I DRIVE, SCARFING down crunchy Cheetos, Twix bars, Twinkies, and sodas. I begin to feel nauseated after I’ve finished about half of the gas station haul. It’s as if all of the junk food has molded together in my stomach and become a rolling knot of carbonation, preservatives, and high-fructose corn syrup, sending my stomach into irritated spasms. I vow to stick to water and fruit at the next pit stop. I remind myself that there is a greater purpose for this trip than my own junk food debauchery. The last thing I need, in the midst of a lethal, perfectly orchestrated attack, is an attack of diarrhea.
My opinion on Jeremy continues its upward ascent when I realize he has satellite radio—a technological wonder that has apparently gained in popularity since I last owned a car. I find a Georgia news station and keep the radio on it. Their reports on Annie are few and far between. If I go off the limited information in their reports, the police have no leads and no clear idea where Annie could be. I call Mike again.
“What’s up, my evil-avenging angel?” I hear music in the background, a clash of air guitars and screaming.
“What is the scanner saying?”
“They went to Ralph’s house. Searched the premises for Annie, but she’s not there and they’ll need a warrant to look through his stuff, though they did take a computer with them. The cops are keeping a cruiser parked down the street to watch his house all night.”
“Good. So my tip was taken seriously. Did you get the cell number I texted you?”
“Yep. It shows him in the general vicinity of his home address—so it corroborates the police statement that he is at home.”
“So Annie must be at the other house.”
“What other house?”
“I assume you have a copy of his computer clone—the one you sent me.”
“Duh.”
“Scroll through his search history. There are two Craigslist properties that he viewed a bunch of times about a month ago. One of them—the trailer, not the house—he signed a lease on. I think that’s where he has her. No other reason to have it.”
“I see it. I’ve been going through his shit for the last hour. Unless he hunts.”
“What?” I approach a car and put on my blinker, flying past them in the opposing lane. My stress and trepidation over driving took a flying leap out of the truck seventy miles ago.
“You said there was no reason for him to have this second place. That’s true, unless he hunts. This place is smack-dab in the middle of a four-hundred-acre hunting preserve. That’s the only reason the owner can get five hundred bucks a month for this piece of shit. It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.”
“So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.”
“Deer bodies. But yeah, when you put it that way, it sounds all psychotic.”
I push harder on the pedal, watching the shaky needle climb past eighty-five. “What came back on guns registered to Ralph?”
“Nothing showed up. But this is Georgia, baby. If someone needs a gun that’s off the books, all you have to do is know someone who knows someone who’s part of the system.”
“What’s the law on hunting guns—rifles, shotguns—do those require registration?”
“In Georgia? I don’t know.”
“Find out. And let me know if anything comes across that scanner. I don’t care if it’s discussion about Jessica Simpson’s tits. I want to know about it.”
“You’re a lot more fun when you’re naked.”
I grin into the darkness of the empty truck. “No doubt.”
“Talk soon.”
I hang up, fighting the urge to open the Snickers bar I can see lying in the plastic bag on my passenger seat. I glance at the GPS’s clock: 7:15 p.m. Ten hours and fifty-two minutes from Annie. It seems so far, almost a thousand miles stretching between her home and mine. But in actuality, I am lucky. What if she had lived in California? Or Alaska? There wouldn’t have been time to reach her, not unless I hopped on a plane. And while I am reckless enough to leave my apartment, to risk harm to others in my hunt for Ralph, I know that I would not be able to handle an airport. Not be able to handle a red-eye flight surrounded by peaceful, sleeping bodies. I’d probably try to strangle my seatmate with the seat belt, my arsenal of weapons locked away in the checked baggage. Plus, I’d have to deal with the litany of questions about said arsenal. Yeah. Total disaster.
I lean forward, watching the road, and press harder on the gas pedal.