CHAPTER 9
THE KILLER TURNED off the main road and parked the vehicle at the deserted trailhead, where it rested half-hidden by a drooping profusion of multi-colored leaves, motor ticking as it cooled. He turned up the radio, scanning through the channels, listening to snippets of songs, a brief snatch of Mariachi, the boom of Rush Limbaugh. He flipped over to FM and paused as the plaintive strains of guitar and violin reached him and he recognized Kansas with Dust In The Wind. It conjured a memory, shimmery at first, then solidifying until he smelled the hot french fry grease, felt the pinch of his too-small tennis shoes.
It was his birthday. He turned nine that day and he wanted a hamburger. They’d left their place in the woods, hiking to the highway and waving their thumbs at passing
