Tucker's once again, relentless replaying of the song shook Jake sharply from his vivid fantasies. His heartbeat quickened as the fury arose inside him. It would have to be soon.

It needed to be.

"Here's something we haven't heard yet," Tucker said with a note of humor.

The last thing that you want to do is annoy a sociopath, Jake raged in his mind.

He'd accepted the labeling, "Sociopath," that the FBI had given him. He'd even taken it as a compliment. It meant they seen him as someone with extreme intelligence. Someone with savvy. Someone who couldn't be caught. Sure, some killers were called psychopaths, but all that really meant was that they were crazy. They were fucked up in the head. But not Jake Blaine. Oh, no. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always had. He was smart. He was a genius. The FBI would never catch him. He'd killed people in forty-three states already and the feds were looking for over twenty different killers. All these years and the feds still had no idea who they were dealing with.

Jake's fists clenched tighter and tighter in his lap until his knuckles turned white and the veins in his forearms enlarged with the rushing blood. The kill would be soon. In his rising wrath he felt as if he would soon explode. Tucker had returned his attention to the road, however, so was unaware of his passenger's growing tension and heavy breathing—the deep breaths meant to help bring calm.

A large sign with the name of a town came into view. It flew by.

"Is this the exit?" Tucker asked.

"Yeah," Jake said, fighting to control his sudden excitement. "This is it. Just in time too—I've gotta' take a piss bigger than life. . .About two miles down that road there's a Ma and Pa store with a couple of gas pumps. The next town isn't for another twenty miles."

"Well, I'd better take this exit then."

Jake was filled with adrenaline. It was going to be easier than he'd thought. Instead of risking the whole plot with a pretentious act which could be seen through if the man was to become suspicious, the man, himself, had come up with an excuse to get them off the highway. In so doing he had marked his own gravesite. He had chosen where he was going to die.

The reflecting emerald-green sign designating Exit 103 increased rapidly in size as the Pontiac approached, then rushed by with a surging of wind and darkening of night. The exit branched off for a hundred yards and then connected at a Y with the main road leading into the countryside.

Jake wanted to be farther from the highway when he made the kill. He sat back as Tucker turned on to the narrow main road. The road was littered with ruts and cracks and unevenness, the results of use over the years by multi-ton farming equipment, as well as the slight earthquakes periodically plaguing the north-central region of California.

The Pontiac wobbled and vibrated as it passed among the rolling fields. A particularly rough jolt and Tucker cut his speed.

"Did you hear that?" Tucker said.

"Yeah. It sounded like a tire or something."

"That's what I was thinking."

The car jolted again over a bump in the road.

"Shit, I better check the tires," Tucker said worriedly. "Either one just punctured or I've got some loose lug nuts."

This is it! Jake's heart pounded madly, pulsing through his neck up to his head.