"Well, since that killer's been on the loose, you'd think people'd be afraid to pick up hitchhikers."

Unknown to either Agent Svenson or his passenger, the four Special Weapons And Tactics agents following two hundred yards behind were now cursing to themselves. Until that last part spoken by Svenson's passenger, they'd been convinced that they had their man—they were on the brink of initiating the next step of their criminal apprehension tactics—

"You know about that?" Svenson said, almost pleaded.

"Oh yeah," Jake said. "Doesn't everybody? That story's been on the front page practically every day. The TV stations have been nuts over it all. It seems not a day goes by that some mention of the Nose Eater isn't made."

"So aren't you scared to be out here hitchhiking?"

"Nah. The killer's a hitchhiker. If I saw someone come walking towards me up the shoulder, then I'd have second thoughts, sure. But not you pulling up to give me a ride." He added, "You're the one who should be scared. It's a noble gesture, but hell not everybody with their thumb out's a nice guy, and one of them's a killer."

After a few moments of thought, the hitchhiker's words put Svenson at ease. He decided that he could stop worrying that his passenger was the crazed sociopath the FBI was after. But at the same time, he felt the need to prove to himself that he had the guts for the job. How could you be undercover and not have a tendency to worry? That went with the territory. Suddenly he was dissappointed. Too bad this guy wasn't the killer. Arresting the killer would definitely make a name for himself around the Bureau.

Maybe some other day.

Interrupting the agent's thoughts, feigning wonderment, Jake said, "I wonder what the killer does with those noses?" Then, out of sight site of the agent, Jake dropped his right arm to the side of the seat and opened his palm, dropping an object which he'd pulled from his backpack. The dried and rotted chunk of flesh and cartilage rolled to the floor next to the passenger door. It settled on the floorboard.

Okay, Jake thought. Your move.

And so once again, in a time span reaching over sixteen years, the game that Jake had created would continue. After he was done in California, there would be only seven states left to go. Out of the fifty. And after those seven, Jake could take things global. First Canada, then of course Mexico. One day, Europe.

But Jake didn't consider himself to be the Grim Reaper. He hadn't lost his sanity. To him this was a game. It was amusing. This was how he enjoyed himself. And where the Grim Reaper had only one name, Jake was known by more than 20. To the FBI, to the media, to television documentaries, to the American people.

Couldn't someone realize by now that it was the same person? Of course if someone did then the game would end. And Jake didn't want that. The charades would go on.

THE Chevy Berreta and the undercover agent and the serial killer known by more than 20 names pulled off the highway at the exit for the truck stop. The bright lights overhead all but blocked out the night sky. Jake Blaine, having achieved his geographical goal, thanked the agent and departed for the adjoining restaurant. Agent Svenson watched as the hitchhiker passed through the glass doors of the restaurant. The hitchhiker's figure remained visible as he wandered to a counter seat looking in on the cooks.