year or so. His reflexes were not what they had been in his twenties. The risk of getting caught was greater. And being discovered was not an option, not after the years of grueling work he had invested. He would die before he let anyone take from him the one pleasure he had in life.

Hence the reason why he decided to take a sabbatical of sorts. He needed to take a well-deserved rest. On second thought, he could always make this a working holiday.

Although he had done a fair amount of hunting while growing up back in Oregon, he had not gone fishing in years. So it was time to have a bit of good, clean fun.

CHAPTER ONE

Ow! Dammit! Although Claire was alone in the room, no one would know it to hear her jabbering to herself as she struggled diligently to accomplish a task better suited to a carpenter or, at the very least, someone familiar with the ins and outs of renovation work. Stopping to take in a huge gulp of air, and an equal dose of determination, Claire once again set her mind to accomplishing the near impossible.

As she did every day since purchasing The Laughing Loon Lodge, Claire was attempting to fix something which had been left in disrepair by the previous owners. As a fiercely independent and, some would say, strong-minded woman of thirty-four, she'd never shied away from work of any kind, be it simple or difficult. She had a well-rounded education in business, specifically, hotel management. Twelve years of working to line her employer's pockets had been the kick in the pants

she had needed to finally take the plunge and acquire a business of her own. Truth be told, it had not exactly been a budget-breaking expenditure. The previous owners had gone into foreclosure, which in turn meant Claire had been in a position to buy the Lodge at a premium from the financial institution holding the mortgage.

Needless to say, this suited Claire just fine. As a single woman, no matter how well she had done professionally, she had found that putting money aside could prove to be challenging with only one salary to work with. Regardless, although she was low on cash flow, she was rich in ambition. Come hell or high water, she was determined to make a go of it.

Claire had put everything she had on the line. She smiled as she thought back to all the things she had given up to realize her dream. Restaurants and takeout had become a thing of the past, as had shopping for matching accessories and jewellery. Until five years ago, Claire had enjoyed at least one trip or cruise per year, and sometimes two. No more.

Smiling now as she thought back to her 'salad days,' she reflected that the sacrifices had been well worth it. Sore thumbs and tired body notwithstanding, she firmly believed she had made the right move. As Claire preferred to view it, any

aches and pains she suffered were proof that she was living her dream. This place, with its broken hinges, cracked windows and rotted docks, was all hers. As were the headaches that came along with it.

The Lodge was located five miles outside the town of Elmsmere, Virginia, on pristine Clyde River. In the time since her arrival three months ago, she had come to enjoy her short jaunts into town, undertaken every second or third day, and more often than not including a visit to the General Store then a quick, budget-friendly lunch at Rocky's Diner, where she would enjoy a brief chat with her new friend, Sally.

She and Sally had become fast friends when Claire had first moved to Elmsmere. They had met at the diner where Sally worked, then had encountered each other at a couple of benefit fundraisers and town festivals. It was great knowing someone from town. Sally always knew who to recommend for whatever small job Claire needed done on her property. And the workers she recommended had always proven themselves to be both reliable and competent.

Her first month at the Lodge had consisted mostly of scrubbing it down from floor to ceiling and back again. Sally had offered her help, and what a blessing that had turned out to be! Neither woman

had ever seen quite as much dirt and grime in their entire lives. The previous owners had obviously let things go before actually calling it quits. Sally's husband, Sam, had offered to make a few trips to the dump and Recycling Center to dispose of the tons of junk and trash scattered about the property.

Claire planned on organizing an open house and inviting her new friend, Sally, Sam, as well as a few new acquaintances from town, to introduce them, and the community, to the new and improved Laughing Loon Lodge.

For the moment, however, Claire's single focus was on replacing the damaged screens on the Lodge's double front screen doors. At first glance, the task had appeared easy enough, but if she dinged any more fingers, she would have to resort to using her teeth.

Opening day, if all went well, was a week away, and there remained so many things that needed doing. Claire worried she had bitten off more than she could chew. Picking up her screwdriver and shaking off the pain, Claire once again attacked the screens.

Why does the internet always make it look so damn easy? she grumbled to herself.

Preoccupied with her one-sided conversation, Claire failed to hear a car pull up to the side of the main Lodge. Nor did hear or expect the man who walked right up to the door and said, Should I answer that question?

Claire jumped, scraping the only finger she had not yet injured. "Damn it! The second the word was out of her mouth, she regretted her outburst.

I'm sorry about that, she said. By way of apology, she raised her hand to show him what shape her fingers were in. When you startled me, I stabbed the only finger I had left that doesn't look like ground meat.

No problem. I don't offend easily. He stood, arms crossed at his chest in a relaxed pose, and calmly scanned his surroundings.

Can I help you? Claire asked. I hope you're not lost because I'm the last person you should ask for directions. I've just moved to the area myself.

No, I'm not lost. Found you on that cursed internet and wanted to come by to ask if you have any cabins available for a couple of weeks, maybe longer if I can swing it.

Claire was not expecting this. What should she do? The Lodge was not open for business, but she

sure could use the income. Two weeks? It could be a godsend!

Well, I'd be more than happy to have you stay, but we're not officially open for business just yet. The cabins are ready, but the Lodge's kitchen isn't. My cook doesn't start for another two days.

Claire waited, hoping he would not let such a small detail as going without food deter him. I suppose you could eat your meals in town. I would, of course, give you a discounted rate for the cabin.

After giving it some thought, the man said, That's too bad. I was really looking forward to a bit of down time, but I'm not crazy about having to drive to town to eat my meals. Tell you what. As unconventional as this sounds, how about you let me stay, you cut fifty percent off my bill, and I cook breakfast and dinner, for both of us, for the next two days.

Are you kidding? she asked. Shaking her head and smiling at his brand of humour, she added, You are kidding, right? Claire was convinced he was pulling her leg. No one in their right mind would make such an offer. At least not people she knew.

"No kidding. I love to cook; pretty good at it, too.

So what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Chewing on her bottom lip, her mind racing to come up with a proper response, she looked up and said, "Tell you what. I'll do you one better. If

you cook two meals a day for two days, I won't charge you a penny for those two days in exchange for your work."

He let out a short laugh, then said, Ma'am, you need to brush up on your negotiating skills. When someone makes you an offer, you never give more than what they're asking.

Claire smiled, then said, I know, but I'm convinced you're just a figment of my imagination, which means I can make any offer I like because it's not real.

Funny lady, the stranger said, a broad smile lighting up his handsome face.

Raising herself from the floor with a groan, she put down her screwdriver, wiped her hands on the front of her pants, then turned toward the front desk area. Okay. Great! Let's get you checked in, then. Claire led the way and proudly registered her very first guest.

She was thankful - and proud - that her booking system was up and running, as was her

bookkeeping software. It was a matter of pride to her that every task she undertook be completed fully before starting another. Having majored in hotel management, she knew the importance of a well-run front desk. As a new business owner, Claire would be wearing many hats at first and would have no time for tweaking and fixing the system once her business took off. There was also the small matter of a limited budget which did not allow for a large staff complement. The woman she had hired as Manager had spent one week on the premises and was now trained and ready to start work on Monday. It would be a relief to know she could share her burden with another person.

Walking towards the cabin she had assigned to her new guest, Paul McCoomb, Claire could not resist asking a question