“Which direction was the car going?”
Marino asked.
“That way.”
Mr. Joyce pointed west. “In other words, he was heading away from the area down there where the woods are, back toward the highway. Could be nothing, but I remember it crossed my mind that it was strange. For one thing, there’s nothing down there but farmland and woods. I just figured it was kids drinking or parking or something.”
“Did you get a good look at the car?”
I inquired.
“Seems like it was mid-size, dark in color. Black, dark blue, or dark red, maybe.”
“New or old?”
Marino asked.
“Don’t know if it was brand new, but it wasn’t old. Wasn’t one of these foreign cars, either.”
“How could you tell?”
Marino asked.
“By the sound,” Mr. Joyce replied easily. “These foreign cars don’t sound the same as American ones. The engine’s louder, chugs more, don’t know exactly how to describe it, but I can tell. Just like when you were pulling up earlier. I knew you were in an American car, probably a Ford or Chevy. This car that went by with its headlights off, it was real quiet, smooth sounding. The shape of it reminded me of one of these new Thunderbirds, but I can’t swear to it. Might have been a Cougar.”
“It was sporty, then,” Marino said.
“Depends on how you took at it. To me, a Corvette’s sporty. A Thunderbird or Cougar’s fancy.”
“Could you tell how many people were inside this car?”
I asked.
He shook his head. “Now, I got no idea about that. It was mighty dark out, and I didn’t stand there staring.”
Marino got a notepad out of his pocket and began flipping through it.
“Mr. Joyce,” he said, “Jim Freeman and Bonnie Smyth disappeared July twenty-ninth on a Saturday night. You sure when you saw this car it was before then? Sure it wasn’t later on?”
“Sure as I’m sitting here. Reason I know’s because I got sick, like I told you. Started coming down with whatever it was the second week of July. I remember that because my wife’s birthday’s July thirteenth. I always go to the cemetery on her birthday and put flowers on her grave. Had just come home from doing that when I started feeling a little funny. The next day I was too sick to get out of bed.”
He stared off for a moment. “Must’ Ave been the fifteenth or sixteenth I went out to get the mail and saw the car.”
Marino got out his sunglasses, ready to leave.
Mr. Joyce, who wasn’t born yesterday, asked him, “You thinking there’s something about these couples dying that’s got to do with my dog being shot?”
“We’re looking into a lot of things. And it’s best if you don’t mention this conversation to anyone.”
“Won’t breathe a word of it, no, sir.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
He walked us to the door.
“Drop by again when you can,” he said. “Come July the tomatoes will be in. Got a garden out back there, best tomatoes in Virginia. But you don’t have to wait till then to visit. Anytime. I’m always here.”
He watched us from the porch as we drove off.
Marino gave me his opinion as we followed the dirt road back to the highway.
“I’m suspicious about the car he saw two weeks before Bonnie Smyth and Jim Freeman was killed out here.”
“So am I” “As for the dog, I have my doubts. If the dog had be shot weeks, even months, before Jim and Bonnie disappeared, I’d think we were on to something. But hell Dammit got whacked a good five years before these couples started dying.”
Kill zones, I thought. Maybe we were on to something anyway.
“Marino, have you considered that we may be dealing with someone for whom the place of death is more important than victim selection?”
He glanced over at me, listening.
“This individual may spend quite along time finding, just the right spot,” I went on. “When that is done, he hunts, brings his quarry to this place he has carefully, chosen. The place is what is most important, and the time of year. Mr. Joyce’s dog was killed in mid-August. The, hottest time of the year, but off season as far as hunting goes, except for crow. Each of these couples has been; killed off season. In every instance, the bodies have been found weeks, months later, in season. By hunters. It’s a “Are you suggesting this killer was out scouting they woods for a place to commit murders when the dog trotted up and spoiled his plan?”