Bill moved on.
It was now so dark he considered flicking on the van’s headlights. If he encountered anyone traveling the opposite direction now, it might be the only thing that saved them, especially if they were moving too fast or not paying attention. Ultimately, though, Bill decided to risk it, leaving the lights off. He didn’t know how much longer it would take to get to Krall’s home. The GPS claimed he was nearly there, so, although Bill was becoming less and less confident in his stuffy, British companion the farther he went along this overgrown cow path, he didn’t want to advertise his presence to the man holding his daughter by shining two headlights through his living room window.
He had now traveled nearly a full mile along the road that was no more than a rumor. Bill thought about a conversation he had once had with Sandra back in the days when they were happy and getting along and could actually do things like talk without one or both of them stomping off in frustration.
In this particular conversation, Bill had expounded on his view of life: it was like a marathon road race. Every person had to slog through their own equivalent of 26.2 miles to experience a worthwhile existence.
A few people, though, Bill had theorized, aren’t finished with their race when they complete the 26.2 miles. Those people continue on, running past the finish line, slapping the pavement relentlessly. Those people run another mile. It’s a mile very few ever experience, and there are no cheering crowds rooting the runner on, no water bottles, no one watching at all. “It’s the lonely mile,” Bill had said, and Sandra had listened somberly, nodding in understanding when he finished, although he had the feeling at the time, later confirmed, that she had thought he was full of crap.
That’s what this is, Bill thought to himself. This is the lonely mile, both literally and figuratively. This mile, I travel alone, with no crowds cheering me on and no one to hand me a cup of water. This lonely mile will determine the quality of my life’s race.
And then he was there.
CHAPTER 49
May 28, 3:59 p.m.
THE RAMSHACKLE, TWO-STORY colonial-style home appeared almost out of nowhere, looming out of the densely packed trees like a cancerous growth. It was the only structure Bill had encountered along the entire stretch of desolate roadway. The wind had continued to pick up as he drove, and the skies, incredibly, had continued to darken until the house, although set back no more than a hundred feet from the road, was barely visible in the murky half-light of the approaching storm.
Bill stepped on the brake, hard, as soon as he spotted the building, then slammed the van into reverse and backed quickly out of sight. The GPS informed him he had reached his destination, and he hoped he hadn’t been seen by anyone who might be looking out a window. Once out of sight of the house, he pulled the van as far off the road as possible, not an easy task considering the thing was barely wider than a cart path, and the longer branches of the trees surrounding it had been scraping and clawing the side of the vehicle practically since he had made the turn off Route 37.
He considered his options for a moment—there weren’t many—and then shut down the engine. There was barely enough clearance for another vehicle to pass without leaving the road, but he had more pressing issues to worry about right now.
He picked his backpack off the passenger side floor and shrugged it on, then lifted his Browning Hi-Power off the seat next to him. He slapped a magazine into the handle, racked the slide, and carefully checked that the safety was engaged. Shooting himself wouldn’t accomplish anything other than give Martin Krall another victim and probably a good laugh, besides.
Bill took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully, then stepped out of the van. As soon as he opened the door, the shrieking wind tried to rip it from his hand and tear it off its hinges. The wind seemed to be coming from all directions at once, swirling and gusting. He put his full weight against the door to get it closed. At least no one would hear the noise. The house was about two hundred feet away, and with the violence of the still-building storm, he could have parked right next to it, under an open window, and no one would have been able to hear a thing.
The wind ruffled his hair, and the sleeves of his shirt flapped against his arms as Bill walked along the edge of the weed-choked road. He stopped when he reached the corner of Martin Krall’s front yard. The house appeared empty. Between the thick growth of trees in this area of the forest and the black clouds shifting and swirling in the sky overhead, the darkness was nearly complete, despite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon, and Bill could not see a single lamp burning through any of the windows.
He assumed this house still belonged to Martin Krall, but he had no real proof. It was definitely the address specified on Ray Blanchard’s bill of sale, the GPS had confirmed that, but there was no way of knowing for sure if the man had moved away in the four years since purchasing the truck.
It felt right, though. If Martin Krall was, in fact, the elusive I-90 Killer, this would be the perfect location in which to indulge his creepy and disgusting obsessions, in a house deep in the woods, far from any prying eyes and ears.