Prologue: Two Weeks and Two  Days From Now

Monday July 17, 2006

Mark Thompson gripped the wheel of the Crown Vic, restraining himself from flinging open the door and sprinting  into the crime scene. It was a shield against what awaited him in the park. He had never felt this kind of dread in his twenty years as a Sheriff’s Deputy. While the radio traffic at the scene was non-specific, he heard enough over the police radio back in his office to glean most of the vital details: a young, female victim with no identification. Same as the other two. No one at the Sheriff’s Office said anything directly to him about the find, even though they knew he was leading the investigation. They were trying to keep the vic’s identity a secret.

His late model Crown Vic was parked behind the white coroner’s van. He stared sightless through the windshield at the back of the Econoline tucked in the shade of a gnarled maple tree. It made his stomach turn; his breakfast became a lead brick weighing in his guts. The open cargo doors of the van revealed that the gurney was nowhere to be seen.

Two Killian County Sheriff’s Department cruisers were parked on the grass along each side of the coroner’s van, their light bars alternately flashing blue and red. Several vehicles representing both the Illinois State and Harris Police Departments guarded strategic points around Courthouse Square blocking out any stray foot and automobile traffic from wandering into the scene. A thin yellow band of plastic tape encircled the park while troopers and deputies stood guard near the borders to keep out stragglers and errant members of the press. Though the spectacle was engineered to warn the public to stay away, they were, instead, drawn with macabre fascination to view  Traveler’s latest display. Shopkeepers from further up Main Street, joggers, and other onlookers attempted to snap pictures or jockey for a better look, perhaps to tell their friends they were there or to have the best possible view when the body was wheeled out of the park.

In the narrow spaces between the vehicles parked profanely on the park lawn, the shaded forms of the investigative team milled about at the east end of the half-circle of city block that was Veteran’s Memorial Park. The northeast corner of the park was set up for a series of summer plays, the temporary wooden set stood just beneath a pair of shady maples. About a hundred feet away, rising above the trees in the center of the park, stood a gray stone statue of a winged Angel of Peace, her torch held high above her head in one hand and a dove supported in the other. She stood on her stone and glass pedestal, her back turned, oblivious to the goings-on below as she stared out over the expensive homes that lined Park Avenue.

Mark envied her ignorance.

He took several deep, calming breaths before reaching for the car door. Dreading what was on the other side of the park; he stepped out of the vehicle and onto the hard pavement. It was an effort just to stand up straight.

Three bodies in two weeks, a record for an area that hadn’t seen murder since late 1967. The killer worked with speed, precision and guile, snatching his victims only hours before they were found raped, murdered, and posed for public display around town. There were no witnesses to his work and no leads to his identity except a single-page printed letter identifying himself as “The Traveler.” His last victim died only four hours before she was found sitting at a picnic table in Whitfield Park on the North end of town, posed as if sleeping with her head resting on her arms. She was the seventeen-year-old daughter of Mark’s ex-girlfriend.

In fact, Mark knew both of the previous victims; they were friends of his daughter’s. But in a small town the size of Harris, this was not an unusual thing. As little girls, they were all in the same Girl Scout troop and attended each other’s birthday parties and sleepovers. It was a fact of life in a place like this that everyone knew everyone else. It was unavoidable.

Mark stepped up onto the sidewalk and, as if on cue, the short, plump figure of Hannah Trembley, deputy coroner, appeared from the dark shade of an old oak and waddled toward him. To Mark, who felt as if he were operating in slow motion, she seemed to move at impossible speed for a woman of her size. The Coroner’s badge around her neck swung like a black and gold pendulum. Her hands was outstretched to him, palm up as if she were warding off evil.

Mark had known Hannah since high school. She was sometimes gruff, sometimes unpleasant, but she was a hard worker and took no pleasure in giving sad news to her friends. The piteous look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know about the latest victim, but instead of following his instincts and barreling past her at top speed, he stopped.

“Where’s Cyrus?” he asked. Cyrus Johnson was the County Coroner. He usually worked the higher priority cases.

“In Morton looking over some lab reports. Mark, this one’s bad.” She stepped directly into his path, blocking his view of the park.

“Is it Traveler?”

“Don’t go up there.”

“Is it Traveler?” Mark insisted.

“They think so. Looks like his work.” Hannah’s eyes probed Mark’s as if gauging his state of mind. “We found traces of semen on her dress. We’re guessing he raped her like the others. I’ll do a kit when we get her over to the morgue, but he’s done something new to this one.”

“What do you mean by ‘new’ ?” The last two bodies found were in the exact same condition. Both with marks around their wrists and ankles where they were restrained most likely by handcuffs. Their bodies were clean, dressed, and left as if resting. After the second body was found, Mark sent a request for assistance to the FBI and began studying the habits of pattern killers. But trying to think like a psychopath was giving him headaches and causing him to lose sleep at night.

Hannah took a moment to collect her thoughts before she finally spoke. Her voice was low and calm. “He opened her chest and cut out her heart.”

Mark noticed the right sleeve on Hannah’s white lab coat was stained dark red. The remains of his breakfast shifted and sent a mild shockwave of nausea through him. Was the killer advancing his craft? Experimenting with his work? Either way, the significance of this addition to the killer’s repertoire was troubling. “He’s sending a message.”

“I really think you should wait until we get this one to the morgue, Mark. You can look at the crime scene after we’ve moved her.”

“What in the hell are you talking about, Hannah? I need to see this. This is my case!”

Hannah’s expression darkened with warning. “You need to go home, maybe even take a day off, Mark. Let Tyler take care of this.

Tyler Ridgeway was one of the other five detectives on duty at the Sheriff’s Department. Ridgeway, like Mark, asked to transfer to the Detective Squad and received the appointment due to time served with the department. Tyler was a man with a wide belly and full face who always seemed to be smiling, even when he wasn’t. Good-natured and quiet, he took his time with his cases and his conviction rate high, as was Mark’s. But Traveler was proving to be proficient at his addiction to murder, now averaging a body a week, and Mark knew Tyler moved too slowly on leads.

“Nothing against Tyler, but the man’s as quick as a turtle on lithium.” Mark began to walk around Hannah but she grabbed his arm with the force of a championship wrestler; she gave him a look of warning.

“Don’t go up there.”

Mark lowered his eyes on her, his anger with her interference hardening. “Let me go”

“No.” The tone of her voice confirmed his own suspicions, but he railed against it, not wanting to believe what he already knew to be true.

“Let go of my arm now before I take you downtown for obstructing. This is my job, let me do it.” His eyes went from her hand around his bicep to her eyes and back again, studying the best way to break her hold. His left hand went instinctively back and rested on the pair of handcuffs in a leather pouch clipped to his belt just below the small of his back. His muscles coiled like springs. He was prepared to wrestle and hog-tie her here if she didn’t relent. The Coroner’s Office would scream bloody murder if he followed through, but he wasn’t sure he cared. After a tense moment, it was Hannah who flinched and relaxed the grip she held on his arm.

Mark said nothing, giving Hannah a curt nod when he stepped around her. As he moved closer to the center of the commotion, he sensed her hovering behind him like a worried mother. On the ground ahead, a white sheet fluttered in the light summer breeze and he was able to catch a glimpse of the victim’s feet. They were both clean. He fought the urge to take Hannah’s advice and go home, resolving to go forward. He wanted to know if he was right, whatever the consequence.

Two state troopers, neither of whom he recognized, stopped talking as he approached. Other officers on the scene, men he’d known since joining the force, including Tyler, quieted as he drew closer to where the body lay covered.

“Mark, leave it!” Tyler shouted, but Mark ignored him, marching straight toward the body in an almost military fashion. With each step, his heart broke again, just as it did with the other two victims. Hannah was right; he shouldn’t be here

As if in a dream, he hunkered down before the sheet and slowly pulled it off the dead girl’s upper body. Her hands were tucked up beneath her right ear, as if she were supporting her head with them while sleeping on her side. Blonde strands of hair covered much of her face, but Mark already knew her name. She wore a sundress the color of dandelions and a large bloodstain spread over the left half of her chest where the killer removed her heart. Her skin was pale, showing no signs of lividity, but if he lifted her arms, he would find the telltale purple bruises where her skin touched the ground. He knew that if he checked her hand he would find a mysterious photograph of a middle-aged woman beneath her body with an enigmatic serial number handwritten on the back of the photo.

The moment he saw her face, tears burned his eyes and blurred his vision.

Amanda.

His sixteen-year-old daughter.

Mark collapsed; his six-foot one frame crumpling into a heap on the ground. A hammer-blow of grief slamming through his soul. The nearby officers and crime scene techs all stared at him wide-eyed, momentarily forgetting where they were. Hannah Trembley was still close by. She knelt beside him and threw her arms around his neck. Mark initially fought her embrace, but then gave himself over to it.

Traveler raped his daughter. Traveler cut her heart out. The message Traveler sent was clear, “I have her heart, you’ll never catch me.”

Reflexively, Mark looked at his watch. It was 7:16 AM.

Part I: Friday June 30, 2006

1

Mark pressed the gas pedal further into the floor of the police cruiser as the stoplight ahead of him changed from green to amber. He hated red lights. Elizabeth, his ex-wife, used to deride him about his driving, saying he was too erratic behind the wheel. Admittedly, he was a lead foot, but under the circumstances he felt speeding was justified. Besides, Elizabeth wasn’t around to complain anymore.

He scanned the intersection and noted no signs of headlights coming from either side of the cross street ahead. The engine revved and the tires bumped against the cracks in the road as the big Crown Vic flashed through the intersection. It thumped over the rise in the street just as the light overhead turned bright red.

The driver’s window on Mark’s cruiser was down; the night air was humid. He smelled the scent of an impending storm moving in out of the west. Lightning flashed in his peripheral vision, causing him to nearly miss his turn on the left. He braked hard and yanked on the steering wheel. The car rounded Carver’s Corner with the back tires squealing against the pavement. He eased off the accelerator.

The house he was looking for was up ahead at the end of a long cul-de-sac; the ideal spot for an underage drinking party. The owners were Andrew and Jessica Hughes. His daughter Amanda and their daughter Nicole were friends. Amanda spent a lot of time at their house. The Hughes’ were a dual income couple pulling down six figures a year each who vacationed in places with names like Aspen and St. Croix. He did not. They drove Benzes, went skiing, and played tennis. He didn’t do those things either. Nor did he envy their money; his own life was comfortable enough.

The Hughes’ home sat at the end of the wide, well-lit, cul-de-sac, nestled among homes that spoke of money and influence. Manicured lawns, expensive landscaping, and ornate streetlights rounded out the décor of the neighborhood. The Hughes’ home was the largest house in the street, a two-story structure with an attached three-car garage and circular asphalt drive partially obscured by a high hedge. He counted at least three cars in the driveway and saw several others parked along the sides of the road; older model Hondas, a couple of 80’s era 4x4s; none looked as if they belonged here among the wealthy with their Subaru’s and Beamer’s. A check of their license plates confirmed his suspicions. Most belonged to kids who lived across town.

As he shut his car’s engine off, he heard bass drums pounding primal rhythms from an unseen stereo inside the house. He watched the silhouettes of partygoers pass in front of the lighted windows and wondered which of them belonged to his daughter.

She was supposed to be at a slumber party. At least she got the party part right.

Mark called out to the county dispatcher, gave his location, and requested a couple of city units to back him up on Samson Avenue – the only road running behind the Hughes house on Sunny Lane – to catch any of the “rabbitting” teenagers he knew would try to run out the back door the moment they realized the police were there.

Mark listened as the dispatcher sent two city units. When the units arrived on scene a few minutes later, he got out of the car and approached the house. His badge hung from his shirt pocket, plainly visible as walked up the driveway toward the front door. Voices from inside drifted into the night air around him, squealing and laughing as the music continued to pulsate inside, reminding him of when he was young and stupid.

He and his older brother Michael threw parties at their parents’ country home while the folks were on vacation. The memory made him smile at his own audacity; their parties, after all, were never busted. Of course, his parents did not have nosey neighbors. But those days were long gone and he was now just like his own father, trying to keep his kid from making the same mistakes he’d made. And now that he was seeing things from his own father’s perspective, he decided he would ground Amanda for life if he caught her alone with that Farmer kid.

He stepped up to the front door and pounded furiously. No one answered. He pounded again, this time harder and longer. The door opened and a bikini-clad blonde holding a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan rum greeted him. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen and the smile she wore, which covered more of her body than the bikini, disappeared when she saw the badge hanging from his shirt pocket. He recognized her as Nicole Hughes.

“Where’s Amanda, Nicole?” he asked using his practiced cop growl.

“Cop!” a long-haired boy at the back of the living room yelled.

On cue, everyone in the room broke for the rear of the house in a flurry of flying half-full red cups. He watched with amusement as a couple to them tripped over each other running down the narrow hallway leading to the back door. He hoped the city cops were ready to catch the herd.

“Where’s Amanda?” he asked again.

“Upstairs,” Nicole answered, now trying to hide the bottle of rum behind her back.

“Where upstairs? There are a lot of rooms up there.”

“Bedroom,” she mumbled. Noticeably, she didn’t offer to tell him which one

“Show me,” he barked.

“Guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Not really.” Nicole moved out of his way as he stepped into the house. He plucked the bottle of rum out of her hand and set it on the antique end table beside the door.

“Lead on.”

“This sucks.” She pouted as she stomped to the deep oak staircase across the room. She led him up to the second story and down a long wide hallway lined with heavy paneled doors.

Pointing to the last door on his right she whispered, “They’re in there. Please don’t tell them I told you.”

“I won’t say a word.”

Amanda lied to him a week ago when she told him there was a supervised slumber party going on at Nicole’s house. She badgered him for three days before he finally told her she could go. “You have to trust me,” she told him. Now he was finding out just how much his trust meant to her. Anger rose inside him like an angry bear.

“Take off,” he told Nicole who, with a half-hearted smile, turned and bolted out of the hallway and down the stairs. Another man’s daughter he thought sadly as he squared himself up with the closed door. He put all his anger and worry into his closed fist and knocked.

“We’re busy, asshole!” a male voice called from inside.

“Open the fucking door or I’ll kick the goddamn thing down!”

Mark heard bedsprings squeak followed by the pounding of angry feet against a hardwood floor. The door flung open and standing in its stead was a tall, dark-haired kid wearing only a pair of gray boxers. The kid was Will Farmer, Amanda’s boyfriend, and it took every ounce of Mark’s willpower not to fist up and knock him across the room.

“Oh shit!” Farmer’s smug expression wilted when he recognized Mark. He tried to slam the door but Mark stuck out a big arm and held it firmly in place.

“Wha-?” Amanda’s confused voice cried out from somewhere inside the dark room.

“Amanda, get out here now!” Mark bellowed while shooting Will a dirty look.

“Mark?!” Amanda’s voice cried as her silhouette began gathering up bits of clothing from the shadows.

“I prefer Dad. Put your damned clothes on. We’re going home.”

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I said, get your clothes on, now!”

Mark’s patience was worn to nothing; the urge to pummel Will Farmer’s face to a pulp roared like a fire in his mind. The kid was nineteen years old and would be lucky if Mark didn’t have him prosecuted for statutory rape.

Amanda dressed in the shadows, pushing herself frantically into her clothes. When finished, she came to the door in a huff. Will moved to give her a good-bye kiss but a threatening glace from Mark made him withdraw.

“You touch my daughter again and I’ll haul your ass to jail. Got me?”

Will said nothing, his expression turning sulky as Amanda stepped into the hall, her head hanging in embarrassment.

“Move it,” Mark commanded and led her down the hallway with an accusing hand on her shoulder. He could feel Will’s stare burning into his back. Fine. Great. Whatever. Maybe the little son of a bitch would think twice before touching his daughter again.

Down the staircase and out the front door, they marched in silence, neither trying to speak to the other. Mark led Amanda to the squad car. There were two city patrol cars idling nearby, their uniformed officers busy writing tickets to four teenaged boys.

“You brought more cops?! Oh my God!”

“Actually, the neighbors busted the party out. Be grateful I’m not giving your boyfriend a lift to the county lock-up.”

“That’s so like you, Mark,” she hissed. “He didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want him to do.”

“I don’t give a shit what you wanted. Whatever he did is illegal in most states, except maybe Kentucky, so consider yourself lucky I’m not gonna press charges.” He scowled then added, “Yet.”

“You’re such a jerk!” she scoffed. “You come barging into my friend’s house and start chasing everyone off. I mean, God! You’re not my boss, you don’t own m...”

Mark cut her off. “Get in the car.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it when Mark gave her a withering glance. Once inside the car, Mark turned the engine over and pulled out of the cul-de-sac.

“This is so unfair!” Amanda muttered.

“You can be quiet or spend the night in jail with your friends back there. You pick.” He wasn’t in the mood to spend the rest of the night being chastised for keeping her safe. He was the parent here.

“What’s the fucking dif?” she sneered.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You listen to me. You’re my daughter and you’re staying in my house. I’m in charge here, not your mother. If you’re staying in my house, you will obey my rules. The most important rule I have in my house is that you do not, under any circumstances, lie to me. You lied to me tonight, Amanda. You told me this was a slumber party not a goddamned orgy!”

“It wasn’t an orgy, Mark! Jesus Christ!” She turned her head toward the car window to sulk at the passing houses. “It was just a party.”

“I don’t care what it was, Amanda! I don’t! You lied to me! And then I catch you in bed with that Farmer kid! Jesus! Do you realize what you’re getting yourself into? Please tell me you  made him wear a condom!”

Amanda said nothing and her silence told him what he needed to know. His fear for her now mixed itself with anger and disappointment at her deception. Amanda was smarter than this. He checked with her school in Charlotte often and understood she was on the honor roll every semester. Where was she getting this rebellious and stupid streak? Was this her mother’s influence? Maybe he needed to make a phone call and have a chat with Lizzy.

“Don’t you realize you could get pregnant, or worse?”

“I know, Mark.”

“If you know, why in the hell are you trying to mess up your life?”

“Because I love him.”

“You love him enough to have his baby? Because if you keep this up that’s what’ll happen. He’ll knock you up and you’ll be stuck raising his kid. And college? Forget it. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know.”

Mark turned from Main Street to head east on Elm. The back tires squealed.

“You’d better figure it out, kiddo, or you’re gonna be up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Stop it….”

“I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

Amanda’s eyes widened in shock, “Mistakes? Is that what I am to you? A mistake? Well thanks a shitload, Mark!”

“I didn’t mean…”

“You sure as hell did! Fuck you, Dad.”

“I didn’t mean…”

But Amanda turned her head, signaling that she was done with this conversation. Mark wanted to explain why he made the decisions he made, but she already knew his story and she looked like she was in no mood to rehash it.

Following a short drive paired with a long silence later, Mark eased the big Crown Vic into the driveway at the corner of 4th and Elm. After parking the car, he followed Amanda to the front door of a nondescript, but modern looking two-story home.

“I’m sorry,” he finally managed to mutter as he unlocked the front door, “You weren’t a mistake.”

Amanda ignored the apology and pounded up the stairs without a single word. Mark stood in the darkened foyer staring up the stairs after her, wishing he could explain he didn’t want her to make the mistakes he’d made. He didn’t want her to have to struggle the way he and Elizabeth did. But he knew an apology wouldn’t do any good at this point. Sixteen-year-olds (and that included himself at one time) like Amanda had the world completely figured out, and their parents were just plain clueless. Any morsel of good advice he gave would fall on the deaf ears of a girl who was convinced she was in love.

Mark knew Will Farmer’s type. Boys his age were only interested in getting their wicks wet and damn the consequences. Will was raised with few restrictions and was well known to the Sheriff’s Department. He’d been picked up a few times on minor offenses:  possession of liquor by a minor, reckless driving, etc; kid’s stuff. However, Mark saw Will as careless and feared he would treat Amanda in the same casual manner with which he treated his own life.  He wanted to march upstairs and talk sense into her; point out the boy’s flaws. But trying to talk to her now would only prolong the pointless arguing. Anything he told her she would resist as fervently as he’d done with his own father when he told his parents Elizabeth was pregnant.

Mark sighed deeply. He stood at the foot of the stairs just inside the front door, resisting an impulse to run upstairs and re-engage Amanda in rhetoric. Instead he forced his feelings down before plodding over to his open office door. He switched on the light, plopped down into his office chair, and reclined all the way back to stretch away his stress. His day was long and every part of him ached. He spent the day running down leads in a case involving missing pets in and around the Forest Hills Subdivision on the south side of Harris. The pet owners were being patient with him but they were all high-profile locals, some with membership on the county board. And while missing pets didn’t qualify as a priority over things like burglaries and assaults, the Sheriff was pushing a resolution to the investigation. He also received daily calls from Mary Ellen Turnberry, a stern-faced elderly woman whose white Persian cat went missing three weeks ago. Her husband, George, was the County Highway Commissioner. She was convinced something sinister was going on with her cat because, she said, “Fella would never run off on his own.”

Her calls always left him with a headache.

With his nerves on edge again, he rolled open the deep filing drawer under his desk and pulled out a half-empty fifth of whiskey. He tipped a bit of the amber liquid into an empty glass on the desk and drank the contents down in a single gulp. The alcohol burned its way down his throat and warmed his empty belly. He poured himself another glass. It disappeared as quickly as the first.

His argument with Amanda faded to the back of his mind, replaced by a memory of Elizabeth ten years ago, pushing Amanda in a swing. Both had the same golden hair. Their eyes twinkled happily as mother helped daughter reach higher and higher into the air. He’d been in awe of them both then and thanked God they were both part his life. The memory caused a single tear to escape the corner of his eye.

2

Amanda tossed about in her bed as her father drank in his office downstairs. For nearly an hour, she lay in her room fuming, sulking, and crying, all the while trying to purge the embarrassment she suffered because of her father. He couldn’t have shown up at a worse time; she and Will were finally going to have sex. Being interrupted was just about the worst thing she could think of and just knew it would be the biggest story of the week; eclipsing the tale about the party-crashing geek who nearly drowned in the pool earlier.

A jerk, that’s all her father was. He was a big meddling jerk who used his badge as an excuse to butt into her business. He had no right to do that, no right at all. And to call her a mistake! She could easily hate him for that. Her mother was right; Mark was nothing more than an overbearing, untrusting blowhard who always tended to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

She got out of bed for the fifth time and looked at herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door, She admired her own reflection. This, she thought proudly, is no mistake. She turned around to look over her shoulder, tightened the muscles in her legs and applauded herself for running two miles every morning. She knew she looked good, after all, she was a woman now.

Amanda turned from the mirror and climbed back into bed, grabbing a stuffed Snoopy tightly in her arms. Her room was replete with all the amenities she could convince her father to buy her, including a new computer that she used nightly to speak to Will over the internet. There were also toys and other collectibles set on high shelves around the room that she kept over the years. Each held some sentimental significance for her. But those were trinkets from another time, artifacts from when she was a little girl. Back then, she’d never even given boys much thought. And now she was almost a woman, and in two years she would be old enough to live on her own, apart from the influence of either of her parents. At that point, what she did with her body and with whom would be her business and her business alone.

I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.

Mark’s words were cliché and insulting. Still, she knew she’d been conceived out of wedlock - her grandmother shared that little tidbit of information with her years ago. She also knew her dad gave over his dreams of being a veterinarian to be a stand-up father. Though he never acted like he resented her, it didn’t stop her from feeling like she cost him something important he would never get back. Her mother said his disappointment was why he never came to North Carolina to see her; a fact that made her feel like a burden to him.

Now Mark was being a hypocrite, trying to take her away from the boy she was sure was the one. Will Farmer was perfect:  sweet, good-looking, drove a nice car, and every girl in town wanted him. He wanted her, and it was enough to make her heart beat faster every time she thought about it. Giving herself to him was the right thing to do, even if Mark didn’t approve.

She hugged the doll tight. Mark won it for her years ago at the Harris County Fair. In her memory, she was holding his hand on the midway and walking down Arcade Alley. She was nine. All around her buzzers and bells rang as people played games. The air was thick with the smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and elephant ears making her giddy. Carnies dressed in old rock t-shirts stood before the gaming trailers barking at passersby promising them great prizes if they only spent a buck. Rock and roll from before she was born blared over hidden loudspeakers. They passed a target shoot and, hanging amongst the various prizes was the Snoopy. The minute Amanda saw it she knew she had to have it.

“Please, Daddy,” she cried, putting as much need in her voice as she could. “Win me Snoopy.”

Mark said nothing to her, he just laid down his money. The carnival worker handed one of his air rifles over for her father’s inspection and, after studying the barrel of the gun and checking the sights, he fired off three quick shots that struck three moving targets. Annoyed but impressed, the carnival worker handed the doll over muttering something about “beginner’s luck.”

But that happened a long ago, when she did not doubt her father loved and trusted her like he should. Now all he ever did was question the decisions she made. And while the Snoopy stood as a reminder of how close they once were, newer things in the room, like her computer, were more like peace offerings than gifts of love.

The things Mark bought her weren’t enough to make up for whatever was missing between them, but she didn’t know what would be. Something inside her grew to resent him since her mom packed her off to North Carolina, but she wasn’t sure why. Mark wasn’t nearly as self-centered as her stepfather Melvin, but he also didn’t give her space like Melvin did. All during this visit to Harris, she felt like she was butting up against an invisible wall Mark was placing before her.  She just wanted was her freedom to do what she wanted. It was so frustrating, it was…  

Something cracked against the bedroom window making Amanda lose her train of thought. She rushed over to the window to see what made the noise but caught only her own reflection in the glass. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she pushed her face up against the pane and saw Will Farmer looking up at her from the front yard, an expectant look on his face. He was waiting for her to call out from the balcony just like in Romeo and Juliet.

God, talk about cliché.

Hastily, Amanda slipped out of her pajamas and into jeans and a t-shirt. She did a quick check of her hair in the vanity mirror and then stuffed a change of clothes into an old backpack. She quietly opened the window and stepped gingerly out onto the roof that hung over the front porch. Making sure the window behind her was closed, she crept down the roof, and, with the practiced balance of a skilled acrobat, she shimmied down an ornate porch column and onto the deck below. From there, she ran across the lawn into Will’s waiting arms.

“It scares the hell out of me every time I see you do that,” Will said nervously.

“Scares me too. But I’m more worried Mark’s gonna hear me.”

“Dude was pissed.”

“Mark?” she asked as she followed Will off the grass to the black Jeep Wrangler parked across the street. “Oh yeah. I’m probably grounded, but he hasn’t said anything to me about it yet. I think he was too mad to remember to tell me. I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

 “I stopped caring a while ago. Where are we going?”

Will jumped into the driver’s side of the Jeep. With a turn of the key the four-wheel drive’s engine roared to life. “Camp out. Todd and Amy are meeting us at Cabo near the river.”

“Sounds fun.” Amanda smiled. It would be a shock for the old man to find her gone in the morning. Best of all, she and Will were going to finish what they’d started in that dark bedroom an hour ago, and this time, no one would be able to stop them. However, she was going to make Will stop and get a condom. No sense in taking unnecessary risks after all.

“Yeah, doesn’t it?” Will replied, pulling Amanda out of her thoughts.

Will put the transmission in gear. The Jeep lurched out from its parking spot and rolled noisily down Elm Street. Its taillights disappeared as it turned the corner on Main a few blocks away. A flash of lightning punctuated their departure.

From out of a nearby alleyway, a bicycle and its rider pulled out onto Elm and followed their path down the street. Though hardly more than his silhouette could be seen, the boy riding the bike was a small, lean looking figure who peddled his way slowly down to the next block and disappeared into the shadows again.