He had licked blood off of her body, careful not to give into the impulse to bite. He didn’t want to leave marks, anything that they could use to track him later. But the temptation had been there, oh, so heavily pounding in his brain, the need to tear flesh, to feel the hot weight of it against his tongue, to taste it’s sweetness. He resealed the bag, carefully expelling as much air as he could. He closed the file, and placed it, along with all his evidence bags back into the plastic box, firmly closing the lid. The box was set on top of a stack of shelves, carefully placed with five others. Each box was neatly labeled and dated. He could remember each and every one of them without looking into those boxes. And he could remember the others, the ones that he had done before the knife. The ones that were buried and hidden in places where they would not be found. The ones that were before, when he hadn’t the knowledge to study, or to make conclusions. The police wouldn’t be able to. We decided to stop in the vicinity of Pumpkin Center. It was a cute name for a town and it was outside of Martinez where our three had said there were people. We wanted to meet them with a reasonable bit of daylight. We would do that tomorrow. We carefully removed traces of our passing when we left I-20 for a farm where we stayed for the night. We were pretty sure our three would not follow us but took no chances.The next morning, we rose and packed as always. Mounting our horses, we went back up to I‑20 and then headed east to Martinez which was now close. We came in staying on I-20 not trying to hide. As we entered Martinez, we came to a barrier that had seen better days. We stopped at it and looked around carefully. If someone had been there, there was no sign that their presence had been recent. We went through but replaced the gate in case someone was watching us.We left I-20 and went northerly into downtown Martinez without seeing anyone or any sign of recent habitation. When we.
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