He had to ditch the car. Quick. By now, law enforcement would be looking for the black Jetta. If he was caught driving it, he and his partner in crime could face prosecution and serious prison time.
He turned into Marion Sansom Park, which sat in the northwest part of the city and bordered Lake Worth. The sign at the entrance stated that the park was open from dawn until dusk, but he ignored it, driving down the entrance road in the darkness. He kept the headlights off so as not to draw attention to himself, only a small flashlight stuck out the open window to show him the way.
The park was hilly, rugged, and craggy with scrubby trees and brush. Serious mountain bikers came here to ride the challenging trails, which had names like Thunder Road, Gangster, Lone Wolf, and Rocket Loop. The trail he sought was known as the Dam Drop. The trail flanked the tall concrete structure that held back the waters of the west fork of the Trinity River, forming Lake Worth.
When he reached the parking lot, he looked around for the trailhead and drove onto it, the tines of the prickly pear cactus and the limbs of the scrubby mesquite and cedar trees scratching along the sides of the car. At one point, the car got hung up on a small outcropping of limestone, but he managed to rock it free.
When the trail narrowed too far for him to proceed any farther, he cut the engine. He ripped open a small foil packet containing a pre-moistened wipe and cleaned the steering wheel, gear shift, and door handles. He pulled up on the trunk release, and the back opened with a pop. He wiped the trunk release clean, then tucked the wipe in the front pocket of his pants.
He grabbed the trash bag of bloody shoes and clothing from the passenger seat, and headed to the dam overlook on foot, being careful not to overstep. He hurled the shoes and clothing over, sending them as far out into the water as possible. Scurrying back to the car, he raised the trunk lid and wrangled with the heavy, incriminating contents, dragging it down the trail, too. Pulling the steak knife from his pocket, he gutted the evidence, letting it fall into the lake below where it would become food for fish, a tasty treat for turtles. He followed it with the car keys, listening until he heard a satisfying splash.
Relief washed over him as he hurried back down the trail on foot, the beam of his flashlight bouncing. In minutes he was out of the park, striding past the entrance to Camp Carter, a YMCA facility where local youngsters attended summer camp. He passed the Carswell Federal Medical Center, a minimum security healthcare facility for female inmates, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Another mile and he was back in civilization. He passed a bus stop, but kept on going. He knew the city buses had security cameras. He also knew that once the car was found, the police might assume the killers had caught a ride at the nearest bus stop. They might review the footage from the bus cameras. He continued walking for a couple more miles before approaching a stop where three women awaited a ride. They were probably employees of the stores in the nearby strip mall that had just closed up for the night.
He kept his face down, looking at his phone, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want to risk any of the women getting a good look at his face and being able to identify him later. He needn’t have worried. They, too, stared down at their screens. Nothing short of a nuclear explosion would have gotten their attention.
His respiration and heart rate began to slow as realization sunk in. We’ve gotten away with murder.