Sandycross, North Carolina 11:30 A.M. Wednesday, July 16

As Jim turned off the blacktop and started down a rutted and sloping drive, he thought about the old woman's face back at the hotel when he had asked her where to find Route 6 Storm Trail. Her immediate expression told him that she did not approve of him meddling into police business. But she quickly corrected her features to show that she was neutral on the subject. She told him that he would have to backtrack from where he had found the camper. A mile west of that location should be approximately where Route 6 crossed the highway back toward Virginia. The only thing she failed to mention was the road condition. There was in fact rows of potholes, washouts, and areas where there looked to be no real road at all.

The springs on his pickup truck moaned painfully as it crept along the forgotten road.

After what seemed to be maybe two miles, Jim noticed first the roof of a house. Sprawling and bright red, it made a perfect square against the wooded and otherwise desolate landscape. Behind the house was a row of trees evenly spaced, as if planted, leading up to a treeline. There were various outbuildings and livestock pins. Jim wondered again if this was indeed the home of the late Sam Wallace.

The pickup was making noises he had never heard before and Jim let his mind ponder just how far he was away from civilization. What if his oil pan was punctured or a tire slashed by a sharp rock? At least the sun was near mid-sky so there were still a lot of hours left before nightfall. He stopped the pickup truck on the top of a low rise to look down at the house. It was hard to tell if anyone was inside. However, there was a car pulled up close to the front door. Jim marveled at the view from his vantage point. He twisted and looked back down the road he just traversed and noticed that it seemed to be washed into the landscape. The pine trees and sagebrush intermingled just enough to conceal his only way back. The rolling cornfields just beyond the outcrop of trees were simply breathtaking. Sweat had already started trickling down his back and around his middle, making his shirt cling. He eased his foot off of the brake pedal and carefully continued on.

The house and all of its surroundings were coming into focus as he drove closer. There was no driveway but there seemed to be a worn track where cars could pull in front of the house and circle around a sort of courtyard area. The compact was parked in the center of this circle with its trunk open. The car's stereo was on.