Threats meant nothing to Mike Streckler until Geoffrey Norkum acted on his.
Thoughts of yesterday’s discovery of James Kent’s murder fired through Detective Streckler’s brain. High school teacher; no sign of struggle; irregular stab wound to neck; bloody thumbprint centered inverted on the mirror in the master bedroom...
A Chevrolet Z71 diverted his thoughts when it veered off the pavement. The truck impacted the embankment with a bang and rotated to the left. Light shimmered and a cloud of dust enveloped the pickup as it rolled over and rammed a tree off the south side of the highway.
Streckler jerked the navy Crown Victoria to the side of the road and stopped as it nosed toward the ditch. He adjusted the black Stetson on his head with one hand and opened the door with the other. He twisted on a Maglite, hopped the ditch and scrambled up the slope toward the truck.
Rocky soil slowed his progress. Leather soles on his black cowboy boots slipped every other step. He strove forward and reached the tree line where he used trees as leverage to pull up the last seven or eight yards to the rear of the sage-colored pickup. Sweat dampened his forehead and temples.
Scents of antifreeze and brake fluid leached from the wreckage, mixed with the stench of Death.