As the driver's features—broad shouldered man with long wavy dark hair—grew clearer with Jake's approach, so did the rock music playing from the car speakers. Jake recognized the band as one he'd listened to when he was a teenager. It was Black Sabbath. No—it was Ozzy. After Ozzy had broken up with the band. To Jake the words were almost haunting. . .

The verse finished, followed by the sharp strings of an electric guitar.

Jake noted the Louisiana license plate on the rear of the car as he passed. Being sentimental, he recalled the slayings of nine people a few years back when he'd been down around the Southeastern states. He smiled. Ahh. . .Memories.

He stopped at the passenger side of the Pontiac. Act a little hesitant. Let the driver say something first. Let him be in control.

Jake flashed a friendly, set-the-next-victim-at-ease smile.

As usual the gesture worked. The long-haired man smiled back.

"How far are you going?" the long-haired man asked.

"Gardnerville," Jake said. "I'm on my way home."

"That Nevada?" the man asked.

Those words thrilled Jake. The man didn't know the name of the town. Even better. He wasn't from the area. He hadn't heard about the murders—otherwise he probably wouldn't have stopped.

Jake said, "Yeah. Bottom of Tahoe. Before Carson City."

The man frowned slightly and pulled back a sleeve on his denim jacket, revealing a watch. He gazed at it for a second.

Jake's heart hammered in his chest. He suddenly contemplated killing the man right there, but he shook away the urge. There was just too much light. Too many passing cars to make a move without being seen. And the man would probably be alerted to his sudden movement, sudden revealing of a knife. Also, Jake didn't want to leave a mess of blood drenched over the car's interior, if he was going to drive it afterwards—

"What the hell," he man said, rolling his cuff back down. I was going to get a motel room in the next town, but I guess I can make it another three hours to Carson City. Besides, it'll be good to have some company over the pass."

Jake said, "Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it."

Jake slid onto the white vinyl bench seat and pulled his door shut. The man punched the gas, launching the Pontiac down the on-ramp and onto the highway. Leveling out at a cruising speed twenty miles over the limit, the man promptly slowed to the legal speed, the flaring reds and blues of the California Highway Patrol flying by in the opposite direction.

Towards the truck stop.

Five cars total.

Jake twisted in his seat and watched as the shrinking cop cars branched off—two hurtling over the grass divider into the opposing lanes, two skidding sideways and blocking off traffic, and the last one ending sideways atop the highway exit ramp leading to the truck-stop. Roadblocks.

"Did you see that shit?" the man said excitedly as he stared into the rear-view mirror. "Looks like we just barely missed some action back there!"

"Yeah. . .I guess so," Jake murmured.