The child's body flew over the edge, cartwheeling in the air with arms and legs extended, semiconscious, still alive. She thudded against the surface of the water far below. In just a short while the floating would begin.

Watching the free fall was almost, but not quite, like seeing someone float on water; it was over all too quickly for one thing, and while a curious sight, it was nothing like the total absorption of watching a floater on water. Watching the human body absorb water, be absorbed by the water, to finally become one with the water--now that was invigorating fun.

The sight of a floater never failed to lift the tired spirit and enervate the sad flesh. It was the way the arms went all rubbery, the way the torso bobbed in the water, how the head and hair turned to a large lily pad.

The gravel pit's black water had taken claim of the child, and far above, the killer watched. The water was now comforting her bruised side. She'd fallen halfway down on her own and had broken ribs. But she no longer felt any pain at all. She no longer suffered or feared for anything. Never again--never--for watery arms rocked her, the lulling sound of it whispering gently through her brain. The water played over her body, sucked her into its depths, rolled her over, invading her pores and every cavity. Soon it would send her up again to float.

Have to see the floating; hell wasn't that part of the purpose? To see the floater in repose, her body given over to these sanctifying, purifying waters? Not that the water in this hole in the ground was particularly clean, or best for the work. But who had time to run to Wisconsin or even out to Lake Michigan tonight? Still, it made no difference, for His Holiness accepted the purified and eased their pain and stopped their cries, no matter the filthiness or oiliness of the water. He'd even taken them in Alkali back in Utah and in the salt water off California's coast.

The killer had winced, groaned, ached and cried when the girl thudded against a protruding rock where she'd fallen earlier. The pain was excruciating, a lightning bolt to the right side, a jagged slash and the sound of broken ribs commingled with a sudden loss of breath, maybe punctured lungs. The perceived pain had made the killer collapse at the quarry wall, almost faint with anguish. But it was quickly good again, the pain gone. She was in the water now, trauma-gripped, catatonic, drowning, the way it should be.

This was the good time, the green leaf time, spring and summertime; the complete, whole, pleasing glow of new life, new birth, and resurrection. The time of peace, an end to all the scourges of the body, and the demon bacteria and disease feeding on it.

It was also the good time for the killer. When the soul triumphed, lived, felt most deeply. Accomplishment filled the ferryman over the River Styx, and why not? The others could never know, never understand. Hell, no one cared, really and truly and deeply, with conviction. The one who did the work of angels, did the work of the Reaper, the heaven-directed brother of all mankind, whose only crime was loving too much.

Only the killer's daughter understood, but she was so terribly far away now, and Mother, Mother understood, wherever she was. Hades most likely. Most assuredly not God's white peaceable kingdom. Impossible, since Mother had died in prison of an aneurism, unable to go to the water, denied the final baptism. Going to the water was their way.

As the killer got nearer the water, more of the floating little body could be seen. There in the cleansing pool, all comforts were coming to the baptized child. Stagnant blood, injured body, disease and illness, suffering and pain were all being washed into love. Laura was down there now, bathing, being caressed by the water flowing gentle over her mind and genitals, its soft touch cradling her, swallowing her, burying her nicely beneath the surface. Washing her clean.

Laura was floating peacefully now; at least four days over the Labor Day weekend, before someone discovered her. By then her little soul would be clean, the pain soothed and gone forever, a job well done.

But it had been sloppily handled. It hadn't been planned well. She wasn't supposed to fight, to run, or be thrown from this awful height. It was such a long way down, too. The body would be scarred, bones broken, maybe even the floating ruined. Not to mention the fact all this might raise questions. No one wanted her bruised, or suffering. But with time running out, dawn fast approaching, what choice was left? It would have taken up the better part of another hour to carry her down, and the entire way she would've been in pain from her bruises, and the child's anguish was unbearable after all. No, best to let the floating begin.

Resolutely the killer had finished Laura's fall for her, casting her body far out over the crater like a fisherman tossing his net.

Close now to the corpse, the empathy hypnotic, the child killer sweltered with sexual excitement. The feeling was warm, silky wet, musky smelling. The imagined feel of the water was charged with electrifying fingers, all caressing. The killer rushed to tear away clothing and plunge into the fluid hole, going headlong, knee-deep and getting deeper, wading out to the dead girl, wanting to join with her, rub her and the water against living organs and living skin, until finally wasted. Then tears coarsed down into the murky water, tears of jealousy and joy. When will my time come--when? the killer pleaded, staring at the freely floating girl.

And, in the killing mind, there was a light beneath the water funneling down through the girl's soul, burrowing into her and her killer. It was as if Laura was saying, "Wish you could come, too."

The death-bringer was filled now with empathic impressions; all flooded together into swirling, foamy, spirals of H2O, each atom clearly a heavenly fairy.

Crawling to the edge, the girl-killer stared back into murky water reaching into infinity. Part of the mind wished to truly join with the victim. But there was still so much work yet to do. Still so much suffering, so much pain to resolve and end once and for all. Who else was there to do the work? Who else had the heart, the nerve, or the conviction? Who else spoke with God?

Getting dressed again, the killer sat and watched until dawn as the child's body was finally waterlogged, rippling below the surface. During this time pictures were taken of the floater from various angles. As each picture popped from the camera, the killer made judgments on each, creating a fair, good, and excellent stack. All the debris from the film was carefully gathered and shoved into a pocket.

The killer sat in silence, smiling at the photos, awaiting the return of the body from below. It would be back up after some time; the water always gave them up as the flesh dissolved from the bone. The killer would stay long enough to see if Laura's return would be quick or slow. The killer liked to watch.

Watching was small comfort since anguish consumed nights, whole days. How easy it would be to join the dying one, to end it. As it was, viewing the floating--when the waters would lift the fragile-boned Laura to the surface anew--was the only real release and comfort. Now, even that was likely to be lost due to the hour. Too many people get snoopy by daylight. The car parked just outside the quarry gates would make someone wonder. The killer feared getting caught, because it would end the work, but also a death like Mother's was a horrid notion indeed.

Mother's features loomed over the stone quarry this moment, the killer seeing them in the mist. How wonderful if Mother were truly here. The killer thought of the faraway daughter. At very least, pictures could be taken and sent to her. Write something on the back, something silly like wishing you were here. Nothing like a few good photos to cheer you.

The killer had been careful with the camera, and now it was slung again over the shoulder. Knowing it would take so much time to get from the water to the car, the killer felt it was time to move on. Any additional glimpse of the floater must come from a distance.

"Never use this stinking spot again," the killer moaned inwardly.

Gary, Indiana lights began going out with the dawn as the slight figure of the darkly clad killer worked through a half-open gate on a frontage road off Interstate 55. In the distance the roar of a jet signaled an approach to Midway Airport in nearby Chicago. Just beyond the wall of trees bordering the quarry, cars sped by on I-55. To the killer's ears, the sound of jets and traffic was a defilement to the act, but what could be expected from people? Most people had no idea of the magic of death by drowning, nor ever would. Most would go the way of Mother, never knowing.

The killer found the car undisturbed and got in. Fatigue again threatened to induce sleep on the spot. No, go home to a comfortable bed. Next time work closer to home, take more care and preparations. Next time...