Mumford chased boy down RR tracks, to the West. Boy outran Mumford.

  End report from Joplin PD.

  The teleprinter began clattering as other PD's and sheriff's department reports came in. The Joplin PD lieutenant had worked half the night, calling westward, seeking information.

  Stand by to receive more transmissions…

  Wichita PD reports old file on boy with serious head wound reported seen on afternoon June 1973. Boy jumped from boxcar. RR Detectives chased him and lost him. Sheriff's Deputies picked up trail and chased boy into woods. Lost him. Report kept open cause thought boy was kidnapping victim April 1973.

  Stand by for further transmissions…

  Salina KS PD reports old file on kidnap. Boy with serious head wound reported stealing clothes from clothesline. Housewife fainted at sight of him, called sheriff's department. Boy gone when deputies arrived. Approx age of boy 12 or 13. Thin. Badly hurt.

  Stand by to receive more transmissions…

  To: Joe Davis Morrison Ct Sheriff's Dept.

  From: Hays KS PD. Dodge City PD. Lamar CO PD. Colo Springs PD.

  Old files on young boy with head wound dated 6/20/73, 6/25/73, 6/27/73, 6/30/73. Heading West. Good hunting, Joe. You're on old cold trail.

  End transmissions on boy/head wound.

  Before Joe could get away from the teleprinter, the machine began rattling.

  To Joe Davis, Morrison Ct Sheriff's Dept.

  From FBI, Kansas City MO. Reading your transmissions. Sorry— didn't mean snoop. Why interest in boy with head wound, 1973? May we be of assistance? Special Agent Wainwright.

  Joe keyed the teleprinter and tapped out:

  Believe boy tied in with rash of rape/murders occurring in Denton-

  Red Bay area. Any help appreciated. Davis out.

  From FBI: Give us thirty minutes, Joe. Will get back if any info avail. Punching into computers. Wainwright.

  Twenty minutes later:

  Joe—suggest you call FBI office, Denver, CO. May have something for you. Good hunting and keep us informed if we can be of any further help. Wainwright, FBI KC.

  Joe called the Denver office of the FBI, Erica by his side. He recorded the conversation, smiling as he did so. Erica listened to the playback, kissed Joe on the mouth, and together they walked into Sheriff Roberts's office.

  Sheriff Roberts listened to the playback, his face tightening with each word. Erica and Joe watched the sheriff, each wondering what was wrong with him.

  “So here's what we've got, Joe,” the agent in Denver said. "Seems the Denver PD picked up a small boy, 'bout thirteen or fourteen years old, back in '73. Massive head wound. Had been beaten badly. All over his body. The PD got him off a freight train, heading west. We were called in because we were working a kidnap out of Kansas from back in April, same year.

  “The boy did not know who he was or where he came from or where he was going or how or who inflicted the wounds upon him. He was taken to a local hospital. Stayed there for months. Underwent several operations. We dropped out of the case after finding the original kidnap victim dead back in Kansas. The boy—John Doe—gained a lot of weight and height. Just before he was to be handed over to juvenile authorities, he skipped out. Hasn't been seen or heard of since. How does this kid tie in with what's happening in your area?”

  “I think this boy is Paul Evans. I think he's back, and I think he's the man doing the raping and killing here.”

  The agent whistled. “You got yourself a big job, Joe.”

  “Don't I know it.”

  “Any kidnap notes, ransom, taking them across state lines, any minorities involved, proven civil rights violations?”

  “No, to all your questions.”

  “Wish we could help.”

  “Me, too. Thanks for your help on this one, partner.”

  “Keep me informed, foe.”

  “Will do ”

  Sheriff Roberts sighed, running his fin-gers through his gray, thinning hair. “Joe, you've got something here. But I'm not sure what.”

  “Goddammit, T. L.!”

  “Sit down!” Roberts ordered. “Now, just get hold of yourself. Think a minute, man. You have a twenty-six-year-old report, or reports, of a boy with a head wound. He was first spotted in Joplin, heading west. He—”

  “It's Paul Evans!” Joe shouted, slamming both hands on the sheriffs desk.

  Outside, in the squad room, all heads turned; the clatter of typewriters ceased; personnel fell silent.

  “Prove it!”Roberts roared, jumping to his feet, glaring.

  “I will.” Joe returned the glare. “I will. Yes, sir, I'll damn sure do that little thing.”

  “Don't screw up!” the sheriff warned him. “Don't bring any lawsuits on this department just because you've got old memories that won't heal.”

  “I heard that, T. L.,” Joe said. Then he whirled around and stalked out the door, Erica right behind him.

  They did not see Sheriff Roberts pick up the phone, dialing a number.

  PAUL

  His first assignment took him to a small town in Oregon, where he stayed for a time, perfecting his new vocation. He then went to the suburbs of St. Louis, where he stayed for a few years, becoming active in volunteer work, working with a suicide prevention group, and helping to deal with mentally disturbed people. Then, with a smile on his lips, he heard of an opening in Red Bay.

  After talking with his sister/wife, he took the new assignment and they settled right in.

  Paul, and his sister/wife.

  Blood Oath

  Five

  Joe took his frustrations out on Erica that night, during their lovemaking, at her home, going at her savagely. He held back ejaculation for what seemed to her like hours, while she experienced one shattering climax after another. When he finally filled her, she held him, listening to his ragged breathing calm and his heart slow its wild pounding.

  “Many more of those, Joe,” she said, kissing his nose, “and I won't be able to walk and you'll probably have a heart attack. I've never experienced anything like that.”

  That brought a grin from him. “Would you like for me to offer an apology?”

  “Certainly not!” She laughed. “Do make it a point to argue with the sheriff at least once a week, will you?”

  He was silent for a time, content to lie with her close to him, enjoying the warmth of her skin against his. Then he suddenly cursed and reached for the phone by the bed, hurriedly dialing a number.

  “Doc? Sorry to bother you at this late hour.”

  “Then why did you?” the old ME popped back.

  Joe expected and ignored the smart retort. “Doc, the stomach contents of the girls: city water or lake water?”

  The ME cursed for a long time. “Goddammit, Joe! I told the sheriff. Lake water.”

  “Well, he damn sure didn't tell me!”

  A long pause on the other end of the connection. “Are you certain?”

  “You're damn right I'm certain. What is it with Roberts, anyway, Doc? He's behaving funny as hell.”

  “Maybe he's got a lot on his mind?”

  “Maybe he's covering something up?”

  “Serious charge. Better make damn sure you can prove it if you repeat it to anyone else.”

  “I don't intend to repeat it to anyone else. And I'm sure you'll keep it to yourself.”

  “I've forgotten it already. Now perhaps you'll allow an old man to go back to sleep? Where are you—over there humping that goodlooking Norwegian gal?”

  “Doc.” Joe laughed. “You're a dirty old man.”

  “Of course I am?” He hung up. Joe told Erica the other side of his conversation.

  “Why would Roberts hold back informa-tion?” she questioned. “Surely he would know we'd find out.”

  “I don't know. But I'm not going to say anything about it to him.”

  “Bell Lake is miles long, Joe. Are you thinking our boy takes the girls out there, does his thing, then drowns them?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he owns a camp on the lake.”

  “Lots of people own camps out there, Joe.”

  “Yeah, including Howard Jordan.”

  “How could we patrol it?”

  “We couldn't. Impossible. There are dozens of roads leading in and out. Lodges and hotels and motels. We've run checks on all the employees out there, as you well know. Nothing. Not one goddamn thing!”

  They lay still for a time, all passion sated. She rested her head on his shoulder, her arm across his bare stomach. Her breath was warm on his skin. “Joe, if it really is Paul Evans, wouldn't someone have recognized him by now? Surely someone in this area knew him that well.”

  Joe was thinking of the woman he had seen from time to time, in Red Bay; he had seen her once or twice a month for years. Something about her triggered a peculiar flash of memory within him… something about her walk, her bearing, that was somehow familiar to him. She was a nice lady, married to a nice fellow, and Joe's feelings toward her were not sexual, not at all. But there was something—

  “No,” he returned to the present, “I don't believe so.” His breathing and heartbeat were normal, calm finally, after the hour of furious lovemaking. “The Evans family had only lived here for three years. You may have missed that in the report. They moved here from California. The only reason Paul was invited to join the group was because of Howard's hots for Paul's sister. Paul would be a middle-aged man by now—or approaching it.” That was said ruefully. “A mustache, hair style. No, I don't believe anyone would recognize him.”

  Erica stiffened beside him; Joe could feel the tension in her. “Joe? What you just said: California.”

  “What of it?” He yawned hugely. Then the implication of her words hit him and he sat up in bed. “California! Sure. Paul didn't know who he was or where he was going or what had happened to him, but instinct carried him westward.” He started to rise. Strong hands brought him back to the sheets.

  “No way,” Erica said, authority in her voice. “Not tonight. It's almost midnight. There will be plenty of time tomorrow.” She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside stand. “Or I should say today.” It was just past midnight.

  He smiled at her in the semi-darkness of the bedroom. “And, my dear, just how do you plan on keeping me here? I couldn't get another erection with the help of a block and tackle.”

  Her fingers grasped his penis and squeezed gently but firmly. She laughingly mocked him. “Now, my dear, would you like to try jumping out of bed?”

  He shook his head. “I think I'll spend the night.”

  “Wise choice, my dear.”

  “I heard that.”

  The few threads of fabric found on the hill overlooking the Barnett house were returned from the crime lab. There again, the detectives struck out: the shirt was a cheap sport shirt, made in Taiwan and sold locally in a dozen stores, nationally in thousands of stores.

  “Damn!” Joe said. “Why couldn't it have come from Cable Car Clothiers, or some other highfalutin' company?”

  Erica looked at him and laughed. “Highfalutin', Joe?”

  Reporters from the national networks picked up on the Graduation Murders and converged on the Red Bay/Denton area. They hung around for two days, asking questions, but nothing happened. The killer was in his lair, waiting for the limelight to shut off. By Thursday afternoon, with no new murder/rapes to report, the press pulled out. Many people thought the killer had left, and began making plans for a huge party that Friday night.

  “This is what he's been waiting for,” Erica said to Sheriff Roberts and Joe.

  The sheriff agreed. “I'm putting everybody I've got in the field this weekend. The state police is sending in twenty-five men to take some of the strain off us. I hope to God we can keep the lid on tight.”

  “Don't put any money on that,” Joe said.

  The sheriff looked at him, a strange light in his eyes. The light faded. “You're such a joy and comfort to me.”

  Joe allowed a tight grin to crease his lips. “Thanks. Oh, T. L.?”

  The sheriff turned around. “Yes?”

  “Why didn't you tell me about the lake water in the girls' stomachs?”

  The sheriff's face reddened. “I—ah—forgot, that's all.”

  Joe met the older man's gaze with unblinking eyes. Roberts finally dropped his eyes. “T. L.? What are you holding back from me?”

  “Not a goddamn thing!” He whirled around and walked down the hall, muttering.

  “He's lying,” Erica said.

  “I heard that, babe. But why?”

  “How long has he been a widower, Joe?”

  “Six years. Why?”

  “Just curious. Does Roberts own a camp on the lake?”

  The two detectives looked at each other for a few seconds. Joe nodded slowly. “Yes, he does.”

  PAUL

  “Why on earth would you want to do such a thing?” the man asked the woman.

  “Butt out!” she told him harshly, her voice muffled through the bandages covering her face. “Just let me die.”

  “No, you're not going to die. Won't you at least tell me your name?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “I'm only trying to help.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it's my job, because I want to help you. Who are you? How did you hurt yourself?”

  She laughed at him, a bitter laugh, as memories swirled through her brain, re-turning to her in a cloud of pain and hate. She remembered the struggle in her apartment, the pain in her head as a hard fist slammed against her jaw, dropping her to the carpet. She remembered seeing the foot draw back, to kick her again and again in the face, and the sounds of her facial bones crunching as they were shattered by the kicks. She remembered being dragged from a car, and the brief struggle in the rain, then that long fall until she exploded into a vortex of colors, finally drifting into blackness; soft, wet darkness.

  “What is your name?” the man persisted.

  “I'm nobody. I've never been anybody, and I plan to remain that way.” She touched her face, swathed in bandages, her left arm was in a heavy cast and her right arm hurt, but was functional. “My face must be a mess. Do you know what happened?”

  “I suppose the same thing that happened to your legs. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  She hesitated, only fragments of what happened swirling in her brain, mingled with that moment of empty space, the terrible sensation of having nothing firm under her feet. She turned her eyes to look at the man beside her bed in the hospital. “Where was I found?”

  “Some kids found you by the side of the road. They called the police, and the ambu-lance brought you here. That was four days ago.”

  Four days! “I've been unconscious all that time? Did I say anything?”

  “Yes, you've been unconscious for four days. And, no, you said nothing.”

  “I can't move my legs.”

  “They were broken, but you're going to be all right, I assure you.”

  “Is my face very bad?”

  “Yes,” he told her honestly. “Surgery will be required when you grow stronger. But the doctors don't know what you looked like before your—accident. They don't really know how to repair your face.”

  “I don't have any money for all that.”

  “The organization I work for has a fund. Don't worry about it.”

  “What you said before, I mean… the doctors can't make me look like I did before my accident?”

  “That is correct.”

  She smiled under her bandages. “Good.”

  “Quiet.” Erica spoke to relieve the monotonous silence in the car.

  Behind the wheel, Joe smiled. “Not much of a conversationalist tonight, am I, babe?”

  But one hell of a lover, she thought. “Under-statement of the week.” She smiled at him but Joe was not in a humorous mood.

  “He's out there.” He cut his eyes to the passing darkness, a few yards on either side of the street lamps. “And he's waiting. Just waiting to strike again.”

  “The entire department is on patrol tonight, Joe,” she reminded her partner. “With twenty-five state troopers added. I can't believe this guy'd be stupid enough to try anything tonight.”

  “He's not stupid, Erica, and you know it. He's crazy, but he's also smart as hell. And everybody in this community knows him. No one suspects him. That's got to be the way is it. It's got to be!”

  She sighed in frustration. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think you're right.”

  “Mike,” the girl said, frightened. “You gotta get this car started and get us outta here. My parents will kill me if they find out we left the party to go parking. God, Mike! What if he's out there?”

  “Dammit, Laura,” the oldest Wooten boy said, impatiently, “I'm trying to get it started. I tell you, we're out of gas!”

  There was disgust in her voice, “Mike, that's the oldest trick in the book. Now, come on, Mike! Start the car and let's get out of here.”

  He put his forehead on the steering wheel and sighed with great teenage weariness. “Lisa used my car this afternoon to go riding around. Boy, she sure rode around, didn't she? Used a half a tank of gas. I'm sorry, Laura, I shoulda checked the gauge. But I didn't.”

  Laura Richard put her hand on his arm. “I'm sorry, Mike. I didn't mean to yell at you, I really didn't. I just got scared for a minute, that's all. Look, we're in the park. It isn't like we're 'way out in the country, or something, you know? Look—” she said, pointing, “you can just see the pay phone by the civil war monument. Go call Phil's Service Station and get them to bring us some gas. They'll do it. I'll lock all the doors while you're gone.”

  Doubt was in his eyes, fear in his voice. The park was very dark. “You'll be all right here?”

  She laughed at him, then kissed him. “Sure, I will.” She gave him a little push. “Go on. The faster you move the quicker we'll get out of here.”

  She locked the doors behind him and watched him melt into the darkness of the park. Putting her arms under her breasts, she shivered, although the night was pleasant in Missouri. Somewhere in the park a night bird called, receiving no reply. The park was silent. Just like a graveyard, Laura thought, then quickly pushed that thought from her. Hurry up, Mike, she mentally urged him. Please hurry.