Downstate

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Not easy collaring a suspect when you don’t know what he looks like.

Where he might be.

Who he is.

But even in seemingly impossible cases like this a crack can open up briefly, long enough to catch a break.

If you can play it right and trick into the equation a little luck — that great unknown in the world of law enforcement — you might get your prey.

And if not, well, that was a problem. Mr. X would remain a mystery man. As would the key to scores of impending deaths — adults and children, all innocent, all unsuspecting.

Constant Marlowe piloted her second-, no, make it third-hand Honda Accord into the outskirts of Plains, Illinois, about a hundred miles west and a bit south of Chicago. The landscape made her uneasy; the scabby green and yellow hide of corn rows was eerie to start with, but of more concern was that they efficiently obscured any threats.

Time was urgent — those soon-to-be murders — but her route to the town was complicated. Evasive. As it had to be.

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