Harlan walked gingerly for a good five days after the visit to his doctor. They had agreed that, since Harlan had no intention of modeling nude, butterfly bandages would be sufficient. He’d taken his tetanus shot, an antibiotic, and instructions for changing the dressing. Harlan asked that they be written out, since Gloria was to be the designated dressing changer.

First thing when they got home, Gloria began to disassemble the shlocking corner, ridding the great room of any traces of Jerry and his murder spree. Everything went into file boxes, in order and catalogued for easy retrieval. If Gene and Betty were serious about this being a good teaching aid, well, they could just have it all and do with it what they would. She wanted nothing more to do with it.

The capture of Jerry happened too late for any of the morning papers in the East and Midwest to be able to run the story. It was even too late for a ‘stop the presses’ yell. The entire run of the paper was printed and on the trucks. West Coast papers ran the headline and backed it up with Bobbie’s bylined story. The story did go out on the wire. Bobbie had the copy written and on the wire within thirty minutes of the phone conversation with Gloria. She scooped absolutely everybody with it. The copyrighted story with her byline was cited as the source for all of the morning news shows, both local and national. She agreed to phone interviews, primarily with media affiliated with her newspaper. Bobbie’s voice and a file photo (which did not do her justice) were all over the airwaves.

Harlan and Gloria changed the voice message on their phones. “Please do not leave a message. Wait until Thursday to call back.”  They used the tactic of letting the greeting record function continue for the maximum time, postponing the beep that would signal people to leave a message. They called Craig and Betty to tell them they were home, and then they turned the phones off, and despite Gloria’s contrary prediction, slept.

Thursday morning, the first call they made was to Gene Snyder.

“How are you feeling?” Gene started with.

“I’m sore,” Harlan said.

“We both slept about eleven hours last night,” Gloria added. “I feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Glad to hear it,” Gene said. “We have a tendency to forget that shock, mild and even severe shock, can be caused by events. It doesn’t have to be a physical blow. I’m glad you made it home. I was kicking myself for letting you tear out of there like that.”

“Believe me, you couldn’t have stopped us,” Harlan said. “So, what’s happening?”

“The suspect has insisted on confessing to the murder. He waived the right to an attorney and gave us a full statement, beginning with the night he grabbed her in Bowling Green. On this first case, they’re just beginning to run into the sorting-out of what crimes happened where, who has jurisdiction, all of that. For example, Kentucky has the abduction and the assault from the first gunshot. Indiana has rape and unlawful incarceration. Pennsylvania has the murder – the second gunshot, the one that killed her. It’ll be years sorting it out. So he is in custody in Pennsylvania charged with first degree murder.”

“He’s off the street,” Harlan said, “and it sounds like he’ll stay off the street. That’s good.”

“They’ve already requested a hearing to determine whether he is competent to make the statement and sign the confession. I don’t think there will be any problem with that.”

“Has he confessed to the other ones?” Gloria asked.

“This is where it gets weird,” Gene said. “In the initial questioning, after they had the statement, they started asking about some of the other victims. He claims no knowledge, there is no recognition, no sign of recognition. One interrogator asked him if he was acquainted with one of the names, and he said he was. Said she was a real nice person, always took good care of him at the diner. Ask him about her body in a cloverleaf and he claims…convincingly, by the way…that he has no idea what we’re talking about. Is that even possible? Could another killer be out there?”

“Not even a ghost of a chance,” Gloria responded immediately. “Whatever is going on, it’s inside his head, and I have a notion that his head will be the subject of a few graduate theses in the near future. No. He is the one, and I can sleep well knowing he is in the can.”

“It may be more difficult to bring charges on some of the rest of these,” Gene warned.

“Not to be too harsh,” Harlan chimed in, “but that sounds like a problem for someone else to sort out. As long as this one keeps him off the streets, I’m happy.”

“What are you all going to do?” Gene asked.

“Right now we’re gong to rest, relax and think happy thoughts,” Harlan said. “When I think about it, this thing was hanging over our heads all through Thanksgiving and Christmas. We feel like we have some catching up to do.”

“Right,” Gloria chirped, ”and, thinking about that, could you make it to a small celebration a week from Saturday? Bring a toothbrush so you can sample the white stuff?”

Gene didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there.”

After the call, Harlan looked at Gloria. “Where’d that come from?”

“Just thought of it. Any problem?”

“No problem. I like it. I guess we’d better get on the phones and make a full guest list.”

The guest list came together well. Only Shelby, the Commonwealth Investigator from Kentucky, had to decline. Harlan and Gloria were working on menu and sleeping arrangements, putting the RV into stationary service as extra sleeping space, when a surprise phone call increased the guest list.

Both Harlan and Gloria had been unconsciously avoiding the shlocking corner, giving it a rest. It wasn’t until early the following week that Gloria, cleaning the last of the tape residue from the windows, looked down and saw the message light flashing on the answering machine. Her first reaction was panic. “Oh my God, he’s escaped,” actually came out of her mouth. Harlan looked up from his reading and saw her standing frozen, looking down. Then he caught the blink of the message light. He walked over.

“What if Gene was right?” she said to Harlan, still staring at the light. “What if there’s someone else out there?”

“Only thing to do is play it.” Harlan reached over and pressed the playback button.

“Hi. Uh, we don’t know if this is for real. We found this box with the number in it, so we’re calling. My name is Chandler and you can reach us at 502-555-5555. Hope this is for real. Uh . . .okay. Good bye.”

Laughter, as a healing release, is valuable beyond calculation. Five minutes later, both Harlan and Gloria were sprawled on the seats at the fireplace, gasping for air. Tears stained both of their faces. During the five-minute laughing fit, there were times when it would have been difficult to distinguish laughter from weeping. It was a cathartic experience and left them drained.

“We have to call them,” Gloria finally said.

“Why don’t we take a real flyer and invite them to the party, only not tell anyone else about it.”

“Done. I love it, if they sound like we want them to come.”

Gloria set the cell phone on speaker and did the talking. She dialed.

“Hello.” A female voice.

“Hi. I’m trying to reach Chandler.”

“Speaking.”

“Chandler, my name is Gloria Stone.” There was a shriek from the speaker.

“Tom, Tom, come here. I win. I don’t believe it. I was right. Oh my God.”

“Hello?” Gloria said.

“I’m sorry about that. I just . . . I told Tom – he’s my husband, told him that the box was probably one of the boxes I read about and the cloverleaf murders and the body in the barrel thing.”

“Well, you were right.” Another shriek. Then things settled down a little. “I assume you live in Kentucky . . .”

“Yes. Elizabethtown.”

“So, you know about what’s been going on?”

“Completely. I read every word, more than once. Here’s Tom. Say hi, hon.”

“Hi.”

“It’s Gloria Stone, the one in the papers.”

“Chandler, Tom, this is going to sound a little strange. This coming Saturday, we are having a celebration, all about the cloverleaf thing. Almost everybody who was part of the original group that hid the boxes will be here. We have a ton of room, so we would expect you to spend the night. Do you drink?”

Tom’s laughter burst through the speaker.

“I’ll take that as a yes. We would like you to join us. This Saturday, overnight and home Sunday afternoon. Can you do it?”

“Yes. Don’t you think we can, Tom?” There was no doubt a nod at their end of the conversation.

“Good. One very big condition. You can’t tell anyone. I mean, anyone in the general population, someone who would suddenly have the press showing up at your door. I know it sounds glamorous, and believe me, it isn’t.”

“No problem. We’ll have to tell my folks, and that’s it. Tom’s parents don’t live around here.”

“Good. You must have an email address. I’ll send you detailed directions and a few words about casual clothing and like that. One other thing: Some of the folks will already be here when you arrive. The only thing you say to them is that you’re here at my invitation. Clear?”

“Clear. Oh, this is exciting.”

“Um, could I ask, what’s the reward?” Tom had been heard from.

“You know, we never worked that out. I guess we’ll have to get that sorted out when all of the players are here. Is that okay with you all?”

“Absolutely.” Chandler speaking.

>>>>>     <<<<<

The Friday before the celebration was taken up completely by the one interview Harlan and Gloria, with Bobbie’s guidance, agreed to do. Bobbie’s point was that, while any interview they might do would be slanted, at least Court TV would slant it in the direction of making the justice system work. The crew from Court TV arrived at the crack of dawn, filled the driveway with their vehicles, and started unloading and setting up. They even brought a food truck. The intended result of the session was to be a half-hour special, meaning that much more than a simple face-to-face interview was necessary.

While the producer of the whole thing was meeting with Harlan and Gloria, mapping out the plan for the day and the plan for the special, the ‘B-roll’ team was busy. With permission, they filmed the outside of the house, the separate kitchen, including a close-up of the scar from the sniper’s bullet, the RV, inside and out, and the coal mine shaft.

When the producer looked over at the corner of the great room where the shlocking corner had been set up, she expressed disappointment. “Would it be possible to re-construct it, how it was when you were working on it? Do you still have the materials?”

“It is not possible. If you need something like that, I suggest you contact The Courier-Journal. They have stills.” Gloria was a notch above the normal Gloria-firm on the point. The producer looked down at her clipboard, then up at Gloria. Before she could open her mouth, Harlan spoke.

“I’d move on if I were you. There’s nothing else to say about it.” She still looked unconvinced. “Okay, some perspective. We have nothing to gain from this, except more attention than we want. We’re doing this out of some sense that some good can come of it, and that’s mostly our friend Bobbie talking. So, if we hit a sticking point and you decide to take your clipboard and your crew and leave, that would be just fine.” They moved on.

Later that morning, the sound of gunfire rang out. Harlan and Gloria rushed to the door and saw someone stagger and fall on the driveway apron.

“What the hell?” Harlan said and turned to the producer.

“Part of the special includes those blurry, out-of-focus reenactment pieces, you know?”

After that, things, including three more gunfire episodes, moved smoothly, and everyone was finished and gone by late afternoon. With guests expected, Harlan did not follow the convoy of vehicles out. The gate would stay open.

Craig and Samantha arrived late afternoon. They had both taken half-day vacations in order to drive early. Fritz and Bobbie arrived a little after sundown. Supper was soup, salad, and sandwiches, which may sound like light fare and probably would be anywhere but at Harlan and Gloria’s.

The soup was really burgoo. It was in the freezer from late summer when Harlan and Gloria went to one of the church barbeques over in Kentucky that featured pit-cooked beef, pork, chicken, and mutton over hickory. Bits of all four entrees were liberally spread throughout the burgoo, along with drippings, sauce, tomatoes, and corn and potatoes and beans and carrots. The salad was pepper slaw, and the sandwiches were a grilled cheese variation: coarse bread, spread with black olive paste, fresh mozzarella cheese, and roasted red peppers, then grilled to perfection. The meal went very well with the two-bottle stupid and the moonshine. Water and tea were available and universally ignored.

After supper, everyone gathered in the great room around the fireplace. The conversation naturally avoided the subject of the cloverleaf murders. Fritz insisted upon seeing, the next morning, the copper still Harlan had put together. Samantha wondered what sort of bizarre cooking was scheduled for the next day. Bobbie wanted details about the TV shoot. Harlan was characteristically quiet, and Craig was following suit.

Breakfast Saturday morning was standard Harlan and Gloria food: eggs, biscuits, bacon and sausage, hash browns, sausage gravy. The big breakfast, a la Aunt Bessie, was reserved for Sunday, when everyone would be present. Harlan even had some good country ham, so there would be red eye gravy for some of the biscuits on Sunday.

Harlan was up well before breakfast, building up a fire in a pit he had dug and lined with rocks. The bizarre cooking for the day was to be a pig, slow-cooked on the hot rocks, covered with a big tarp to hold the heat in. The pig was in his kitchen. Harlan had seasoned it and marinated it and then left it out to come to room temperature overnight. Room temperature, with no heat on, was about fifty degrees. With the fire blazing, he checked on the pig and was surprised when Samantha, coffee cup in hand, showed up at the kitchen door.

“Need any help?” she asked him.

“Sure could use help when it’s time to get this one down the hill,” Harlan replied. “You’re up early.”

“A little. So, this is the main event?”

“I suppose. Mostly doing it because I never have before. I think it’ll be pretty tasty.”

“How long?”

“Starting at room temperature gives us a nice head start, at least twenty degrees worth. I think we’ll have plenty of time to start nibbling at around four.”

A comfortable silence settled. Samantha sipped her coffee, and Harlan swabbed the pig with the marinade.

“Do you think,” Samantha asked, “that you all have got it out of your system?”

“What?”

“The shlocking thing, chasing down murderers. Do you think you’re done with all of that?”

“The simple answer is no,” Harlan said, after a moment’s thought. “The more complex answer is more like we have had more than enough of the direct involvement. Remember, this shlocking is something we’ve been doing for a long time, like a hobby. We did not go out and try to find ways to get directly into the action. The action came to us. That we have had more than enough of, yes. Figuring out the puzzles, from the sideline, is something else. I think we’ll always do it.”

“But, can you stay on the sideline? Can you keep the action from coming to you?”

“Don’t know. I do know that the possibility of the action coming to us again is not enough to make us change what we do.”

“Good. Is it time to haul the special event down the hill?”

Together, Harlan and Samantha hauled the pig to the pit, raked and swept the glowing embers to the side, and set the pig in place. Harlan used burlap bags soaked in the marinade to cover the pig; then the two of them stretched the heavy tarp over the hole, held it down with extra rocks, and shoveled a sealing pile of dirt around the edges.

“Okay, let’s get a start on breakfast.”

Gloria was at the sink, peeling the potatoes, when they entered the kitchen.

“Got a helper, huh?” she said.

“I was finished sleeping,” Samantha said, pouring herself more coffee. “What can I do here?”

Chandler and Tom arrived around lunch time. Gene and Betty were already there. Betty had driven straight to the airport and picked Gene up. Jack and Cathy Lutz would not be there until near three. Gloria greeted Chandler and Tom and immediately hustled them into a bedroom to talk.

“Did you bring the photography?” she asked Chandler.

“I have everything on a memory stick, like you said,” Chandler replied.

“Perfect. Now, here’s what I want you to do.” Gloria then went over the script, the one in her head, until Chandler seemed to have it down. “Now, go hang around and enjoy yourselves. This will be your room, and the bath’s right through there. There’s a ton of food on the table, for picking and nibbling. Plenty of beer and, later, but not much later, we’ll break out Harlan’s moonshine. Okay?” It was okay.

The literal translation of smorgasbord is ‘groaning board.’ The groaning refers to the creaking of the heavily laden table, not the sounds made by the partakers. The harvest table in the kitchen was laid with wall-to-wall food – sliced beef, country ham, cheeses, fruit, scallions, bread in five varieties, picnic chicken legs and thighs, slaw, potato salad, smoked salmon with sour cream, and more. The bounty of the table served to postpone queries about when the pig would be done.

“When’s the pig going to be done?” Jack asked as he and Cathy walked into the house.

“It’ll be done just in time, I predict.” Harlan handed Jack a beer without asking. He cocked an eyebrow at Cathy and she nodded, so he pulled another one out of the fridge. Cathy was the designated driver tonight. Jack and Cathy lived so close that they had never accepted an invitation to overnight. “Right now, Gloria has something planned.”

“With the exception of Shelby, who tried but couldn’t break loose to get here, this is everybody who was here for the creation of the message in the box game.” Gloria swept her arm around the room as she talked. “In addition, we have Gene from the FBI, and Betty, who used to be in the FBI. We have Samantha, and she was here at the very beginning of the investigation of the cloverleaf murders and made significant contributions.” Craig applauded, the rest joined in, and Samantha blushed.

“Our newest newcomers, Chandler and Tom, also have a direct connection with what we’re doing here. I asked them to keep it under their hats until we could all be here. Chandler brought some pictures, and they’re set up in the big screen computer, so, everybody get to where you can see the screen. Chandler, it’s all yours.”

“Hi. I’m a photographer…not professionally…not yet,” Chandler began, quietly and nervously. “I have been fascinated with old barns for a while now, Tom and I were exploring for stuff to shoot over near Shepardsville. I guess you can tell that I like to get unusual angles, and that requires some climbing and some rooftop work.” The pictures were cycling through at a slow speed as she talked. They were set up to start with the extreme close-ups of interesting detail — a broken windowpane, a decrepit weathervane pointing to the sky — and then to expand until finally the entire structure of the barn was visible. “At this point, Gloria says I am supposed to ask if the barn looks familiar to anyone.”

“Well, damn,” Fritz uttered under his breath. Then, full voice, “I guess it does.”

There was a chorus of questions from the group. Chandler opened a shopping bag she had kept next to her and pulled out the sealed plastic box with the message in it.

“I found this up in the top of the silo. The silo was built of those rounded concrete bricks, so it was really solid and pretty safe. Anyway, I found the box, and we brought it home with us and called the number.”

Fritz raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m guilty. I am sure forensics would find my fingerprints all over the box, even inside.”

“So, that’s why we’re here, Tom and I, and thank you for the invitation and the welcome.”

“Those are very good pictures,” Bobbie said to Chandler as the rest of the group picked up conversations and wandered to the table for food and more beer. Harlan went to the freezer and pulled out the milk jug full of moonshine.

“I do believe that this calls for a toast,” he announced and brought the jug to the middle of the room. “It’s moonshine, and I make it myself. The etiquette of the situation calls for sipping from the communal jug, if you want to sip at all.” Chandler took the sip and her eyes widened. She swallowed and smiled. “Wow!”

Tom was next, taking a bigger sip. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think a gallon of this would be ample reward.”

“That’s right. We never settled on the actual reward. For that matter, are all of the other boxes still out there?”

“Mine is. I’m not going back in the graveyard to get it,” Bobbie said.

“And I’m not going down in some old mine to get my box back. No way.” Gloria actually shuddered as she said it. Every one of the original players reported that the boxes were still in place.

“I guess that means we need to keep the eight hundred number going. No big deal. It hardly costs anything.”

“Does somebody have Shelby’s number? We have to call him about this.”

“I have it stored,” Gloria said as she picked up her cell phone from beside the computer. Just as she picked it up, it rang. “Hell, maybe this is him. Hello.”

Gloria listened for a few seconds, then spoke into the phone. “Yes I remember you.” To Harlan, “It’s Kate, the one with the motel.” She listened some more, then interrupted. “Kate, as it happens, all of the principals in the case are here right now. We’re having a bit of a celebration. Could I put you on speaker.” Gloria pressed the keys and set the phone down on the table. “Go ahead.”

“Hi, Kate. Harlan here. Good to hear from you.”

“Well, thank you, and it’s good to hear your voice. I was telling Gloria I feel so bad about the way I was when you all were here. I had no idea how big and horrible this thing was. Ever since I read about it and about you all catching the guy, I have felt terrible.”

“Well, it’s over, and it’s time to feel good,” Harlan offered.

“I suppose, but I keep wondering if I had . . .”

“You can stop right there,” Gloria said. “There is absolutely no possible way we could have used any information you might have had quickly enough to stop what happened. No way, so you just put that out of your mind.”

“When it was in the papers with his name and all, I did go back and check the records. He was a regular, maybe twice a year for ten years at least. The older records are up in the attic. And you know, I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he would never do something like that. Can you believe it?”

“We sure can,” Harlan answered. “So far, no one who had contact with him can believe it, so don’t feel bad.”

“At least you never got in the car with him,” Gloria added.

“Now, that sends a shiver down my spine,” Kate responded. “So anyway, I felt like I ought to call you and congratulate you and thank you and apologize for not being helpful.”

“Thank you,” Gloria said. “We appreciate that.”

“The strangest thing,” Kate went on. “When I checked the records, I remembered it. You know that room up in the center, the one you all stayed in that night? Well, that was his favorite. Stayed in that room every time he visited. Isn’t that some coincidence.”

Gloria’s face froze and her body stiffened. She had nothing more to say. Harlan finished the call and snapped the cell phone closed.

“I hope you all will excuse me,” Gloria said as she backed toward the hall. “I have to go upstairs and take a long, hot shower.”

Gene Snyder alternated between feeling silly and feeling like what he was doing was right, as he drove along Interstate 79 from Erie toward Pittsburgh. If nothing happened, nobody ever need know that he was here, except his wife. He explained everything to her including the fact that the hard data was very slim and the hunch factor was predominant.

“You would almost have to be in the room with these people and watch how their brains work,” he said. “I could not put it in a report or make an official request with what we have. So, I’m just going to have to be there. I feel like it’s my responsibility. Besides, I am absolutely certain that Harlan will be there somewhere.”

Gene left his house in Columbus, Ohio at nine. He drove a plain sedan with full communications equipment, a siren, and a portable blue light that he could slap onto the roof. He was dressed for duty: white shirt, gray suit, dark tie. He was armed and carried his identification. If the need arose, he would strike the right note as an on-duty FBI senior agent. If the need arose.

He spent the hours driving the two Interstates Harlan had mentioned. He pulled a number of full circuits of cloverleafs, peering into the centers of them. He noted the occasional minivan and checked the license plate. He didn’t get a hit. He stopped twice for the bathroom and coffee. The whole thing felt to him like a long, lonely stakeout. No one to report in to. No one to talk to. Nothing but the police, ambulance, and fire bands for this area of Pennsylvania, and even those were exceptionally quiet.

Gene was heading down Interstate 79, planning to make this the last sweep before continuing on to Pittsburgh, then home on I-70. When the radio burst out with the calls for both ambulance and police to respond to a quadrant of the Interstate cloverleaf, he knew instantly that it was Harlan. He was less than five miles north of the named cloverleaf. He lowered his window, slapped the blue light on the roof, and put his foot down on the accelerator.

When he reached the first ramp of the cloverleaf, he slowed and followed the curve around. He had to negotiate three of the curves to get to the right quadrant. As he came out of a curve, he almost collided with a blue Blazer, traveling at high speed into the next curve. He sped up to stay close to the car. The blue Blazer turned onto the target ramp, slammed on the brakes, and swerved toward the middle, just missing a beige minivan parked off the shoulder. The Blazer bounced through the dip between the shoulder and the beginning of the trees and skidded to a stop with the headlights glaring into the cloverleaf. Gene followed suit, putting his car next to the Blazer and leaving headlights and the flashing blue light on. He recognized Gloria immediately.

“Gloria,” he called, “it’s me, Gene Snyder.”

“He’s in there and Harlan’s been shot,” Gloria yelled back as she plunged into the woods. Gene followed. “Harlan, we’re coming in. Gene is here, too.”

“I see you and hear you,” Harlan said quietly. “You can slow down. Everything is under control here.”

The car lights illuminated the area sufficiently for Gloria and Gene to spot Harlan immediately. They both moved toward him. Gene’s eyes followed Harlan’s gaze and saw the figure of Jerry, slumped on the ground. Gloria’s eyes drifted down and saw Sue Ellen. “Oh, no,” she uttered.

“Hey, Gene. Really good to see you,” Harlan said. He was still holding the lantern and the camera, and the camera continued to record. “Here under my left foot you’ll find a pistol. Do you think you might retrieve it?”

“I think I’ll leave it where it is,” Gene responded. “Gloria said you were shot.”

“I think so. My butt is beginning to hurt. I think that’s where I got hit.”

“Medics should be here pretty soon. Is that the guy?”

“Gene, meet Jerry,” Harlan said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your last name.”

Jerry looked up at the three people across from him. “Schulman. Jerry Schulman.”

Gloria was still looking at the body at their feet. “Is she dead? Are you sure?”

“I haven’t had time to check. I think she is.”

“Yes, she’s dead,” Jerry said. “The second bullet always works instantly.”

“Mr. Schulman, my name is Gene Snyder. I am an agent of the FBI and I am placing you under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent.” Jerry chimed in and finished the recitation of the Miranda rights and said that he did understand them.

“I needed to get that done before he started talking and telling us stuff we couldn’t use. I’d rather have let the locals get the collar, and maybe we can work something out when they get here.”

They heard sirens in the distance, approaching. Gene reached his shield folder out his breast pocket and stuck it into the front pocket on his jacket. He walked over to Jerry and stood behind him.

“Please lean over and place your hands together behind you.” Jerry complied, and Gene placed the handcuffs on his wrists. That’s when they heard the first of the arriving vehicles screech to a halt. More headlights beamed into the interior. When they heard the crashing of feet coming through the brush, Gene called out to them. “I’m Gene Snyder, FBI. The suspect is handcuffed and sitting on the ground. No one is armed, except me.”

A state trooper emerged from the trees, weapon in hand. He scanned the scene, noted Gene’s badge and the individual seated on the ground at his feet, and holstered his weapon.

“Do you happen to know how far back the medics are?” Gene asked. “That gentleman there has sustained a gunshot wound and needs attention.”

The trooper trained his light on Harlan. Under the lighting conditions and with the thermal suit being black, no blood was showing.

“Where are you hit, sir?” he asked.

“In the butt,” Harlan answered through clenched teeth. “Here, you take over the camera,” and he passed it to Gloria. She also relieved him of the light and turned it off. The area was now well lit with headlights.

“Officer, we’re also going to need a body wagon, and you need to alert the medical examiner’s office and the crime scene people,” Gene said.

“Has the suspect been arrested, had his rights read?” the trooper asked.

“Yes, he has,” Gene said. “I had to read him his rights before he started talking. Look, I don’t want or need the collar. I am more than happy for you to take it. I can tell you that this man is a suspect in at least thirty homicides and that many kidnapping charges. There are very likely degrees of rape to be considered, and I think the state statutes may be better suited to what’s coming down the road on this. He is a suspect in a number of Pennsylvania cases . . .”

“Seven bodies found and four missing persons’ bodies who lived here and wound up elsewhere,” Gloria supplied.

“There is a weapon on the ground next to Harlan’s foot,” Gene went on. “It is likely the weapon used to dispatch the victim, there, and also to wound Mr. Stone. We left it in place for the crime scene folks. Just want you to know it is there.”

“I said I was sorry,” Jerry said. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

“Harlan,” Gloria said, “are you okay?”

“It’s starting to hurt, and I think I’m stiffening up. If you wouldn’t mind grabbing the thermos, I could stand a sip of coffee.”

“Can I stop the camera?” Gloria asked.

“Just leave it running and set it on the ground,” Harlan suggested.

“Officer, can I get you to take custody of the suspect, change out the handcuffs, and re-arrest him?” Gene said.

“Yes, sir,” the trooper responded. As soon as the transfer was made, the trooper helped Jerry up and walked him out to the cruiser and helped him into the back seat. First he frisked him. He hung onto the car keys, knowing they would need them in order to clear the minivan, once the evening was over.

Gene joined Harlan and Gloria. “I think we have some phone calls to make. If you don’t mind, I’ll call Betty.” They both nodded.

“I’ll call Bobbie and you call Craig,” Gloria suggested. Harlan nodded and dug out his cell phone. Almost simultaneously, they all said “Hey, Bobbie, Betty, Craig. We got him.”

When the medics arrived, Harlan walked out to meet them at the wagon.

“I hope you all don’t mind if I slip out of this suit. I really don’t think you need to be cutting it to ribbons, if you don’t mind.” They didn’t. When Harlan got the suit off, the blood stain showed immediately, and the soaking redness extended to well below the knee on both legs.

“Okay, sir,” one of the medics said. “Now we take over. Please lie face-down here so we can see what we’ve got.” They used the scissors on the longjohns and the silk underwear, and started swabbing the blood away from the wound. Harlan was lying face-down with his head toward the rear of the wagon. Gloria emerged from the woods carrying the lantern, camera, thermos, and the Kermit chair. One corner of the chair frame was splintered.

“Looks like Kermit took the fatal shot,” Gloria said. “How are you?”

“I don’t know,” Harlan grumped. “Hey, guys, how am I?”

“It’s a crease. Bullet gouged out a trough right along the middle of the cheek. Not serious, but it will feel serious for a couple of days. We need to get you in to emergency, get you a tetanus, some prophylactic antibiotics, and either stitches or butterflies. As long as you don’t have a career in nude modeling or anything like that, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“In that case, what’s the chance you can slap a big old bandage, and I’ll see my own doctor later this morning?” Harlan asked.

“We can do that,” the medic said. “First we must formally advise you that it would be best for us to transport you to an emergency room for treatment. Then you formally decline to be transported and sign a statement to that effect. Agreed?”

They wrapped up the formalities, the medics administered a local to ease Harlan’s ride home; then they pulled out. The crime scene truck pulled in and, behind that, the body wagon. The trooper had called for backup, knowing that he would need it to handle the press, and there was no doubt that the press was on the way. He was stringing yellow tape from tree to tree, cordoning off the entire area.

“Gene, we’re out of here,” Gloria called.

Gene came over to the car. Harlan was working his way into a half-lying-down on his good side arrangement, with the back of the seat reclined about halfway. Gloria had all of their stuff stowed in the back seat, all except the coffee thermoses, and was ready to go.

“I’ve vouched for you with the trooper, and I’ll give him your vital information for his report. It will help if each of you writes a statement about what happened here. You can email it to me, and I’ll see that it gets to the right place.”

“Thanks, Gene,” Gloria said and gave him a hug.

“No, thank you, both of you,” he replied. “This is one for the record, and you know we’d never have gotten here without you. Now, are you okay to drive?”

“What, the sleepies? I don’t know when I’ll sleep again. It certainly won’t be tonight.”

As Gloria pulled away from the cloverleaf, her cell phone rang and answered automatically. She still had the earpiece plugged in. It was Bobbie, now fully awake and calling for an exclusive interview. As she started to relate the details, she heard Harlan shift in his seat, grunt, and snort, “Nude modeling, indeed.”

The way it was supposed to happen, Jerry would suspend his companion in the sling over the bathtub, then administer the fatal gunshot. That way, if there happen to be any discharge, it was easy to wash down the drain. He could also wash away any blood. Then he would completely bathe her, using moisturizing lotion, and shampoo and condition her hair. The bath complete, he would blow dry and style the hair. He also applied whatever make up she was carrying in her purse – eye liner, mascara, blusher, powder — whatever was there.

When Jerry got Sue Ellen in the harness and suspended above the tub, he stopped. He did not want this to be over. He knew he was being ridiculous, that it would be over anyway in the next day or so, the effects of dehydration and starvation taking their final toll. But, when he pictured himself holding the gun to her head and pulling the trigger, he froze. He didn’t even have the pistol in the bathroom with them.

He ran the water and adjusted the temperature, then proceeded with the bath, the final bath, and even thinking of it that way was like a quick blow to the stomach. He rinsed her down, then applied the moisturizing lotion all over her body, except for the portions of her back under the straps and her neck, which was enclosed in the whiplash collar. The collar he took off long enough to cradle her head and wash her neck. Then it went back on.

He took extra time with the shampoo, applying it, working up the lather, rinsing and repeating, just like the bottle said. Then he applied the conditioner, using half a bottle and working it into her hair. He let it stay in even longer than the directions indicated. Then he rinsed thoroughly, using a large-toothed comb to separate the strands of hair and letting the water flow all around them. Finally, he stopped and turned the water off.

He just stood there, in the bathroom, looking at Sue Ellen. He couldn’t move. The normally strident, nagging paranoid voice in his head was gone. That voice was associated with the things he used to do. This was different. It was like dating until you find the right one, then having no more interest in dating. Jerry assumed that it worked that way. This was his first experience, so he really had nothing with which to compare what he was feeling.

Jerry stood for so long that Sue Ellen’s hair was practically dry when he finally picked up the towel and began stroking her locks. He ran the hair dryer, drawing a comb through the hair until it was nearly dry, then switched to a brush. Sue Ellen’s body was already completely dry. Jerry set the dryer and towel aside and went to the bedroom to get the makeup from her purse. As soon as he was away from Sue Ellen, not seeing her, a calmness came over Jerry. He slowed his motions even more and allowed his mind to clear.

He knew that he had to follow through with his plans for dispatching Sue Ellen. It would be sad. It was definitely necessary. He knew he could do it and just had to brace himself and follow through. He also knew that he would still wait until the very last second, in the cloverleaf, before firing the second bullet and ending her life. Those were the facts and he would not vary from them, so he could allow himself to feel the full emotion of the remaining time with Sue Ellen without worrying that he would do something stupid.

By the time it was full dark outside, Jerry had dressed Sue Ellen in her new clothing and  used the wheelchair to move her to the garage and into the front passenger seat. He used a new scarf to stabilize her head, then removed the whiplash collar and put it on the seat of the wheelchair. He filled the gas tank from cans of gas he kept in the garage for times like these. He had not stopped for gas on the way back from Bowling Green and would not stop on the way to the cloverleaf. He never left the house when he had a visitor. So he needed to top off his tank.

At exactly the right time, Jerry activated the garage door opener and drove down the driveway. As the door closed behind him, he pulled onto the road in front of his house and turned on his headlights. The short trip from there to the Interstate took only a couple of minutes; then he was headed east on Interstate 70. He was on time and he was prepared, physically and emotionally. He was confident that he would reach his destination comfortably ahead of his 2:00 cut-off time. He set the cruise control and settled back for the trip. Instead of hovering over the pistol, this time his right hand rested gently on Sue Ellen’s arm.

Jerry drove, musing about the past few days and the impact Sue Ellen had had on him. Thinking about it, he surprised himself when he discovered that he was not going to do what he had been doing ever again. All of that past he consigned to a place called life before Sue Ellen. It was over and done with. He had found the love of his life, then lost her. Now he would remain true to her and her memory for the rest of his life. It felt like a great weight lifted and made him an entirely new man.

In the curious way Jerry’s mind worked, his realization had the effect of erasing for him the existence of the many companions he had experienced over the years — not blotting them out, but erasing them. Before Sue Ellen, he could tell you the name of every single companion, even the first one from his freshman year at college. Now, they were dimming out, and by the time the drive was complete, Jerry could have passed a polygraph if questioned about any of them. Jerry was reborn, washed in the love of his one true lifemate. Sue Ellen. That name he would never forget.

>>>>>     <<<<<

At 1:00, Harlan walked away from the immediate area and relieved himself against a tree. He returned to his hide and poured another short cup of the coffee. His circulation was still okay, and the walking around helped a bit. A breeze had come up, making just enough background noise that Harlan was not confident that he could hear movement in time to get into position. He accepted that this was the last walk around and that he had to sit down in the chair and wait quietly.

“What are you doing?” Gloria asked through the earpiece.

“Peeing on a tree,” Harlan answered. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to decide where I’m going to pee,” Gloria snapped back. “You know, that is the one and only thing that is better about a man — standing up to pee.” It was one of the running discussions that never reached resolution, the relative merits of being a woman versus being a man. It was particularly humorous that, at home and in other people’s bathrooms, Harlan sat down to urinate. “Anyone who has ever been responsible for cleaning his own bathroom learns about the splash and decides, if he has any sense at all, that it is totally unnecessary.”

“What did Craig have to say?” Harlan asked. A beep earlier had indicated an incoming call, and Gloria told Harlan it was Craig before she switched off to take his call.

“He was just worrying and wondering. I told him we would call when there’s something to report.”

“I am about to get settled in. This breeze is making enough background noise that I don’t trust my hearing. You can keep talking to me. I’ll just limit my responses to only those remarks that require immediate correction.”

“Right. Knowing you, that sounds like a running commentary. I’m switching off for a minute while I find a suitable . . . whatever.”

Harlan settled into his chair, and did another check of his equipment. The video camera was on, a piece of electrician’s tape blocking the usually helpful ‘on’ indicator. Harlan cycled the on-off switch periodically since he had not been able to figure out how to override the built-in power preserving feature of turning the unit off after a period of inactivity. He held his hand over the lantern lens and switched it on, then off, in less than a second.  It was working. He poured one more small cup of coffee, judging that his bladder could handle it, capped the thermos, and settled in for the wait.

>>>>>     <<<<<

When Jerry reached the target cloverleaf and checked the clock, he relaxed. He was more than on time and off the road. He pulled far off the exit ramp, as close to the trees as he could. It was at times like this that Jerry thought about getting a darker brown color on his next car, something that would blend completely with the background. When he thought about it on this night, he dismissed it. It wouldn’t be necessary. Not anymore.

Now that Jerry was off the road, his need for haste evaporated. He moved slowly as he began the process of transferring Sue Ellen from the front seat into the canvas sling. Jerry reflected that it was appropriate that the sling was brand new and would never be used again after this trip. He decided he would leave it with the bundle of clothing next to Sue Ellen.

Jerry reached through the open passenger door and released the seat belt. Before untying the head scarf, he slipped the canvas sling over his shoulder and placed the bag of clothing on the dashboard where he would be able to reach it easily after he had Sue Ellen on his arm. He grasped her right leg and lifted it so that her foot was even with the bottom of the sling, then slipped the sling around her ankle and gently guided her leg into the sling while easing her off the car seat. When she was in position, completely supported by Jerry, he did his best to arrange her skirt. Then he retrieved the bag from the dashboard and nudged the car door shut.

Jerry walked into the tree line with Sue Ellen alongside and her head leaning on his shoulder. Jerry’s hand rested easily beneath her breast as they walked. The first stirrings of arousal surprised him, then pleased him. He moved his hand on her breast and felt the effect on himself immediately. The shortness of breath he experienced had nothing to do with the effort of carrying Sue Ellen and everything to do with the pleasure.

He continued into the middle of the cloverleaf and, when he judged the spot to be right, he ducked his head under the sling and lowered Sue Ellen to the ground. He knelt and removed the sling and set it aside. Then he started to arrange her clothing. As he reached to pull her skirt straight beneath her, his hand brushed the inside of her thigh, very near the top, and the effect was like a jolt of electricity. He pulled the back of the skirt down and straightened it beneath her, then let his hand return to the very top of her thigh and from there to the elastic in the leg of her underpants, the new ones he’d dressed her in back at the house. When he worked his hand under the elastic, he knew he had to. Just one more time. Nothing to worry about. Just once more. Then the pistol.

“Harlan, it’s nearly three. Have you heard anything at all? Seen anything?”

“Nothing,” Harlan whispered.

“How much longer are you going to wait?”

“Just a little longer, I guess.”

“Do you think we picked the wrong night or the wrong place?”

“No idea. I am still sure this is right. I don’t get it.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Give it until three-thirty, then come on over for me.”

Jerry and Sue Ellen were less than twenty feet from Harlan. The breeze through the branches masked any sounds coming from them as well as it masked the whispered phone conversation of Harlan. Neither Jerry nor Harlan had any inkling that anyone else was there. Jerry lay quietly on top of Sue Ellen after his orgasm. He was light-headed and his breathing was short and rapid, and there was a ringing in his ears. Finally, his breathing slowed and his head cleared. He eased off Sue Ellen and fixed his own clothing. Then he readjusted the leg band on the panties and pulled the skirt down and smoothed it out along her legs. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he knee-walked around to Sue Ellen’s head. He fished the small pistol out of his jacket pocket. With a tear starting to overflow his eye and roll down his cheek, he pulled the slider back and chambered a round.

“Wait,” Harlan whispered. “I just heard something.”

“What?” Gloria hissed back. “What is it?”

Jerry placed the gun barrel behind Sue Ellen’s ear, pointing down and back toward the rear base of her skull. He choked out a “Good bye,” closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

“What was that? Was that a gunshot?” Gloria screamed into the phone.

Harlan immediately pressed the record button on the camera, switched on the spotlight, and started quickly out of his chair… too quickly. His leg was totally asleep, completely without feeling, and he was toppling to one side before he was even halfway up.

Jerry reacted immediately. He came off his knees and whirled toward the spotlight. At the same time, in a spasm of panic and totally unintentionally, he squeezed the trigger of the pistol. When it discharged, he jumped, then dropped the pistol.

Harlan’s awkward fall had presented his butt as the most prominent object in view, and the bullet pierced his thermal suit and creased right across his butt cheek. He felt the tug and the numbness. Struggling to stand upright and handle the light and the camera, he turned and faced Jerry.

“You shot me!”

Jerry was ready to turn and flee. Harlan’s voice stopped him.

“I . . . I’m sorry. It was an accident. You scared me.”

“Yeah. But you shot me.”

“Look, are you okay? I mean, I have to go. Will you be okay?”

“No. I won’t be okay. Don’t you have a cell phone? Can’t you call me an ambulance?”

“Oh my God,” Gloria was yelling into the phone. “Are you okay? Is that him? I’m switching off to call nine one one.”

“Good,” Harlan said in a normal tone of voice. Then to Jerry, “Who are you?”

“My name is Jerry.” Harlan was shining the light on Jerry and training the camera at the same time.

“Does your friend there need an ambulance?”

“No. I mean, she’s not my friend. I don’t know what you mean?”

“Isn’t that Sue Ellen?”

The question, the mention of her name completely stymied Jerry. He was trying to peer past the spotlight. “Who are you? How do you know Sue Ellen?”

“A lot of people know Sue Ellen,” Harlan said, walking closer with the camera and light. “Some of them will be showing up here pretty soon.”

“I have to go,” Jerry blurted and started to turn.

“There’s no place to go, Jerry. It’s over.”

“I know it’s over. I have to go.”

“Go where, Jerry? We know where you live. We know what you drive, and we know what you’ve been doing.”

“I haven’t been doing anything. How could you know? Who are you?”

“My name is Harlan.”

“You’re the guy in the newspapers, the detective. I have to go.”

“No place to go, Jerry. Best thing is to wait right here and let the people come to us. Where’s the gun, Jerry?”

Jerry looked at his hand, then at the ground next to his feet. “It’s right here. I must have dropped it.” He started to stoop to pick it up.

“Better just leave it there, Jerry. Might be a good idea to step away from it. Some of the people on their way here will be a little nervous.” Jerry hesitated, then stepped away from the gun.

Gloria clicked back on line, breathless and practically yelling. She was pulling out of the lane and onto the road. Wheels spun and gravel kicked up against the floor pan of the car.

“Are you okay? What’s going on? Everybody is on the way — police and ambulance. I don’t hear any sirens yet. I’ll be there any minute now. Are you okay?”

“Jerry, I’m going to talk to Gloria right now. Gloria, I’m okay. I think I got a bullet in the butt. Jerry and I are talking. The pistol is on the ground, and Jerry has moved away from it. If you can, tell whoever gets here not to come in with guns blazing.”

Harlan moved again, closer to Jerry and closer to the pistol on the ground.

“Jerry, does Sue Ellen need an ambulance?” Jerry silently shook his head and glanced down at the body. “She’s dead?”

“Yes,” Jerry said, his voice breaking. “It’s over.” He sat down, almost a collapse, and buried his face in his hands. Harlan moved to the pistol and stood on it. They waited.

By Tuesday morning, Harlan and Gloria were in total agreement: She would stay with the car, and Harlan would go into the cloverleaf. There had really been no contention. She and Harlan talked through all of the scenarios they could think of and, together, settled on Harlan’s going in and Gloria’s waiting nearby.

Before they left, Craig and Samantha voiced their opinions, mostly in the vein that neither should go at all.

“Dad, don’t you think there’s at least one police officer somewhere who could sit in the hide and wait for the guy?”

“I do,” Harlan said. “In fact, I’m sure there is. Just point him out to me and I’ll turn the duty over to him in a heartbeat. Of course, it would require that the entire chain of command above him also be reasonably intelligent, circumspect, and discreet.”

“What’s going to happen when he shows up?” Samantha asked.

“What?” Harlan asked, caught off guard by the question.

“The guy,” Samantha said. “Operating on the assumption that you are dead on the money with your hunch, the guy is going to show up. Then what? Citizen’s arrest?”

“I plan to spotlight him and catch him on video,” Harlan said, his voice subdued.

“And then what?” Samantha persisted.

“I expect he’ll run, then I’ll use the cell phone to get patrol cars to converge,” Harlan said.

“We don’t really need to catch him,” Gloria explained. “He is caught, it is over, and he’s out of business.”

“And you’re going to do this because…?” Craig persisted.

“Because we want to,” Harlan answered.

“Because it feels right to do it this way,” Gloria added.

“And there’s no harm that can come from it,” Harlan finished.

“Unless, of course, he shoots you,” Craig said.

The discussion ended. They sat down to an early supper together. There was no jug of moonshine, no two-bottle stupid on the table. Craig and Samantha faced a drive back to Cincinnati, and neither Harlan nor Gloria had the urge. It felt a little like they were in training camp, working up to the big day.

Raiding the freezer, Harlan fixed a batch of sandwiches for which he had no name. He thawed already-cooked and -sliced roast beef, slow-cooked some thick-sliced bacon, and deep-fried some breaded oysters. The sandwiches on warmed hoagie rolls were topped with a concoction he called tiger sauce. The sandwiches and thawed, homemade bean soup made up the meal. It was tasty and satisfying.

When it was time to depart, Harlan used one of the scooters to lead the way up the drive and unlock the gate. No one was visible, no cars and no vans. He waved the two off, relocked the gate, and returned to the house.

On Monday, both cell phones were nearly constantly ringing with attempts by the press to get something. There were a few traffic-blocking incidents up at the road — Jack called and filled them in on those.

Gene Snyder called to report that the computer analysis seemed to be bearing fruit. A few possibles had emerged when they ran the first two sets of data, and that had narrowed to two, when they ran the third set. Now they were keying in the additional registration information, from the list of likely motels that Gloria supplied. The work was moving quickly. They had not been able to consolidate the recorded license plate numbers from the Thursday night in Bowling Green. That would probably be finished tomorrow, Tuesday.

“That’s what I’ve got,” Gene said. “You guys have anything to report, anything to add?”

“Do you have anything special laid on for tonight?” Harlan asked. “What pattern we do have says it’ll be tonight.”

“Right. Northeast Ohio and Northwest Pennsylvania,” Gene said. “We’re still working out exactly what we need to say in the bulletin, if there is one. You know that the minute we issue an internal, it will be external in seconds, and we’re still taking a beating about the Bowling Green thing. There’s even talk of some Congressional Committee wanting to call hearings.”

“There goes another chunk of my tax dollars,” Gloria said. “Idiots.”

“Can you just put some kind of ‘watch for this car’ thing?” Harlan asked. “With the two hits you have from the motel data, couldn’t you even supply a tag number?”

“What you’re suggesting is a variation on the ‘person of interest’ label, and you’ve seen what the press does with that one,” Gene replied. “Even as close as we are, we could still lose this guy, and I don’t want to do that.”

“Same here,” both Gloria and Harlan said.

“We will use the network, person to person, with senior guys in Ohio and Pennsylvania, people we know and trust,” Gene said. “Even there it gets tricky. We know the guy has a firearm and has used it. You can’t just tell an officer to watch for a vehicle without also saying the driver may be armed and dangerous.”

“How do you think you could lose him now?” Gloria asked.

“Literally, all we have is a real good case for opportunity and means,” Gene explained. “Literally, that’s it. What we don’t have is anything that ties him directly to any of the victims. Now, we are confident that a good crime scene unit will be able to find stuff in the house and in the car. If you knew that and it was you who were in jeopardy, what would you do?”

“I suppose I could have an unfortunate fire,” Harlan said. “I guess the car could be in the garage when the fire broke out.”

“Right,” Gene said. “With all of the evidence up in smoke, we would have nothing. We’d be sure, no doubt, that it was him, but that doesn’t count for much.”

“So, we all have to be careful not to trigger a fire,” Gloria said.

“Which brings me right back to the idea of a bulletin or even a back-channels alert,” Gene said. “I don’t think it is a good idea. My focus is on putting this guy out of business before the next one. This one is, for all intents and purposes, history.”

“Can you ask for license plate numbers to be noted without stirring up too much fuss?” Harlan asked.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Gene said. “If it strikes gold, it will be another plus on the opportunity argument. That’s what I’ll do. Starting this evening, do you think?”

“I guess you have to, based on our information,” Harlan said.

“But, you don’t think it’ll be tonight?” Gene probed.

“Just a hunch with absolutely no science,” Harlan said, “I think it’ll be tomorrow.”

“Right,” Gene said. “The other thing I need to lay on quietly is a Tuesday morning sweep of the cloverleafs. How many, do you think?” Gene was pushing and he knew it.

“Ten or twelve, maybe,” Harlan answered.

“Can you do that without alerting the press?” Gloria asked.

“Probably not,” Gene answered. “Maybe I should postpone the sweep until Wednesday.”

“It’s not like it’ll matter if it’s Wednesday,” Harlan said. “Probably less likely to trigger a fire.”

“Will you all be around tomorrow?” Gene asked.

“You can always get us on the phone,” Harlan answered, or, rather, didn’t answer.

“Okay, and thanks for all the work you’ve done,” Gene said. “When this is wrapped up, there are some folks who want to meet you two. Good bye.”

It had been so long since Harlan and Gloria had prepared for a one-night trip, using the Blazer instead of the RV, that they didn’t know where to start or what to do. Harlan sat down and put together a priority list. It included the video camera with a new stick, fully charged battery, spare battery, chargers for the phones and the camera, hands-free earpieces for the phones, and the big lantern, the one that looked like an automobile headlight mounted atop a battery case. When all of those were assembled in one place, he brought out his Kermit chair. It was disassembled and in the cloth carrying tube.

Gloria sorted through the various thermoses and picked two, one for her in the car and one for Harlan in the cloverleaf. She wouldn’t need extra-warm clothing but Harlan would. He would have the silk underwear, the longjohns, his Gortex riding suit, thermal boots, and a balaclava helmet. When they had all of that assembled, they stopped.

“What else?” Gloria asked.

“A flashlight for you in the car?” Harlan asked.

“Already there.”

“Other than a toothbrush, I guess we’re ready,” Harlan said.

“Want to go?” Gloria asked.

“I’m ready. I’ll start checking the locks and alarms,” Harlan said, and headed outdoors to check on his kitchen. Gloria placed all of the gear on the table into a tote bag and walked it down the hall to the garage door. She loaded the back seat of the Blazer and returned to the kitchen, checking for anything left behind. Harlan was coming down from the kitchen, and Gloria checked the locks on the windows. When everything was set, they left through the garage door, Gloria driving.

Gloria was not comfortable driving the big RV, so Harlan shouldered all of the driving duty when they traveled. Driving the Blazer, Gloria took over. Driving easily, they still faced a solid seven hours on the road, putting them in the vicinity of the cloverleaf by three.

The drive was easy. The roads were nearly empty as they cut across Indiana into Ohio. They had no way of knowing that they passed within a mile of Jerry’s house. They decided to use the route that would take them to the top of Ohio and into Pennsylvania before dropping down on I-79 toward Pittsburgh. They reached the target cloverleaf and drove the complete set of circles, then exited to check out the road they had spotted on the aerial. Around the bend and out of sight on the Interstate, they did find a lane that led to a field. It would be easy to back the Blazer in and out of sight. This was one of the times that Gloria was glad she had prevailed in choosing the deep blue paint for the car. At night, it was doubtful that a passing car would even notice her. A white paint job, Harlan’s preference, would have stood out like a sore thumb.

The returned to the Interstate and retraced their steps to the exit with a Motel 6 sign showing above the tree tops. They checked in for one night. They didn’t want it for sleeping, but it would be easier for Harlan to get into his thermal layers and make his one, last pit stop in the privacy of the room. First they found a place to eat and relaxed as much as possible. By eight, they were back in the room, thermoses filled with fresh coffee. Harlan stripped down and built his thermal suit, starting with the silk underwear. In less than ten minutes, he was ready to go and needed to go. Inside temperatures and thermal suiting were not a good match.

They agreed not to worry about phone bills and to use the hands-free earpieces to be in constant contact. In case contact was dropped, Harlan set his ringer to completely off and set up auto answer. That way, Gloria could always reestablish contact without making a noise at just the wrong time.

At nine, Gloria pulled the Blazer off on the inside shoulder of the cloverleaf, all the way at the bottom. Harlan had surmised that carrying the body uphill, when downhill was possible, is not the sort of thing the guy would do. So he entered at the bottom. Gloria followed him into the area and helped him scan and pick the likely dump spot. Then they looked around for the best possible place for Harlan to hide.

Harlan assembled his Kermit chair by feel, in the dark. He set it next to the chosen tree and moved it around to get it level. He was set up with the tree on his right side. He put the video camera, the flashlight and the thermos on the ground where his hand would naturally settle on them when he sat.

“Gloria,” he said, softly but not whispering, “back away and try to see me.” He sat and pulled the balaclava down over his face and adjusted the eyeholes. His hand rested comfortably on his equipment.

He heard the sound of Gloria moving backward through the brush.

“Hell, I can’t see you at all. Once you pulled that thing over your face, you disappeared. I didn’t even need to back away.”

“Time check,” Harlan said.

“It’s nine-fifteen,” Gloria answered, her face lighted by the glow of her cell phone. Harlan’s phone was tucked inside the suit for just that reason.

“Time to make our phone calls and for you to go set up,” Harlan said.

Gloria punched a speed dial into her phone and waited for Bobbie to answer.

“Hey, Bobbie, it’s Gloria,” she said. “Guess where I am.” She listened for a moment and handed the phone to Harlan. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Evening, Bobbie,” Harlan said. Then he was quiet for a moment. “Bobbie, the most dangerous part of the whole thing was driving here on the Interstate. I am confident that nothing violent is going to happen.” Another pause. “Will you sleep with your phone next to your ear? Good. As soon as either something or nothing happens, we’ll call you. If you have to call us for any reason, call Gloria’s line. She’ll be able to answer. I won’t. Okay. Bye.”

“Now, Betty,” Gloria said, taking the phone back and keying the speed dial. She handed the phone over to Harlan.

“Betty, it’s Harlan,” he said. “No, nothing’s happened. Gloria and I are at the cloverleaf. I have my camouflage all set and Gloria is about to abandon me. I expect our guy to show around two.” A pause. “We spoke to Gene yesterday. He knows the general area but, no, we didn’t tell him the exact location and we didn’t say we would be here. Now, do you want a call from us if and when something happens?”

“Okay, then,” Harlan said, “only good news. If you have to reach us, call Gloria’s line. Betty, we really do think this is it and you know we couldn’t have got here without you. Thanks from both of us.”

“That’s it,” Harlan said, handing the phone back to Gloria. “You need to get going. When you get set up, call me, and we’ll make sure that works.”

Gloria didn’t say anything. She stepped over and hugged him, turned, and walked away. Harlan stayed standing. There would be enough sitting to come, and he didn’t want to stiffen up more than necessary. It was going to be a long wait.

For any number of reasons, the main one being that there was no official confirmation, the media did not jump on the story with their Saturday editions. By the time producers and editors and assignment chiefs woke up to the potential in the story, Saturday papers were already printed and delivered, Saturday television provided insufficient programming and insufficient viewers and The Courier-Journal was running a front page on their Sunday paper with nearly an entire section inside on The Cloverleaf Murders and on Harlan and Gloria. They even had a fairly good photo of Sue Ellen.

It dawned on those editors and producers that, somewhere out there, the people who had so accurately predicted the first half of the crime had not been interviewed. There was no footage on them. There was no current art on them. There was no one standing in front of them asking the obvious questions, like, Who is he, where does he live, has he disposed of the body yet, will it be in a cloverleaf, which one, when. With only minor variations, they all issued the orders: Find them! Get me something!

Bobbie phoned Sunday morning as Harlan, Gloria, and company were having breakfast. Harlan answered and set the phone on the table with speaker on.

“Hi, everybody,” Bobbie started. “Calling with a heads-up. The beginning of the feeding frenzy is here. Our phones are flooded with demands from other media outlets for information, interviews, access, you name it. The timing was off, mostly because of the weekend and all. Now, I think they’re going to try to make up for lost time.”

“We had one trespass yesterday,” Harlan said. “One of the local stations.”

“Dad chased them off with a shotgun,” Craig said.

“You can’t do that, Harlan,” Bobbie said immediately.

“I know, I know,” Harlan said. “We called Jack and he came over. He strung some yellow crime scene tape across the entrance from the road, shooed the two that were up there off with official talk. Right after breakfast, we’re going out to the property line and put up No Trespassing signs. Jack says that if we were to end up actually pressing charges, the signs have to be in place, so nobody can claim innocent ignorance.”

“But, officer,” Samantha singsonged, “I was simply out for a walk in the woods.”

“Exactly,” Bobbie said.

“What about you?” Gloria asked. “Are they trying to get to you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bobbie sounded exasperated. “Upstairs informs me I cannot stonewall other media on this. So I have interviews scheduled for most of the day. Thing is, upstairs can make me talk, but they can’t make me say anything.”

“Good luck with that,” Gloria said.

“Have you had a chance to talk to Gene or anyone at the Bureau?” Harlan asked.

“No,” Bobbie answered. “I can’t go directly and officially to Gene. Have to handle it through normal channels. Why?”

“When we talked yesterday, he had some encouraging news about the computer work on the motels. He also said that the Troopers in Bowling Green were recording license plate numbers that night,” Harlan said. “I think he may have put extra crews on to process the information, starting today.”

“I’m pretty sure they can nail this guy with what they’re doing now,” Gloria added.

“I sure wish I could talk to Gene,” Bobbie said.

“Hey, you can call Betty,” Gloria said. “She has a direct line to Gene. Maybe she could relay some information between you all.”

“I’ll try,” Bobbie said. “Think it’s too early to call?”

“No. She keeps farmer’s hours,” Harlan said. “She might be at church, but she won’t be in bed. The sun is up.”

“Okay,” Bobbie said, cheerily. “Anything else?”

There was silence. Samantha implored with her eyes, her face. Gloria shook her head.

“I guess not,” Harlan said. “If you have a chance to come up for air, give us a call later.”

“Will do. Bye.”

“What’s the problem?” Samantha asked, after the phone clicked off.

“If we have a prediction and if the prediction is right,” Gloria explained, “like the situation they have in Bowling Green right now, there could be a problem.”

“How?” Craig asked. “Explain it again.”

“Say I have a strong hunch about the timing and the location,” Harlan began. “What do I do with it? Give it to the authorities? Three possibilities there. One, they don’t do anything with it and it is now officially on record. So, if the hunch is right, they’re in big trouble. Two, they do something about it in such a ham-handed fashion that our guy detects it and avoids it. Now we’ve lost him, maybe for good. Three, they do it right and they catch him. Of those three, which do you think is the most likely?”

“Unfortunately, after the success on Bowling Green,” Samantha said, “I think it would be number two: They do something and blow it.”

“I agree,” Craig added. Harlan and Gloria already knew where they stood on the question.

“Then, let’s say I don’t tell the authorities, don’t do anything about it,” Harlan continued. “And, if I’m right, well, I don’t think I could live with that.”

“Which brings us to the stakeout,” Samantha said.

“But what about Bobbie?” Craig asked.

“At Bobbie’s request,” Gloria said, “she doesn’t want to know about anything she can’t write. She doesn’t even want to know if there is something to know.”

“Which brings us to the stakeout,” Samantha repeated, with added emphasis.

“Let’s go in there so I can show you some aerials,” Harlan suggested. They all moved and left the breakfast dishes for later, a most unusual occurrence in that household. No one even thought of staying back and missing even one part of the conversation.

“Start with the day he’ll use. What little science we have points to Monday, and it’s very little, bolstered by logic, and I think it’ll be Tuesday,” Harlan began. “It is so little science and so much hunch that I would not mention it to the authorities. The odds are, they’d be correct to choose Monday night.”

“So you think someone over there is actually working on it?” Craig asked.

“Maybe,” Harlan said. “I’m sure they are thinking the location will be opposite side of the territory. That much has a lot of science behind it. So, I don’t know, maybe they can set up cameras in the cruisers with date/time stamps and GPS signatures. Just snap everybody, or maybe all minivans. It could be useful at the trial if they snapped our guy’s van in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Sounds like some sort of rights violation,” Samantha said.

“Not at all,” Harlan countered. “Your tag is on public display, available to anyone who wants to photograph it, for example. You have no reasonable expectation that your tag will not be recorded. In fact, that is precisely what it’s there for.”

“That’s really about all they can do, sounds like,” Craig said.

“I think what I am going to do is suggest that they repeat the process on Tuesday night,” Harlan said, “but, I won’t say it until Tuesday morning. That way, nothing I say can interfere with their Monday plans.”

“Where?” Samantha asked. “That’s what I want to know. Where?”

Harlan laid out a series of cloverleaf aerials, all of them marked with the direction of approach and the target segment.

“As long as the four quadrants have equal density,” Harlan said, touching three of the photos, “our guy drives three of the circles, and uses the fourth one. When he does that, his vehicle is poised to re-enter the Interstate heading in the right direction for home. The only times he has varied from that are clearly explained by the relative lack of cover in the normal segment.”

Samantha picked up the aerial of the likely dump site and looked at it. “Okay, so Tuesday night into Wednesday morning, this guy is going to arrive here,” holding up the photo, “drive through three of the cloverleafs and stop at this one.” She touched the aerial where Harlan had drawn a large X.

“That’s what I think,” Harlan said. “Gloria, too.”

“And you’re going to be there?” Samantha asked. Harlan nodded.

“What about you, Mom?” Craig asked. “Where will you be?”

“We’re still discussing that,” Gloria said. “I could be there with Harlan. The downside of that is the long hike in, then back out. We can’t park close enough for fear we’ll spook him. And, if we needed a vehicle in a hurry, it would be too far away.”

“One possibility is to get just out of sight on this cross road. Here to the west, it takes a bend pretty quickly and will be out of sight of the Interstate. If there’s a suitable way to pull off the road and wait, that’s probably what we’ll do.”

“We’re going to head into the area early, check all of this out, have a good meal, fill the thermoses,” Harlan said. “Then, I plan to get into the cloverleaf by at least eleven. I’ll still walk around a little, keep the blood flowing and the sleepies at bay. At one, I’ll set up the Kermit chair against a tree. I think I know where he’ll pull off, so I can avoid the path he will use to get to the center. By the way, he always goes to the center, except in Pennsylvania when he was interrupted.”

“Are you taking the shotgun?” Craig asked.

“No. I’m taking the big flashlight, the video camera, cell phone, and coffee thermos, and my Kermit chair.”

“But, what if something happens?” Samantha’s voice rose noticeably.

“I agree with Gloria on this guy,” Harlan said. “He is not a killer, he is a coward. I can’t picture him aiming and shooting at another human being. That’s not what he does.”

“Are you going to tell anyone you’re doing this?” Craig asked.

“That’s delicate,” Harlan said. “I might call Bobbie once I’m in the cloverleaf, put her on alert. I feel like I have to tell Betty something. Haven’t figured out what or when. Beyond that, no. Just you two. It’s not like my information would prevent a crime or save someone’s life. We’re past that point. I’m confident that the background work that the Bureau has going now will nail this guy, so I am not hindering that process.”

“If you’re so sure of that,” Samantha said, “do you really have to go?”

“Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Harlan said, looking at Gloria.

>>>>>     <<<<<

Gloria stayed behind to clean up from breakfast. Harlan, Samantha, and Craig gathered the signs and string — no nails would be driven into trees — and began to post the perimeter of the property. It was a large place and would take them the better part of the morning to accomplish. They could divide the job and finish in half the time. They didn’t. Speed was not the prize. Walking together around the wooded property was.

At the top of the drive, they saw the yellow tape Jack had strung and left it in place. They put the first sign directly on the gate. Then they started a path parallel to the highway and just inside the property line, hanging signs at eye level. From there, they witnessed the arrival of three separate cars. The cars were moving at a snail’s pace as the drivers all scanned the side of the road, looking for the entrance. When the entrance was spotted, all three cars pulled in, only to be stopped by the yellow tape. The first car was blocked in by the other two, the last of which was sticking partially into the travel lane of the road. The exposed car honked. The first car honked back. Car doors flew open and reporters, presumably, jumped out and faced off.

“I wish we had the video camera,” Samantha whispered, grinning.

Yeah, this could get interesting,” Harlan said, his voice low.

“Well, I wish you had the shotgun,” Craig whispered.

A van with a telescoping mast on top arrived and pulled to the shoulder and honked. Someone jumped out from the passenger side and strode toward the three cars blocking the road. Further excitement was denied by the sound of a siren, the whoop whoop that is meant to attract attention. The roof rack lights came on, and Jack Lutz stepped out of the car, sliding his baton into the loop on his belt and placing his hat squarely on his head. He approached the gathering crowd beside the three cars.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out, “let me have your attention please.” The group hushed and turned in his direction. “That car and that car,” he said, indicating the first two, “are definitely trespassing on private property. That car,” he indicated the third car, “is creating a hazardous driving condition, as is the van. The State Troopers are en route and will deal with the traffic hazards, if they persist. When I retrieve the appropriate forms from my vehicle, I will take the information on the trespassers, if they are still doing so.”

“You can’t do that,” one of the group called out.

Jack grinned, lifted his eyebrows, and cocked his head to the side. The he turned back toward his car to get his clipboard. Harlan, Samantha, and Craig stood stock still. They did not want to attract attention and inadvertently give the reporters what they were there for — a glimpse, a hollered question, anything that they could report. Right now, all they could report is that they were on the wrong side of the law and caught. They chose to be discreet and began the process of backing out of the driveway. Then, at Jack’s urging, they did not use the shoulders to park on. They drove off.

When the coast was obviously clear, Harlan emerged from the woods, followed by Samantha and Craig.

“Nice work, Deputy,” Harlan called. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to draw close and startle Jack. Jack did carry a weapon.

“Thanks,” he called back. “Give me a second to move the cruiser.” He pulled the car into the entrance, turned off the light bar, and got out.

“You saw all of that?” Jack said, approaching.

“Yeah, we were in the woods when  the cars arrived, hanging signs,” Harlan said. “Saw everything, beginning to end.”

“You’re putting up signs,” Jack said. “Good.”

“Were you just in the area,” Samantha asked, “or are we on a special watch or something?”

“Let’s see,” Jack said. “Yes, and yes. We have increased patrols past here. I’m just coming off duty and decided to do a swing-by.”

“Well, thanks,” Harlan said. “I don’t think it would take too much for them to simply hop the gate. Right now, they’re probably trying to figure out where to walk in from.”

“Better get your signs up before you end up with an impromptu interview in the woods,” Jack said. “I’ll check in with you later, see how it’s going.”

Jack left, and the trio continued through the woods, hanging the signs.

>>>>>     <<<<<

Sunday afternoon, and Jerry was standing at the open door of his refrigerator, drinking from the water bottle. His gaze drifted to the window and beyond to the open field behind his house. He wasn’t focused on anything, just letting his eyes drift as his mind drifted. A thought was forming, the thought that he was somehow gaining strength over the up-till-now strong paranoid voice in his head. It seemed to him that he had somehow found the volume control on that voice and turned it down. It didn’t go away completely. It was still there. But, it was no longer loud or dominating.

When Jerry had decided, Saturday, that he wanted to spend the night in the same bed with Sue Ellen, snuggled up without restraints or the ever-present pistol, the voice had tried to break through. Jerry won. It was a wonderful night for him. It was the first time ever that he experienced a form of connubial bliss. He began to grasp why people would marry and spend a life together. It was really blissful, like nothing he had ever imagined. There had been no sex, just two bodies snuggled comfortably together. Jerry sighed.

He knew he couldn’t turn back the clock and remove the damage the bullet had done. He knew that this one would have to end the same way all of the other ones had. He hated the thought and would not allow himself to picture it. He was definite in his resolve to prolong Sue Ellen’s stay. He could get two more wonderful nights together, then take care of things Tuesday night. His internal voice had finally given up protesting the decision.

Since Jerry did not subscribe to a newspaper and would definitely not leave the house while he had company, his only source for news was the TV. He turned it on and went immediately to the weather channel. Inclement weather could significantly impact his plans. The forecast was for continued cold and dry weather for the eastern half of the country. That suited Jerry just fine.

He flipped to one of the news channels and was shocked to see a photograph of someone who looked a lot like Sue Ellen. As he increased the volume, Sue Ellen’s name appeared beneath the picture. The announcer was describing her as a probable victim of the cloverleaf killer and pointing out that the authorities were not confirming it. Jerry was amazed. He was watching national news. This had never happened before — one of his companions showing up on the news.

Jerry stayed in front of the TV much longer that he intended. The entire story unfolded, complete with the amateur detectives who were consulting with the FBI. When Jerry heard and finally grasped that the detectives had predicted that he would take action in Bowling Green and even specified the date, Jerry experienced a tingle up and down his spine, like someone just walked across his grave. At least, that’s what his mother would have said.

The rest of Sunday and again on Monday, Jerry watched intently. He needed to assess the threat. He decided there was no way anyone could know it was him. He decided that he would have to change something about how he picked up new companions. It floored him that he had followed a pattern that someone could pick up on and use to predict. He had another tingle up his spine.

Particularly, Jerry listened for any indication that anyone was predicting where he would dispose of the body and when. He heard no such information. Besides, if there was a pattern, he was already breaking it by extending Sue Ellen’s visit to Tuesday. When he reached that conclusion, he actually sighed. He would think about changing things later, when he had time and when there weren’t more pleasant ways to occupy his time.

He turned off the TV, stretched, and walked toward the bedroom.

Saturday afternoon, Jerry stopped for a nap. First he placed the harness in the wheelchair, lifted Sue Ellen into the chair, and moved her to the bathtub and suspended her. He figured that if she were to regain consciousness, she would still be unable to do anything, suspended and unable to reach the rope to let herself down. He didn’t worry about noise, as remote as his house was. He left the bathroom door ajar and lay down in the spare bedroom. On days like this, the main bed was reserved for intimacies and ecstasies, not for sleeping.

After the nap, Jerry checked on Sue Ellen and found no change. Relieved, he slipped on a robe and headed to the kitchen. He needed food, and he pulled two chicken pot pies from the freezer and put them in the microwave. He stood and drank long swallows from the ice water bottle, then refilled it at the sink and replaced it in the refrigerator.

Waiting for the food to heat, Jerry stared out the kitchen window at the bare winterscape. He was thinking about how this time was different, delightfully yet disturbingly different. He thought he was beginning to have feelings, real feelings, for Sue Ellen. That hadn’t happened before, ever. Usually when he was this far into a session of his social life, he was already looking toward the challenge of disposal and even to the next round of work he had planned. Not this time.

Jerry knew it would be impossible, but he wondered if there were some way to keep Sue Ellen around for a while. He’d have to figure out some way to feed her, he knew. That wouldn’t be too hard, he guessed. When he started down this thought path, the voice inside him that represented his rabidly paranoid side was virtually screaming at him.

“Are you crazy?! Leave her alone for days at a time, just waiting to be discovered? What if she wakes up? What if she screams? What if you get caught buying IV supplies? Can you even get them without prescription? Don’t. Don’t even think it!”

Jerry knew he wouldn’t do it, knew that it would be impossible, and it was making him a little sad. He really didn’t want this one to be over. There was just something about her that reached him. He thought she was beautiful. He could picture her smiling, laughing. He could conjure an image of her face, relaxed and slightly puffed up after really good sex.  At times, he closed his eyes at just the right moment and called up that image. The effect on him was electrifying. He even thought about taking a few pictures to try to capture what he was imagining. His paranoid voice practically exploded at that thought. No, he wouldn’t do that either. One thing he did decide to do, despite the voice inside, was keep Sue Ellen an extra day. His schedule was flexible, and he was smart enough not to plan specific appointments around his periods of social relaxation.

The microwave pinged, and Jerry turned from the window to pull the two pie pans onto the counter. He poked large holes in both crusts to let the steam out more quickly. He was eager to get back to Sue Ellen. He wasn’t horny-eager. He simply missed her presence and wanted mealtime to be over so he could be with her again, not in the wheelchair, not suspended over the tub, but nestled comfortably into the large bed. Jerry actually sighed at the thought, then got busy on the pot pies. He knew his paranoid side would win, ultimately, so he wanted to take as much advantage as possible of the time he did have.

>>>>>     <<<<<

Harlan’s absorption in the puzzle of which of the four choices of cloverleaf the guy was choosing wrapped him up completely. He lost track of time and everything else. When his cell phone rang, it startled him. He reached to his bib pocket automatically and almost answered before checking caller I.D. It was Gene Snyder.

“Gene,” Harlan said immediately into the phone. “I am so sorry. I should have called you sooner.”

That opening remark set Gene back a bit.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “I have been meaning to call you all day and things keep coming up. Look, believe it or not, things are moving pretty fast here. You guys have a growing fan club here and out there. In here, some of them are still begrudging having to give up the ‘No Way’ stance they took.”

“Gene, can I put you on speaker?” Harlan asked. “Gloria is here and needs to hear what you’ve got.”

“Absolutely,” Gene said, “and I’m conferencing in Betty. Just give me a second.”

“Right,” Harlan said, and set his cell phone on the table with the speaker feature turned on. Gloria grabbed the thermos from the kitchen and sat down next to Harlan. When Craig and Samantha walked in from the hall, she waved them over and waved them silent, a ballet of arm gestures that communicated perfectly.

“Harlan, are you there?” came from the cell phone.

“We’re here,” Harlan said, mercifully not shouting and distorting the sound at the other end. “We have Gloria and Craig and Samantha here.”

“Betty, are you there?” Gene’s voice asked.

“Right here,” Betty’s voice said. “Hey, you all. Incredible work.”

“Thanks,” Gloria and Harlan said simultaneously.

“Let me run down this list of things I have,” Gene said, “then we can talk about next steps. First, the state troopers did get the word in time and were recording Indiana and Ohio plates in the area. Doesn’t do us much good at the moment, but if we do get to the point we need the information, it is part of the official record. That’s good. The sheriff down there is scrambling to explain why he didn’t respond to the request. His crew of deputies didn’t even know about it.”

“Second, the motel registration effort is moving forward. I’ve kept hands off and out of the way on that one — left it with a fellow in the Ohio bureau — state, not federal. Just got off the phone with him, and he says that the story about predicting the abduction has made a huge difference in the cooperation his people are getting from the motel owners. Make a note that we should get him the names of some of those motels near the cafes, strike while the iron is hot.”

“I can work on that and get it to you today,” Gloria said.

“And make sure you do the list with the top possibilities at the top. These guys will start at the top since they have no other information.”

“Will do,” Gloria answered.

“The thing that is going to slow us down is getting the information into a database. Right now, the folks at the state bureau think they can handle it. They’re running two shifts over the weekend. If we get more motel information, I’ll have to put some folks on it.”

“When do you think you’ll be able to run the data on the first four?” Harlan asked.

“Shouldn’t be too long. Why?”

“He still has her with him. Just wondering if it would be possible to, I don’t know, drop in on him before he dumps her,” Harlan said.

“We’re pretty sure,” Gloria added, “that he lives in the Richmond, Indiana area, along I-seventy. So, if you maybe get a hit out of the computer stuff . . .”

“There’s nowhere near enough here to get a warrant,” Gene answered.

“Not picturing a raid, Gene,” Harlan said. “Just a drop by, local law, your name came up or something, just checking. I think a good, experienced cop could get a feel for it right away. Don’t you?”

“Not everyone has your knack,” Betty joined in. “But, there are some that I know who could pull it off. What do you think, Gene?”

“I agree,” Gene said. “First, we make the computer runs. Second we look for Richmond, Indiana and, I guess, that could reach into Ohio. Third we look for a minivan. If we get all of that, I still wouldn’t take it to a judge. I would see it as enough to send somebody to the door.”

“How did you come up with Richmond, Indiana?” Betty asked.

Gloria spelled out the methodology they’d used, relating only the blue dots, estimating the driving time, using the map wheel. When she finished — it told much faster than it took to do — there was silence.

“Would you two ever consider going to Quantico and guest lecturing?” Betty asked. “That is amazing work, incredible thinking.”

“You have something else going, don’t you?” Gene said. “Sundown, driving time — you think you know where he’s going to dump the body, don’t you?”

Harlan and Gloria exchanged glances. Harlan shrugged his shoulders. “We’re working on an idea,” Harlan said.

“You planning to keep us in the loop?” Gene asked.

“The level of confidence we have in our prediction so far, I wouldn’t bother you with it,” Harlan said. “Besides, what would you do with it?”

“At a minimum, record license plate numbers,” Gene responded. “Anything else would depend on the preciseness of the prediction and your confidence in it.”

“You have thought about what would happen if we spook the guy, haven’t you?” Harlan asked. “Like, if you flooded a certain section of the Interstate with patrol cars, and it happened that it was the right section and he saw it.”

“I have,” Gene answered. “He could stop and we’d never find him.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Harlan said. “My concern is that he could change and it would be a couple of years before his new pattern caught our attention, if it ever did.”

“Harlan,” Betty said, “Do I detect a certain lack of trust in the ability of law enforcement personnel to handle this well?”

“Betty, it’s not that, exactly,” Harlan said.

“Well, yes it is,” Gloria jumped in. “Just look at that sheriff in Bowling Green, trying to find a way to duck responsibility. Picture him on a sensitive stakeout.” Harlan glanced at Gloria. This was the first time anyone had said the word.

“A stakeout, is it?” Gene said.

“Could you do that?” Harlan asked quickly, trying to avoid the obvious next question.

“Not me personally,” Gene answered. “I’m too old for that shit.” He paused to let that sink in a little. “I could put in a request for such an operation. I guess the response would depend on how firm your prediction is.”

“Harlan,” Betty said, “Do not try anything silly. This guy kills. We know he has a firearm. This is not a good time for vigilante stuff.”

“I hear you, Betty,” Harlan said.

“And so do I,” Gloria said, with emphasis.

“When you have something you’re comfortable with, will you give me a call?” Gene asked.

“We certainly will,” Gloria answered.

“That wraps it, then,” Gene said.

“One other thing,” Harlan said, “that came up when I spoke with Bobbie Fisher this morning. If we do come up with a prediction, she does not want to know about it, doesn’t even want to know that we did. If it turns out to be wrong, and odds are it will, no harm. But, if it’s right and if we don’t catch the guy, the media will have a field day. So, if there’s a prediction, she suggests that it ought to be very closely held, very. So, Gene, anything in an official report will eventually get out. That’s partly why I’m hesitant about this.”

“Point taken,” Gene said. “Betty, you have my personal number, don’t you?”

“Sure do,” Betty answered.

“Well, I am taking an official day off tomorrow. I’ll probably be around the house, if you decide to call.”

“Point taken,” Betty said.

“Ditto,” Gloria added.

“Okay, we’re done,” Gene said. “Thanks everybody.”

>>>>>     <<<<<

Harlan had the kitchen table completely covered with the black-and-white aerial photos of cloverleafs. On the ones he had completed, there was the identifying number in magic marker, a penciled circle around the quadrant where the body was, and a penciled arrow indicating the likely direction of approach. He was disciplining himself to do the direct work on each cloverleaf before drawing any conclusions. He couldn’t avoid a growing sense of a pattern. It was definitely there. He just would not stop and engage with it until he finished all of them. He had about ten to go.

Gloria emailed her list of motels near the diners and cafes where victims worked. Just for the hell of it, she included the motel where she and Harlan had stayed on their quick trip into the area. She stood and went out onto the porch to grab some fresh air. Craig and Samantha were walking back down the drive from the gate. There was little for them to do, so they chose to check for any unwanted visitors. There were none.  They joined Gloria on the porch, not yet ready to go back inside.

“Do you think Dad is planning to do some sort of stakeout?” Craig asked Gloria.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Gloria answered. “We haven’t talked about it.”

“What if he does?” Craig asked.

“You know your dad,” Gloria said. “If he decides to do it, nothing short of protective custody will stop him.”

“You think it’s a good idea,” Samantha said.

“Maybe,” Gloria answered.

“What about what Gene and Betty said, about the guy being a killer, having a gun?” Craig protested.

“He’s not a killer, he’s a coward,” Gloria snapped. “He lures a woman who thinks she knows him into the car, then shoots her in the head. I think he would pee his pants if he ever faced someone eye-to-eye.”

“But, Gloria….” Samantha started to say.

“But what?” Gloria said, very fast. “Think about it. You know what we’re dealing with here. They’re the same bozos Harlan and I used to complain about and try to beat, and it wasn’t hard to do. Sure, Gene and Betty are exceptions, but they aren’t going to physically get out there and get next to this guy. Even with their best efforts and intentions, it still gets delegated to someone, and there’s not a single ‘someone’ out there that I trust. Not one.”

Craig and Samantha were silent, watching Gloria.

“If we blow this one,” Gloria went on, in a slower, softer voice, “we will lose him, and we just can’t let that happen.”

“So, Dad is going to do a stakeout?” Craig asked.

“We haven’t discussed it,” Gloria reiterated.

The door opened, and Harlan stepped out and joined them on the porch. He smiled.

“Has anyone thought about food?” he asked.

Samantha had an inspiration. “Do you have any steaks?”

“Tons in the freezer,” Harlan answered.

“Got any good, seasoned wood for the fire pit?”

“Plenty,” Harlan said, pointing to the space beneath where they stood.

“I propose, then, that we have steak — out,” she said with a tone of triumph in her voice.

Silence. All eyes were on Harlan. “I don’t know,” he said, looking directly at Samantha. “That’s pretty corny.” The he smiled. The tension broke.

“I’ll get the grate out and the fire fixings,” Harlan said.

I’ll pull some steaks and thaw them,” Gloria added.

“One condition,” Harlan said, and they all stopped. “We’ll have steak out tonight and we won’t discuss stakeout until tomorrow.”

Saturday morning, Harlan and Gloria put the revised map and the revised timeline up on the wall. The body in the Bowling Green cloverleaf was missing. So were four other found bodies, mostly in the early part of the time line. Craig and Samantha were still in bed. They had popped in for an unplanned visit the night before, mostly to provide moral support. They had to call the house so Harlan could come up and open the gate. It had a chain and lock in addition to the normal keypad lock. They were sleeping in to make up for the lateness of their arrival.

“Looks like we didn’t lose any red dots,” Harlan noted, staring at Gloria’s new map. “So, the anomalies were all unidentified bodies.”

“I wonder if he started out with homeless types, hookers, hitchhikers,” Gloria said quietly, looking at the map also. “Maybe he just stumbled on his current method by accident, then stuck with it.” Harlan nodded quietly.

“I think I see something,” Harlan said. He set his coffee cup down, picked up a ruler and a pencil and began to draw some new lines on the map. “Yeah, look at this.”

“What?” Gloria asked, walking closer to see the light lines Harlan had penciled in. “You’re connecting blue to blue.”

“Right,” Harlan said. “All along, we’ve been connecting red to blue, but look. The blue dots all cluster closer to the center of the area. Some of the red dots are pretty far out on the edge. And, all of the anomalies were out at the edge. So, if we think of the blue dots as having something in common with themselves, what would that be? Those trips all started at his place.”

“Well, based on the report from Pennsylvania, that body was dumped at around 2:30. Let’s assume he always dumps at around that time,” Gloria said.

“And just for the hell of it, let’s assume he doesn’t drive in daylight with a dead body in the car,” Harlan said. “If we arbitrarily assign 2:30 to all of the dots, then we need to know sunset time based on season.”

“Remember what Samantha said a while back,” Gloria said, “about it not being straight line distance but driving time.” Harlan nodded. “We still have one of those map wheelie measuring things here somewhere. You look up sunset for each of the months and I’ll dig out the measuring thing.”

Harlan sat down at the computer and started searching for sunset information. He had to take into account the time zone line which runs down the middle of Indiana. Gloria climbed up to their loft bedroom to search for the measuring wheel. It would be somewhere in a box in a closet.

Craig and Samantha emerged from the hall together and went straight to the coffee thermos. They poured cups and, without asking, Samantha began to brew a new pot. She knew where everything was.

Craig wandered into the great room and watched his dad, intent on his computer work and his mom, up close to the map and drawing on it or something.

“I guess I sort of expected to be wakened to the aroma of bacon,” he said.

Without looking away from the map or stopping her measuring, Gloria said, “Well, life is just full of little disappointments, and I guess you just have to learn to live with them.”

Harlan swiveled away from the computer, stood, and gave Craig a quick hug.

“I’ll get some started right now,” he said. “I got hooked on the assignment and forgot about eating. I’m nearly finished anyway. Morning, Samantha.”

“Harlan,” she responded, and gave him a quick hug. “What’s up?”

“Can’t talk yet,” he said. “We’re still in the middle of something. I bet we’ll have something to talk through over breakfast, which is what I’m going to start right now.”

“Want help?” Samantha asked, genuinely, not just to be polite.

“Sure do,” Harlan answered.

Breakfast was simple…by Harlan’s standards. Bacon, eggs, potatoes, English muffins, sorghum, and orange juice. Gloria found a stopping point, and they all sat and ate. No talking. As soon as Samantha saw that Gloria had finished her last bite, she jumped in. “Okay, what’s up? What’s the new map? What are you working on?”

Harlan started. “We do believe that picking Bowling Green and the day was more than blind luck, more than a stab in the dark. We concentrated all of our thinking on the nature of the abductions, the motels, the cafes. I think that, God forbid, if this guy is still running around free and is not alerted to what we’re doing, we could even pick the next one.” Gloria was nodding.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Craig asked.

“No, we’re looking at the cloverleafs,” Harlan said.

“What for?” Craig asked.

Samantha jumped it. “Are you trying to predict where he will dump this one? Oh my God.”

“And then you can tell the police and they can set up and catch him,” Craig hurried on. “Wow.”

“Hold on,” Gloria said, quietly. “First step, and we’re right in the middle of it now, is to see if anything in the information we have actually points to a logical conclusion. If it does, next step is to figure out what to do about it. Broadcasting it might give us a bad outcome. In fact, I am amazed that Bobbie’s story didn’t scare our guy off already. You know that would be just fine with your father, scaring the guy off so that he never does it again. I want to catch him.”

“I think the guy probably doesn’t read the paper, or doesn’t read the Courier-Journal. We were lucky that the story didn’t stir a lot of interest and didn’t get picked up by other media, or he might have heard it, which I think he didn’t.” Harlan poured himself some more coffee from the thermos. “If he walked in here now and saw how much we have going, he would either have to stop or change how he operates. If he does that, changes, I don’t think we’ll ever get him, and I don’t think he’ll stop.”

“What’s the premise you’re working on?” Samantha asked. She stood from the table and wandered toward the map on the wall.

“We’re doing some big leaps of assumption and extrapolation,” Harlan started. “For example, we extrapolate from the Pennsylvania incident that he drops a body at 2:30 in the morning. We know he did that there, so we apply that to all of them.”

“The idea that he is based in the center of the area still holds,” Gloria continued, “and when you look at just the blue dots, it is even stronger.”

“Now, the un-based assumptions,” Harlan said. “He leaves from home base and he doesn’t drive until full dark.”

“Well, sure,” Samantha said. “With a body in the car with him.”

“So, we’re estimating driving time based on the gap between 2:30 and dark. Then we’ll work the map wheel from the blue dot toward the center of the area.”

“And, another big assumption,” Gloria added, “is that he uses the Interstates exclusively.”

“What do you have so far?” Samantha asked.

“Harlan has worked out the driving time window for each of the blue dots, based on an estimate that full dark is one hour after sunset,” Gloria said, as she walked over to the map. She pointed to the handwritten table she had taped to the map. “I’m just beginning to trace the routes backward.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harlan added, “we also assume that our guy drives the speed limit, sort of, so we’re saying average trip speed, allowing for slowdowns at ramps and things like that, is 65. He’d probably have to do a lot of 70 miles per hour to achieve that.”

While Harlan was talking, Gloria placed the map wheel on a blue dot and began to trace an Interstate route toward the center of the area. She had already converted the scale and knew how many inches would equal the assumed drive. When she reached the number, she placed a small gray dot on the map and gave it the same number as the blue dot from which she had started. Samantha moved closer and watched intently. Craig turned to his father.

“How do you come up with a target date?” he asked Harlan.

Harlan sat on the computer chair. “That’s a little more iffy,” he said. “The Pennsylvania incident was four days from abduction to disposal. It was a Saturday night. We don’t think day of the week is important.”

“So, if you use the Pennsylvania information, four days, you’re talking about Monday night,” Craig said.

Harlan nodded. “I think it will be Tuesday night, not Monday. Don’t know why. I just do.”

Craig sat down and looked past Harlan to where Gloria and Samantha were working on the map. The cluster of gray dots was compact. It looked like the approach was going to yield some results.

“What are you going to do?” Craig asked Harlan.

“I don’t know,” Harlan said. “I can list the possibilities. I just have no idea what will end up being the thing to do.”

“Would you tell the FBI people?” Craig asked.

“We will definitely keep Gene and Betty in the loop. In fact, we owe them a call today. I am guessing that Betty’s sensibilities have kept her from calling. I mean, what do you say? Congratulations, you were right, and now some woman is as good as dead, if not dead already, with a bullet in her head.”

“How could you possibly have stopped it?” Craig asked.

“Everything I’ve thought of,” Harlan said, “because I have thought about it a lot, ends up with police actions at a level that is clearly unconstitutional. And that’s the same problem I’m having now, with this information.” He waved his hand in the direction of the map. “For example, Gloria will probably come close to nailing down where this guy lives, maybe as close as fifty miles. So, Tuesday night and, I guess, Monday night, you put checkpoints on every Interstate in the area. After dark, police stop every single minivan and look inside. If they could do that, I think they would find our guy with a body next to him. I don’t think they can do that. If they could, I don’t think they will. Definitely not with our work as the rationalization for it.”

“I bet you underestimate the impact you two have, now that Bowling Green has happened,” Craig said. He looked out the window at the back of the great room. Bare trees and a general brownness, the look of winter without snow, was everywhere. “Uh, Dad,” Craig said, standing up. “Any reason someone should be walking around out there?”

Harlan turned and rose to look where Craig was pointing. Two people, bundled up against the weather, one carrying a camera, were circling below the house and heading for the side porch.

“Gloria, call Jack Lutz please,” he said. “Craig, grab the video camera there and make sure the time and date stamps are turned on.”

Harlan lifted a plaid, lumberjack-style shirt from a peg and slipped it on over his bib overalls. He reached behind the cupboard door and picked up a 12-gauge  shotgun, a Browning gold trigger that had been his father’s.

“Harlan,” Gloria said, raising her voice, “don’t you go killing anybody.”

“They’re blanks, remember,” Harlan said and walked to the door. Craig joined him, carrying the video camera. They stepped onto the porch as the two people they had spotted were approaching the step. They stopped when they saw the shotgun. Harlan walked along the porch toward the front of the house, where he could survey the wooded hillside above the driveway and apron. He saw no other intruders. Craig already had the video camera running, capturing the intruders and allowing Harlan to walk back into the frame.

The camera-toting person started to raise the camera to his shoulder and back away. The other intruder pulled off the hood of the coat and revealed long blonde hair. She turned toward Harlan, extending a microphone that seemed to magically appear in her hand.

“Mr. Stone, I am . . .” She got no further.

“Stop,” Harlan said. He looked up at the camera operator and repeated it. “Stop.” The young camera operator hesitated, then lowered the camera. “You are on private property without permission. I will prosecute if you do not immediately leave the property. The police are on the way and, if you are still here when they arrive, I will press charges.”

“Mr. Stone, I am . . .” she tried again, without the microphone extended.

“Let me be clear,” Harlan continued. “If I learn your name, it will be as you are telling it to the police officer for his report. Am I clear? Now please leave.” Craig was recording the entire scene.

The reporter turned to the camera operator and jerked her head toward the front of the house. As she was starting to follow him, she said. “Don’t you think the shotgun is a bit over the top?”

“Have you ever been shot at?” Harlan replied. “Straight up the slope through the trees there will be your shortest route, and it will take you right through the place the sniper used to shoot at us. Good day.”

Harlan knew that these two were from a local TV station. He also knew that if the story caught the interest of any larger media interest, he would be up against seasoned news crews. When someone has been on the ground in a combat zone, Harlan suspected that one old man with a shotgun would have little impact. As the two news people topped the rise and disappeared from view, Craig and Harlan stepped inside. Gloria and Samantha were at work on the map.

“You guys really missed it,” Craig said.

“I’m sure,” Gloria said. “Jack said he would come by in the next hour or so.”

“Are you nearly finished there?” Harlan asked.

“Tracing the last one,” Samantha answered, “and there it is.” She handed Gloria a gray dot. She placed it on the map, then everyone stood back and stared.

Using the roads as opposed to ‘as the crow flies’ had produced an interesting effect. They had ended up with a linear cluster of dots along Interstate 70 between Columbus, Ohio and Indianapolis, Indiana.

“I’d say what we’re looking at is, what,” Gloria was saying. “It’s either an elaborate illustration of what we have thought all along and, therefore, set up our assumptions to cause it . . .”

“I don’t think so,” Harlan said. “He lives in or near,” Harlan moved closer to the map, “Richmond, Indiana. Trouble is, we can’t tell if he’s east or west of the state line, so we don’t know for sure if he’ll have Indiana plates or Ohio plates.”

They all continued to study the map. Harlan’s cell phone beeped. Jack Lutz was calling to say he was turning into the road leading down to the house.

“I’ll be up in a second to pull the chain off,” Harlan said into the phone. “Jack,” he told the others. “I’ll use one of the scooters.”

Harlan picked up his lumberjack shirt and walked the hallway to the garage. The two Honda scooters he and Gloria took with them on the RV trips were up against one wall. Harlan turned on the gas on one of them and kick-started it. He pressed the button to raise the door and rode out and up the driveway. In less than a minute, he returned with Jack’s cruiser following. Harlan rode the scooter into the garage and parked it. He hit the door button and ducked underneath it to join Jack.

“There was a TV truck and some other car in the lane when I pulled in,” Jack was saying as he got out of the car. “I told them that they were trespassing on private property and subject to charges if they didn’t move. Then, just to make life even more interesting, I explained the law about non-emergency use of the shoulders, causing hazardous conditions and all of that.”

“Thanks,” Harlan said as they walked.

“You didn’t shoot at anybody, did you?” Jack asked.

“No,” Harlan said, looking sideways at Jack. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“Gloria, when she called, said something about you, a shotgun, and loaded for bear,” Jack said, spreading his arms in a gesture of non-accountability. They both laughed.

“I admit, I had a shotgun. Blanks in it. Just held it.” Jack just shook his head.

When they stepped inside, everyone was still studying the map. Gloria looked over and waved, then returned to her studying. Jack walked over to see what they were looking at. Samantha jumped in and started explaining the process that had led to the new set of dots. Harlan sat at the computer and worked on some calculations.

When he completed them, he carried his piece of paper with him to the map. He placed one finger on Bowling Green and a second finger on Richmond, Indiana. Then his eye followed the line those two points defined and focused on a section of northeastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania. As the others watched, he started the map wheel on zero at Richmond and followed the Interstates going in the northeasterly direction. When he reached the mileage limit on the map wheel, he set it down and used a pencil to circle the location on the map. Gloria was already at the computer.

“Is there any decent-sized town near there?” she asked Harlan.

“Ashtabula,” Harlan said. “At least the name is big enough to read.”

Gloria made some entries, then read off her results. “Richmond to Ashtabula, via Interstate, four and a half hours’ drive. What’s a little farther?”

“Farther turns into Pennsylvania pretty quick,” Harlan said. “Erie.”

Gloria made the entries and announced, “Richmond to Erie, five hours.”

Harlan stared at the map, tracing his finger along the Interstate lines. “We know he won’t use an urban cloverleaf. Never has. So, what do we have if we head to Ashtabula that looks rural?  He’s on I-ninety, south of the town. It doesn’t feel right.”

Gloria stayed at the computer. Everyone else stepped closer to the map to watch Harlan and catch what he was saying.

“If he goes on toward Erie, he can pick up I-seventy-nine, toward Pittsburgh. That stretch of road looks pretty desolate. The other road seems more hemmed in by the shore line. So, five hours to Erie, leaving home at eight, he’s turning south at one. He still has an hour and a half to get where he’s going.”

Gloria switched programs on the computer and started working. “I’m pulling up aerials of the cloverleafs. Do you want to start north and move south?”

“Where?” Harlan asked. “On I-seventy-nine?”

“Yes,” Gloria said, “here’s the first one. Let me see how much I can zoom in.”

Everyone’s attention shifted from the map to the computer screen. Harlan wheeled a chair in place and sat down close to the screen. They used the zoom-out in order to tell how much civilization surrounded an interchange, then zoomed in to check out the cloverleaf itself. They repeated the process, moving south on the Interstate, until Harlan said, “Stop. That looks right.”

Craig walked over to the map. “Which one is it?” Gloria read off the information, and Craig found the interchange on the map and circled it in pencil. Attention shifted back to the map.

“He could go through Pittsburgh,” Samantha noted. “It would probably be about the same drive time.”

“He could,” Harlan said. “I bet he doesn’t. See the blue dot farther east? He probably went through Pittsburgh to do that one. I just think he won’t repeat his route, at least not this soon.”

You’ve got four choices now,” Craig pointed out. “How do you know which one?”

No one answered.

“Gloria, have you printed out all of the cloverleaf aerials?” Harlan asked.

“No. Didn’t see a need,” she answered.

“But we can tell which quadrant each body was dropped in?” Harlan asked, “from the police files?”

Gloria nodded. Harlan turned to the rack of folders, each representing one murder.

“What are you looking for, Dad?” Craig asked.

“A pattern,” Harlan answered, looking at the first file. “We can guess which direction he approached from on each one of these. I want to see if there’s a pattern to which one he picks, especially when they’re all the same.”

“You guys just amaze me,” Jack said. “Look, you’re busy, and I have to run. On my way out, I’ll string some police line yellow tape across the entry. That might help keep some folks away. I’m afraid you need to put up signs declaring no trespassing if you want to have a legal basis for anything.”

“I’ll do it if I have to,” Harlan said. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Not a problem,” Jack said, halfway out the door. “Keep me posted.”

Jerry’s Interstate entrance was about four miles from the café parking lot. He drove calmly, gently. Once on the Interstate, he headed toward Louisville. With reasonable driving, the trip to his home would be nearly five hours. He decided he didn’t want to push it, so he planned to use a rest stop, one that was over the bridge from Louisville and into Indiana. He really didn’t think anyone would be missing Sue Ellen. He just didn’t want to stay in the same state for now.

His timing was perfect, and he pulled into the rest stop just before his self-imposed cut-off time. There were more people up and walking around than he was accustomed to. He pulled into as remote a slot as he could find and turned off the car engine and doused the lights. He reached into the middle seat area and brought out a blanket, something in a muted plaid with fringe at the two ends. It was remarkably warm. He checked Sue Ellen’s pulse again, found it, then proceeded to snuggle her up in the blanket. He reached across her and released the lever that allowed her seat back to recline about halfway. If there hadn’t been the unusual number of awake and walking-around people in the area, he would have moved Sue Ellen to the folded-down middle seat and joined her under the blanket. The move was awkward to pull off and might attract attention, though, so he didn’t. He tucked her in and settled into the driver’s seat to wait. Sleep was not an issue. He would wait, eyes wide and pistol within inches of his grip. The time passed quickly. Jerry was patient and looking forward to an extended period of pleasure.

Jerry thought of himself as a fairly accomplished lover, someone who has learned the myriad little ways to give pleasure to his partner. With each new partner he discovered and learned. Recently he had noticed that, with proper technique, he could elicit natural moisture, reducing the need for the lubricant he kept in ready supply. Before that, he had discovered the joy of teasing nipples into erectness. It was while engaging in the nipple teasing that he’d discovered the natural moisture effect, and that jumped up his sense of pleasure to almost impossible levels. Even though thinking about it was affecting his breathing and stimulating the inner voice that argued for pulling out now and heading for the house, Jerry held firm. He would not move back onto the road until 5:30, which gave him pre-dawn darkness and was still a reasonable hour for someone to be on the road.

Twice, while they rested, Sue Ellen experienced involuntary muscle movements, less than a spasm and more than just a tic. Both times, Jerry had the pistol in his hand in an instant, steadied on the seatback next to Sue Ellen’s ear. When that happened, the inner voice that argued for just finishing her off now came on strong. Jerry fought it down, with the help of his images of natural moisture and erect nipples. Both were false alarms. Her pulse continued slow and steady, and her breathing didn’t change; neither of those factors would be true if she were regaining some kind of consciousness.

At 5:15, Jerry started the engine and let it idle. When he had some engine heat going, he turned on the defrosters, front and rear, and waited for the accumulated moisture to completely clear from the windows. When he was satisfied, he snapped on the parking lights and backed out of the space. He didn’t turn on full headlights until he was clear of the other cars, a courtesy to those still sleeping. Back on the Interstate, heading north toward Indianapolis, his excitement started to build. Two hours, maybe a little less, and they would be home. At Indianapolis, Jerry moved onto the outer loop of the beltway and traveled one quarter of the circle to pick up Interstate 70 east. It was still dark enough for headlights. The roads were satisfactorily populated so Jerry didn’t not feel so much like a lone target.

Richmond, Indiana was right at the border with Ohio, about sixty miles from the beltway. It was straight and easy. Jerry set the cruise control to 71 and settled in for the final leg of the trip. His excitement grew. He was smiling and even humming to himself. His house was just east of town, barely still in Indiana. He drove the straight back roads easily and pulled into the driveway just as the gray sky was lightening to full dawn.

Jerry activated the automatic door opener, pulled sideways in his driveway, and backed into the garage with the passenger side door closest to the ramp to the house entrance. When he was in position, he pressed the control to close the windowless garage doors. Then he killed the engine, snapped off the headlights, and sat, just for a moment, the tension draining.

He hit the automatic unlock button, exited the van, and walked behind it to retrieve the wheelchair from its resting place in the back corner. He used a handy towel to dust it off, even though he had dusted it less than twenty hours before, when he checked on it before departing for Bowling Green. He wheeled it up alongside the van and placed it next to the sliding middle passenger door. He set the brakes on both wheels.

Jerry enjoyed every little step in the process he was about to begin, removing the blanket, raising the seat back, undoing the babushka, and making sure Sue Ellen’s head didn’t fall forward in an unattractive way. He had devised a collar, like the ones that whiplash victims wear to court, to maintain the head in an upright position. He slipped the collar in place and tightened it just enough. Then he pulled Sue Ellen’s hair from inside the collar and arranged it over the collar, somewhat hiding it.

He reached across and released the seat and shoulder belts. Then he began the one part of the process that he still considered ungainly, awkward, and unnatural looking. He had considered putting a hoist in the rafters of the garage so that he could slip a harness under the legs and around the back, then lift a companion from the seat, with her head upright. He still thought he might do that. Now, he simply had to go through the brief seconds of awkwardness while he pulled Sue Ellen from the seat and dumped her into the wheelchair. He arranged her in the chair and buckled a chest strap to hold her in place. Then he wheeled her up the shallow ramp and through the door into the mud room, just off the kitchen. He switched off the garage light, closed the door, and wheeled Sue Ellen through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the spare room. He needed the discipline now, more than ever.

He positioned her chair so that it was visible from the kitchen. He returned to the kitchen and lighted a burner under a pot of water that he had prepared before leaving. If he didn’t force himself to take time for food now, he knew he wouldn’t stop for food later. He pulled a plastic storage container of marinara sauce from the refrigerator and put it in the microwave. He also pulled the half-gallon bottle of water he kept in there and took a long drink, straight from the bottle. He turned on the oven, then retrieved a foil-packaged loaf of garlic bread from the freezer and placed it in the oven. He was carbo-loading, knowing that he would need the energy boost.

While the pasta water was heating, Jerry climbed to the attic. He needed to retrieve the hoist and harness he kept there, the one he had bought for taking care of his parents. He would not replace the pistol in its box until after he had dropped his companion off. It would stay with him the whole time. He climbed down with the harness and hoist, placed them on the toilet seat in the bathroom and returned to the kitchen. He glanced down the hall toward the bedroom. Nothing had changed. Everything was just fine.

Twice, in the past, he had actually set two places at the table, used a linen cloth and arranged the center with two candles, just like a real date. He had even purchased a non-alcoholic wine and put one of his parents’ LPs on for background music — Music, Martinis and Memories, something with Jackie Gleason’s name on it. Jerry never could figure out what Jackie Gleason had to do with the music. It didn’t work. He had felt completely silly, had tried it twice, then abandoned the idea.

Today, Jerry was preparing a utility meal, not a romantic evening. Pasta, marinara, lots of cheese, garlic bread, and ice water. The pasta water was still not ready, so Jerry returned to the bathroom, moved the harness gear, and used the toilet. He exited the bathroom, glanced down the hall to the spare bedroom, saw nothing to alarm him, and returned to the kitchen. The pasta water was coming to a boil. Jerry hit the start button on the microwave, added salt to the pasta water, and poured in his pre-measured portion of bow ties, one of his favorite pasta shapes. When everything was ready, he ate a full meal standing at the kitchen counter. He barely tasted it. His mind was venturing forward into his next, cherished routine with a new companion — the bath.

Jerry moved the wheelchair into the main bathroom. When his parents had weakened in their final years, he had redone the bathroom. It was plenty roomy for a wheelchair and had the special connection in the ceiling for the harness and hoist. The bathtub was a low-side, step-through design. The shower was connected to a hand-held spray fixture on a long, flexible, chrome hose. It was the perfect set-up for an invalid and had proven to be perfect for Jerry’s needs too.

Jerry situated the harness under Sue Ellen’s thighs and across the middle of her back. He buckled it and tightened it so there was no chance of slipping, then used the ceiling-mounted hoist to lift her from the chair and hold her aloft, above the tub. The mechanical advantage on the hoist enabled Jerry to operate the lifting with one hand while guiding with the other. He gently lowered Sue Ellen into the dry tub and arranged her legs so that she was lying down flat. He unbuckled the harness and laid it open. Then he proceeded to remove Sue Ellen’s clothes.

He had considered buying a pair of bandage scissors, the kind with a blunted tip, but it seemed too impersonal, like the sort of thing they would do at a crime scene or in the morgue. He didn’t like those images. Besides, ever since his very first encounter with a woman, he had enjoyed the actual process of undressing an unresisting and pliable body. His arousal was increasing. When Sue Ellen was stripped down to her bra and panties, Jerry took her outer clothing into the spare bedroom, folded it, and placed it in a brown paper grocery bag. He went into the main bedroom, his room, first checking on Sue Ellen in the tub. He removed his clothing, carefully hung the slacks and shirt in the closet, and placed the underwear and socks in the clothes hamper. He checked the bedside table to make sure the supplies he might need were there, then he returned to the bathroom, still carrying the pistol.

Jerry removed the bra, freeing Sue Ellen’s breasts, and permitted himself some time to simply fondle them. He had to be careful. He was near exploding. Then he slid her underpants off, all the way, and set them with the bra on the shelf above the toilet. He would add them to the bag later. This time, when Jerry secured the harness, he took special care with the placement of the strap across the chest, positioning it to enhance the cleavage. He used double straps on the thighs so that each was suspended independently and Sue Ellen’s legs could open and close as he wished. His arousal was reaching fever pitch. He reattached the hoist, raised Sue Ellen from the tub bottom, checked to make sure the straps were exactly where he wanted them, then stepped into the tub and adjusted her height to match his, pelvis to pelvis. He secured the control line with a simple hitch and, with both hands free, gently moved Sue Ellen’s legs apart and stepped between them.

There would be repeat performances of the bath ritual during the visit. None were ever quite the same as this, the first real encounter. In a way, Jerry was glad that the activity at the rest stop had prevented him from having his first encounter with Sue Ellen in the car. Oh, those were good, but this, with the elevated excitement and pent-up desire, was the best.

Back in Bowling Green, no one was yet aware that Sue Ellen was gone.

Bobbie Fisher called first. The bureau chief for her paper had called her as soon as he picked up the first call on the scanner. He reported what he knew, then immediately headed for the café. Bobbie hit the speed dial for Gloria’s cell.

Bobbie’s story had run in the Monday edition of the paper, inside in the state news section. The story had detailed the time line analysis and ended with the prediction of Bowling Green and Thursday. No other paper and no wire service had chosen to pick up the story; that was about to change. Bowling Green was far enough outside Louisville and close enough to other metropolitan areas that the Courier-Journal was not the dominant paper in the market. The impact of the story had been minimal. None of the women at the café, for example, had read it. If any of their customers had discussed it during the week, it was not one of those conversation that generates multiple table participation and captures everybody’s interest.

Gloria thanked Bobbie for calling, hung up, and walked to the door. Instead of hollering or phoning, she slipped on a jacket and climbed the rise to Harlan’s kitchen. As she opened the door, Harlan was transferring washed beer bottles to the sterilizing rinse. He knew it was busywork, that he would have to re-sterilize the bottles when it was time to use them again. He heard the door and turned.

“Bobbie called,” Gloria said, closing the door. “She said our prediction lacked only the name of the café to be perfect. The actual discovery that someone was missing happened about an hour ago.”

Harlan reached in and pulled the plugs on the  two sinks and wiped his hands on a towel. He stared out at the bare, winter-brown view and slowly shook his head.

“There are times it would be nice to be wrong,” he said. Together, Harlan and Gloria walked down to the main house. Gloria raised the volume on her news channel and checked the computer for any alerts. Nothing yet.

“Harlan, is the gate closed and secure?” Gloria asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “and I’ll walk up there now and check it again.” He stepped outside.

Gloria walked toward the shlocking corner, watching the news channel and glancing at the computer screen. She opened a drawer in the desk, found the sheet with red dots on it and a new manila folder. She put the number ‘30’ on the dot with a Sharpie and reached up to place it on the map. Then she sat at the desk and filled out the tab on the new folder. As alerts and reports came in, she would add them. She stayed seated at the desk, the TV sound a background noise. She stared at the map, letting her eyes go slightly out of focus. When Harlan came back in, she waved him over.

“Gate is secure,” he reported. He glanced at the map and immediately noticed the new red dot. “You realize that this is the first time we placed a red dot on the map first. Wonder how soon we’ll have a blue dot to correspond.”

“I think I see a break in pattern,” Gloria said, still fixing her gaze on the map. “Look how close the two Bowling Green dots are. Nowhere else on the map has he abducted someone that close to where he dumped someone, or vice versa, at least as far as we can tell.”

“Okay. So what do you think it means?” Harlan said. He walked closer to the map and stared, the same way Gloria was staring. The silence was long.

“Do you think he’s systematic?” Gloria asked.

“No,” Harlan said. “I think he is intuitive, completely. I think he is totally unaware of the patterns he creates. If he were aware, if he were intentional, I think he would be even tougher to nail down, as impossible as that sounds right now.”

“That Bowling Green cloverleaf was about the biggest, densest one in the whole line-up,” Gloria said.

“And, based on the decomposition, that body very well could have been the first one,” Harlan said, continuing the thought process. He walked out to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. “Maybe he picked the very best cloverleaf he knew of for his first . . . hell, I don’t know what to call it. Date?”

“And maybe he didn’t hit a pattern, unconsciously, until he got into it,” Gloria said. “The non-weather gaps, some of them are fairly early in the time line. Maybe the early ones were so off pattern we’ll never find them.”

“Maybe they weren’t even cloverleaf-related. Maybe he tried other disposal methods, then settled on the cloverleaf idea,” Harlan said, walking back to the map while sipping his coffee.

“What does the timeline look like if we eliminate the obvious anomalies?” Gloria asked. She wasn’t asking Harlan, she was stating the next step. Both of them squinted at the displays, the map and the timeline.

“I can’t do it,” Harlan said. “I’ll have to make a new one without the anomalies. I just can’t see it.”

“Let’s agree on what the anomalies are, then I’ll do the map and you do the timeline,” Gloria said. “I’ll work on the map first thing in the morning.”

Harlan nodded. His task was all computer work, altering the spreadsheet timeline he had built.

“Are you thinking you can predict where he’ll dump the body?” Gloria asked.

“No,” Harlan answered. “Not really. But I do think that you and I together can come real close, real real close.”

>>>>>   <<<<<

Ricky Trent was having a difficult time grasping anything that the group of men were trying to explain to him. They were at the house, and Ricky had confirmed that there was no indication that Sue Ellen had come home the night before. Her work uniform was not there and her side of the bed didn’t look slept in. Phone calls to relatives had turned up nothing and had managed to stir up concern. Sue Ellen’s mother and one of her sisters were on the way to the house. Ricky sat at the small kitchen table and smoked.

“Is Sue Ellen kidnapped, for sure?” he asked.

The assortment of peace officers deferred to the FBI agent.

“No sir,” he answered. “We are not able to confirm it at this time.”

“But, you think she is?” Ricky said. “And, you think it because . . .”

“Analysts who have been working on the case predicted that the k . . . the perpetrator we are pursuing would strike at this time in this area,”  the agent answered, clearly uncomfortable with what he was saying.

“Who? What analysts?” Ricky asked.

“Why hell, Ricky,” the deputy who had brought Ricky home from work interrupted, “it was in the paper Monday, the Courier-Journal. There’s these folks up in Indiana who have been following the trail on this guy. They’re the ones who predicted it.”

“They predicted it and you all apparently think they were right,” Ricky continued, “and you couldn’t do anything to stop it?”

The uncomfortable silence brought on by the question was broken by the arrival of Sue Ellen’s mother and sister. They bustled through the door into the small kitchen. The men backed away as much as they could to make room. The one deputy and the state trooper stepped into the adjoining living room and watched through the door opening.

“Ricky, what’s going on? Where’s Sue Ellen?” the mother blurted out.

“I don’t know, mom,” Ricky said, still sitting at the table. “Ask him.” Ricky pointed to the FBI agent. And the explanation that no one found satisfactory, not even the agent delivering it, began again.

>>>>>     <<<<<

Wanda was still at the café, even though the owner and two waitresses had come in. Peggy came right back when Wanda called her. The deputy wanted to interview her about what she had seen that morning when she arrived. One of the afternoon coffee break customers had the Monday paper in the back of his car. He brought it in and spread it out on a table. They all gathered around as he read it out loud. As he read the paragraph on the apparent method used to incapacitate the victims, Wanda gasped and sat heavily in a chair. The description of the gunshot to the head brought tears to her eyes.

“It says here,” the reader announced, “that the investigators believe the man is known by the victims, that he is probably a regular customer and has been for a number of years.”

“Well, that just doesn’t make any sense at all,” Peggy blurted. “We know all of our regular customers.”

“Says that he is probably known so well that no one would even think of him,” the reader went on. “Doesn’t live here but does come through regularly.”

Wanda, Peggy, the owner, who still worked some days at the café, and the other two waitresses looked at each other and then down at the table top or out the front window. Clearly they were sorting through the images each carried of their customers. It was almost second nature for them to put a name to a face whenever a customer entered the café.

“Well, if they ever catch him and it turns out I know him,” Peggy said, “I’ll just be shocked. We don’t have people like that around here. I think they must be mistaken.”

“Wait a minute,” the café owner said. “That story was in the Monday paper?”

The reader flipped the paper to the front page to confirm the date.

“And they said, in the story, that it would happen Thursday and here in Bowling Green?”

The reader nodded.

“Why didn’t they stop him or catch him or something? Why didn’t they put out a warning. How could they just sit there and do nothing and let this happen?”

“Yeah,” Wanda said and turned to stare at the deputy.

“Hey, we didn’t know nothing about it,” he said, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “I think the troopers knew and, for sure, the FBI. You’ll have to ask them. First we knew was when Wanda’s phone call came in and the shit hit the fan.”

“Poor Ricky,” Wanda said. “Does he even know yet?”

The deputy nodded. “He’s up to the house now with the FBI guys and the troopers. Fact is, really, none of us knows anything. All we have is Sue Ellen’s not here and her car is and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Missing persons reports are generally a two-day thing unless it’s a kid. Other than that, we’ve got some theory these people in Indiana came up with. But we don’t know.”

“So we wait for a dead body to show up somewhere,” the owner said, “then we’ll know something. Is that how it is?”

The deputy sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

>>>>>     <<<<<

Bobbie called Harlan from her desk at the paper.

“You had any phone calls from press yet?” she asked.

“No, not yet,” Harlan answered. “For the time being, we both plan to use caller ID and screen very carefully.”

“Is your gate locked?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harlan answered.

“You do know the media will show up there,” Bobbie said. “They are going to be a plague. Do you have enough stuff to survive without having to go out?”

“We always do,” Harlan said.

“Can you get some police protection?” Bobbie asked. “Can Jack help you out?”

“I’ll give him a call, let him know what’s up,” Harland said. “I don’t think it’s right to ask them to protect me from the press, though. I mean, you all are not life-threatening, are you?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Bobbie said. “What are you planning? Anything?”

“Gloria is re-working the map and I’m changing the time line,” Harland answered. “We’re taking out the anomalies. See if we can come up with something.”

“Like what?” Bobbie asked, her voice rising. “Like where he’s going to dump the body?”

“Maybe,” Harlan said. “Won’t know until we take a look. We figure we have at least three days, but that’s only based on the Pennsylvania finding.”

“What about the motels thing?” Bobbie asked.

“Out of our hands. I’m sure Gene has something going, but it’s way too early to expect a result,” Harlan said. “In a perfect world, I can picture a name and address popping out of the computer and then paying the guy a visit while he still has the victim there.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Bobbie said. “Way too soon to expect that.”

“I agree,” Harlan said.

“So, if you come up with a location, are you going to tell anyone?” Bobbie asked.

“Well, sure,” Harlan replied. “I don’t expect they’ll do anything with it, but I’ll make sure they know.”

“Damn,” Bobbie said suddenly.

“What?” Harlan said. Her outburst startled him.

“I think I see a journalistic conflict rearing its ugly head,” Bobbie explained. “See, if you all actually come up with a fairly sound prediction on the dumping site, reporting on it could make the guy alter his plans.”

“I can see that,” Harlan said. “What do you do?”

“I’ll take the self-inflicted guilt,” Bobbie said. “It would help if you and Gloria could be a touch careful about what you tell me for the next little while. And, I don’t need to say it, don’t talk to the press and convince your FBI people not to.”

“I’ll fill Gloria in,” Harlan promised. “So long as no one from the FBI calls, there will be nothing to worry about. I don’t plan to call them until I have to.”

“Okay,” Bobbie said. “See ya.” She hung up, and Harlan walked into the great room and took a seat at the computer.

Sue Ellen stormed back down the cracked sidewalk that led from the rear parking area to the front of the café. The harsh glare from the security light on the pole by the dumpster was cut off by the back corner of the building, and the front corner of the building blocked the parking lot lighting, leaving Sue Ellen to stumble through a triangle of deep shadow. She barely noticed. She was furious, and a stream of disconnected, incomplete curses streamed behind her.

“Goddam no good . . . fucking piece of shit . . . damn . . . damn . . .damn.” With each utterance, she jerked her head from one side to the other. “Piece of shit battery. Piece of shit alternator. Damn.”

She rounded the front corner of the café and plunged her hand into her shoulder bag to get the keys to reopen the front door. She found them, yanked them free of the bag, and dropped them. Uttering one more string of curses, she stooped to get the keys and saw the shoes and pant legs of someone standing not three feet away from her—men’s shoes and pants—and her in a completely defenseless position, not prepared to fight or poised to flee. Holding onto the keys, trying to shift individual keys to stick out between her fingers, something she’d learned in a self defense class, she straightened up and turned to face the person standing there, backing toward the door at the same time.

“I guess I’m too late,” the man said. “I know you close at ten, but I was thinking, hoping really, that you might still be open.” As the man spoke, he moved so that his face was lighted better.

“Mr. S,” Sue Ellen said, putting her hand to her heart, the one holding the keys. “My God, you scared the living hell out of me.”

“Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Are you okay now?” the man said.

“Yeah. I just need a second to catch my breath,” Sue Ellen answered. “Goddam car of mine won’t start again. Damn battery or something.”

“Oh. Still have the same car, the one I helped you with once?” the man asked.

“That’s it,” Sue Ellen said. “Same old P O S.” A thought occurred to her. “Hey, Mr. S., you still carry those jumper cables?”

“No,” he answered. “Took them out when I changed cars. Keep meaning to put them back, but. . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeah, well, nice try,” Sue Ellen said and turned to unlock the door.

“I can give you a lift somewhere if that would help,” he offered.

Sue Ellen paused and considered. Mr. S was no threat. He’d been coming to the café regularly for…what…ten years at least. He had helped her once with a jump start.

“I don’t want to impose,” Sue Ellen said. “What would really help is if you could run me down to the house to get the jumpers, then back to start the car. That way, I won’t have to wake up Ricky and listen to his shit.”

“Sure, why not,” the man said. “The car’s right over here.”

And that’s how easy it was.

Jerry came to town at least six times a year and had been doing so for fourteen years or so. He made it a point to eat at the café on half of his visits. He was a familiar face, but not quite a regular. He was no threat to anyone. In the café, he listened a lot and spoke just enough to be considered polite and friendly. He knew who worked which shifts at the café, and he knew which nights Sue Ellen had to close up alone. He knew about Ricky, just from listening. He knew about the car and the problems Sue Ellen had with it constantly. He didn’t trust the success of his venture tonight to the fates. He had slipped into the back lot earlier and fiddled the battery connections on Sue Ellen’s car.

“Didn’t know you were in town,” Sue Ellen said as she settled into the passenger seat and fastened the seat belt.

“Oh, I’m not,” Jerry said. “Passing through and thought some pie and coffee would hit the spot, that’s all.”

“Well, I can at least come up with some pie when we get back,” Sue Ellen said.

Jerry did it right then, right there, before pulling out of the parking lot. He had turned around to his right, as though to look out the back window, not trusting the rearview. Sue Ellen was pawing through her tote bag, looking for cigarettes. She was not watching Jerry at all. He slipped the pistol from beneath a towel on the middle seat, aimed and fired. He set the pistol back under the towel and watched Sue Ellen closely, feeling with his right hand for the babushka, which was on the seat next to the towel-covered pistol. Still watching closely, he wrapped the scarf around Sue Ellen’s head and secured it to the head rest. When he was satisfied with his efforts, he retrieved the pistol from the back seat and set it out of sight, just below his right hand. He pulled out of the lot and headed for the Interstate.

When a companion survived the gunshot to the head, things were good for Jerry. At the same time, there was a concern, a risk that she could regain consciousness. It had never happened to Jerry. He had read enough to know it was possible, but it had never happened. When a companion survived the shot, it set off a virtual war inside Jerry.

One side argued that the reward was worth the risk, the added warmth, the suppleness, the skin tone, the lack of unwanted odors and, no little matter, the possibility of an extended period of togetherness. The other side argued the what-ifs: what if she wakes up screaming; what if she claws you before you can stop her; what if she goes into a mad struggle while you’re trying to drive at seventy miles per hour. Then the negative side goes further. What if she wakes up later, while you’re asleep? What if she says something. What if she hurts you.

So far, the negative side had prevailed only once. Jerry had fired the second round into his companion’s head before they had traveled more than five miles. He did it while driving and never missed a beat or swerved. He was sad about the lost possibilities. At the same time, he took full notice of the relief that flooded him, draining away all of his tension.

The same war inside was going full tilt as Jerry pulled out of the lot with Sue Ellen. The negative side was using the same tired arguments and what-ifs. The positive side trotted out a new thought. It was only half past ten. With concentrated driving, Jerry could maybe be home just at or only a little past his self-enforced two AM cut off. He could be safely home tonight with a warm and supple companion. Tonight!

Jerry set the cruise control for about seventy-three and kept the .22 caliber target pistol on the floor between the seats. For most of the trip, he drove with his left hand and dangled his right hand just inches above the pistol. The war itself was over and the sides had retired. All Jerry had now was thoughts of what would happen when they got home, spiced with that edge of tension that was always there when they were alive. The emotions were so big, he could not sort out whether the tension actually added to his enjoyment. He’d have to think about that one — later.

>>>>>     <<<<<

Peggy noticed Sue Ellen’s car when she pulled in the next morning to open the restaurant and start cooking. She noticed, but it didn’t register as anything unusual — nearly everybody knew about Sue Ellen’s battery problems. She parked and headed straight for the door. She had biscuits to make, potatoes to get onto the grill, pork and chicken to get into the oven, coffee to make, bacon and sausage to pre-cook. She adjusted the flame on the grill, raised the oven temperature, started the first pot of coffee, then grabbed the big bowl and started on the biscuits. She worked non-stop. Her timing was perfect, knowing when the next pot of coffee needed to start, knowing when the oven was ready for biscuits. She added slabs of country ham to two large black iron skillets on the cook top, checked the bacon and sausage on the grill. She knew she might have to take care of one or two early risers; that wouldn’t be a problem. By the time the real rush started, someone would be covering the front, and she could concentrate on the cooking.

Sue Ellen’s Ricky never even noticed that Sue Ellen wasn’t anywhere in the house. He was one of those people who can move through the routine tasks of the morning without even waking up. He slapped the alarm off, sat on the side of the bed to pull on his work pants and boots, stumbled into the bathroom. He came out pulling on a work shirt and headed through the kitchen toward the back door. He lifted a heavy winter jacket off of a hook beside the door, checked for keys, and pulled the door to behind him. It registered slightly that Sue Ellen’s car was not in the drive. He assumed she had pulled into the garage last night. Ricky would wake up about fifteen minutes into his drive to work. Then he would stop for a large coffee to go and anything and everything that happened before he woke up evaporated like an unremarkable dream.

By eleven, Peggy had finished most of the heavy cooking. The roasts were done, and the chickens. She had assembled the big pot of mashed potatoes, and the green beans with ham were sitting on a back burner. She walked out of the kitchen and filled herself a glass of sweet tea. There were no customers — breakfast was over and lunch hadn’t started — so she lit a cigarette.

“You suppose Sue Ellen is out buying a new battery for the junk heap she calls a car?” she said to Wanda, who had covered the front for the breakfast rush.

“You know, I sure hope so,” Wanda answered. She also lit a cigarette.

“Is she due in today?” Peggy asked.

Wanda checked the bulletin board on the hall wall.

“Yep. She’s on three to nine,” Wanda said.

“Wonder how she’s getting around,” Peggy said. “Maybe Ricky took the day off and is helping out.”

“Yeah, right,” Wanda said, arching her eyebrow. “That’ll be the day.”

“I’m going to call the house,” Peggy said and pulled the phone from under the counter. “Maybe she needs a ride or something.” She dialed and waited. “No answer.”

“If she was to buy a battery, would she get it from Red?” Wanda asked.

“Probably,” Peggy said.

“So, maybe you could call over to Red’s, see if she’s been in,” Wanda offered.

Sue Ellen had not been in to buy a battery. The bell on the front door jingled, signaling the beginning of lunch hour, which was really two hours. Peggy headed back to the kitchen, and Wanda greeted the new arrivals by name.

By the end of lunch hour, Peggy had the kitchen squared away. Her last duty was making up the yeast rolls for dinner and draping the muffin tins with damp cloths. Then she hung up her apron, grabbed her coat, and headed out the back door. She glanced at the car next to hers, shrugged, and got in her own car. She was a little unsettled, but not enough to take any action. Driving out to Sue Ellen’s place would take her in completely the wrong direction, so she didn’t.

When three came and went and Sue Ellen had not shown up, had not answered her phone and had not called in, Wanda was also a little unsettled. Mostly, though, she was put out. Her shift was over, but she couldn’t just leave. At half past three, she decided to call over to the sheriff’s office.

“Sheriff’s office,” said the voice that answered the phone.

“Hi, this is Wanda over at the café,” Wanda started. “Look, Sue Ellen Trent was supposed to be here for the three o’clock shift and she’s not here. Her car’s out back. Been there all night I guess. Nobody answers the phone at the house. I don’t know if anything’s wrong, but I just thought I’d call, you know.”

“I’ll get someone to swing by and see you,” the voice said. “Don’t you worry about it.”

“Okay,” Wanda said. “Look, I’m going to get on the phone, find someone to come in and relieve me. So, if you try to call back, the line might be busy.”

“Don’t you worry about it,” the voice said. “You make your calls, and someone will be by.”

“Thanks,” Wanda said and hung up the phone. Then she dialed the number for the owner of the café.

The radio call to the sheriff set off an almost instant ripple effect. The communications center at the state police barracks monitored the call and immediately signaled the commander. He directed two cars to descend on the café, then used a private line to reach Gene Snyder’s office in Ohio.

“Looks like your folks were right on the money,” he told Gene. “We have an unexplained absence. The car is still in place where she works, and no sign of her.”

“Thanks for the prompt response,” Gene said, then hung up. He immediately called the office in Bowling Green to alert them; they already knew from listening to the radio traffic. Wanda looked out the front window of the café and counted two sheriff’s cars, two state trooper cars and an unmarked Crown Victoria pull up in front, all at the same time. Everyone got out. Most of them came inside. Two, a trooper and a deputy sheriff, walked around the back to check on the car. It took them very little time to determine that the battery was charged and the terminal connections were loosened. They went inside the café and reported.

One of the FBI agents immediately phoned Gene Snyder.

“Looks like we really have one,” he said. “The battery cables had been loosened. The victim worked last night and closed up. Everything was as it should be when the morning shift got here, so she did finish up. Even locked the front door.” The agent listened, then answered. “As soon as we have any documentation, we’ll get a copy off to you.” He closed the cell phone. “Gene says we have about four days before the victim will be dropped off. All we can do right now is get the statements from everyone and make sure we have it all right.”

“Somebody has to talk to Ricky,”  Wanda said, “her husband.”

One of the deputies spoke up. “I’ll do it. I know where he’s working. He’ll probably want to go over to Sue Ellen’s folks’ place. I’ll go along with him. Man, this is going to be tough — nothing to do but wait.”