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Lucas nodded. When it became apparent the killings were not isolated domestic disputes, the first person he thought of was B. R. Matthews. But two years of investigation had uncovered no connections between Matthews and the victims. None.

And the murders were coming closer together. After the last shooting, Lucas had decided he had to try something to unsettle the guy who was doing this and at least slow him down. Lucas announced that he was close to an arrest, which was an absolute lie. Now it was obvious that the tactic had failed.

The rail-thin detective looked away when the EMTs pulled the body off the railing and placed it on a pallet. He’d seen eight other faces that had been blown away. Looking at another one wouldn’t help. He stood and tried unsuccessfully to rub the tension out of his tight shoulders. “I’m heading home.”

Spurlock dug in his navel again. “Me too. Gonna go see B. R. Matthews in the mornin’.”

Lucas opened the door of his 1972 Toyota Carina. He blinked the mist out of his eyes and said to Spurlock, “You do that.”

The man on the radio was saying something about a missile attack on Iraq, but Lucas wasn’t listening. Instead he squinted in confusion at the face of his clock radio that sat next to his bed. The red numbers indicated it was five o’clock, which was the same time the radio always turned itself on, but this morning was different. Most mornings, Lucas was already awake, lying there thinking, when the radio clicked and the news began. He had arrived home just after two and last remembered the red numbers turning to three-fourteen. His foggy mind tried to figure out the amount of sleep it had gotten, but it was having a hard time handling the process of subtraction.

Lucas lifted his hand to slap at the rarely used snooze button, then lowered it again. The teenaged voice from Teal County’s only radio station had begun reporting the local news, and the latest murder was the lead story. The detective lifted his pillow against the fiberboard wall of his fourteen-foot-wide trailer and listened to the scant details provided.

Now Lucas was wide awake. There was no doubt that the people at the radio station knew only a little less than he did. Lucas also knew that if last night’s shooting followed the pattern of the other eight murders, he might never know much more than he knew now. And he knew that his lack of knowledge would make it impossible to stay in bed, so he didn’t.

By five-twenty, the coffee was ready and the Patsboro Herald had arrived. As he did every morning, summer or winter, Lucas sat on the makeshift porch he’d fashioned in front of the trailer, drank coffee, and read the paper. The headline screamed that another murder had occurred. Lucas was amazed. The body had been discovered shortly after nine the previous night and the Herald never reacted so quickly. In fact, only one of the other murders had rated a headline. That was the one from McCarty’s Creek.

Lucas, who rarely used obscenities, said, “Damn,” and threw the paper down in disgust. That’s when he saw it. A note taped next to his door. He tore it down and read, “I’ll be leaving Fluffy with you tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m going to Hartwell to see Aunt Ruth and will be back the day after tomorrow.” It was signed, “Mama.”

“Damn,” Lucas said again, “The Gnat.” He hated that dog. His mama’s dog was a ball of white fur that stood about six inches tall and never stopped jumping and yapping. He couldn’t stand gnat dogs. He picked up the paper again and began reading. Even thinking about eight, now nine, unsolved murders was better than thinking about babysitting Fluffy.

By the time he finished reading the paper, and after going into the trailer for two more cups of coffee, rays from the rising sun were falling on the rolling hills that fronted the trailer. The clouds from the night before had moved to the east, leaving behind crisp, clean, clear air. Lucas slouched in his metal chair and stared at the scenery before him.

Something moved. Nothing ever moved on those hills at this time of the morning except an occasional deer, and what he saw was not a deer, but it was gone before he could see what it was.

Lucas leaned back in his cracked leather chair and gazed at the blackboard before him. This one was really black. He had procured it when the Teal County School District modernized and went from black to green. That had happened in 1990.

The victims’ names were listed on the board: Jim Landry, Sherry Drake, Roscoe Flinn, Terry Stark, Elvis Coulter, Martha Williams, Jason Barrett, Ted Black. But that was only eight.

Lucas walked around his desk and added Arthur Peterson, the victim from the night before.

During the past two years, the names had been put on the board and erased over and over as Lucas searched for connections. They’d been reordered based on arrest records, employers, occupations, hobbies, acquaintances — even places of birth. Nothing had come together.

As Lucas sat again, Tammi Randall walked into the room and sat in the chair next to Lucas’s desk. She crossed her legs carelessly. Lucas knew there was no message in that. He knew Tammi didn’t think of him in that way. For that, he was sorry.

“Number nine,” Tammi said.

“Yes.”

The two sat for a moment staring at the names on the board. Lucas broke the silence. “Got a client upstairs?” He nodded toward the ceiling. The Teal County Jail was one story above Lucas’s office.

“Wayne Myers.” Tammi recrossed her legs. She was an attorney for the Teal County Legal-Aid Society. While she and Lucas were usually on opposite sides in court, they had become friends when they were both involved with uncovering Jink Jarvis’s smuggling ring.

Lucas had arrested Wayne Myers. “That case is open and shut.”

“I know. I’ve read your reports.” Tammi rested her chin on a fist, unknowingly accentuating her sensuous lips. “Still have to be sure he’s treated fairly.”

Lucas nodded.

“It’s my job. Even when I know he’s guilty as grits.”

Lucas nodded again, then moved his eyes reluctantly to the blackboard. Tammi followed his gaze.

“I keep thinking about the kids,” Tammi said.

“The kids?”

“Yeah. I read obituaries. Got the habit from my mother.” She nodded at the board. “Every one of those people had kids.”

Lucas knew that, of course, but he hadn’t focused on it. He immediately worked through the odds. Nine murdered victims and all have children. Nothing special, he decided. Most folks had kids.

Except him.

“That is a shame,” Lucas said.

Tammi rose from her chair. “Well, time to go visit Wayne. Just can’t wait.” She departed, leaving the scent of Shalimar behind.

Lucas slid down in his chair, breathed deeply, then shook himself. He picked up the preliminary report from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation field men and found what he expected. It was just like the others. The victim was shot in the face by a .223-caliber round. The ballistics expert who was at the scene guessed that the range was more than a hundred yards. Because rifles, unlike some handguns, don’t leave signature markings on the bullet, the type of weapon would probably remain unknown. For reasons unknown to Lucas, he guessed a Ruger Mini 14, but it could just as easily be an M-16.

There were no other clues. Not a footprint, nor spent shell casings. No discarded cigarettes for DNA tests, no fiber evidence. No witnesses.

Nothing.

He stared at the names on the blackboard. Connections, he thought. “Kids,” he said aloud. He sat straight and turned to his filing cabinet. He pulled out eight thick folders that contained his notes from the first eight murders. He put them on top of the thin folder from last night’s shooting and pushed them across his desk toward the blackboard.