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Except that wasn’t true. Thekilled knew that place. A personal connection to it from long ago, one mired inthe fog of formative years. In some ways returning there was painful.
Nostalgia, thought thekiller. Useless to me. Keep moving.
Returning to the back of the car,the killer opened the trunk and pulled out a large gas can. The killer hadfilled it up at a station miles away, and now it would be used to hide, to burnaway the truth. If truths could be incinerated, then the killer would put a newtruth in its place. One that fit the plan. One that would make it allworthwhile.
Turning the top of the canister,the killer poured some of the foul liquid into the trunk and then opened therear door. The gas was splashed again, then in the driver’s seat. Finally, thelast remnants of the thick, caustic liquid were drizzled over the top of thecar and the canister thrown in through the open window to the passenger seat.
Returning to the rear of the car,the killer braced both feet against the ground. Despite the more solid land ofthe track, there was still a softness to it and as the killer pushed both handsonto the back of the car, it squelched underneath.
One foot after the other,the killer thought, breathing heavily and pushing hard as the car, one judderat a time, began to roll forward. At the tip of the trail was an incline, atermination of land into something worse than marsh, something deeper.
Thousands of years ago, Stone Agepeople had disposed of bodies in that part of the country. They were throwninto the foul-smelling mix of stagnant water, mud, and rotting plants andanimals. And they would sink, eyes open, staring out into the cold darkness ofthe bleak sludge, trapped forever.
The killer wondered how many werestill down there. People forgotten through the meandering path of time.
Secrets can be forgotten,the killer thought, pushing off with one last effort.
The car began to slowly roll downtoward the blackened bog. Keeping up with it, the killer pulled out a smallbook of matches and struck one, throwing it into the trunk.
A wild roar rushed forward, thekiller’s hands flying up instinctively to keep the searing heat at bay. A bluethen yellow flame clambered all over the trunk of the car and up over the roof.Then the interior went up in a loud growl, and two windows smashed in return.
Standing there, the killer watchedas everything within the car was scorched by the flames. Then, moments later,the car reached the black bog and began to sink.
The sound of air escaping and bubblingup through the surface of the thick sludge came, and the heat of the fire andcoolness of the bog struggled against each other for ascendancy until finally,the flames were extinguished.
The killer stayed there, watchingas the car sank lower and lower, filling up with the fluid sludge of the boguntil all that could be seen was the red roof.
Then, deep within, the nerves thatthe killer had ignored came to the fore. The car had stopped sinking.
“No,” the killer said out loud.
Panic began to course through thekiller’s veins. If the car could be seen, it would be found. It had to be submergedcompletely.
The killer watched. Still no movement.
Looking around, the killer grabbeda large broken branch from the side of the path and leaned out, pressing itagainst the roof. But the car did not give in. It held on for dear life, stillpoking out of the sludge.
Rushing back along the path, thekiller then found a large stone. It was slightly larger than a human skull butvery dense and extremely heavy. It took a moment to bring the stone up into afirm grasp and then to rest it between hand and shoulder.
I can’t hold onto this for long,the killer thought.
Picking up the pace and runningtoward the end of the path, with one huge shove, the killer launched the stoneup slightly and then watched as it fell down onto the roof of the car below.
For a moment, it sat there lookinglike a solitary fisherman stranded on an island of red. But then movement came.A bubble broke the surface with a loud wet sound, and the car continued to submerge.
Down and down it went until, withone last gulp, the black bog swallowed up the car completely, taking it downbeneath to the forgotten places where bog bodies and other secret histories hadremained hidden for eons.
The killer breathed deeply andfelt a surge of accomplishment.
I did it, the killerthought, turning attention to the next step in the plan. They’ll never seeme coming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Dammit,” Finn groaned to himselfas he tried to stick the car into fourth gear. The gear box spat out a grindingnoise before finally relenting. “Piece of junk.”
The road in front wound through alarge set of low-lying hills, green and lush with summer serenity. But serenitywas not currently in Finn’s mind. He was anxious to get to the small town of St.Albans as quickly as possible.
That was where Devon Langdon,their only suspect, lived.
