The night is near and the moon is full. The embers of a cigarette glow in the dark recesses of the decrepit wood plank cabin. The sunlight is receding from the smudged window pane as a dark shadow steps forward. Dusk has fallen.

The man is of average size and build. His body is toned and he has an athletic build. One of the four panes of glass in the window is broken. He peers through the open square down at the small riverboat passing by. The pilot house gives off a slight green glow from the navigational equipment, where he can barely make out a form. 

On the forward part of the vessel bow lights illuminate two people sitting on a large life vest box. One is a short portly man, who has a large camera hanging around his neck. The man peeking from the broken window pays no heed to him. He is much more interested in the bikini clad female. 

Her bathing suit is a turquoise blue covered with a white knit swim wrap that does little to hide her exquisite form, punctuated by very supple curves and ample feminine angles. He feels an all too familiar arousal from deep within his loins as he takes another pull on his Marlboro. 

With a quick slash of his skinning knife, he cuts a three inch line down the outside of his forearm. There are several scabs and scars from similar past releases. The pain is the only thing that can help control his urges.  

He had seen the woman and her photographer arrive at the Novo Airao dock yesterday. Novo Airao, Brazil, is considered to be a gateway village into the Amazon rainforest. The village sits in the Amazon basin and boasts a population of nearly 20,000 people. Just big enough for the man to hide in.  

The woman had caught his eye immediately. She was everything he liked. Young, maybe pushing her mid-twenties. Long brown hair, high cheekbones, and deep amber eyes. She had a slight Asian look to her. It caught his attention that she moved gracefully like a cat.  

The man was sure they had boated up from the bigger city of Manaus, located several miles downriver. Many photographers came to Novo Airao to take photos of the jungle, wildlife, and the river. But it was rare to see a model this far inland. He was sure that was what she was. She was far too gorgeous not to be.  

He didn’t even try to fool himself. No pretensions or games. He would have her. There was no doubt in his mind.

An hour after seeing her he had excitedly made his way to the abandoned cabin and waited. Everyone in the area knew there was a fantastic, somewhat famous, sandy beach about a mile west of here. 

It was called Pelican Beach, named after the brown pelican that flourished from Virginia to the Amazon basin. He was certain that was where they were heading. It was the perfect place for a photo shoot and had been photographed many times in the past. The beach would also be the perfect place for him to fulfill his lust. 

He cut himself one more time. Control is important. Rushing these things can mess things up. He took another long drag on his cigarette. When the boat passed the rustic cabin, the woman’s head snapped towards him and she appeared to stare at the window. 

Does she know I’m here? No chance. It’s way too dark now. He watched as the perfectly sculpted girl said something to her chubby counterpart and pointed. The man looked towards the cabin and shrugged. He couldn’t hear their words, but was sure they were discussing his dark antiquated hideout. He took one last long look at her. Damn. So excruciating.

The twin diesel engines let out a loud chug, puffing out black clouds of smoke as the boat disappeared around the next bend. Foul. I hate pollution. They really ought to regulate those filthy boats. 

Coy Stetson turned on his lantern. At least, Coy Stetson was the name he had taken when he arrived in Brazil two years ago. He was born Wayne Muller, but he hated that name. He had used several better names since.  

Coy was from the United States. He was born in Portland, Oregon. After a four-year stint in the US Navy, he settled in Los Angeles, working as an electrician. Unfortunate circumstances had caused him to head south. 

He studied himself in a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Dark brown eyes peered back at him. He was considered handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Coy was in his late thirties, had thick black hair, and bore a five ’o'clock shadow. His skin was tanned, carrying a hue a few shades darker than most caucasian men. 

His mother told him his skin tone came from his grandfather, who was full Navajo or Cherokee. Or some shit like that. After checking into it, and finding that he couldn’t get any money or benefits, he never gave it further thought. 

It did help him fit in here, until he spoke. He was fluent in Spanish, from a two-year tour he had done in the Republic of Panama with the Navy’s Small Boat Unit, but when the locals heard his dialect they immediately identified him as a foreigner. He was even starting to pick up a little Portuguese.

Thinking of Panama reminded him it was the first place he had killed a woman. He had raped several of his classmates at a college in Portland, while earning his associates degree. But in Panama, he took it a dark step further and strangled a whore.  

There was a club where military guys could bang prostitutes in taxis out in the parking lot. Most of the women were rumored to be Columbian. A ten for the taxi driver and a five for the woman. And bang prostitutes he had. Way too many to count. Sometimes three to four a night. I’m all man.

Then one night he started choking one while he pounded her. He had choked some before, but this time he went too far and she died. It didn’t stop him from finishing. No, quite the opposite. While staring at her dead face he had the most intense ejaculation ever.  

That was the night he realized his lust was not actually about sex, but more about control. He wanted, no needed to control women in every aspect, right up to their death. Before, after the deed was done, the women left and his control of them ended. By killing them, he retained the ultimate control.  

And he had gotten away with the murder, scot-free! Not that the Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) hadn’t interviewed him, along with the forty other men the hooker had been with that weekend. There was such a lack of concern, and abundance of evidence, that the case was never solved.  

The next woman he killed was in the Philippines during a West PAC tour. She was another prostitute, only this time he used her body in a dark alleyway. She told him no kissing like they were in a Pretty Woman scene, which pissed him off. He had a compelling need to be in charge. 

When the hooker turned to go, he grabbed her arm and pulled her in close, kissing her hard on the lips while shoving a knife deep into her heart. She struggled briefly against him, before going limp. Complete and total control.  

That time he was never even interviewed. That was when he realized nobody cared about these ‘lost’ street women. He could slay them at will and nobody would even blink an eye.  

Six months later, he was discharged from the navy and found himself living in LA, stalking prostitutes like it was his personal sport. And he was good at it. He sadistically called the nights he hunted ‘date night.’

Four of his victim’s had never even been found. Another three bodies were so mutilated from being left in dumpsters that they were not even seriously investigated. Two he made look like drug overdoses. The tenth date night went bad. 

The cops hadn’t even known they had a serial killer on their hands. Coy picked up a young hooker, suspecting she wasn’t even eighteen yet. That made it all the more intense for him. The girl wore some annoying blue mirrored shades the entire time he rode her, which he tenderly removed from her face, before strangling the life out of her. Seeing the eyes is important. 

He made his usual move of dumpstering the body, but unbeknownst to him, the girl’s sunglasses had fallen under the trash bin. While dumping the container, the trash truck driver saw a leg. Two days later, the cops were knocking on his door. Seems they still cared about underaged girls. 

Downtown, the detectives went through the entire process. Threats, loaded questions, and photos of the dead seventeen-year-old girl were slid across the table. That was the hardest part. Fighting his immense desires as he stared at the dead teenager he had exerted total control over. 

He had really ached to cut himself at that moment. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek, the pain helping him to maintain his casual demeanor. Then the cops set an evidence bag on the table in front of him. 

He immediately knew why he was there. In the bag were the blue lens sunglasses. They had pulled a perfect fingerprint from the shades. His. He kept his face stoic. If he hadn’t played it cool, he would have gone to jail that night. 

Very calmly, he stated he had stopped by a dumpster and thrown away some garbage from his car. He went with McDonald’s food packaging because it was common and there was likely to be something like that in the dumpster. He knew they would check. 

Coy told them he had seen those glasses on the ground and picked them up. Once he realized they were too small, he tossed them back down. That explained why his print happened to be on them. When they asked to swab his cheek for DNA, he happily agreed, calmly smiling to show his willingness to clear this up. Inside he was in panic mode. Taking his DNA meant the end.

Since he had no criminal record, and the DNA test results would take a few days, they released him. He had worn a condom with the hooker, but they had found the girl nearly immediately, so he was certain the detectives would find his hairs and saliva all over her.  

Coy packed a bag, emptied his accounts, and burnt his car. There would be particles from all ten of his victims in there. Then, using his Navy skills, he hired on as a deckhand down at the Port of Los Angeles under the name Johnny Deets, and set sail on the Sweet Horizons. A few weeks later, he was in South America.

The ship made port in Georgetown, Guyana. After collecting his wages, he could no longer hold his urges in check, no matter how many times he slashed his arm. He hired a prostitute, and after three rounds of rough sex, slit her throat. Sloppy. The hotel room was covered in blood and he had no way of cleaning it up or moving the body. 

He showered, put on fresh clothes, and went to the clerk and paid for a week in advance, demanding that he and his room not be disturbed. That bought me time. Then he made his way south into Brazil.

Eventually he ended up in Novo Airao, as Coy Stetson, a sports fisherman. He stayed mostly to himself, fighting his urges, with success. 

Well, some success. There were three young girls from the town missing. All teenagers. Their bodies were buried under the floor of this cabin. It was his kill house. He could have tossed them in the river, allowing the animals to feed, but that would be a loss of control. He liked having them right where they were.

Besides, nobody suspected him. People were always disappearing around the jungle, what with the crocodiles, giant boas, and panthers. Just a couple of months ago, two photographers had headed down river and had not returned. A search party found their bodies torn to pieces. Yeah, lots of unfortunate accidents happened on the Amazon River. 

Coy lay down on the cot in the corner. It was the only piece of furniture in the dilapidated cabin, except for a wood burning stove, which he never used. The jungle was hot, besides the smoke might bring unwanted attention. 

He thought about the amber-eyed girl. He couldn’t wait to dominate her and exert total control over the delicious woman. He felt himself getting aroused. He grabbed his knife and cut another deep four-inch gash in his forearm. That calmed him down. He would never masturbate. The thought disgusted him. So freaking dirty. 

He had other plans. The river was a dangerous place. Another tragic accident was going to occur in the jungle in the next couple of days. Just a few more people getting added to the long list of names who disappear in the Amazon every year. Then Coy would be completely satisfied. At least for a while.