The Secret of Killer’s Knob(Darrell Case) The Secret of Killer’s Knob

Darrell Case



Proverbs 11:30

Leaning Tree Christian Publishers

Farmersburg IN. 47850






The Secret of Killer’s Knob

Copyright© 2020 by Darrell Case.


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means–electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recorded or otherwise –without prior written permission from the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1513663753

For more information, visit https://darrellcase.com/




For my sister Betsy Case, who came to

Christ late in life but not too late.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A book is like a person. In the beginning, there may not seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Yet from it’s beginning, a personality, a spirit borne in the writer’s mind, takes forms. Then, with each passing day, the book takes shape.

First comes the seed of a story. It can incubate in the writer’s thoughts for months, sometimes years. As the characters appear, the writer learns about them as a mother does her child. We watch them develop. Yet unlike that mother, we burden our characters with trials, problems and heartaches that cause them to evolve into real persons. Life’s distresses affect the villain’s mind as much as the heroes. If we as writers do our job right, the reader will love the good and hate the bad. In my books, I endeavor to show what made the villain turn to evil.

As in every writing process, there are those who work and encourage me along the way. To the Lord Jesus Christ, who guides me from day to day; to my wife, Connie, a true Proverbs 31 woman and my constant companion for nearly 40 years; to Mary Ellen Spurlin, my editor, who mitigates the bad and accentuates the good. Thank you to former Clark county Sherriff Jerry Parsley for agreeing to model for the cover. To my loyal readers as well as new ones we meet along the way. To all I say a hearty thank you.
Cover designed by The Roze Lof


CONTENTS

Chapter 1…………………………………. page 1

Chapter 2…………………………………. page 8

Chapter 3…………………………………. page 14

Chapter 4…………………………………. page 24

Chapter 5…………………………………. page 30

Chapter 6…………………………………. page 36

Chapter 7…………………………………. page 49

Chapter8…………………………………. page 54

Chapter 9…………………………………. page 60

Chapter 10…………………………………page 65

Chapter 11…………………………………page 69

Chapter12………………………………… page 74

Chapter13………………………………… page 76

Chapter14………………………………… page 83

Chapter15………………………………… page 87

Chapter16………………………………… page 93

Chapter17………………………………… page 97

Chapter18…………………………………. page 101

Chapter19 ………………………………… page 107

Chapter 20………………………………… page 115

Chapter 21………………………………… page 121

Chapter 22…………………………………. page 130

Chapter 23…………………………………. page 137

Chapter 24…………………………………. page 145

Chapter 25…………………………………. Page150

Chapter 26…………………………………. page 157

Chapter 27…………………………………. page 162

Chapter 28…………………………………. page 167

Chapter 29…………………………………. page 172

Chapter 30…………………………………. page 177

Chapter31…………………………………. page 183

Chapter 32…………………………………. page 189

Chapter 33…………………………………. page 192

Epilogue………………………………...…… page 194

Dear Reader……………………...………. page 197





Chapter 1


He wound his way through the scrub trees, blackberry briars, and thistles, paying no mind to them pulling at his clothes. This trophy would complete his collection of victims buried on Killer’s Knob. The last to lie in this barren Kentucky patch of ground. The woman, though small, grew heavier with each step.
He stopped to douse the lantern before climbing the hill. Dumping her on the ground, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the kinks. He waited til his eyes became accustomed to the dark. The full moon flitted in and out of the clouds. He looked at the luminous numbers on his watch: 2:10 AM. Lightning flashed in the west. The storm was coming fast he had less than an hour.
An owl called from a nearby oak. He knew some Native Americans believed owls carried the spirits of the dead. Was she here, watching her murderer preparing to bury her? He shivered at the thought, yet it was not an uncomfortable sensation. With an eye on the thickening storm clouds, he hauled up her corpse and continued climbing the hill. Reaching the top, he shook her off. Her head bounced off a headstone. It didn’t matter. She was past feeling.
He surveyed the flat land below him. No lights this time of morning. He must be the only one up. There was only one house within a mile. In the last hundred years, his were the only kills buried in this forsaken ground. He buried his first victim here three years ago. This one would be the last. Tomorrow he would seek another graveyard, a piece of ground where the weeds grew thick and the dead lay forgotten.
He made his first kill the night after Buck Olsen was elected sheriff of Beaufort County. He was 19, just starting out. Even as a teenager, he was fascinated with serial killers.
At the house in the valley, moonlight glinted off the windshield of Buck Olsen’s patrol car. Since Buck’s wife died last fall, he didn’t sleep well or much. The sheriff kept to home unless there was an accident on Route 5 or one deputy called in sick. A quiet place to live, Beaufort County never saw much action except a few druggies and a moonshiner or two. Five years ago, a guy from Indianapolis robbed the local bank. He didn’t get far. Buck chased him down and had him locked up before the FBI arrived. Now the guy was cooling his heels in the federal prison at Terre Haute, Indiana.
Crime seldom visited Beaufort County. When it did, Buck was on it like a chicken on a June bug.
But Buck didn’t know Killer’s Knob had become this man’s private burial ground. The girl’s murderer had studied the great ones–Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy and others, careful to focus on the mistakes they made and how they were captured.
Most of them did something stupid. They buried their victims in shallow graves, or left behind clues, taunting the police. One serial killer, Gary Ridgway, dubbed the Green River killer eluded capture for many years. He couldn’t understand how Ridgeway could dump his kills in the Green River and operate for so long without being caught.
Finding the right for her spot, he sank in his shovel into the ground and paused. Yes, this was the place for her. She would complete the circle. He dug for 30 minutes. Softened by the recent rains, the earth turned over easily. He had just hit what he thought was a child’s bone when a light winked on at the back of Buck’s house. He froze, though the sheriff couldn’t have seen him even if clouds weren’t covering the moon. He stood stock still, his eyes fixed on the light. Another light came on in Buck’s bathroom. Three minutes later, it blinked off and the one in the bedroom went out soon after.
With the house dark again, he kept digging. What he thought a bone turned out to be a root with its sheath rotted off. Working for another five minutes, he uncovered a small skeletal hand. Moving the shovel to the left of it, he dug deeper. He glanced at the sky; lightening lit the area five miles to the south. The grave wasn’t deep enough, but rain was coming and would catch him before he made it back to the truck. He was forgetting something? What was it? He couldn’t think. He racked his brain. Shrugging, he rolled her into the grave. A vague feeling that he should say something came over him. But what? He was not a religious man. They used to drag him to church every Sunday, that is until he turned 13 and refused to go.
His victims were girls who wouldn’t be missed for months, if at all. He took them from the road, bus station or train depot. He wore disguises and chatted them up to make them feel comfortable. He weaseled from them the details of their lives. If they were travelling with someone, he’d leave them alone. Pinky was unusual. He didn’t find out until after he abducted her. If her father didn’t hear from her every night, he contacted local law enforcement where he estimated she would be. When he found this out, it was too late to turn back. Now Pinky would wander no more.
Pinky. He wondered why her dad called her that. Before the experiment started, she’d talked about her father like he was some kind of saint: honest, God-fearing, strict but kind, back and knees half busted from years of crop farming, struggling to support his family. Pinky his only child, and he wanted more and better for her.
As Pinky’s killer stood over her grave, he brushed off the thought of anyone finding her. Rumors had long floated around that this hill being haunted. He wasn’t worried; he didn’t believe in spooks. He was scarier than any ghost. Besides, no one had been on Killer’s Knob in years. He felt safe.
What should he say? He knew no Bible verses. Even if he did, her murderer saying something from God’s Book over the body of his victim didn’t seem right. Wait. Yesterday that preacher gave him his business card. He took it from his shirt pocket. Straining to make out the words, he leaned over until his nose almost touching the card’s surface. He mumbled the pastor’s name, the name of the church, and the rest written there. Maybe since the card touched the preacher’s fingers, possibly those words would get to God. Thunder like a gunshot made him jump. Lightning flashed over the ridge, illuminating him. Hurrying, he finished covering her.
The wind picked up, rushing over him. It felt cool and refreshing. Thunder crashed. The light in Buck’s house came on again. He must get out of there quick. Vaguely he heard Buck’s dog howling. Pinky number eight, the completion of his graves on Killer’s Knob. He lingered, taking time to smooth the sodden dirt that topped her grave, and then pushing a big rock down into the mud to mark it. The headstone said the kid buried next to her was named Stephen. Now he had someone like a mother to follow him into eternity. No others were to be buried here. Tomorrow he would search for a fresh burial ground.
He looked at Pinky’s grave one last time and then grabbed his shovel he scurried down the hill. Nothing else to be done. He was halfway to his truck when the rain came. Drops big and heavy like liquid bullets pounding him. By the time he reached the pickup, he was soaked. Even his boots were fulling of water. Cold even on this hot night, the rain refreshed him. After emptying his boots, he sat listening to it drumming on the hood.
He closed his eyes, thinking about her. He saw her this afternoon hitchhiking on Route 5, just south of Barstow. It had been a few months since his last kill. Time for another. She was slim, almost willowy, and young, Surly just into her 20s. Her face was heart shaped, her complexion rosy and her hair strawberry blond. She was the kind he looked for. His heart sped up. His breathing came in spurts. She was the one she was his next kill.
He expected her to stick out her thumb. She didn’t. She kept her eyes on the ground when he passed her. Cautious, he liked that. It made the game more fun. He topped the hill and lost sight of her.
He’d taken a chance. A mile up the road, he pulled to the side, faking a breakdown. On weekday afternoons like this, traffic was light on this stretch of road. He knew she wouldn’t have to wait long for a ride. He might lose her if he did; but that was part of the game. Then he would start the hunt over again. He knew in the eyes of the public, a young girl travelling alone didn’t pose the same danger as a man. Also, she would feel comfortable if there was a woman or a child in a car that stopped for her. He had to appear nonthreatening to her. Likewise, if anyone saw them together, he’d be forced to let her live and hunt elsewhere.
He got out and popped the hood. He didn’t have to wait long. One car passed, going the other way. He kept his head down, peeking through the opening between the hood and windshield. The dark glasses and fake beard concealed his appearance. Coming over a slight rise in the highway, she entered his field of vision. Seeing him, she hesitated. She walked forward, starting to cross the road. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” he murmured under his breath. He straightened up and grinned at her with his best Ted Bundy smile. Some women considered Bundy handsome, that is until they looked into his eyes. Bundy’s smile was alluring, his eyes cold and hard as stones.
“Know anything about motors?” he called. “She was running fine ‘til I topped the ridge.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” She slowly walking toward him.
“That makes two of us,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone. “Guess I better call for help. Can’t be late for my gig tonight.”
She stood several feet back, almost to the tailgate, ready to run if she sensed danger. “Your gig? Are you a singer?”
“Drummer and back-up singer,” he said, palming the sap with his hands hidden behind the open hood. He stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. “Ever hear of Garth Brooks?”
Her face lit up with a big smile. “Garth Brooks! Oh, wow, he’s my favorite. You play drums and sing with him?”
“Yeah, and fill in on guitar sometimes,” he answered. He straightened up and smiled at her. “Hey, tell you what. I might be able to get you in the back door to meet Garth if you’re in Nashville tonight.”
Her smile faded. “There’s no way I can make it to Nashville by tonight. It’s too far.”
“Well I have to be in Nashville by tonight, so you might as well come along.” His cell phone rang. Bill collector. Great timing. He hit the end button and held the phone to his ear. He had planned to fake a call. This was better. “Hello? Yeah, Brian? What? No, don’t worry, I’ll be there. Truck’s broke down on Route 5 about a hundred mile away. But if I can’t get it fixed in the next hour, I’ll… sure, send the chopper. That’d be great. Okay, I’ll let you know.” He put the phone back on his belt.
“Brian Petrie. He’s Garth’s stage manager. Good guy, just a little crazy.” He grinned at her. “’ Course, we all are.” She smiled shyly. This was taking too long. He tried to think of a way to make a move on her without scaring her off. She did it for him.
“Here, let me take a look,” she said. “Dad used to work on engines, and I watched. He got so good at it our farm neighbors had him fixing their tractors. That is if there wasn’t too much wrong with them.” Stepping to the front of the pickup, she stuck her head under the hood. He backed up so she wouldn’t feel threatened and slowly pulled out the sap.
“Sometimes the battery cable comes loo…” He hit her in the back of the head just enough to knock her out. As she fell, he caught her. She was lighter than she looked. He laid her in the truck bed and covered her with a blue tarp. No, that never do. What if she woke up? Running to the front of the truck, he slammed down the hood. Picking her up, he put her on the floor in the passenger side. He lifted her eyelid. Out like a light. He wouldn’t have to tie her up. Grabbing the blue tarp, he covered her up. Jumping in, he started the truck and pulled onto the highway. A mile down the road, he passed a sheriff’s car travelling in the opposite direction. He recognized the driver. Rodney Newen, the sheriff’s chief deputy, going full bore, light bar flashing and siren screaming. Rodney just glanced at the murderer.



Chapter 2

When he carried her to his secret room in the basement of the cabin, she was still out cold. He’d take his time with her. Holding her against the wall with one hand, he snapped the first of the four steel rings embedded in the concrete wall around her left ankle. She came to just as he finished restraining her hands. She knew he would kill her. Stepping back, he started setting up the camera. A small apparatus, it could record for hours on just one card. Spreading the tripod’s legs, he aimed the lens at her, adjusting and readjusting until he was satisfied. When it was over, he would remove this card and add it to his collection. In times past, he had taken photos, but they didn’t capture the excitement and intensity of the kill. Now he could relive each moment exactly. He hit the button, and the red light pulsed.
“What are you doing?” Her voice quivered with fear and dread. “Let me go. Please don’t hurt me!” Big teardrops rolled down her flushed cheeks and dripped from her chin. She screamed. “Help, help! Somebody please help me!”
He grinned at her, his eyes cold as ice. “Scream if it makes you feel better. No one can hear you.” He sat down in the old kitchen chair and watched her struggle against the chains.
After several minutes, she quieted down, whimpering softly. “What are you going to do?” she whined. He hated it when they whined. She looked pleadingly at him. “I have money. My daddy has money and if it’s not enough, he’ll get you more.”
“It’s not your money I want. It’s your blood,” he said, laughing. She screamed then, long and loud, her cries ending in sobs.
Garth Brooks played on the CD in the background. He turned up the volume to drown out her screams. She pleaded and begged. Through it all, she wept. He sat in front of her, typing on an iPad. How he enjoyed this part of the ritual. He was the embodiment of death. He had the power to say who lived and who died.
Her body shook with sobbing. Her straining limbs pulled against the unyielding chains attached to the rings. Her struggling left welts and cuts on her wrists and ankles. He stood and walked to within inches of her. “You like Garth Brooks, right? He asked, his nose almost touching hers. “He’s singing this song just for you.”
She stared at him, her eyes swimming in a sea of tears. “No!” she shouted. “No. I hate him! Do you hear me? I hate him!” She started sobbing again. He knew better. It wasn’t Garth Brooks she hated, but him, her murderer.
He tried to interrogate her, to find out something about her. She refused to answer his questions. That was all right. He’d gone through her backpack and found her wallet and her student ID. There were clothes and an extra pair of walking shoes. At the bottom of the bag he discovered a 25-caliber pistol.
A small pistol just right for a girl alone on the road. He had an idea it was a gift from her daddy. Holding the gun in front of her face, he said, “Naughty girl. Don’t you know you can get hurt with one of these things?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hurt me. Please, just let me go,” she begged, her face twisted with misery. Using her pistol, he shot her through the calf of her right leg. She shrieked, her eyes widening in shock and pain. She half cried, half screamed as she pulled at the chains. He let her wear herself out. After several minutes, she hung from the wall, exhausted. Blood streamed down her leg, forming a small pool under her foot.

Ignoring her suffering, he sat down in the rickety chair and again reached for his iPad. Bringing up the document he’d started, he added: Subject seems in extreme pain while retaining all her faculties. Wound is in the calf of her right leg, 3 inches above the ankle. Bleeding more than others. I may have to stench the blood flow if it doesn’t stop soon.
He continued his experiment. Wedging a sledgehammer underneath the pad of her left foot, he pounded her big toe with a claw hammer. Her scream was blood curdling. She jerked her foot out of his grasp. He stopped to let her absorb the pain. Then, wrapping rope around her legs, he crushed the next toe. Her ear-splitting wails echoed into the upper part of the house. Good thing it was empty. If his wife was here, two women would be screaming.
Despite her devastating injuries, she yanked and strained at the chains. So much he became concerned the rings would break loose. Fortunately, for him, they held. She screamed, she pleaded, she begged, all to no avail. He had been through these many times. They all tried to bargain with him. When he smashed the third toe, she passed out. He noted her reaction on his iPad. after each blow, from the bruising of the toe to the crushing of the bone. Each time she fainted, he waited for her to regain consciousness on her own. By the time he finished with both feet, she had blacked out three times. He took note: Unlike subjects six and seven, subject eight appears to be highly sensitive to pain. I am ending the experiment.
She opened her eyes, her expression bleak and hopeless. Amazing. This afternoon her life had been filled with happiness and a promising future. Now her destiny was fear, despair and death. She wept until all she could muster was snuffling whimpers.

“All right. Now are you ready to tell me about your family?” She moved her head almost imperceptibly. “I can’t hear you,” he growled.
“Yes.” she answered softly. He questioned her for the next five minutes, learning that her widowed father was a farmer in south-central Indiana. Her mother had died of cancer five years ago. She had attended the University of Southern Indiana in Evansville, studying life science. She loved children and planned to be a kindergarten teacher. Her grades good enough that her professors allowed her to take her finals early. Then, over her father’s objections, she trekked south. This was her first week on the road. She planned to stay with her uncle in Florida, but that was a week away. When he pressed her, she confessed that she called her father every night at nine o’clock. Before she left, her father warned her that if he didn’t hear from her by midnight, he would alert the police and would continue to call her cell phone every 15 minutes.
Glancing at his wristwatch, he saw he had just over three hours to torture and kill her before she was due to call her daddy. She’d be dead long before that. If they found her body, the bullet in her calf came from her own pistol. The weapon couldn’t be linked to him. His hope was she would be just one of thousands who go missing every year.
Tonight, he would bury her on Killer’s Knob. Tonight, she would complete the circle. It was time to send her into eternity. He turned up the volume on the CD player. Garth Brooks yawped the song’s chorus:

It’s just people loving people.
It’s just people loving people.
It’s just people loving people.

He sang along with Garth, but with his own lyrics:

It’s just people killing people.
It’s just people killing people.
It’s just people killing people.


Enough of that. Time to perform the final experiment on this subject. He hit the button on the CD player, stopping Garth cold. The silence was deafening. The only sound in the darkening basement was her feeble sobbing and his heavy breathing. This was the moment he loved–watching her see her own death coming. He was the embodiment of death.
Her murderer had one last question for her. He hadn’t asked before because he wanted to maintain the air of mystery. “What is your name?” He enunciated the words slowly and distinctly.
She raised her tear-filled eyes. “What?”
“What is your name?” he said, as before. He already knew from seeing her Student ID However this was a very important part of the ritual.
Just above a whisper, she answered, “Carol Barber.”
“Spell it for me.” She did. He typed it on the iPad, then asked, “And what was your daddy’s pet name for you when you were a little girl?”
“I won’t tell you that,” she said, wanting to keep at least that little bit of her world from him. She sobbed. Death was coming. As a Christian, she had prepared for it but not now, not this soon.
“Tell me or I’ll shoot you in the other leg,” he said, pointing the pistol at her.
“Go ahead, shoot, do it!” she shrieked. “You’re going to kill me, anyway. Do it!”
He grinned. A little pluck. She had some backbone left. He picked up a plastic bag and a length of clothesline. She fought, shaking her head from side to side. Grabbing a fist-full of her hair, he jammed the bag over her head, then looped the rope around her neck and pulled it tight. Her eyes widened with fright. She gasped for air. He marveled at the capacity of a woman to produce tears. Her eyes had been leaking for hours, yet there were fresh tears on her cheeks. She struggled feebly. He held her head to steady it. Muffled by the bag, her sobs using up what little air left. Just before she passed out, he heard her say, “Pinky, he called me Pinky.”



Chapter 3

Sheriff Buck Olsen woke with a feeling of foreboding. He couldn’t understand it. He had looked forward to this day for weeks. May 1st.In the past, if the weather wasn’t inclement, he and his departed wife Mattie always put the flowers out on this day. He knew in heaven she was enjoying countless flowers but Buck planned to honor her by planting more here today.
Last night’s storm had passed, leaving the world fresh and clean. Sunlight streamed into Buck’s bedroom. He got up and opened the window. It was a glorious spring day. In the trees encircling the house, the birds were engaged in a singing contest. He had put more seed in the feeders yesterday. He made the bird feeders last year just before Mattie took sick. He smiled, remembering how as a child he believed birds came from birdseed.
Going from room to room, Buck opened all the windows. The soft morning breeze rustled the trees’ tender green leaves. The air drifted through the house, ruffling the curtains. Last night’s rain had cleansed the earth, yet Buck felt evil lurking. He stepped back into the bedroom. Lying on the foot of the bed, his dog, Bud, raised his head, He looked at his master and went back to sleep. “You go ahead and sleep. Come out when you’re ready,” he told the pup.
This was the kind of day Mattie loved–sun shining, no clouds in the brightest of blue skies, just gorgeous. How Buck missed her. She would be already up, gleaning as much life as she could out of a day like this. By this time, the sheets would be off the bed and on the clothesline. With a jug of sun tea setting on the back steps.

Buck measured out coffee, filled the pot with water and plugged it in. Looking out the kitchen window, he could almost see Mattie tending her flowerbeds. He would work on them today. He wasn’t as good a gardener as Mattie, but he owed it to her to do his best. Yesterday he stopped at Henry’s greenhouse and bought three flats of flower.
Henry Morrison grew flowers and vegetables in his backyard greenhouse. He charged only a few cents over what it cost him to grow them. At 82, Henry was slowing down. Every year he would declare, “Well, sir, this will probably be my last.” And every year when February rolled around, Henry would trudge out to the greenhouse, clean it up and start planting seed.
One morning last April, Buck and Mattie went to Henry’s home. They picked out the flowers that would grace their yard that year. Henry treated them to some fresh, cold cider from his apple orchard. The three of them sat and talked for more than an hour. He and Mattie only left because Buck had to go on duty. That afternoon Mattie readied the flowerbeds. However, she waited for Buck so they could do the planting together the next day.
The cancer came on and took Mattie quickly. Just last spring she was healthy robust working each day in her flowerbeds. By the end of August, she started to feel some twinges. By the end of October, she was dead. After 40 years of marriage, Buck couldn’t adjust to being alone. The house exuded loneliness. He spoke to Mattie constantly, as he had when she was alive. “Mattie, something is wrong,” he said as he poured a cup of coffee this morning. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something just don’t feel right.”
You’ll figure it out, he could almost hear her say.
“Yup, you’re right. I will.”
In his 30 years of law enforcement, 21 of them as sheriff, Buck’s hunches never proved wrong. Several years back Ken Staton’s wife died. When they heard she tripped and fell down the basement stairs, everyone assumed it was an accident. Buck knew better. He kept investigating even when the prosecutor told him to back off. It took Buck six months to prove Ken murdered his wife. Faced with stiff resistance, he insisted Mrs. Staton be disinterred for an autopsy. Upon examining her, Doc Howell found her injuries incompatible with a fall down the stairs. Doc said, “Her injuries are consistent with strangulation. She was dead before he threw her down the stairs.” It took the jury 30 minutes to convict Ken, He was now doing life at Eddyville. Buck almost lost his job over that one, but later that year he was re-elected using the conviction as his catalyst.
Now he grappled with the same feeling he’d had back then. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones. He poured another cup of coffee and stepped out on the back porch. A hundred yards away, down by the woods, two deer raised their heads. Lifting his cup, he greeted them. “Good morning,” he called, his voice still gravely with sleep. Raising their heads, the deer’s watched him for a few seconds, then returned to their grazing. Bud padded onto the porch, set down beside his master. Emptying his cup, Buck flung the dregs onto the grass. “You stay out of my flowers, you hear?” he scolded the deer. They paid no attention, just kept on grazing. “You remind me of some of my deputies,” Buck muttered, reaching down he scratched Bud’s ears. “Now, you leave them alone, boy. They’re just gettin’ some breakfast.” The dog looked up at him grinning, “Yeah, we best go inside,” Buck said.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Buck opened his dog-eared Bible. The precious old book was the one he loved to study. He had a newer one, but this one was a friend that seen him through many of life’s trials. Turning to John 14, Buck read again the words of Jesus. One thought comforted him. Mattie was in heaven and someday he would be with her. After a time of prayer, Buck rose from his knees to face the day.

Opening the cabinet, he brought out the sack of dog chow. Bud danced around, almost knocking Buck down. “Easy there, pal, you’re gettin’ your breakfast before I do.” He filled Bud’s bowl almost to overflowing. The second he set it down, the dog dove in. Buck stood back watching the dog eat, He smiled what would he do without Bud’s companionship? Meeting Bud’s simple needs for dog food and vet care paid back many times over. The constancy of Bud’s loyalty eased Buck’s loneliness and brought him solace.
The night after Mattie’s funeral Buck had gone on patrol. The house was so lonely without her. He had to get out of the house. She was everywhere within those four walls–her voice, her laughter, her just being there. Buck went first to the office, but couldn’t take his staff’s pitying looks. Therefore, he went out on patrol. He cruised down by the river. This stretch of road saw little traffic except for the druggies. They were always looking for an out-of-the-way place to get their fix.
Something moved in the shallow ditch catching his eye. He pulled over, got out and walked back along the road shining his Maglight into the ditch. A white and brown pup squinted in the beam of his light. Half submerged in a puddle, the dog was a whimpering bundle of skin and bones. After Buck’s old dog, Woolly, died two years ago, he couldn’t bring himself to buy another dog. There were none that could take Woolly’s place. But he couldn’t leave this little guy out here to die. Even if the dog didn’t catch pneumonia or get run over or eaten by a coyote, he was sure to starve. Hurrying back to the patrol car, Buck took an emergency blanket out of the trunk. He approached the pup while speaking softly and holding out his hand. The dog whined and shrunk back. “Come on, little fella. I’m not going to hurt you,” Buck coaxed soothingly. Still whining, the pup backed into the weeds.
Rushing back to the car, Buck unwrapped the ham sandwich he hadn’t felt like eating. Hurrying back, he held out the sandwich to the dog. Smelling the meat, the pup took a step forward, then recoiled again. It took Buck 20 minutes to get close enough to gently stroked the little dog and another ten before he would allow Buck to pick him up. He wrapped the blanket around the wriggling, frightened animal and carried the pup to the car. The dog didn’t try to bite his rescuer, just squirmed and thrashed his feet. Buck held the little dog to his chest and spoke gently to him until the dog settled down. “I know how you feel,” Buck said with tears streaming down his face. “I’m lost without my Mattie. She was the love of my life. We were married for 40 years.” Buck buried his face in the blanket and wept. When his tears finally stopped, the dog was asleep. Laying the pup on the seat beside him, Buck drove home, thoughts of Mattie flooding his soul. At the house, he fed the dog again, took him out, then went to bed and slept through the night waking refreshed.
That next morning, he woke to find the dog staring up at him from beside the bed. “Hi Bud! How do you like your new home?” Buck asked smiling. Throwing off the covers, he swung his legs to the floor. With his tail wagging wildly, the pup jumped clumsily onto the bed and snuggled into Buck’s arms. Bud was home.
Unless something major called him to duty, Buck would spend today working in the yard. Last spring on a day just like this, Mattie filled the yard with flower seeds and plants. Buck took the day off to carry top soil and fertilizer for her. At noon, they stopped for a lunch of Buck’s grilled hamburgers and Mattie’s salad. That morning Mattie had hung the freshly washed bed sheets on the line and set out a jug of sun tea. They sat at the picnic table surrounded by the fruits of their morning’s labor. That afternoon they took a stroll by the river and sat under a willow, talking of their plans for the summer. She wanted to visit the kids; he spoke of possible retirement in a few years. They returned home refreshed. That night they slept on sun-washed sheets with the windows open. Buck and Mattie were unaware of how little time they had left, Buck would recall that day every day for the rest of his life.
This morning Buck stood at the kitchen counter chopping onions, green peppers, and broccoli. He slid them into a bowl, added cheese and bits of tomato, and finally cracked three eggs over the whole mess. He thought for a second, then broke a fourth. The eggs came from an elderly lady south of town who let her hens roam free. She treated them like pets, letting them wander around her kitchen in the summer. Buck and Mattie had bought eggs from her for years, Mattie refused to purchase city eggs (as Mattie called them) from the grocery store.
Buck could never make an omelet to match Mattie’s, but his tasted almost as good. How chefs managed to neatly flip them Buck had no clue. He tried it a couple of times, made a mess of it, gave up and resorted to just scrambling the whole mess. When it was ready. Buck shoveled the delicious looking mishmash onto a plate, poured another cup of coffee and, followed by Bud, carried his breakfast out to the porch. Setting it on the small table, he looked around for the deer. They were gone, but he knew they’d be back in the evening.
Thanking the Lord for the day and the food, Buck dug in. The dog sat on his haunches waiting for the scraps Buck would drop to him. He grinned down at the dog. “You’re becoming more like a kid every day,” he said, splitting the last bit with the pup.
The sun had risen over Killer’s Knob, its warm rays drying the dew-soaked grass. Buck shaded his eyes as he looked at the hill in the distance. Something was drawing him to that place. As he washed the breakfast dishes, he resolved to check it out.
Killer’s Knob had been named for Jacob Adams. A local farmer Adams gained notoriety after murdering his family a little over 100 years ago. Arriving home from a supply run to town, Jacob walked in to find his wife in bed with the hired man. Flying into a screaming, cussing rage, Jacob ordered the children out of the house. Terrified, they scampered behind the tool shed, where they huddled together and tried to reassure one another. While the adulterers pulled on their clothes, Jacob took down his rifle from over the fireplace. Then going to the kitchen drawer where he kept his shells he pocketed 18 bullets. Returning to the living room he set down in his chair with the rifle crossed his lap,. Hesitantly, his wife came into the living room to plead for forgiveness. She fell on her knees in front of him, crying and swearing to never be unfaithful again. He listened for a few seconds, then lifted the rifle and shot her in the head.
Stepping over her body, he went hunting for the hired man. Having escaped through the bedroom window, the man scrambling to gather his few belongings from his hooch in the barn. Hearing the shot in the house, he took off running through a field. Jacob brought him down with a bullet to the right leg. Gasping with pain, the man begged for his life. In answer, Jacob shot him in the other leg. Screaming, the man dragged himself 15 feet while Jacob followed. With each step he kicked the hired man in one injured leg, then the other. He finally ended the man’s suffering with a bullet between the eyes.
For reasons known only to Jacob, he reloaded and went looking for the children. He found the baby, a girl of two, bawling hysterically as she lay under her parents’ bed. Jacob’s loud, tortured sobs mingled with hers as he pressed the rifle to her head and ended her life. Half blinded by tears; he found his youngest son hunkered in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. The eldest, a girl of 13, he shot in the loft of the barn. It took him an hour to find the last one. The eight-year-old boy was hiding in a hollow tree a half-mile from the scene of the massacre. Pulling him out by the arm, Jacob made the boy walk back to the homestead where he shot him in the head as he had his brothers and sisters. The last bullet Jacob used on himself.

Seeing no activity around the farm for several days, a neighbor went to check on the family. He found their bodies in the kitchen, each one seated in their assigned chair as though gathered for a meal. The expressions of horror on the children’s faces haunted that man for the rest of his life. They found the hired man in the barn, propped up with a pitchfork jammed into the dirt floor.
A dispute over where to bury the Adams family arose among the neighbors. No one wanted the adults buried next to their loved ones in the town cemetery. Most folks didn’t mind the children being buried there. After all, the children weren’t to blame for their parents’ sins. But when it came to the adults, they objected. If the wife hadn’t misbehaved with the hired man and if Jacob hadn’t reacted as he did, the children would still be alive. In the end, they were buried on what became known as Killers Knob, close to where they fell. To purge the land, the Adams’ house, barn and outbuildings were torched.
Once the ashes cooled, the townsfolk carved out a cemetery for the murderer and the murdered and no one else. They buried them in a circle. There were no caskets. There was no money for them. Besides, the adults didn’t deserve caskets. Their bodies were simply lowered into the ground and covered over with dirt. They buried the hired man on one side of the woman, Jacob on the other. They buried the oldest boy next his daddy with the rest of the children completing the circle. Someone had the idea that the children should be connected in some way, so it was decided to link them together by entwining the fingers with their sibling. However, they bound the hands of the adults in chains. If the adults had kept their hands to themselves, no one would have died.
Naturally, within six months of the burials, rumors that Killer’s Knob was haunted began. It was said that if you came upon the ridge late at night, sat quietly and waited, you would see the children’s ghosts dancing around the adults. The children would be holding hands and chanting while the three adults stood in their midst, hands still bound in chains. The words of the children, indiscernible at first, became clear the longer you listened. With their eyes glowing with an eerie green light, they chanted:
Our daddy murdered us
Our daddy murdered us
Leave this place, never return
Leave this place, never return
Our daddy murdered us
Leave this place, never return
If you don’t he’ll murder you

At the end of the dance, first the adults, then each child would disappear with a pop that sounded like a gunshot, vanishing in the order in which they died. The only one hearing the pops was the person observing the dance of death. No one ever stayed long enough to find out if the words of the children spoke were true.
And so the rumor grew into a full-blown legend. People stayed off Killer’s Knob. Even the druggies found other places to do their wicked deeds. That was fine with Buck. Not that he believed in ghosts, but the tale gave him privately. One winter night two years ago, he did see an unearthly-looking light at the top of the ridge. The next morning, he trudged to the top of the knob, but found nothing. It had snowed during the early morning hours, covering the ground with a fresh two inches. Chalking the light up to his imagination, Buck forgot about it. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. Something was drawing him there this morning. Before he went to the knob, he called the office.
“Beaufort County Sheriff’s department.”

“Hello, Bertie, anything goin’ on?” Buck tucked the cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he poured himself a fourth cup of coffee.
“Oh, hi, Sheriff. Nope. Everything’s quiet on the home front. Oh, one thing. Clifford brought in the Benson kid last night. Smoking pot and burglarizing the drug store again.”
Buck grimaced. “That boy ain’t never gonna learn. They ever legalize that stuff; he’ll keep the whole state funded, single-handedly.”
“Yeah. Well, if that happens, I’m puttin’ in for a new car for the dispatcher. Meaning me,” Bertie chuckled.
Buck could hear the smile in Bertie’s voice. “You and me both, my friend. Hey, is Rodney around?”
“Nope, your chief deputy is out on a traffic stop. Out-of-stater doing eighty-five in a fifty-five.”
“Ouch. That’s going to cost him,” Buck said.
Yup. Money for the county,” Bertie said. “Want I should radio Rodney?”
“No, nothing important. Just have him call my cell when he gets in. I’ll be away from the house for a while.”
“Will do. You enjoy your day off, hear?”
“I hear. Thanks, Bertie.”
Hanging up the phone, Buck looked up at the hill. “Better get to it,” he told the dog at his feet. But first I’m gonna give my buddy more food and finish my coffee.” Bud wagged his tail. Food was his favorite thing.



Chapter 4

From his childhood, Buck treasured living in the country. Though demanding and time-consuming, his farm chores never kept him from his other interests. From spring to late fall, he’d hike the woods, fish in the river and camp out as often as possible. His father didn’t mind, as long as Buck kept up with his work. Even during the busy planting and harvest seasons, Buck found time to spend in the woods. More than once his mother commented, “Buck, you spend more time out than you do in.” He just grinned, knowing that in the warm months that was true. He loved the outdoors.
Sometimes Buck sit for hours on a log in the woods, observing the deer, coons, squirrels and birds. Sharing their space brought him a peace that soothed his soul. Winter was different. The colder months he still took hikes in the forest, but didn’t linger as much as in other times of the year. After he and Mattie married, they bought 50 acres most of it woods. For the next two years, Buck built their home with whatever help he could find.
Depending on what was going on at the sheriff’s department, Buck could still spend hours walking the woods or just sitting on a log. In the quiet of the forest Buck found it easy to talk to the Lord. The two of them conversing like old friends. As a Christian, his heart soared as he watched the snowfall. It made him think of how God made his soul pure. There was a time when it was as black as the coal his father shoveled into the stove on bitter winter mornings.
Now at 56, Buck preferred to spend his winter evenings in front of the fire. He would put a log on the fireplace, lean back in his easy chair and doze off. When she was alive, Mattie would sneak over and hold a cup of hot chocolate under his nose to wake him up. One night last winter, while Buck slept in that same chair, he dreamed she was doing it again. He awoke, still smelling the rich chocolate. Then he realized Mattie was dead, and broke down. Hearing his master sobbing Bud came over and put his paw on Buck’s knee to comfort him.
On this spring morning, Buck puttered around the yard waiting for the dew to dry before trekking up to the knob. The hill was weird. Buck didn’t believe in ghosts. As a Christian, he knew the truth of what Paul said in the gospels: To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Those who didn’t know Christ were gone and would not be coming back. Still, there was something very odd about the Knob.
He was ready to leave when the plume of dust rising from the dirt road leading to his house alerted him of their arrival. He had expected their visit since talking to Bertie this morning. He ushered Bud into the house. The dog wasn’t aggressive but would bounce around licking whomever his tongue could touch. This conversation would be difficult enough without having to contend with the dog.
Harold Benson and his wife knew it would do no good to plead with Judge Welford. Instead, they were bringing their case to the sheriff. They couldn’t understand why Buck couldn’t just open the cell door and let their son go. He’d done it more than once when he was a juvenile. Now he was 18 and had to answer to the law as an adult, and he’d gotten deeper into crime. Buck could not, would not, release him on an unsuspecting public. The kid was bound for trouble and his parents were blind to it. Sitting in the porch rocker, Buck waited for them. Inside the house, the dog whined. “Easy, Bud. We’ll get going as soon as they leave.” The dog put his nose against the crack under the door, sniffing loudly. Buck could hear him pacing the kitchen floor. Bud never saw an enemy. Every visitor was there to see him. On rare occasions such as this when he wasn’t allowed to mingle, he would moan and groan, then flop on the floor and sulk.
Harold Benson brought his elderly Buick to a halt behind Buck’s patrol car. His wife sat ramrod straight next to him. The couple sat in the car talking while Buck rocked, knowing full well what was about to transpire. Exiting the car grim-faced, Harold Benson walked over and stepped up on the porch. Not being one to shake hands, he didn’t extend his and didn’t speak. He leaned against a porch post and took a cube of tobacco and a small knife out of the pocket of his overalls. Cutting off a chunk, he popped it into his mouth, then put the fixings away. Buck had long since stopped trying to get people to quit chewing tobacco on his property.
“Mornin’ Buck.”
“Mornin’ Harold.”
“Guess you know why I’m here.”
“Yup, and ‘fore you say anything, understand there’s nothing I can do about JD.”
“Well, listen. You know those boys he’s been runnin’ with lately. Them’s the ones got him in trouble,” Harold countered.
Buck put down his foot and stopped rocking. “Now, Harold, you know that’s not true. JD’s been in trouble since he turned fourteen,” he chided.
“Can’t you let him out, Sheriff? Grieves his Ma something awful seein’ him locked up. We’d watch him ever’ second.”
“Harold, if I did let him out, which mind you I can’t do, that boy’d be back ‘fore we closed the cell door.”
Harold teared up. “I watch him close as I can. But that boy’s got a mind of his own. What can I do? Can’t lock him in the smokehouse.” He hooked a chair with the toe of his boot, pulled it close to the sheriff, and plunked down. In the car, Helen Benson stared straight ahead; sure that Harold would take care of it. He would get their son home, where he would break her heart again.
“Either lock him in the smokehouse or the prison house,” Buck said.

“Buck, you gotta do this for me,” Harold persisted. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees.
Buck sighed with exasperation. These people could sure wear a body down. “All right. I’ll talk to the state’s attorney. I ain’t makin’ no promises, though.” There was an awkward silence. “Harold, you remember when we used to go drinkin’ together?”
Harold jumped to his feet. “I know what yer gonna say, Buck!”
“Well then?”
“We don’t take to preachers. That may be all right for you, but it ain’t for me and my kin.”
“Harold, you can keep visiting the jailhouse and then the prison or you can visit the church. Your choice,” Buck said, standing up to signaling their visit was over.
“I appreciate anything you can do for my boy,” Harold sniffed. He walked to the car, got in and started the motor.
“You think about what I said,” Buck called.
“Election’s coming!” Harold had used that empty threat before.
“I may not run again.” Buck had said that before, too.
“We want him home, Sheriff,” Harold yelled over the roar of the motor.
“No promises,” Buck repeated.
Helen sat motionless, staring through the windshield as they drove away.
Buck watched them go, shaking his head. There was a time when he and Harold would glug down anything they could get their hands on–white lightning, Jack Daniels. It made no difference. One night they were so sloshed they almost drank antifreeze. Drying out didn’t help. Reforming didn’t help. What did made a difference in Buck’s life was Jesus Christ. He had tried to talk to Harold about the Lord many times. And with the same result as this. Harold and Helen lived their lives as their parents had.
One night when Buck had been saved for about six months, he met Mattie at church. Her beauty took his breath away. He hemmed and hawed for a month before he worked up the courage to ask her out. A year later, they were wed. They started married life together in the second year of his sobriety. Once he became a Christian, Buck never touched another drip of liquor. Yes, he and Mattie had their joys and heartaches. He came close to relapsing after their son died in a crash out on 59. Buck remembered how cruelly ironic their 16-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver.
Unless Harold and Helen listened, they would spend their weekends in the visitors’ room of Sandy Hook prison.
Buck opened the back door, letting Bud out. Bounding past him to the driveway, the dog put his nose to the ground. He ran in circles several times, then stopped and looked reproachfully at his master. Buck smiled. “Sorry, pup, they weren’t here to see you.” The dog snorted, climbed the porch steps and slumped down to mope at Buck’s feet.
Buck took out his cell phone and punched in the number of the state’s attorney. After a few pleasantries, Buck got down to business. “Howie, how are things lookin’ for JD Benson?”
“Buck, that boy’s been trouble ever since he broke into Al’s Hardware all those years ago,” Howard Monahan replied. He chuckled. “I take it they’ve been out to see you.”
“Just drove off. None too happy,” Buck answered, smiling. Howard knew the routine.
“Buck, that boy needs a good dose of reality or he’s going to end up in serious trouble.”
“I agree,” Buck said.
“Unless I see a change, I’m going to ask the judge to send him up to Sandy Hook.”
“I’ll try talking to him. And I’ll tell him that. Maybe he’ll listen this time,” Buck said.
“You do that. Good luck,” Howard said.

“Thanks.” Buck wanted to tell Howard if JD changed it wouldn’t be because of luck but the Lord transforming the young boy’s life.
Taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator, he summoned Bud. “We best get to it.” With the dog running ahead, they started for Killer’s Knob. The closer Buck got to the hill, the heavier his foreboding grew.



Chapter 5

He woke feeling exhilarated. This was going to be a wonderful day. He stretched and lay there for a few more minutes. His wife was frying bacon; the smell wafted in from the kitchen. As with each time he killed, he felt power surging through his body. He had dominion over life and death. He determined how long his wife and children would live. It would not be long. By this time next year, he would hunt again.
However, he was finished with Killer’s Knob. The circle was complete. Pinky filled in the last slot. And, just like the children, the women were holding hands. Unnoticed in life, united in death, each one was a separate individual, yet joined by the same manner of demise. Last night he added the card from the camera to the ones already secreted in his office safe. For the next few weeks, he would watch it, reliving the last hours of Pinky’s life.
If the forecast held true, the high today would reach the 80s with plenty of sunshine. Opening the window, he leaned out and looked at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. In the pine trees surrounding the house, the birds sang. He breathed deeply. “What a great day to be alive,” he said aloud. “Sorry, Pinky.”
“And who is Pinky?” his wife asked from door to the bedroom door. He suppressed his anger. Why did she have to always be sneaking around? Turning, he smiled. “Just someone I met at the office,” he said, the forced smile hurting his face.

She gave him one of her pretend frowns. “Pinky, huh? Sounds like a woman.” She placed her hands on her hips. “She better not have designs on MY husband.”
“Now, dear, you know you’re the only woman in my life,” He went to her and enfolded her in his arms. “Besides, she’s old and gray. No doubt pushing ninety.”
“I don’t care how old she is, as long as she knows you’re mine,” she said, kissing him. She took him by the hand. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
“Yes dear,” he said, allowing himself to be led into the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen.
His euphoria lasted until midmorning. Then thoughts and doubts crept in. Did he really join Pinky’s hands with the others, or had he just imagined it? It bothered him for hours. He couldn’t think of anything else. Concentrating on the scene last night, he felt certain he had not joined Pinky’s fingers with his previous kill. How could he have been so stupid? Deep in his heart, he knew he had angered the gods. In his haste, he’d botched the most important part of the ritual by not completing the circle. Now the gods were angry with him. He would have to go back tonight, dig Pinky up and rebury her. Over the last eight years, he’d been careful to link his victims together with Jacob’s. Now the magic circle was broken. He must go back and rectify it, otherwise the gods would withdraw their power from him.
One thing he had going for him was that the young women he abducted were stupid. They always fell for his ruse. He had been everything from a priest to a cripple to a backup singer for various rockers and country-western singers. He practiced until he was perfect, every one of them dropped their guard, most within minutes, although a few needed a little more finessing. The girls he took had to be beautiful, small in stature and younger than 30. And blond, always blond. He was careful to snatch them on lonely stretches of highway or from places where they were alone. He always took them in the daytime. They felt safer and less vulnerable than. For him, there was more excitement and danger during daylight. At any second, he could be discovered. However, he took every precaution to evade detection. If anyone was watching or approached, he aborted the operation. He played the odds of not being exposed. The law knew he existed, but had no clue as to his identity. Any lead they pursued always came to a dead end.
Why had he been so nervous. about the storm? He had buried the others in snow or heat. The weather had never concerned him before. Last night he almost felt as if the gods were in that thunderstorm. And he’d a nightmare about meeting God face to face.
He was a scientist, self-taught just like some of the most celebrated. Like them, he didn’t conform to society’s thinking. There would never have been great discoveries if they did. Being one of the best, he studied the women’s reaction to pain and despair. They might start out strong and defiant, but he wore them down until there was nothing left. No will, no dreams and finally no life. At the end of the experiment, they all succumbed to hopelessness. No matter how tough they were, in the last few minutes when death was staring them in the face, they wept and begged for their lives. He isolated them in the secret room, subjecting each one to tortures designed to stretch the human psyche to its limit. He dispassionately noted their reactions on his iPod. Later he compared their results with those of the others. With his first victims, his mother and sister. With them he couldn’t take his time. They died quickly. Since that occasion he began his experiments, he had studied the great masters of medicine. Not all their patients survived, but their sacrifice was necessary for the good of mankind. Yet at this stage, the world would not understand. When his book was published, he would be celebrated as a great medical mind.
Tonight he would return to Killer’s Knob, unearth Pinky and rebury her entwining her fingers with the bones of the dead little boy . Then the circle would be complete. He went over his notes again, rewriting and adding conclusions and footnotes from the great minds of medicine. Tomorrow he would begin organizing his findings into a book. He could make the digital video recordings into photos for the book. His manuscript would be published and take its place in the annals of history. He would join the ranks of Louis Pasteur, Edward Jenner and Andreas Vesalius. Those doctors were renowned worldwide as geniuses. He logged onto the internet and searched Google. Yes, his photo would fit nicely on the page with them. He must write a description for Wikipedia.
Putting the book together would take a year, maybe longer. That was all right. As it was, he had been studying the torture and death of the human female for15 years, starting with his own mother and sister. During the time he was perfecting the book, he would continue his experiments.
Killer’s Knob didn’t belong to anyone. After Jacob killed all his children, no one was left to inherit his property. Both county and state officials had tried to sell it several times, but there were no takers. Eventually the land became overgrown with scrub pine, poplar, oak and all manner of thorny underbrush. Nothing would grow the cemetery on top the knob, though. It was as barren as a stripped-out coalmine.
It seemed with each passing year the gruesome reputation of the haunted knob grew more horrific. Parents warned their children from their earliest age to stay away. From time to time on a dare, some local teens would go up there to camp. They never made it through the night.
Pinky’s killer smiled yes tonight he would correct his mistake and then everything would be all right.
As a Christian, Buck was not superstitious. He knew Killer’s Knob was the same as any other abandoned piece of real estate. He felt silly he had this sensation of doom. There was nothing to it. But he couldn’t shake it. Something was not right. Then again, it was Killer’s Knob, on that hill nothing was right.
Stopping to rest at the halfway point, Buck told the dog, “At least we’ll enjoy the walk. But this afternoon I’ve got to get those flowers in the ground.” The pup frowned at him and bounded away. Buck kept walking. Approaching the hill, the dog’s demeanor changed. In all the months, he’d been with Buck, Bud had never growled. This sound started as a rumble deep in his throat and ended in a kind of whine. “What’s wrong, boy?” Buck held out his hand. Baring his teeth, the dog growled again and backed away. Something was scaring him. Standing stock still, Buck searched the weeds for copperheads or a timber rattler. Seeing nothing, he finished the climb. The dog hung back, running off and then returning to the bottom of the hill where he danced around and skittered back and forth, refusing to join his master.
Puzzled by the dog’s behavior, Buck’s eyes swept over the clearing. At first glance, nothing seemed to be disturbed everything looked the same. He walked closer to the graveyard. The children’s stones leaned. A few had toppled over. Buck noticed a mound of fresh dirt, as though someone had tried to dig up one grave. Suspicious, he poked a stick into the grave and pushed aside the earth. He couldn’t explain later why he felt compelled to keep digging. Glancing around, he saw a limb the size of his arm lying at the base of a large tree. He picked it up.
He dug with the stick. About a foot down, the limb caught on something. Poking around, Buck uncovered pale-looking object. At first, he thought it was a root. Prodding a little more, he saw it was a finger. The stick caught it and Buck jerked it out of the ground. It was a hand. Back-pedaling, Buck stumbled and fell on his rear. The fingers were fresh. A simple gold ring gleamed in the morning sun. Death had visited their owner less than a day ago. Someone had buried their murder victim on the knob.
A crow flew overhead, its cry sounding unworldly to Buck’s ears. Of all the aspects of his job, Buck never got used to encountering dead bodies. Mattie told him several times he related too much to the families left behind. He couldn’t help it. He always remembered the night he learned his son was dead. “Oh, Lord, what have I found here?” Behind him, charging up to the rim of the hill and running back down, Bud barked and howled. The dog’s baying sent chills up Buck’s spine. “Bud! Shut up, please!” he shouted. Fumbling for his cell phone, he dropped it on the fresh grave. Snatching it up, he punched in the numbers and waited. He swung around, looking in every direction. No use. The killer was long gone.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Bertie, it’s Buck. Send all available units up to Killer’s Knob. I’ve got a DB buried here.”
As a dispatcher, Bertie was trained to be calm. Hearing what Buck said, she was anything but. “Oh my, oh my. Should I notify the State Police?”
“Yeah, but tell them I don’t know what I’ve found. It may have been someone just wantin’ to save money on a burial.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you Buck?”
Buck calmed down, Bud not so much. Although he had quit howling, he still barked, Buck wiped the sweat from his forehead. “No Bertie, I don’t. What I think is somebody used Killer’s Knob to dump their victim. Get ‘em here as fast as you can, okay? And tell them we need crime scene.”
“They’re on the way, Sheriff.”
“Thanks.”
Whenever they went for a walk, Buck would carry Bud’s leash in case he needed it to keep him out of trouble. Walking down the hillside, Buck called the dog. Quiet now, Bud came to him with his head hanging and wagging his tail apologetically. “It’s all right, Bud,” Buck reassured him as he hooked the leash to his collar. “It scared me too.” He patted the dog and scratched his ears. Tying the pup in the shade of a poplar, he went back up to await the troops. A minute or so later, he heard sirens in the distance. “Oh, Lord,” Buck prayed in a whisper, “if this is what I think it is, please comfort the family.”



Chapter 6

Buck saw the dust cloud churning above the gravel road a mile away. Chief Deputy Rodney led the charge. Two more sheriff’s vehicles followed, their light bars nearly obscured by the swirling dust. They parked behind Rodney at the side of the road. The chief deputy exited his car, shaded his eyes and spotted his boss standing on top of the hill. He raised his hand in greeting. Buck waved back. With a feeling of dread, Rodney Newen climbed the hill. Reaching the top, he asked in a muted tone, “What you got, Buck?”
“Don’t know yet, Rodney but somebody’s dead in that hole over there.” Buck pointed to the fresh mound of dirt.
“How’d you find it?” Rodney asked, discreetly stepping closer to the grave.
“Just a feeling something wasn’t right here.” Below them, the other deputies milled around, awaiting instructions.
Rodney grinned. “You know, if you was a dog you’d be a bloodhound.”
“Dunno ‘bout that, but my ol’ hound’s sure puttin’ up a racket,” Buck grumbled, looking down at Bud straining at the leash. He was howling again like the call of the dead. “Soon as we get this place secured, I’m taking him home.”
“I’ll have the boys tape it off. Crime scenes on their way. Should be here in about forty-five minutes,” Rodney advised his boss.

“Okay. Tell you what. I’m gonna take Bud home so we can hear ourselves think. Just have the boys set up a perimeter and wait for the state before anyone starts processing,” Buck said. “I should be back before they get here. If not, you know what to do.”
“Right,” Rodney said. “Hey, Buck, I don’t know if you heard, but dispatch took a call last night ‘round midnight from a guy in Indiana. Said his daughter was hitchhiking through Kentucky, headin’ for Florida.” Buck turned back to face his chief deputy. He wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. “The dad said she’s to call him every night at nine sharp. Last night for the first time she didn’t. So he started calling her cell phone. Ring a few times then went to voice mail. Kept it up for three hours.” Buck could tell Rodney was thinking about his own 17-year-old daughter and putting himself in the shoes of this father.
Buck thought for a minute, then told his deputy, “Get a hold of Bertie and have her call the father to see if he’s heard from her yet. Could be her phone just quit on her.”
“You don’t really think that, do you?” Rodney asked.
Buck sighed. There were days he loved being in law enforcement. This wasn’t one of them. “No. I think most likely I just found her in that hole. Okay, lemme get this dog outta here ‘fore he drives me nuts.”
Of all of Bud’s canine traits, his most troublesome was separation anxiety. Any time Buck had to leave him, the dog would howl vociferously and pitifully. To his master it sounded like the wail of a lost child. The dog simply couldn’t stand to be alone, but today Buck had no choice. Locking Bud in the house, he hurried back to the knob.
Besides Buck and his chief deputy, there were five additional deputies in Beaufort County. Buck looked around. His entire work force, on duty and off, was gathered at the foot of Killer’s Knob. They milled around or leaned against their patrol vehicles waiting for the state police. Boy, Buck thought, this would be a great time for somebody to rob the bank. He heard the roar of an engine behind him. “Here they come,” he yelled. A black SUV with a state police emblem on each door and hauling a trailer came around the curve, throwing up a rooster tail of dust. It pulled to the side behind the last county SUV. Two men and a woman exited. The men opened the trailer’s side doors.
Buck came down and shook hands with Harland Sands. Harland induced the other two. “Buck, this here’s Amber Thomson and Gary Sheffield. Guys, this is Buck Olsen, sheriff of Beaufort County. What’s your take on this, Buck?”
“Well, looks to me like somebody used this as a dumping ground recently,” Buck said, rubbing his chin.
“Hope you’re wrong,” Harland said. “Let’s go see what we got.”
After donning white hazmat suits, the three state officials trudged to the top of the hill, followed by Buck and Rodney. Using small shovels, the crime scene crew opened the grave. Standing back out of the way, Buck and Rodney watched them work. Slowly they uncovered an arm, then a few minutes later the torso. “She’s clothed, Buck,” Harland Sands said. “Can’t tell yet if it just a top or what.”
“See any wounds?” Buck asked.
“Don’t see anything yet.” They used brushes to uncover her face. It was contorted with the horror of violent death. Her mouth gaped; the capillaries in her eyes were broken. “Suffocation or strangulation from the looks of it,” Harland said. “She must have suffered some awful pain.”
Turning away, Buck walked to the edge of the knob. In his mind’s eye he saw the girl fighting for breath and begging for her life. His anger at her killer surged.
The very same instinct that made Buck a great investigator was also his greatest burden. He couldn’t help but put himself in the shoes of the victim or family members. A private person, Buck had never openly shared this “gift” with anyone but Mattie. Now standing at the knob’s ridge, he felt the father’s pain as if it were his own. He looked over the countryside at his home a mile away, one short mile from this lonely grave. More than likely, she was dead when her murderer brought her up here. Yet Buck felt somehow responsible for her death. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
Rodney came up beside him. “Buck, you need to see this.”
Rejoining the others, Buck did a double take. Leaning over, he studied the girl’s left hand. It seemed to be malformed. Looking closer, he saw her fingers were entwined with those of another. “Check out the right hand, too,” he said, trying to hold down the feeling that a nightmare had just begun.
Brushing away more dirt, Officer Thomsen said, “Yes, there’s another hand here, but it’s not touching hers.”
When the third corpse was uncovered, they realized what they had: not a random killer but a meticulous serial murderer. One highly intelligent who had been operating for a long time. To say Buck was distraught would be an understatement. “Rodney, how could this happen right under our noses?”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Buck,” Harland piped in. “This guy is a pro.”
“Okay, but Harland, I’m the sheriff. I should have noticed something.” He looked at the state cop. “You think all these graves are filled, don’t you?”
Before Harland could answer, Rodney said, “Listen, Buck. Remember when the Tallies had that still set up in the back in that cave?” He placed his hand on his boss’s shoulder. “Took us forever to find it, didn’t it?”
Buck sighed. “You’re right. You know, I’m thinking, if there’s eight here, there may be more in other locations. Harland, I’ll be back shortly.”
“Sure, Buck. We’ll stay on this,” Harland answered.
Buck and Rodney made their way to the bottom of the hill. Leaning against the fender of Rodney’s patrol car, Buck called over his deputies. “What I’m about to tell you has to stay under wraps. The media will get a hold of it soon enough.” His expression was a mixture of sternness and concern as he looked from one deputy to the next. “Guys, we got a serial killer on our hands.”
Dusty Miller was the first to speak. “How can that be, Sheriff? We ain’t missin’ nobody that I know of.”
Buck folded his arms across his chest. “This girl, if it is her and I’m pretty sure it is, was hitchhiking. So if I’m right, he’s taking women off the road,” Buck told them, his face grim. “They could be from anywhere, not necessarily this county.”
“So they’d be strangers that wouldn’t be missed, least not by us,” Lem Stucky offered.
“Right, but he’s burying them in our county for some reason,” Buck said. “And now he’s made it personal.”
“That’s right.” Rodney’s face was set like stone.
I want a couple of you to go to the all cemeteries in the county. Check with the caretakers to see if there’s been any unusual activity. May be recent or could be back ten years or more. Find out if any graves that have been there a while look like they were dug up or tampered with.” Buck looked at Dusty. “ Dusty I want you to go to my office and get the file of missing folks from the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. Separate out the women, then pull out the ones from Kentucky and the surrounding states. Rodney, see if you can retrace her route.”
“How far back we goin’, Sheriff?” Tom Marley asked.
“Let’s start five years back and go forward a year at a time.”
“How long before we get an ID on this girl?” Dusty wanted to know.
“Soon, I think. Crime scene was taking her fingerprints when we came down, so they should know soon.” Buck heaved a sigh. Of all the aspects of his job, death notifications caused him the most discomfort. He knew he should be detached, but that was never the case. Buck felt for every victim and every victim’s family. “If she is who we think she is, I’m gonna have to tell her daddy. You guys get goin’. Report back as soon as you have anything, I don’t care how small.” Buck turned and headed up Killer’s Knob.

Back on top the hill, Harland paused from his work to look up at the sheriff. “No sign of sexual assault,” he told him. “Bullet wound in the fleshy part of her left calf. Bones in her fingers smashed. Toes the same. We were able to get one good print from her left thumb.” He looked down at his laptop. “Name’s Carol Barber. Sophomore at Southern Indiana University in Evansville.”
Buck’s face reddened. He ground his teeth. “She suffered.”
“Oh, yeah. He did all that to her while she was still alive,” Harland said. “Change a lot of folks’ minds about capital punishment if they went through half of what this little girl did.”
“Got another one,” Thomsen called. “Fingers intertwined like the other two.”
Buck’s radio beeped. “Sheriff, I have a Mr. Barber here to see you about his missing daughter.”
“Bertie, get her description from him and call me on my cell phone.”
A few minutes later, Buck’s cell rang. “Yeah, Bertie?” Buck braced himself, sure of what he was about to hear.
“Five two, hundred and two pounds, long reddish-blond hair, green eyes, heart-shaped face and a button nose. And, well, this may not mean anything now, but he says she had a beautiful smile.” Bertie drew a deep breath. Buck could feel the mother in her coming through the phone.
“Bertie, you tell–”
“Wait, I almost forgot. She has a strawberry red birthmark shaped like a half circle on her back, just below her neck,” Bertie added with a catch in her throat.
“All right. Thanks, Bertie.” Buck’s voice was subdued, almost inaudible. He cleared his throat. “Tell Mr. Barber I’ll be there in about fifteen or twenty minutes. Give him a cup of coffee and make him comfortable in my office. Close the door and don’t let him near a radio.”
“Yes sir.”
“See you in a while.” Hitting the phone’s end button, Buck went back to the crime scene team. “Can we turn her over enough to see just below her neck?”
The two CSI men positioned themselves, one at the shoulders, the other at the hips, they carefully turned the woman on her side. “Pull her blouse down off her neck, please.” Buck didn’t want to look. He prayed it wouldn’t be there. But there it was–a small, deep pink mark shaped like a half moon. Buck sighed. “I’ve got to go tell her father.”
“We’ll be here for a while yet,” Harland said. He looked up at the sun. “If we’re not finished by dark, we have lights in the trailer.”
Buck nodded. He walked off Killer’s Knob and drove home. Having sulked the whole time Buck was gone, Bud jumped up and ran in circles when his master came through the door. Feeling the need for the dog’s companionship, Buck asked, “Want to go for a ride?” Smiling, Bud pushed open the screen door and ran and jumped into the back of the patrol car. Buck shut the door, climbed in and started the engine. He looked at the dog through the rear view mirror. “Bud, I have to go break a father’s heart.” He teared up, thinking of the day he and Mattie sat in the doctor’s office listening to him explain the treatment for pancreatic cancer. Serial killers and cancer killed your loved ones without discrimination.
On the way to headquarters, Buck thought about the night of the day they learned of Mattie’s diagnosis. The next few months were rough, but that night was the hardest. In bed, Buck held her, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. Easing her head gently to the pillow, he got out of bed and walked out to the front porch. Sitting in the old rocker, he wept. Yes, as Christians he and Mattie knew when she died she would be in presence of the Lord. Still, Buck couldn’t imagine life without her. Sitting there with his hands over his face, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the eyes of his wife, his best friend, his lover. He rose and took her in his arms. “It’ll be all right,” she murmured against his chest. He believed her but didn’t.

And to a certain extent it had been. That summer Buck took more time off than he had in all his years in law enforcement. At Mattie’s insistence, he told no one of her illness. In July, they travelled to Louisville to visit their daughter, Suzy. Suzy worked as a secretary for a large insurance company and was engaged to a charming and successful young agent. She couldn’t stop talking about her upcoming wedding and how she looked forward to homemaking and children. The girl fussed over Mattie, making sure the fabric for Mattie’s mother-of-the-bride dress was perfect, not knowing she would never wear it. Suzy and her beau planned to be married the following June. If the doctors were right, Mattie would be gone long before that.
Next, Buck and Mattie drove to Chattanooga to visit their 20-year-old son, who was working as a hospital orderly while studying for the ministry. Keith took one look at his mother and knew something was wrong. After two days of dodging Keith’s questions, his parents finally sat him down and told him the truth. Keith tried unsuccessfully to convince them to tell his sister, but Mattie would have none of it. “I will not spoil Suzy’s happiness,” she told him.
“Mom, she needs know,” Keith pleaded.
“No. I won’t ruin her happiness,” his mother insisted.
After considerable discussion and much prayer, Mattie and Buck agreed it wouldn’t be right not to tell Suzy. When they bid their son goodbye, Mattie hugged him tightly and asked him to pray for the family.
So they returned to Louisville. Shocked Suzy held her mother both women hugging each other . Mattie comforting her daughter as she had as a child when she skinned her knee. They spent two day in Louisville then returned home to fight a battle they couldn’t win. One that wouldn’t last long. When her time became shorter, Buck called the children home to see their mother one last time. The morning Mattie passed; Suzy and Keith were with their father at her bedside. In her dying moments, Mattie made them promise to live their lives as though she was by their side. To Buck, she was. He sensed her everywhere.
As he drove into the Justice Center parking lot, Buck whispered to his wife. “Mattie, I sure miss you. I wish you were here now. You always knew the right words to say.” Opening the car door, he held Bud’s leash while they walked to the building. Bertie met him in the reception area. “He’s in your office, just sitting there staring at the wall. I think he knows.”
“He’s a father,” Buck said. “He may not know she’s gone, but he’s aware something’s not right.
Bertie reached down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Want me to keep Buddy with me?”
“If you would, please. If anyone calls, take a message. I’ll get back with them.” Taking a deep breath, Buck opened the door to his office.
A hard-muscled, middle-aged man sat in a guest chair with his back to the door. He turned his head as Buck entered. Slowly, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, he got to his feet.
Buck held out his hand. “Mr. Barber? I’m Buck Olsen, sheriff of Beaufort County.” Barber extended his hand, rough and calloused from years of farm labor. The man’s face lined with worry. His moist blue eyes stared plaintively into Buck’s. He knows she’s dead, Buck thought. Wanting to avoid creating an authoritarian atmosphere, Buck eased down in the adjacent guest chair.
“Have you found my little girl?” Barber asked. The lump in his throat was visible.
One of the first rules of law enforcement Buck had learned was to gather as much information as possible without tipping your hand. There was no reason to believe Carol Barber‘s father was a suspect in the girl’s murder. But no one was automatically eliminated in the beginning stages of an investigation. “Tell me something about your daughter,” Buck prodded gently.
A faint smile crossed Barber’s lip. “Carol is a beautiful young lady. And I’m not just saying that because I’m her dad. When she was ten, she won a beauty contest.” Barber pulled a bandanna from his shirt pocket and wiped his eyes. “She was only fourteen when she started teaching Sunday school to the little ones, three- and four-year-old’s. She loved children and they loved her. When she was sixteen, her mother died. Carol took over the household chores, made sure the bills were paid, kept things on an even keel. She did good and never complained.”
Buck wrote in a notebook, partly to record the information and partly to keep Barber talking. He listened for any fluctuations in the man’s voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Barber’s body language.
“You own a farm, is that right, Mr. Barber?” Buck asked.
“Yes. Passed down through four generations.”
“Did your daughter help you with the farm work?”
“Yep, she sure did. Carol could drive a tractor with the best of ‘em.” Barber looked off into the distance. Buck noticed the lines of weariness and worry creasing his face. “Look, Sheriff, I drove all night to get here. I don’t see how this is helping find my daughter.”

“Mr. Barber, I have every deputy out checking where your daughter ate and stayed last night and if someone may have seen her.”
“It’s not like my Carol to just disappear like this,” Barber said, wiping his eyes again. “I tried to track her cell, but they told me I had to own the phone.”
“Is your daughter dating anyone that you know of?” Buck hesitated to ask, but it was necessary.
“No, no one. Well, of course she’s gone out on dates, but there’s nobody steady.”
Bertie stuck her head in the door. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff. You have a call on line three.”
“Okay Bertie. Excuse me, Mr. Barber. I won’t be long,” Buck picked up the handset and pushed the button.
“Sherriff Olsen?”
“Buck, it’s Harland. This girl was smart. We found her student ID hidden in a small pouch in her bra.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Carol Barber.”
Buck sighed. Now came the part of the job he hated most. “Thanks, Harland. “He hung up and turned to face Carol’s father. “Mr. Barber, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Before Buck could say another word, the tears in Barber’s eyes spilled over and coursed down his weathered cheeks. “My baby girl’s dead, isn’t she?” The sound of Barber’s crying reminded Buck of a wounded animal. Barber slumped over in the chair, his forearms resting on his thighs. “I knew it, I just knew it. When she didn’t answer last night, I knew it.”
Buck laid his hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said in the gentlest tone he could muster.
“What happened to her? Was she hit by a car? I was scared to death of her walking on the highway and getting picked up by who knows who.” Barber shook his head. “Headstrong like her mother, Carol was. Can I see her? Can I please see her?”
“We’ll arrange for that as soon as possible. Mr. Barber, are you aware of any enemies your daughter may have had?”
Barber looked up, his eyes still brimming with tears. He shook his head.
“Did she ever have a boyfriend who was abusive toward her?” Buck asked, sitting back down.
Barber stared at Buck; his expression shocked. “What are you telling me, Sheriff?” He jumped to his feet and yelled, “For God’s sake, what are you saying?”

In his mind, Buck was back in the funeral home staring at Mattie’s casket. Knowing this was the end of their time on earth together. He would no longer have her companionship or her friendship. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mr. Barber. We believe Carol was murdered.”
At the dispatch station, Bertie heard Carol’s father’s screams. The sound sent chills down her spine. Bud howled. Bertie tried to shut him up. Leaving Barber alone with his grief, Buck stepped out of his office and called Harland on his cell phone. “Yeah, Buck, the coroner is here and we’ll be moving the body to the morgue within the hour. We’ll have a photo for you in about five minutes. I’ll email it to your phone.”
“All right, Harland. Thanks. Keep me posted.”
The email arrived less than two minutes later. Harland had tried to make the girl as presentable as possible. The photo showed her head resting on a blue sheet. The dirt had been brushed off her face. If he didn’t know better, Buck would have thought she was sleeping. After taking his crime scene photos Harland had done his best to smooth out Carol’s expression to ease the horror from her face. He did an admiral job. Buck studied the photo long and hard. “Sleeping Beauty, I promise you I will find your killer,” he murmured, wiping his eyes. Beside him, Bud whined. Attaching the phone to the printer, Buck ran off the photo. He reached down and patted the dog. “Bud, stay with Bertie. I’m about to destroy this man life I feel sick inside.” Taking a deep breath, he stepped back into his office.
Barber was hunched in the chair, sobbing quietly. Sitting down next to him, Buck laid the photo face down on the desk and waited. After a few minutes, Barber raised his head. “Whenever you’re ready,” Buck said, motioning to the photo. With a trembling hand, Barber reached for it, drew back hesitated, then reached again. His callused fingers rested tenuously on the back of the photo. Buck wondered how many times when Carol was small her father had caressed her to soothe away some hurt, possibly a skinned knee or some disappointment. Now in the presence of the Lord, Carol was beyond her earthly father’s comfort.
Inhaling deeply, Barber turned over the photo and stared at the face of his dead little girl. Tears flowed unabated down his cheeks. Closing his eyes tightly, he said softly, his voice breaking, “She looks like she’s sleeping, doesn’t she?”
“Mr. Barber, you said Carol taught Sunday school. I assume, then, that she knew Christ as her Savior?”
“Yes, sir. She asked Him into her heart when she was eight. Cutest little thing. I was so proud of her,” Barber stammered through a fresh rush of sobbing.
“Your little girl is in heaven now, probably hugging her mother,” Buck said tenderly.
Barber raised his tear-filled eyes. He smiled, faintly, and said, “That’s the picture I want to keep in my mind.”



Chapter 7

Assuring Barber that Carol’s remains would be handled with the utmost care, Buck returned to Killer’s Knob. Barber had checked into the local motel to wait to take his daughter home. Bertie agreed to care of Bud so the dog wouldn’t be left alone. Two hours later Rodney called Buck to report that he found the diner where the girl ate a late lunch. “Yeah, the waitress remembered her. Said she was a real sweet gal. They talked about how Carol was a waitress too, at a restaurant in Evansville. The woman said Carol left the diner about two-thirty yesterday and headed south on the highway.”
“Good work, Rodney,” Buck said. “I’m on my way back to the knob. Keep me posted, will you?”
“Sure will. I’m retracing her route now. I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Returning to the Knob Buck pulled up beside a state vehicle, Captain Les Renfro of the state police greeted him. Before Les joined the state police, Renfro was one of Buck’s deputies. The two men shook hands.
“How’s it lookin’, Les?”

“Pretty bad, Buck. Harland and his crew have uncovered five, and it looks like there are three more.” Les glanced at the sun. “They should be finished by dark. If not, we’ll set up the lights.” They stood watching the crime scene crew work. The bodies a scant distance away on six blue tarps. Carol lay on the first one, flanked by the bodies of five other women in various stages of decomposition. Two reduced to skeletons.
Leaving his colleagues to work on the sixth grave, Harland approached Buck and Les. “I’d say the manner of death is the same with all of them. Of course, with the earlier ones we really can’t tell yet.”
“Any idea how long they’ve been here?” Buck asked.
“I’d say the one we’re working on now has been in the ground five years or so, but that’s just a guess,” Harland replied.
“Do we have a positive ID on the first girl?” Les asked Buck.
“Yeah. Her daddy ID’d the photo,” Buck said. “I have one of my guys going through the missing person fliers and the rest following up on the possibilities.”
“So far we do have some pieces of cloth with each body,” Harland said. “The earlier ones just scraps. If they were wearing the same clothes when they died as when they were taken, we’ll have possible IDs.”
“Got a gun!” Officer Thomsen called from the hole. The men looked on as she carefully uncovered a pistol. She handed it to Les.
“Whada ya think, Buck?” Les asked.
“S and W. Looks like a thirty-eight. Doubt it’s his. Probably hers,” Buck said.
“Yep, I agree,” Les said. He turned the pistol over. “Let me call in the serial number.” Keying the mike, he read the numbers into the radio. “Check on that and get back to me ASAP,” Buck heard him say.

Five minutes later, Les’s radio crackled. “Captain, that pistol is a .38 Smith & Wesson Special registered to a Susan Atkins, five seventy-six Cline Avenue, New York, New York.”
“New York City? Hmm. Okay thanks.” Les thought for a moment, and then said to Buck. “I remember that case. Family called from New York. Girl went missing on the Pennyrile Parkway up by Morton’s Gap about six years ago.
Exasperated, Buck heaved a sigh. “So what, Les? He’s taking them off the highways and bringing them here to my county?”
“Looks that way,” Les mused. “Buck, we were thinking your killer might be a resident of Beaufort County.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But there does seem to be some connection to Killer’s Knob,” Buck said.
“That’s what I’m thinking, too.”
Just before sunset, Harland’s crew unearthed the last body. They loaded the remaining women into a hearse and transported them to the morgue. Down in the trailer, the five gathered for coffee. The crime scene technicians, exhausted from uncovering and processing the bodies, were never the less satisfied with their day’s work.
“I appreciate what you all did today,” Buck told Harland, Amber, Gary and Les.
“Buck, what we did today was the easy part,” Harland said. “Now you and the captain have your work cut out investigating this.”
“We’ll get him,” Buck said with determination, “He’s on my turf now.”
“Just a matter of time,” Les agreed.
That night, little after nine with Bud safely in the house, Buck trudged back to the knob. Sipping from a thermos of coffee to stay awake, he sat on a log 300 yards from the gravesites. As the moon rose, it gave the knob an eerie glow. Several times during the night, Buck thought he saw something, a shadow or movement. However after investigating, he found nothing out of the ordinary. At around 1:30, a low-flying plane passed over, otherwise all was quiet. Exhaustion finally caught up with him around three. He had cat-napped intermittently, jerking awake with a start each time. At sunrise, Buck returned home stiff, sore and irritable. After taking Bud for a run, he lay down for a few hours’ sleep.
The killer had taken off at 1 AM in a stolen plane from a no-name airport just south of Lexington. He filed no flight plan. The little one-horse airport abandoned this time of morning. The Cessna clogged along, its running lights blinking. During the day, he had listened to police chatter on the scanner. How did they find Pinky so quickly? It didn’t matter, of course they would eventually. However he hoped if they did it would be years from now. What did matter and what concerned him was he hadn’t linked her fingers with the one next to her. The circle had not been completed.
Approaching the knob, the killer put on night goggles. The graves were torn up, then returned to a semblance of order. South of the hill, he saw movement. “There you are,” he whispered, smiling. “Hello, Buckaroo. Don’t lose too much sleep over me. The game’s just getting started.” Banking the plane, he, headed back toward Lexington.
At the airport, he taxied the plane to its slot on the tarmac and fastened it to its tethers. After placing the cover over it, he got into his truck and drove away. The plane owned was by a doctor he only took it out about once a month on a medical mission. The poor guy always forgot how much fuel was in the tank. A good deal for the killer, bad for the doc. The murderer used every other month to check on his kills. Tonight through was a special run.
He was glad he had taken flying lessons. It made observing the operations of the police so much easier.
Tomorrow he would begin again–new victim, new graveyard. He had known from the very beginning they would catch him, eventually. He was prepared for that. Pinky. He rolled her pet name around on his tongue. Turning into his driveway, he hit the garage door opener, pulled inside and killed the engine. Sitting in the dark, he thought of the girls buried on Killer’s Knob and the others scattered throughout the county.
Fifteen years ago, he murdered his mother and sister. Several months ago on a cold case TV program, he heard the prosecutor promised they were still investigating and would find his mother and sister’s killer. He smiled. “Yeah, good luck with that.” he muttered as he silently exited the truck. Taking off his shoes, he walked through the kitchen. In the bedroom, he stripped down to his underwear.
Rolling over in bed, his wife said, “Hi. Honey. We missed you. Can’t you tell them you have to take the weekend off? They can’t expect you to work night and day.”
“I might just do that,” he said as he eased between the sheets. He hugged and kissed her, then rolled over and tried to sleep. He was bone tired, but when he closed his eyes, the image of the broken circle flashed before him. He couldn’t believe the cops had discovered Killer’s Knob so soon after he killed that girl. Not that he’d hidden all of his kills there. Now Killer’s Knob was used up, yet the spirits weren’t appeased. If he had linked Pinky’s hands with the other would he have stopped killing? No. He had a taste for it. He enjoyed killing too much. He equated it to a hunter who killed a deer. Tomorrow he would have to locate a new burial ground. He might write another chapter in his book. he could name it The Secret of Killer’s Knob. He let sleep overtake him. In his dream, he saw Pinky dying again.



Chapter 8

Two days had passed with no progress in the investigation. Seeking solace and perhaps even guidance, Buck maneuvered his patrol car down the gravel road. Weeds and scrub grass scraped the undercarriage. With only a few houses and the old, abandoned church on this road the county did little to maintain it. Slowing the car Buck passed the house where he grew up. Memories flooded his soul.
When Buck’s parents passed, he inherited the family farm. He still owned it, but now he rented it to Jerred Fronds. Jerred’s new equipment shed and the greening soybeans covering the fields were the only signs of activity remaining on the property. Although it saddened Buck to see the house he grew up in on the verge of collapse, he had his own home now, the one he’d shared with Mattie. Besides, the old farmhouse wouldn’t be worth the cost to repair it. Jerred had offered several times to buy the land, and each time Buck refused. He would no more sell this farm than cut off his right arm. His parents sacrificed everything to own it. The farm was Buck’s heritage.
Farther down the road he pulled into the weed-infested parking lot in front of the church.
Despite Bud’s protests, Buck had left him home. Later he would go back and pick up the dog. This was Buck’s time to be alone with the Lord. Several trays of flowers still sat on his back porch. He had watered them, hoping he could plant them tomorrow. Most likely they would still be fresh. Mattie would understand. Police work always came first. Bad guys wouldn’t wait for you to take care of flowers or anything personal for that matter.
Buck had his own church, which he attended every Sunday and Wednesday night. He felt comfortable talking to his pastor at Pleasant View Baptist. Pastor Larry Easton always gave good advice. Pastor Easton might not know much about law enforcement, but he sure knew the Lord.
But this was different. This church, Calvary Fellowship, was the first church Buck attended. Whenever he came here, it transported him back to his childhood.
When Buck was a child, he seldom attended Calvary Fellowship. He went to Sunday school a few times when he was five or six. Vacation bible school once or twice. At ten, he stopped going altogether. Buck’s parents never attended. If they saw no reason to have religion in their lives, why should he?
The church disbanded when Buck was a teenager. The reasons were many: too far from town, low attendance, inadequate finances. With its dwindling congregation and remote location, Calvary Fellowship could not attract a pastor. Most Sunday’s it’s one deacon would speak. In its waning years, the church building deteriorated as the older folks died off and the next generation went elsewhere. Soon the roof leaked, the churchyard became overgrown and the concrete steps leading to the sanctuary disintegrated to the point of being dangerous. The building needed painting and had for a long time. The weatherboarding more gray than white. The graveyard in back mowed and maintained by family members of the deceased. However, their care did not extend to the church building or yard.
Oddly, Buck found at peace in this old abandoned church. He sat in the patrol car, thinking back. Memories flickered through his mind like an old home movie. Buck could see Preacher Ragsdale standing on the stoop welcoming his flock, his face lit up with a loving smile. Ragsdale must have been in his 70s . He always had a kind word and a firm handshake for each child. Buck recalled the day the elderly man died. Buck was 13 and, in his estimation, too old to attend church. As non-churchgoers, Buck’s father and mother never attempted to influence him one way or the other concerning spiritual things. Buck was thankful both come to know The Lord before they died.
The Sunday Pastor Ragsdale died, Buck had been fishing in the river all morning and just came home with his catch. Earlier in the week, the pastor and his wife visited Buck and pleaded with him to return to Sunday school. Buck put them off with a lie, saying he might be there Sunday, knowing full well he wouldn’t. Standing on the bank of the river, he heard the old church bell. A short time later, he heard it again. It puzzled him. Why ring the bell when the congregation was already assembled? The incessant pealing of the bell made him uncomfortable. Next week, he promised himself, next week I’ll go to Sunday school. A tug on his line distracted him.
Arriving home he Left his fish in the washtub by the well, Buck entered the kitchen to get a scaling knife. Preparing the noon meal his mother broke the news to him in a less than genteel manner. “You won’t have to worry ‘bout that old preacher bothering you again. He died this mornin’. Collapsed right there in the pulpit.” Shock and regret jarred the young boy. Now he knew the reason for the ringing bell. It was the preacher’s death knell.
Oddly Buck felt a connection with the bent old man. Ragsdale was always kind to Buck. Even when he and the other boys made fun of him behind his back. Without a word, Buck took the knife. He headed back out to the well. Looking at the fish, despair overtook his heart. He had traded this sorry mess of catfish for his last chance to hear Pastor Ragsdale preach. Leaving the knife on the edge of the well, he hid in the tool shed and wept for his friend. Three days later, they buried Preacher Ragsdale in the cemetery, behind the church he loved.

After Ragsdale’s death, Buck attended the church two or three times, but it wasn’t the same. There was a void impossible for Buck to overcome. No matter how nice the visiting preachers were, no one could take the old man’s place. Within a few years, as one by one the elderly members went home to be with The Lord, the church was no more.
Several times over the ensuing years, Buck had visited Pastor Ragsdale’s grave. He knew Ragsdale wasn’t there, but he talked to him, anyway. This morning he again made his way to the gravesite. As far as Buck knew, Ragsdale and his wife had no descendants. They lay there side by side, just the two of them. Weeds had sprung upon their graves since Buck’s last visit. Bending over, he pulled them and threw the plants over the fence.
“Well, preacher, I got a real bad one this time,” Buck said, patting Ragsdale’s headstone. “Somebody’s been killing women and burying them up on Killer’s Knob. He’s defiling my county and I can’t let him do that.” Buck tried to imagine what the elderly pastor might advise. After saying a brief prayer, Buck made his way to the front of the church. He stood looking at the front door with its peeling paint and the faded sign above the door.
Calvary Fellowship, 1887
where friends meet friends
Buck wondered, how many, had walked through this door to find a new life?
He pushed the door open. It protested with a loud creak. It appeared to Buck each visited, the church the wooden pews, and the pulpit looked like they had aged another hundred years. A musty smell assailed Buck’s nose. Morning sunlight streamed through the clear windows. Just an hour after sunrise, the temperature inside the sanctuary was hot and stuffy. Buck circled the room, opening the three windows on each side. The screens rusted out long ago would let in insects. The once beautiful wallpaper was so faded its pattern was barely discernible. He remembered the day 47 years ago when he stood in the vestibule doorway watching with fascination while Miss Ida and two other ladies from the congregation were hard at work hanging it. He was nine. Back then, the fleur d’liss patterned wallpaper with its gold accents gave the sanctuary a regal feel. Now it just looked soiled and spent. Gone for 14 years now, Ida Sampling would be sorely disheartened to see it in its present state. Buck could still see her lovingly patting each strip in place, taking great pains to precisely match the pattern. He could almost hear her voice. “This will make our church shine like the streets of heaven.” She smiled at the young boy watching her work.
The floorboards creaked under Buck’s weight as he walked down the aisle. He heard a tractor working the fields a mile away. Outside, the birds chirped and sang in greeting to the new day. Taking a seat on the front pew, Buck once again travelled in his mind back to his childhood. He heard Ragsdale preaching about the love of Christ and smiled at the memory. Away from God, Buck had lost his teenage years into his early twenties. That part of his life gone forever, wasted on alcohol and wild living. Yet, by the grace of God, Buck had regained his life through salvation.
Buck liked to think Ragsdale would be proud of what he had become. There was a time when Buck thought God was calling him to the preaching ministry, asking him to stand in the pulpit and hold men’s souls in his hands while proclaiming the Word of God. Over the years, he realized there were different types of ministries. As sheriff, Buck performed his work for the Lord by keeping watch over the county.
When someone was admitted to the jail, he or she was added to Buck’s prayer list. He prayed for them every day. If they had attended church services locally, Buck notified that pastor. If the pastor wanted to visit the inmate, they made arrangements. Local pastors knew they were welcome at the jail any time, day or night. Several Christian ministries were given access to the jail to conduct services on Sunday afternoons and at various times during the week. As a result, while jails in other counties were overcrowded, Buck’s never reached capacity. Drug use in Beaufort County was the lowest in the state.
Shifting in the pew, in his mind’s eye Buck pictured the Christian congregation standing and shouting amen as the elderly Pastor Ragsdale preached with power and authority and tear-filled eyes. After a half hour, Buck rose and walked toward the door, his soul calm and at peace. There was a serial killer loose in his county. With the Lord’s help, Buck would bring him to justice.



Chapter 9

Bertie signaled to Buck as he entered the building. “Media’s been callin’ all morning,” she said, looking like she was a hair’s breadth from quitting. “CNN, FOX, CBS, a couple more I never even heard of.”
“Okay, well, we knew we couldn’t keep it quiet for long,” Buck said with a sigh. What time they comin’?”
“Some of them newspaper people are already here, down at Bert’s Motel. The others are comin’ in later this morning.”
“All right. Tell them I’ll hold a news confidence here at two. We’re still gathering information. But don’t tell them that,” Buck said, wishing he could just crawl into a hole and forget about the media. He’d learned long ago that the national news folks were not his friends.
“Don’t worry, Buck. I’ll hold ‘em off,” Bertie said with a wry smile. She shared her boss’s distaste for the bunch of them.
“Thanks Bertie. What would I do without you?” Buck said, shaking his head.
“This place would be in chaos.” She turned to the ringing phone. “Beaufort County sheriff’s office. What? I’m not at liberty to discuss that. Sheriff Olsen will hold a press commence at two o’clock. You’re welcome.” Hanging up, she flashed Buck a triumphant grin. Waving to her, he took his leave while the getting was good. He found Rodney waiting in his office.
Two years ago, Rodney’s wife divorced him. Taking their children with her, she moved back to Tennessee. It nearly destroyed the chief deputy. One evening Buck and Mattie invited Rodney to supper. Rodney sat silently while Buck gave thanks for the meal, and then just picked at his food.
Wisely, the Olsen’s avoided bringing up the divorce or law enforcement, centering the conversation instead around small talk. Never one to lack for something to say, Mattie described a problem she was having with her roses and asked Rodney for his thoughts on how to solve it.
Over the next few months, as the friendship grew, the sheriff and his wife got closer to engaging Rodney in the conversation that would change his life.
One Sunday afternoon, as the three of them sat in the Olsens’ living room, Buck turned the discussion to Christ. Rodney’s reaction was as much a joy and blessing as it was unexpected. “You know, Buck, I’ve been watching you for years. At first, I thought you were a hypocrite like others I’ve known. But I’ve come to know you and Mattie well. You’re real. And I see what I’ve been missin’.” With a joyful heart, the sheriff led his chief deputy to the Lord. Last summer, Buck and Mattie attended the ceremony marking Rodney’s remarriage and reuniting the family.

This morning Rodney looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Buck closed the office door and sat down. “FBI’s comin’ in later today,” Rodney said wearily. “Buck, I got a phone call about two this morning on my landline. Now, how did this guy get my number? He wouldn’t give me his name. Didn’t sound like a kid, but I could hear country rock music in the background.” Rodney was an observant, detail-oriented investigator. Buck sipped his coffee and waited for Rodney to get to the point. Rodney took out the tattered notebook he always carried and flipped through the pages. “He was pretty talky. Said there’s five more cemeteries to check out. And he told me which ones.”
Staring wide-eyed at his chief deputy, the sheriff swallowed hard. “Did you say five?”
“Yeah, five. Good Shepherd, Trinity, Forest Lawn, Hidden Valley and that old pioneer cemetery up on Stard’s Ridge.”
Buck set down his cup and stood up. “Could be it was just a prank call.”
“That’s what I thought. So at daybreak I went up to Stard’s. Buck, word I always heard is that there ain’t been a grave dug there in a hundred years. Guess we didn’t know that we was alookin’ for.”
“What did you find?” Buck asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.
Rodney sighed. “Way back on the north end, a spot’s been cleared off. No marker or anything, no fresh dirt, but you can tell it ain’t been there long as the others. I called Dale Franks on his cell phone. I didn’t want them reporters to catch wind of it and go running up there.”
“Good. Let’s hold the news hounds off, least ‘til we get a handle on this,” Buck said. “Could just be a dog buried there.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Rodney, said. “Guys are checking the graves now. Crime scene should be there in about a half hour.”
“All right. You tell them nobody, and I mean nobody, talks to the media.” Buck grabbed his hat. “Wives, girlfriends–I want anybody who knows about this, inside or out of this department, zip-lipped. If there’s a leak it ain’t comin’ from us.”
Exiting through the front door, Buck and Rodney eyed a van with the CNN emblem emblazoned on its sides pulling into the parking lot. “Out the back,” Buck said, spinning on his heel. Obscured by the building from the news crew’s view, the two lawmen exited the rear parking lot and took the side streets out of town.

The killer sat down at his computer and flexed his fingers. He grinned. All his years of research were coming to a successful climax. Just a few more experiments and he’d be finished. In the meantime, he would organize his findings chronologically to include in his book Of course the other question was did he really want to stop killing? To hold someone’s life in your hands was the greatest game. He had the power to decide if they lived or died. Of course, his decision was always death. Early this morning he stopped at a bar and called Rodney. Groggy with sleep the chief deputy woke up when he told him about the other victims. He loved this part of the game. Now through the media he could watch them chase their tails.
He was about to layout his notes on the desk when his wife came to the door. He thought of hiding the material, but knew she couldn’t read it from that distance. His glance held a warning not to come closer, she, like the rest of the world, would not at this point understand or appreciate his research. She kept her distance. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. The kids have eaten and they’re leaving for school,” she reported with a cheery smile.
“Thanks for letting me sleep, hon,” he said, returning her smile. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” she answered, then was gone.
He turned back to his computer, typing until the children said their goodbyes as they passed his door. “Have a good day at school,” he called. Saving his document to a thumb drive, he closed the program. He was very aware that his research into pain and death would be deemed monstrous, heinous, cold-blooded and cowardly, not to mention criminal. That is until he could prove to the world that the taking of human lives was necessary for the good of mankind. Some used mice in their experiments. He tried that in the beginning when he was a child. It was futile. Being incapable of communicating their feelings or experience, all mice did was squeal and die.

His subjects had to have human emotions, feelings and voices. The women had to be frightened, to know he was in control. He had the power of life and death over them. Each woman he had studied was unique in her response to torture and the inevitability of death. They endured terror and pain in dissimilar ways. Some pleaded, some offered money or favors of a physical nature, some cursed him, some prayed. Yet in the last few seconds, of their life they all were resigned to their fate. He was the master of their lives. They breathed their last knowing, they could do nothing but surrender to his will.
Over breakfast in the kitchen, he listened while his wife chattered on about the plan of the day. He hated shopping, but he’d go along because it wasn’t time for her to die yet. He must still pretend to love her. It would be an interesting day. Perhaps he could sit on a bench in the mall and study the human female in her natural habitat. Stifling a laugh, he almost choked on his oatmeal.



Chapter 10

Back in the hills the pioneer cemetery was so far removed from civilization, the uninitiated would need a guide to find it. A hundred yards off a dirt road, it was covered over with brambles and briars. As Deputy Dale Franks dug, Buck mused aloud, “He’s got to be either a local boy or a history buff. He’d never know about this place otherwise.”
“Yeah, you got that right,” Rodney said, looking around at the thick underbrush.
Dale slowed his digging; he was almost three feet down. “Got something,” he called over his shoulder.
Rodney and Buck walked over and gazed into the hole. The first thing that caught Buck’s eye was a strip of blue cloth. Reaching down, Dale brushed aside some dirt. “That’s from a pair of blue jeans,” Buck said.
“Not deteriorated enough to be from a hundred years ago,” Rodney said. “Be gone by now if it was.”
“Take a break, Dale. Then we’ll see what else we find,” Buck said as he leaned over the grave. His radio crackled.
“Sheriff, I got two FBI agents here. You want I should send them out to your location?”
“Call me on my cell phone, Bertie,” Buck said. A few seconds later, the phone rang. After giving her instructions, Buck told his deputies, “Media’s gonna catch wind of this pretty quick, but I don’t want to deal with them until I have to.”
“I don’t envy you, Buck,” Rodney said. “It’s only gonna git worse.”
“Yup wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.” Dale agreed.

They had just uncovered the skull when a black SUV led by Dusty’s patrol car stopped at the edge of the cemetery. Two men in suits exited the vehicle and stepped tenuously through the overgrown graveyard to where Buck and Rodney stood. Dusty stayed with the vehicles. A white van with a CBS emblem stopped a hundred feet back. Buck drew his finger across his neck to signal Dusty not to let them near. Dusty nodded and headed over to the news media’s van.
Buck and Rodney went to greet the agents. One of them, a man who appeared to be in his late 40s, stepped forward and held out his hand “Sheriff Olsen, I’m Agent Chet Harrison and this is Agent Peter Young.”
“Glad you’re here,” Buck said. They shook hands all around. “This is my chief deputy, Rodney. Feller doing the grunt work is Dale Franks.” Dale waved and continued shoveling.
With the pleasantries completed, Chet’s expression turned serious. “Listen, Sheriff, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. The FBI has a reputation for coming in and taking over investigations. We’re trying to change that. This is your investigation. We’re just here to help.” Peter nodded in agreement.
“Thank you. We ain’t gonna get into no turf war, though,” Buck said, smiling, “I know you guys got more experience with serial killers than I ever will.”
“That goes for me, too,” Rodney agreed. “Shoot, we haven’t had a murder in Beaufort County in years.”
The Kentucky crime scene van pulled up alongside the FBI vehicle.
“Dale, climb out of there and let Harland and his team have a look,” Buck called to his deputy.
“Gladly,” Dale huffed. While Harland and his team trudged through the weeds toward the burial site, Dale moved out of their way, slapping at his pants legs to release some of the dust clinging to them.

“Buck, you keep working us like this, we aren’t going to get any rest,” Harland joked.
“You and me both,” Buck said. He introduced the agents. They shook hands all-around.
“This our boy?” Harland asked as he studied the open grave.
“That’s what we was hoping you could tell us,” Rodney said.
“Mr. Sands, with your and the sheriff’s permission, I’d like to have our people look at the victims,” Agent Harrison said.
“Yes sir. Name’s Harland. And I’d be glad for another set of eyes.”
“Yup,” Buck said. “We need to catch him ‘fore he kills again.”
They set to work as the sun climbed toward the center of the sky. At 10 o’clock, a trooper showed up with a cadaver dog. By noon, the skeletal remains of three persons lay on canvas sheets.
Buck had to call Bertie twice to advise her how long the news conference would be delayed. He kept a close watch on the gathering news vehicles jamming the narrow road. Several times the reporters attempted to cross the crime scene tape. Buck stationed Dusty at the tree line to keep them away while they waited for State Police reinforcements. Still, the media clamored for information, shouting questions to anyone entering or emerging from the woods.
At three o’clock, Buck stood behind a makeshift podium on the front steps of the Justice Center. When the crowd of reporters quieted down, he read a statement, he and Agent Young had drafted. The only friendly face he saw was Matthew Brown editor reporter and printer of the Beauford County Dispatch. Matt would follow the story and report it accurately without sensitizing it.

“Here’s what we have so far. On Monday, we removed eight bodies from one location. This morning we found three more at a second location. And just a short while ago another one was recovered one at that same site.”
A reporter Buck recognized from a station in Louisville couldn’t contain himself. “So we’re talking about a serial killer on the loose, Sheriff Olsen?” he shouted.
Every eye turned to Buck who, along with agents Harrison and Young, had anticipated the question. They discussed long and hard how far to go. In the end, they felt they had no choice but to apprise the public of what the evidence indicated. “Yes, it looks that way.”
“How long have the bodies been buried?” another asked, giving Buck no time to gather his thoughts.
Buck looked at Young and Harrison. Harrison stepped to the mike. Buck moved back, grateful for the agent’s intervention. “From the condition of the bodies, it appears to be over a period of years. However, the latest victim was in the ground for only hours before being discovered.”
Later in the day, Buck heard the news media had dubbed the murderer The Blue Grass Killer.



Chapter 11

Returning to his office after the press conference, Buck had the jailer bring JD up from his cell. Wanting to establish his authority over the young delinquent, Buck sat behind the desk. Later, if things went well, he would move to a guest chair.
JD shuffled into the office, restrained in handcuffs and shackles. The officer removed them, motioned JD to sit and left the kid alone with the sheriff. JD slouched in the chair with his eyes downcast and his body language defiant. He squinted down at the floor and scowled to convey that he didn’t care what happened to him. But the glint of unshed tears in his eyes gave him away. Buck saw through the facade. This was a boy who felt unloved and uncared for. Buck studied him for a few minutes. Finally, JD spoke. “My old man wanted you to talk to me, didn’t he?”
“Your father and mother stopped by and, yes, your dad asked me to see what I could do about your case.”
“So, you gonna let me out like you did last time?” JD asked hoarsely, glancing up at the sheriff.
“Last time, JD, you were still a juvenile. And you promised to behave,” Buck answered matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, well, you know how it is,” JD said with a smirk.
“Yes, I do. I was your age once.”
“Dad always talks about how much carousing you guys did back then,” JD baited with a sly grin. This exchange with the head honcho would be good for a laugh with the guys back in the cellblock.

“Yes, and that’s a part of my life I’m not proud of,” the sheriff conceded.
“Yeah, the old man said you got religion and quit drinkin’,” JD said.
“Oh, really? What else did he say?”
“That it wasn’t the religion but really a woman that straightened you out.”
“Well, your daddy’s half right. But I didn’t get ‘religion.’ What I did get was a relationship with Jesus Christ. That’s what changed my life,” Buck said, gently. He leaned and laid his forearms on this desk. “Let me tell you, son, before that happened, I was goin’ in the same direction you’re headed.”
“Prison, right?” JD’s tone was oddly enthusiastic, as though he was looking forward to going.
“Well, yes. I probably would have ended up doing time, most likely in Eddyville. But what I meant was hell.”
The room went silent. A glint of fear flickered in JD’s eyes. “Yeah, well, some of the guys here say Eddyville is hell. But I can handle it.”
“Can you? You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Buck challenged. He looked the boy square in the eyes. “Listen, JD, prison isn’t county jail. Grown men have trouble coping in prison. Your parents love you and don’t want to see you end up there.” Buck leaned back in his seat, wanting the kid to think about it.
JD jumped to his feet. “No!” he shouted, pointing his finger at Buck. “All my daddy cares about is his bottle.”
Buck stood from his chair. “Sit down,” he ordered. JD plunked down and hung his head. “JD, the only thing that will change the direction you’re headed in is a relationship with Jesus Christ,” Buck said quietly.

The boy raised his eyes. “Preachers, churches and all that stuff ain’t for me.” He smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes, only defiance. “I like to party.”
Buck sighed as he headed to the door. “All right, then. You’ve got a few days to think about things before you go back to court. We’ll talk again.” He stuck his head through the doorway and called, “John!”
JD stood to his feet; his lip curled. “I’ll look forward to it,” he said with the kind of exaggerated sarcasm that comes from a child.
The jailer opened the door. “All done, Sheriff?”
“Yes, you can take him back.”
“Sure thing,” John said. The sheriff stood close by while John reattached JD’s restraints. “Okay, kid, let’s go.”
“I ain’t no kid, bub,” JD piped defiantly.
John bowed, sweeping his arm across his body. “Pardon me, m’lord. Shall we return to your royal domicile?” Buck stifled a laugh.
Glaring at the two of them, JD shuffled out. Despite the gravity of the boy’s situation, Buck couldn’t help but smile. JD had a long way to go. “Lord,” Buck prayed, “help that young man see his need for You.” He picked up the phone to call JD’s parents. It wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.
Back in the cellblock, the prisoners peppered JD with questions, the loudest and most intrusive coming from Rufus Laurence. Due to his not being very bright, the guys in the cellblock called him Rufus the dufus and made him the brunt of constant ridicule.
“So, whud the old goat want with ya, JD?” Rufus hollered over the others. Having always ended up on the short end of the stick, doing time in county jail and a couple of stints in prison, the middle-aged man was good-naturedly resigned to spending his life behind bars.

“Ahh, my old man wanted him to talk to me. Trying to get me on the ‘straight and narrow,’” JD mimicked, crooking his fingers in air quotes.
Rufus roared with laughter. “Buddy boy, you ain’t never been on no straight and narrow and your daddy is the biggest drunk I ever knowed.”
“Got that right,” JD muttered. He smirked while squelching the urge to stuff Rufus’s words down his throat.
JD passed the rest of the day strutting around the cellblock, bragging about how he resisted the sheriff’s pleas to straighten out. Yet that night, after lights out, he lay on his bunk with his mind whirling. Did he really want to end up like his father or, like Rufus, making jail his permanent home? Rufus didn’t let a day pass without boasting about how he was always in jail, on his way there, or had just been released. JD wondered if the man had a clue how dumb, he sounded. As for Harold Benson, he spent every dollar he could get a hold of on booze. In the fall, he’d go so far as to steal corn from his neighbors’ fields to make his own moonshine. When JD was 10, Benson let the boy help make white lightning. That was when JD got his first taste of liquor and, much to his detriment, liked it. A lot.
There was one man who didn’t take part in the inmates’ cocky hullaballoo session that afternoon. In his 60s, Chuck Koals had spent more than 20 years in the Kentucky State Penitentiary at Eddyville. What he was doing in the county jail JD didn’t know. For the most part the old man kept to himself. When he did speak, it was softly. He always carried a worn black Bible; which JD saw him reading several times that day.
Koals had arrived the previous afternoon, just in time for the evening meal. He took his tray and sat on his bunk with it balanced on his lap. JD noticed that Koals bowed his head before eating. The boy started to make a snide remark, but one of the men frowned at him, shook his head, and whispered, “You don’t want to mess with him.”

“Why, he got a disease or somethin’?” JD said more loudly than he intended. The elderly man looked up, his gaze puzzled but not threatening.
“Shhhhhhhh.” Rufus rasped. “Boy, that’s Chuck Koals. He’s the I-24 killer,”
JD looked at the convicted murderer with new respect and more than a little fear. “Yeah? So, what’s he doin’ in this little one-horse county jail?”
“Buck’s the one that caught him twenty-seven years ago in a shootout out on county 327. Sheriff’s bullet almost took him out, but Chuck pumped eight holes in Buck’s car before Buck brought him down.
Restless and unable to sleep, JD watched Chuck pace back and forth in front of the cells. Most jails locked the prisoners down at night. , Buck ordered the cell doors to remain unlocked, so the men had access to the bullpen. J.D. heard Koals seemed to be mumbling to himself. Maybe the guy was stir-crazy. JD had heard of that, people being in prison so long they lost touch with reality. Hearing Chuck’s footsteps approaching, JD shut his eyes. He listened as Chuck stopped at the door to his cell. He heard the former I-24 killer say softly: “And Lord, bring this young man to yourself. Don’t let him destroy the lives of those around him like I did.” He moved on to pray for the men in the next cell.
JD buried his face in the pillow. For the first time in a long time, wept.



Chapter 12

The next morning Rodney stuck his head through the sheriff’s open office door. “Old enemy, now friend, asked to see you.”
Buck looked up from his paperwork and smiled. “Yeah, I heard he was here. Have John bring him up.”
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Buck called as he rose to his feet and walked around the desk. Jailer John Nibbins opened the door and ushered in Chuck Koals. Smiling humbly, Chuck reached out his manacled hand. Buck shook it. “Have a seat, Chuck,” Buck said, gesturing to a guest chair. “You can take the cuffs off him, John.”
John hesitated. “You sure, Sheriff?”
Buck smiled. “Oh yeah, it’s okay. Chuck and I are old friends.”
“Hey now, Buck, who you calling old?” Chuck grinned and stuck out his arms. After removing the cuffs, John left, closing the door behind him.
“Chuck, how are things with you? Would you like a cup of coffee?” Buck asked as he refreshed his own cup.
“Sure, that would be great.”
Buck filled a mug, handed it to his old nemesis. He sat down in the other guest chair facing him. Chuck’s expression was reflective as he slowly sipped his coffee. After a lengthy stretch of silence, he said, “Buck, you did me a favor by shooting me. If you hadn’t, I don’t know how many more women I would have murdered. I was on my way to hell and didn’t even know it.” Chuck’s eyes became moist. “I know I can’t undo the damage I’ve done. Can’t bring them back. I pray every day for their families.”
Buck nodded and smiled with as much sympathy as he could muster. “How’s the ministry at Eddyville going?” he asked.
“Oh, great. Really great. We have a youth group that meets Sunday afternoons. And we have services Sunday mornings and Wednesday and Friday evenings. I lead the Sunday worship service,” Chuck told him, a mixture of pride and humility in his voice.
“How many show up for the youth service?” Buck asked.
“Oh, I’d say about fifty. ‘Course, attendance goes up and down depending on what football team is playing that day.” Chuck frowned. “Wish we could reach them before they go that route.”
“Me too,” Buck said. “If we could, if they would turn to Christ, it would go a long way to emptying the jails and prisons.”
“Yes sir. That’s why I’m here. Guess you heard the governor thinks it would be a good thing for high school kids to hear my story. My first assembly’s today, here at the high school.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea. But Chuck, don’t sugar coat it,” Buck said.
“No, Buck, I never do. They’ll get the full load, straight as I can make it,” Chuck promised. “I’m gonna talk plain and simple about Christ and how He’s changed my life.”
“Wonderful.” Buck rose from his chair. “Okay, I’ll have Rodney escort you to the school, and I’ll be praying.”
“It’s at one-thirty. You think you could be there, Buck?”
“I’d sure like to, Chuck, but I can’t promise.”
“Yeah, I heard you got a bad one on your hands. Is there anything I can do to help?” Chuck asked.
“I’ll let you know. Let’s have a word of prayer that God will bless your talk.”
“Sounds good.” The two men bowed their heads.



Chapter 13

That afternoon, Chuck stood at the entrance to the high school gym. In his dark blue suit, striped red tie and highly polished black shoes, he looked like he could be a bank president. Standing beside him, Rodney smiled at the line of teenagers filing past. Each one shook the former killer’s hand. A few of them asked when the murderer would arrive. Before Chuck could answer, Rodney said, “He’ll be along shortly.”
One boy swaggered in, his eyes searching the auditorium, and demanded, “Where is he? Where’s the serial killer?”
Chuck smiled graciously, leaned over and whispered in the kid’s ear, “We got him on ice. Don’t want him to escape.”
“I bet he’s an ugly-looking booger,” the kid said with a sneer.
“Well, I can tell you this, he’s about the most hideous looking convict I’ve ever seen,” Rodney, said with a straight face.
When the boy was out of earshot, Chuck leaned over to Rodney. “Thanks a lot.” He said with a grin.
Rodney put his hands to the sides as if he was smoothing a bed sheet. “Hey anything I can do to help.”
After all the students were seated, principal, Wayne Pitcher, called for quiet. “Almost twenty-eight years ago, before any of you were born, this state was terrorized by the slaughter of six women. The media dubbed the murderer the I-24 killer. For nearly two years, he eluded capture. Then one night while on patrol, our sheriff, Buck Olsen, came upon what he thought was a disabled car on County Road 327. The man driving the car was acting suspicious, so Buck asked him to open the trunk. The man pulled out a pistol and began shooting. Jumping behind his patrol car, Buck returned fire, wounding the man. He then subdued the suspect and called for an ambulance. Upon inspecting the vehicle, a young woman was discovered in the trunk, alive. She had suffered only superficial wounds. She later testified at her abductor’s trial.
“That man, Chuck Koals, was convicted of the murders of six women and the abduction of a seventh. Mr. Koals received three life sentences plus twenty years. He is currently serving his time in Eddyville state prison. Mr. Koals will never again walk the streets as a free man. It was deemed at that time he will never leave the confines of the penitentiary.”
The room was deathly silent. Several parents who had voiced concern over Koals’ appearing at the high school were in attendance. They looked around nervously, now even more convinced this had not been a good idea.
Mr. Pitcher continued. “Our school is the first to be selected to test a new program designed and implemented by our governor. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Chuck Koals the I-24, killer.”
Heads swiveled as Chuck walked confidently to the front of the gym. Muffled chatter could be heard as he mounted the steps to the stage. One male student was rewarded with nervous laughter when he yelled, “We wanted to see the killer, not the warden!”
Stepping to the podium, Chuck’s eyes swept over the crowd, silencing the young people. Leaning over the mike, he announced in a deep, low voice, “I was the I-24 killer.” Chilled, the students, teachers and parents stared in shocked silence at the distinguished-looking gray-haired man before them. Several looked around for the exits. Most of them would have mistaken Chuck for a prison official, not an inmate and certainly not a serial killer. But Chuck was about to do something publicly he resisted doing through hours of interrogation 27 years earlier.

“Everything your principal said is true. I was a monster. And for many years, I was the terror of interstate twenty-four. Yes, I murdered, with no regard for the families, friends or associates of my victims. All of them were women. Truth is, the more pain I could inflict on them, the more it satisfied my lust for blood.”
Not a person moved; some barely breathed. Some parents wanted to rush the stage and send this animal back to the dark hole from which he’d crept. Others, wondering why he was allowed to live, wished for a gun.
“Some might blame my childhood environment, yet I was raised in a Christian home by loving parents. My mother and father believed in God. They attended church every Sunday and were regulars at Wednesday night Bible studies. They followed both man’s and God’s laws to the letter. However, they allowed me to do whatever I pleased. If I did something wrong, I was spoken to, not punished. Therefore, although they loved me, they did me a great disservice. If I disobeyed in school, they took my part, no questions asked. In their eyes, my teachers and those in authority were always in the wrong. My parents never corrected me. I longed for restrictions and guidelines, but never got them.
“I became more and more rebellious. The older I got, the wilder I got. Hiding behind our garage, I smoked for the first time at the age of eight. I graduated to marijuana at ten and then went on to a progression of harder drugs. At twelve, I was completely out of control. I was the child your parents warned you about. I refused to attend church or school. Finally, at their wits’ end, my parents started locking both my bedroom door and theirs at night.”
He paused to take a sip of water. “But that didn’t stop me. I simply climbed out the window. After my father nailed it shut. I pried out the nails. If I went to school at all, I was drunk, high or nursing a hangover.

“I was convicted of six murders. However, I can tell you those were not all my kills.” A collective gasp went up from the audience. Chuck took another drink of water and a moment to gather himself.
“When I was fifteen, I dated a girl by the name of Nelly Yocum. You may have heard of her. On our third date, I murdered her and threw her body in the river because she refused to have sex with me. Over the next ten years, I murdered three more women. Those were in addition to the six whose murders I was convicted of. I have since confessed to these other murders and shown the authorities where the bodies were buried.”
Chuck paused, catching sight of Buck slipping in through the door to the auditorium. Standing by Rodney they silently, prayed the students would heed to Chuck’s next words.
“Eddyville State Prison can be a curse or a blessing. For the first five years, I made it a curse, fighting the officers and other inmates. I spent more time in segregation than I did in the cell block. Let me tell you, in seg you are totally alone. Unless there is trouble on the range, you see the officer every half hour. A range is a narrow row of cells with six prisoners. . The officer isn’t there to comfort you. He comes by to see if you’re still alive. If you see the chaplain, it’s because he’s come to tell you a loved one has died. Every day there was a living hell. I would sleep for twelve hours a day and the rest of my time I spent playing solitaire or engaging in some other worthless activity.”
Chuck paused. The next few minutes would be crucial to these young people. His eyes swept over the room, locking for a moment with those students he sensed were the troublemakers. Unless their direction changed, they were on their way to prison. His gaze made them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“One day I met an old man in the exercise yard. He was bent over and walked with a cane. His name was Albert Sanford. He was eighty. He’d been in prison since he was nineteen. He asked me a very important question, the same question I ask you today. ‘What is your life worth?’ I had all kinds of smart answers for him. That first time he just nodded and shuffled away. But anytime I met him in the yard, in the chow hall or the gym, he would ask me that some question. I started to avoid Albert. If I saw him coming, I turned and went the other way. I grew sick of the sight of him. I quit going to the gym, the exercise yard, and finally even the chow hall. I lost weight. I had no commissary. I existed mostly on soup other inmates would give me.
“I could avoid Albert Sanford, but I couldn’t avoid his question. It was burned into my heart and soul. What is your life worth? I thought about it. To the State of Kentucky, I was a number, just one of many prisoners to be locked up until I died of old age or was killed by another inmate. To my victims’ families, I was the cause of the brutal deaths of their loved ones. It would have been better for them if I had died in infancy. To my parents, I was a source of shame and embarrassment. To myself I was a monster. As I pondered my life, I hated the whole business so much I started thinking of ways to end it all. The idea of suicide filled my mind day and night. It would mean more shame for my family, but so be it. I couldn’t escape those thoughts running through my mind.
“One afternoon I was sitting on my bunk trying to concentrate on a novel my cellmate said was a page-turner. Not to me. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but that old man’s words. During the day, the cell doors were left open allowing the inmates access to the play games or work. A shadow fell across the page and I looked up to see Albert Sanford standing at my cell door. He smiled at me and asked, ‘What is your life worth?’

I started crying uncontrollably. It was as though a dam burst inside of me. Albert hobbled over and sat down on the bunk beside me. He didn’t say a word, just put his arm around me and waited. When I quieted down, he took a small New Testament from his pocket.” Chuck’s moist eyes swept the room. He smiled faintly. “That day, Albert Sanford showed me I was valuable in the sight of God and that He sent his Son to die on the cross for my sins.” Chuck paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “That day almost twenty years ago, I received Christ and began my life anew. For the next few years, Albert and I led a ministry for young inmates, many of whom left prison to lead productive lives. Ten years ago, my friend Albert died. Today I lead the ministry he started over forty years ago. This afternoon I want to ask you the question that changed my life. What is your life worth?”
Chuck stepped back from the podium. Coming back to the platform, Principal Pitcher dismissed the students to return to their classes. Subdued and wordless, the teenagers left the gym, followed by the adults. As they filed out, many were teary-eyed.
Chuck left the stage and walked to where Buck and Rodney waited. A visibly angry woman approached them. “I’ll have you know I was opposed to all this. My son is a good boy. He doesn’t need your dose of religion. I don’t believe a little prayer can turn a monster like you into a saint. I go to church and we don’t need serial killers telling us how to live. Show me one person besides yourself who changed from being a murderer!”
“I can do that, ma’am,” Chuck answered softly.
“Who?” she snapped, red-faced.
“The Apostle Paul,” Chuck said with a kindly smile.
She stared at him for a moment, then stomped off. When she was out of earshot, Buck said, “I know her son, and unless he listens to you or someone like you, he’ll need an Albert Sanford in a few years.”

“Was her boy here today?” Chuck asked.

“He’s the one who made the smart-alec remark on his way in,” Rodney said.



Chapter 14

Chuck Koals had made an impression on JD. He couldn’t stop thinking about Chuck’s compassionate, heartfelt concern for a kid he didn’t even know. Mistaking Chuck’s humbleness for weakness, some men in the cellblock took to mocking and ridiculing the former killer. Out of fear they’d come after him too, JD joined in. He felt no joy in ragging on the man. Chuck never retaliated, but with a sad expression just continued reading his Bible, praying, or engaging in other activities. Chuck wouldn’t be around long after his speech at the high school. It was time for the former serial killer to move on. There were many high schools in Kentucky.
At three that afternoon, two correctional officers showed up to transport Chuck to the next county. Before leaving, he stopped by JD’s cell and said, “I have something for you, son.”
“I ain’t your son,” JD sneered, his eyes on the floor.
“No, but it’s my responsibility to see that you know the truth.”
“Time to go, Chuck,” John prompted from the door to the cell block.

“Be right with you,” Chuck answered over his shoulder. He held a New Testament out to JD. The boy held up his hands in a negative gesture. “I don’t need no religion.”
“Nope, neither did I,” Chuck said. “But I sure needed a relationship with Jesus Christ.” Laying the New Testament on the bunk, he turned to go. “I’ll be praying for you, JD.”
“Thanks,” JD said, so softly that Chuck barely heard him.
“You’re welcome,” Chuck said just as quietly, then was gone.
JD picked up the novel he’d been reading. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching; he stuck the smaller New Testament inside the open novel and for the next two hours read the scriptures. Whenever one of the guys came to his door, he held up the novel while grasping the New Testament inside it and said, “Just gettin’ interesting.” He read all four gospels, then started on Acts, almost missing the evening meal. It wouldn’t have mattered. He had no appetite for food.
The next morning Buck entered the headquarters building with Bud on his leash, trotting alongside. Buck had considered leaving the dog home, but that would have caused many lonely hours for both of them. This investigation was consuming Buck’s days. Even though he knew Bertie would welcome Bud’s company, today Buck wanted the dog with him.
After the morning briefing, Buck laid an old blanket in the corner of his office. The dog looked quizzically at his master, then lay down on it. When Bud started snoring, Buck got up and began going over last night’s reports.
John knocked on his door. “Mornin’, Sheriff. JD would like to see you,” he said glancing at the dog. Raising his head, Bud yipped softly at the jailer. Bud’s tail beat on the floor. John grinned. “Hey, ol’ buddy.”
Rising from his bed the dog walked over to the jailer. John scratched Bud behind the ears. The dog grinned at him.

Buck said. “Isn’t JD’s court appearance today?”
“Yeah, nine o’clock,” John said straightening up. Bud returned to the old blanket and lay down.
Buck looked at his watch. There was time. “Okay, bring him up.”
“Want I should shackle him?”
“Nah, he’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“All right, I’ll get him.” John closed the door behind himself.
Five minutes later, John opened the door. Buck looked up. The change in JD was apparent. Rising to his feet, Bud stepped over to greet the boy. JD reached down and petted the dog. John stood in front of the door.
“You can go, John,” Buck said. “I’ll call you when we’re through.”
“You sure?” John asked, his face furrowed in a dubious frown.
“Yes. We’ll be all right.” He smiled at JD. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?”
“No sir.” JD’s tone was surprisingly congenial.
John left. Buck came around the desk and sat down in the chair across from the boy. JD was still petting Bud. The dog licked his hand.
“So, what happened?” Buck asked.
JD’s looked wide-eyed at the sheriff. “Is it that obvious something happened?”
“Yep,” Buck said smiling.
JD said reached for the Bible on Buck’s desk. “You mind?”
“Not at all. Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” JD said flipping through the pages. He stopped, ran his finger down the page, then began to read: “Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature, old things are passed away, behold, all things are become new.” He raised tear-filled eyes to Buck. “I’m that man.”
“Praise the Lord!” Buck exclaimed; his face lit up in a joyous smile.
Wiping his eyes, JD beamed.

JD shook his head slowly, as if the sense of peace and assurance overwhelmed him “Before he left yesterday, Chuck gave me a New Testament. I stayed up practically all night reading it. When I finally put it down, I couldn’t sleep. I knelt down by my bunk early this morning and asked Christ into my heart.”
Buck laid his hand on JD’s shoulder. “Son, that is the best news I’ve had in days,” he said through tears of his own.
“Sheriff, I’m going to court this morning and pleading guilty,” JD said softly.
“Why?” Buck asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from the boy.
“Because I am,” JD answered with a sad expression. He lifted his eyes. “Sir, do you remember when those cars along Main Street were broken into last summer?”
“Sure do,” Buck said, silently praying.
“I did it.” JD said.



Chapter 15

JD shifted uneasily on the hard courtroom bench while he waited with the other prisoners. His court-appointed lawyer had thrown up his hands in disgust and walked away. He had spent a good 15 minutes arguing with JD, trying to talk him out of it. Sitting on the other side of the room, JD’s daddy loudly called the boy a fool. JD glanced at the clock–five to nine. Where was Buck? Without the sheriff standing with him, JD didn’t know if he had the courage to confess to all the crimes he had committed over the years.
The double doors to the courtroom opened and Buck hurried in. Seeing him, the guy on JD’s right muttered, “Great, Boss Sheriff’s here.” He raised his fist and shouted, “Hey, Buck, you stupidol’–”
JD elbowed him hard in the mouth, knocking him off the bench and tipping it over. The rest of the prisoners sprawled like dominoes, falling over each other onto the floor. A fight erupted. Along with two deputies and the bailiff, Buck jumped into the middle of the fray, pulling the inmates apart and restoring order. A voice boomed over the courtroom. “What’s the meaning of this fighting in my courtroom?” JD looked up to see Judge Welford glaring at him.
“I don’t know, Your Honor, but we’ll get to the bottom of it,” Buck said as he plunked the last inmate back down on the bench.
The judge mounted the platform and sat down. “Yes, I’m sure you will.” He pointed a finger at JD. “Let’s have him first.”

The bailiff removed JD’s shackles and walked with him up the aisle to the bench. JD kept his head down.
“Young man, I want to know what this ruckus was about. I don’t tolerate fighting in my courtroom.”
“Jed insulted the sheriff,” JD said simply, still looking at the floor. “I couldn’t let him do that.”
“Oh, so I take it the sheriff’s a friend of yours?” Judge Welford plodded, leaning forward to look down at the prisoner. Buck noticed the twinkle in the judge’s eye. Maybe there was hope for JD yet.
“Yes, sir… er, well, I hope so.” JD looked up at Buck.
“Yes, Your Honor, yes I am.” Buck came forward and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We had a little talk this mornin’.”
Prosecutor Ben Horner stood from his seat and started forward. “If it please the court–”
“We’ll get to you in a minute, Mr. Horner,” Welford said.
“Your Honor, if I may remind you, this boy has been a thorn in the citizens of Beaufort County’s side for a very long time. I can’t see why–”
“Just hold your horses, Ben. I want to hear what Buck has to say. We’ll get back to you presently.” Horner sighed and returned to his seat.
In the meantime, JD took a paper from the pocket of his orange jumpsuit, smoothed it out as best he could, and handed it to Buck, who handed it to the bailiff who laid it on the judge’s bench.
“What’s this?” Judge Welford said, picking it up. JD paled as the judge began reading.
“That ain’t nothin’, Your Honor!” Harold Benson hollered from the gallery. He jumped to his feet and started down the aisle.

“You stop right there, Harold, and tell me, how many times have you stood where your boy is standing, now?” Welford demanded as the bailiff stepped between him and Harold.
Harold slid to a stop. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with me, Judge,” he said indignantly. In the seat next to the one Harold just vacated, Helen Benson sat ramrod straight, unmoving except for her eyes.
“I beg to differ, my friend,” Welford said with a note of condescension. “You raised him. You taught him. Now I have the unsavory task of dealing with the results.” Welford looked at JD’s paper while all eyes in the courtroom watched Harold squirm, the judge told him, “Now sit down and shut up.”
His face fire-engine red, Harold returned meekly to his seat. The judge glared at the couple for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to JD. Adjusting his glasses, he continued reading the paper. Once finished, he held it between his thumb and forefinger and waved it slightly. “Pray tell, young man, what is this?” He asked with a palpable tone of annoyance.
JD’s lawyer was on his feet. “Your Honor, I object.”
“To what, Mr. Knox? We haven’t ascertained if there’s anything for you to object to,” Judge Welford scolded. Knox’s mouth opened, and then closed. He sat down.
“If there are no more interruptions, I would like an answer to my question.” He shook the sheet of paper.
Fear and anxiety rendered JD speechless. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. He was about to confess to crimes only he knew of. Any one of them could send him to prison for several years. He silently said a quick prayer. Taking a deep breath, he said. “Those are all the crimes I committed in the last five years.” He waited, expecting the judge to explode. Welford looked at him, then reread the list.
“I see the first crime you list here was shoplifting from Morris’s Mart. You know, Mr. and Mrs. Morris work hard for their money and they provide a valuable service to the community.”

“Yes sir, I know. I am sorry. I’ll pay them back,” JD said, hanging his head.
“Yes, you will.” He held up the sheet. “Do you realize I could give you several years in prison for all of this?”
On his feet again, Knox chimed in. “He never signed that, Your Honor.”
“Oh, shut up, Knox.” Rising from his chair, the judge headed for the door to his chambers. “Everybody stay right where you are. I’ll be right back.”
A murmur went up from the gallery. JD turned to Buck. “What’s going on?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. Just hold on and we’ll see. Welford is a fair judge,” Buck answered in a hushed voice.
Harold Benson rose from his seat and approached JD. “Listen, son, when the judge comes back you tell him you made a mistake and ask him to give you that paper back.”
“Sit down, Harold,” Buck ordered, “unless you’d like to occupy the cell next to JD’s.”
Harold bristled. “You can’t do that. You don’t have the authority.”
“Oh, yes, he does. And so do I,” Judge Welford warned as he resumed the bench. He chuckled as Harold sneaked back to his seat.
The bailiff stepped in front of the bench. “All rise–”
“Never mind, Jim. I’m already here.” The judge turned his attention to JD. “Now I want to know if everything you wrote on this paper is true.”

JD hesitated. The judge was about to sentence him to several years in prison. His mind reeled. One thought came through loud and clear. All right. If that’s what the Lord wants, so be it. “Yes. Sir. I don’t think I left anything out.”

The judge hammered his gavel. “Adding everything up, it totals fifteen years in prison.”
JD’s heart pounded tears moistened his eyes. Maybe he like Koals could reach the young men like he was before coming to The Lord.
Helen’s silence broke with a long, low wail. Harold jumped to his feet. “Wait a minute, Welford. That ain’t right!”
“You’re in contempt, Benson. Bailiff, take Harold into custody,” Welford barked. Harold was led out, cussing and screaming.
“Yes!” the prosecutor shouted, pumping his fist in the air.
Welford shot him a stern look. “Shut up, Horner. I said it carried that much time, not that I was giving it to him. Buck, do you have room in your jail for this young man to spend the night for, say, the next six months?”
“Yes, sir, I believe I do,” Buck said, grinning. God was at work here.
The judge hammered his gavel. “JD Benson, I hereby sentence you to six months’ work release.” He held up JD’s list. “You’re going to go and apologize to every last person you wronged. And I have arranged for you to work at the auto parts store. You’re going to pay back every penny of the damages you caused.”
Feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, JD stammered, “Thank you, Your Honor. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Judge Welford said.
On his feet now, Horner shook his head in protest. “Your Honor, this is highly–”
The judge pointed his gavel at the prosecutor. “Mr. Horner, sit down. You’ll just have to accept that I’m taking Buck’s and JD’s word on this.” Horner slumped back down in his seat. Judge Welford smiled at the sheriff. “Now get him out of here, Buck. I’ve got some real criminals to deal with.”

“Yes, sir!” Buck said, smiling jubilantly. Some days it really was great to be the sheriff. He led the smiling boy past his weeping mother to jail.



Chapter 16

Alone in his home office with the door locked, the killer pored over his notes. He designated categories and placed them in chapters. It wasn’t right; it didn’t look right. He deleted the document and started over. He thought of naming each chapter for one of his victims, but discarded that idea. If he wrote a chapter for each woman it would result in too long of a book. Besides, he would publish the books under a pseudonym. Naming the victims in it would defeat the purpose.
He’d had a book published several years before. Still in print, but not doing well. It needed to be energized. His publisher wanted him to modernize it. He agreed, but had no idea how to do it. Each time he tried, he ended up with a jumbled, incoherent mess. Besides, the publisher knew him by another name.
Maybe that was because the book wasn’t his, but his college roommate’s. Wesley Eagar secretly wrote the book as a surprise for his parents’ 25th anniversary. His father a published author of a book about judicial procedures. Wesley’s book was on the same topic but written from a layman’s point of view. He kept it in his underwear drawer and added to it daily. Peering over the young man’s shoulder while Wesley typed on his computer, he envied the boy. Words came so easily to Wesley. Once a week Wesley gave him portions of his manuscript to critique. He waited until he knew the boy was in class or was away for a while then tried to imitate his style of writing. He always failed. His writing was monotone and slow-moving, while Wesley’s had a rhythm and flow. Seeing talent in his roommate that he didn’t possess, he became increasingly jealous of him.

When Wesley finally completed his manuscript, he suggested they go out and celebrate. Not given to imbibing, the boy promptly got drunk. While he pretended to match the Wesley’s drink-for-drink, he poured most of his in a potted plant. When they arrived back in their room, the discussion got around to rock climbing. He bet the Inebriated Wesley he couldn’t climb the outside wall of their dorm. The avid climbing enthusiast took the bet, bragging that he could scale any building provided he could get a toe or finger hold. In order to establish an alibi, he watched Wesley from the window. The boy made it all the way to the second floor before losing his grip and falling. He smiled as Wesley screamed and plummeted to the sidewalk below. Rushing out he was the first to arrive at the scene. Gripping his hand, the dying boy made him promise to give the manuscript to his parents. He gave Wesley his word, with no intention of keeping it. His plan had worked, now the book was his. He would give the parents a copy, but only after he published it under his pseudonym.
In the ensuing confusion, he sneaked back to the room, stole Wesley’s manuscript and hid it in the bottom drawer of his chest. At the funeral, he spoke comforting words to Wesley’s parents, telling them their son’s last words were of his love for his mother and father. The parents tearfully thanked him for befriending their son. They invited him to come visit them at their Kentucky estate. When they were gone, he locked the dorm room door and pulled out the manuscript. Looking it over, he realized it was a work of genius. With no one the wiser, he could claim it as his own. He retyped the first few pages, changing the name of the author and revising the forward and acknowledgements, leaving the rest exactly as Wesley wrote it. He put the manuscript away. When the school year was over, he took out the manuscript and read it again. Brilliant simply brilliant.

After checking out a copy of Literary Market Place from the library, he wrote several names and addresses of agents in the field about which Wesley had written. He sent copies of the book to five of them. Being unfamiliar with the publishing industry, he mailed the entire manuscript.
Surprisingly, he received responses from two of them. The book came out the following spring. Despite a slow start, after three months the book hit its stride. Although not a New York Times best-seller, it nevertheless garnered wide acceptance and good sales, providing him with a steady income for the next five years. Several times over the years, he sat at the computer determined to write a book equal to the one he stole. He failed each time. His writing was nothing but gibberish. Sadly, he could never equal Wesley’s writing.
Tonight, he collected his thoughts and typed them on the screen. He had noted the high points of his victims’ final minutes on his iPad. Consulting the notes as he typed, he stopped periodically to reread his text. None of it made sense, even to him. He became flustered. There was no flow, no rhyme, no reason to his words. His writing sounded too clinical, as though the subjects were lab rats rather than humans. He tried to improve it by cutting, pasting, and rewriting sentences. It only got worse. Finally, he deleted the whole manuscript and started over. At midnight, he gave up and went to bed.
His wife rolled over into his arms. “How’d the writing go?” she murmured against his chest.
“Wonderful,” he lied. “I should have this book finished in about six months.”
“I’d love you to read what you have to me in the morning.”
He chuckled. “Oh, hon, you know how it is with us artists. We don’t like to reveal a portrait until it’s completed.”
She tapped him on the chest. “Okay, mister. But I expect to be the first to read it once you’ve typed the last word. Promise?”

He grinned. “I promise. The day I finish it’s yours and yours alone,” he said, knowing he’d kill her well before that. “I swear, the writing will be so real you’ll feel as if you’re there.”
“I can’t wait. I know you’re a wonderful writer.”
Kissing her, he rolled over and fell asleep. During the night, they came to him. Once again, he saw Pinky’s smashed finger and heard her whiny pleas. Then it took on a different tone, one with a demanding quality. No longer tied to the wall, she rushed at him. He tried to run, but his feet were stuck in mud. Then everything changed. Now he was Pinky, and she was him. The steel rings and chains dug into his arms and legs. Garth Brooks’ voice sounded tinny, as if he was in a steel vat struggling to get out. He saw the puff of smoke from the small pistol Pinky carried. He flinched as the bullet entered his leg. The pain shocked his system; the calf of his leg felt like it was on fire. He jerked wildly,, but the chains held him. Suddenly, his fingers and toes began tingling. Sharp pains in them woke him. He bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. His wife moaned. He wondered if whatever she was dreaming troubled her, or if she sensed his restlessness. Not the first time he’d had this dream, but it was the first with Pinky.
He got out of bed and made his way to his office. Wide awake now, he began transferring the notes from his iPad to the computer, then printing them. With a new perspective, he typed several pages of narrative about Pinky’s life and death. Hearing a noise, he spun around to see his wife standing in the doorway with her hand covering her mouth.



Chapter 17

Trapped. She stood in the open doorway; her eyes wide with terror. He was sure she could read the first line. Wanting the book to have maximum impact, he was writing it in the first person. Thinking it would help him get in the mood, he opened with the line, “Carol Barber screamed with horror when she realized I was going to kill her.”
Yanking open the top drawer of the desk; he swept the notebooks into it. He had a fleeting thought of killing his wife. That thought was a frequent visitor. In the back of his mind, he knew it would eventually come to this. However, he was not ready to kill her yet. He wasn’t prepared for it. Something this close to him must be planned and executed down to the smallest detail.
He smiled at her. “Thought I’d try a little fiction to get in the writing groove.”
“Th… that girl you’re writing about her name is the same as the one on the news the other night,” she said, still staring at the screen.
“It is? Oh, how stupid of me,” he said in mock disbelief. “I must have subconsciously given my character her name.” Turning back to the keyboard, he struck a key and made the document disappear from the screen.
“No, honey, don’t do that. Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, stepping forward and touched his arm. He wanted to pull away from her, but didn’t. “I didn’t mean to ruin your story.” Her whiney, childlike voice irritated him.

“It’s not important. It was just a story to help me start writing. You know how I like to read thrillers and mysteries.”
“Don’t I know it. There must be a hundred paperbacks scattered around this house,” he teased.
“Actually, a hundred and three. I counted them the other day. I’m thinking of taking some of them to Goodwill.”
“No, don’t. I know you enjoy reading and rereading them. So much so that some of them even have their pages falling out.”
She giggled. “More than a few.”
There was a noise upstairs. She crossed the room. “Kids are up. I’ll close the door so they don’t disturb you.”
“That’s all right. Leave it open.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I don’t need to be cut off from my family. Sometimes I don’t think we spend enough time together.”
“I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.” She blew him a kiss and stepped out.
“Thanks, dear.” He turned back to the computer. He hadn’t deleted the document, only minimized it. He continued typing. His thoughts drifted back to his secret life before he met his wife. He’d concocted a story for her about his growing up in an orphanage, complete with documents he forged to back it up. Not only did she buy it, her parents did as well. What a break that was, a real boost to his career. He wouldn’t be where he was today without his father-in-law’s help. After their marriage, his father-in-law went to bat for him with the biggest real estate firm in the state.

He could hear his wife speaking to the children in their bedroom. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he described Pinky’s death. In his mind, he heard her screams and her pleas as she begged for her life. He relived the thrill of watching her breath her last as he tightened the rope around her neck. He envisioned her pleading expression through the plastic bag and her bulging eyes as they glazed over in death. The image shifted to her burial and the ritual he performed at each graveside. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment.
Shaking himself out of his revelry, he saved the document to a zip drive and shut down the computer. No use taking a chance on his wife or children seeing his work. They would learn soon enough the horror of the monster who was their father. He thought again of his wife.
So many times, after a kill, he had come to their bed to find her sleeping. Standing just inside the bedroom door, he’d pretend to be an intruder. He felt a thrill of being in the house without her knowing he was watching her. It would be so easy right now to take her life. On those nights, he could almost feel his hands encircling her throat. He flexed his fingers.
Not yet, he must prepare. He must have an airtight alibi. She would be the last to die. First, he would kill her mother and father right before her eyes. He would need to make sure the rope and chair were sturdy enough to hold a desperate mother. She would struggle to get free while he was murdering her parents, but that would be nothing compared to how she fought when he murdered the children. Finally, he would stand before her, his wife, the last remaining member of her clan.
Now, as he sat before the computer with the sounds of morning around him, a thought came to him that both shocked and thrilled him. If he taped a knife to her hand, he could take hold of her arm and force her to stab her own children. Imagine being killed by your own mother. He smiled, thinking of the horror and devastation on her face as she watched them die by her own hand. After that, she would welcome death.
A sound at the door made him whirl around in his chair. Fresh from sleep and still in their pajamas, the children ran to him and climbed into his lap. He tickled them. Their gales of laughter echoed through the house. He smiled. Yes, these children would die at the hands of their loving mother.

“Daddy, can we go fishing Saturday?” his son asked.
He smiled. “We’ll see. I may have to work.” He looked into the face of his soon to be dead son.
“Maybe we could have a cookout?” the little girl pleaded.
“Sure, we can at least have a cookout. Maybe we can grill some elephant burgers.” She squirmed and screamed laughter as he tickled her mercilessly. “Course, we’d have to convince the elephant to hop on the grill.”
“Daddy, you’re silly,” his boy giggled. “The elephant would crush the grill.”
“You think so?” he teased, scrunching up his face. Both children nodded their heads emphatically. “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to go with hamburgers.” He enfolded them both in a hug.
His wife appeared in the doorway, smiling at the loving scene before her. “Okay, kids, get yourselves dressed. The bus will be here soon.” The children charged up the stairs, their feet pounding.
“I’ll take them to school,” He offered.
“Are you sure it’s not out of your way?” his wife asked.
“No, it’s fine. But I may be late tonight. I have some things I must take care of.”
“Can you pick up a pizza on your way home?”
“Honey, when I say late, I mean late, like maybe nine or ten o’clock.” He stood and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’d really like to be here.”
“I know. I just miss you so much when you’re gone. And so do the children.”
“Tell you what. Let me make a couple of calls.” He held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “Then how about we go have breakfast at that new restaurant you been wanting to try?”
“That would be wonderful!” She hurried to get the children ready for school.



Chapter 18

Driving down the dirt lane, he scanned the woods and the lake that buffered the cabin. The only activity was a couple in a boat about a half mile away. He could just make out the two figures. They appeared to be fishing. From this distance, he couldn’t tell if they were men or women. The afternoon sun shimmering off the water gave a kind of sheen to everything around. Rolling down the window, he breathed in the fresh, clean air, something his victims would never do again. Humming a popular tune, he pulled onto the property and parked the truck in the garage. No sense in broadcasting he was there. Closing the overhead door, he stood listening for any sound that might indicate he wasn’t alone. He fingered the small automatic in his pocket. The pistol in the right hands was very effective. And his were the right hands.
The loon’s call from the lake mingled with the wind in the trees, and the muted songs of birds were the only sounds. He must be careful. If his family knew he was here, there would be questions he didn’t want to answer.
Satisfied he was alone; he entered the kitchen through the door adjoining the garage. With a combined kitchen, great room, three bedrooms, a bath and a half. The house was adequate without being overly large. The echo of his footsteps on the wood floor sounded hollow. With the air conditioning shut down, the house was uncomfortably warm. He didn’t bother to turn it on, though. It would be cool in the basement.

The A-frame cabin sat on the edge of the lake. There were only four other cabins around the lake’s perimeter. A hundred and twenty or thirdly acres of woods between each of them ensured complete privacy. The house and land were a wedding gift from his wife’s parents, along with a contract for maintenance with a local company. He looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated the front of the house. The sun glinted off the widows of his in-laws’ cabin a crossed the lake.
His father- and mother-in-law believed he was an upstanding individual and could often be heard bragging about him at their country club. He had them all snookered. If they knew who their son-in-law really was, if they knew the truth about the monster that lived in the same house with their daughter and grandchildren, they would burn this cabin down. He laughed. Yes, and with him in it.
Before the cabin was completed, he had planned his killing room, a secret room in the basement hidden from everyone’s view except his and his victims’. It was soundproof, so they could scream as much as they wanted. It was well stocked with the tools of his trade: saws, hammers, ice picks, knives, and several pistols and long guns. Working a little at a time, it took him six months to complete it. It was a grueling task–carrying out dirt, spreading it around and cleaning up the basement stairs and kitchen afterward.
His wife and children knew nothing of the room. In order to get to the door, the upright freezer had to be moved aside. The door itself appeared to be nothing more than access to a crawl space. If his wife only knew that on the evening, they celebrated their first-year anniversary, he had murdered a woman in that room. The victim died in the killing chamber directly under their bedroom. The night of their anniversary, he grilled chicken and served her in style. They shared a bottle of vintage wine. Hers was laced with sleeping pills. While she dozed in their bed, he went to the secret room and killed the woman he had abducted earlier in the day.

This afternoon he walked through the rooms, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Reaching the kitchen, he opened the door to the basement and descended the wooden steps. His life was becoming unbearable. He had played goody two-shoes for few years. It was wearing thin. While he faked a loving attachment to the children, he had no feeling for them. They were merely a means to an end, an end that was coming quickly.
It would be more difficult to disappear this time he could do it, but he needed a flawless plan. Maybe he could throw a party, invite the whole family, and create a scenario of being stalked by a killer. He could spatter some of his blood around the cabin to make them believe he was dead. It was a ruse he’d employed before. He would have to be careful. Something would have to be different this time. The sheriff of the county where this cabin was located could be fooled. But if he made a mistake, Buck Olsen would track him to the ends of the earth. He might have to kill Buck before he took care of the family. Risky, yes, but then he enjoyed courting the impossible. Of course, they would search for him as they had before. They would probably drag the lake, but that would take some time, time he could use to disappear.
He searched the house for any signs of intrusion. Finding nothing, he went to the upright freezer in the basement and rolled it to the side, revealing the small door in the concrete wall. Opening it, he crawled into the room and flipped on the bare bulb light. The smell of death still hung in the air. He had hosed down the room after he killed Pinky. Nevertheless, he was sure traces of her blood and the blood of the others still clung to the walls and floor. You couldn’t smash fingers and toes without blood escaping the body. Going to the gun cabinet, he inspected the weapons he accumulated over the years from untraceable sources. Some he acquired from criminals in the dark of night. Others were stolen. All had their serial numbers filed off. He lifted the AK47 and jacked the chamber. Well oiled, it worked fine. Two hundred rounds of ammunition for all the 47 should be more than enough. Then there were the two 9 MM Glocks with 100 rounds apiece and a BB gun.
He would seal this room before he killed the family. If the cops discovered his hidden room, they would know right away who the killer was. Of course, they would eventually, but by the time they did he would be long gone. With a new face and identity, they would never find him.
After placing all the guns except the BB pistol back in the cabinet, he carried it upstairs and set it on the kitchen counter. Going to the truck, he brought in the five pillows he purchased that afternoon at Wal-Mart. Back in the dining area of the kitchen, he propped one pillow in each of the five chairs. In his mind, he pictured the family settled around the table. The children would be seated on the left side, his wife and her mother on the right and her father-in-law at the head, facing him. He would make sure his father-in-law sat at the head of the table. It was his customary position, anyway.
He took a deep breath. He had done this before, but never in such a strategic fashion. He grabbed the pistol, stepped to the top of the basement stairs and stood in the open doorway. Opening the chamber, he poured in the BBs.
“I have a terrific surprise for you,” he said with a Cheshire cat smile. He could imagine their pleased expressions. He was forever springing surprises on them. Bringing the pistol from behind his back, he hesitated. Not because of any twinge of conscience, but he wanted to savor the look of stark terror on the pompous old windbag’s face. He shot the pillow representing his father-in-law and thought of how the cabin would be filled with the survivors’ screams. He might have to disable the children to keep them from escaping. Their shrieks of horror would be music to his ears. Playing the scene out in his mind, he tossed two pillows in the direction he judged they would run.

He hesitated again. Did he want to kill his wife or her mother first? He answered that question by shooting his mother-in-law’s pillow next. Having watched her parents be murdered right in front of her, his wife would be in shock, How would she react? What about the children, which one should he kill first? Would their mother try to stop him? In that case, he’d have to disable her. He didn’t want to kill her just yet, though. He wanted her last sight to be of her precious children dying. Come to think of it, he didn’t have to worry about them escaping. Before they came to the table, he’d lock the exit doors from the outside and get back in through the garage.
He thought of his plan to tape a knife to his wife’s hand and force her to stab her children.
In his mind he heard her screaming hysterically, as if in horrendous pain. At first, he would just wound the children to increase her pain. He could hear the boy’s high-pitched cries after he shot him in the leg and watched him drag himself across the floor, his tears mixing with his blood. Then the little girl, her mother’s darling. She’d be an easy target. What would their mother do? Would she try to go to their aid? He toyed with the idea of keeping her alive and torturing her as he did the other women. No, he couldn’t take the chance. He would kill them and be gone. It had to look like a home invasion with him, the victim of a kidnapping.
He had resolved all the questions. First, he would kill his wife’s father, then her mother, then shoot his wife in the legs to disable her. Terrified the children would have run for the doors seeking escape from this mad man. Finding them locked, they would try to hide behind furniture or under beds. Their wailing would make it easy for him to find them. Kill the boy first and then fire numerous shots into the girl. Arms, legs, torso, a final shot to the head. The main thing was for her mother to see them all die horribly. The knife taped to her hand? Maybe he would just disable the children. He would hold each child and make their mother stab them in the heart. Even if the children were dead, he could cause her pain by having her stab their lifeless bodies.
After he murdered her family, and with their bodies lying all around, he would tell her who he really was and about all the other people he killed. In his mind’s eye, he could see her expression of utter devastation. Finally, after giving her the kiss of death and before she bled out, he would look her in eyes as he delivered a bullet right between them. He trembled with excitement. It was as if they were already dead. Five kills in just a half hour.
The scene played out clearly in his mind: his wife pleading as she looked around at her dead family; her mother’s, father’s and children’s life’s blood pooling on the floor; her face contorted with shock and fear as she looked at this monster who just murdered her beloved family. In his mind, he smiled at her and shot her in the left arm, then the leg. “No… no… please don’t do this,” she would plead. “I thought you loved us,” she would sob. After making her arm immoveable, he would tape the knife in her hand. Mocking her, he would make her stab their limp bodies while she screamed and wailed. Then, with her setting there helplessly surrounded by the ruined bodies of her loved ones, he would take his time killing her. He would finally end it by giving her one last kiss, backing away and firing the killing shot to her head. With all of them dead, he would plant the evidence he brought with him, clean out the secret room, seal it and leave under the cover of darkness. Which strategy would he use? Either one was guaranteed to cause her the maximum pain.
Putting the gun away, he scooped picked up the BBs and took the pillows down to the secret room. After securing the hidden door and shoving the freezer back in place, he looked at his watch. Just enough time to make it home for pizza.



Chapter 19

Buck stared at the FBI files lying on his desk. He had studied them repeatedly. He was missing something, but what? Expanding their investigation, the FBI had detected three similar crimes reported in other states. However, no DNA, except for the families’, fingerprints and DNA were found at any of the scenes. There was nothing but the MO to link the killings. One by one, Buck pored over the files again.
In the first case, the body of 19-year-old Derrick Muller was still missing. His mother, Janice, and 16-year-old sister, Barbara, had been bludgeoned to death. The family lived in a small suburban home just outside Springfield, Ohio. Having seen no activity at the home for days, a neighbor called the local police department. Two officers were dispatched to the residence. Getting no response, they looked in the window. Seeing a pool of blood, they drew their weapons and tried the door. Finding it unlocked, they entered the home. The mother severely beaten lay at the bottom of the basement stairs. The girl appeared to have drowned in the bathtub. A clumsy attempt had been made to make their deaths look like a murder-suicide. They had been dead for several days.
The son was considered a suspect until the blood at the scene was tested and found to include him. It was splattered throughout the house. Forensics estimated there was over a pint. It appeared as though the young man had put up a terrific battle against his attacker or attackers. Pieces of his skin were found on several pieces of furniture. Only small items and cash were missing. The contents of the mother’s purse were scattered across the living room floor. Searchers were called in and used dogs to scour the woods and fields surrounding the house. An all-points bulletin was issued to law enforcement in Ohio and its surrounding states, yielding nothing. No leads and only a few unconfirmed sightings of the son over the years. The case had gone cold.
The report was dated 15 Years ago. Photos of the family of three smiled up at Buck. The father had passed away from cancer two years before the murders. Buck stared at the son. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He laid the file aside and opened the next folder.
With some variations, however this case was similar. The children, a boy and a girl, ages two and three. The mother 25. They lived in a suburb outside of Elkhart, Indiana. The step husband’s blood was found at the crime scene, but again, no body. As with the first case, the surrounding area was thoroughly searched, with no results. Buck compared the photo of this stepfather with that of the son from the first case. They could almost be brothers. As with the son’s in the first case, this father’s blood was found throughout the first-floor rooms of the house, but his body was never recovered. Also, in both cases, the fingers and toes of the victims had been crushed, probably with a hammer. Each of the bodies found had similar injuries.
Laying the photos on the desk, Buck opened the file of a family murdered in Alaska five years earlier. Taking out the family portrait, he placed it side by side with the others. His heart quickened. There it was again–all three men looked nearly identical. Picking up the phone, Buck called the FBI office in Louisville. When Chet Harrison picked up, Buck blurted, “I know who our killer is!”
“That’s great, Buck. How’d you figure it out?” Chet asked.
“From the information you sent me about the killings with the same MO. In the first one, the son’s body was never found. In the second and third, it’s the same with the stepfathers. All that’s left of them at the scenes is blood and some skin. The son in the first, the stepfather’s in the second and third” Buck took a deep breath. This was what he lived for, the reason he was in law enforcement. “Take a look at the photos of those men, Chet. They could be brothers. And the fingers and toes of all the victims we do have were smashed. That is, except for the first. He may have been escalating.”
“Got it,” Chet said as he pulled up the files on his computer. He whistled softly and swore under his breath. “How’d we miss this? You’re right, Buck. If they’re not the same person, they’re at least from the same gene pool. And all the women except for the mother and sister who suffered the same injuries. Good work, Buck. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Glad to do it. Let me know what you find, will you?”
“Absolutely. I’ll call the locals in those areas. We’ll compare the DNA and see. If the three men are one and the same. In the meantime, we’ll work up a composite of him as a possible suspect and send it out.” Hanging up, Buck poured himself a cup of coffee. Now if they could just find this guy, the case would be over. He sat down wearily at his desk.
How many had died at this killer’s hands? How many families had he destroyed? Finishing his coffee, he set down the cup and got up to go home. Stirring from his place in the corner, Bud followed. Closing his office door, Buck walked down the hallway with the dog plodding alongside. Pausing in the front office, he surveyed the room. Dusty was typing up an accident report. Dale had just booked a kid for possession. Normal activities for a sheriff’s department, if this was your idea of normal. Sticking his head through the dispatch office’s doorway, he said. “I’m going home, Bertie. Call me if anything comes up.”
Bertie swung around and looked at her boss. Buck’s bloodshot eyes and haggard, unshaven face spoke of the long hours he’d been putting in lately. “Okay. Get some rest, Buck. You need it.”
“Yes, mother,” he said, grinning.

“And get something decent to eat. Not that junk food you been wolfing down lately. Oh, wait a minute.” She hurried to the break room and returned with a plastic container. “Here, I brought you some of my vegetable beef soup.”
“Thank you, Bertie. That was thoughtful of you,” Buck said. “Call me if you need to. If I don’t answer right away, just let it ring.”
“Yep, I always do.”
Holding the soup in one hand and Bud’s leash in the other, Buck walked through the parking lot. The sky was overcast, the air muggy. It seemed to be about two seconds from raining. Jumping into the car, Bud hopped into the passenger seat. Stretching his neck toward the Tupperware bowl Buck was holding, the dog sniffed it. Before Buck could stop him, Bud’s tongue shot out and licked the cover. “Whoa, whoa, that’s mine! You’ll get yours,” Buck scolded teasingly as he ruffled the dog’s fur. Bud smiled at him. “Okay, you win. I’ll share,” Buck conceded.
They were a mile from home, the rain came, just a few drops on the windshield at first, then a deluge As they got closer to the house, it increased to a downpour. In the driveway, Buck and Bud sat in the car waiting for it to let up. Finally, thinking it wasn’t going to, Buck opened the door to make a run for it. He tugged on Bud’s leash. The dog stood up in the seat, then sat back down. “Come on, pup!” Buck shouted over the roar of the wind and rain. Water ran off his hat and trickled down his back. Within seconds, he was soaked. He kept pulling. Suddenly, the dog jumped out and made a mad dash for the porch. Caught off guard, the jerk of the charging dog’s tether yanked Buck forward. He let go of the leash, but the momentum drove him backward and he fell back against the patrol car. Slipping on the wet grass, Buck’s feet flew out from under him. Grabbing the bowl with both hands, Buck managed to save the soup as he plopped into a pool of water.

On the porch, out of the pouring rain, the dog grinned at him. Scrambling to his feet, Buck slammed the car door and stomped onto the porch. He gave the dog a stern look as he unlocked the kitchen door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did that deliberately.” The dog looked quizzically at him. “Well, go on in,” Buck said. “You’re just about dry. I’m the only one who’s soaked here.”
Buck shucked his drenched clothes off down to his underwear. Tossing them out onto the porch, he realized the door key was in his pants pocket. As he stuck his hand out through the screen door to grab them, he thought he heard a car coming down the road. Fumbling with the keys, he unlocked the inside door. Bud shot past, nearly knocking Buck down again. Inside, Buck looked out the window expecting to see an approaching vehicle. But the sound he heard was just the wind and rain. Relieved, Buck carried the soup into the kitchen and placed it in the refrigerator, his feet leaving wet spots on the linoleum. He retrieved his wet clothes from the porch and draped them over the kitchen chairs.
His cell phone rang. “Sheriff Olsen,” he answered as he opened the linen closet door and took out a fluffy bath towel.
“Dad, are you okay?” Buck’s daughter, Suzy, asked. “I called the center and Bertie said you went home.”
“Yes, honey. I’m fine, just wore out. Thought I’d take off a little early. How are you and Ted?”
Suzy and Ted almost cancelled their wedding when they learned of her mother’s prognosis. But Mattie would have none of it, so instead they moved the date. Mattie left the hospital to attend and then returned. She also insisted on coming home to, pass away two days later.
“Daddy.”
That one word sent a knife through Buck’s heart. He heard her crying softly. “Honey, what’s wrong?” He couldn’t imagine Todd treating her badly. Had they had a disagreement?

“Todd and I want you to be the first to know.” Suzy took a deep breath. “You’re going to be a grandfather.”
“Oh, Suzy, that is wonderful,” Buck said with a huge smile. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“The doctor said it’s too early to tell. Maybe in a few weeks.”
“Wow! My little girl is going to be a mother.” Despite his delight, Buck suddenly felt sad. “I just wish your mother could be here. I know she’d want to be there with you for the birth.”
“Yes. But I asked the Lord to tell her,” Suzy said, sniffling. “I believe He did.”
“So do I,” Buck agreed. “Have you told your brother?”
“He’s my next call.”
“Great. I know he’ll be excited. Give him my love.”
“I will, Dad,” Suzy said. “I’ll let you go now so you can get some rest.”
“I’m glad you called, honey. Take care of yourself and that new life. And give my best to Todd,” Buck said, still smiling.
“Bye, Dad.”
“Bye-bye, dear.”
After ending the call, Buck danced around the house in his wet underwear, waving the towel through the air like a cape. Bud chased him, prancing around and barking. Out of breath, Buck grabbed the dog’s head in both hands and shouted, “Grandpa! I’m going to be a grandpa!”
After filling Bud’s dog chow and water bowls, Buck ran hot water in the tub. Happy to put on something other than a uniform, he placed a clean pair of jeans and shirt on the stool beside it.
When the tub was three-quarters full, he eased himself into it and let out a groan. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. Taking his time, he shaved, scrubbed his hair and trimmed his nails. Draining out some water, he drew more hot, lay back and closed his eyes. Half dozing, he heard a sweet melody. There it was again, Mattie’s favorite song. He opened his eyes. The water had gone cold. Stepping out, he toweled himself off and picked up his phone. He was about to hit “Missed Calls” when it rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “Buck. Olsen,” he answered, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He turned away, thinking how ridiculous he looked.
“Better get some clothes on, Buck. Wouldn’t want you catch pneumonia now that the game’s begun,” the smarmy voice rasped.
Shocked, Buck grabbed a towel to cover himself and spun around. No one was there. He looked up, searching the four corners of the bathroom, but saw nothing resembling a camera or anything unfamiliar. Everything appeared to be in order. In the foliage a half a mile down the road, the killer lowered his binoculars.
“I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” Buck said, the words catching in his throat.
“I bet you have. But rest assured you’ll never find me.”
“Sure, we will. You know how good the FBI is at tracking down guys like you,” Buck countered, hoping the goad would keep the guy talking. Stepping into the bedroom, he punched the center’s’ number in on the landline, muted the volume and hit a code instructing a trace be put on his cell phone. Bertie complied immediately.
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“You’re Derrick Muller. You killed your mother and sister and spread your blood around to make it look like you were a victim too. You escaped and killed again,” Buck said. His voice was calm even as his heart sped up with the thrill of the chase. At least now, he knew who his quarry was.
There was silence on the other end. “Derrick, why don’t you tell me where you are and we’ll sit down and talk about this. I promise you’ll be safe, no one will harm you.” As much as Buck wanted to bring this guy in, he wouldn’t lie to do it.

There was a cynical laugh. “Yeah, I’ll run right over to your office. Buck Olsen, you are some piece of work. How about this, can you promise me I won’t go to prison?”
“Now, Derrick, you know I can’t make a promise like that. It would be impossible to keep,” Buck said, feeling his hold slipping away. “But we can get you some help.”
“Oh. So you think I’m psychotic?”
“I think anyone who kills needs help.”
“Buck, you old has-been, I may just have to kill you before this is all over,” the killer retorted with a snicker. Before Buck could reply, he was gone.
Buck called the office. “It came from a burner phone,” Bertie said. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right, I have an idea he’ll call again, and we’ll be ready for him.”



Chapter 20

After quickly dressing, Buck called the FBI in Louisville and asked for Agent Chet Harrison. “One moment, sir. I’ll see if he’s in. May I ask who’s calling?” the receptionist answered.
“Sheriff Buck Olsen.”
While waiting, Buck made a sweep of the house, with Bud following close behind. There was a click and Chet picked up. “Hey, Buck, how goes it?”
“Not real sure at the moment, Chet. I just had a call from our killer.” Buck heard Chet suck in his breath.
“Well, glory be. Guess you got under his skin somehow or other,” Chet said. He picked up a pen. “What did he have to say?” Buck told him. “So, then you think it was Derrick?”
“I’d bet on it,” Buck said.
“Well, no doubt if he called once he’ll call again. I’ll have my team setup your cell and home phones for a trace,” Chet said.
“My office already did that, Chet. He used a disposable phone.”
There was a pause as Chet scribbled some notes. “Oh. Well, we’ll set it up, anyway. Maybe he’ll slip up. Listen, ah, I found inforo about a doctor who criminals used to change their appearance. He died about three years ago. Murdered.
“You think Derrick’s may have been one of his patients?” Buck asked.
“Possibly. I’ll have our artists work up an age progression with what we have on Derrick now. To a certain extent, the software they use can detect changes made by plastic surgery, but it’s not an exact science. In any event, we’ll go ahead and enter all the information into VICAP and hope for the best. And I’ll fax and email a bulletin to all law enforcement. Hey, good work, Buck. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks,” Buck said, ending the call. Using the landline, he called his son and daughter and asked them to use that number or call the sheriff’s department if they wanted to get in touch.
“Dad, I’m going to take leave from school. Just for a week or two until you catch this guy,” Keith said, his voice tinged with worry.
“Do you remember the story I told you about catching baby pigs?” Buck said.
“Sure, Dad, but what’s that got to with this?” Keith asked.
“If you’re alone in a pen catching pigs and the momma sow comes after you, the only one you have to look out for is yourself,” Buck said.
“Dad, do you think this guy is going to come after you?” Keith said.
“I didn’t say that,” Buck said gently. “I just don’t want the wrong person to get shot.”
“I’m coming home,” Keith insisted. “I’m taking just a couple of classes right now and I have some vacation time from the hospital coming.”
“Son, I–”
Keith had hung up. Exasperated, Buck told the dog, “He’s ‘bout as stubborn as you.” Bud thumped his tail and grinned.
So they thought he was Derrick and that he had killed his mother and sister. How could they prove it? Derrick was long gone. And as were the other two men, they had become untraceable. On the run the night he disappeared; he was in a panic. They were looking for him everywhere. If they took him alive, he’d spend the rest of his life in prison.
He had dyed his hair and wore a fake beard until his own grew out. He was constantly on the move. Changing his appearance, he never stayed in one place more than a few months. After the murders in the lower states he travelled to Alaska, changed his name and married a local woman named Alice. He met in a bar one night. Homely, but she made good cover. She worked in the village as a dental assistant. She fell hard for this mysterious stranger. They were married within a couple of months. Six months later, she was pregnant with their son. She was deliriously happy about the baby. The night she told him, her cheeks shined, and there were tears in her eyes. She couldn’t stop smiling.
He was furious. It hadn’t taken long for him to become sick of the Alaska weather and this clinging, lovesick excuse for a wife. He planned to kill her and the kid in a couple of months and disappear. He quit his job at the local convenience store and went to work for a pipeline company far from their small village. He spent only a few days at home every two weeks. Alice complained that she never saw him. He explained that he had to make more money to cover the expense of having a child. He promised he would find work closer to home after the baby came. He had no such intention of doing so. Once the baby was born, Alice spent as much time as possible with it.
Two years after they married, he began planning his departure. It took several weeks for him to create a new persona. He began by opening an online account under an assumed name with a bank in Ohio. He bought a forged driver’s license and high school and college diplomas under the same name. He drafted an impressive résumé, not a word of it true, then contacted a mailing service and arranged to have it mailed to different companies the day after he would murder his wife and son.
His biggest obstacle would be transportation, but he found a way to get around it by getting chummy with the local criminal element. Through a friend of a friend and for a hefty price, he arranged for a way to disappear.
One evening in late November, he came home from his half month’s stint on the pipeline. After tossing his dirty work clothes in the hamper, he spent some time with Alice and playing with their 18-month-old son. He ate the special meal she cooked to celebrate his return. All during the preparations and the meal, she chattered on about Christmas. He just smiled and went along with whatever she said, knowing by Christmas she and the boy would be dead.
While she washed the dishes, he retrieved the pistol from the back of the closest. The serial numbers were filed off when he got it. According to the criminal source he bought it from, it had been used the year before in a convenience store robbery. The guy was doing time so it couldn’t be traced to him. How the gun got out of the evidence locker at the police station was a mystery, and he didn’t ask.
Listening to Alice singing to their son, he shoved loads into the magazine and returned to the kitchen. She turned to him. Her smile vanished when she saw the look on his face and the pistol in his hand. She tried to make a break for the nursery. He shot her in the leg. With an expression of horror and disbelief, she collapsed to the floor, screaming and pleading with him to spare her life. He shot again, missing her by inches. Bleeding and sobbing, she crawled a few feet before he put his foot on her back and flattened her face down. Pulling a hammer from his belt loop, he crushed her fingers, then turned her over and smashed her toes.
Leaving her there to scream, sob and beg, he sat in a kitchen chair and drank a cup of the special coffee she had brewed only minutes before. “You know, I’m going to miss this,” he said, holding up the cup. She looked at him with horror, her face shiny with tears. Shrieking with pain, “I’m going to have another cup of coffee before I kill our son.” He said smiling. “Please don’t do this he’s your flesh and blood.” She screaming shimming weakly across the linoleum floor toward the nursery. She got as far as the kitchen door before he fired the killing shot to the back of her head.
Stepping over her body, he looked outside to see if anyone may have heard the shots. The road in front of their house was empty. When they had started looking at homes, he told the realtor they liked seclusion. After seeing several houses, they settled on a small cabin in a stand of pine 30 miles from the dentist office, where his wife still worked. The closest neighbor was two miles away, far enough not to hear the shots from his Colt 22.
He was disappointed in his lack of forethought. He should have kept his wife alive to watch him murder the baby. He hesitated at the door to the nursery. He wasn’t as sure about killing the child as he was Alice. The little guy stood in his crib smiling at him, glad to see his daddy. Aiming the pistol at the child, he closed his eyes, turned his head and pulled the trigger. He missed, striking the wall to his son’s right. Pieces of pine paneling flew, hitting the baby in the face. He screamed and crawled to the other end of the crib. Pulling himself up, the baby tried to climb over the railing. Tears streamed down the child’s flushed cheeks. No more missed targets. Aiming between the baby’s eyes he fired. The impact propelled the little boy into the wall behind the crib. He bounced forward; his body bent double over the rail. Reloading, he fired four more times to make sure the child was dead. Picking up the bloody little body, he laid it in his mother’s arms. United in death. He kissed their bloody cheeks. He didn’t crush the baby’s fingers and toes. The child was dead and wouldn’t feel a thing.
He went through the house, the spattering the blood he had stored. When it was gone, he surveyed the scene. He wanted it to appear as if a gang of thugs had trashed the cabin looking for valuables.
“Toodle-do, dear family,” he chirped cheerily. Pulling on boots two sizes too big, he stepped outside through the kitchen door and locked it. Raising his foot, he kicked it until he splintered the frame and broke the lock. After walking through the house once more, he looked at his watch. Almost nine. He’d have to hurry.
He checked the bodies for any signs of life. Finding none, he exited through the front door, locking it behind him. As he walked toward the woods, it started to snow. A hundred yards away, he spotted a shadowy figure on an idling snowmobile. The man on the snowmobile wore a heavy jacket, gloves, and a ski mask. The driver didn’t look around when he jumped onto the back. Without a word, the man put the vehicle in gear and eased away. The killer looked back over his shoulder at his disappearing life. Dead in the house, his wife and son were dead to him. Keeping to the shadows, they glided across the newly fallen snow as effortlessly as the geese flew in the sky above.
Ten miles out, they came upon a piper cub sitting in a clearing with its motor humming. He jumped off the snowmobile and hurried to it, climbing into the passenger seat. He had barely clicked his seatbelt before the pilot taxied for a takeoff. In the air and climbing, they passed over the house. He saluted his dead wife and son and smiled, thinking of his future.
They flew through the night, landing at a small airport in the Chihuahua Desert in New Mexico. The pilot, who had spoken not one word during the flight, taxied to a darkened hangar. Sitting beside it was a late-model pickup. Silently, the pilot opened the passenger door, straightened up and stared straight ahead. He wanted to thank the pilot but didn’t think it would be appreciated. Saying nothing, he climbed out of the plane and walked to the truck. He glanced at the ignition. No key. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he watched the plane take off. The night grew still; the darkness closed in on him. Dozing, he saw the face of his dead son. The happy little boy was always so eager to see his father. The image of the baby changed to one of the child with blood smeared over what was left of his face. He tried to push it away. That was his past. Now he would start anew.
In the greyness of dawn, he spotted the key stuck in the visor. He started the engine and drove into the watery light.



Chapter 21

Buck sat in the dark on the front porch, his shotgun straddling his knees. He had turned off all the lights in the house before he settled in the rocker. Some of his neighbors had lights that illuminated their yards and barn lots. Buck felt they interfered with the natural beauty of the night. He always marveled at God’s creation. On clear nights he liked to sit out here and gaze at the stars. Tonight, the sky seemed peppered with them.
For the last few weeks, Buck had spent time at night looking up at Killer’s Knob. Now, with his cell phone in his pocket and Bud lying beside him, he stared up at the hill shimmering in the light of a full moon. What he expected to see he wasn’t sure. Some might believe the hill was evil, infested with ghosts and goblins. Buck knew it merely reflected the sin in men’s hearts. Evil could happen anywhere.
His son had come for a few days, that is until his father convinced him to go back to college. He had enjoyed Keith visit but knew if the killer came after him his son could be hurt or killed.
The FBI had informed Buck what he already knew, that Derrick’s call came from a burner phone. Chet assured him they weren’t trying to interfere, just help. However, with thousands of disposable phones sold every day in the United States, the possibility of identifying a purchaser was slim to none.
Buck felt an urgency in his heart. They had to stop this killer. It had been over a week since he called. When would he kill again? Derrick was playing a deadly game with Buck. But like all serial killers, he would get sloppy and make a mistake. Could Buck stop him before he took another life, before he devastated another family? Chet said they were sure it was Derrick who murdered his wife and baby son in Alaska. They were also certain he had had plastic surgery. The lab was testing the DNA to confirm their suspicions. With so many cases across the states, it would take time.
Several years ago, defrocked doctor Mark Santgens was found dead right after Derrick’s family in Alaska was murdered. Santgens had been stripped of his medical license in the state of Ohio, but that didn’t stop him from setting up shop in Columbus and performing plastic surgery. Word on the street was if you had enough money he would give you a new face. Criminals on the run who had availed themselves to Santgens’ services knew he was the one person who could ID them. Aware of the danger, the good doctor carried a handgun. It did him no good. Chet said they were sure Derrick killed the doctor after he gave him a new face.
One December night several years before, Columbus police received an anonymous call reporting a shooting. Responding, two officers discovered Santgens’ body lying in his makeshift surgical suite. He was shot twice, once in the heart and another to the head. His fingers and toes crushed. The medical examiner determined it had happened while he was still alive. Santgens murderer had cleaned out the place, leaving no evidence with which to identify a suspect. So Santgens’ medical career came to screeching to a halt compliments of his last patient. After a few months, the case went cold.
Seven days ago, the FBI placed bugging devices on Buck’s landline and cell phones. There had been no calls from Derrick. So tonight, Buck sat on his front porch waiting and watching the knob. He had no fear of detection hidden in the shadows from the light of the full moon. His only companions were a thermos of coffee and the dog at his feet. Besides his shotgun, a Winchester 30-30 leaned against the porch post. He wasn’t expecting Derrick to shoot at him, but was taking no chances.

Derrick was’t be the first one to try to take out the sheriff. The 12 Gauge would do for close work, although Buck didn’t intend for him to get that close. Truth be told, Buck was rather enjoying this deadly game of cat and mouse.
He had played this game before. The first time long ago when he was just a rookie sheriff. An old moonshiner by the name of Seff Goodwin let it be known he was looking to kill the new sheriff. Buck had made it his business to enforce the ordinance against moonshining that other sheriffs had ignored.
Buck located Seff’s still, chuckling at a sign nailed to a tree that warned, “Trespassers will be shot.” Seff put a few bullet holes in it to emphasize his point. No shots were fired that night, though. Seff took off as soon as he saw the sheriffs’ vehicles coming down the dirt road. Not to be deterred, Buck single-handedly busted up the still, pouring the corn whisky out on the ground. Then they questioned Seff’s wife and searched his cabin and the surrounding woods. Seeing the squalor of the cabin, Buck gave her a few dollars for food and left her alone. All they found the next day was the cold ashes of a fire where Seff had camped.
Two days later, Seff stole through the darkness of night to slip a note under Buck’s door. Seeing the slip of paper, Mattie bent over to pick it up. Her fingers just touched it when a bullet took out the front window. She screamed and dove to the floor. In the bathroom shaving, Buck cut himself. With his heart pounding, he raced into the living room. Seeing his wife on the floor, he was sure she was dead. Another bullet came through the broken window and hit the wall as Buck hit the floor. The children, toddlers in their cribs, cried out in fear. Buck sighed with relief when Mattie raised her head. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she told Buck, “You better get that man before he kills us all.”
“Yes, Ma’m, I intend to,” Buck answered. He placed his old billed cap on his walking stick and raised it up. Seff put a hole through it. Buck waited a few minutes and raised it again. Nothing. All was quiet. Chancing it, Buck stood up. No shots. Seff had run for the hills.
While Mattie comforted the children, Buck wiped the shaving cream off his face, put on his shirt and strapped on his gun. Calling in the deputies, they scoured the backcountry. Buck was coming down a hill in Hickory Hollow when a bullet struck the ground a foot to his left. He leaped behind a fallen tree and returned fire, not that he could see anything. Calling over the others, he instructed them to encircle the area from where the shots came, but to stay out of the line of fire.
Another bullet took a chunk of tree bark off right above Buck’s head. Some wood chips landed in his hair. His hat came off and fell to the ground. The next shot came closer, driving a splinter into Buck’s scalp. Still seeing nothing, Buck emptied his rifle toward the gunshots. Reloading, he pushed up his hat with a stick. He liked that hat. It had a shiny new badge on the front. But he would rather have holes in the hat than his hide. Silence. To the left, he heard his youngest deputy crunching through the underbrush. Somebody needed to take that boy aside and teach him how to walk in the woods. Buck felt wetness. Rubbing his fingers over the top of his head, they came away red. Wincing, he grasped the splinter and yanked it out. It was almost two inches long and blooded at the thin end. For some reason, he put that piece of wood in the pocket of his uniform shirt and later laid it on the mantel in the living room. It still lay there today. He radioed the men to hold their positions. After a half hour with no movement, Buck ventured out of his hiding place. Cautiously, with his rifle trained on the area where the shots came from, he slowly advanced. As he got closer, he saw the opening of a small cave. Turning on his flashlight, Buck crawled through the gap, followed by his slimmer deputies. A hundred yards in, they saw daylight from another opening.

Seff had gotten away again. Disgusted, Buck sent everyone home.
The next night after dark, Buck sneaked out to the barn. Taking up a position at the hay loft, he waited. He must have dozed off. Something woke him. Raising his head, he looked out. The light of the full moon streamed in through the loft door. Easing up to the side of the hay window, Buck stayed in the shadows. In the moonlight, he saw a bulky man crawling across the barn lot and then try to hide behind the well pump. Quietly, Buck climbed down to the floor of the barn. That afternoon he had oiled the hinges of the rear door. Stepping softly, he rounded the corner of the barn he came up behind the moonshiner. He was 50 feet away when Seff raised up and pointed a rifle at the house. “Sheff. you put a bullet in that house and I’ll put a bullet in you,” Buck shouted.
The moonshiner froze. Then, standing to his feet, threw down the rifle. “That. you, Sheriff? Now, you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?” Seff said, his voice almost cheerful.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Buck ordered, moving around to face the man. “You’re under arrest.” He started to read Seff his rights when Seff pulled a pistol from his belt. In the instant before Seff fired, Buck threw himself to the ground. The bullet passed over him and struck a counter post. Returning fire, Buck’s bullet hit Seff in the right thigh. Falling to the ground, Seff dropped the pistol and raised his hands. “All. right, all right! I’m done,” he shouted.
Mattie came out of the house and stood on the porch. “Call an ambulance and the office. Tell them I got him,” Buck shouted to her. She hurried back inside. Laying down his rifle, Buck knelt by the moonshiner and handcuffed him. “Now you gonna behave?” he barked.

“I don’t see as I got much of a choice,” Seff said, grinning.
“You’re a tough old coot, ain cha?” Buck said. Unfolding his pocketknife, he cut the man’s pants away from the wound.
Mattie came out of the house carrying a first aid kit. She carefully laid it down beside her husband and backed up. Seff looked up at her. “Hope I didn’t scare you when I shot out your winnder,” he said, smiling. He winced as Buck cleaned the wound.
Mattie snorted. “Scare me? Why if I’d a had a gun I’d-a shot you myself. Scared indeed.”
Seff roared with laughter. “Good thing Buck shot me stead’a you.”
Her face flaming, Mattie turned and stomped back to the house. For the next six months, Buck teased her by cradling an imagery rifle and shouting. “Seff, you old moonshiner, I got you in my sights.” One day as the joke was getting old. He said it again. Mattie’s face creaked into a smile. She pointed at Buck and said, “And don’t you forget it.” They both broke out in laughter.
As for Seff, he did 10 Years in Eddyville, then returned to farm the ground. The corn he planted went to market, not moonshine. He and Buck became good friends died a few years back. But before he died under Buck’s influence, he came to know Christ as his saviour. Tonight, sitting on the darkened porch, Buck smiled at the memory of Seff Goodwin.
How he missed Mattie–her smile, her laughter, her companionship. As they aged, they became comfortable together. Doing anything with his Mattie was a treat. A tear trickled down Buck’s cheek. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Within two minutes, he was asleep.
Buck woke with a start. It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was. Bud got up, stretched and wandered out into the yard. Standing, Buck raised his hands above his head and stretched. He yawned and said to the dog. “I’m gettin’ too old to stay up all night.” He picked up his rifle and turned toward the door when a twinkle of light caught his eye. He glanced at the illuminated dial on his watch: 2:23AM. There it was again. Someone was up on Killer’s Knob.
Grasping the dog by the collar, he led him through the house and down to the basement. “You stay here and be quiet,” he said, knowing Bud wouldn’t. As Buck closed the basement door behind him, the howling began. “That’s why you’re down there,” Buck murmured. He couldn’t stop Bud from barking, but down there at least the noise was muffled.
Buck called the office. Kyle Evert, the night dispatcher, picked up. “Sherriff’s office.
“Kyle, it’s Buck. Call the guys on their cell phones. Tell them we got somebody messing around on Killer’s Knob. Tell them no lights or sirens. Approach from the east, south and north. I’ll take the west. I’ll be walking from my house so tell ‘em not to shoot me.”
“Will do, Sheriff. You be careful, hear?”
“I will. Thanks.”
As he headed out the door, Buck laid the shotgun aside, opting for the.30-.30.Trudging through the weeds and brush, it took him10 minutes to reach the ridge. He came closer, slowing his pace and his breathing, he heard young-sounding voices. Hunching down just below the ridge, he waited a few minutes. Surely his guys were in place now.
Jacking a shell into the.30-.30’s chamber, Buck stood up. Two boys, no older than 10 or 12, had their backs to him. At the sound of the rifle, they froze. “You boys stay right where you are,” Buck said, his voice stern. A small fire burned in a hole in the ground. Three deputies stepped out of the darkness with their pistols trained on the boys.
“We didn’t mean no harm,” the smaller one said, his voice cracking.

“Yeah. We was just looking for ghosts. We ain’t got no guns or nothing,” the second boy said, sounding like he was ready to cry.
Buck lowered the rifle. The other deputies holstered their pistols. “Boys, do you realize you almost got shot?” Buck asked sternly. “There’s a serial killer on the loose around here.”
“We thought you’d be asleep,” the first boy said. His friend nodded.
“Well, you thought wrong,” Buck, snorted. “What are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”
“Lookin’ for ghosts.”
“Listen, son, this here is a crime scene,” Buck scolded. “Whose idea was it to dig the fire pit?” The first boy raised his hand. “Congratulations. Now you can put out that fire and fill in the hole. Dusty, when they’re finished, would you please take these young gentlemen home and tell their parents to keep an eye on them?” Buck said.
“With pleasure, Sheriff,” Dusty said grinning.
“Do you hafta tell our parents?” the second boy whined.
“Yup, we do,” Buck said.
“They’re gonna be so mad,” the first boy grumbled.
After dousing the fire and filling in the hole, the boys trudged off behind the deputies. They Hang their heads as if they were going to their execution.
Buck smiled. Ah, to be young and foolish. Back at home, he opened the basement door. Bud had quieted down to low whimpers. He sauntered up the stairs, and into the kitchen with his head held high with quiet dignity. Ignoring his master, he went to his water bowl and began lapping. When he was finished, Buck took him out. Back inside, Buck shucked off his clothes and climbed into bed. Bud stretched out on the floor.

“Come on Bud, get up here,” Buck coaxed. The dog huffed and closed his eyes. “All right, have it your way. I reckon you’ll get over your mad sooner or later.” Buck rolled over and closed his eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. A few minutes later, he felt the bed sag.
“Glad to have you aboard,” Buck said. Bud just sighed. Who could understand this man? Lock you in the basement and then invite you into his bed. Drifting off to sleep, the dog began to snore. “Wonderful,” Buck murmured, pulling the pillow around his ears. “Just wonderful.”




Chapter 22

The next morning around 10, Buck hauled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He pulled on his shirt and pants. Bud jumped off the bed. He stood wagging his tail and then licked Buck’s hand. Buck ruffled Bud’s fur and scratched his ears. “All is forgiven, huh? Until next time?” Bud looked up at his master and smiled. After making a pot of coffee and pouring a cup, Buck called the office.
“You’re not very popular with the juvenile set this morning,” Bertie told him.
“Parents complain?” Buck chuckled, taking a sip of coffee.
Bertie laughed. “Oh, no, no. On the contrary. Both boys’ parents called and thanked us for taking care of their young’uns. Seems they were supposed to be camping down by the bend at Fallen Creek. Both of ‘em got grounded for at least a week.”
“Good thing they can’t vote.”
Bertie laughed. “You got that right.”
Buck ended the call and was about to put the cell back in his pocket when it rang. “Okay, Bertie, what d’you forget to tell me?” Buck said smiling. She did this at least twice a week. “I’m fired? Please say yes so I can go fishing.”
“Fire you no. Kill you yes,” the raspy voice answered.
Buck quickly composed himself. “How are you doing, Derrick? Or would you prefer Bill or William?”
“Well, well, so you figured out my other identities.”
“Matter of fact, I know you went from Derrick Muller to William Platt to Bill Miller,” Buck said. “What should I call you now?”
“Call me hunter.”

“Okay, but what is your real name?” Buck asked. Maybe this killer would make just one mistake, one that would bring him down.
“Buck, you really are a crazy old coot. Let me explain the ground rules here.”
“I’m listening.”
“In the end, when it comes, it’s just you and me. No FBI, no deputies, no state police. You and I can use any weapon–rifle, pistol, shotgun or knife–we want.”
“Let’s do it right now,” Buck challenged. “I’m home alone, just me and the dog.”
“Rule number two: I decide the time and place.”
“All right. I’ll agree to those rules if you’ll agree to mine.”
“And what would those be, buckaroo?” Buck heard the hardness in Derrick’s voice.
“No more killing,” Buck answered. “Men, women, kids, babies–nobody. Nobody else dies at your hand. Agreed?”
“Buck, do you not know what I am? I’m a serial killer. Serial killers kill. So long, Buck. Watch your back.”
“Derrick, wait, let me ask you one question,” Buck said.
“I’m listening.”
“Why do you just kill women and babies? Don’t you have enough guts to come after a real man?” Buck’s voice didn’t quaver.
Silence. Heavy breathing.
“Come on Derrick, or Bill or William or whatever. Answer me. Lost your nerve?” Buck chided. “Shaking in your shoes right now?”
Silence.
“Come on. Prove to me you’re not the sniveling little coward I think you are. Be a man.” Buck’s tone was so harsh the dog began barking.
“I’m going to kill you, Buck Olsen” came the steely reply. “I swear I will kill you.”

“Bring it on, baby killer, any time you’re ready to face someone who won’t crawl away, you coward,” Buck snapped. If Buck could make him mad, the killer might lose control.
Ending the call abruptly, the hunter tossed the phone into the nearest trashcan. It still had about 100 minutes on it, but it didn’t matter. Tomorrow it would be in the landfill. He looked around to see if anyone noticed. No one, they were all too preoccupied with their own lives.
All, that is, except for Fred Baal. Fred was homeless, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t smart. In another life, he taught psychics at the local junior college. That was before the drugs took over. Now Fred lived under the South Elm Street Bridge in Louisville. Fred loved trashcans. You just never knew what you would find in them. People threw away all kinds of good stuff. Fred had watched the man talking on his cell phone on the opposite street corner. He didn’t have to worry about being seen. The good thing (if there is a good thing) about being homeless is that people don’t notice you.
Fred studied the man’s face. He seemed to be having an intense conversation. One fragment of Fred’s life still clung to him: he loved to draw. When the drugs weren’t dominating his life, Fred was quite the talented artist. These days, if he wasn’t high, he’d sketch portraits of people on the street. Children were his favorite subject. Their innocent faces made him think of angels.
Fred hunkered against the concrete building and kept watching the man on the phone. He noted the contours of his face, the angles and planes. What an interesting subject. The way the guy paced, the way he comported himself with such forcefulness. Fred watched the man spin on his heel, his eyes darting everywhere. He laughed, yet no humor reached his eyes. Suddenly the man finished the call, jerking the phone from his ear. Looking around, the killer’s eyes seemed to burn through Fred. As their eyes locked for a brief moment, Fred had a glimpse of what his momma used to call the face of the devil. The man turned away and threw the phone in a trashcan. Increasing his pace, he disappeared around the corner.
Fred waited. He found it best to do that. Sometimes people changed their minds about whatever they threw away and came back. A few people walked past the trash can, but no one seemed interested in it. From what he could see from across the street, the phone looked new. He’d have to get his hands on it to be sure. Moving nonchalantly, Fred walked to the corner and waited for the light, watching intently in case the man returned. He crossed and approached the trashcan, pausing as a police car drove by and stopped for the light. Fred could see the phone out of the corner of his eye. It was resting on a copy of yesterday’s newspaper. As the squad car proceeded on, Fred snatched the phone, scurried back across the street and ducked into the alley behind the building.
Crouching out of view behind a dumpster, he studied the phone. It still had the stickers on it, so it must be new. He had a fleeting thought of calling his ex-wife, but quickly dismissed it. She wouldn’t want to hear from her druggie ex-husband. Yet there was one thought he couldn’t rid himself of: drawing that man’s portrait. Maybe if Fred saw him again and offered the man the drawing he would pay him for it. Back under the bridge with traffic thundering overhead, Fred pulled out the sketch pad he’d retrieved from another trashcan and drew the man’s face from memory. That night Fred wound up in jail for possession. His sketchpad went with him.
At noon the next day, the man Buck knew as Derrick drove to the mall. Entering the complex, he made his way to the center court. Seated on a bench, he watched the people. They strolled past oblivious to him, each of them wrapped up in their own little world. He had read that authors like to people-watch. To study their expressions and body language to try to imagine what heartaches or joys they were experiencing. Were they happy, sad, or somewhere in-between? Was life difficult or going smoothly for them?

He, on the other hand, liked to imagine torturing them. Not children or men. They were just an irritation to him. Women, now that was his thing. Of course, the blonds were guilty of their crimes and deserved his wrath. They might not be aware of what offense they had committed, but he knew. They hid their guilt behind their made-up faces and Barbie doll hair, but they couldn’t hide it from him.
He looked beyond the crowd at the surrounding stores. A young sales clerk at the cosmetic counter of a small boutique caught his eye. Her blond hair and heart-shaped face made his heart speed up. A woman with two small children stopped to speak to the blond woman. She smiled sweetly as she dealt with the customer. The smile transformed her from attractive to beautiful. He was captivated as he watched her kneel and speak to the children. They responded with smiles and nods. He was intrigued, impressed, and extremely interested.
Did he dare approach her? Not now. Too much foot traffic. If he waited until night, could he do it? He took all his kills when they were alone. If he abducted her with others around, he’d be forced to kill them. That would be messy. His fingers caressed the small pistol in his jacket pocket He narrowed his eyes to slits. Pretending to be dozing, he watched her movements. She was fluid, graceful. She moved with confidence. The fantasy began to roll through his mind.,
He saw her in his basement, chained to the wall. He hadn’t yet begun to destroy her fingers and toes, but already she was sobbing and begging for her life. Her pleas were music to his ears. He picked up the hammer and held it in front of her face. “You know what this is for?”
He had to ask several times before she finally whimpered, “No,” her voice tinged with tears.

“It’s to hammer out your love,” he said as he grabbed the little finger of her left hand. With her arms fastened to the wall, she couldn’t stop him. He slammed the hammer down, crushing the finger and shattering the bone. Her screams bounced off the wall. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. Her sky-blue eyes were glazed with pain.
A satisfied smile played across his face. He must have her–if not today, soon.
“What are you smiling about?”
His eyes flew open. His wife stood before him, a smile curving her lips. Recovering quickly, he said, “I was just thinking I’m about to take the most beautiful woman in the world to lunch.”
“Uh-huh. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
She reached for his hand. He stood up and kissed her on the cheek, stifling his ever growing desire to kill her. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would be free of her and her brats. Then he ridded himself of her and the children he would start fresh with a new face and a new life. But for now, he had to play the game. “Where would you like to eat?” he asked, squeezing her hand.
“There’s a new place, just opened up last week,” she said. “The reviews say it’s super. Do you mind if we stop at that little shop over there first? I need a new lipstick.”
She led him over to the cosmetic shop. He had a hard time concealing his anger. This should not be happening. No connection. That was one of his most important, iron-clad rules. No connection with the women before he killed them. Of course, it was different with the women he married. It was inevitable that they would find out who he was, but he played the game to keep them in the dark as long as it was necessary. Right now it was still necessary for him to keep his wife in the dark.

“Hello. May I help you?” the blond said, her voice holding a musical lilt. Still holding his wife’s hand, he ground his teeth.
“Yes,” his wife said. “A friend told me she bought a new shade of lipstick here. A deep red.” She let go of his hand. He wanted to rub his damp palm on his pants but didn’t dare.
“This one? It just came in last week.” The clerk smiled sweetly. “Women are raving about it.”
“Oh yes, that’s it. I remember she showed me the case. So pretty black with the little jewels on it.” She pulled the cap from the case and twisted up the lipstick for a closer look. “I’ll take it,” she said.
“Would you like me wrap it? There’s no charge.” The sales girl smiled broadly, exposing a beautiful set of brilliant white teeth. She must use whitener, he thought. For a second, he imagined that mouth wide open, screaming in pain. His wife spoke, and the vision vanished.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll carry it with me.” She let out a little giggle. “I needed this. My husband wore out my last one.”
“Oh, and I think that shade of red will go very well with my navy-blue suit, don’t you?” he joked.
The girl kept smiling until she looked into his eyes. “Thank you for your purchase.” She handed the small bag to the wife, and then quickly turned away. Something about this man that made her shiver? She glanced at the couple as they left the shop hand in hand.



Chapter 23

Gail Coleman sighed. It had been a busy day at the cosmetics counter. She’d dealt with two particularly difficult customers and several more who simply couldn’t make up their minds. “My, there are so many wrinkle creams, aren’t there?” one elderly woman clucked. Despite the lady’s taking up so much of Gail’s time with her indecisiveness, Gail liked her. With her gray hair and rosy cheeks, she reminded Gail of her grandmother. She had just passed away last year. As she waited patiently while the elderly woman’s eyes flitted from one product to the next, Gail thought of the many joyful hours she spent at Granny’s house. Those were precious memories. They were interrupted by the woman picking up one jar after another and reading the ingredients aloud. Gail tried her best to explain the benefits of each one. It was her nature to be helpful and cheerful. She liked her customers, especially the older women. Sometimes, though, she was tempted to tell them the wrinkle cream wouldn’t help even if they applied the whole jarful with a trowel.
The lady finally settled on one. Gail felt guilty as she rang up the sale. The woman would be disappointed when the cream did nothing to erase the years from her face. Rummaging in her pocketbook, the lady took out her French purse and a gospel tract. Smiling, she invited Gail to her church. Gail thanked her and told her of the church she attended. For a next few minutes, they spoke of the Lord and what a difference He had made in their lives.

Finally, at 9 PM, Gail got ready to close the shop. Thank God tomorrow was her day off. Yes, tomorrow she would sleep in, and then maybe go shopping. She emptied the cash register and locked up. Ralph Stanley, the head of mall security, chattered on about his grandbaby as he walked Gail to the bank. Gail didn’t mind. She liked children and couldn’t wait to be married and have a few of her own. Still talking about his grandbaby’s first steps, Ralph walked Gail to her car. “Thanks, Ralph. Have a good night,” Gail said as she got into the driver’s seat, already thinking of a nice, relaxing bath.
“You bet,” Ralph said. His radio beeped. “Hey Ralph, just got a call about some hobo hanging around the north door.”
“Okay, Tony. I’m on it.” He tipped his hat to Gail and headed back to the building.
For a moment, Gail closed her eyes and smiled. She would sleep late tomorrow morning, then go shopping and take in a matinee if she felt like it. Being between boyfriends, she wasn’t restricted by someone else’s schedule. Inserting the key in the ignition, she twisted it. Nothing. Had she left the lights on? She didn’t think so. She tried it again, nothing. She glanced in her rear-view mirror. Ralph was just entering the mall.
He had stolen the van from a used car lot. It was old, rusty and according to the odometer had over 200,000 miles on it. Where it wasn’t peeling, the paint was faded and oxidized. However, the vehicle ran and would make the trip to the cabin and back. He found paperwork in the van that said it was slated to go to the scrap yard in a couple of days. By the time the cops figured out it was used in this girl’s kidnapping, it would be an unidentifiable hunk of metal. The tags came from a collection he kept hidden in the garage at the cabin. He had stolen them from parked vehicles and always made sure they were up to date. No use getting stopped for an expired plate.

He watched through the side-view mirror as the mall cop entered the building and disappeared from view. The parking lot was nearly deserted. She was trying the car again. Gail didn’t know much about the automotive mechanics. Removing the cable from the battery was all it took. He’d used that trick before.
He watched the pretty blond-haired girl get out of the car and walk toward the mall entrance. Now was the critical time. If something went wrong, he would lose her. After stealing the van, he had oiled the side door until it slid open with barely a whisper. He also moved the rear seats back are far as they would go.
Disguised as an elderly man, he had parked between Gail’s car and the mall. He was good at applying theatrical makeup; not a bit himself showed. By hacking into the DMV’s website and the boutique’s employment records, he’d found out her name and the make and model of her vehicle. He had parked five spaces to the right of her and kept the van running. Stepping out, he waited until she passed a few feet from him. Then, clutching his chest, he stumbled out of the van and onto the ground, moaning and curling himself into the fetal position.
Gail was a good girl with a good heart. A few months before, at the Red Cross, she had taken a course in CPR. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old man fall to the ground. She had heard the reports of the Bluegrass serial killer stalking young women in Kentucky and always took precautions aware of potential danger. Yet her compassion however would not allow her to ignore the plight of this elderly man.
Looking from him to the mall, Gail gave in to her instinct. Stepping to the elderly man’s side, she bent over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir, are you, all right?” Receiving no response, she knelt beside the killer. “I’m going to try to help you. Just stay calm, okay?” Rolling him on his back, she put her ear to his lips to see if he was breathing. Severe pain in the back of her head caused her to become unsteady. She wobbled on her knees and pitched forward. The world swam before her eyes. He hit her again, with less force this time. He didn’t want to kill her, not yet.
She crumpled face-first to the ground. Leaping to his feet, the Bluegrass killer slid open van’s side door. He scooped her up, shoved her into the back of the van, then slid the door closed. Jumping in behind the wheel, he slammed the van into gear. It took him fewer than 30 seconds from the time he struck her until he headed for the exit to the parking lot. He entered the flow of traffic going south of the mall.
Ralph Stanley was walking through the food court when he received another report. The homeless guy was gone, either that or the first report was bogus. He thought of Gail she fit perfectly the profile of the victims of The Blue Grass Killer. He turned and ran out the mall to the parking lot, He arrived just in time to see her being thrown into a van. He raced across the parking lot, his heart pounding. Realizing he couldn’t get there in time to intervene, he radioed Tony and told him to call the cops, that Gail had been abducted. As quickly as he could speak and still be clear, Ralph gave Tony a description of the van and repeated as much of the license plate number as he made out.
“Hang on, Ralph! I’ve got nine-one-one on the line now,” Tony yelled, breathing hard.
“Tell ‘em the van went south on Walnut!” Ralph hollered excitedly. If only he had waited until Gail left the parking lot. If only. He just hoped Gail remembered her training. As a prerequisite of employment at the mall, every new hire had to take four hours of personal protection training. They were taught what to do in case of a robbery, got a course in CPR and learned what to do in case they were taken hostage or abducted. Gail had been one of Ralph’s best pupils, asking questions and practicing the self-defense moves he taught. From the looks of it, though, she was unconscious when she was thrown into the van.

A police car screeched to a halt in front of the mall’s main entrance. Ralph rushed over to tell the officers what he had seen.
The killer forced himself to slow down. In the throes of an adrenaline rush, he wanted to speed. But he had to control his emotions. Too many criminals were caught because they sped away from the crime scene. He had his prize, and she was beautiful. In his mind he saw her bound with chains to the wall, weeping and confessing her sins. He stopped at the light and rolled down the window, breathing deeply of the night air. The light turned, and he rolled forward, steadily picking up speed. Flashing red and blue lights flew toward him on the opposite side of the four-lane highway. Travelling in the far inside lane, he sped up until the van was hidden by a semi on his left. The squad car passed, its sirens screaming.
Gail’s head hurt; she could feel the bump rising. She didn’t dare move. As soon as he hit her, she went down. She wanted him to believe he’ knocked her out. The disguise he wore was movie quality, but close up she saw it was fake. His youthful body type gave him away. She remembered a ruse that Ted Bundy used, where he pretended to be disabled.
What was it Ralph said? “Anything can be used as a weapon. Look around and see what you can find to defend yourself with.” Gail took Ralph’s words to heart. Some girls in the class joked about being kidnapped by a handsome man, but to Gail it was serious business. What she learned in that class could now save her life someday.
Now opening her eyes to slits, she looked around without turning her head. Gail thought of her mother. Widowed for the last few years. What would her mother do if this man killed her only child? She had no doubt this was the man in the news. This was the one who killed all those women. She was in the clutches of The Bluegrass killer, but she had no intention of being his next victim.

An old, rusty jack handle lay within her reach. With her eyes on the back of his head, she inched her hand toward it. Praying he hadn’t locked the side door, she waited. The street lights flashing by allowed her to see the interior of the old van. The dim light gave her glances. A musty odor pricked her nose. The torn carpet was filthy with mouse droppings and just plain dirt. She concentrated on the back of his head. Longish hair, not his own. Would it cushion a blow too much to knock him out? He was going to kill her. She would go down fighting.
The van slowed down. Gail detected the red glow of stoplight just ahead. This was her chance, possibly her only one. She tensed, knowing that if the side door was locked, he would kill her. She pushed the thought of death to the back of her mind.
One time when Gail was six, she got into an argument with a boy in her class. She got so mad she hauled off and socked him in the stomach. The blow wasn’t hard enough to seriously hurt him, but she cried for hours afterward. She vowed to never again hurt another human being. But this was no childhood squabble. This was life or death.
With one last prayer, Gail lunged for the jack handle, grabbed it and swung with all her strength. Hearing a commotion, The Bluegrass killer swiveled his head to look back at his captive. The handle smashed dizzyingly against the bridge of his nose. His head crashed into the side window and bounced off. Stunned, he let out a yelp. The world swirled around him. He sensed the handle coming again. He threw up his arm, only to be rewarded with a crushing blow to his wrist. He twisted in his seat to confront her. She smacked the handle into the side of his head again . He reached out to grab the jack handle, but she was too quick. His hands closed on empty air. The side door slid open. There was a rush of air and she was gone, running and screaming across four lanes of blessedly slow-moving traffic. He started to open the driver’s door. People were stopping. He had to get out of this area and dump the van. She ran up to a couple in a red car and pointed at the van.
Her description of him would have the cops going in circles. But if they caught him in the van, he was dead. He floored the accelerator. No time for caution now. He had to put distance between himself and the girl. The light had turned red again. He barely missed a green Ford. The driver blew his horn. Three. blocks away, he slowed down. He fingered the 9-mm lying on the seat beside him. If the cops stopped him, he’d have no choice. If it came down to it, he’d die on the street, not in a prison. He wouldn’t be caged up like some lab rat.
Sirens howled from every direction. No time to get the van back to the car lot. If the cops stopped him, it was all over. He had to dump this van some place where it would take them time to find it. Turning into an alley, he slowed to a stop and shut off the lights. Two cop cars roared past on the street behind him. Even though he was wearing gloves, he wouldn’t take any chances. Grabbing a rag off the floor, he wiped down every place he might have touched. He’d take the jack handle with him. He knew they had DNA from his other killings, but he wouldn’t help them make the connection.
He was at the back of the van removing the license plate when he heard, “Hey, you no can park here.” He stood up to see a Chinese man standing beside a dumpster 15 feet away. Two bags of trash lay at his feet. “You park somewhere else. This my restaurant. Delivery trucks not get through you park here.”
The man the law knew as Derrick hated shooting his victims. He liked kill with his hands. That way he could feel the life flowing from their bodies. But this guy was a liability. He pulled the Glock from his belt. The sight of the pistol terrified the Chinese man. His eyes widened. With a shriek, he spun around and started running. Derrick fired. The first bullet creased the man’s head, striking the wall of the restaurant. The restaurant owner grabbed the side of his head and stumbled to the back door. He reached for the doorknob. Derrick’s second shot was dead center, tearing off part of the man’s head. The shots resounded in the alley. They echoed jarringly off the walls of the buildings.
Grabbing the tags he had taken off the van, he ran down the alley. A door opened behind him. He rounded the corner just as a woman screamed. Keeping to the shadows, he made it the five blocks to his truck. Plunking into the driver’s seat, he forced himself to slow his breathing. He had to get his anger under control. Except for his older sister, Gail was the only woman he’d been unable to control.
Tearing off his facial disguise, he threw it in the back. The mask had helped him escape most of the injury, but he knew that jack handle still left a mark. He chanced turning on the dome light. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he saw he had suffered two cuts, one on his nose and a smaller one on his forehead. Both were turning purple. How was he going to explain these wounds to his wife? Walked into a wall, fell, what? He’d think of something. His fingers touched his forehead and came away sticky with blood. He dared not go home like this. He switched off the light and lay down in the seat as another blaring cruiser passed with an ambulance right behind. He started the truck and drove away. Maybe it was time to disappear again. He’d think of a plan on the way home.



Chapter 24

Chet called Buck at 10:15 that night “Buck, we have a surviving victim.”
“How’d that happen?” Buck asked. He had just gotten into bed but, hearing that, he bolted upright and threw on his pants and shirt while the FBI agent told him what they knew.
“Isn’t that great. Brave girl. How’s she doing?” Buck asked, cradling the cell phone between his neck and shoulder. He grabbed his gun belt and buckled it on.
“It took guts all right. Afterward she was scared to death, shaking like a leaf. Other than that, she’s okay, I think,” Chet said. “She’s at the hospital getting checked out. But she insisted on telling us what happened before we took her. Evidently, she’s had some self-defense training. We’ve got a couple of agents with her. They’ll bring her to headquarters when the docs are finished so we can question her further.”
“Did you get a description of him and the vehicle, Chet?”
“Old white van, ninety-eight Dodge Caravan. My guys found it in an alley a dozen blocks from where she escaped. No tags. She said he was disguised as an old man, but she gave a pretty thorough description of his body type. Sounded like a match to Derrick to us. Buck, he killed a man who confronted him in the alleyway. Owner of a Chinese restaurant.”
“He’s coming apart,” Buck said reflectively
“That’s what we’re thinking,” Chet agreed. “The consensus here is that he may head for your county. Back to where he buried his victims. I’ll email you the transcript of her description and any other information we get overnight.”

“Good. Thanks,” Buck said. “I’ll put my guys on alert and setup observation points. If he comes into Beaufort county, we’ll get him.”
“Hey, listen, Buck. Be careful. Our profilers say he won’t be taken alive. And I agree with them,” Chet said.
“Yup, I’d say that’s right.”
Buck’s next call was to dispatch, wherein he warned his deputies not to take any chances. By eleven o’clock, Buck was on patrol along with his full complement of officers.
After being discharged from the hospital, Gail was escorted by the two agents to FBI headquarters. Upon their arrival, Chet had them take her to the employees’ lounge, where a female tech was setting up a laptop on the conference table. She introduced herself to Gail, who immediately forgot her name. That embarrassed her. Any other time she could recall a customer’s name, even if she only met them once.
Gail’s hands were still shaking. When she thought how close she came to dying. She trembled her heart racing. She had to concentrate on her breathing to keep from hyperventilating. The agents left her alone for a while to collect her thoughts. She’d been given a mild sedative at the hospital. Once it took full effect, she was able to answer all their questions. Several calls to Gail’s mother went unanswered. Saying nothing about it to Gail, Chet pulled the two agents aside and dispatched them to the mother’s address to do a welfare check.
Meanwhile, the tech used the laptop to draw a composite of the suspect from Gail’s description. Gail sat with her eyes closed and did her best to recount every detail. Even so, the tech feared that, because of his disguise, the drawing would be severely inaccurate. But when she finally turned the screen around, Gail drew an audible breath, tears sprang to her eyes. “That’s him!” she gasped. “At least that’s exactly what he looked like with the disguise.” She leaned back in the chair and covered her eyes with her hands. The tech was dismissed with orders to have the rendering sent to all law enforcement in the Kentucky and Indiana areas.
Chet sat down next to Gail. “How are you doing?” He asked gently. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Gail’s answer came in the form of a heaving sob. She had held herself together during the questioning and the hour it took to sketch her assailant. Mentally reliving the incident, she shook violently. The horror of how close she came to being tortured and murdered would not leave her. The Bluegrass killer had murdered several women and unless they caught him, he would kill again. She was the only one of The Bluegrass Killer’s victims to survive. Gail felt as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
Handing her some tissues, Chet took both of Gail’s hands in his. His hands were warm, a connection with a kind human being who would do whatever was necessary to protect her, even if it meant giving his life for her. Chet waited for the torrent of tears to stop. She took her hands from his, wiped her eyes, blew her nose and smiled at him. “Sorry,” she said, her voice still trembling. She wanted to ask for her mother but felt she would sound childish.
“No, that’s quite all right. You’ve been through a lot,” Chet said with a gentle smile. Going to a small refrigerator he gave her a bottle of water.
Gail uncapped the bottle took a sip. She looked up at him with red, tired eyes. “He… he… would have killed me, wouldn’t he?”
Chet decided not to sugar coat the answer. She deserved the truth. “Yes, if he is who we believe he is, he would have.” His cell phone rang. He listened for a few seconds. “Forensics is checking it out? Good. Let me know as soon as you find something.” He listened for a few more seconds. “Okay, then. Thanks.”

“They’re going over the van,” he told Gail. “Do you feel up to looking at some photos of the vehicle?”
“Yes, yes, anything I can do to help you find him,” she said, almost adding “before he kills again,” but didn’t. The thought had occurred to her that he may have kidnapped another girl after she escaped.
Stepping over to the printer, Chet attached his cell phone to it with a small cable. A few minutes later he returned with several print-outs and laid them face down on the table. “Take your time,” he told Gail. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Taking a deep breath, Gail reached for the top print. Her fingers hesitated; she lifted a corner of the sheet and let it drop. Silently, Chet watched her. He had been through this often enough to know how this was affecting her. Finally, her face set with determination, Gail grasped the sheet and flipped it over. After the initial shock of seeing that could have well become her death trap She looked at the rest of the photos. There were shots of both the van’s exterior and interior from all angles. “Yes, yes that’s it,” she said in a quavering whisper. She pushed the photos across the table to Chet, willing her hands in vain to stop shaking.
Chet wasted no time contacting the CSI team working on the van. “I have positive ID on that vehicle. Let me know anything and everything you find,” he instructed.
An agent stuck his head into the room. “Excuse me. A woman who says she’s Miss Coleman’s mother is here.
“Mom?” Gail cried, jumping to her feet and turning to the door. An older version of Gail stepped in. Mother and daughter flew into each other’s arms, hugging and weeping.
“Oh, my precious girl. Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” Mrs. Coleman asked, a soft moan in her voice. She stroked Gail’s hair and searched her eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I was out and didn’t know my cell phone was dead until I got home.”

“It’s okay, Mom. You’re here now. No, he didn’t hurt me. I just have a little bump on my head. I’m fine, just shaken up,” Gail said in the best reassuring a tone as she could muster. They sat down and continued to hold each other.
Chet excused himself and called Buck. When he came back, he set down and faced the two women.
“Mrs. Coleman, we’re going to put Gail under twenty-four-hour protection,” Chet said. “We’ll have at least one agent assigned to her until this guy is caught.”
“So, you think Gail’s still in danger?” Mrs. Coleman asked her voice fearful.
Chet hesitated. They had to know the truth. It could save their lives. “Mrs. Coleman, Gail is the only one abducted by this Bluegrass killer to survive. She’s a threat to him.”
“But…but don’t forget, he was wearing a disguise. I wouldn’t know him if I passed him on the street,” Gail said with tears in her voice.
“I realize that, Gail. But we can’t assume he won’t come after you. He’s a desperate killer, and if he thinks there’s a possibility, you can ID him… well,” Chet said, spreading out his hands.
“How long are we going to have deal with this?” Gail asked, her voice tinged with exhaustion and irritation.
“Yes, Agent, how long?” Mrs. Coleman pressed.
“I wish I could give you a time frame. However, at this point it would just be a guess,” Chet answered softly. “I promise you, though; we will do everything we can in our power to protect your daughter. As I said, Gail, this man is a ruthless killer. If he thinks you can ID him, he may try to eliminate that threat.” After assuring the women he and his agents would do all they could to catch the abductor, Chet assigned an agent to transport Gail and her mother to a safe house.



Chapter 25

Buck drove around for several hours, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Whether scheduled to be on or not, every one of his deputies was on duty and on alert. Hidden at the entrance of every highway entering the county, they waited and watched. Buck’s idea was that if Derrick ventured inside the Beaufort County line, they had a good chance of nabbing him. They could trap him in an ever-tightening circle.
“Buck, we may be chasing a ghost. How do we find him when we don’t know what he looks like?” Rodney had asked.
“I know, I know,” Buck sighed. “We may be chasing our tails. Just keep your eyes open for any suspicious activity.”
Throughout the night, several vehicles were stopped, resulting in two DUI arrests and one for drug possession. The deputies were armed with two sketches of The Bluegrass Killer, one in disguise and the other, based on his facial contours as Gail could recall, what he might really look like.
A little after 2 AM, Buck had just keyed his mike to tell the guys to pack it in when a car sped past his concealed location on River Road. The driver was doing 89 in a 55. Buck hit the lights and siren and swung in behind the late model Chevy Malibu. The car, a bright lipstick red decked out with chrome. It reflected Buck’s light bar with a nearly blinding intensity. The Malibu ran for a few miles and then slowed to a stop at the side of the road.
Buck called in the tag number and stepped out of his patrol car. As Buck approached the driver, a kid of no more than 17, eyes darted from rear view to the side mirror. Just as Buck reached the Malibu’s rear panel, the teen slammed it into gear and floored it. The car exploded in a burst of speed. Spinning on his heel, Buck sprinted back to his patrol car.

His radio beeped. “Buck, that car was stolen off the Gold River lot a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh, no, not tonight,” Buck said breathlessly. Jumping into the patrol car, he clicked his seat belt and hit the lights and siren. The kid was half a mile away and moving fast. Buck rammed the patrol car up to 70 and keyed the mike. “Dispatch, we got a runner. That red Chevy Malibu is heading south on River Road doing about 90. Send all available units. We need to box him in before he leaves the county.”
“Will do, Buck. Be careful. Dusty’s coming right at you. Should be there in a couple of minutes.”
Buck jammed down the accelerator until he was doing 110 and gaining on the Chevy. He saw flashing blue and red lights ahead. Help was here. Dusty was a good driver, if a little too aggressive. The bridge over the river loomed ahead. They had him. Nearing the bridge, the kid slowed down to 50, then 45. Buck glanced at the dashboard clock. “Three minutes,” he murmured. “That was a short chase.”
The Chevy’s brake lights flashed. Buck was closing on him too fast. He slammed on his brakes, sliding. Dusty was almost on top of them. On the other side of the bridge, Buck saw more light bars. “Here comes the cavalry,” he said to himself.
They were doing 40. If the boy didn’t stop, he and Dusty would touch noses. Then the kid did the impossible. One second, he was almost on the deputy, the next his headlights were bearing down on Buck. “How in the world did he whip that thing around?” Buck exclaimed. Accelerating, the boy flew past, he and Buck’s side mirrors almost touching. Buck yanked the steering wheel to the right to get out of Dusty’s way. Dusty flew by, his engine screaming, the front end of his car rising slightly as he accelerated. Whipping his car around, Buck joined the chase. The Chevy was at top end with Dusty right on its tail. Buck’s speedometer read 125. This kid knew how to drive.

“Dispatch, call the state boys. Tell them that runner is headed west on River Road.”
“Got ‘em on the horn now, Buck. Thought you had him boxed in,” Kyle Evert chided.
“He slipped through. Whoops, there he goes,” Buck said, taking his foot off the gas. Leaving the roadway, the Malibu began flipping crazily. Buck watched in horror as it came apart, its wheels and undercarriage tearing off and flying through the night air. After the fifth, Buck lost count of the car’s rotations. “He crashed!” Buck yelled into the mike. “Send an ambulance and fire. We’re about three miles west of Turner on River Road.”
“I thought it would go bad, Buck. They’re on their way.”
“Okay, thanks.” Braking to a stop, Buck ripped off his seat belt and threw open the car door. Even before it stopped rocking, Dusty was running to the Chevy. Reaching the wreck, Buck saw it was empty. Grabbing the Maglite off his belt, he searched the surrounding area while his deputies did the same.
“Here he is!” one of the deputies shouted, training his light on the motionless boy lying in a muddy ditch. Buck thought the boy had to be dead. He turned away as tears moistened his eyes. What a waste, and all for a joy ride. Buck’s head jerked around when he heard a moan. Incredibly, the boy was alive. Half sliding down the bank, Dusty reached the kid. Feeling for a pulse he shouted. “He’s alive.” Not moving the boy, he reached into his back pocket and pulled his billfold. Flipping it open he said, “David Dover. Seventeen years old.”
Buck stepped to the edge of the road to direct the arriving ambulance and state police. Thoughts of his own 16-year-old son flooded his soul. Rueben was coming home from his girlfriend’s birthday party when Lukas Sanders crossed the centerline and hit him head on. The ER doctor assured Buck and Mattie that their son didn’t suffer. “He died on impact,” he told them, concern and sympathy creasing his face. For months after the funeral, those words echoed in Bucks mind. Now, standing at the roadside, they came to him again. But he knew David Dover was suffering, or at least he was alive.
“I can’t believe that kid’s alive,” Dusty marveled as he came alongside Buck.
“Yeah me too.” Buck replied.
The next two hours were consumed by accident reconstruction and report forms. The boy’s parents had called the station at 1:30 AM to report him missing. They had already spoken to David’s friends, who were evasive, saying only that David had left the party at eleven. The Dovers called the station again at 2:34 to report that one of the boys admitted he dropped David off at the Gold River car lot.
David Dover was taken to the hospital and immediately into surgery. Buck followed the ambulance and remained at the hospital until he learned David’s condition, then went to inform the boy’s parents.
As a law enforcement officer, the thing Buck despised and dreaded the most was having to deliver death notifications. Thank God tonight he could tell the Dovers their son was injured, but alive. Most times like this, Buck would take his pastor with him, but considering the hour, he would go alone. Leaving the other to their reports, Buck drove David’s parent’s home to make the notification.
As Buck pulled into the driveway, he saw the house was ablaze with light. He didn’t have to knock on the door. As soon as he shut off the engine, David’s parents emerged from the front door and stood on the front porch waiting for him. Their hands were locked into each other’s; tears moistened their red-rimmed eyes. The thought struck through Buck’s heart: They know. The middle-aged couple undoubtedly had weathered many storms during their married life. This would be one of the roughest.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dover, I’m Buck Olsen sher–”
“I know who you are,” Dover snapped, mostly, Buck reckoned, out of anxiety and worry. “Where’s our boy?”
“Why don’t we go inside out of the night air?” Buck said calmly.
“No. You to tell us now!” Drover demanded. His wife nodded.
Buck took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but there’s no easy way to say this. David stole a car from the Gold River lot,” Buck answered as gently as he could.
“I knew it, I just knew it, ‘Mrs. Dover cried, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
“No, he did not steal it. That car is his. Them thieves at Gold River took it back just because he was two days late with his payment,” Dover huffed.
“You got the wrong person in jail, Sheriff!” Mrs. Dover said indignantly. “Our son is a good boy. He worked all last summer putting up hay just so he could buy that car.”
“They’re the ones stole it, Sheriff,” Dover insisted. “Snuck over here night ‘fore last and swiped it right out of our yard.
“And my David needin’ to go to work the next morning,” Mrs. Dover sniffed. “They’s so sneaky nobody even heard ‘em.”
“I reckon he’ll lose his job now he’s in jail,” Dover said.
“Can we bail him out tomorrow, Sheriff?” Mrs. Dover asked, tears trickling down her fleshy cheeks.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dover, I’m very sorry to tell you this. David ran from us, led us on a chase,” Buck said, feeling as if each word weighed a hundred pounds. Dover’s face broke. His wife’s hand flew up to her mouth. “Your son lost control of the car down on River Road. He’s in the hospital.”
Mrs. Dover screamed as only a mother could. Dover cussed, his words cutting into Buck’s heart. In that moment, Buck thought of Mattie and his sorrow the night their son died. He waited until the couple quieted down. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“Yeah. You can call them thieves at Gold River and tell ‘em I’m coming for ‘em,” Dover snarled, balling his fists.
“Mr. Dover, I know you’re upset. That’s grief talking,” Buck said gently.
“We both tried to talk him out of buying that car,” David’s mother said through a wail.
Calmer now, Dover shook his head. “I told him he was asking for trouble. Told him he couldn’t afford it, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s headstrong. Had to have that car the minute he saw it. I gave him what I could, but it wasn’t enough for the whole down payment.”
“All right. Let me look into it,” Buck offered. “I can’t undo what’s happened, but I’ll see what I can do.” The Dovers didn’t seem to hear him.
“He called ‘em and told ‘em he’d be a little late with it,” Mrs. Dover continued. “You know what they did? They laughed at him.”
“Let me do some checking,” Buck said.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Dover said contritely. “I shouldn’t a’ said what I did. I’m sorry. Can you take us to the hospital? My pickup ain’t runnin’.”
“Let me have a word of prayer with you before we go.” The three of them bowed their heads as Buck led them in a brief prayer.
At the emergency room, the woman at the front desk smiled at them. “Yes, David is out of surgery and in his room.”
“Oh, praise You, Lord! My David’s alive!” Mrs. Dover sobbed, clutching a wad of moist tissues in her hand.
“According to the surgeon, he has a broken arm and a nasty bump on the head,” the woman said.
“Oh, thank the good Lord it’s not worse,” Mrs. Dover snuffled through her tears.
After letting the Dovers use his cell phone to call the rest of their family, Buck drove away. Anger burned within him. He’d heard of Gold River’s shady practices before. He decided to check their lot before going home.
Buck’s cell phone rang just as he pulled the patrol car to the side of the highway in front of the lot. The screen said “unknown,” but he knew who it was. “Hello, Derrick, or whatever name you’re going by today. You’re up late. Been busy?”
“I know you have, Buck. How’d the boy’s parents take the news that you murdered their son?” Derrick said, his voice thick with animosity.
Buck felt Derrick didn’t need to know the boy would recover. An even-tempered man, Buck seldom became confrontational. This was one time he did. “You seem to know everything. You tell me,” he said, biting off each word.
“Well, let’s put it this way. If you killed my son, I’d–”
“Which son is that? The little guy you murdered in Alaska? Who’s not around to say what he thinks of his father being a cowardly, murdering monster? Tell me, Derrick, before you killed him so mercilessly, did you tell him how you like to prey on women?”
The only response was heavy breathing.
“What’s the matter, Derrick, afraid to take on a man? Big man that you are, you just brutalize babies and women? Bet you hid behind your mother’s skirt when you were a kid. Is that why you kill women, cuz they won’t let you hide behind their skirts? Any more cowards like you in the family?”
There was nothing but silence from the other end. Buck thought Derrick had hung up. Then: “I’m coming for you, Olsen. Nobody talks to me like that,” Derrick hissed.
“You mean nobody’s had the guts to tell you your nothing but a sniveling little coward.”
There was a loud crunch, then nothing. Mattie would have been upset. Buck had just made himself the target of a serial killer.



Chapter 26

In his home office, the man Buck knew as Derrick threw the phone on the floor and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. “Nobody. talks to me that way. Nobody.” His voice was low and menacing. Then he laughed. “Buck, you wily old goat. You want me to come after you. Well, you’ll get your wish, but on my terms, not yours. And when I come, you’re dead. I’ll kill you and hang your miserable carcass in the town square for everybody to laugh at.”
Outside in the hallway, his wife paused with her hand on the doorknob. There was a hatred in her husband’s voice she’d never heard. The crunching sound startled her, but the words she heard through the closed door shocked her more. It sounded as if he crushed something against the hardwood floor. The way he laughed sent chills up her spine. She turned away, thinking she would speak to him about it once he’d cooled off.
Returning to bed, she pulled the covers up around her neck. She closed her eyes but couldn’t go back to sleep. His words kept repeating in her mind. She had gone looking for him when she woke to find his side of the bed empty. It was 4:15 AM. Why was he up so early? She felt the mattress sag. She smelled his aftershave; the one she bought for him thinking it fit his manly personality. Now its odor made her nauseous.
“Dear,” he whispered, leaning over her. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. “Dear” he said again. Satisfied she was sleeping; he lay down with his back to her. Incredibly, she heard him murmur, “Can’t wait to kill you and those brats of yours.” a tremor shot through her tears streamed down her cheeks and wet her pillow as her world collapsed. Then as heard him mutter, “Just to be rid of all of you and start my new life will be great.” She lay frozen, not daring to move, wondering who this man masquerading as her husband was. Two hours passed as she lay motionless, listening to him snore. As the morning light broke through the darkness and her disbelief became cold realization, she began formulating a plan to save herself and her children.
At the Gold River lot, Buck stepped out of his patrol car and walked to the back, shining his light on several of the cars’ windshields. Taking out his notebook, he wrote down the VINs of the most expensive ones. Back in the car, he called them in, then leaned back and closed his eyes while he waited for the information. In his mind, he revisited the earlier chase. Could he have handled things differently? When the speeds exceeded 100 miles an hour, should he have called it off? His radio crackled. “Buck, three of them cars been stolen off the streets in Louisville and the other two outta Evansville,” Kyle Evert said.
Buck looked at his watch: 7:35. “Have the guys come up here a few minutes after nine. We’re gonna catch us some car thieves,” Buck said.
“Will do, Sheriff,” Kyle answered.
Picking up his cell phone, Buck called Rodney. When the chief deputy answered, Buck instructed him how to handle the arrests. Then he drove a half mile down the road and backed into a lane overgrown with weeds, stopping only when he was sure the car couldn’t be seen from the highway. Leaning back, he pulled his hat over his eyes. Once again, his mind’s eye saw the Chevy lose control and flip end over end. He spoke aloud to David Dover. “Son, one thing I can promise you. The people at Gold River will in jail by this afternoon.”
Every year at the sheriff’s department Christmas party, Dusty loved to play the hick. This morning he sported full backwoods regalia: bib overalls, plaid shirt and work boots. He completed the look by mussing his hair and topping it with his daddy’s old felt hat. If ever there was a hayseed, Dusty looked the part. At 9:10 AM, wearing his hillbilly get-up and a wire, Dusty was ready to visit the Gold River showroom.
When Buck and the rest of the deputies were in place, Buck gave Dusty the signal. Dusty drove his rusty old pickup onto the lot and parked it. He’d kept the old clunker behind his garage for the past two years, hoping someday to restore it. He stepped out of the truck and walked through the lot, stopping at a blue 2017 Silverado, its exterior chrome shining in the morning sun. The truck had been reported stolen in Evansville two days before.
“Good morning, sir,” a man with a shaved head called as he sauntered in Dusty’s direction. He appeared to be in his early 30s with a bit of a paunch. “I see you found one of the best vehicles on the lot.”
Turning to face the man, the deputy said, “Well, I ain’t too sure about that.” He spat out a gob of snuff. “’Sides, it looks too fancy fur me. Sure is a fine truck, though.”
“I assure you, I’ll make you a deal you can’t turn down.”
“Nah, I’m jes lookin’. I ain’t gonna trade in old Betsy here. Why, shes been with me for a long time and I ain’t gettin’ rid a’ her.”
“Why don’t you step into my office and we’ll work out the details.”
“Well, guess it won’t hurt to see,” Dusty conceded. He followed the man into the building in the center of the lot. The interior consisted of a showroom large enough to house two vehicles and two offices with a shop in the back.
Buck and the other deputies listened for the next 10 minutes as Dusty and the car dealer came to terms. As they haggled, a yellow Corvette Stingray roared into the lot and screeched to a stop in front of the building. A heavily bearded man who looked a bit older than the salesman jumped out and entered the building.

“The brother just pulled up. Get ready everybody,” Buck said into his mike as he started the patrol car. The deputies did the same.
When the office door burst open, Dusty almost had a heart attack. Reflexively, his hand flew to his side to reach for the pistol that wasn’t there. Fortunately for him, the dealer’s attention was diverted. “What are selling him?” the older man fairly shouted.
“I’s interested in that blue truck out there,” Dusty answered, pointing through the back window at the Silverado.
The older man gave his brother a look, causing the brother’s demeanor to change instantly.
The salesman slapped his forehead. “Oh, right. How could that have slipped my mind? I’m sorry, sir, we can’t sell you that pickup today. It needs some work.”
“Now hold on here. That there truck’s a beauty and dang near brand new. What kinda work you talking ‘bout?” Dusty asked distrustfully, playing his part to the hilt.
“Uh, just a few little things to tweak. It shouldn’t take long.” Sweat beads popped out on the man’s forehead.
“Tell you what, if’n it ain’t gonna take long, I’ll jes wait,” Dusty said. “Matter of fact, I ain’t too proud to git my hands dirty. I’ll give ya a hand.”
“No, no, that’s quite all right. We’ll take care of it.”
“Yer giving me the run-around,” Dusty grumbled. He grabbed the dusty old hat off his head and slapped it against his leg. “I know what yer tryin’ to do. Tryin’ to git more money outta me.” He jammed the hat back on his head. “Well, it ain’tgonna work.”He looked through narrowed eyes from brother to brother.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. We just… haven’t had a chance to prep that vehicle yet,” the man stammered.
There was the shriek of sirens in the lot. Dusty reached into his back pocket and pulled out his badge. “Everyone stay where you are your under arrest for stealing cars and transporting them across state lines,” he announced.

In a sudden move, the salesman raced for the door and jerked it open. He stopped in his tracks, backing into the room with his hands raised. Buck followed him inside, his Glock pointed at the man’s heart. The brother reached for the pistol stuck in his waistband, thought better of it, and laid the gun on the floor. Both men stuck their hands high in the air.



Chapter 27

By the time Buck finished his report, it was noon. The brothers were in jail and the stolen vehicles were being processed for a return to their owners. The two brothers, Otis and Otto McKenzie, were wanted in three states for manufacturing drugs. It seems their associates would steal high-end vehicles and hide drugs in the engine compartments for transport to other states. Once there, the vehicles would be taken to a designated shop where the drugs would be removed, the engine parts replaced. Then the stolen vehicles were transported to Kentucky where new VINs assigned. An associate of the brothers who worked in the Kentucky DMV would then issue each vehicle a new title.
Rodney stepped into in Buck’s office. “The police in three states are happy. Looks like we busted a drug ring that’s been operating in the Midwest for the past two years, netting around five million in that time.”
“Great. But I’m bushed. I’m going home and sleeping ‘til tomorrow morning,” Buck said with a wan smile. He stood from his desk. Bertie had brought Bud in when she came to work. Now the dog rose from snoozing in the corner and went to his master’s side.
“I got a little more to do. Then I might knock off too,” Rodney, said.
“Any word from the FBI?” Buck asked as he took his hat from its hook and pushed it down on his head.
“Afraid not. I talked to Peter Young a few minutes ago. Tips keep comin’ in from all over, but nothing’s panned out.”

Buck nodded. In the reception area, the two men heard raised voices.
“No, I’m not letting you back there, so leave or I’ll arrest you for disturbing the peace.”
The stern and irritated voice was deputy Jeb Steward’s.
“I ain’t leavin’ ‘til I see him,” Harold Benson shouted.
“What’s going on, Harold?” Buck asked as he entered the reception area.
Benson gave Buck a gap-toothed smile. “Why if’n it ain’t the big man hisself.” He thrust a paper into Buck’s hand. “You done been served. Lawyer wanted to hire one of them guys that gives out papers like this, but I wanted to do it myself. That way I could watch you squirm.”
Buck scanned the paper headed:
Harold and Helen Benson
vs.
Beaufort County Sheriff Buck Olsen

Buck couldn’t help but smirk. “Harold, you don’t have a leg to stand on. That lawyer’s taking your money for nothin’. JD is doing great. He’s paying off his restitution. Plus, he helps prepare the trays for the prisoners and he hasn’t missed a Sunday at church,” Buck said.
Harold’s face screwed up in anger. “I don’t care. I need him on the farm. Corn’s gotta get planted. ‘Sides, he ain’t here to help you people.”
Lem laughed. “Harold, you ain’t farmed that ground in twenty years. Only reason you grow corn is for the squeezens you sell to them, moonshiners.”
Harold’s face turned bright red. “What I do with my corn don’t concern you,” he growled.
“It does when you break the law,” Buck chimed in. He held out the paper to Benson. Harold backed away, raising his hands in refusal as though the paper was on fire. Buck shook his head and shoved it into his back pocket. “Okay, you go on with your lawsuit. I’ll see you in court,” he snorted. Grinning, Harold turned to leave. “You do realize JD will be my witness,” Buck called after him. Harold muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “Just. get out of here before I find something to arrest you for,” Buck said harshly. Harold stumbled and nearly tripped over his feet getting out the door. The deputies snickered. “I’m going home. Call me if you need me,” Buck told them.
“Get some rest, Buck,” Rodney said. He had watched the exchange from the corner of the room with his arms folded over his chest and a big grin on his face.
With Bud beside him on the front seat of the cruiser, Buck rolled down the driver’s window. Air conditioning was all right on sweltering days, but Buck preferred the fresh spring breeze. He was tired and had no intention of cooking. Takeout sounded just right. He stopped at Booster’s café. Colton Bough was leaving the restaurant as Buck was on his way in. An assiduous boy of almost 12, Colton delivered the paper around town every morning before sunrise. As a bonus for his work, each weekday Ron Booster gave the boy a sandwich for his school lunch. Buck grinned at the boy and asked, “What’s the pick of the day, Colton?”
“Ham and cheese with plenty of mayo.” Colton answered with a big smile. Colton liked the sheriff and considered him one of his best friends. Sometimes Buck would give the boy a ride in his patrol car and once in a while even let him turn on the lights and siren.
“Sounds good. Running a little late today?”
“Yes sir. I…er…got up late this morning and had to hurry to get my route done,” Colton said, his face flushed.
Buck didn’t want to embarrass the boy. “You do a good job, Colton. You’re the best paperboy around. Thanks for bringing the paper.” Buck laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You’re welcome. I better go or I’ll be late for school,” Colton said.
“You take care.”

“Yes, sir, I will, See you later.” Colton mounted his bike and pedaled down the street, raising his hand in a salute. Buck waved and watched the boy go, then entered the cafe.
As Buck made his way to the counter, the lunch crowd offered up congratulatory greetings. News about the morning’s arrest had travelled fast.
Ron Booster’s brother-in-law, Tom, greeted Buck and handed him a menu. Tom had watched the exchange between Buck and Colton. “That boy’s gonna be president someday,” he said enthusiastically.
“Or sheriff,” Buck said, smiling.
“What can I get for you, Buck?
“Just a couple of burgers and fries to go will do Tom.”
“Sure thing. Just give me a few minutes,” Tom called over his shoulder as he stuck his head in the service window. “Hey, JD, rustle up a couple of burgers and fries for the sheriff, will ya?”
JD’s face appeared in the window to the kitchen. “Hey, Sheriff. Heard you busted a drug ring this mornin’,” he said, grinning widely.
“More like they caught themselves,” Buck replied wryly. “I didn’t know you was working here. What happened to Auto Zone?”
JD’s smile disappeared. “Oh, I’m still there. But when I gave Judge Welford that list, I forgot a couple of things. Remember when somebody busted that window?” He pointed to the large display window at the front of the restaurant.
“Yup, sure do,” Buck answered. “We thought it was you, but we couldn’t prove it.”
“You were right. And I’d clean forgot about it. Then the Lord reminded me,” JD said, his smile returning. “So I’m working for Ron to pay for the new one.”
“You know, Buck, he’s doing so good I just might hire him,” Ron Booster said from the end of the counter.
“You and everyone else in town,” Buck said with a grin.
“Sure, a lot better than doing drugs and jail time,” JD said. “Got your burgers comin’ up, Sheriff.” A minute later he stepped through the swinging kitchen and handed Buck a white paper sack. Buck reached for his billfold.
“Tom,” JD said, “would ya put that on my tab? I’ll work it off.”
“Not on your life. This one’s on me,” Tom said. For the next minute or two, the men argued good naturally about who would pay for Buck’s food. One way or another, Buck’s lunch was going to be free. Buck said nothing to JD about his father’s lawsuit. He hoped Harold would drop it. Buck was sure JD would testify on his behalf if it came to that. Still, he wasn’t eager to pit son against his father.



Chapter 28

Back in the car, Buck set the food between himself and the dog. Bud looked from Buck to the sack, licking his lips. Buck grinned and placed the bag in the back seat. The dog’s face fell. Buck chuckled. “Just hold on, Buddy boy. We’ll be home soon and you can have your dinner.” Bud huffed and lay down, eying his master as though he didn’t believe him. Buck smiled and patted the dog’s head.
A hole appeared in the passenger side window, spider webbing the glass before Buck heard the gunshot. He felt the rush of air from the bullet as it within an inch of his head. Throwing open the car door, he grabbed Bud’s collar and dragged the dog onto the ground. The next shot finished blowing out the window and mangled the rear-view mirror.
Holding Bud’s collar in one hand and his Glock in the other, Buck’s eyes searched the surrounding buildings. Rushing to the café’s front window, JD saw Buck crouching beside his patrol car while pointing his pistol at the alley between the hardware store and the bank. Another shot echoed up and down the street, the bullet whizzing by just Buck’s head. It smacked into the brick wall of the restaurant. Brick dust puffed through the air.
“Hey, Buck’s in trouble!” JD shouted. He ran out the door before anyone could stop him. The man the law knew as Derrick saw the door to the restaurant burst open and a wild-haired kid racing down the steps. Raising his rifle, he sent a bullet the kid’s way.

Buck saw JD flying down the steps. He opened his mouth to warn the boy. Inside, women screamed. Everyone dove to the floor. Several of the men in the cafe were carrying pistols They drew their weapons, but couldn’t find a visible target. Red was spreading across JD’s white shirt. He halted in mid-stride and crumpled to the sidewalk. The bullet that passed through his body continued on, shattering the plate-glass window.
Buck hesitated to return fire, fearing the bullet could ricochet and wound or kill a bystander. Bud tugged wildly at his collar, almost pulling Buck to the ground. Buck had no choice, if it cost him his life, he had to get JD out of the line of fire. He didn’t know if the boy was still alive, but if Derrick saw the JD move, he might shoot him again.
Whining, Bud broke loose and dashed to JD side. A bullet kicked up concrete dust a foot from the dog. Undeterred, Bud lay down beside JD and began licking his face. Buck scrambled to his feet. He would not allow Derrick to kill the ones he loved. Sprinting to where JD lay, Buck grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him behind the patrol car. Bud was right behind. A bullet spun over Buck’s head, knocking his hat to the ground. The dog milled around, whining and yipping. “Stay!” Buck shouted. Bud retreated to cower at JD’s side. . The scream of sirens bounced off the walls of the buildings. Tom had called 911. With JD and Bud relatively safe, Buck dashed across the street toward the shooter. The killer took one last shot the bullet nipped at the arm of Buck’s uniform shirt tearing a hole in the sleeve. Buck felt the burn of the bullet.
Running behind the bank, Derrick jerked off a manhole cover to the storm sewer. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and used the handholds to descend into the drain. Larger than most sewers, it was still too small to stand up straight. Pulling the heavy cover back over the hole, Derrick hunched over and ran down the pipe. A mile away, the sewer drained into a small pool. Splashing through the knee-high water, Derrick emerged from the sewer tunnel and ran into the woods. He bent over breathing heavy No time the place would be swarming with cops in minutes. He ran to his truck. Breathing hard, he opened the door and grabbed a waterproof bag, a bar of soap and a towel. Laying the rifle on the ground, he stripped off his clothing and jumped in the nearby lake to wash off the dirt and grime from the sewer. Then, still nude, he put the gun and his soiled clothing in the plastic bag. Splashing back into the lake, he buried them 10 feet off shore and placed rocks on top of the bag to hold it down.
Returning to the pickup, he toweled off and dressed in a fresh shirt and pants. He shoved his sockless feet into a pair of Johnny boots. Finally, he jammed a small.38 into the back of his waistband and covered it with his shirttail.
Earlier that day, he had caught two bass and placed them in a creel, which he anchored in the water to keep the fish alive. Now he retrieved the fish and placed them in a dry creek. Hearing the roar of an engine coming up the dirt road by the lake, he cast his bass jig in the water. A white SUV with the Beaufort County Sheriff emblem on the side sped up the dirt road and skidded to a halt a few feet behind the truck.
Rodney stepped out; his holster unsnapped. He spoke into his shoulder mike. Reeling in the lure, Derrick laid the fishing Rod on the ground and turned to face the chief deputy. The snub nosed .38 dug into his back. He didn’t want to use it. It would get messy, killing this cop. He was sure Rodney had called in his tag number.
“Good morning, Officer, or I guess good afternoon.”
“Sir, please keep your hands where I can see them,” Rodney said, keeping his distance.
“Of course. What seems to be the problem?” Derrick asked, raising his hands. If Rodney tried to frisk him, he would have no choice but to kill him.
Rodney gazed at him. “Do I know you?” he said, his hand resting on his Glock.

“Well, I’m not trespassing. My father-in-law owns this lake, at least a good portion of it.”
“Your father-in-law is the Lieutenant, Governor?” Rodney asked.
“Yep, afraid so.”
“Then you would be Eric Holman? Let me see your ID, please.”
Eric reached into the back pocket of his jeans, his fingers grazing the pistol stuck in his waistband. He pulled out his billfold and flipped it open to reveal his driver’s license. Rodney relaxed. “You can put your hands down, Mr. Holman,” he said. “Have you seen anything unusual around here in the last half hour?”
“No, not that I can think of,” Eric said, scrunching up his brow. “Wait. I don’t know if you would consider it unusual, but just before you pulled up I thought I heard something running through the woods. It could have been a deer, but it sounded heavier. I didn’t actually see it.”
“Can you tell where the sound came from?” Rodney asked, his finger on the mike’s button.
“Well, it seemed to be coming from over there.” Eric pointed toward the sewer.
“Could it have been a man?”
Cupping his chin in his hand, Eric thought for a second. “I suppose it could have been, but like I said, I didn’t see it, just heard it.”
“Okay. Well, thank you. We may get back with you if we have further questions,” Rodney said. “Are you going to be around for a while?”
“Yes, sir. Glad to do anything I can to help,” Eric said. “If I’m not here, I’ll be at my cabin. right over there.” He pointed to the cabin at the far end of the lake.

“Mr. Holman, I would strongly suggest you pack up and do your fishing another day. The person we’re looking for is extremely dangerous,” Rodney said.
“Sure, I’ll do that. Nice chatting with you, Officer,” Eric said, a little more flippantly than he intended. He stuck his Rod and tackle box in the bed of the pickup.
Rodney nodded; stepping briskly back to the SUV, started it up and headed down the road that skirted the lake. Still packing up, Eric heard the whirl of a helicopter approaching from the west. A few seconds later, the chopper appeared over the horizon. Stenciled on its sides and bottom were the words Kentucky State Police. Shading his eyes, Eric waved at the two men inside. They didn’t return his greeting.



Chapter 29

“Idiots,” Eric sputtered. “Couldn’t find their tail if it wasn’t glued on.” Before leaving, he laid a piece of driftwood on the lake’s bank with its end pointing toward the rifle and dirty clothing. The bag would protect them, but he didn’t want to leave them there too long. He was sure they would check the lake sooner or later. Starting the truck, he followed the same path Rodney had taken.
At the cabin, Eric cleaned his catch and brewed a pot of coffee. Sipping from his favorite cup. He kept an eye on the action-taking place around the lake. On the north side he could see through the trees three sheriff’s vehicles,
. The chopper still whirled around, swooping in low over the water and forest. Enjoying the show, Eric watched through a powerful set of binoculars. Keystone cops. Thinking of the look on Buck’s face when that first shot took out the cruiser’s window, he snickered.
His wife and children would arrive around four, then his in-laws later this evening. He had hoped to execute his murderous plan tonight, but with the cops on high alert, that would have to be put on hold. He couldn’t very well kill his family with the law roaming around. Buck and his cop buddies getting in the way made him angry, but for now he’d have to keep his temper in check.
He didn’t think his wife believed him when he told her the marks on his face came from his smacking into a wall. He’d have to be cleverer and keep her in the dark until he could kill her and the kids. He was tired of playing daddy.

Eric had been back from Alaska for just a few months when he met her and her kids at the local Kroger’s. High school sweethearts, she and her husband had grown deeply in love. They both enrolled in the University of Louisville. Then married the year they graduated. He worked as an architect. After the birth of her first child, she became a stay at home mom. He joined the National Guard. Six months in this unit was deployed to Iraq. The news of his death by a roadside bomb sent her into the depths of depression.
Newly widowed, she wasn’t interested in having a relationship. Determined to make her his wife, Eric took note of when she did her shopping and regularly bumped into her in the aisles. Catching on, she was quite flattered. Still, it took him three months to persuade her to have lunch with him and another six to convince her to marry him. It helped that he had her duped into believing he loved her children. He’d fawn over them, horsing around and playing with them like a big kid. She watched him play with them, a big dopey smile plastered on her face.
She didn’t fall easily, but when she did, she fell hard. She made it her business to be the perfect wife. Now it had been three long, hard years of pretending to love her and her brats. But it would be over soon, and he’d be free to hunt again.
Fred Beel was in dutch again. That was okay. He’d been in trouble countless times before. Jail food wasn’t good, but at least it didn’t come from dumpsters. The bunks didn’t have bugs crawling in them, and last night Fred slept the best he had in months. This morning he ate a surprisingly good oatmeal breakfast.
Returning from court, he glanced at the bulletin board and stopped in his tracks. He stopped so fast the guy behind him crashed into him and the prisoner in front of him jerked to a halt. “That’s him!” Fred shouted, gesturing with his manacled hands at the composite of Eric.

“That’s who? What are you talking about, Beel?” the exasperated correctional officer walking alongside Fred huffed.
“The guy you’re looking for! I sketched his portrait while he was talking on his phone!” Fred proclaimed excitedly.
The officer looked from Beel to the drawing, then back again. “You better not be pulling a fast one,” he warned.
“No, no. You can look in my property. The drawing’s there. So is the phone he was using.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fred was smoothing out the drawing while two detectives peered over his shoulder. They checked the last number called from the phone and discovered it was to Sheriff Buck Olsen. In fact, that number that was the only one on the phone.
The detective on Fred’s left straightened up and gawked incredulously at his partner. “Can you believe that? The lieutenant governor’s son-in-law is the Bluegrass killer.”
“We better call the FBI,” his partner said.
Lunch was a good one for Fred. He was treated to a big meal from the restaurant down the street, compliments of the two detectives.
Michelle Holman hesitated at the door to her husband’s office. She never entered this room unless Eric was home, and only then to clean. There was never much tidying up to do, though. Eric kept it spotless.
She felt silly. Eric may have been venting because he was angry. She second-guessed herself. Could she have dreamed his words? Could the man she loved really be planning to murder her and her children? No, she knew she hadn’t been dreaming. She’d heard him distinctly; there was no mistaking his words or their meaning.
Opening the door, Michelle stepped into the forbidden territory. With trembling fingers, she opened the top draw of Eric’s desk and rummaged through the papers, business cards and other odds and ends. Nothing. The safe. She remembered the combination from the time she watched Eric dial it, unaware that she was in the room.

Swinging out the portrait of her and the children, she keyed in the numbers, turned the handle and stared into the dark interior. Just a few zip drives and an iPod on the one shelf. “Where’s the bloody knife?” she chided herself. She chuckled, yet there was no humor in the sound. She reached into the safe, fingering the zip drives. Was it her imagination or did they seem warm? Simultaneously steeling herself and feeling foolish, she powered up Eric’s computer and slipped in the drive. She opened the file labelled “Pinky.”
She stood frozen in horror, unable to turn her eyes away from the video. On the computer screen, her husband tortured the girl the police had found murdered. Hot tears splashed down her cheeks, bile rose in her throat. The girl’s screams assaulting Michelle’s ears, she stumbled toward the bathroom. She got only as far as the office door. The room swam before her eyes; her head felt woozy. Falling to her hands and knees, she vomited on the wooden floor. For the next 20 minutes, she kneeled there screaming, bawling and hammering the floor with her fist. Her whole body shook violently. She did have enough presence of mind to shut off the video.
She had shared her bed with this monster. She had entrusted her children to a serial killer. How could she have been so stupid, so gullible? The late nights, the long absences now made sense. Those times he came home late, he’d been off murdering some woman.
A horrifying thought shot through her like a lightning bolt: Did he plan to record her and her children’s murders so he could relive them as he obviously had Pinky’s? Easing herself up from the floor, she blinked and gulped and forced herself to think reasonably. She looked up at the clock. Eleven-thirty. She and the children were to meet him at the cabin at five. Her parents were to arrive at six. She couldn’t let that happen, not to her, not to her children, not any of them. And not to another woman. She must stop him. She stumbled to the bathroom, feeling sick again. After leaning over the bowl for a few of minutes, she stood up and looked in the mirror.
At 16, Michelle had won a State beauty contest. She had always believed in the value of taking care of herself. Each morning she brushed her blond hair until it shone, styling the waves to softly frame her face. She wore just the right amount of eye shadow and makeup to enhance her natural beauty. Now though, a woman she didn’t know stared back at her. She looked haggard face her swollen eyes and her limp hanging hair.
She washed her face, then tore off a wad of paper towels and returned to the office to clean up the mess. The iPod was in sleep mode. With stony determination driving her, she powered it up, befuddled and annoyed that it was asking for a password. Thinking for a moment, she typed in “Pinky.” Wrong. She tried different combinations of words, becoming more frustrated with each one. Finally, she hit on it: “Michelle’s Death.” Her eyes filled with tears again as she read how he planned to murder her children and parents.
Could it be tonight? She read how Eric planned to kill them all at the cabin. What could she do? She must protect her family. Their fate was in her hands alone, what if she alerted the police and Eric found out, she was terrified he’d get to the children before anyone could save them?
Michelle ran through the house, the house she and Eric had designed together. The home she had loved and been so proud of. Now it had become her torture chamber. In the kitchen, she braced her hands on the table. Just an hour ago, she had prepared a picnic basket to take to the cabin. Her mind swirled. The text scrolling across the screen of the muted TV on the counter. ‘At this hour police are searching for the Bluegrass killer If you have any information, please contact the FBI.’ Grabbing a magnetic pad off the refrigerator, Michelle wrote down the number.



Chapter 30

“The Lord sure was looking out for you,” Buck said as he stood by JD’s hospital bed. “It’s a wonder you’re here to tell the story.”
“Your’s in trouble.” JD said.
“You got that right.” A slight grin crossed Buck’s face, then vanished. “But a few inches to the right and I’d be visiting you in the funeral home.”
“I can’t believe my dad is trying to sue you,” JD said. He had learned of the suit from his father.
“I came close to arresting him when he started cutting up in the waitin’ area,” Buck said, shaking his head. “If that bullet had done more than just graze you, he’d a’probly come hunting for me with a gun.”
Buck’s cell phone rang. “Sheriff Olsen.” He could hear sirens in the background.
“Buck, it’s Chet. We know who he is. His name is Eric Holman.”
“Holman? Isn’t he the lieutenant governor’s son-in-law?” Buck said. A big shot with some reality firm? I think he’s got a cabin down by the lake.”
“Yes. He’s there now. I’ve got his wife in the car with me. We’re headed to you, maybe a half-hour out.”
“Do we know if Eric’s alone?” Buck asked, moving toward the door. JD could hear only Buck’s end of the conversation, but the sirens came through to him loud and clear.
“Yes, but his wife wants to try to talk him into surrendering,” Chet said.
“I’ll be praying for you, Buck,” JD called as Buck waved a thank you and ran out.

No time to wait for an elevator. He took the stairs two at a time, still holding the phone to his ear. Reaching the first floor, he paused his breath coming in spurts. “That’s not going to happen, Chet. He’ll be looking to go down in a blaze of glory. He knows that if we take him alive, a jury will give him the death penalty.”
“Right, I know. But she insists he’ll listen to her,” Chet said as they blew past a semi at 95 MPH. “I did convince her to wear a wire. Listen, Buck, I’ll meet you at the justice center in about twenty minutes.” Chet looked in his side mirror. Sandwiched between his SUV and a state police cruiser, Michelle Holman’s Mercedes was keeping up just fine. Agent Peter Young was behind the wheel, enjoying the ride. “Still there, Buck? Okay. Listen, SWAT is coming in by chopper. They’ll land at the center.” Chet paused, then added, “We’ll play it Mrs. Holman’s way, but if things go south, we’re prepared to take him down.”
“Okay, Chet. I’ll call in my troops. We’ll be ready,” Buck replied breathlessly as he jumped into his SUV and hit the lights and siren. Sure that Eric would have a police scanner, he punched in Rodney’s number on his cell phone and briefed the chief deputy as he sped toward the justice center. Then he called Bertie to advise her against any radio chatter about Holman. As far as Eric Holman should know, everything was normal. Just another day.
At the lake, Rodney stuck his phone back in his shirt pocket. His heart pounding, he remembered his earlier encounter with Eric. Quietly and casually, he approached his fellow deputies. “Buck just got a call from the FBI. The guy’s name is Eric Holman, and he’s probably watching us right now. I’m going to leave first. I want you guys to come to the justice center a few minutes after me. Meet back at there. The FBI ‘s coming in with Holman’s wife. Just act like we didn’t find anything and we’re leaving to look somewhere else.” He walked slowly to his SUV and drove away. The rest of the deputies waited a few minutes and then left one by one.
Watching through the binoculars from the cabin, Eric chuckled. “Good luck chasing your tails, suckers.” Suddenly aware he was famished; he went to the kitchen and made himself a chef’s salad.
Leading the state police convoy as it approached Nicholasville on Route 27; Captain Les Renfro pumped his cruiser up to 110 to keep up with the SUV in front of him, driven by Agent Harrison.
Glancing into his rear-view mirror at the woman in the back seat, Chet said, “Mrs. Holman, I’m asking you again to reconsider. Your husband is an extremely dangerous man. He’s killed twenty-one woman that we know of. One more won’t make any difference to him.”
Michelle sighed heavily. “Agent Harrison, when I met Eric, I had been widowed just a few months. My husband was killed in Iraq. Eric courted me, even insisted we take my children along on our dates. He played with them, took them camping, to theme parks, movies, you name it. They fell in love with him before I did. Since we’ve been married, he’s treated them and me as if we were the most important people in his life, in the whole world.” Michelle squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She shuttered. “This other man, this serial killer called the Bluegrass killer, I don’t know him. But I do know Eric, and I owe it to my children to try to persuade him to give himself up.”
Chet shook his head and drew a deep breath. “All right. But be advised, any sign of trouble and you’re out of there. I don’t care how you do it–forgot something in the car, anything. Just get out of there.” Michelle nodded, leaned her head on the back of the seat she softly wept.

In the justice center parking lot, Buck skidded to a halt. Rodney stepped out of his vehicle and walked over to Buck. “The guys should be here in any minute. How do you want to play this, Sheriff?” They were nearing the moment they lived for: going after the bad guys and bringing them to justice.
“Well, Holman’s wife is with the FBI. She thinks she can talk him down,” Buck said.
“No way. Not this guy,” Rodney said. “When I saw him down by the lake he was as cool as ice. Not a flutter.”
“No, and I think he’ll kill her, or at least try to,” Buck said. “We’ll have snipers on both sides of the lake. The FBI’s got a SWAT team coming in by chopper.”
“Hey, you know the whole front of that cabin is floor-to-ceiling windows,” Rodney remarked.
“Yup, I know. I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well.”
Eric had just finished his salad when he heard a beep. Picking up his cell phone, he checked the battery. Almost dead, and no charger in the cabin. He pulled up the app for The Hawk Mobile Monitor. It had come as a bonus with the Cheating Spouse kit he bought. He never needed that. Michelle was too dumb to cheat. He had purchased the more expensive model to spy on Buck. Scanning the screen, he saw that Buck was at the justice center.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Michelle and the kids would be here in a few hours. Her parents would arrive soon after. Maybe he would go ahead with his plan. His wife always kept her charger with her. He laid the dying phone on the table and decided to take a nap. His siesta lasted an hour, the phone half of that.
Huddling in the justice center parking lot, Chet Harrison, Captain Renfro and Buck planned their strategy. Chet and Buck leaned over a map of the area that was spread out on the hood of a patrol car.

“Whada ya think, Buck?” Chet asked. “If we park the vehicles on the road behind the cabin, you me and a few guys can come in from the back. Everybody else can surround the other three sides?
“If we surround the cabin, he’ll have no way of escape.” Buck said.
“Right. If we’re careful, he won’t see us coming through the woods. And if we set up the snipers on both sides of the lake in the areas you pointed out, they’ll have a clear shot if things go wrong,” Captain Renfro agreed.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” Chet said, folding up the map.
A sheriff’s department tech finished fitting Michelle with a wire. It fit comfortably in a place where Eric wouldn’t feel it if he hugged her. Chet said, “Mrs. Holman, I must warn you it is against my better judgment to let you go into that cabin with a dangerous killer.” He pointed to the FBI SWAT team waiting to board the helicopter. “Those agents are highly trained in capturing and subduing suspects.”
“I’m sure they are, Agent Harrison,” Michelle said, her eyes glossy with tears. “But Eric has always treated me and the children well. I have to try.”
“All right. I’m giving you a safe word, one that wouldn’t be spoken in normal conversation. It’s ‘Hemingway.’ Use it if you’re in danger. Otherwise, just get him to admit to the killings. If you’re unable to do that get out of the cabin or if you can’t lock yourself in the bathroom and lay in the tub. “A lump in her throat, Michelle simply nodded.
“Mrs. Holman give us a half hour to get in place,” Buck said. “Try not to show any fear or nervousness. I know it will be difficult. And if he shows any sign of aggression, get out of there.”
“We’ll be watching,” Captain Renfro added. “Please be very careful. Don’t take any chances.”
Piling into the various vehicles, they pulled out of the parking lot. Two miles from the cabin, they diverged onto the gravel roads that skirted the perimeter of the lake. As they slowly progressed, a canopy of dark gray clouds edged in to cover the sun. Thunder boomed in the south.
Michelle looked at her watch. They’d only been gone about 10 minutes. It seemed like forever. She looked blankly out the window and wondered how she got here. As a small child, she had attended Vacation Bible School. Growing up, she attended church occasionally. However, it never became a big part of her life. God was just someone a long way away in a place called heaven. When her husband was killed in Iraq, she knew God was mad at her and punishing her for ignoring Him. Now she just felt numb.
Could she do this? Eric had killed 21 women. Would she be number 22? She remembered the anniversary they spent at the cabin. The wine he served her had tasted odd. That was the last thing she remembered until the next morning. When she awoke, the scented candles still burned, and the doors were open to the morning breeze. Yet a faint odor wafted from the basement. Retching, Michelle threw open the door and vomited. Now she knew. That night while she slept, Eric had killed a woman in the basement. The odor she could not identify at that time was the stink of death.



Chapter 31

Buck crouched behind a fallen tree. Ten feet from him, Chet spoke into his cell phone in low tones. They had a clear view of the back of the cabin about 100 yards away. In contrast to the front, there were only two windows in the back. Storm clouds continued to whirl, darkening the sky. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves on the trees. Soon the rain would come.
With his hand cupped at the side of his face, Chet said in a loud whisper, “Les has his snipers in place.” Each man in the half circle in back of the cabin raised his hand to signal he was ready. They waited five minutes, ten. No Michelle.
“We’ll wait five more minutes, then move in,” Chet said, his voice so low it was barely audible. “She may have she lost her nerve.”
“To be honest, I hope so,” Buck whispered. “I don’t relish the idea of giving him a hostage.”
A flash of gray appeared through the trees. “Here she comes,” Chet said, pumping his fist in the air.
Michelle parked the Mercedes next to the cabin. Even as a child she had loved everything about the lake: the peace and quiet; the chirping birds; the loons on the lake; the cool breezes on hot summer days. She looked at the picnic area adjacent to the cabin. She, Eric, and the children had spent so many happy hours there. Those days were gone. Under the dark, foreboding sky, the cabin seemed cold and foreign.
How many women had died here? Eric had turned her beloved retreat into a house of horrors. This would be the last time she entered this house. She wanted to douse it with gasoline and burn it to the ground. Was he watching her? This monster, this man she never knew. She sat watching the cabin. She should turn the car around and just let them kill him. No. Her compulsion to save his life escaped her understanding. At one time, she loved this man deeply. Now the thought of seeing him turned her stomach. She stepped out of the car, very aware of all their eyes were on her. Law enforcement and killer. With her heart pounding, she walked on wooden legs up the steps to the deck.
The door opened. He stepped out to greet her. She didn’t want him to touch her, but she had no choice. “Hi, hon. you’re early,” he said cheerily, wrapping his arms around her. She prayed he wouldn’t feel the wires running down her back. “You’re early,” he repeated, smiling and searching her eyes intently.
She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “I thought we could have some time together before the others arrive. Mom and Dad are bringing the kids later.” She lied.
“Wonderful! That’s what I like, time alone with my favorite girl.” Grinning solicitously, he kissed her on the forehead. She wondered if he’d smiled like that when he killed the women.
“Really? Oh, I thought Pinky was your favorite gal,” she said coyly. His smile disappeared. She thought better of making that remark. “Well, let’s go in and you can tell me about what you’ve got planned for us this summer.” She took him by the hand and led him into the house.
For the next 15 minutes, he laid out his plans for the family over the summer months–picnics, cookouts, sailing on the lake, trips they would never take. When he finished, he draped his arm over her shoulder and asked, “What do you think?”
“I’ve been thinking. I wanted to surprise you with my idea,” she answered with forced enthusiasm. “How about we sell the house in the city and move here full time? The realtor in town is looking for an agent and you’ve done so well in Louisville it would probably be a breeze for you here. I know the children would enjoy living here. What do you say?”

“Well, it might be all right,” he answered through a frown of skepticism. “But you know, the house in town is quite a bit bigger than this one.”
Here it goes, she thought. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Well, Dad is thinking of retiring and he’s planning on adding on to their house and this one too.” She watched his expression. “Of course, our basement would have to be built out to accommodate the addition. Dad has a contractor coming tonight to give him an estimate on both cabins.” Eric stared at her as she spoke, his eyes becoming glassy and hard. She pretended not to notice. “He’s got some ideas he wants to run by us. Living here would be great for the children. And us. Don’t you think?”
He stared into her eyes for a long minute. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, yet menacing. “How did you find out? You’re too weak to move the freezer, so how did you find… why you lousy little sneak. You’ve been in my safe.” Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her into one of the children’s bedrooms, away from the windows.
Michelle cried out shrilly. “Ow, Eric, you’re hurting me! Find out what?” She struggled to calm her racing heart. Sweat broke out on her forehead.
“She’s in trouble,” Chet said. Then into his radio, “Snipers, you have a green light.”
“Can’t get a shot. He’s away from the windows,” the sniper on the south side said.
“It’s a no go for me, too,’ the one on the north side said.
“Who are you kidding, Michelle? You know good and well what I’m talking about! Pushing her into the wall, Eric slapped her across the face, knocking her to the floor. To those listening, the blow sounded like a pistol shot. She screamed, he cursed. He was going to kill her. What a fool she was to think she could talk him into surrendering.

“How many did you kill?” she screamed. “How many have you murdered, you monster? You think you’re some kind of Hemingway with that bloody book you’re writing, don’t you? Well, guess what? All it get you as far as death row!”
Reaching down, he grabbed her around the throat and hauled to her feet. With his face inches from hers, he bared his teeth. “I’ve killed more women than you can count on all your little fingers and toes,” he snarled. “You’ll just be one more.”
He propelled her toward the basement. Outside, the rain peppered the lake and streamed down the windows. He moved fast through the great room and kitchen, keeping her between himself and the windows. The rain came harder, pounding on the roof. Flinging open the basement door, he dragged her like a rag doll down the stairs. Her body bounced off each step. Crying hysterically in pain and terror, Michelle’s whole body shook. Yesterday her life was so good. She had her perfect family, her beautiful homes, her plans. Never did she give death a second thought. Death was years away, when she’d be an old woman, a grandmother, maybe a great-grandmother and leaving this life surrounded by her loving family.
Not like this.
Now death was just minutes away. Through the chaos in her mind, she vaguely remembered her grandmother reading her Bible stories when she was little. She screamed piercingly, beating him with her free hand. With one hand around her forearm in a viselike grip, he yanked the freezer out of the way with the other, revealing the small door in the wall. He turned to face her and raised his fist. “Shut up, stop! Or I swear I’ll kill you right here.” Her screaming disintegrated into a whimper. Her hand dropped to her side. The FBI was listening. Their window to save her was closing fast.
“Snipers you have green light, SWAT really for entry wait for my signal.” Chet said.

He and Buck raced to the back of the cabin. The SWAT team hunched at the front door, waiting for Chet’s signal. Pushing Michelle down, Eric forced her through the opening. The stench of death in the room hit her like a punch in the stomach. She gulped holding her breath.
“If he hears SWAT, he’ll kill her,” Buck said.
“Stand by,” Chet told the SWAT team. Then to Buck, “We need to draw him out, surprise him.” Kneeling in the mud, the two men peered through the basement window. The shrubs on either side of it gave them cover.
“See that opening? Listen. He’s got her in there.” Buck’s words caught in his throat. He felt an urgency in his heart. If they didn’t get to Michelle soon, Eric would kill her. Buck took a chance. He pressed his face to the window. Except for the faint light coming through the small door, the basement was dark. He could see only outlines.
“Let’s get this open and you can lower me down,” he told Chet.
“What?”
Laying his hat on the ground, Buck said, “Lower me through the window.” He kicked off his boots. “The noise of the storm should muffle the sound of him coming through the window.”
Reluctantly, Chet nodded. Pulling out his pocketknife, Buck cut away the screen. Then the two men pried the window open as quietly as they possible. There was no other way. If Eric caught wind of what was happening, he would kill Buck, but Buck wouldn’t make that easy. He’d fight to give the SWAT team time.
Soaked to the skin, Chet braced himself as Buck turned feet first to the window. Chet grasped Buck under the arms and lowered him down. Both men were aware of the danger. If Eric came out of that room, he would think nothing of shooting Buck in the back.

“Lord, help me. Please cover the noise,” Buck whispered.
“Amen,” he heard Chet murmur.
As Buck struggled to squeeze through the tiny opening, his vest caught on the window sill. Yanking open the Velcro strips, he let if fall to the ground. Chet sucked in his breath. “Bad move, Buck,” he whispered.
“Go.” Chet said to the SWAT team.
Bracing his feet against the concrete wall, Buck nodded at Chet. As he dropped to the floor, just thunder shook the cabin. Chet shoved the vest through the window, but Buck was already on the move. Upstairs, the SWAT team leader tried the door. It opened. As quietly as possible, they crept across the great room to the kitchen.



Chapter 32

Hiding behind the freezer, Buck heard Eric speak. “There you go, my beautiful bride,” he said.
Pulling at the chains, Michelle pleaded, “Please, Eric, don’t do this. You know I love you.” Her heart contracted with the absurdity of such a comment, but oddly enough, it was true.
“Yeah, yeah, you love me. Just like my mother loved me. Just like my sister and brother,” Eric sneered. “That must have been why my mother abandoned me.” His laugh was demonic. “Six days old. Can you imagine leaving a six-day-old baby outside a fire station in January? If that fireman hadn’t stepped out for a cigarette I would have frozen to death. Oh, right, she did love her other son and her daughter. Me, she left to be shunted from one foster home to another. Wish you could have been there to see the look on her face when I turned eighteen and showed up on her doorstep.”
“I won’t abandon you, Eric. I love you,” Michelle said softly, trying to ignore her aching wrists and ankles.
“Just shut up.” Eric grabbed a knife from the table beside him and held its point to her cheek. “Shut up, you hear me? Or I’ll cut your tongue out!” He pressed the point into her skin until it broke through. Drops of blood ran down her cheek. “You’re just like the rest of them. Traitors, all of them, and you. Oh, they lie and say they love you. I made them pay for their sins. All those women. Oh, yes, and they confessed their sins before they died.” Eric pulled a plastic bag from the pocket of his jeans and held it up to his wife’s face. “See this bag? This bag has a lot of history.” He smoothed it between his hands. “Five of them died with this bag over their heads.” He chuckled, enjoying his own words. “Hard to breathe that way. But… it’s getting a little worn, so you’ll be the last. Guess I’ll have to get me a new one.”

Buck had to do something quick. He moved around the freezer to the side of the opening.

“By the way, I’m treating you nice. Be glad I’m not smashing your fingers and toes, learned that from one of my foster moms when I was five. Squeezed my fingers and toes with a pair of pliers until I screamed” Eric said, preparing to pull the bag over Michelle’s head. She shook her head violently. “Hold still now, honey.”
Distracted, Eric didn’t notice Buck crawling through the opening. Michelle’s heart soared when she saw the sheriff. If he was here the FBI wouldn’t be far behind. She breathed in what little air was left in the bag and made a last-ditch attempt to buy time. “What about your brother? I can understand why you’re angry with your mother and maybe even your sister, but why him?”
Never having had a chance to tell another human being why his murderous actions were justifiable, Eric took the bait. He pulled the bag off her head.
“My brother Derrick? He had it all, sweetheart, everything I didn’t. A safe home, comfortable bed, plenty to eat, nice clothes to wear. What did I get? Lucky if I had two hots and a cot. Foster homes, one right after the other. Raggedy hand-me-downs I was ashamed to be seen in. Beat on by foster parents, beat up by bigger kids. Well, guess what? They’ll never find dear Derrick. He’s buried on an old woman’s vault in a graveyard just down the road from my dear mother’s house. Good ol’ Elsie Werner. She’ll have Derrick’s company for eternity. I know they’ll be very happy together.” Eric sneered.

Buck never played football. However, before he was saved, he’d been in at least one bar fight a week. He had a good teacher. For all his inconsistencies, Harold Benson knew how to fight.
Tensing, Buck launched himself at Eric kicking him in the back of his knees. Eric was too close to Michelle to risk a shot. The Bluegrass killer sprawled to the floor, rolled and jumped to his feet. Still holding the knife, he swung it wildly, stabbing Buck in the shoulder. Buck took a few steps back his pistol clattering to the floor. Eric came at Buck again, aiming for his heart. Buck ducked reaching for his gun. Eric missed, thrusting the knife between Buck’s ribs instead. After his initial yelp, Buck forced himself to absorb the shock and pain. Summoning every ounce of his adrenalin, he reared back, balled his fist and smashed it into Eric’s jaw. Buck was sure the impact broke his hand. His whole body was on fire. Reflexively, he reached for his pistol.
Spinning, Eric crashed face first into the gun cabinet. His fingers closed around his Glock 17. Whirling, he fired, striking Buck in the chest and propelling him backward into the concrete wall.
Aiming at the killer’s face, Buck squeezed the trigger. He kept firing until the pistol was empty. Then he yielded to the darkness enfolding him. From far away he heard voices, then nothing.



Chapter 33

Buck heard noises coming from all directions. They faded and were replaced by soft music. His eyes filled with tears. Mattie stood before him, smiling. She looked exactly as she had on their wedding day–young, dressed in white, beautiful. She took his hand and kissed and hugged him. She felt warm and alive to him. Her love flowed through him like sunshine. She led him down a flower-lined path. She spoke of heaven; how beautiful it was. Yet she said not a word aloud.
“We’re losing him,” the EMT at Buck’s side said. He charged the defibrillator. When it beeped, he pressed the paddles against Buck’s chest.
“Come on, Buck, stay with us,” Chet said sitting on the bench. He insisted on riding to the hospital with his friend. The ambulance’s screaming siren drowned out his words.
“Clear!” the EMT shouted. Checking to be sure the FBI agent wasn’t touching the sheriff; he sent a charge through Buck’s chest. Buck’s body arched and plunked back down on the gurney. Ahead of the ambulance, Rodney ran full lights and siren. The rest of the deputies brought up the rear, all running lights and sirens.
The monitor flat-lined. Two more shocks to Buck’s heart produced a blipping sound and a small bump crawling across the screen.
Mattie stopped and turned to Buck. “Honey,” she said, her mouth forming the words. “I dearly love you and I want you to be with me forever.” To Buck that was the sweetest sound he ever heard.
Buck opened his mouth, but Mattie laid a finger on his lips. “No. Just listen. This is not the time. You’re needed on earth.” Tears sprang into Buck’s eyes as she started to fade. “I’ll be waiting for you, my love.” She was gone. Buck felt an overwhelming sadness. All that was left was darkness.
Someone spoke. Then there was a second voice. Buck fought to open his eyes. There by his bed with their backs to him stood his daughter and son. They were speaking to Chet and Les. Buck felt as if his ears were filled with cotton. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. His mouth was dry as a desert; his lips were stuck together. He forced out his tongue and barely managed to moisten them. Weakly, he said, “Hi.” No one heard him. “Hi!” he croaked, louder this time.
The four of them turned to him in disbelief.
Her red-rimmed eyes moist, Suzy knelt by the bed and closed her hand around his. “Oh, Daddy.” Her sobs wouldn’t let her say more. Reaching around the wires and tubes, she hugged him gently.
“Welcome back, Dad. We lost you there for a while,” Keith said.
“I saw your mother,” Buck whispered, wetting his lips with his tongue again. “She was young, beautiful.” He closed his eyes. “So tired. Holman?”
“You got him, Buck. By the time we got to the basement he was dead,” Chet said. “Another few minutes and he would have killed Michelle.” He patted Buck’s shoulder lightly. “You saved her.”
“Thank God,” Buck murmured in a sighing whisper. In a few seconds, he was asleep.




Epilogue

They were back. From the porch, Buck raised his coffee cup in a silent salute to the deer grazing at the edge of the woods. To the east, Killers Knob lay silent. Beside him, Bud lifted his head and eyed the deer. “Oh, no you don’t,” Buck warned, twining his fingers around the dog’s collar. “We best go in and fix some breakfast before you scare off our guests.”
Standing to his feet, Buck tossed the dregs of his coffee on the grass. He surveyed the yard. The flowers he bought back in April never made it out of the shed. During his recovery, he thought of them and mourned over their loss. That is, until he came home from the hospital in the latter part of May. Rodney insisted on taking Buck home, but they were going in the wrong direction. “What’s going on, Rodney?” Buck asked his chief deputy, receiving only a grin for an answer. From the back seat, Bud whined. Rodney had picked up the dog from Bertie who kept him during Buck’s recovery. When Bud saw Buck, he almost broke through the window of the SUV to get to him. It took Buck and Rodney five minutes to quiet the dog down.
“Calm down boy.” Buck said. Twisting around, he patted the dogs head. He was rewarded with a swipe of Bud’s tongue. “We’ll be home in a little bit.”
As they came into Booster’s Gap, Rodney turned on the lights and siren. When they passed the justice center, JD hollered, “Here they come!” He shimmied down from the roof of the café. People lined the sidewalks on both sides of Main Street.

“I told you I didn’t want a parade,” Buck said, exasperated.
“Ain’t a parade,” Rodney said, poker-faced.
Buck gazed at a huge sign stretched across the street:

Welcome Home Sheriff Buck Olsen

Rodney slowed down as the rest of the sheriff’s department vehicles fell in behind him, all running their lights and sirens. The crowd waved and shouted. Buck felt as if he should have been tossing out candy. They stopped so Matt Brown could get a shot for the newspaper. Buck waved until he thought his arm would fall off. It was bad enough the governor insisted on giving Buck a medal. His picture had been in every paper; even the networks wanted to interview him while he lay in his hospital bed. It was exhausting. He just wanted to get home and rest.
They reached the end of Main Street and the other vehicles peeled off. Buck eased back in the passenger seat and breathed a sigh of relief. “That was nice, but I’m glad it’s over,” he said.
“Huh-uh,” Rodney replied, he shut off the siren. If Buck had been more alert, he may have picked up on his chief deputy’s tone.
Rodney took the long way to the Buck’s house. Buck didn’t complain; it felt good to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. As they neared the house, he saw cars and pickups parked nose to tail on either side of the road. Rodney pulled into the driveway. Buck just stared. It seemed like every square foot of his property was covered with people. The deputies who had followed him through town now stood at parade rest along the shoulder of the road. They snapped to attention as Rodney and Buck passed, raising their right hands to the brims of their hats. Buck had never saluted anyone until now.
When the crowd parted to let the car pass, Buck couldn’t believe his eyes. His smiling son, pregnant daughter- and son-in-law, Michelle and her two children stood on the front porch. Pastor Larry Easton his wife and the entire congregation of Pleasant View Baptist were among the crowd.
The yard was alive with flowers of every shape and color. His house and barn sparkled with fresh paint. Carefully maneuvering the SUV to a stop in the driveway, Rodney said nonchalantly, “We thought we’d have a few folks over to welcome you home.”
“A few? Looks like the whole county’s here!” Buck exclaimed.
“Yup, just about. Don’t think you’ll have any problem gettin’ elected again this year.”
A week later on Sunday morning, Buck glanced at the clock. “We better get going, Bud,” he said, opening the door for the dog. “JD’s preaching his first sermon this morning. His momma and daddy are gonna be there to hear him, and so will we.” Buck grinned as Bud danced around him on their way out the door.




Dear Reader,

Well, there you have it. I hope Buck Olsen has become a part of your life and years from now, you will still remember his courage and commitment.

This is my eleventh book. Each one has been a labor of love written with you, the reader, in mind. From the first word to the last, you are with me. I hope you enjoyed the finished product.

May our God richly bless you.
Darrell




About the author
From the first word to the last, Darrell’s books keep you riveted to your seat. On each page his characters come to life and lure you into the action. The Secret of Killer’s Knob is Darrell’s eleventh book. Darrell and his wife Connie live in central Indiana.
For more about this author: https://darrellcase.org/

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