Authors: Glenn Trust
Eyes of the Predator
The Pickham County Murders
A Novel by
The Hunters Series
By Glenn S. Trust as “The
All Rights Reserved
The characters, events, locations and plot in this
work are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or
persons is completely coincidental and unintentional. If you think otherwise,
get over it. I made it all up and have the hangover to prove it.
To the innocent victims
of abuse, torment and negligence, living in silence and fear, blaming
themselves for the sins of the abusers and wondering if anyone hears or cares.
We care, we hear and we
This work would not have
come to fruition without the efforts of my wife Julie and my sister-in-law
Deborah Griffith. Without their tireless reviews of my sloppy manuscript,
editorial comments and corrections it would likely remain an unfinished
document saved in a lost file in the bowels of my computer.
Thank you both. Now,
let’s have a beer.
Table of Contents
The gray eyes blinked and moved
in a head that remained motionless. Sweeping the area, scanning rhythmically,
they were alert, intense, and searching. They were the eyes of a predator.
The only other movements were the
slight turns and adjustments of the steering wheel as he guided the car through
the parking lot to a space at the far edge. There was just the smallest of
squeaks as the brakes brought the vehicle to a complete stop.
The eyes followed an older,
Japanese make car as it moved briskly between rows of cars and whipped into a
space under a light pole in the parking lot. The security camera mounted at the
top of the pole would not be able to angle down enough to see the car. Good.
A pretty and petite brunette
exited the car and began walking to the mall. She would not be picked up on the
camera until she was at least five cars down the parking lot row. Anyone approaching
her in that bit of space would be invisible to the watchers or the recording
He watched, evaluating and
assessing. She was right. Her hips swayed in a way that made his breath
quicken. The familiar urge began to grow into a burning need. There was a
momentary impulse to spring now, and for one instant, there was a small flicker
in his fingers as his arm tensed, much like the twitch of the lion’s tail when
the prey is close but not quite close enough, and then the lion settles back
into its stalking, crouching stillness.
A predator was in their midst and
they were oblivious. It is always that way. The herd never wants to know the
danger that surrounds it. It only wants to avoid it.
The car was nondescript and could
have been one of any number of makes and models manufactured in the early
nineties. They were all alike. Ford or Mercury. Chevrolet or Pontiac. This one
was, in fact, a Chevrolet.
The extraordinary blandness of
that era in the automotive industry made the vehicle perfect for his purposes.
Fading red paint on the hood and roof might have made it somewhat more
distinguishable if not for the fact that virtually every other car made in the
United States during the period had the same fading paint job. Manufacturers
had been required to remove lead from paint formulas causing the exterior paint
to fade away to the primer. It was a common sight on cars from that era. It
still is on the ones that survive.
Sitting quietly in a space at the
edge of a large parking lot in a medium sized town on the outskirts of a very
large city in northern Florida, the car was half a continent away from home.
The dark silhouette of the
driver was barely visible behind the wheel. Completely still, he blended into
the dark interior of the car. Had anyone noticed the car across the parking
lot, they would have thought that the silhouette was just the high-backed
headrest of the seat. His stillness was his camouflage.
But there was, in fact, a person
in the car. Like the car, he was nondescript and unremarkable in appearance. Of
medium build, somewhat thin in the face, light brown hair neatly trimmed, no
facial hair, there was nothing remarkable in his appearance. Some might have
found him attractive. Most would simply have found him - not ugly. Average. If
he had been the kind of person that attracted the gaze of others, you might
have become aware of his uncanny stillness. But he attracted no one’s gaze.
He was aware that human beings
are always moving, even when they think they are not. They cough, fidget, turn
their heads, eyes move to follow something of interest, yawn, scratch, take a
deep breath, sigh, burp, fart, stretch. People do a thousand things when they
think they are doing nothing, when they think they are quiet. He knew that in
the midst of the constant movement he was invisible.
He watched those others, the
herd. His absolute stillness would have been unnerving to them if they had
noticed him or been aware of his presence. They were not.
The house was
old, a small two bedroom frame house that had not seen paint in decades. Its
weathered gray boards and panes of cracked glass gave it the air of a house
much older. But a couple of windows with no glass at all, just a piece of
plywood nailed over the openings to try and keep the cold and wet out, showed
that its appearance was more from neglect than the number of years it had
squatted beside the dirt road.