The Camaro Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

vehicle.”
    â€œCopy that,” is the reply from Dispatch.
    Three clunks and the cruiser is in “drive” again. My mind is thick and numb with everything I can’t explain from the last half-hour. Some of the old timers talk about seeing stuff out in their fields or on some back road, but no one ever believes them. They’re just crazy farmers. Maybe I should lend credence to what they say.
    That line of thinking will get me into trouble for sure. Josie will think I’ve been drinking. I’m always the level-headed one—no time for shenanigans. Stay focused. Cars just don’t disappear. Neither do little boys.
    I lose my train of thought at the flash of high beams in the rearview. Someone just came out of nowhere, and they’re on my tail like mange on a mutt.
    It’s the Camaro; I know it. Its motor is making the most God-awful sound as it bears down on me. I’m ready for it to explode into the back seat, the way it’s howling. My only recourse is to punch the accelerator for fear of being rear-ended.
    Times like these, it hits me—there’s no safety out here. It’s just me and the road, and the desperation letting loose from under the hood. Thoughts of Josie race to the forefront of my mind. Her golden hair seems far away.
    The Camaro is so close now that I can’t see the headlights anymore—only their glare is visible, reflected from the cruiser’s bumper. Of all things I notice a bullet hole in the windshield.
    The howl is deafening now; it sounds like a freight train is going to derail on top of me. The blare resonates through my bones, and again I wait for impact.
    Then—silence. The glaring lights are gone and I’m left flying along the countryside at eighty miles an hour. The leftover adrenaline goes to my right leg and I can’t stop it from pumping up and down; I pull off along the shoulder and come to a jerky stop.
    The wipers drag noisily across the windshield and I breathe in measured gasps, only long enough for half of an inhale. I bring myself to check the rearview once more. It’s empty.
    All my senses are alive. I can almost taste the cold. My mind lets go of any particular thought and I start to drift along, staring down the road and watching the snow flutter. I watch myself drive to Mendelssohn’s house; I see me walk inside. And I know what I see inside. Then I’m chasing the Camaro, and in turn it chases me.
    Still drifting, I find myself back at the Mendelssohn farm, and I keep seeing that boy over and over. He’s there in the corner, and he doesn’t have any eyes.

Rickets and Hollow Trees
    October 27th, 1986
    Culver Crisp walking home from school
    â€œI’ll look pretty for you, Culver Crisp,” Starla says to me as she swings my arm in her hand.
    I’m seven years old, and I don’t know what to say.
    Starla is all smiles and gawks at me like I’m the greatest thing ever. “I’ll wear my pink ribbon and my new dress.”
    We’re walking home from school along Castle Road. It’s the busiest road in town. There are all kinds of houses and barns, and lots of fields from one end to the other, but someone forgot to build a sidewalk. So we walk beside the white line in the gravel and weeds.
    I don’t live on Castle Road, but Starla does. She and her mom stay in the Asbury Commons trailer park, out past the circle in town. It’s further away from school than I thought.
    After school, Starla’s mom usually picks her up in Nancy’s car. Nancy waits on tables with Starla’s mom at the Manor Restaurant, and lets her borrow the car a lot. Sometimes the restaurant gets busy and her mom can’t take her break, so Starla has to walk.
    Starla’s mom didn’t show up today. We were standing on the steps in front of the school when I asked Starla if I could walk home with her. I had my blue backpack and my Ghostbusters lunchbox, and talked with my eyes