Entry:
The Weber parents are yelling at each other. Maybe fueled by alcohol, most likely caused by my murdering their son.
I watch as Mr. Weber throws his arms up, a look of disgust on his face. Mrs. Weber sobs and between yelling, her chest heaves with deep breaths. Two windows over, their twin sons hug each other in their room. The young boys are terrified, looking for comfort that should come from their parents. Their brother is dead and they had to regress to their embryotic existence, sharing the same space as if they need to be protected once again in their mother’s womb.
I don’t want to be here, and I certainly don’t want to watch the family of my victim. It was hard enough to actually pull the trigger, more so this time than with anyone else in the past, but I just couldn’t chance it.
I wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t of the utmost importance, and I can’t be derailed by a family in mourning. There is too much left to take care of, too many loose ends. It’s not like before. Obviously, it would be different.
It’s hard to write. My hands began to tremble a few minutes ago and my best attempts to flex the pain away have failed. The sun is starting to go down, but it will be hours before darkness. It’s too difficult to time everything correctly; there are just too many variables. I will have to come back later. I can’t risk being seen here, waiting.
Once more into the shadows…
Chapter 8
The sun was starting to go down by the time Special Agent Lockhart got back to Crayton, less a few wrong turns. He stopped in at the law enforcement office and was again informed by the receptionist, Joy, that the chief was at Dan’s Café. This time, Lockhart was far less put off by the idea. He was only really interested in getting something to eat and finding suitable accommodations for the night.
Just as it had been that morning, the place was packed. Even though the town was home to two other diners, from what Lockhart had seen of it, it seemed like everyone was at Dan’s. Inside, Donaldson was seated alone at a two-seater table. Lockhart invited himself to have a seat, but, as seemed to be par for the course during mealtime, Donaldson paid him hardly any attention.
A plate of turkey and mashed potatoes, smothered in thick caramel-colored gravy was the current object of Donaldson’s affection. At least, what was left of it.
The chief took his time with his food before wiping his mouth. “So how was Bemidji?”
“Exhilarating,” Lockhart said as he unbuttoned his suit coat and took a seat.
“Really?” the chief asked, not detecting Lockhart’s sarcasm.
“No, of course not.”
The chief rolled his eyes. “Any new findings from the coroner?”
Lockhart shook his head. “No. The autopsy is probably just getting done about now. We are still waiting on the toxicology and blood-work results. We should hear something after that. Anyway, what’s good here? I’m starving.”
The same middle-aged waitress from that morning came over to the table, dressed in a blue capped-sleeve blouse and a snug pair of black jeans. A black server’s apron was wrapped around her waist, and her hair was twisted up in a bun on her head, held in place by a pencil. It was a look he imagined he might have seen some forty years earlier, or perhaps the required hairdo of the average waitress in the average 700-person, GPS-unrecognizable Midwestern town. Time didn’t seem to move as fast in Crayton, so she would have no reason to update her hairstyle.
Since Lockhart hadn’t received any recommendations from the chief, clearly one of the establishment’s frequent diners, he repeated his question to her. “What do you recommend?”
“Well, Chef’s been doing a lot of Philly cheesesteaks today.”
Lockhart had lived on the East Coast for most of his life and questioned how good a Minnesotan “Philly” cheesesteak could possibly be. He also balked at the idea of a short-order cook having the
The Weber parents are yelling at each other. Maybe fueled by alcohol, most likely caused by my murdering their son.
I watch as Mr. Weber throws his arms up, a look of disgust on his face. Mrs. Weber sobs and between yelling, her chest heaves with deep breaths. Two windows over, their twin sons hug each other in their room. The young boys are terrified, looking for comfort that should come from their parents. Their brother is dead and they had to regress to their embryotic existence, sharing the same space as if they need to be protected once again in their mother’s womb.
I don’t want to be here, and I certainly don’t want to watch the family of my victim. It was hard enough to actually pull the trigger, more so this time than with anyone else in the past, but I just couldn’t chance it.
I wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t of the utmost importance, and I can’t be derailed by a family in mourning. There is too much left to take care of, too many loose ends. It’s not like before. Obviously, it would be different.
It’s hard to write. My hands began to tremble a few minutes ago and my best attempts to flex the pain away have failed. The sun is starting to go down, but it will be hours before darkness. It’s too difficult to time everything correctly; there are just too many variables. I will have to come back later. I can’t risk being seen here, waiting.
Once more into the shadows…
Chapter 8
The sun was starting to go down by the time Special Agent Lockhart got back to Crayton, less a few wrong turns. He stopped in at the law enforcement office and was again informed by the receptionist, Joy, that the chief was at Dan’s Café. This time, Lockhart was far less put off by the idea. He was only really interested in getting something to eat and finding suitable accommodations for the night.
Just as it had been that morning, the place was packed. Even though the town was home to two other diners, from what Lockhart had seen of it, it seemed like everyone was at Dan’s. Inside, Donaldson was seated alone at a two-seater table. Lockhart invited himself to have a seat, but, as seemed to be par for the course during mealtime, Donaldson paid him hardly any attention.
A plate of turkey and mashed potatoes, smothered in thick caramel-colored gravy was the current object of Donaldson’s affection. At least, what was left of it.
The chief took his time with his food before wiping his mouth. “So how was Bemidji?”
“Exhilarating,” Lockhart said as he unbuttoned his suit coat and took a seat.
“Really?” the chief asked, not detecting Lockhart’s sarcasm.
“No, of course not.”
The chief rolled his eyes. “Any new findings from the coroner?”
Lockhart shook his head. “No. The autopsy is probably just getting done about now. We are still waiting on the toxicology and blood-work results. We should hear something after that. Anyway, what’s good here? I’m starving.”
The same middle-aged waitress from that morning came over to the table, dressed in a blue capped-sleeve blouse and a snug pair of black jeans. A black server’s apron was wrapped around her waist, and her hair was twisted up in a bun on her head, held in place by a pencil. It was a look he imagined he might have seen some forty years earlier, or perhaps the required hairdo of the average waitress in the average 700-person, GPS-unrecognizable Midwestern town. Time didn’t seem to move as fast in Crayton, so she would have no reason to update her hairstyle.
Since Lockhart hadn’t received any recommendations from the chief, clearly one of the establishment’s frequent diners, he repeated his question to her. “What do you recommend?”
“Well, Chef’s been doing a lot of Philly cheesesteaks today.”
Lockhart had lived on the East Coast for most of his life and questioned how good a Minnesotan “Philly” cheesesteak could possibly be. He also balked at the idea of a short-order cook having the
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