6.

There were approximately two things Garrett had noticed about the policeman which caught his attention. Number one, and the most obvious of these, was the bright, fiery mop of hair which he kept. It was a little wild, a little exotic -- he could get a feel for something like that, but it wasn’t what really pushed him to take an interest in the poor fellow. It was the way he had looked at the bodies and holstered his gun. He’d stood there -- a little arrogantly, Garrett had to admit -- leaning back with a look of satisfaction on his face, as if here were an executioner who’d just been paid his wages.
    Garrett still had the crowbar he’d lifted from the first man. It’s weight felt good in his hands -- it begged usage, and so, with whispers for feet, Garrett slunk between shadows and -- bam! -- one mildly concussed police officer lay at his feet. Did he feel a bit sorry for the knock? Well, maybe. Blood seeped through the officer’s hair and soaked his forehead. The cut was superficial, Garrett knew. A few stitches and he’d be all set. Nope -- no guilt here. Not for Garrett. He was doing the man a favour, after all.
    The real trouble was hoisting the man over his shoulders. He was built like a cliff, Garrett thought, a cliff that took root in the ground and did not move. With a bit of shrugging and plenty of bending, he eventually managed the feat. The officer coiled around his shoulders like an oversized cat. He wished he could stay here longer -- the decomposition of bodies was a fascinating process -- but any moment now the man’s uniformed chums would be here, and he was in no mood to deal with that.
    Out the door and into the night Garrett took off running. When he was about a hundred yards from the warehouse, he slowed to a walk. Already, his shoulders were sore from all the weight, but he was built of resilient stuff and the pain was soon willed away. He slipped into an alley, embracing stenches and shades he called home.
    He liked the feel of the city at night. The air felt cooler, sharper, and poured in and out of his lungs with greater ease. At night he felt protected, all wrapped up in his cloak of shadows he could slip into darkness and disappear at the toss of a coin. You can’t kill what you can’t see.
    Half an hour into his march Garrett stopped for a break. He lay the policeman down as gingerly as he would a child, and for a long while sat and studied the man. Faces were Garrett’s favourite part of a person. Whatever their situation in life, its results were always written on a person’s face in the form of slopes, lines, and creases. From the officer’s face, he deduced that he was a hard man -- there was scarce a trace of smile lines around his lips -- but one who had yet to be touched by the wrinkle-inducing tragedies of the world. It was a handsome face, if a little boring. Garrett grew tired of it.
    From one of the pockets which lined his belt, he drew a switchblade and with a succinct movement, sliced a lock of scarlet hair from the police officer. The lock, along with the blade, were then stashed away.
    Garrett clasped his knees and stood. Night waned -- it was time to run again.