Mike rolled his eyes and laughed. “Anything else exciting?”
Jessica smiled and walked back into his arms. “Yeah. Your partner wanted me to let you know he might have a lead on the killing that took place near Islamorada. He said it came as the result of a random conversation he had with a bartender up there.”
“Hey, there’s some good news,” said Mike cheerily. If he had his way, he’d be chasing every lead to find the serial killer regardless of the apocalypse.
“The other good news is the fact that there haven’t been any more bodies turn up since they found the one in the dumpster several days ago,” added Jessica before asking, “Do you think he’s moved on?”
Mike stuck his chin out and stared in the direction of Marathon. “I want to believe so. Maybe. Somehow his MO may have been thrown off by the power outage. It’s possible he remained in Key West after the last murder and saw how quickly we descended upon the crime scene. It’s all speculation, but I do know he’s taken a breather.”
“Stopped the bleeding, right?” asked Jessica with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” agreed Mike, with the insensitive choice of words. He glanced at his watch, but he wanted to give Jessica a heads-up on their patient. “Speaking of stopping the bleeding, apparently Patrick is recuperating nicely. He’s sitting up in bed on his own and making it to the bathroom without assistance.”
“Good for him.”
“You know, Jess, I’ve dealt with victims of crimes my entire career. Including the families of murder victims. In every case, both victims and families are determined to find the perp. I mean, you know, I’ve shared this with you. They’re uber-helpful. Any little detail is sent my way. They watch a damn episode of Blue Bloods and call with some theory or another. I have to humor them sometimes, and I always respect them because I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”
“Where are you goin’ with this, Mike?”
He hesitated before responding, “I just don’t get that same feeling with Patrick.”
Jessica rubbed her husband’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s PTSD?” It was common for the victim of a brutal sexual assault and beating to want to block out the event as a coping mechanism.
“I don’t know,” he responded as he stared off into the distance.
Jessica had a suggestion. “Try spending some more time with him on a personal level. You know, not as Mike the detective but as a concerned member of the Albright family. Maybe he’ll open up?”
Mike glanced at his watch. He would be late, not that anyone would notice. He was most interested in catching up with his partner in Islamorada to see what he’d learned about the body they’d found in the hammocks.
“Yeah. We’ll see. Love you.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and climbed into his truck. Jimmy quickly opened the gate to let Mike out. He drove off into the darkness with his mind focused on the serial killer who’d eluded him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday, November 1
North of Winston-Salem, North Carolina
Before dawn that morning, Peter found a looted gas station near the Virginia-North Carolina border. It allowed him an opportunity to sleep for several hours, which was sufficient rest to ride well into North Carolina before stopping for the evening. He’d traveled an extraordinary number of miles early that Friday, and he’d be pleased to make it another sixty miles or so to the outskirts of Winston-Salem by nightfall. A good night’s sleep there would put him back on a daytime travel cycle.
Peter had been diligent about staying hydrated and checking on his wounds. Between the mall and his foray into CVS, he’d obtained a duffel bag full of first aid supplies and considered them to be more important than toting his sleeping gear.
Despite the long rides, his body was responding better than expected. His various pains were subsiding, and his excellent conditioning as a runner aided his stamina, which helped him avoid taking breaks. After crossing into North Carolina, the terrain became less forgiving. He started to experience more hills, which both challenged his energy levels but provided him a respite as he coasted downhill.
He stopped to drink from a roadside stream. He had a temporary lapse of judgment during which he cupped the water in his hands to slurp it down. He thought he was sufficiently far enough away from DC to avoid the radioactive fallout, but then he reminded himself that the nukes might have struck nearby. Charlotte was a major banking center. Raleigh-Durham was a high-tech corridor. There were also numerous strategic military bases in the region, including Fort Bragg and Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base.
He pulled out his LifeStraw and filled the stainless-steel cup that came with the canteen. He added his electrolyte supplement and drank it down. Peter had to remind himself that he could take nothing for granted when it came to the harmful effects of nuclear winter. The radiation was only one aspect. The soot and ash flowing through the atmosphere could also be harmful to his airways and digestive system.
He studied the map and identified a town close to Winston-Salem called Stokesdale. It appeared to be about ten miles north of the city and a logical place to head west for fifteen or twenty miles before finding a desolate road that would lead him due south.
Peter approached the town as the sun was setting and temperatures were dropping. It seemed to be getting slightly colder and darker each day, which was not unexpected. He was, however, surprised by how low the temperatures had dropped below what he considered to be normal for early November. Once again, he reminded himself he was in uncharted territory, and therefore, he should expect the unexpected.
Which was exactly what he got.
He navigated through a wooded area during his approach to the town. One winding turn after another minimized his visibility of the road ahead. He took a deep breath and pedaled harder as he rose up a steady incline on the tree-lined road that obscured what little light remained that day.
His body was screaming now, the hill seemingly being the last straw his muscles could take as he pedaled to the top of the rise. He kept going, determined to make it to the point he’d identified on the map before turning west. His breathing was labored, but he kept pressing on.
Almost there. Peter encouraged himself to continue up the hill. He stood on the pedals and pushed downward to keep a steady pace. He was not going to quit, but, in his mind, he hoped the intersection would provide another vacant gas station or business to shelter him for the night.
Peter looked ahead and saw that the top of the hill was approaching. Like reaching the apex of a roller coaster, he arrived at the top and began to sail down the hill, building up speed to get to his destination sooner. Peter leaned back on the seat and arched his back to relieve some tension. He took a deep breath of the musty air inside the gaiter he’d been wearing from time to time.
He was coasting at a high rate of speed as he crossed through the intersection with several abandoned businesses in sight. As had been his practice, when the stop sign appeared, he ignored it. He hadn’t encountered any operating vehicles since his Mustang stopped running.
This time was different.
As he entered the intersection, a car appeared out of nowhere from the west. Peter struggled to slow the bicycle to stop. When he couldn’t, he chose to pedal faster to beat the approaching vehicle, which he did. Barely.
He abruptly applied the brakes and skidded to a clumsy halt, almost toppling his bike over as he lost control for a moment. He stepped off the pedals to straddle the frame. Peter furrowed his brow and physically wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He looked in wonderment as the passing vehicle slowed at a curve and applied the brakes before speeding eastward.