Well, not unless Mr. Crowley has his eye on your digestive system.
But I wasn't afraid for her—her seventy-year-old organs were probably not worth stealing, for one thing, but it was more than that. He treated her nicely; he kissed her hello every time he came into the room. Even if she was just his cover story, he wouldn't hurt her.
On the ninth of December, late one Saturday night, Mr. Crowley slipped out of his house and removed his license plates. I was watching from my window, fully dressed, and as soon as he stowed the plates and drove away, I sneaked quietly downstairs, and out the side door. The wind was blowing just enough to cut coldly through my scarf to my face, and I had to ride slowly to keep my balance on the icy roads. I'd taken the reflectors off of my bike, making me nearly invisible in the blackness, but I wasn't afraid of being hit. The roads were virtually empty.
Mr. Crowley was also driving slowly, and I followed his taillights at a distance. The only things open this time of night were the hospital and the Flying J, one on each edge of town.
I assumed he'd go to the latter to try to pick up another drifter, but instead he cruised slowly toward the tiny downtown area.
This made sense—it would probably be empty this time of night, but if he did find anyone he could kill them with impunity. There were no open businesses, no homes, and no witnesses to hear the screaming.
Suddenly another car came around the corner, far ahead of me, and pulled up next to Mr. Crowley at a stoplight. It was a police car. I imagined them asking him if everything was all right, if he needed anything, if he'd seen anything suspicious.
Were they asking about his missing plates? Had they even noticed? The light turned green and they idled there a moment longer, then drove away—the cops went straight, and Crowley turned right. I pedaled hard to catch up, anticipating his route and turning down a side road to stay out of the street lights.
I didn't want either Crowley or the cops to see me.
When I found him again, Crowley was pulled over, talking to a man on the sidewalk. I watched them for several moments, seeing the man straighten up twice to look down the street; not searching for anything, simply looking. Would he be the one? He wore a dark parka and a baseball cap—not nearly warm enough for this weather, or this time of night. Crowley was almost certainly offering him a ride: "Come in out of the cold, we'll turn up the heat and take you where you need to go. Halfway there, I'll gut you like a fish."
The man looked up again. I watched him without breathing.
I honestly don't know if I wanted him to get in the car or not. I was going to call the cops, of course, but they might not make it in time. What would I do if this guy died? Should I abandon my plan and just run out now to warn him? If I saved him, Crowley would only look for somebody else. I couldn't follow him for the rest of my life, warning people. I had to take the risk and wait for the right moment. .;
The man opened the passenger door, and got in Crowley's car. There was no turning back now.
There was a pay phone outside of the gas station on Main, and if I could reach it in time, I could call the police and tell them to find the car. They might arrest Crowley, they might shoot him; either way it would be over. Crowley's car turned right and I went left, keeping to the shadows until he was out of sight.
When I reached the pay phone, I covered the receiver with my scarf, using gloves to keep everything free of fingerprints.
I didn't want anyone to trace the call back to me.
"911, what is the address of the emergency?"
"The Clayton Killer has another victim, in his car, right now. Tell the police to look for a white Buick LeSabre, somewhere between downtown and the wood plant."
"The—" the dispatcher paused. "You say you saw the Clayion Killer?"
"I saw him pick up a new victim," I said, "send someone now."
"Do you have any evidence that this man is the killer?" asked the dispatcher.
"I saw him kill somebody else," I said.
"Tonight?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Did you report this incident to the police?" The dispatcher sounded almost. . . bored.
"You're not taking this seriously," I said. "He's going to kill somebody right now. Send the police!"
"A squad car has been advised to patrol the area between downtown Clayton and the Clayton wood plant, on grounds of an anonymous tip," said the bored dispatcher. "The thirteenth anonymous tip of the week, I might add. Unless you'd like to give me a name?"