He sat on a bench at the train station with his briefcase lying on his lap, a small lunch of sandwiches, scones, and Starbucks spread out on a white handkerchief on top of it, a mini picnic.  He took a sip of coffee and exhaled in pleasure.

God bless America, he thought.  The world could bemoan American imperialism all they wanted, but without it he'd never be able to find a decent cup of coffee, or a decent hamburger, for that matter.  He took another sip and closed his eye with pleasure.

The train pulled away from the station, and he watched it slowly pick up speed with a private smile playing on his scarred lips.  With the train gone, he had an excellent view of the house beyond the tracks.  It was white with faded green gables and brown shingles in need of replacing.  It almost looked like something out of some fairytale.  They'll certainly be telling stories about it, he thought, and chuckled to himself.

He wondered how long before they found the bodies.  It was an aspect of his hobby that always fascinated him.  Sometimes it was within hours, sometimes days, there'd been a few that had never been discovered at all.  The time of discovery always gave him some insight into the life of his victims.  Those with many friends and family were found quickly and mourned with great fanfare and no one could conceive how someone could do such horrible things to such wonderful people.  Others were discovered by their landlords or estranged siblings or a random jogger and their death was chalked up to a general evil in the world.

He took a bite of a scone as he thought about his latest tableau.  Doubtless they would be found quickly.  When a whole family suddenly stops returning calls or going to school or showing up for work, there was just too much of a web of connections for it to go unnoticed long.  Some cop (or bobby or whatever they called them over here) who was short on cash would leak the story to the rags and the locals would recoil in horror as they read about the family seated around their dining room table for tea, looking like they had bent their heads for prayer when it was really just because all their necks had been broken.  He took another bite of his scone.  Delicious.

He called himself Kibosh.  As in "to put the kibosh on".  To put an end to.  And that's what he did.  He brought things to an end.  The name amused him.  His colleagues thought him strange, they going in for more obvious fare like Bronson and Dead Bang and Death's Head.  It seemed like overkill to him (Overkill, that was another one, he remembered) and a bit of overcompensation on their part.  It certainly hadn't helped them when it was decided he was no longer useful.  Kibosh had put the kibosh on all of them, and now he was free to do as he pleased.

A young mother and her toddling son approached the bench to take the open seat next to him.  Kibosh tipped his hat and smiled.  The boy started crying and the mother picked him up to soothe him, backing away apologetically and, of course, appalled.

"Think nothing of it," he grinned, winking with his one good eye.

He took a bite of sandwich, but the meat was of an English bent and he thought of mad cows and decided he would stick with the scones and coffee.  He sighed almost lovingly as he drank some more and gazed at the house across the way, his latest masterpiece.

From the inside pocket of his suit jacket came the muffled strains of "Night on Bald Mountain."  Kibosh reached in and pulled out his iphone.  The name on the screen said Twitter.  Twitter always brought good news.

"What have you got for me, chum?" he smiled indulgently.

"Amber Kind."

The smile on his lips faded to a thin line.  "Go on."

"Someone Googled it tonight, as well as 'Kind Groceries'.  IP address belongs to a Manuel Ramirez."

Kibosh frowned.  "The baseball player?"

"Kinda doubt it.  Unless he's living in Las Cruces, New Mexico.  Anyway, you told me to let you know so I'm letting you know."  Twitter disconnected without so much as a good-bye.

"Interesting," Kibosh murmured, a smile back on his devastated face.  "Very interesting."

Kibosh continued his repast as another train arrived, disgorging passengers and swallowing up more.  He did not move.  He was in no rush, and he wanted to bask in the house's afterglow for as long as he could.  London and Heathrow were only a half an hour away; he may just sit here all night.

Amber Kind.

Kibosh chuckled and shook his head.  Amber Kind. 

A song from his childhood days drifted into his head and he hummed it and then began to sing softly.

"Yeah, I couldn't wait to get back to the States, back to the cutest girls in the world. . ."