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  After listening to what seemed like an hour of silence, Eric plunged on. "Anyway, I wanted to see if you would like to give a class on the 10 codes. That way the kids will have a better idea of what the officers are talking about on the radio."

  "Sure, I could do that."

  "Really!" Eric said a little too enthusiastically.

  "Yeah, it would be no problem. When do you want me?"

  "Want you?" Eric’s mind couldn’t process the question.

  "Yeah, when do you want me to give the class?"

  "Oh! The class, yeah. Um, how about this Tuesday? We usually get started about seven."

  "Fine, I’ll see you then."

  "Okay, yeah. I’ll see you then," But she was already gone.

  Eric let his eyes wander over Emily’s shape. Then Provo rushed by. Eric let his eyes follow her for a moment. If he was only twenty again, he mused.

  Emily felt someone looking at her and raised her head. Eric was drooling over Provo and everyone else was running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Emily looked at Eric again. A small pang of jealously swept through her stomach but she pushed it away. Perhaps it was best if they both just moved on. She dove back into her monitor just as Eric looked at her again.

  He soaked in Emily’s presence and thought, no one will ever replace you.

  19

  The headlights of Frye’s old hearse flashed across the darkened plantation house. It was almost two in the morning when Furman killed the engine. He stumbled through the moonless night and let himself inside. Furman dropped his duffle bag with a thunk and strode through the pitch black house.

  He’d lived there his whole life, so walking through with no lights on didn’t faze him. The night had gotten chilly and Furman wanted to get under the thick covers of his bed immediately. There were drawbacks to not having electricity but Furman survived nonetheless. He had a small generator that he used solely for watching his videos and charging his camera. He debated indulging himself in a late night feature then decided against it. He wanted to be up early to see Tony off to school.

  Furman kicked off his boots and hopped into bed. He smiled to himself and thought some more about Tony and what would happen on Saturday night. The house was so quiet. He could hear the trees brushing up against the house. A soft whoosh whoosh sound. An occasional scratch as a rouge limb met the glass of a window pane. The house, as old as it was, settled into its foundation a bit. A light creak here and there. And again only a little louder. A soft squeak of, what? Furman thought a bit. It was a familiar sound but he couldn’t place it. Squeak. He froze with fear. Could sounds make you experience deja vu?

  Furman listened with every ounce of energy his exhausted body had left. Squeak. It sounded like it was coming from the hallway. A loose board was what it was. He remembered no matter how quiet his father had trekked around in the middle of the night that he always seemed to find that one board. As a child, Furman tried to shut everything down when he heard that squeak. It always meant one of two things, dad was coming to visit him or his sister.

  Furman and Phoebe shared the same bedroom ever since Furman could remember. And late at night when their father came in he would visit one of them. That was the sound, it was the same squeak his father’s boot made on that loose board so many years ago. But what had made it squeak tonight?

  A cold hand clamped down on his throat and Furman wheezed. He instinctively clenched his bottom tight. The sheets ripped off the bed and the cold night air rushed over him. Furman tried to open his eyes but they were sealed with exhaustion. He felt like he was sinking into hardening glue. His lungs began to burn from the lack of air and Furman thought he was going to loose consciousness. The squeaks and groans of the house and trees became a roaring symphony of sound.

  Then an icy sliver of voice stabbed his brain, "Sleep."

  Furman willed himself to rasp, "Leave me alone."

  The hand eased off his throat slightly and Furman’s lungs choked on the cold air.

  "Leave me alone?" The voice ridiculed.

  "Who are you?" Furman croaked.

  "Who are you?" The voice countered.

  "I..." Furman stammered.

  "I will eat you up," It interrupted.

  "Noooo," Furman pleaded.

  "Yessss," The voice whispered.

  20

  Eric thought about all the things he should say. Everything he ever wanted to tell Emily crashed around in his mind like so many ocean waves. But none or them found their way to his lips. Not one of them was the right thing to say. Nothing he feeble mind could manage would win her favor.

  The car ride home was a silent one. Emily dozed in the passenger seat and Eric unhappily kept his attention on the road. When they arrived at her house Eric’s stomach was in knots.

  "You want me to pick you up in the morning?" He managed.

  "No, I’ll drive myself." She slipped out of the car with a sense of finality. Eric sat there for a long time, letting it digest. It was over.

  A ringing cell phone woke Eric from his stupor. He realized that he missed his exit and cursed. Eric pawed around in his sport coat until he found the phone. He whipped it open with a flourish.

  "DeJesus," he mumbled.

  "Detective, this is Provo. You free for a field interview? I’ve got a suspect at the Godfather’s lounge."

  "Your at Godfathers? Alone? Sit tight, I’m on my way."

  When Eric pulled up at the disheveled motel whose seedy bar was known as Godfathers, he wiped his face in disbelief. There were three squad cars in the crowded parking lot with sirens illuminating the night.

  Eric noticed the police officers were taking cover behind their cruisers. Eric stopped his vehicle, scampered out and duck-walked over to the nearest patrolman.

  "What the hell’s going on in there?" he asked.

  "Hey, Eric. We got a call of shots fired. Looks like we’ve got two shooters inside."

  Eric surveyed the parking lot.

  "Provo," he grumbled.

  "What’s that?"

  "I think one of the shooters is a fed. We may have the I-95 killer inside."

  "Holy shit."

  "I’m gonna go take a look. You guys cover my ass, alright?"

  "You bet. Hey, be careful in there man. Emily will have my balls if anything happens to you."

  "I doubt it," He muttered.

  Eric slipped inside the motel’s lobby and found the manager hiding behind his desk.

  "Hey, you got a back way into the bar?"

  "Yeah, through the kitchen," the bald man said and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. He pulled a flask out of his jacket and offered it to Eric.

  "No thanks, man. I’m on duty."

  "It’s your funeral," The man stated and put the flask to his lips.

  Provo saw Eric come in from behind the bar and waved at him to stay back. She pointed through the overturned table that was providing her cover and toward a small stage. Eric nodded and began to flank toward the suspect. He chanced a peek over the bar and saw a white man crouched in the alcove behind the stage. The man saw Eric and pointed a pistol at him. Eric sank back down and waited for the shot. The only thing he heard was a click, then the man was cussing.

  "You can’t shoot no unarmed man!" He called out.

  "How do I know you aren’t lying?" Eric shouted back. "Why don’t you throw that gun over here."

  Eric was at the end of the bar now and did a quick look around. The suspect pitched the gun over toward the bar and stood with his hands up.

  "That’s great, now I want you to get down on your knees and put those hands behind your head for me," Eric said. He came out from behind the bar and moved toward the stage. Provo had somehow gotten behind the suspect. She holstered her weapon and placed her right hand on the man’s wrist. The suspect grabbed her hand with both of his and flipped her over his shoulder. She barrel rolled and popped up on her feet.

  "You wanna play with me, big boy?" she asked.

  Eric could now see t
hat the white man was a body builder and easily outweighed Provo by a hundred and fifty pounds. Before Eric could do anything, the suspect lunged at her.

  Provo side-stepped the man, grabbed his wrist and wrenched it behind his back. She took her other hand and grabbed a handful of his hair. Using the suspect’s momentum, she slammed his head into a nearby table and broke it.

  She raised his face up beside her own and whispered into the man’s ear, "You still wanna fuck with me?"

  The man blubbered a reply but it was filled with blood. She kicked out the back of his legs and the man went crashing down to his knees. He yelped in pain. Eric cuffed the suspect and pushed him so that he laid down flat on his face.

  "What the hell happened?" Eric asked.

  "It’s not our guy. This one is a little too touchy feely. Our boy would never have come onto me like that."

  "Why didn’t you wait for me to get here? You could of been hurt?"

  "I’m a big girl, Detective. I can take care of myself. Besides, I was getting tired of waiting. You drive slower than an old lady on her way to church."

  Eric smiled, "So this dirt bag isn’t our man, huh?"

  "No, but your guys may still want to talk to him. Take a look at his triceps."

  Eric read aloud, "Aryan Knights."

  "White supremacist outlaw motorcycle club," Provo replied. "Probably have a chapter nearby. Let's have breakfast, I'm starving."

  21

  Furman made his way through the darkened hallway and stumbled down the stairs. His throat was sore and his whole body trembled. He found his way into the kitchen and pulled a hammer out of the tool drawer. He stuffed a handful of old nails into his breast pocket and shuffled quickly to the front door.

  He eased it open and listened for a long time. Everything was quiet. There was no sound at all. No crickets, no wind, nothing. He swallowed painfully and crept into the night. He fumbled the nails out of his pocket and almost dropped them onto the front porch. He made himself focus on the task at hand.

  Furman took the first nail and pointed it into the front of the house. Before he brought the hammer to bear, he felt the nail’s surface. It was old and rusty, perfect. He took a deep breath and knew that he would have to hurry. He slammed the first nail about halfway into the wall and yanked another from his pocket.

  The leaves were rustling. Furman pushed the thought away and hammered the second nail in just below the first. The forest had awoken with a torrent of chirps and squeaks. He put the third nail into the wall below the second. Furman’s heart was racing. The wildlife was screaming at him.

  Furman put in a forth nail below the third and felt his time was running out. Then he heard footsteps running toward him. Furman’s heart jumped into his throat. He took another nail and placed it to the left of the second nail. His hands were sweating and he missed on the first swing, banging his thumb.

  They were closer now, in a full sprint. The forest was a screaming. He pounded down the fifth nail a little deeper than he had wanted. He wondered if that would make a difference.

  Furman produced the last nail. He’d grabbed exactly six nails. Just the right amount, he thought. However, he’d left himself no margin for error. Furman dropped the last nail. He cursed aloud and fell to his hands and knees, desperately looking for it.

  They were almost on top of him when his hand brushed up against the nail. Furman snatched it up and felt the wall in search of the previous nails. A chill went up his spine when he heard a shrill battle cry explode behind him.

  Furman’s mind locked on driving the last nail. He placed the point to the right of the second nail and swung the hammer with all his might. The nail sunk into the old wood with ease. The nail heads made a perfect crucifix.

  Furman dropped the hammer and scrambled for the door knob. They were on the steps and right behind him. In a mad lunge, Furman yanked open the door and fell inside. He heard something rushing through the air at him. Furman rolled over onto his back and kicked the door shut. A loud wood splitting thunk erupted from the other side of the door and what sounded like hundreds of feet, rumbled across the porch. Furman leapt up and pushed against the door with all his might.

  They crashed into the other side so hard that the shock wave sent Furman sailing backwards into his black house. Hate-filled screaming filled his ears and Furman lost consciousness while wondering if the sound was coming from outside his house or from within.

  22

  Eric and Provo were sitting in a Denny’s, other than the cook and the waitress, the place was silent.

  "Nothing like that first cup of coffee in the morning, huh?" Provo said from behind her steaming mug.

  "Especially at three in the morning," Eric smiled.

  The waitress brought over two plates of food, refilled Provo’s coffee and left.

  "The waitress thinks your hot, Detective," Provo smirked.

  "You think so? I don’t usually go after the grandmother type, but hey, there’s a first time for everything, right?"

  "Do you ever look at people and wonder about there life? Like the waitress. Why does she have to work the midnight shift at a Denny’s. Is she putting a grandchild through college? Is her husband passed and social security isn’t cutting it? Maybe she has medical bills she can’t pay or is trying to save up enough dough for a Caribbean cruise?"

  "Don’t know. Maybe she’s got the hots for the cook and this is the perfect time to talk to him. Midnight shift, no customers, plenty of free time."

  Provo laughed, "Maybe your right, Detective. You should give this profiling thing a shot."

  "You mean like Alex Cross? I don’t think so. Besides, I’ve been thinking about doing something else with my life."

  "Is that right? This must be a recent development."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "I don’t know, a couple of things."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, at first you were pretty gun-ho about this I-95 killer business and now, not so much. Plus, its obvious you and your girlfriend are on the outs."

  "Girlfriend?" Eric mocked confusion.

  "Don’t play coy, Detective. Its obvious you two have feelings for each other but I detect that something is amiss."

  "Not much gets past you, huh?"

  "Its my job. Besides, I like figuring people out. So spill the beans, what are you planning on doing with your life once you quit the force?"

  "Nobody said I was quitting the force..."

  "Its all over you face, Detective. You're on your way out the door. Especially now that you don’t have anyone holding you back, am I right?"

  "Yeah," Eric muttered.

  "So? I’m waiting with baited breath. What are you going to do?"

  "I have some buddies, we usually get together on weekends and have a jam session. We do mostly blues stuff, some jazz, a little old-time country, it's fun. So we’ve been kicking around the idea of touring a bit. The band has some money saved up and there are a couple of places who have already said they’d love to have us. Its just a matter of ..."

  "Getting your ass in gear and doing it?" Provo finished.

  Eric laughed, "Something like that." He finished off his coffee and started in on his breakfast. "So what about you, Provo?"

  "What about me?"

  "Well, you’ve got me all figured out. Tell me about you."

  "I don’t think so."

  "What do you mean, ‘You don’t think so.’ That’s not how we play the game. I gave up what you wanted to know. Now it's your turn."

  Provo stifled a smile, "What do you want to know?"

  "I don’t know, tell me about your boyfriend."

  "Who said I have a boyfriend?"

  "Well, it seems to me that an attractive woman like yourself would have a man in her life."

  "How do you know I’m not gay?"

  "You don’t strike me as gay."

  "What? I’m not butch enough to be a lesbian. Is that it?"

  "Why does everything turn confrontational with you?
"

  "I’m not being confrontational."

  "Sure you are. You start off just as nice as you can be when were talking about me but as soon as the conversation turns to you..."

  "Look, just drop it, okay?"

  "Fine."

  Provo pushed her plate away. "I’m sorry, alright. I do have a tendency to play my cards pretty close to the vest."

  "Its alright, I understand. Your personal life is none of my business."

  Provo exhaled, "He broke up with me yesterday."

  "What’s that?"

  "My boyfriend, if you can call him that. he said that I wasn’t there for him. He needed more out the relationship. I was too obsessed with my work."

  "He had a problem with his girl being obsessed with serial killers? Guy sounds like a real nut to me," Eric said, feinting sarcasm.

  "Ha-ha, very funny. Forget it, I don’t know why I thought I could talk to you."

  "Ah c’mon Provo, I’m just playing. Tell me about your family, where did you grow up?"

  "Nowhere really, I’m a military brat. I grew up on so many different bases that I don’t even remember them all. I never had many friends. I was always afraid of making new ones. What was the point when I would be moving again anyway, right? That’s probably why I’m so antisocial."

  "Your not antisocial, just, a little hard to get to know."

  "The other agents call me, ‘The Ice Queen."

  "Its cute, I like it."

  Provo smiled, "Alright Detective, let's split."

  "Provo?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Call me, Eric."

  "Whatever you say, Eric," she said dropping a twenty on the table. "So, whose profile do you think is right, mine or yours?"

  "Profile?"

  "The waitress, Eric. Is she just here to make time with the cook or is she one of the hopelessly down trodden trying to make something of her life?"

  Eric shrugged his shoulders and opened the door for Provo.

  "Thanks, you guys come back and see us!" The waitress called out from behind them. Provo turned around and elbowed Eric. He looked back over his shoulder at the waitress who was smiling and fixing her dress. The cook appeared behind her with a guilty expression.