Now he dipped the iron tire thumper into the vat and watched the acid eat off Lily’s blood and hair. In seconds it’d be clean without a hint of the damage it had done to her skull.

He peeled off his gloves and blood-splattered clothes, stuffing them in a black plastic garbage bag. He’d toss them in a trash receptacle at the next rest area, somewhere miles from this one, so if someone found them they’d never find a body anywhere in that area. He’d figured that out long ago. No reason to change the process.

Likewise, he had built and customized the back half of his truck into a workshop with everything he needed, not only for his job but also for his hobby. So if anyone checked it out there was no reason to question the array of tools, cleaning solutions, saws, and knives. And because he was on the road so much, he also had all the personal comforts he needed. That included a week’s worth of clothing, shoes, and other accessories.

Some of those accessories served as disguises and included a hearing aid, a cane, an arm sling, Coke-bottle-thick glasses, a neck brace, and a dog leash. It was amazing the simple things that brought people’s guards down. The thought that a stranded motorist might be even more vulnerable because his arm was in a sling or perhaps because he’d lost his dog. He kept a list in his log book of those that worked the best. He observed and studied the things people didn’t seem to notice when they were exhausted from traveling. He kept a list of these as well.

He had already replaced the magnetic sign on the outside of his truck. He had several, all of them creative names of businesses that exuded integrity and trust. The one he just put on read: community rescue unit. Actually he’d gotten the idea from listening to a group of cops at a truck stop café outside Toledo, Ohio. They had just caught a killer using a public works department uniform. Homeowners let him in without question. Almost as good as a uniform was his idea of converting the outside of his truck into a vehicle that people automatically trusted.

Finally finished cleaning up, he pulled out his log book and recorded the date, time, and place in the corner. Then he added the details he wanted to remember:

Even drug whores fight for life.

Two bashes in the head and still crawling.

Rolled into the river.

Skin and bones. Not much of a floater.

Wrapped the strap of her bag around her neck.

Bag should weight her down.

He paused to roll up his shirtsleeves and only then noticed that the bitch had managed to scratch his arm. Immediately he grabbed a bottle of alcohol from one of the cabinets. He remembered her fingernails had been chipped and broken, and for the short time she sat in his passenger seat she couldn’t stop clawing at her scabs.

Seeing the damage she’d done made him angry and sick to his stomach. What if the bitch had given him some disease? He poured half the bottle over the open wound despite the sting. He didn’t mind the pain. Pain made you feel alive. Then he searched through his stash of pharmaceuticals until he found the antibiotic he wanted. He popped one into his mouth and washed it down with a can of Coke from the large ice chest he kept well stocked.

The whole incident was beginning to remind him that small mistakes had tripped up many killers and landed them in prison. Ted Bundy, Edmund Kemper, Henry Lee Lucas, Jeffery Dahmer—all of them had done something stupid that ended up getting them caught. Wouldn’t happen to him.

Along with talking and listening to cops, he prided himself on being an expert on serial killers, their patterns, fetishes, weaknesses, and even those mistakes that got them caught. But he was more careful and smarter. Besides, he could control when and where he chose to kill. He wasn’t driven by voices or impulses. Tonight was a rare exception. Tonight he killed out of necessity rather than challenge and hobby. There hadn’t been much pleasure in it. He just wanted Lily dead.

He had no idea if the woman had seen anything. He’d had no idea she had been staying in the farmhouse. How many times had he dumped a body and she was there? He couldn’t take the chance that she might have seen him. Although she didn’t seem to recognize or know him beyond meeting him earlier today. He wondered if she really had been one of Helen’s foster kids, though he knew there had been dozens over decades. So it was possible. And if she had been one of Helen’s then he was right—Helen would have been disappointed in her.

He bandaged his arm. It would be easier to make up what had happened if people didn’t see the claw marks. In fact, it would gain him sympathy. As he exited the back of his truck and moved to the driver’s seat, he found himself scanning the cars parked on the other side of the rest area. Only two vehicles.

He climbed behind the steering wheel and watched. A small SUV had two middle-aged women. One went up the incline to the restrooms. The other stayed to clean out their car. He pulled out his pair of binoculars from the console and watched her throw their garbage into the trash receptacle. Most of it was empty junk food containers and cups with sip lids—which probably meant coffee. Tired and exhausted. He saw the license plate was Texas. Lots of miles on the road. Long way from home.

Easy targets.

The second vehicle was a four-door sedan. A man and a little boy. The boy looked ten or eleven, an age the man had evidently determined was old enough that the boy could go up the short walk to the building by himself to use the restroom. Meanwhile the man went to the trunk and started pulling what looked like sweatshirts out of a huge duffel bag. The entire time he would not be able to see the door to the restroom. In those few minutes the boy was an easy target. So was his father.

Both vehicles presented excellent opportunities. In either case he’d be able to do doubles if he chose. What would a father be willing to do? Would he insist he go first? Would he bribe or fight or plead?

Unfortunately Lily had fought more than he’d expected and he was too exhausted to enjoy the challenge. Maybe another time. He had a long trip ahead. He was quite certain other opportunities would be available.

CHAPTER 22

Lily clung to the straps of her leather handbag.

Cold, so freaking cold.

She was used to the opposite. Usually her body was burning up from the inside.

The straps had gotten snagged on a tree branch that hung over the river. She knew she was bleeding. The pain inside her head made it difficult to think, to move, to react. Her normally feverish body was submerged in freezing water. She no longer felt bugs crawling all over her. Instead she was quite certain they had now burrowed down deep into her skin. She could feel the prickling sensation and the tingle of them gnawing their way into her veins.

Her bravery had started to wear thin. At first the asshole had made her angry. And she fought him. When he hit her she became more angry. She lashed out at him, pleased to gouge some of his skin. But now, in the dark, surrounded by night sounds that she didn’t recognize and feeling dizzy with pain, she was no longer angry. She was scared.

She waited. She had to wait, she told herself, until he was gone. She had to convince him that he was leaving her exactly the way the bastard wanted to leave her—dead.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20

CHAPTER 23

VIRGINIA

Gwen had a bone to pick with Maggie. When her friend told her that Assistant Director Raymond Kunze was arranging for Gwen to interview convicted arsonist Otis P. Dodd, she hadn’t mentioned that Kunze would be escorting her there. It was bad enough that her nerves were already frayed. An hour and a half trapped with Kunze threatened to unravel her completely. To make matters worse, he was being polite, which made it harder for Gwen to take out her frustration on him.