PROLOGUE
A thud and a crack like a green melon splitting resulted from the first blow to the man’s skull. When the victim didn’t fall immediately, a second swing struck the side of his face and jaw, and the body finally sagged to the concrete. The killer raised the hammer for a third strike, but it wasn’t needed. The dim light revealed no movement of the man’s chest. The killer heard no breathing after the initial grunt and the slow escape of any remaining air in the man’s lungs.
“Shit! What the hell was he doing here?” whispered the killer, though no one was within earshot. Burglarizing? A stalker? Not that it made any difference. His sorry ass shouldn’t have been here.
Serves him right, the killer thought. Now what do I do?
For just this once, the killer was grateful for the weather along the Oregon coast. Darkness and drizzle diverted people’s attention, whether they were outside, staying warm and dry, or focusing on whatever they were doing. They never imagined a murder had just occurred next door or that a body lay in the trunk of the car that just drove past. There would be no reason to later suspect a person walking down the street or that someone they were talking to could kill without remorse.
Two hours later, with an angry sigh of exasperation, the killer flopped into an armchair, thinking, What a fucking night! Damp clothes, muddy shoes, aching arms. The victim hadn’t been a big man, but moving his limp body proved harder than the killer had imagined.
There wasn’t much blood, the killer thought. I’m glad I didn’t have to hit him again. That could have gotten messy.
When they found the body—if they found it—there should be no connection to the killer. No witnesses. No one saw the body being dumped. Hardly anyone was out this time of night, and those few had their own concerns. No reason for them to notice just another car.
Good luck finding the hammer under twenty-five feet or more of water, the killer thought. Even if they find it, I wiped it clean.
Stupid! The killer thought. Everything was going so well. This is what happens if you’re careless.
There had been no time to think. It just happened. Not that the murder gave the killer pause. The only regret was that it had put everything else in jeopardy.
Did I miss anything in cleaning up the mess? I don’t think so. I know I didn’t panic like the last time.
The killer’s breathing and heart rate slowed down, as confidence grew.
I only have to act normal, as if none of this happened. If there’s an investigation, nothing should point to me. I need to be calm until all this passes. It’s not as if the locals are master sleuths.
The killer resolved to be alert for anything that might connect to the death, but daily routines had to continue. That shouldn’t be hard because pretending was already part of the killer’s everyday life. There were sources of information, ways to keep track of any future investigation. Nothing could be done about the past. It had happened. Only the future mattered. And only one loose end remained. The killer considered the problem, but two bodies would make it harder to remain invisible. Caution was needed in case the “loose end” or any other person became a danger that needed direct action.
The killer rose to shower and change clothes, the latter to be burned. For the moment, only the murderer knew a violent murder had taken place in the quiet coastal community, a state of ignorance that ended in six days.
CHAPTER 1
I need to get a new route, Bill Bowlers groused to himself. The large, distinctive, red-and white-logo’d Coca Cola truck was a bitch on these roads. Two-lane Highway 101 meandered along the Pacific Ocean, making countless turns through the rain and fog. Nighttime was even worse because the sparse population meant few lights. A dense forest bordered the narrow road. It was like driving through an endless tunnel where everything that existed was illuminated by his headlights.
The weather tonight was typical for mid-October: the smell of the ocean only miles away, patchy fog, and a mist that didn’t quite qualify to Oregonians as rain. This pattern held for six months of the year, the other six months being the official rainy season. He’d gotten a late start today. It was well past midnight when he hit Tillamook City—the county seat and the largest town in Tillamook County.
There, he had neglected to take an opportunity to relieve himself. At fifty-five, he found his bladder less patient than when he was younger. The urge had started about nine miles back and was turning into a demand. He had driven this road enough times that his mind’s map included not only delivery points, towns, and curves, but also pull-off spots. He neared one such area. Not the best spot, a wide place in the pavement, instead of a dirt turnout, yet good enough for needed relief. Even if a vehicle drove by at this time of night and in this weather, no one would notice him standing hidden by the truck. This particular spot was marked by a sign demarcating the border between Tillamook County and Lincoln County.
Then, there it was, a quarter mile ahead. A green sign with white lettering: “You are now entering Lincoln County.” Across the road was the complementary sign facing the other way, “You are now entering Tillamook County.”
He slowed, pulled over, and turned off the engine. As the windshield wipers stopped, the windows showed the “mist” threatening to turn into rain. He got out of the cab. The moisture felt good on his face. Refreshing. He drank in the invigorating air. He walked around the truck to the shin-high guardrail and started to unzip.
That’s when it hit him. An overpowering stench. Something rotting. Meat.
A deer? was his first thought. God, that stinks so bad, it must be close. He put a handkerchief to his nose and mouth and looked over the guardrail to the downward slope.