And the knife blade had hit the wall of the trailer and sunk into it, pinning

Donohue to the wood.

 

He groaned, rubbed his eyes, climbed over into the front seat, started the car,

and drove off.

 

He didn’t have to do it that way. He could have struck with half as much force

and killed the man. But he couldn’t undo it, so he forgot about it.

 

He needed new wheels. If anyone had seen this car come out of the dirt road

where the body and the boy were it would not be too good for him.

 

He drove his car behind a strip mall that was not yet open for business. He

grabbed his bag, and put the vintage M11 into it. He tossed the box the gun was

in inside a Dumpster, unscrewed the license plates from the car, slid them into

his bag next to the gun, and walked off.

 

He slept under a bridge, awoke the next morning, and set out on foot. About an

hour later he reached a small town in mountainous southwest Virginia. He found

the local library, sat at a computer terminal, went online, and typed in a name.

 

Ballard Enterprises.

 

He got back a number of hits, some related to what he wanted and others not.