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began to toss spadeful after spadeful
of soil into the pit. As he watched it slowly fill, the young man
felt a sense of deliverance mixed with a stab of sorrow.
Deliverance and freedom. Sorrow for the love and support he had
sought but knew he would never have.
    From that moment on, there would
remain only one certainty in his life—he would never be a victim
again.
    Herb snapped out of his reverie.
Goose bumps rippled his arms. He returned his attention to the
guard and forced his mind to go cold. Knife in hand, he stepped out
of the pickup.
    The guard was stuffing the notebook
into his jacket when Herb came around the back of the truck.
Seemingly surprised, the guard shot the beam at him.
    “Is there some kind of problem,
man?” Herb asked him.
    “What do you mean?”
    Herb concealed the blade behind his
leg. “Why are you recording my plate number?”
    The guard lowered the flashlight.
The two men stood facing each other. Six feet of grainy darkness
separated them. Through it, Herb saw the guard’s face was tight
with fear and strategy.
    “Just precautions.” A tremor
carried his words. “If you don’t leave, I’m getting the police down
here.”
    Slowly, Herb took a step forward,
then another. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
    The guard put up a hand. “Stand
down, mister. Don’t make me get on the radio.”
    Herb seemed not to hear. He moved
closer still.
    Four feet.
    Three.
    Easy now.
    He could see the guard’s throat
working, the flitting movements of his eyes, the stiff shrinking
away of his body, as if he were ready to run. To Herb, he looked
pathetic, a coward.
    “Sir …”
    Herb brought the knife out from
behind his leg. The steel blade flashed.
    A frightful understanding
registered in the guard’s eyes. His mouth formed words with no
sound. Scrabbling at his side for the radio, he turned to run. With
lightning quickness, Herb was upon him, driving the knife between
the guard’s shoulder blades.
    The guard’s scream shot through the
air.
    The next few moments passed in slow
motion. Back tensed, the guard toppled forward, arms flailing.
Hitting the pavement face first. Another sound, one of glass
shattering as the flashlight tumbled across the parking
lot.
    Herb stood over the guard and
watched as his legs made pedaling movements. Gurgling sounds came
from the guard’s throat.
    The knife was lodged in his
back.
    Herb knelt and glanced around the
lot along with the empty streets around it. He knew he had no time
to dispose of the body. At any moment, the headlights of a passing
car could expose him.
    After patting the guard down with
the backs of his hands, Herb found the shape of the notebook hidden
in his jacket. Carefully, he slipped it out. In the semidarkness,
the notebook shook in his hands as he began turning pages. It was a
journal containing a chronological list of dates, times, and
observations the guard had made during his shifts. At the last
entry, Herb stopped abruptly. The handwriting was scribble, that of
a man hurrying to record facts.
    Date: Sunday, May 9,
2010
    Time: 5:08 am
    Location: Impark lot, Lower Water
St.
    Herb Matteau from Acresville.
D.O.B. August 14, 1973. He’s 6 feet, possibly a little taller. Was
sitting down. Hard to tell. Heavy-set build, muscular. Short wavy
brown hair. Brown eyes. Pale complexion. Clean-shaven. No
distinctive features. Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A gold
framed watch with Roman numerals.
    Herb felt himself swallow as he
read the next few sentences.
    Man acted very suspiciously.
Sitting alone in his truck with a poor excuse to be there. A navy
blue sport-like bag and women’s clothing, he claimed belonged to
his girlfriend’s were inside.
    The entry went on to describe the
make and model of Herb’s truck. Below that, his license plate
number.
    Herb’s eyes filled with animosity.
He closed the notebook with a snap and shoved it into his back
pocket. Then he drew his face close to the guard’s ear. Only then
did he see and