Why he started was a mystery. He was curious. He didn’t have a grand plan; no big intention. He was just curious. And bored.
A deadly combination.
Walking for weeks, he camped in the desert each night. Not far enough off the road that he couldn’t see it, but far enough that he couldn’t be seen. His fire was shielded by his body, the tent, a desire to remain unseen. In the night he read the books picked up along the way, stuffed into his pack. Michael left them in restaurant booths or park benches when finished.
“Please,” the man choked out, “Please… I was… helping you. Why? Please,” fear seeped from his irises as he stared up at Michael. It fueled Michael’s rage.
“Shut up!” Michael kept one hand on the man’s neck and used the other to backhand his captor, splitting his lip in the process.
“You might not want to look in the car, son,” Sherriff Jones pulled his too eager deputy back, discreetly, but with enough urgency in his whisper to show he meant business, “just go watch the traffic stop,”