Page 53 of No Quarter

It was time to go. He stood up and headed off Main Street.

He thought about the old man as he walked back to his car and got in. He sat in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, and started the engine. But he sat with it rumbling away for a moment.

Could I kill that old man? Could I get away with it? Stupid, stupid ... Reckless ...

The killer didn’t hit the brake as he backed up, but instead took off and turned right into the other lane of traffic. A car coming straight at him had to swerve to avoid him; he heard tires squealing behind him.

He chastised himself for letting the rush of fantasy make him noticeable.You’ve survived this long because people don’t notice you.

He drove on, thinking about the old man. He was a man in his late seventies or early eighties, judging by his hair. He had short white hair, almost like a military cut, and was wearing a brown coat. His eyes were deep blue, at least in the killer’s mind. He imagined seeing his own reflection in them as he strangled him.

But it wasn’t really his eyes that stuck out to the killer. What stuck out was the cane—it was a metal cane, and it had a red tip on it.

The killer was almost sure it was the exact same cane that his father used to use when he was still alive. One that had been given to him by a hospital.

It had always been something of a joke between them. It was a hindrance to his father, not ornate or fancy, a sterile white cane that reminded them all of the illnesses that slowly eroded his father until the bitter end. Crumbling his hip. Putting him in a wheelchair, and then the grave.

How he wanted to find that old man and beat him to death with it.

“Stop it!” the man shouted as he drove.

For the first time, he felt his methodical approach slipping. He had to think quickly and get away from people to be certain he wouldn’t start murdering the townsfolk of Buford indiscriminately.

Then, once he’d calmed, he would reward himself. Once more he would hunt down his prey tonight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Valerie and Charlie sat in the small hospital waiting room. Buford Hospital wasn’t exactly a sprawling, highly oiled machine. It felt old, filled with locals who all knew each other.

Valerie felt like a stranger.

“Why is it taking so long?” Charlie asked. “We should be looking for the killer.”

“I know,” said Valerie, just as frustrated. “But Will said he was getting ready to be discharged. And we need him on this, Charlie. He’s always capable of being the difference between a killer profile that leads to a dead end, and one that leads to an arrest.”

Valerie’s cellphone rang. She looked down at it.

At first, Valerie was reluctant to answer Tom’s call. She had a feeling that he’d be angry with her for not being in touch and keeping her injury from him. She was afraid of what he might say. However, she knew that it was important to put aside her fears and face him head-on.

“Valerie?”

“Hey, Tom,” she said.

“How is your head?”

“Fine. I’ve had worse.”

“I’m glad you’re okay, I’ve been worried sick.” He sounded concerned and frustrated in equal measure.

Valerie and Tom had a system. He wouldn’t always call her while she was on a case, as long as she’d text at the end of each day to let him know that she was all right.

Last night while she lay down at Elmwood, she had forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “It’s been hectic. I had to stay in a psychiatric retreat last night, and ... I found a dead body.”

“Are you okay?” he said, his frustration momentarily melting away, replaced by concern.

“Yeah,” she said. “You?”

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