The Night Killer

collapsed with relief. She couldn’t see whether it was the Barres’ house. But it was a house. She stood up with joy, started forward, and stopped suddenly. What if it was the house on Massey Road? What if she had just made a big circle in the woods? People did that. It was hard to go in a straight line in the woods.
    Diane stood for several moments, unable to make a decision. Hell, she would just have to risk it. As she walked slowly toward the house, she put the flashlight back in her waistband and took her phone out of her pocket. She still had no service, but she could see the time. It was 12:17. She was surprised it wasn’t a lot later. She felt she’d been walking through the woods all night. It had been a little over five hours. She put her phone back in her pocket.
    After a few feet she saw, with heart-stopping relief, that it wasn’t the house on Massey Road. She thought she recognized the tall magnolia tree in the side yard, even in the dark. It was Roy and Ozella Barre’s house.
    Diane hurried to the steps that led up to the large porch. They would be in bed, but she was sure they would be happy to rescue her. She climbed the steps and crossed the porch, ready to knock on the door, when she noticed that it was slightly ajar. She knocked anyway and waited. Nothing.
    Diane opened the door, walked in, and called out to the Barres.
    “Roy, Ozella, it’s Diane Fallon. I’m sorry to wake—”
    She stopped. There was an aroma she didn’t like. She slowly walked into the living room and looked over into the dining room.
    Sitting in their dining room chairs were Ozella and Roy Barre. She in her nightgown and he in his pajamas. Each of them had a large, gaping gash across their throat. Large bloodred stains obliterated the designs on the front of their nightclothes.

Chapter 4
    Diane stood in shock, denying what she was seeing—the Barres sitting completely still, like grotesque mannequins.
    “No, dear God, no.” Her voice came out in a tearful whine.
    Diane squatted on her haunches and put her head in her hands. On her cheek she felt the cold blade of the knife she held and stood up quickly, looking at it as if it were a snake. Surely not , she thought. But what was he doing out in the thunderstorm taking photographs?
    “Get hold of yourself,” she whispered. “Call for help.” Diane felt she had to tell herself out loud what to do to break out of her shock.
    “Call nine-one-one. Where is the phone?”
    The telephone was near the door on an antique telephone stand. She carefully retraced her steps to the doorway and took a tissue from a box of Kleenex she found near the phone. She wrapped the knife in the tissue and wrapped it again inside of the rain hat and stuck the hat in her waistband for when the sheriff arrived. She took another tissue and lifted the receiver gently from its cradle in a way so as to disturb as little as possible any fingerprints that might be on it. There was no dial tone. She jiggled the plunger on the cradle and listened again. Nothing. She traced the line to the wall. It was plugged in, but dead. She shouldn’t have been surprised. The killer had probably cut the phone line outside.
    With a jolt that sent shivers down her spine, Diane realized that the killer could still be inside the house. Start thinking, damn it . She listened to the sounds of the house—raindrops from the wet trees falling on the tin roof, the refrigerator humming, wind, clocks—little else. She didn’t hear walking or floors creaking, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still here. She needed to get to the sheriff. Damn, another long hike—to somewhere. She knew the way to the county seat if she were driving from Rosewood, but she wasn’t sure from here. Jesus, it could be ten or twenty miles away. No, I just have to make it to another house. Surely there was one within walking distance.
    The sheriff. Damn it. That was another problem. Leland Conrad was the sheriff of the county, and he wouldn’t call in the GBI for help with the crime scene. Though he might ask them to do some of the forensic analysis. He certainly would not call in her crew from the Rosewood Crime Lab. Not that the way another county ran its government was any of her business, but she felt a responsibility to the Barres. Sheriff Conrad liked to say that he did things the old-fashioned way—the right way—and anytime he needed outsiders to do his job was the time he needed to hang it up.
    The problem with the way he