CHAPTER TEN

Franklin West looked out the window of the cabin in the mountains and thought for the hundredth time how beautiful it was out here. People didn't give California enough credit for its natural beauty. Everyone was preoccupied with the cities and the beaches. He supposed the beaches were beautiful, but when people thought of California beaches, they didn't think of the waves or the soft sands, they thought of bleach blonde girls with manufactured bodies stuffed into undersized bathing suits and godlike men with wavy blonde hair and a tan that would eventually turn into malignant skin cancer, a dry cloak of calloused leather or both.

No one thought of the clear mountain air, the moon shimmering through the undulating pine forests. No one thought of the vast and imposing deserts, the acres of poppies in the southern valleys, or the rolling hills of the central inland paradise.

No, California, like so many places, had been commercialized and turned into a Hollywood caricature of progress, at least in the minds of everyone who lived outside of the state. It was too bad he had killed Sergeant Decker here. He would have loved to stay.

Oh well. Maybe when he retired. If he retired.

A part of him was retired, at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned. Franklin West had been his favorite personality, so much so that he thought of himself as West now.

The problem was that everyone now knew that Franklin West was the Copycat Killer, the serial murderer whose exploits had become so notorious that most didn't even remember who he was supposed to be copying. He could no longer work under that guise.

So, once more, he had to change himself. He stood on the balcony for a moment longer, then sighed and headed inside.

His tools were laid out on the bathroom sink. The prosthetics were easily obtained through a costume company. Halloween was in three weeks, and no one thought to ask why a man in his forties would want to change his appearance to look ten years older and thirty pounds heavier. He didn't even need to use the story about dressing as a famous serial killer for Halloween.

Which was for the best. It was a bit of arrogance to make up a story about being a different murderer for Halloween. It was unlikely that it would have raised eyebrows, but still, any risk was too much risk with Faith Bold hunting him.

He would miss the goatee, though. He thought it made him look distinguished.

He wouldn't miss the brown eyes. There was something about gray eyes he had always loved. They were just… well, he didn't know what to call it.

Vast. That was it. They were vast. Like the California desert. Like the Sierra Nevadas. Like the Pacific Ocean. They were vast, and when he placed the contacts carefully over his eyes, he looked into his reflection and saw a vast, all-consuming gaze.

He smiled at that and lifted his razor.

"Goodbye, Franklin West."