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.”

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.”

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.

“If someone would open a fondue restaurant with this kind of spread,” Bobbie said, sitting back from the table, “it would be a raging success. That was magnificent.”

Gloria had set the trays of food and the pots of oil and broth with sterno cans on the low table in front of the fireplace. There was ample room for everyone to reach and keep multiple forks going, the key to fondue success. The afternoon work on the timeline had moved quickly, and they had placed the unknowns with almost no argument. They still had not tried to agree on a prediction of the next time the guy would act. Harlan had suggested doing that after dinner. Bobbie spent the afternoon writing, then polishing her story. She would send it, along with photography, before going to bed.

Harlan had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the dinner. He had partially frozen the tenderloins, chicken and pork and beef, in order to slice off very thin strips that would cook very quickly in the hot oil and broth. Some of the meat strips were marinated and some left plain. He had prepared a selection of shrimp – cleaned and butterflied – scallops, baby squid, and baby octopus. The squid and octopus marinated in lime juice and cilantro. Theoretically, they were cooked by the citrus before they were skewered and set into one of the pots of hot liquid.

He assembled the cheese fondue ingredients in a crockpot and forgot about it. Same thing with the chocolate fondue. He prepared a platter of bread cubes and small pickles to accompany the cheese. He prepared the fruit and salty snacks for the chocolate. He particularly liked a thick potato chip dipped in the chocolate. Then he par-cooked some pearl onions, some green beans, and some garlic cloves so they could cook quickly in the oil. The dipping sauces ranged from garlic/ginger/soy to honey lemon to steak sauce to sesame. It was a feast, made better by ample amounts of ‘two-bottle stupid.’

“I really like the flavor from the olive oil,” Craig said. “Never thought of doing that before.”

Harlan smiled and nodded. He stood and went to the kitchen, returning with the milk jug that held the moonshine. “I figure this will help settle dinner and make room for the dessert,” he said. He sat, took a drink, then set the jug on the table. “Now, the hard work. Everybody take one of these.” He passed around slips of paper and stub pencils. “Without looking at anyone else’s answer, write a date and a location.”

Everyone leaned back from the circle, holding the paper slip close to the chest. Samantha wrote her answers immediately. Craig was second to complete the assignment. Bobbie was the last to write on the slip. They then passed them all to Harlan. It didn’t take Harlan long to go through them.

“It’s pretty clear we’re all looking at the same thing,” he said. “Today’s Saturday and the clear winner in the poll is next Thursday. I agree.”

“What about the where?” Craig asked.

“It’s unanimous,” Harlan said, placing the slips on the table. “We all named Bowling Green.”

“So what does it mean?” Gloria asked. “We’re not going to try to stake out Bowling Green, are we?”

“Not possible,” Betty said. “It’s a big place. How would you know where to set up?”

“If we had that motel information,” Gloria said, “we could find out where he stays and watch that place and the closest café.”

“We don’t have it,” Harlan said.

“Any chance we could get it?” Samantha asked.

“I don’t see how,” Betty said. “Not in time to do anything with it.”

“We can ask, can’t we?” Craig said.

“Sure can,” Betty said, “and that’s why I want Gene here tomorrow.”

“Seems to me,” Bobbie said, “that we ought to organize our approach to this Gene. If we don’t, we could all end up talking at once and get nowhere.”

“I think we start with our biggest request,” Harlan said. “We ask about the possibility of getting those motel records and getting them in the computer. Then we support our request with the information.” Harlan waved his arm toward the map and timeline.

“What time is he getting here?” Samantha asked.

“It’ll be early,” Betty said. “He’ll call me as he’s taxiing. That will give me plenty of time to get out to the airport, grab him, and get back here. Remember, I promised him a big breakfast.”

“And we will deliver,” Harlan said.

>>>   <<<

Betty watched the little plane bank, line up with the runway, and land. It still tugged at her feelings to watch a small plane in flight. Partly she missed the flying; she had not been in an airplane of any size since Walter’s fatal crash. Mostly she just missed Walter. She stayed inside the small lounge at the general aviation hangar so she wouldn’t have to clear security and watched through the large windows. Gene’s Piper taxied to a pad just next to the hangar, the propeller slowed and stopped, then his door popped open and he climbed down the wing toward the back of the plane. He spoke briefly with the attendant, arranging for fuel, then headed into the hangar.

Gene was a contemporary of Betty’s. He was in his fifties and had short, gray hair and the build and ease of movement of someone who played handball regularly. He was dressed in denims, a casual plaid shirt, and a light jacket. His sunglasses were resting atop his head like a tiara. He entered, walked to Betty with a big smile, and they hugged.

“Oh, you are a dashing specimen,” Betty said. “You’d melt some hearts if there were any hearts up early enough to be here.”

Gene laughed.

“Good flight?” Betty asked as she turned and headed them to the door that opened onto the parking area.

”Early Sunday morning, it’s like you’re the only thing in the sky,” Gene answered. “The only commercial traffic are the coast-to-coast red-eyes, and they’re way up there. No traffic helicopters. No nothing. I love it.”

On the short drive to Harlan and Gloria’s, Betty started to bring Gene up to date on the progress from the previous evening.

“Gene, if you were to run a regression on the time patterns, the computer would be lighting up like a Vegas slot machine jackpot,” Betty said. “The geographic patterns are not as clear-cut, but when six human beings all pick the next location, it carries some water, I think. The fuzzy logic the programmers just can’t get their hands on yet.”

“You really think you know the guy is going to do it again?” Gene asked.

“Of course,” Betty answered.

“You think you know when?” he asked.

“Yes,” Betty said, “and we think we know where.”

“Amazing,” Gene said, watching the scenery through the side window. “Just amazing.”

“You’re skeptical,” Betty asked, “even after seeing the reports we’ve been sending you?”

“Look, Betty,” Gene said, turning away from the window and looking at her. “I’ve glanced at the reports and filed them in the system. Better I tell you this before we get there, the anti-terror mission is so overriding that nothing that doesn’t have some form of terrorism attached to it is getting no attention at all. That’s just the way it is. You know.”

“Yeah,” Betty said, “I guess I do. Like, if I could put some Arab name somewhere in the mix, it would jump this to the top of the pile.”

“Can you?” Gene asked, quite seriously.

“No,” Betty answered. “This is just your garden variety, domestic serial killer, and I guess that just doesn’t count.”

“Cruel fact,” Gene said. “Doesn’t get appropriations, doesn’t get votes, doesn’t get headlines.”

“We’ll see about that,” Betty said.

“What about the reporter?” Gene asked. “Is she still there?”

“Yes, she is,” Betty said. “Right now, we are officially off the record. I’ll wait and let her spell it out directly to you.”

“Let’s do that first thing,” Gene said.

“First thing is breakfast,” Betty said, pulling into the unmarked gap in the trees and starting down Harlan’s long, hidden lane to the house. Gene’s eyes were looking through the side window and the front, watching everything. When they topped the rise and started the downhill curve, the house came into view.

“Wow,” he said, “very nice indeed.” They pulled up behind Bobbie’s Metropolitan. “Look at that,” Gene said. “That is a real classic.”

They got out of the car and headed for the kitchen door. Harlan opened the door, carrying his coffee, and stood on the large side porch. It was chilly enough for the steam from his coffee to show distinctly in the still air.

“Harlan Stone,” Betty said, “meet Gene Sawyer, old friend and unofficial.”

The two shook hands, and Harlan turned to lead the way in. The aromas inside were a true presence, enough to give anyone an appetite. For someone already hungry, the physical reaction was almost painful when the saliva glands literally had spasms.

“Gather ‘round everybody,” Betty said as she removed her jacket and hung it on a peg. “I’m going to do this once and fast so we can eat. Gloria Stone, Bobbie Fisher, Craig Stone and Samantha – you know I don’t know your last name – never mind – this is my dear old friend Gene Sawyer. Now, let’s eat.”

“The bathroom is the third door on the left, down the hall there,” Harlan said to Gene. “I don’t think we’ll have it all eaten by the time you get back.”

“Thanks,” Gene said and walked down the hall.

“Harlan, what have you done here?” Betty exclaimed.

“I call it an Aunt Bessie breakfast,” Harlan said. “Childhood memories. She had a wood cookstove out in the summer kitchen that she called the bunkhouse. When the clan was gathered, she’d be up at dawn, putting together breakfast out there. Bacon, eggs, ham, sausage, fried chicken, thickenin’ gravy, and biscuits. Funny, I don’t remember any fried potatoes, so I don’t do them even though breakfast without potatoes usually doesn’t seem right. If there was leftover cornbread, she’d split it, butter it, and put it in the oven. We don’t have any.”

Samantha was listening intently. Craig was just smiling. He had grown up with the occasional treat of an Aunt Bessie breakfast, sometimes with fried green tomatoes to boot. But, not in January.

“Everybody sit,” Gloria said, as Gene re-entered the room. “Bobbie, while we’re passing the dishes, why don’t you outline your position regarding off the record here.”

“Sure thing,” Bobbie said, and turned to Gene. “Your presence here, your name and any contribution you make that could be traced to you will never appear or even be hinted at in a story I write and will never be shared with anyone outside this room. I may, in the future, request a release from the promise. I am taking notes and will continue to write about this as long as there is anything to write.”

“I accept,” Gene said, smiling. He helped himself from the meat platter and passed it on. Everyone at the table relaxed a little. For ten minutes, no one spoke, other than to comment on the food or request a platter be passed. When she thought she saw an opening, Samantha plunged in.

“What does it take to get the registration records from a motel?” she asked.

“Not much,” Gene said. “If the owner is cooperating, it takes only asking. That covers the name and address and vehicle information. Credit card information is held confidential based on the requests from the card-issuing companies, part of the identify-theft reduction efforts. Same with information on the person’s private activities, like use of the mini-bar or x-rated movies. The information is there, but people are hesitant to release it.”

“But, what if the owner is not cooperating?” Samantha asked.

“Is this a hypothetical?” Gene asked.

“Not really,” Harlan said. “We conjecture that the records at the five motels where victims worked would all have this guy’s name and address at some time in the previous five or six months. He stays in these places. We think we could also pick the likely motels near most of the cafes and diners where the other victims worked. If the theory is correct, put all of the data in, punch a button and out would pop one name common to all of them.”

“It makes sense,” Gene said. “You’re right, though. Getting the information would take some doing. Think about it as an exercise in minimum force necessary. You, an unofficial stranger, walk in and ask, the answer’s going to be a resounding no.”

“Yeah,” Gloria said. “We experienced that.”

“Next step, you are not a stranger and you can be trusted not to do anything embarrassing for the motel owner, you might get your information.” Gene took a sip of his coffee. “After that, the next level is an official making an unofficial request, say the local Sheriff or Trooper. Next level is the official request and the final level is the court order. I think you could get most of what you’re looking for with the official making an unofficial request.”

“How do we get that to happen?” Gloria asked.

“You don’t, unless you have a personal relationship with the law enforcement people in those five locations,” Gene said. “Something like this usually happens on the ‘old boy’ network. Let me think it through.” He paused for a second and chewed a piece of bacon. “I could lay this all out to one guy, the logic of it and the reason for it, and he could do the rest, make the contacts, use the network.” He nodded. “I think I might know just the person. Now, were you expecting to get the data and process it yourself?”

“We didn’t think that far,” Harlan said.

“You know, they say you can accomplish almost anything if you have no concern about who gets the credit,” Gene said. “So, I could give this to the one guy, he’d do the rest, and if something comes out of it, he’s the hero. That work for you?”

“Yes,” Harlan and Gloria and Bobbie said at once.

“Good,” Gene said and clapped his hands together. “What’s next?”

“Why don’t you take a minute and look at the timeline and the map,” Betty said. Everyone pushed back from the table. Harlan, with Samantha’s assistance, began clearing the table. Craig and Bobbie both went down the hall to the bathrooms. Gloria stayed right at Gene’s side as he studied the map. He glanced over the rows of file folders, pulled a few, and flipped through them before putting them back in exactly the right place.

“Betty described this to me,” Gene said, “and nothing she said comes close to the real picture. This is incredible.”

“When your guy finds the name in the motel records,” Gloria asked, “can I get a copy of the report?” Gene nodded and continued to look at the timeline and the map.

“We have DNA on him, right?” Gene asked.

“Yes,” Gloria answered. “We got it from the body in Pennsylvania, the one that was less than twenty-four hours when it was found.” Gene nodded again.

“Just out of curiosity, you understand, and not like a criticism or anything,” Gloria said, “but don’t you guys have some system set up where stuff like this could all be in a central location and available to everyone who is involved in it? Some super file-sharing thing?”

“We are supposed to have something like that,” Gene answered. “A major appropriation did get modern computers and networking equipment in place for all of us. But, you know as well as I do, it’s the software, not the hardware. The software still doesn’t work. What it was intended to do is exactly what I’m looking at on your wall. They call it VCF for virtual case file. It pains me to watch what could be a clear and simple approach to the creation of an effective tool get bogged down in, I swear, politics, changes of administration, you name it.”

“My thought that if I could just get the FBI to look at this is a pipedream?” Gloria asked.

“In terms of some super software, yes,” Gene said. “It just isn’t there. But, in terms of sharp and dedicated agents, that’s not a pipedream. The hitch in that approach is what I know Betty already told you. Nothing we could do is any better than what you’ve already done on this. It is really impressive.”

“Thank you,” Gloria said.

Gene continued to study the displays. Craig and Bobbie came back in and walked quietly into the great room. Samantha and Harlan finished up their chore, turned the dishwasher on, then joined the group.

“Betty tells me,” Gene said, turning away from the display and looking at them, “that you’ve picked a day and a place for the next one. Is that right? With just a quick look, I’d say the date is in the coming week and the location is somewhere in Kentucky, the western part of the state.”

“Specifically,” Harlan said, “Thursday and Bowling Green.”

“Good,” Gene said, nodding. “Now what?”

They all looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something. The simple fact was that no one really knew what to do next.

“What if we give each other permission to just talk, no matter how stupid or silly or impossible it might be?” Samantha said. “Like, I think if we all went to Bowling Green, there would be enough of us to cover six of the cafes — I think it will be a café, not a motel. He seems to have dropped those. Anyway, we just go and sit there and drink coffee until they close and the last person goes home, and maybe we follow the most likely one, based on what we know, until she is home and safe.”

“I was thinking about just driving around,” Harlan said. “We’re pretty sure he drives a beige mini-van.”

“What would you do if you saw what you thought might be him?” Gene asked.

“I don’t know,” Harlan admitted. “Maybe tailgate and flip my brights and honk and follow him. Maybe it would scare him off.”

“Yeah, and get you locked up,” Gloria said.

“Maybe we could print a bunch of posters, like people do when they lose a cat,” Bobbie said. “Take them around to all of the cafes and motels.”

“We talked about that before,” Gloria said. “This guy operates so far above suspicion, we think, that these folks would probably ask him to help distribute the posters.”

“It certainly makes sense that we would contact the police,” Craig said.

“What would you tell them?” Gene asked.

“White male, alone in a mini-van,” Gloria started to tick off the points. “Out-of-state plates, either Indiana or Ohio. Armed. Regular visitor. Familiar.”

“If the police actually stopped the guy, the actual guy,” Gene said, “what should they do?”

“Search the van for the weapon,” Gloria offered.

“Insufficient cause,” Gene said.

“Tell him the truth,” Bobbie said. “We have reason to believe that a man matching your description may be operating in the area tonight. It would be best if you leave the area right now or check into a motel. Just get off the road.”

“That could certainly save a life,” Betty said. “But, we have probably only postponed the inevitable; he is going to kill again before we have a prayer of catching him. And, despite what I said earlier about our actions not changing his methods, if we put up posters and have police stopping mini-vans and all of that, you can pretty much take all of your hard work there,” she indicated the map and the timeline, “and chuck it. He will have to change, faced with all of that.”

“So now we’re at the place none of us wants to be,” Harlan said. “No matter what, another one is going to die. If not Thursday, in Bowling Green, then some other place and some other time. Nothing, short of catching him, is going to stop him.”

“Like I said, inevitable,” Betty said.

“What’s the best way for us to use Thursday?” Craig asked.

“We have to do something about the stereotype, that it’s not a missing person for forty-eight hours,” Gloria said. “We need for people to report immediately and for the police to take it seriously.”

“Would it be illegal,” Craig asked, “for the police to at least write down the tag numbers of Indiana and Ohio mini-vans?”

“Not illegal,” Gene said. “But they could not then simply turn the lists over to a civilian either. This gets interesting. If they agree and record tag numbers as part of their official patrol report, it constitutes evidence. Then, if our guy is there and something happens, someday we would be able to introduce the evidence that he was there. Very good. My only problem is how to make it happen fast enough.”

“But is there something we can do?” Craig said.

“Before I say not really,” Gene said, “what you all have already done is incredible, beyond the wildest expectations anybody could have. Betty has tried to describe it, and I now admit I had to see it to believe it. My job, now, is to jump this thing to the top of the pile, get The Bureau officially pursuing it, get it in action. I assume I’ll be getting a little help with that from the press.” He looked at Bobbie and she nodded. “Then I think your best thing is, number one, stay away from Bowling Green and, number two, stay available to me and the people I’ll be talking to. Your grasp of the information could speed things up at a critical time.”

Gloria turned to Bobbie and grinned. Bobbie gave her a thumbs up. The thing Harlan and Gloria and, in fact, all of them had wanted was finally happening. The relief was an almost physical presence in the room.

“I sure wish you weren’t flying today,” Harlan said, “because I always think it’s a little bit rude to drink in front of somebody who can’t. However, I am going to be rude and I’ll just have to find a way to live with myself.”

Harlan went to the freezer and returned with the milk jug. He offered the first sip to Gloria, then the jug went around the circle and returned to him. Gene watched and smiled.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked. Harlan nodded. “How did you find a source around here? This is hardly moonshine country.”

“I’m the source,” Harlan said. “Make it myself.”

“Where?” Gene asked.

“Up in my kitchen,” Harlan said. “We jumped into work so fast, we haven’t taken the time to socialize or offer you a tour of the place. My apologies.”

“Apology accepted,” Gene said, “and if it is at all possible to find a small, suitable container, I’d love to take some back with me.”

“Consider it done,” Harlan said, and took a sip from the jug.

“Okay,” Betty said, “what do we have to get together for you?”

“Most of the stuff appears to be in doc files, so if someone can just send them to me, that would be perfect,” Gene said. “In fact, I probably already have them.” Betty and Gloria both nodded Yes. “The thing I really wish I could have is the map and the timeline. That really knits the whole thing together.”

“I took a bunch of close shots yesterday,” Bobbie said. “I tried to hold a constant distance and shoot in a way that they can easily be pieced together. They’re digital, and I can send them to you.”

“Yes, thanks,” Gene said. “That’s really the key piece for what I have to do tomorrow.”

“Well, then,” Gloria said, “we’ll just get busy emailing and attaching, and you guys can go tour the kitchen, visit the coal mine, and just generally have fun. We’re having soup and grilled cheese for lunch, shortly. Then we’ll send you on your way to make things happen.”

“Gene, I’m just telling you,” Betty said into the phone, “I am about to go over to Harlan and Gloria’s house. And, I am telling you that the kind of progress that happens in the kind of think-tank environment that you find there is going to generate something.”

“And, you’ re calling me at, what, seven on a Saturday morning,” the person on the other end of the phone said. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m trying to save your ass, Gene, in case you haven’t noticed,” Betty said.

Gene Sawyer was special agent in charge in the Columbus, Ohio office of the FBI. The unfortunate, in his view, coincidence of finding the first cloverleaf body in his area and his long personal friendship with Betty Peyton was now beginning to be regrettable. At least it was beginning to look like that. Gene had informed his superiors about the detective work the amateurs had done. He had forwarded the original report and the weekly updates to the appropriate people in the organization. He had been directed to open a file and keep an eye on the thing, and that was all. Betty knew that the bosses had not yet chosen to take the case to the next level of involvement.

“Look, Gene,” Betty said, “when this thing bubbles up to the surface and people start asking the old ‘why’ question, I’d like to think you’ll have all of the bases covered. I am calling you right now with the certainty that it is about to bubble. The reporter from Louisville is going to be there today, and if anything of substance comes up, it will be in the paper, no doubt at all about that.”

“You can’t talk to a reporter,” Gene started to say.

“Gene,” Bobbie interrupted, “I’m a civilian, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gene replied. “So, what do you want?”

“Carry your cell, your personal cell today, for one thing,” Betty said. “Will you be able to check your email?”

“Sure,” Gene answered. “I actually have a day off today… or, I thought I did.”

“Good,” Betty said. “I’ll email you about what we’re doing as we do it. If something urgent comes out of it, I’ll call you.”

“Sorry,” Gene said, “I still don’t get it. What could come up?”

“Gene,” Betty said, “just about anything you can imagine, and probably things you can’t. You’ve seen the reports.”

“I look forward to not hearing from you,” Gene said as he hung up.

Betty pulled down Harlan’s drive just before noon. She had finished taking care of the animals and packed her toothbrush as requested. Even though she knew they’d be doing some serious talking and thinking this afternoon, she was looking forward to it. On the front seat next to her was a two-pound package of bacon from the hog that Harlan and Gloria had helped to butcher. She thought it was an appropriate hostess gift. As she drove down the incline toward the garage doors, she spotted Harlan, Gloria, and someone else walking out of the woods to her left. She parked at the edge of the apron, just behind the other two cars lined up there, and got out.

“Hey, Betty,” Harlan called out as the group reached the paved area. “Welcome.”

“Harlan, Gloria,” she said.

“Hi, I’m Bobbie Fisher,” Bobbie said, reaching to shake hands. “I’ve been anxious to meet you.”

“Whose car is that?” Betty asked. She had parked behind a Nash Metropolitan convertible.

“That’s mine,” Bobbie said. “You like it?”

“Like it?” Betty exclaimed. “A female reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper driving a Lois Lane car? I absolutely adore it.”

“Thanks,” Bobbie said. “Maybe we can take a ride.”

“I’ll take a rain check for warmer weather,” Betty said, “and speaking of that, can we get inside?” She pulled her small bag and the meat parcel from her car and closed the door with her hip. She handed the parcel to Gloria. “Here, from the hog you helped with. Might make a good breakfast tomorrow.”

The group of four walked down the side porch to the main door. Inside, they found Samantha at the computer and Craig at the timeline, holding the magic marker. An Ella Fitzgerald recording played in the background on the computer speakers. Craig was marking a ‘W’ on the timeline.

“Any progress?” Harlan asked.

“Almost finished,” Samantha said, turning from the computer. “Oh, hi. You must be Betty. I’m Samantha.” She stood and walked to the group by the door. “Have we got a ton to lay on you.”

“I think I have mixed feelings about that,” Betty said as she shrugged out of her shearling coat and pulled off her knit hat and hung them on a peg next to the door.

“I’m making fresh coffee,” Harlan said. “You all can go ahead and start the tour of the new stuff while I get it ready.”

“I always feel I need to get this up front,” Bobbie said. “I am a reporter, I am on the job, and this is on the record.”

“I assumed that,” Betty said, “and I’m depending on it. I talked to the SAIC in Columbus this morning, and there has been no movement with the higher-ups, just maintaining the file. I am hoping that something is going to be worth writing about.”

“Put your mind at ease,” Bobbie said. “It already is, and I was blocking the story in my head while we were out walking.”

“Let’s get going,” Betty said. “What’s new?”

“Harlan’s timeline,” Gloria said, taking a chair and pointing to the new display. “Need a guided tour?”

“Not a bit,” Betty said, walking close and moving along the timeline from left to right. “This is as clear as a bell.” She was touching the gaps as she moved along. “Okay. So we have nine gaps, if the pattern holds, right?” She looked around at the group. Everyone was nodding a yes. “If memory serves, we have five unidentified bodies and that means five with no way to date them.”

“We think we might slot them if we can determine from the autopsy reports which ones have been exposed longer,” Gloria said. “First, we are checking to see if weather could be a factor, like this one.” She pointed to one of the gaps marked with a ‘W.’ “Three major snowstorms and low temperatures, so it didn’t melt off.”

Betty moved back and studied the gap. “I remember that one. Didn’t think winter would ever be over.” She scanned again, then asked, “Are all of the gaps winter?”

Samantha spoke up. “No. One is in August and one is in May. The rest are in the January to February period.”

“Our guy does January/February, May, August and November/December,” Betty said. “Now what kind of a pattern is that?”

“It’s quarterly, obviously,” Craig ventured. “It isn’t solar or lunar. I’m thinking that the only pattern is his own, not tied to anything external.”

“Not a chance,” Betty said. “Everything we do is tied to some external force, even if we’re not conscious of it. He’s tied to something.”

“School is quarterly,” Samantha offered. “I think retail is, or fashion or something.”

“Sports,” Craig added.

“What are the other patterns, and I want to do this now, with the actual data, before we start adding supposition,” Betty said.

“Agriculture is not,” Harlan said, standing at the edge of the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew. “Shipping and transportation — our truck- or bus-driver theory — is not.”

“I like the school idea,” Bobbie said. “But the pattern doesn’t quite add up for that, August is good, and November/December. But January/February doesn’t really work and neither does May.”

“What about the retail idea?” Betty asked.

“The problem with that,” Samantha said, “is that our guy picks high-activity times, not lows. I mean, November/December is the peak, May is a significant selling period, August is the whole back-to-school push and January/February is massive clearance selling.” All eyes were on her as she spieled off the retail seasons. “I worked in the mall during half of high school and all the way through college,” she explained. “Point is, if the guy is in retail, he is slammed during those periods.”

Harlan brought out the coffee thermos and the cups and set them on the table in front of the fireplace. Everyone else continued to stare at the timeline. After a minute, Betty shook her head, as if to clear it. “So, maybe it’s retail or something,” she said. “What does the weather have to tell us?”

“Really bad weather could explain two of the gaps,” Craig said and walked to the time line. “There, and again there,” he pointed, “no abductions. Also, only one spell of bad weather occurred during a slot when we know an abduction happened.”

Gloria went to the files folders and pulled the file on the one with bad weather. “We know she was abducted between February fourth and sixth,” she said, reading from the file. “What are the details on the bad weather?”

Samantha pulled the data up on the computer. “Snow started on February seven and continued for five days. Temperatures were moderate, not frigid. Based on the temperatures following the snows, it would have stayed for awhile on the ground.”

“Did it cover the whole area?” Betty asked.

“Let’s see,” Samantha said. “Came across hitting St. Louis. Nailed Chicago and extended downstate to the river. All of Indiana and Illinois, Ohio and on into Pennsylvania. In Kentucky, it followed the Ohio River valley, but didn’t dip into the southern part of the state. Same with West Virginia.”

“The victim was dumped in southern Kentucky, below the snow line,” Gloria said, reading the location from the timeline. “She was in a cloverleaf outside of Somerset, right here.” Gloria tapped a dot on the map. “Oh, now this is interesting. The line between her abduction site, Terre Haute, Indiana, and the cloverleaf doesn’t cross right through the central point like all of the others.” She traced the faint connecting line she had drawn on the map.

“I think he got caught by the snowstorm,” Harlan said. “I bet he planned to dump her somewhere in Pennsylvania or maybe West Virginia.”

“If you wanted to keep the cross lines running true,” Samantha said, “it would have to be West Virginia.”

“Good,” Betty said. “Identify the anomaly and don’t use it for pattern or projection.” She sounded like she was teaching a class.

“I want to start plugging in the unknowns,” Gloria said, and reached for the folder.

“I agree,” Betty said. “Are there any other patterns?”

“I think there are some geography patterns,” Harlan said.

“Well, yeah,” Gloria said. “Opposite sides of the territory now one hundred percent since we identified the anomaly.”

“I think there’s something else,” Harlan said. “I’ve been trying to figure the method he uses to choose where to go next and I think, with the observation we just made, it does begin to fall into place.” He walked over to the timeline.

“In the first two years, no pattern. He was picking his victim locations without an apparent pattern. Then the one we just saw, getting caught by the snowstorm.” Harlan tapped the chart with his finger. “Since then, the January/February abductions all happen in the northern tier, so the dumping is in the southern tier. Less likelihood of snow.”

“You think he’s that worried about snow?” Betty asked.

“Just picture a trail of footprints leading into a cloverleaf,” Harlan said. Betty nodded her head in agreement.

“Any other patterns?” Betty asked.

“So far, he hasn’t repeated,” Samantha said. “That’s a pattern, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” said Betty.

“When we get to the point of trying to predict the next one,” Gloria said, “we have a list of places to exclude. That could be important.”

“You see we have a problem?” Harlan said. “We’re looking at his world as it was. His world has been changed, I think.”

The group pondered that idea for a long moment of silence. Bobbie looked up from her notebook, pen poised over a clean page.

“His bodies have been discovered,” Gloria said, “so his secret hidey-hole is gone – no longer a secret. What else?”

That stopped everybody.

“He doesn’t know about that map or that timeline,” Gloria went on. “He doesn’t have any evidence that the FBI might be looking for him…which it turns out he is right about. He really has no external reason to think that anybody is after him. God knows what his internal impulses are telling him.”

“And, by the way,” Samantha added, “any local investigation activity is going to be nowhere near to where we think he lives.”

Every one of them stared at the map and the timeline. Bobbie stopped taking notes. Craig walked to a seat next to Samantha and sat. Harlan, the exception, was staring out the window, not at the displays.

“You know,” Bobbie said, breaking the long silence, “this puts me in a really big bind.”

“How so?” Harlan asked.

“If Gloria’s assessment is close to the mark, if the fact that the case, or cases as it were, have not grabbed headlines, then our guy may not be compelled to change his plans, his approach, his anything.”

All eyes in the room were on her. She walked to the displays and looked.

“If I thought that all of this was leading us to a sure or at least reasonable chance of nailing the guy, as long as he doesn’t vary his pattern, then I would not do anything to alter that — like publishing a story that draws attention and, at the same time, alerts him.  It appears that any chance we have of stopping him depends on his not changing how he operates.”

“I think you’re right on the money,” Betty said. “I am modifying my position. Yes, a big story in your paper might be enough to jar some of the hierarchy at the bureau into action. Problem is, I honestly don’t believe they would bring anything to the party.”

“Exactly,” Bobbie said. “So, that puts me in a bind. What’s going on here is a story. I know I could get it in and in a good position. I’m pretty sure it would get picked up and it could end up making a pretty big ripple, big enough to move the bureaucrats off dead center.”

“And your problem is…?” Harlan asked.

“It’s the upside, downside thing, Harlan,” Bobbie answered, clearly distressed. “What if I write the story and turn it in and it changes this guy’s pattern, makes it possible for him to keep going. What good have I done, and what damage am I maybe doing?”

“Can I jump in here?” Betty asked. She walked over to the timeline and the map. “Nothing you could do will get this guy to alter what he’s doing. Look at that pattern and consistency. In my experience, a guy like this doesn’t even see that he has a pattern. Everything he does is as second nature to him as breathing. He wouldn’t know what to change, even if the thought crossed his mind. This is who he is and people just don’t change. So, anything a story from you could do will be positive if it gets us more help, more people on the alert. We aren’t going to scare this one off. We have to nail him.”

“Okay,” Bobbie said.

“Good,” Betty said. “Harlan, you got anything a body could nibble on?”

A flurry of activity produced a large platter with olives, feta cheese, artichoke hearts, sliced avocado, chunks of salami, anchovies, crusty bread, and a dish of herbed olive oil for dipping. Gloria distributed the coffee, tea, and water. Harlan and Craig opted for beer, and everyone settled around the table in the great room.

“You know, we came up with a way to find him,” Gloria said. “On our short trip.”

“How?” three of them said at once.

“I’ll just warn you,” Gloria said, “I don’t know any of the legal problems with this approach. Harlan and I are convinced that our guy patronizes these establishments where the women work. I just know that if we put three months’ worth of registrations from the five motels we know about into a computer, our guy’s name would be in all five.”

“Or maybe six months’ worth,” Harlan said. “His name would be there, and I can’t imagine there would be any other name in all five.”

“And if that’s not enough,” Gloria went on, “Harlan, I haven’t shared this with you yet, I think we could spot the appropriate motel for a bunch of the cafes and diners, the ones closest. We probably wouldn’t bat a thousand on that, but I bet his name would be there.”

“Problem is,” Harlan said, “even if we could get the information and run the sort, we wouldn’t have any proof. Imagine knowing who he is and not being able to do anything about it.”

“And that, by the way,” Gloria said with a hint of triumph in her voice, “is where you’re wrong. We have DNA from the body in Pennsylvania, the one where those people witnessed the dumping.”

“I can see the problems,” Samantha said. “How do you get those records and, assuming everything else works out, how do you get his DNA?”

“All I can say at the moment,” Betty said, “is it’s possible and it’s possible. See, that’s why this thing has to jump to the top of the pile with The Bureau, thorny legal questions like these. That’s why we need them.”

“No argument here,” Bobbie said.

“What else have we got?” Betty asked. “I’m loading up for a phone call I’m making this afternoon.”

“We’re going to try to fit the five unknowns into the remaining gaps,” Harlan said. “Then we’re looking for any combination of geographic and timing logic. When we’ve done that, we are going to try to predict both when and where for the next one.”

“Just saying that gives me the shivers,” Gloria said.

“Yeah, I know,” Samantha said. “Me, too.”

“Do we plan to get that done before supper?” Betty asked.

“I’m pretty sure we can,” Harlan said.

“Okay, I need to make a phone call,” Betty said. “First, though, I have to ask you, Bobbie, if we can go off the record.”

“What’s up?” Bobbie asked.

“I am going to call my friend,” Betty said, “the one who is in the Columbus, Ohio office. He’s the one we’ve been sending all of our stuff to. I want him here tomorrow morning so he can see this firsthand. Because of his position, he can’t be here. Not if his presence is going to show up in print.”

Bobbie thought about it.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I am going to spend the afternoon writing. I am going to file the story by suppertime. It will not include this conversation. Then I am going on standby. If at some future time I need to include anything from tomorrow, I will get your permission first. Without permission, it stays off the record.”

“Good enough,” Betty said. She opened her cell phone and dialed. “Hey, Gene, it’s Betty. I just checked the weather, and tomorrow is going to be a great day for flying. Evansville is closest. Call me when you take off and we’ll pick you up there. Make it early enough and I’ll bring you back to a good breakfast.” There had been slight pauses in the one-sided conversation, just enough for Gene to say ‘Where’ and ‘When.’

“Well, that was easy,” Gloria said.

“Oh, Gene loves to fly,” Betty said. “He has this 4-seater Piper Warrior. He got it about the same time we got ours. I think that was the main reason we got to be friends and kept in touch.”

There was a silence, uncomfortable for Harlan and Gloria. Betty interpreted it correctly.

“Obviously, Harlan and Gloria know,” she said to the others. “My husband and two friends were killed in our plane. Walter was piloting. I still struggle with it. I was supposed to be on the trip and got pulled away for a work crisis. I still believe that if I had been there, I would not have let us take off. Weather was not good. Rationally, I know that there is no basis for thinking that. Emotionally, it still gets me. Anyway, that’s when I resigned from The Bureau.”

No one moved, and no one looked away.

“Okay, let’s get going,” Betty said. “Lots to do before supper.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Craig said, “what’s for supper?”

“Ask your mother,” Harlan said.

Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. Harlan and Gloria, as usual, were up before sunrise. The first round of coffee was made in the French press, just enough for the two of them to start the day. The main coffee maker, which would supply the needs of the others as they awoke, was still burbling as Gloria sat down to the computer. Her first task, always, was to print out the New York Times crossword for Harlan. Then she went to her mail and to her online news sources. She had programmed one of her news sites to flag her whenever certain words or phrases were used: abduction, unknown body, mysterious disappearance. She had also set it to read five states only.

Harlan lighted the gas logs and settled in front of them to work on the Saturday crossword, the hardest one of the week, except for, sometimes, Thursday. They occasionally threw in a real zinger on Thursdays. Sundays, which non-solvers tended to think was the hardest, was not. It was just bigger. Saturday was hard. As usual, Harlan checked the top left box, didn’t find an obvious toehold, and went to the bottom right box. There he started and began to work the puzzle backward.

Gloria found no alerts and switched over to email. There was one from Fritz:

Wish I were there. Obviously, I’m on email. If your great cogitations lead to technical questions, email me. It’ll help me feel like I’m there. Ask Bobbie to mail back.

Fritz

Gloria printed out the email, then went on to read the rest of her inbox. It was not very full. Most of the people she would expect to hear from were either asleep down the hall or finishing chores and driving over in the next few hours. Almost automatically, Gloria shifted the computer to the missing persons site that she had found to be the most organized and, as a result, helpful in their searches. Information from the site had been instrumental in five of the identifications of the bodies in the cloverleafs. She wasn’t expecting to find new information as she read. She was looking for insights, which were her own responsibility, from reading over the same information she’d already read numerous times.

“Well, damn,” Harlan said, so softly that Gloria almost didn’t hear it.

Harlan, doing the puzzle, concentrated on the block of the grid, not on the whole puzzle. He moved along, solving the code the editor had utilized to make an essentially easy puzzle difficult, and never checked his progress against the whole puzzle. Occasionally, like this morning, he would fill in the last piece of a box and then scan for the next challenge, only to discover that the puzzle was finished.

Harlan set the puzzle aside and walked to the kitchen. He transferred the completed coffee in the big machine to the thermos, then discarded the used grounds and began to brew another pot.

“You want a warm-up?” he called. No answer, so he took the thermos with him and crossed the great room and stood right behind Gloria. He repeated his question.

“Want a warm-up?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Gloria said without removing her eyes from the screen.

Harlan poured her cup full and took the thermos back to the kitchen. The main coffee-maker was cooled down, and Harlan started the second pot, filling the coffee maker with the well water they kept for just that purpose. With his own cup topped off, he wandered back to the far corner of the great room, where Gloria was flipping from website to website.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Gloria said. “You know, I really have to question my view of the world when I sound disappointed when there’s nothing on the alerts. This son-of-a-bitch is going to do it again, I just know it and so do you, and we’re stuck looking for some indication that he has, after the fact. It’s making me crazy.”

There was nothing to say. Harlan walked back to the kitchen, checked on the progress of the new pot, then walked back into the great room.

“Can you help me put up the linear calendar I printed out?” Harlan asked.

“How big is it?” Gloria asked.

“Oh, about eight feet or so,” Harlan said, picking up the file folder with the sheets in it. They were meticulously matched and taped together. Harlan had trimmed the margins so the display could be seamless. The whole thing was folded accordion-style in the folder.

“Have you put it together yet?” Gloria asked. She still had her eyes on the screen.

“It is together and ready to go up,” Harlan answered. “The question is, where?”

“Let me see,” Gloria said and swiveled away from the computer screen. Harlan opened the folder and lifted the leading edge of the timeline so that about three pages came off the pile. “Here, lay it out across the table so I can see it all.”

Harlan moved the paper banner out of the folder and draped it along the table, over the monitor and printer and hanging a little off the far edge. It was a simple grid, allowing one inch for each month for an eight-year time span. Where they had a date of an abduction, the grid below the month listed the location of the body when found and, below that, the place and date of the abduction. Harlan had bent the grid lines so that the information below each known event was able to expand, using larger type. In the instances where they had both pieces of information — dump location and abduction location — the entire vertical section of month was printed with a blue background. Where they had only the found body, Harlan had printed out a grid, shaped like an inverted funnel, with a red background color. Those would stay in the folder until they started speculating about likely time frames for the abduction.

“This is very good,” Gloria said quietly, already completely caught up in the new way to illustrate the story. “I mean, the gaps just sort of jump right out, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I guess they do,” Harlan said. “Now, where can we hang this? I tried to make the type big enough to see from a medium distance, at least.”

“If we put it just above the map, can we still read it?” Gloria said. “Let’s try. Would you get the stepstool?”

“Right away,” Harlan said.

“And the pushpins,” Gloria said. “I think we can pin into the wood windowframe, and it will be perfect.”

They had to use five pushpins to keep the time line from sagging. Then they discreetly taped the bottom edge to the top of the map to avoid the distraction of an errant breeze flapping the display just when someone was right on the verge of seeing something new. When the new display was secured to their satisfaction and the stepstool had been stowed, Harlan brought the thermos over and sat, next to Gloria. They both sipped coffee and silently stared at the timeline.

“I will never, ever come here again without a photographer.”

Harlan and Gloria both jumped and turned to see Bobbie, standing just at the edge of the invisible line between the kitchen and the great room.

“If I could have the picture I just saw of you two, I know I could get a full page,” Bobbie went on. “Where’s the coffee?”

It was a rhetorical question. She knew where the coffee was and went straight to the coffee machine.

“Morning, Bobbie,” Harlan said. “You sleep all right?”

“Like an innocent, Harlan. Like an innocent,” Bobbie replied, serving herself a cup of coffee. “How about you all?”

“Same old, same old,” Gloria said. “Like a rock until it’s time to stop sleeping.”

“Both of you?” Bobbie asked, really interested, not just making polite conversation.

“Yep, “ Gloria said, then looked at Harlan.

“I confess,” Harlan said. “I woke up once about ten minutes before Gloria did. I don’t remember what year that was. I know I never told you about it. It didn’t seem important.”

Bobbie laughed out loud. “Now there’s one for Sally Jesse,” she said. “So, what are you all so wrapped up in here?”

“Harlan’s time line,” Gloria said. “Up there, right above the map. There is definitely something there, something to learn, to know. So, now it’s time to sit in its presence and allow it to bestow knowledge. If it fails, of course, it goes in the burn bag. I think it knows that. I think it is going to really try.”

Bobbie pulled a chair into line with Harlan’s and Gloria’s, took a big sip of her coffee, and fixed her gaze on the time line display.

“How many unidentified bodies do we have now?” Bobbie asked.

“Five,” Harlan answered. “I have them in the folder. One of our ideas is to try to fit them into the obvious gaps.”

“There’s more than five gaps,” Bobbie said, “if I’m reading this right.”

“That’s right,” Harlan said. “The other factor to consider is when the time line starts. We really have no way to know that the first one there was actually his first.”

“You have to conclude that there are more bodies out there,” Bobbie said.

“I still can’t believe those dummies who stopped people from going out to the cloverleafs,” Gloria said. “What idiots.”

“Seems likely,” Harlan said, “that any bodies earlier than the time line have probably decomposed so completely that you’d have to really be looking hard.”

“Assuming that the gaps are simply missing data,” Bobbie said, “there is a pretty clear pattern here.”

“Well, it’s not a lunar cycle,” Gloria pointed out.

“It looks like our guy does his thing four or five times a year,” Bobbie said.

“Hang on a second,” Harlan said, sitting up in his chair. “Think about weather for a second. There are more gaps in the winter months. Can’t we check weather statistics for some of those periods?”

“Yep,” Gloria said and scooted her chair back to the computer, “Give me a time frame.”

“Pick one,” Harlan said to Bobbie. Bobbie rose and pointed to a gap on the time line. Gloria looked up, got the data and keyed it in.

“Nope,” Gloria said. “Weather neutral. Give me another one and make some sort of a mark on the time line so we can keep track of where it isn’t a weather issue.”

“If you were this guy,” Harlan was saying, “and you needed to travel to do what you do, snow would be a problem.”

“Snow shows footprints,” Bobbie said, picking up the thought. “An obvious set of tracks into a cloverleaf would probably be like a big red flag.”

“His problem wouldn’t be on the abduction side of the thing,” Bobbie went on. “His problem would be on the disposal side. I wonder if he ever got stuck with a surprise blizzard.”

“Bingo,” Gloria said. “February, right there,” she was pointing to a slot of the timeline. “Three separate snow storms and temperatures below freezing almost constantly.”

“I’d say that would keep him off the roads and out of business,” Bobbie said.

“I remember it,” Harlan said. “It took until April for some of the snow piles to finally disappear, at least around here.” Harlan marked the gap on the time line with a large, black ‘W.’

“Well, I see an assignment for someone today,” Gloria said, pushing her chair back. “In order to prove out the weather theory, we have to run weather stats for all of the winter slots, not just the gaps. Tedious, but necessary.”

“Maybe we can draw straws,” Harlan said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to start some breakfast. Maybe the aroma of bacon will rouse those slothful laggards down the hall.”

Craig and Samantha had arrived late, the night before. Bobbie was already there, settled in and sipping some hot tea.

“I sure hope there’s nothing exciting going on tonight,” Samantha said as she came into the great room. “We are bushed.”

“Bad drive?” Bobbie asked.

“No,” Craig answered. He was right behind Samantha. “Just a late start.”

They had both taken the time to change out of work clothes into weekend casual – jeans and moccasins and oversize sweaters.

“Would you like some hot tea,” Harlan asked, “or something a bit more bracing.”

“Bracing would be nice,” Samantha said. “Homemade bracing would be even better.”

“You know where it is,” Harlan said. “Drag it out here.”

“Did you bring your stuff in yet?” Gloria asked.

“Yeah, we just dumped it in the room on our way in,” Craig answered. He went to the kitchen and returned with a beer.

The lights were out in the shlocking corner, except for the little signal lights on the monitor and the modem and the printer. The gas log was burning bright, and it was easy to settle in with the focus away from the business end of the room. Samantha squinted and tried to make out what was over there.

“Sit down here with that jug,” Harlan said. “There’s plenty of time for that stuff tomorrow, and that will be more than soon enough for us.”

“Trip didn’t go well?” Craig asked.

“On the contrary, it went too well, I guess,” Harlan answered.

“One day and one night out there where you just know this guy has been,” Gloria continued, “and well, it just spooked me. I know, for a certainty, we were eating in places this guy has eaten in. Hell he might have slept in the same bed in the same motel. It was really too much. We needed home and we needed exactly this, warm fire, you all.” Then, to Samantha, “Girl, do you plan to hold that jug in your lap all night or do you think you might share a little?”

One round of the jug, Bobbie demurring, and three stifled yawns later, everyone rose and headed for the bedrooms. Harlan turned the gas log off and replaced the jug in the freezer. The evening had been short, sweet, and exactly what they both needed. Now it was morning, and they needed more. Hence, the bacon aroma. Harlan actually considered, fleetingly, setting a fan at the top of the hallway to waft the bacon smell to the rooms down the hall. He chuckled at the thought and continued cooking. The aroma worked, without the help of the fan.

He caught Samantha’s reflection in the glass front of the cabinet next to the stove where he was working.

“Morning,” he said. “Coffee’s right here, and breakfast will be ready shortly.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said and surprised Harlan completely by standing on tiptoe and gracing him with a light kiss beneath his right ear. She carried her coffee to the great room and plopped down in the chair recently vacated by Harlan. She didn’t say anything. She focused on the display Bobbie and Gloria were looking at.

“Is Craig up?” Gloria asked.

“He’s in the shower,” Samantha answered. Neither of them took their eyes off the display during the exchange. “What’s the ‘W’ for?”

“We started checking the weather – Harlan’s idea,” Gloria said. “We think a few of the gaps could be weather related, times when it wouldn’t have been safe or practical for him to dump a body. That ‘W’ is a month with three big snowfalls and low temperatures so it didn’t melt off.”

“That’s the only one?” Samantha asked.

“Don’t know,” Gloria said. “Someone is going to have to do the weather check for all of the slots, hopefully during a quiet time today. Then we can see what we have. It would be nice if most of the extra gaps can be tied to weather. Means fewer undiscovered bodies out there.”

When Craig came into the kitchen, he turned right and headed straight for the coffee. With full cup in hand, he inspected the contents of the iron pans Harlan was working with. The only sound in the entire house was the sizzling at various pitches and tempos coming from the pans. The noise level went up when Harlan lifted a lid and slid the spatula beneath the frying potatoes, then muffled again with the replacement of the lid. Without breaking the silence, he walked to the great room and watched the three women there, silently staring at the map and some new display. He went back to the kitchen.

“When’s breakfast?” he asked quietly.

Harlan opened the oven and peeked in.

“Right now,” he answered, then raised his voice. “Breakfast is on the way to the table.”

The potatoes were served directly from the black iron skillet, sitting on a trivet. There was an omelet casserole, hot biscuits, bacon, and sausage, and a bowl of sausage gravy. Butter and sorghum were on the table and ready.

The three women took turns refilling coffee cups and sat down. Still without a word, they loaded their plates and started eating. Craig shot a puzzled look at Harlan and got a shrug in return. He felt like he didn’t belong at the table — in fact, he felt like he wasn’t even there.

“What’s going on?” he finally asked, looking from his mother to Bobbie to Samantha.

“What?” Gloria responded. Bobbie and Samantha stopped eating and looked up at Craig with the same questioning look.

“Nobody’s saying anything,” Craig said. “It’s like you’re in a trance or something. What gives?”

“It’s the time line,” Samantha answered. Bobbie and Gloria nodded. Then all three of the women turned attention back to the food. Craig glanced helplessly at Harlan.

“It’s hanging above the map,” Harlan said. “It takes all of the events we have dates or approximate dates for and places them. There might be patterns there. There definitely appear to be gaps, more than we can account for, and, assuming the apparent pattern is valid, we are definitely due for another one.”

“You think the gaps mean undiscovered bodies?” Craig asked.

“Possibly,” Harlan answered. “As I was putting it together, I began wondering if there was a geographical pattern other than what we already know. After breakfast, I’m going to start looking at that aspect.”

“How so?” Gloria asked. She abandoned her hundred-yard stare and focused on what Harlan was saying.

“The obvious one is the idea of sequence. Does he hop around randomly or does he move, say, clockwise through the territory,” Harlan said, “because, if there is some geographical logic, we might be able to predict approximately where he’ll do it next.”

“Are you thinking of a warning?” Bobbie asked.

“It certainly becomes more possible,” Harlan said. “But, Gloria and I hashed that one out before. What do you say in the warning? We are sure that this guy is a regular, has probably been eating at these places and staying in these motels for years. Part of what Gloria and I picked up during the brief trip was how vulnerable to this kind of deception those women really are.”

“I sat there and watched the lady who owns the motel literally tick off in her head all of the customers who might fit the description,” Gloria said. “Our guy would not be one of the ones she would worry about. In fact, she would think it her duty to protect him from us.”

“Gloria’s right,” Harlan said. “You could see it on her face.”

While the rest of the table engaged in the ‘warning’ conversation, Bobbie moved her plate to the side and started taking notes. Craig picked up his plate and carried it into the great room, where he stood and stared at the time line while he finished his food. Samantha prepared one more biscuit with sausage gravy and dug in. As she finished, silence settled in again. She stood and started gathering the dishes from the table. There were no leftovers, she having finished the last biscuit and the last scrapings from the gravy bowl. Harlan waved her off, and she moved back to the great room. Gloria and Bobbie followed. As he worked on the dishes, Harlan was trying out different schemes for notating geography. As soon as the dishwasher was loaded and the black iron skillets had been properly attended to, he joined the silent group in the great room.

“Who is volunteering to do the weather searches?” he asked.

“I’ll do that,” Samantha answered.

“I’ll help,” Craig said.

“What time do you expect Betty?” Harlan asked.

“No idea,” Gloria said. “After chores is the best I can tell you.”

“Okay. I’m going to go walk around for a little, clear my head,” Harlan said.

“Me, too,” Bobbie and Gloria said simultaneously.

The reason Harlan and Gloria had started the winter road trip to begin with was because they both felt stopped. Getting up every day and staring at the same displays was not providing any inspiration or sense of movement. When they hit the road, they did not have a set time frame for their trip. They both knew that they would follow their instincts until something happened. Just the one night away and the visits to the diner and café and the chat with Kate at the motel had accomplished that.

“I need to get home,” Gloria announced as they drove toward Paducah, after their breakfast. “There are things I have to get started on.”

Harlan, who felt the same way, nodded. They had not yet passed the junction where he could turn to the east and bypass Paducah. They could easily be home by lunch or a little after.

“I think I feel the need for macaroni and cheese, from scratch,” he said.

Gloria thought about that for a moment, knowing that what he really meant was that he needed the surroundings of their home too. Oh, there would be a mac and cheese cook-up, no doubt, but it was people that Harlan needed, in their home, just like she needed it.

“Well, now that you mention it,” Gloria said, “I need people. I wonder what Craig is doing this weekend.”

“Give him a call. I think you can catch him before he heads out to work,” Harlan said. Before they got back to the house, Gloria had contacted Craig and received a hearty ‘yes’. She called Bobbie.

“Fritz has some professional conference that starts Friday and goes through the weekend, somewhere in Georgia, so I am absolutely free,” Bobbie said. “Friday night arrival okay with you?”

“Absolutely,” Gloria said. “We’ll be looking for you.”

She called Betty.

“ . . . and we ‘d love it if you’d pack a toothbrush and stay the night,” Gloria was saying to Betty. “We need a nice warm gathering.”  She listened for a moment. “Oh, no. The trip worked out. We saw and heard some things. Didn’t take long, and it didn’t take too much to see that we have to move fast. Those women out there are sitting ducks.” She listened again. “No, you call those brothers of yours and tell them to watch the place. Okay. See you Saturday, and come hungry.”

Harlan was in the kitchen, Gloria’s kitchen, stirring the white sauce for the macaroni and cheese. The elbow macaroni was already half-cooked and draining. The oven was heating, and Harlan was beginning to add the cheese to the sauce.

“So that was a yes, I take it,” he said to Gloria.

“Right,” Gloria answered. “Craig and Samantha are coming in Friday night. So is Bobbie. Betty will be over after chores Saturday morning.”

“Are you going to the store, or should we both go?” Harlan asked.

“What are you thinking about for the big meal?”

“Weather forecast says we’ll have cold, but clear. I could do something outside.” He finished adding the cheese to the sauce and stirred it another minute. He removed it from the heat while pouring the macaroni into a baking dish, then poured the cheese sauce in on top. He finished it off with a generous handful of grated cheddar, then slid the dish into the oven.

“Something outside meaning what?” Gloria called. She was in the far corner of the great room, reassembling the shlocking corner. In the process of moving the various displays and files out of the RV and back into the office, she was both sorting and thinking and finding little flashes of insight.

“I could spit-roast a lamb over hickory.” Silence from the other room. “I could do a beer-can turkey.” More silence. “I could do burgers and dogs. . . .”

“How many fondue pots do we have?” Gloria called from the other room. Harlan knew better than to try to reconcile the question with the discussion of outdoor cooking. This was a new tack, and outdoor cooking had just got left in the dust. He opened cabinet and pantry doors and started the count. Then he opened one of the lower drawers containing the less-often used implements.

“We have five pots, quick count, and at least two dozen forks,” he said, walking into the great room to check on Gloria’s progress.

“Well, there you go,” Gloria said, stepping back from the map she had just re-hung. “Cheese fondue in a crockpot, same with chocolate fondue. Then three pots of hot oil and two of hot broth. Salad and dipping sauces and lots to drink. What do you think?”

“Left side needs to go up about and inch,” Harlan replied. Gloria made the adjustment.

“Mac and cheese will be ready shortly,” he said. Gloria nodded and reached into one of the boxes. “Have you done a time line?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s in here somewhere,” Gloria said, pointing at one of the boxes.

“Is it a visual display, like a long calendar, a time line?”

“No, why?”

“I think it would be helpful, somehow, to see it visually, graphically,” Harlan said. “If you can find the list of the dates, I’ll piece something together this afternoon.”

“What do you think,” Gloria asked, “you’re going to be able to predict the next one?”

“Maybe,” Harlan said. “And maybe we can plug in the probable abduction dates for the unidentified bodies, give or take, whatever the information shows us.”

“And what use will that be?” Gloria asked. She wasn’t challenging Harlan; she was trying to get on his wave length.

“One thing is, if there is a time pattern, then there should be obvious gaps representing the unidentifieds,” Harlan explained. “If there are, then you’d be able to narrow the search for their identities. Based on the autopsies, they can tell us if a body was out there for two years versus one year, can’t they?”

“I think so,” Gloria said. “That’s a question for Fritz.”

“Let’s say they can. Then if the time line shows these gaps, you can assign each body to a gap, based on how long they were out there.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could,” Gloria said. “Then, following his pattern of dumping on the other side of the territory, we’d be able to look at a section of Pennsylvania, for example,  for the Bowling Green body with a specific time period, really narrow the search.”

“Let’s just hope this guy is as predictable as we think he is,” Harlan said.

“So you’ll do the time line?”

“Right after lunch,” Harlan said. “Right now, I hear mac and cheese calling. Do you want some?”

“In a minute,” Gloria said. “Don’t worry, I’ll dish it out. Right now, I want to find the Pennsylvania autopsy report. I think something you said this morning is dead wrong, buster. I just want to confirm it.”

<<<   >>>

The way Jerry had it calculatedm — and Jerry calculated everything — his swing through the small towns of the southwestern end of Kentucky was perfectly timed. The healthy retail economy that pushed the sales for all of his customers way over expectation was the perfect lead-in to a strong spring. The only problem was the amount of time it was taking him to cover his accounts. Every single one of them was ordering far above anything they had done in the past. He was having to spend more time with each of them than he had planned, and work was just beginning to threaten to interfere with his social life. He was torn.

He could spend all of the time his customers in this end of Kentucky were demanding and then put off the customers he planned to contact next, after a little down time. Or, he could cut his first trip for spring orders short — almost impossible to consider — and keep his social schedule, a schedule that was fully formed in his mind. Torn, that’s what he was feeling. While he juggled the conflicting urges, he postponed having to make a decision and continued to call on his list of customers.

He worked his way to the very southwestern corner of Kentucky and made his way back east. The pickings were sparse, and the towns big enough to support stores were few and far between. Jerry had developed this territory knowing that no one else would even bother to try to move in on him. You could say he had a lock on these customers, and not just because he was the only one who called. He treated each and every account like it was his biggest and most important one. It was not surprising, then, that in the internal struggle between his work and his social life, work won out. He continued on his route. He did not cut it short and head for home to get set for some company. He did keep a close eye on the calendar and started planning his next social encounter in his head. Time would be very tight. From the time he finished his southern route, he would have only ten days before he had to be back on the road with his second tier of customers. Ten days. He would have to hurry, and he would have to be even more careful, if that was possible.

He needed to sew up a new canvas sling. He could do that during his rest periods after he picked up his companion, but he needed to get the supplies beforehand. Once he had company, he did not leave the house. He figured he’d pick his supplies up in a city where no one would question him. Even though they had what he needed in the towns he visited on his route, it seemed like nearly everyone knew him. He didn’t want to make up a story to explain his purchases, and it was a certainty that someone would ask. It didn’t take much to spur a conversation in small towns.

He made one alteration in what would have been his normal itinerary, but it wasn’t a major departure. He decided to bypass Bowling Green, for now, and pick it up during his second tier run later in the month. He didn’t want to be in Bowling Green at this particular time because he had chosen his next companion, and she worked in Bowling Green. He told himself he wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Afterward, he wouldn’t hesitate to visit Bowling Green and take care of his business. Not before. It just wouldn’t be right, and that was important to Jerry.

It would take Jerry another week, at least, of hard work and long days to finish the route. His last stop would be in Hazard, Kentucky. Then he would cut across the state, through Lexington and Frankfort. He would cross the river at Louisville and head straight to the house. Once at the house, he would take a day to get in groceries and set things up. He kept an invalid sling with block and tackle that he used over the bathtub. He didn’t worry about hiding it. It was a normal item for any house where elderly lived, choosing to stay home rather than go to a nursing facility. He had bought the rig and installed the eyebolt in the ceiling beam when his parents were still living and needed it. The sling he used, the one he had lost and needed to replace, was inspired by the canvas webbing of the bathtub sling. When his first few companions died before he got them home, the bathtub had been a critical first stop, once in the door. That wasn’t so much the case anymore. He did still enjoy sharing a bath, though, so the sling was still needed.

The wheelchair he used to bring a companion from the car into the house was also leftover from his parents’ waning years, that and the ramp up to the house from inside the garage. When the idea had fiirst hit him to make use of these conveniences, he was truly thunderstruck. It seemed to him that he had been preparing for the future without even knowing it. Somehow he interpreted the presence of these things as indications that what he was doing was meant to be, that it was right and proper. Jerry drew great comfort from feeling right and proper.