So the guy mumbles some stuff, tries to drown himself, wanders off to get online while stuffing his (literal) pie hole then buggers off. I was afraid I'd lost him, but apparently he hadn't spotted me. I guess he's just a jumpy sort and the plates dropping spooked him, because I stuck around the hotel just in case and caught him leaving the room about an hour later. He had a couple extra bags so I figured he was moving on. Good thing I pretty much live in my car... Gotta remember to call Flo and ask her to feed Einstein III for a few more days...

So we start driving east on the 10 to the 15N (Vegas? Cool! Nope.) Somewhere south of Barstow we turn due east on the 40. And we're on the 40 for a REALLY long time. All I can say is, thank god for coffee, No-Doze and empty 2 liter bottles. Don't ask. Except for gas/junk food stops (this guy eats like crap) we go for ever. Somewhere around Amarillo the guy pulls over into a rest stop and climbs into the back seat for what I can only think is a nap. While he's zonked I snuck over to his car and slipped a short-range tracker on his car so it'd beep when/if the car moves because man, I needed a nap.

(Very) long story short, we ended up, in all places, Atlanta. Now, I love a dog and a coke from The Varsity as much as the next guy but not enough to drive 2,200 miles. Why couldn't he have picked Vegas? At any rate, I found myself going down a country road outside of the city in the pre-dawn chill (WTF? Since when is Atlanta cold?) realizing that if he stops, I have no idea what I am going to do and...he stops. I already knew the guy's skittish as hell, so I pass him, round a bend and shut off my lights. There's a bit of a glow in the sky now, so I can kinda see what's around me. As I drove back towards him I see him, walking down the road, like he's fixated on something.

I passed him, hit a bend in the road, pulled over and got out. I had to follow him on foot. So there I am, freezing my ass off, in pre-dawn rural Georgia, following a serial killer and armed with a Hostess Ding Dong. Apparently instead of the trusty, 5 lb. MagLite I have in the car or the baseball bat, I grabbed the pastry. Now that I write it down it's pretty apparent that I was being less than smart. Well, as the saying goes, in for a penny, in for a brutal slaying!

Just then I noticed that he had stopped and was rooting around under a bush and pretty violently, too. Swearing and muttering or at least I think he was swearing. He looked pretty angry, as if something wasn't going the way it was supposed to. He was loud enough for me to be able to take my eyes off him for a second and look around and the light was up enough for me to notice a large...erm...hill? No, I guess mound would describe it. I looked up and noticed him heading my way, so I backed off and dove behind some bushes behind a gate. I waited a few seconds, but he didn't pass me, so I crept back down the road and almost tripped over the sicko. Apparently in the 15 seconds or so he's been out of my site, he's been able to cover himself in blood and start some whacko ritual. To be honest, it sounded a lot like the stuff he was saying in the hotel room.

I have to confess something, here. I screamed. Like June Cleaver with a mouse on the kitchen floor. Well, you can guess what happens then. I screamed, then he screamed (no, we didn't all scream for ice cream). Apparently I interrupted whatever he was doing enough so that he shouted something rather ugly sounding at me and ran...right past me to his car and peeled out, gone into the dawn, leaving me standing there with a crushed Ding Dong in one hand and no longer having to pee. Yes, I am man enough to admit it, the guy scared the wee right outta me.

Luckily it was still deserted, so I staggered back to my car, changed pants and when it was light enough, wandered over to the bushes where he'd been digging around. Needless to say, my imagination went wild and I was almost paralytic with fear. I'm not usually this much of a weenie, but really, you face down a bloody serial killer and see what happens to your nervous system (and bladder). At any rate, I managed to get my legs moving and found...nothing. Zip. Nada. Niente. Bubkes.

So, let's recap: I drive 2,200 miles, spend $175 on gas, track a serial killer to an Indian burial mound in Georgia, pee myself and crush a pastry. Not bad for 48 hours, really. So what was the killer looking for? What does it do to his psyche when one of his rituals is interrupted? Clearly he does things on non-New Moon nights. What? Training for the "big killing nights?" How's he going to check into a hotel covered in blood?

Well, I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I've lost him for now, but let's hope one of my tipsters can come through with his location, like they did with the hotel room. Until then, I remain your loyal and steadfast crusader against evil, Eddie Pope!
eddie@popetattle.com