Parkerson fled through the woods, dodging dark trees and uneven ground as he ran from the grove. Behind him, spotlights flashed and men shouted. Parkerson turned back with the pistol and fired a couple shots, wild. He kept running.
He zagged through the forest, down the slope to the shore, running hard, his heart in his throat. Ahead of him was the lake, inky and black, and he slowed as he reached the water, hands on his knees, his fingers slick with Wendell Gray’s blood. He stood there, out of breath and giddy, replaying the asset’s last moments in his mind.
A real killer, at last.
The shadows moved behind him. The voices got closer. No time to waste. Parkerson straightened and ran again, parallel to the shore. The terrain was lumpy and uneven, the ground soft. He misjudged his footing and the shoreline gave way, nearly sending him splashing down into the water. He regained his balance and kept running. The cops were far behind him. They didn’t know the lake like he did. He could disappear into the darkness.
Parkerson ran past a couple big houses, the new ones. Reached the old lots with their trailers. A dock jutted out to the lake. A path wound its way up to the road. Parkerson ducked into the trees. Started up the slope to the road. I’ll flag down a car, he thought. Anyone. Hijack the ride and maybe take a hostage. Get the hell away from here.
He crept through the trees. The road lay just ahead. The cops still hadn’t seen him. They were too far away. Parkerson felt a wave of triumph. No way they’d catch up. He was practically free.