Summer 1969 – Stalking Prey on Rivers of Cement and Blacktop


The patrolman stared at the wreckage. He turned and looked at me, then turned his head – north and south – perhaps scanning the highway for an tree, a rock, a cow; anything that the vehicle could have struck or been struck by. The road remained flat and empty. An ancient oak, the nearest stationary object, stood, unmolested, fifty yards away from the tangle of metal and rubber. 

He covered his eyes with one meaty hand. Without looking at the automobile’s corpse, or even lifting his hand, he asked, “I don’t suppose there’s anyone alive in that mess?” 

I almost shook my head before I noticed that he had not uncovered his eyes. I said, “No. There’s only a leg inside. And a lot of blood. The rest of the body is gone.”