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Chapter 10

Brian Cambry drove west along Highway 8, thinking about what would happen tomorrow. He was elated at the prospect of doing police work again, if only as an advisor on the case. As soon as I get settled in for the night, he thought, I’ll have to make a complete list of everything I can remember from the Eastman case. Luckily, retirement had not led to loss of mental acuity, and he was fairly certain he could help to piece the old crime scene back together, even from the scant evidence gathered. Everyone who deals with crime scenes has a small store of images gained over the years that are burned into one’s memory, and the scene he encountered at the Eastman home was just such an image. Although he was not confident with his own drawing ability, he thought that with the help of a sketch artist he would be able to at least roughly reproduce the scene for the sheriff and his deputy in order to find more similarities between the two cases. He just hoped one was available tomorrow.

Just past the four mile point, at the crest of a long hill, Cambry saw the sign for Winstead Manor. He turned onto the gravel driveway and drove until he reached a large well-kept Victorian house set back amongst towering oak, maple and birch trees. It was nearly dark, and the porch lights shown like a welcoming beacon. He grabbed a small overnight bag from the passenger seat, walked up the path to the house, and climbed the steps to the porch. The front door opened and a short, plump, grey-haired woman stepped out.

“You must be Mr. Cambry. I’m Mrs. Shoemaker. Deputy Sheriff Quinn called and said I should be expecting you. My daughter is getting your room ready now.”

“Thank you,” said Cambry, somewhat surprised. He hadn’t expected such friendly treatment and efficiency with such short notice.

“It shouldn’t take long until it’s ready. Would you care to come in?”

“Actually, I’d rather wait out here for just a bit to enjoy the fresh air. I’ve been cooped up in the truck for several hours.” Cambry understood that country etiquette required some small talk, and continued. “This is a nice place you have, so quiet and peaceful. Just like home.”

“Where is home for you, Mr. Cambry?”

“Eastern Kentucky, not too far from Huntington.”

“You must be tired after that long drive.”

Cambry merely nodded. He walked over to one of the wooden rocking chairs and sat down with a sigh. Mrs. Shoemaker selected the chair opposite Cambry’s and sat down as well. They waited for several minutes, chatting idly about the weather. Finally, the front door opened and a plain young woman stuck her head out. She looked at Mrs. Shoemaker, nodded, smiled at Cambry, and then withdrew.

“Ah, your room is ready. Please, follow me.”



From the woods on the far side of the driveway, the killer watched them disappear into the house, and then crept towards Cambry’s truck. Ten minutes later, the killer climbed into the pickup truck that had been left out at the main road, hidden from view by a grove of paw-paw trees and honeysuckle vine. The clock on the dashboard read 6:18.

Plenty of time, thought the killer, and guided the truck back onto the highway towards the south-bound interstate.



Several hours later and 200 miles to the south, the killer drove slowly past the home of Ben Stevens, the local fire chief and one of Jake Darrow’s closest associates. It was poker night, and Ben was hosting the weekly game with Darrow, mayor Randall Dalhart, and Jim and Jeff Brennen, owners of the only remaining bar and restaurant in Pine Mountain. Cronies since high school, they formed a tight-knit group that watched out for each other and, when necessary, covered each other’s tracks. Upstanding citizens though they appeared, in reality they were responsible for quite a bit of the illegal activity in the vicinity. Darrow was the facilitator for the crimes, conveniently looking the other way, or at times manufacturing evidence against other citizens to bring them under his control and to do the group’s dirty work. The killer remembered a first encounter with Darrow: a bogus traffic stop, search of the vehicle, planted evidence, and Darrow’s smirking declaration of “I own you now, kid.” The memory still made the killer’s blood boil. The arrangement had one advantage: it had allowed the killer to observe and understand Darrow’s weaknesses and had allowed for the tables to be turned. It had been sweet revenge to blackmail Darrow, see him sweat, but now Darrow had committed a greater transgression. His apparent inattention to detail and lack of control over his former staff had allowed a connection to be made between the killer’s two cases and threatened to disrupt the final plan. That would simply not do. The devil is in the details, Tiny. I remembered them this time, even if you didn’t.



At half-past midnight, Darrow left Ben Stevens’ house and headed home. Lady Luck had apparently abandoned him half-way through tonight’s game, and he had lost a bundle. Doesn’t matter, he thought. I’ll get it back, one way or the other. In the hidden safe in his office, Darrow kept a file on all of his “buddies”, and well as several others in the area with whom he had leverage. They knew that he was familiar with the skeletons in their respective closets and was well aware of where the bodies were buried, literally as well as figuratively. This knowledge did not lift Darrow’s dark mood, as the thought of the safe reminded him of what else it held. The amount of beer he had consumed that evening had not improved his mood, either. This was not the first time he had driven under the influence, and his luck had held so far. If he ever encountered a state trooper on one of these nights, however, the likelihood of talking his way out of it was much less than he liked.

Darrow’s well maintained two-story farmhouse was located 3 miles from town, at the end of a narrow dirt county road. After his slow, cautious drive home, he finally turned onto his driveway and breathed a sigh of relief. As he came around the final curve, the car’s headlights illuminated the building he used as a combination garden shed and workshop. The door, which he normally kept padlocked, was wide open. With a curse, he slammed the car into park, threw open the door, and stomped to the shed. The padlock lay on the ground, the shackle cut cleanly in half. Goddamn kids, he fumed. They’re the only ones stupid or naive enough to fuck with me. Little bastards were probably stealing gas for their goddamn rice-racers. He decided to see what was missing, and stepped into the shed. The light switch was located on the wall with the work bench, and as he moved toward the right side of the shed, his foot collided with a metal can that had been left in his path. “Shit,” he muttered, as something wet spilled over the floor and soaked his shoes. The smell of gasoline filled his nostrils. “Shit, shit, SHIT!!” he exclaimed as he stumbled forward and almost fell. He cautiously took two more steps forward and finally felt the edge of the workbench. He leaned forward, found the switch, and flicked it on. There was a loud BANG, and Darrow was blinded by a flash of brilliant white light from one of the lamps on the bench. He fell heavily against the door which slammed shut. Darrow fell forward to the floor and cried out in pain as his right wrist snapped. Clutching his broken limb, he rolled over and tried to sit up, blinking to clear his eyes of the burned image from the flash. He smelled the acrid smoke and immediately felt the heat from the fire which was quickly filling the shed. Gasping for breath, he tried to stand, but his legs gave out and he again crashed to the floor. Soon he could feel the blistering heat of the fire on his feet and legs. Then, as his vision finally cleared, he saw a figure standing outside the window at the back of the shed.

“Help!” he croaked. “Please!”

The figure held a picture up to the window, and Darrow saw that it was the same picture he kept locked in his safe, the picture with the warning. The figure leaned closer to the frame, and with a shock Darrow realized he recognized that face. It was a face he hadn’t seen for almost 12 years. Suddenly, he knew what this was all about. He gave a screaming curse as the face in the window withdrew, and as the flames licked over his body, he had one last conscious thought: he now knew who had really murdered the Eastmans.



The killer watched from a distance as flames engulfed the building, then turned and walked back towards the truck. The loss of the sheriff would throw the small town police force into turmoil. With a man as hated as Jacob Darrow, the plethora of suspects would keep everyone in town scrambling to point fingers and cover their own asses. No doubt Jake’s buddies would soon realize that the incriminating files were gone and would start to worry, wondering what could happen. Until the information in those files was made public via a state news source, that is, thought the killer with a smile. Panic, disorder, and chaos. My work here is done. The killer guided the truck out onto the bumpy dirt road and disappeared into the night.

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