The Lonely Mile(57)

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.

But the fact that it felt right didn’t mean it was right. There was no name on the mailbox; in fact, there was no mailbox. No street number adorned the front of the house. There was no identification of any kind to indicate the name of the person or people who lived here. But he had no time to lose. He had to find out fast if he was wasting his time, or if Martin Krall and Carli might be just a few dozen feet away, inside that bleak and dreary looking home.

Bill eased his way back into the reassuring cover of the forest and began making his way along the tree line toward the front of the house. He was careful to do everything possible to avoid detection despite the fact that every fiber of his body was screaming at him, Go, get Carli!

If this really was the home of the I-90 Killer, he would have to proceed slowly and methodically, to take every precaution possible to avoid becoming another victim. And right now, that meant staying out of sight, even though the big house across the yard appeared empty and deserted.

Built next to the house at the end of the driveway was an attached one-car garage. It had clearly been added some time after the original construction of the home, so it had suffered fewer years of neglect and seemed in considerably better condition. A small, foreign car was parked in front of the big aluminum door—which was closed—and Bill wondered what, if any, vehicle might be parked inside. It would stand to reason that Krall wouldn’t park the truck he used to kidnap girls outside in plain sight, even in as remote an area as this. Therefore the garage was the perfect place to start his search.

He moved north through the woods, emerging from the reassuring cover of the trees about halfway along the length of the garage. Two windows on the side wall facing the woods provided some light for the interior of the structure.

He stood at the edge of the clearing and took a deep breath. From this vantage point, he was shielded from the view of virtually the entire main house, but once he stepped past the tree line and began crossing the side yard he would be totally exposed. If anyone walked out of the house or, even worse, if someone was currently inside the garage, he would have nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.