The Devil’s Road Chapter 4: Secrets, Promises, and Dangerous Discoveries
As the web of secrets tightens, Samantha and Bandy face dark truths that test their loyalty. Meanwhile, the Driver’s shadow looms larger, and the mystery grows more dangerous on Oklahoma’s highways.
The road winds deeper, Faithful Rambler. Today we press on with Chapter 3 of The Devil’s Road, where blood still stains the asphalt and our elusive Driver remains a shadow in the distance. For those just joining, there’s a trail of death stretching behind us(ch. 1, ch. 2 & ch. 3), and with each chapter, we draw closer to uncovering the truth buried in the dust.
With each passing day, you’ll receive the next installment, unraveling the mystery piece by piece. So buckle up, stay wary of desolate truck stops, and remember to share this gothic tale of highways haunted by both the living and the dead.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
Chapter 4: Tall in the Saddle
issue one — the twain shall meet
Secrets and promises are two of the most dangerous forces in the world. Once you gain secret knowledge or commit to a promise, your options become perilous, and most choices inevitably challenge your moral compass. Adding to the complication of the current moment, Bandy has made a promise to keep a secret. Lieutenant Samantha Hart asks him a direct question, and he tries to ignore it, but he knows in that moment, he is caught in a difficult situation.
Below his feet, Sam continues to pilfer through the dark cave they have discovered. Bandy finishes his radio transmission from the seat of his cruiser, informing the station of their discovery: a cache of fully automatic military-style AR-15s, the successors to the most popular killing machine of the last major skirmish in American history, the M16. The perfect toy for grown men who like to dress up and play vigilante on the weekend, but in the cold light of day, Bandy is perhaps second-guessing his weekend hobbies.
He hangs up the radio and walks back over to the entrance of the bunker. He doesn’t dare re-enter the darkness but instead leans his head down toward the hole and hollers, “Still alright down there?”
There’s no response. Bandy huffs at the prospect of having to go back down. He reaches on his belt for his flashlight, but it’s gone. He must have left it in the car. So, he walks back to his cruiser, where he can see it sitting on the dash. He reaches in to grab it, stretching through the window and fingering the barrel with the tips of his fingers, trying to pull it towards him so he can get a better grip.
“Where’s the locals? They leave already?” Samantha asks from behind him, making him bang his head on the roof of his cruiser as he jumps in surprise.
Bandy stands up, rubbing the back of his head, still not holding the flashlight. “Jesus, Sam. You scared the shit out of me. Yeah, they already took Mac to the station,” he says.
“What’s the ‘day of the rope’?” Samantha asks.
“How the hell should I know?” Bandy cautiously replies.
Samantha measures him up for a moment, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or not, before she says, “Follow me.”
Bandy and Sam sit in her cruiser. They watch the sun setting over the rolling prairie landscape. A tow truck has flipped the brown Caprice back upright and is pulling the shit-brown vehicle up onto the truck bed. The two sheriffs watch as the tow truck driver checks all of his connections before flipping the switch to lift the car.
“You saw that box I got in the back, yeah?” Sam asks. Bandy nods.
“You also saw what was written on the lid?” Sam continues, and Bandy again just nods.
“Say it,” Sam quietly demands.
Bandy gives her a long look before eventually giving in and says, “Lot lizards.”
“I’m guessing you know what that means?” Sam asks. Bandy nods again, but the embarrassment of having the conversation is apparent as his pale cheeks begin to blossom with color.
“I took that box nearly a year ago, after my sister—” Sam starts, but Bandy cuts her off.
“Sam, you don’t have to tell me. I understand,” Bandy says, trying to avoid the conversation.
“My sister’s file was in that box. Captain James wouldn’t let me assist after she was found. He put me on leave,” Sam says as she pulls a Polaroid from her pocket.
“I remember,” Bandy agrees.
“She made some bad decisions in her life, but that was not something she deserved in her death. None of them did,” Sam says as she puts the Polaroid of her sister’s smiling face on the console so Bandy can also see it.
“I found that down there in that hole, just like I found her file in that dusty box in the archival room two weeks after her death,” Sam says, watching as Bandy stiffens, sitting in the seat beside her. “Now, I’ve asked you twice what ‘the day of the rope’ means, and each time you’ve lied to me. Maybe you can tell her,” Sam points to her sister’s photo.
Bandy is trying to stop himself from physically shaking in his seat, but it is taking a good deal of effort. “Sam, I... I’m sorry. I can’t.” Sam takes the Polaroid back and puts it in her pocket.
Bandy starts in with an excuse, “Believe me, if I felt like—” Sam stops Bandy short with a hand. She’s watching in the rearview as a black sedan pulls up behind them.
“That’ll be the fed. Come on, let’s go,” she says as she gets out of the car.
“Sam. Sam...” Bandy calls after her as she walks away, but Sam is on to the next task. Moses meets her at the hood of his car.
“You’re Officer Bandy Williamson?” Moses asks.
“Nope, that’s me,” Bandy says as he jogs over to catch up to the other two.
“I’m Lieutenant Samantha Hart; you can call me Sam,” she says as the two greet with a handshake.
“We appreciate you coming out so quickly; lucky you were in the area, I guess. The weapons are in a bunker behind that structure. Officer Williamson here will show you down there,” Sam concludes as she walks back to her car.
“And where are you going?” Moses asks.
“We caught a dead body this morning, and I’ve got to get back to the station,” Sam begins to explain, but Moses’ phone rings, and he holds up a finger, stopping Sam mid-sentence.
“Excuse me,” Moses says as he steps away from the two sheriffs. He pulls his cell out of his pocket and flips it open. The number is unavailable, but he answers anyway.
“Agent Blackrock,” he says into the phone.
“So, you’re done, huh?” the voice on the other end says. Moses waves an apology towards the sheriffs and steps further away to have a more private conversation.
“What are you talking about?” Moses asks.
Standing in the men’s restroom of the Old 64 Truck Stop is the Driver. He holds Moses’ crumpled handwritten note. The lid of the toilet tank is off, but the only thing inside is water.
“You left me a note,” the Driver says.
“Oh yeah, you found that, huh? Well, I guess that’s it then,” Moses says, trying to hide the nerves in his voice.
“The problem is, it’s the only thing that I found,” the Driver tells him.
“The bag is in the tank. Same place it always is,” Moses tells him.
“Don’t see any bag, just your note. But do you know what I do see?” the Driver asks. Moses doesn’t answer. He knows that he must walk carefully here. A misstep could put him in even more danger than he might already be in with this guy.
“I see you,” the Driver says. “I see that you are not a man of honor. You are not a man to be trusted. You have broken a promise, and now I’m going to have to break you.” The Driver drops the phone in the toilet, sticks the crumpled note in his pocket, and walks out of the restroom.
Moses stands on the side of the road with the sun setting behind him. He looks up at the two sheriffs waiting for him to finish his call so they can go on with their respective lives, while he deals with the aftermath of some doomsday prepper’s bunker.
No.
He doesn’t have time for this. Moses flips his phone closed and walks back over to Sam and Bandy.
“Listen up. I’m sorry about this, but I just received a call I have to attend to. You two get everything cataloged, and I’ll have someone from the Tulsa office over in the next couple of hours to assist,” Moses tries to conclude the conversation by quickly getting in his car.
“Wait just a goddamn second. This is a federal issue, and you can’t just run off and leave us here in charge. I don’t know what you’ve got going, but I’ve got a body I have to tend to before the day’s out,” Sam protests.
“And I do apologize, but unfortunately, there is nothing that can be done about that,” Moses says as he closes his car door, starts the engine, and pulls away.
As Moses drives off, Sam glares at his retreating car and then turns her attention back to Bandy. “You owe me an answer, Bandy.”
Bandy looks at Sam with a mixture of guilt and fear before lowering his head so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye any longer. Sam pushes past him, disgusted with yet another lawman turning his back on justice.
“It’s the day when all the race traitors are publicly hanged in the town square,” Bandy finally lets out. “I want you to know that I don’t associate with them anymore.”
“Them?” Sam asks. “There’s several of these guys?”
Bandy pulls a notebook from his breast pocket and starts walking back to the bunker. “It’s a militia, Sam. There’s a couple hundred,” he says as he walks back down into the darkness.
issue two — escape or drown
There’s not much use in cleaning up after yourself when all you ever think about is escaping. At least, that’s how Heather always views her current situation. Needless to say, her little trailer reflects this dilemma. However, her girlfriend prefers things on the clean side, and if Heather is going to ask for what she needs from her, the current pungent aroma coming from the kitchen sink needs some attention.
The dark green duffle bag full of drugs sits on top of a purple plastic bin from Walmart that doubles as a coffee table in the tiny living area. The bag has a gravitational pull for Heather. She can’t help checking two or three times a minute to make sure it’s still where she left it. As she scrapes week-old melted cheese off a plate over the sink, her eyes stay fixated on the unzipped bag and the crystals inside. She knows she has to put it away.
Heather tosses the duffle on her unmade bed and returns to the kitchen. Dishes done, counters wiped, and then it’s on to the living room. When you live in four hundred square feet, you make compromises. She pulls her dirty clothes from under the couch and drops them in the kitchen sink, followed by a capful of detergent.
Mists of cleaner float in the air as she moves from surface to surface, removing a considerable layer of muck from all the nooks and crannies. She kicks open the screen door as she sweeps out the dust bunnies. The clothes in the sink get wrung out, and she takes them outside to a clothesline strung between her trailer and the neighbor’s. The sun is setting beyond the hills to the west, and she’s running out of time.
Despite her rush, she finds herself sitting on her bed again, staring at the open duffle bag full of meth. She’s even more surprised when she looks down to see a loaded pipe in her right hand and a lighter in her left. This is the part she promises herself would never happen again, she thinks as she puts the pipe in her mouth. She makes promises, promises she really wants to keep.
She holds the tip of the pipe between her teeth, chewing on the end and subconsciously flicking the lighter’s spin wheel, making sparks flit through the air. It would be so easy, and there’s so much—no one would ever know. She looks at the digital clock beside the bed. It’s 6:43 PM. Does she want to escape or drown?
Headlights wash over the bedroom window as a car pulls up.
Shit.
She tosses the pipe into the bag, zips it, and shoves it underneath the bed. Covers fly through the air as she wafts them up and floats them over the bed. She grabs the towel damp with cleaner and quickly wipes the bedside table.
The engine of the car outside dies, and Heather hears the driver’s door open and shut as she rushes back into the living room. She grabs a candle from on top of the refrigerator, places it on the “coffee table,” and lights it just as Madeline enters.
“Holy shit! You trying to get lucky tonight or what?” Madeline asks as she surveys the clean trailer. Heather grabs her around the waist, pulling her tight, resting her head on Madeline’s shoulder.
“Hey. You okay?” Madeline asks, concerned.
“Yeah. Just really happy you made it home,” Heather answers, giving her a soft kiss on the lips. She lingers there, lip to lip, breathing the same air, together.
When they separate, Madeline gives Heather a long look to make sure she’s really okay. This wouldn’t be the first time a lie crossed her girlfriend’s mouth, good intentions or not. When she’s satisfied, she lifts the bag she brought in with her, revealing the origins of the delicious aroma that now fills the room.
“Osso bucco and a bottle of Chianti okay for your special occasion?” Madeline says as she grabs a couple of dishes from the kitchen cabinet.
Heather smiles in return and nods. She joins Madeline in the kitchen to help prep dinner. Two Dixie cups filled nearly to the brim, and a plate full of braised lamb shanks and mashed potatoes sit between them as they raise their glasses.
“So, you win a scratch-off or something?” Madeline asks as she savors her first bite. Heather laughs at the idea. What’s a fifty-dollar scratch-off when you’ve got a quarter-million worth of drugs hiding under your mattress?
“No,” Heather says as she takes a long pull from her wine cup.
“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?” Heather asks Madeline, who is very familiar with this conversation.
“Baby, I don’t want to play make-believe again tonight, okay? Let’s just enjoy what we’ve got here.” Madeline lets out an exhausted sigh and takes another forkful from their shared plate. Heather can’t help but giggle. She gets up and walks to the bedroom. When she comes back, she’s carrying the duffle bag.
“Open it,” Heather says as she places the duffle on the couch between them.
“What’s in it?” Madeline asks.
“An escape plan,” Heather tells her, leaning back on the couch, ready to see Madeline’s surprise and excitement at the immense luck they have stumbled into. Madeline unzips the bag and pulls the fabric back to see the baggies of white and bluish crystalline addict fuel inside.
Madeline can feel her teeth grind against each other as her jaw tightens. “Heather, where did you get this?”
“What’s it matter? I found it,” Heather says as she pulls out several of the bags and tosses them at Madeline, who does not seem excited nor amused at Heather’s antics.
Madeline uses every fiber in her being to remain calm when she tells Heather, “Wherever you found it, whoever you got it from, you need to give it back.”
“No, you don’t understand. I found it. It’s not anybody’s but ours. This is our freedom. Don’t you see?” Heather says, trying to calm Madeline.
“You haven’t…” Madeline can’t make herself finish the question.
Heather tosses the bag behind her and scoots in close to Madeline. The two fold into each other.
“I said never again, and I meant it. I found this at the truck stop. Somebody left it, or something, and I found it. Nobody saw me take it. We’re safe, I promise,” Heather tells her as she runs the back of her hand over Madeline’s cheek. Madeline’s face is fully exposed with her hair pulled up in a wrap, making it hard for her to hide the flash of heat filling her face. She’s afraid of what Heather will say next.
“Think we can take a trip into the city?” Heather asks.
“I don’t do that anymore either,” Madeline says as she pulls free from Heather. “Please don’t try to manipulate me with sex. I’m not one of your truckers.”
Heather stiffens. She thought this would go a little easier. Madeline was supposed to be excited that they were so lucky. She was supposed to say she wanted to run away to California like she always did. They could be rich and famous, sipping cocktails at the Beverly Hills Hotel by the pool, hanging out with movie stars and finally free from this steaming pile of horse shit that doubles as a tin box trailer in the dying prairie sun of the middle of nowhere Oklahoma!
“I’m sorry,” Heather says as she takes another forkful of osso bucco and pretends the comment didn’t sting her. Madeline grabs the baggies that Heather had thrown at her and puts them back in the duffle before she slides the zipper closed again. She takes the bag into the kitchen, opens the garbage lid to toss it in, but can’t.
“Heavy bag, isn’t it?” Heather says as she watches Madeline contemplating her next move. “I figure about ten kilos, all told,” she says as she takes another bite and washes it down with more Chianti. “What’s that run now, you think?”
“Three, maybe four hundred,” Madeline says, rolling the bag’s strap around in her hand to check the weight.
Heather walks over, hesitates, then gently places a hand around Madeline’s waist. She chooses her words carefully. “Do you still have that contact in the city?”
“I can probably only get two, maybe two fifty,” Madeline says as she leans back into Heather’s body.
Heather’s lips are nearly touching the skin of Madeline’s ear as she whispers to her, “We’ll get a convertible and drive the whole way with the top down, eat lobster and caviar, drink champagne, and fuck under thousand-dollar sheets on the top floor of the tallest goddamn hotel in the city of Los Angeles.”
Madeline turns around and looks into Heather’s eyes. She’s frightened, excited, and very turned on. The two begin to kiss. Madeline pulls at the buttons on Heather’s shorts, as Heather unbuttons Madeline’s blouse. Madeline’s hair wrap comes loose, and her long red hair spills over her naked shoulders. They move toward the bedroom, wrapped up in their desire for each other’s heat. The duffle bag sits on the kitchen floor. Dinner and wine are forgotten, and so is this prison.
issue three — crosshairs of uncertainty
There’s a fine line between staying in a motel and living in a motel. Where that line exists for an individual might have a little bit to do with where they came from, or a lot to do with what they now call home. A springy queen bed with new sheets every week is quite the upgrade from growing up on Pine Ridge Reservation, and for Moses, the word “home” hasn’t held any meaning for some time.
A government-issued sedan is the lone car in the dimly lit dirt lot along Route 10. Smoke wafts from the idling engine’s exhaust in the brisk air. The trunk pops open, and the car shifts from side to side as Moses kills the engine, opens his door, and gets out of the driver’s seat.
Moses stays crouched behind the door. His pistol is cocked and ready in his right hand, aimed at his motel room door. The door is open about six inches, and that’s not how he left it. He backs towards the open trunk. Inside, he pulls out a shotgun and holsters his sidearm.
He aims the shotgun at the motel room door and advances. Moses closes the ground between the car and the building quickly, landing at the wall next to his door for cover. He lifts the barrel up and charges the room with a guttural roar.
He sweeps the barrel from left to right, scanning for movement. It’s empty. He kicks the door closed behind him, making the door casing shake as it slams shut.
The room is a mess—bedsheets mostly on the floor, clothes flung into the corner, and an excessive number of empty beer cans overflowing from the small trash can. It’s exactly how he left it.
Moses thumbs the lock on the door, continuing his sweep through the room. Under the queen bed, other side of the bed, hall closet, bathroom nook, toilet, and shower are all empty. He’s alone in his room, but the message that was left is clear.
Taped to the mirror over the bathroom sink is a note written in his own hand. It’s the crumpled page from his breast pocket notebook he left on the bathroom floor of an ancient truck stop. It’s a warning. It’s part of the hunt, and Moses is the prey. Well, this ain’t the first time. He reaches up and pulls the note free. There’s a high-pitched whine coming in the distance.
He shoves the note in his pocket and runs to the window. Less than a half mile out is a police caravan heading his direction. Their red and blue lights paint the clouds that hang heavy over the plains.
Moses leans the shotgun against the door casing, still in reach from the door if he needs it. He pulls his tie free from around his neck, unbuttons his shirt, and unclips his shoulder holster, tossing them all on the bed. Both socks and shoes go as well, leaving him in nothing but a pair of slacks.
Moses slides the pistol into the space between his waistband and the small of his back as he opens the motel room door. He ruffles his hair and practices a nice big fake yawn, rubbing at his eyes and face to bring the blood back to the surface.
Sam’s cruiser slides to a stop in the lot, sirens still blowing, lights bathing the roadside motel and a tired-looking Moses. She woke him. Good.
It would be courteous to kill both the siren and the lights, but Sam isn’t in a favor-giving mood this evening. However, she wants to give him a good scolding, so she kills the siren. Three black vans with Bandy’s cruiser as a tail pull into the lot behind her. She walks over to Moses and flings a clipboard at his chest.
Moses is quick, but the clipboard still nicks him between the ribs. He grinds his teeth, holding back an audible groan.
“Delivering your manifest,” Sam says, daring him to make something of it. Moses, however, doesn’t have time for a pissing match, nor any time to deal with this caravan of explosives. He flips through the first couple of pages.
A long whistle comes through his pursed lips before he says, “Hell of a haul. Could be a real career maker for whoever brings it in.”
“That some sort of bribe to get me to take care of your problem here?” Sam says as she rests her hands on her radio and revolver, settling in for an argument. Moses knows that pose. He has one himself, but maybe he can try a lighter touch.
“Look, I’m real sorry. I know I asked a lot of you to get all this picked up and moving,” Moses starts with as much charm as he can muster, “but it’d be a real favor if you could take it into the city. I gotta case here that’s really crawling up my ass.”
“Your case have anything to do with the bodies stacking up between Fort Smith and Texola?” Sam begins to wonder if there might be an angle here for her as well.
“No, sorry. Drugs. Meth, specifically. I was following a mule from OKC to what I suspected was a drop. I’ve lost the thread on the product,” Moses says as he extends the clipboard back to Sam. She takes a moment to think before taking it back, looking Moses in the eye as she searches for truth.
She’s always been observant. That’s what got Samantha interested in police work in the first place. She loved all the cop shows on television, and how they seemed to have this superpower of observation. It seemed like a thing that always came naturally to her—a quick scan with the eye, and she had a catalog of the scene in her mind.
“What about the mule?” Sam asks as she takes the clipboard back from Moses. He looks at her questioningly. “Seems like if you lost the product, they’d be the first person to question, or did you lose them too?”
Moses now puts his hands on his hips. He was pleased he appeared to have removed the burden of all this evidence, but he wasn’t paying for it by being put in his place by some local sheriff.
“No. I got the mule, Sheriff. They said they made the drop, but the product was not retrieved. I figure the bag had enough meth in it to kill a couple of trailer parks’ worth of folks—a real nuclear bomb out here in the heartland if you will. So, I’m just looking for a little help. Appreciate you taking the load off.”
Sam can see there’s a lie, but she’s just not sure what it is or why she can’t figure it out. He isn’t even really trying that hard. Her catalog of items has too many inconsistencies. Moses appears to have been woken by her arrival, but the car’s engine is still pinging as the warm engine cools in the night breeze. If that isn’t obvious, she can clearly see the wood stock of a shotgun leaning inside the motel room door. He was very much awake when she got here, and he’s armed like he’s expecting company.
“What about the dealer?” she asks.
“Look, I appreciate the assist on the ammo find here, but I need to catch some time in the sheets before daybreak,” Moses waves, a gesture that says thank you as much as fuck off.
“I’d check out the Ol’ 64 Truck Stop,” Sam offers as she walks back to her cruiser. “It’s the biggest hub of drivers for about a hundred and fifty miles in every direction. Never know, might get lucky.”
“Oh, and don’t forget to shut your trunk,” Sam ends the conversation with the closing of her cruiser’s door. Moses glances over at his car with the trunk wide open and the black duffle bag filled with shotgun shells inside. He never was one for subtlety.
issue four — games in the dark
Sam’s cruiser is parked in the shadows behind a billboard. In the distance, the parking lot of the Sequoyah County Coroner’s Office is lit up against the night sky. She flips open her phone, painting her face in a green light.
The digital readout shows four missed calls, each with a subsequent voicemail. The calls arrive in rapid succession, each not more than two minutes apart. The last one comes at 2:12 AM. The clock on her dash reads 2:16 AM.
All the calls are from the same number—the main office of the county coroner, Dr. Bart Laurent, her ex-husband. She knows each message is another syrupy plea for attention. Sam still indulges his needs, and in exchange, he offers her information. She despises the transactional relationship almost as much as she despises the transaction he requires. She thinks for a moment, then decides to call him back.
“Samantha?” Bart answers.
Sam doesn’t respond. She sits in silence and waits.
“Okay, well. It looks like our right hander again. Bruising on the cheek suggests a baton of some sort, just like several of the others.” Bart shuffles papers around as he reads through the file.
“She’s a brunette, but was wearing a red wig. So, there are some similarities there, but I suppose you already knew,” Bart’s voice begins to quiver as he tries to continue.
Bart continues, “I was really hoping you’d come home tonight. It’s been, well, it’s been a hard couple of weeks, and I…” Samantha shushes him.
“I thought you would be home,” Sam whispers into the receiver.
“Oh, yes, well, we had this Jane Doe today. I thought you’d want to come by and,” Bart pauses, assuming that she may be waiting on him.
“Are you at our house?” he asks.
“Needed a night at home,” Sam replies.
The back door of the Sequoyah County Morgue slides open as Bart rushes through, fumbling to get his keys out of his pocket. He makes a beeline for the canary yellow Porsche, the only car in the lot. Nothing says carpetbagger in the South like a Porsche. Sam, now kneeling behind the bushes at the building’s exit, slips inside before the sliding door closes. Bart’s in too much of a hurry to notice.
Sam watches from inside as he pulls out of the lot, nearly clipping one of the light poles as he speeds toward the exit, and then waits until his taillights disappear into the darkness. She’s alone now, in the morgue. It’s quiet, which is how you want a morgue to sound when you’re the only one inside. She needs to get that autopsy report tonight. By tomorrow, it’ll be in the Captain’s hands, and she’ll never get close to a copy of it.
The body of Sandy lies naked on a cold metal slab table in the middle of the examination room. Sam stands over the body with her camera. She snaps a photo of Sandy’s hands first. The Tiffany Blue nails are well-manicured, and there doesn’t appear to be any residue underneath. She must have been surprised.
Next, Sam moves to her feet. The soles are dirty, and the skin on her heels is scratched. Perhaps she was dragged? She snaps another photo. The ankles, wrists, and midsection all show signs of bindings. The wrists and ankles are particularly red and worn. She was obviously bound. That explains the lack of evidence under the fingernails.
Now it’s time for the difficult bit. Sam focuses her camera on what remains of Sandy’s face. The skin appears to be sewn back on with what looks like dental floss. The flesh was roughly hewn away and sloppily reattached. Large pieces of flesh appear to have been lost in the process, forcing the perpetrator to stretch the skin in places to allow for reattachment. It looks like a melted mask has been placed over her skull.
Despite the damage to the tissue, there is an apparent bruise running along the left side of her face from the corner of her mouth up and over the eye and into the hairline. The weapon must have been some sort of bat or oblong stick. She snaps another photo before approaching the work desk covered in items recovered from the crime scene.
Sam opens the file left by Bart. Sure enough, she finds his note: “Fracture of the frontal bone over the left orbital plane. Weapon was oblong in shape and likely made of wood, as grain marks are apparent under microscopic examination.”
The camera clicks again and again as Sam photographs the other items displayed on the desk: the wig, a purse, and the loaded .22 pistol. Sam pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and picks up the small revolver. She pulls the pin and looks inside the chamber. Two of the chambers are empty. Interesting.
She places everything back the way she found it but holds on to the file. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. She’s got to move faster. A quick copy of the contents and she’s back to her cruiser.
Sam stands at the trunk of her cruiser, the box of files open inside. She looks down at the growing stack of cases that her superiors would prefer she forgot, but she’s not going to let them remain in the shadows. These women won’t be forgotten. Her sister won’t be forgotten. No, she’ll be avenged.
If today’s chapter had you on edge, bring a friend along for the ride and unlock some wicked rewards
The Devil’s Deal:
REFER 2 FRIENDS: Unlock 1 month of The Devil’s Road for free—no strings attached.
REFER 5 FRIENDS: Claim 3 months free, plus a PDF copy of The Devil’s Road pilot screenplay. Step deeper into the darkness.
REFER 10 FRIENDS: Score 6 months free, along with a signed, mailed copy of The Devil’s Road pilot screenplay—your own piece of the story, right in your hands.With Halloween just around the corner, I couldn’t think of a better time to bring you, my Faithful Rambler, to the end of Part 1 of The Devil’s Road. Now six chapters in, I want to offer a refresher for any New Witnesses to the trail of bloodshed left behind by our enigmatic Driver. His identity remains a mystery—for now—but Part 2 may finally bring the truth to light.