For Nevermore Season 1

glass, then twisted in his seat so he could maneuver out the window, head first. He looked at the shards of broken glass and cringed, hoping he wouldn’t slice his face open as he wormed his way from the car.
    He squeezed himself through, careful to avoid the glass, staring at the front door of the house the entire time, hoping Randy wouldn’t come outside.
    He was halfway out the window when the front door suddenly burst open and Randy screamed, “Hey!”
    Sam yelled as he fell from the window, landing face first on the ground and into the glass, desperate to scramble away before Randy reached him.
    While he avoided slicing his face, Sam felt shards cutting into his arms and back as he hit the ground and rolled. He rose to his feet and started to run, his hands bound behind him. He made it nearly 20 steps before Randy caught up, then kicked Sam’s feet from under him, sending him to the ground with a cry.
    Sam fell face first into the grass, again avoiding injury to his face. But it was a small and hollow victory. Seconds later, Randy landed on him, knees first, into his back.
    Pain splintered his body and he cried out again, this time louder. Randy grabbed Sam by his hair, then yanked him to his feet, “You think you can outrun me, punk?”
    Sam was silent as Randy seized him by his bound hands and pushed him forward.
    “Wow, what a gentleman. You were gonna leave your girlfriend behind?”
    Sam figured Randy meant Noella.
    So she was being held in the house, then. Sam said nothing, and went forward, hoping he wasn’t being marched to his death.

    **

    Sam stepped into the basement with Randy’s hand firmly at his back and pushing him forward.
    “Watch your step. I’d hate for you to fall,” Randy said as he nudged Sam, just enough to make him think he would tumble down the narrow staircase.
    Sam wanted to turn around and punch the bastard in the throat, grab his gun, and blow him away. But he played it cool, biding his time, waiting for the right moment, and hoping it would present itself, praying for the chance to make a move before it was too late.
    He made it to the bottom of the stairs when he heard Noella cry from behind one of four metal doors and saw her wide-open eyes staring at him through a slit in the door.
    “Sam!”
    Randy opened a door to Sam’s right, then shoved him inside before he could respond. Before the door closed, he saw that he wasn’t alone. A red-haired woman lay on the floor staring straight up, eyes unblinking. At first he thought she was alive. Then he saw the hole in her head, and the pool of blood beneath her.
    The door slammed shut behind him, locking him inside with the dead woman.
    “Randy!!” Noella screamed.
    Randy’s footsteps went back up the stairs, meeting her plea with silence.

    * * * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

    5:20 p.m.

    This was the moment Randy had both dreaded and prepared for — Randy Gardener was officially off the grid.
    He dumped his patrol car in the storage unit two counties over, where he disengaged the GPS and where he also had a Ford F150 waiting. The truck was registered to an alias, and could in no way be linked back to him. He also had his fake ID in the name of Eric Handler, burner phone, and briefcase with $60,000 in cash he’d stolen from his victims and various crime scenes over the years.
    He figured he had a few days before anyone would find the second home. By then, he’d be off, and with a bit of luck, in Costa Rica. But first, he had loose ends to tie.
    Randy had kept his newest guests alive long enough to use them as hostages should things go south, but as he pulled into his driveway, he realized their use was over. He grabbed his duffel bag and briefcase, then headed inside his secret house.
    He was tired and needed to relax. He grabbed the six-pack of cold Buds from the fridge, went to his chair, flicked on the TV, then watched as the local news spoke about the missing child. Still no word on him, Josie, Noella, or Sam, though he supposed it was only a matter of time before their faces were on the news, too. He wondered how long before anyone found their bodies. Perhaps he’d be extra creative with this crime scene, give the morons something to really talk about. And they were all morons. It was stupidity that allowed him to move so easily among the sheep, selecting his victims at a leisurely pace, always five steps ahead of the law. He hid within plain sight, a wolf among the sheepherders.
    Randy was working on his third beer when