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man.”
                  “ Can you describe him ?” I asked, the anxiety in my voice very apparent.
                  “Geez,” he said,  “I ’m sorry. I didn’t see him well at all .”
                  “What about the car he was driving?”
                  The old fellow squinted in concentration. “I can’t really remember it. I think maybe it was light colored and … maybe a mid-size or full-size. Definitely not a compact, I ’m sure of that.”
                  “Did you notice a license plate?”
                  “No, sir,” he said. “I really didn’t get that good a look. You know, i t didn’t register that there was a problem.”
                  “ Is there a phone around here I could use ?”
                  “Sure, there’s a payphone right next door by the gas station,” he told me. “I sure hope everything turns out okay,” he added as I turned to leave.
                  “Me too,” I said as I rushed out .

 
     
     
     
                                                                                        8              
     
                  I used the payphone to call Tom Kilborn. “Tom, I’m just north of Savannah, Georgia. I’ve confirmed that Callie and Tanya were here Wednesday afternoon. It’s also possible she was being followed by a man in a light colored full - size sedan. That’s all the details I have. ”
                  “Okay, Jack. We’re on it . ”
                  “ Callie intended to take I-95 all the way up to Milford, Connecticut, s o I figure whatever happened to them had to have happened between here and Fayetteville, North Carolina, because she couldn’t have gotten any further than that without stopping for gas .”
                  “Look, Jack, I don’t like the fact that you ’re getting involved in this so deeply but I know I’d be wasting my time to try and talk you out of it. So do what you have to but keep me apprised of your every move . And b e bloody careful.”
                  Walking back to my car , the significance of  what was occurring hit home hard . Until now I had been able to half fool myself into believing there was some logical , even if unusual , explanation for why my family seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.               But there was no kidding myself any longer. I couldn’t deny the very real possibility that a serial killer – one of worst in American history - h ad the two people I loved most in the world in his grasp. How he had been able to do it didn’t matter . H e had done it.
                  I prayed to a God I really didn’t believe in that, by some miracle, they had been spared , t hat they were still alive. Maybe Callie had been able to overpower him but was now stranded somewhere.
                  A s hard as I tried to convince myself that such a possibility existed, I could not truly accept the concept as a reality. Henderson’s history simply did not lend itself to such a likelihood.
                  There was at that moment only one thing I knew with absolute certainty. I f he had harmed my family in any way I would find him and, when I did, he would suffer as much pain as it was possible for me to inflict up on him.
                  Then I would kill him.

 
     
     
                                                                                        9
     
                  As I rolled north out of the suburbs of Savannah, I-95 became Route 17 and was alternately called the Hendersonville Highway. I couldn’t help but reflect on the irony of being on this particular stretch of road, looking