Chapter 7 chapter Five

Drive along SW 80th Street to Old Cutler Road, then head south.The roads in the suburbs are empty and lonely late at night.We turned into a housing development on the other side of the Snape River, a project that had been put on hold because of the developer's money-laundering conviction.In such an unfinished building, no one will disturb us. We sat in the car for a while, admiring the view—the moon on the water, the face of McGregor, a pedophile killer, with a noose around his neck. This picture is very beautiful. I got out of the car and pulled McGregor tightly. After a little effort, he fell to his knees, holding the fishing line around his neck with both hands, hoping to get some air.

I pulled him up and pushed him up the three wooden steps into the trailer.Formerly a makeshift office on a construction site, it's now a hangout for thrill-seeking teens and people like me who need a little privacy.Before McGregor could react, I had already tied him to the table and bound his hands and feet with plastic tape. "Please," his voice was full of fear, like sand rubbing against glass, "I'll give you whatever you want." "Yeah, you will," Nightcrawler and I said in unison, and it hit him home.I pulled out the pictures from his yacht and held them in front of his eyes.

"Where did you get that?" He still had a hard mouth for a man who was about to be cut into pieces. "Tell me who took these pictures?" "Why should I tell you?" he said. I got out a pair of tin scissors, and cut off the first two fingers of his left hand.He struggled and screamed, and blood flowed out.Blood always pissed me off so I shoved a tennis ball into his mouth and cut off the first two fingers of his right hand so he wouldn't howl. The great pain woke him up and helped him judge the situation.Here, it is a force stronger than him that dominates everything.He was facing a devil in a white taffeta mask, not a child, a child who had no strength to resist.He squinted at me with one eye, and there was a knowing expression on his face, the expression you get when you have transcended pain and know that pain is inevitable.

If he's smart, I'll let him go to God faster, but he can't get to God, he can only go in the opposite direction. There was obvious weakness in his eyes, and I took the tennis ball out of his mouth. "Who took the picture?" he laughed. "I wish one of them was a picture of you," he said, and the next ninety minutes were his reward for those words. If it was normal, I would be satisfied for several days after every night action, and the raging desire receded like a tide.But the morning after McGregor hurried off the stage, I was still excited and full of anticipation.I desperately want to find the photographer in the red cowboy boots and put him off for good.I belong to the kind of clean and thorough demon who never likes to give up halfway.The thought of someone walking around the world in those ludicrous boots with a camera in hand that has seen so much, I can't wait to follow those footprints and complete the second part of my project.

Maybe I was too sloppy with McGregor, I should give him a little more time, give him a little more encouragement, and maybe he'll come clean.I thought I'd be able to find it without breaking a sweat—whenever the Nightcrawler was at the wheel, I was sure there was nothing I couldn't do.Although everything is working fine so far, this time I'm in a bit of an awkward situation where I have to find the Mr. Boots on my own.