Then
Abolt of lightning licks down from the low, bruised sky.
He huddles into himself, shouldering open the door to the station, stopping abruptly when met by a wall of ice.
His shoe snicks against the floor.
His fingers tremble.
No one is behind the desk.
They are alreadythere.
Urgency closes his throat, strangles his breathing. He listens carefully to the rising wail of sirens, and tries to swallow. His heart hammering to the beat of his footsteps as he makes for the bell on top of the scarred wooden desk, jamming a grease-stained thumb to the pin.
His palms are damp. He presses them into the countertop, blowing out his cheeks. Aching all over, pressure torquing tight in his chest, he hits the bell again, closing his eyes, hanging his head.
A fresh bite of cold seeps deep into his bones and he begins to pace, breathing harder as he listens to another siren join the distant, keening chorus.
“Hey!” he shouts.
No response.
He slaps his clammy palm against the Perspex window, leaving a sweaty handprint behind.
“Is anybody here!?” He drums harder.
A door slams, then another, before a sibilant buzz follows and the locked door beside a stained and saggy emerald couch clangs open.
A young woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties steps through the yawning opening. Her steely-gray eyes are quick to find him. She straightens her neck, and lifts her broad shoulders. She is florid-faced, instantly on edge.
His heart beats faster, and he pushes his shaking hands into his pockets, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Thunder claps, then grumbles above, stretching away into the distance.
“Sorry, sir.” The young woman starts toward him, dragging her hands down the front of her creased uniform, then back over her smooth and slick ponytail. “I didn’t hear you out here, how can I?—”
He speaks over her, “I…I know whoheis.”
There’s a subtle shift in her posture, and while her eyes narrow, she doesn’t step closer.
“Who…who is, sir?” she asks.
He continues to pace. Sweat collects at the nape of his neck, trickling down his spine.
The young cop's hand juts out toward him, pulsing as if trying to settle a rabid dog. He hears her breath accelerate.
“How about you take a seat? Can I get you a bottle of water?”
He doesn’t take a seat, and he doesn’t want water. He breathes harder, throwing his hand aggressively behind him, storming toward the door, pointing in the direction of the weeping sirens—towardDevil’s Tunnel.
“I know who is killing those girls.” His voice is scratchy and becomes stuck on a ball of phlegm.
The young cop turns rigid, then she reaches for the portable radio stuffed into the pouch at her shoulder.
She doesn’t take her flared eyes off him. Her voice is low, and he can’t hear what she says because he is frantically shouting over her.
“It’s Kevin…Kevin Campbell, the owner of Campbell Carwash.”
