Prodigal Son

to be, she wouldn't have taken such goofy pride in this accomplishment.
        Between the car and the house, the sunlight seemed bright enough to blind her. Even in her bedroom, daylight at the windows stung her bloodshot eyes and made her wince.
        She shut the blinds. She closed the drapes. She considered painting the room black, but decided that would be going too far.
        Fully clothed, she fell into bed and was asleep before the pillows finished compressing under her head.

CHAPTER 47
        
        THE FOURTH TIME that Roy Pribeaux opened the freezer to see if Candace was still there, she was still there, so he decided to rule out the possibility that he might be delusional.
        He had not taken his car the previous night. He lived within strolling distance of the Quarter. They had walked everywhere.
        Yet he could not have carried her all the way from the levee to his loft. Although he was a strong man and getting stronger by the day, she was a heavy person.
        Besides, you couldn't carry an eyeless corpse around the heart of New Orleans without drawing comment and suspicion. Not even New Orleans.
        He didn't own a wheelbarrow. Anyway, that wouldn't have been a practical solution.
        He poured another glass of apple juice to accompany what remained of the muffin.
        The only credible explanation for Candace's surprise appearance was that someone had brought her here from the levee and stowed her in his food freezer. The same person had put the three plastic containers, with organs, in the other freezer, the love locker.
        This meant that someone knew Roy had killed Candace.
        Indeed, that someone must have watched him kill her.
        "Spooky," he whispered.
        He had not been aware of being followed. If someone had been dogging him, watching him romance Candace, the guy had been a master of surveillance, nearly as ephemeral as a ghost.
        Not just someone. Not just anyone. Considering the human organs in the three tacky containers with ugly green lids, the perpetrator could be none other than the copycat killer.
        Roy's work had inspired an imitator. The imitator had by these actions said, Hi there. Can we be friends? Why don't we combine our collections?
        Although Roy was flattered, as any artist might be flattered by the admiration of another artist, he didn't like this development. He didn't like it at all.
        For one thing, this organ-obsessed individual was a burrower whose fascination with internals was gross and unsophisticated. He wasn't of Roy's caliber.
        Besides, Roy didn't need or want the admiration of anyone. He was sufficient unto himself-until the perfect woman of his destiny entered his life.
        He wondered when the copycat had visited. Candace had donated her eyes only a little more than twelve hours before he had found her in his freezer. The intruder would have had only two opportunities to bring her to the loft.
        Satisfied with his life, immensely satisfied with himself, Roy had no reason for insomnia. He slept soundly every night.
        The copycat, however, could not have brought such a heavy person as Candace into the loft and to the freezer while Roy slept unawares.
        The kitchen was open to the dining area. The dining area flowed into the living room. Only a pony wall separated the living room from the bedroom. Sound would have traveled unobstructed, and Roy would have been awakened.
        Now he went into the bathroom at the far end of the loft from the kitchen. He shut the door. He turned on the water in the shower. He switched on the vent fan.
        Yes. Entirely possible. The copycat could have brought Candace into the loft when Roy had been enjoying his predawn shower.
        He took long showers: the exfoliating soap with loofa sponge, the moisturizing soap, two superb shampoos, a cream conditioner.
        The visitor's precise timing suggested that he knew a great deal about Roy's domestic routine. And he must have a key.
        Roy had no landlord. He owned the building. He possessed the only keys to the loft.
        Standing in the bathroom, surrounded by the susurrant rush of water and vent-fan blades, he was overcome by the suspicion that the copycat was in the apartment even now, preparing another surprise.
        This concern had no merit, based as it was on the requirements that the copycat be omniscient and omnipresent.