CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Stupid.
The word ricocheted in his head as he passed the intersection of Highway 32 and State Route 411.
Stupid.
If he needed any proof that God was on his side, it came in the timing of it all. He had been headed for the site of the fourth murder—what would become his fourth city—when he saw the police car heading down State Route 411. When he saw it, he kept heading straight down Highway 32, his heart hammering in his chest.
Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe the cop was on routine patrol, looking for speeding drivers.
Or maybe they had found the pole. He knew they were investigating him; he’d seen the Scarecrow Killer stories in the papers but had not bothered to read them or watch the snippets about his work on television. He was not doing this for the att
