Double Jeopardy

4

6:45 P.M.

HAROLD SATROM LOVED TWO things in life: sunsets and fishing. Every chance he got, he’d close the Dallas bait-and-tackle shop he managed, grab his ten-year-old son, Jimmy, and drive to Lake Palestine before the sun faded. They would watch the fiery red light filter across the horizon, find a comfortable spot on the bank, then cast their lines and see what the Corps of Engineers had stocked the lake with this year.

But everything seemed different tonight. Different and wrong. The sky was overcast; ominous clouds were gathering. Worse, the fish didn’t seem to be biting, at least not where they were. Harold could see the occasional bass or trout, but he couldn’t catch them. They seemed disturbed, skittish. Probably teenagers had been out here last night, drinking beer, causing a commotion, stirring everything up. Damn kids.

Harold left Jimmy with the gear and strolled along the shore, hoping he could find a better location. He’d been walking about half a mile when he came upon a large gray blob that he knew with instant horror was a man. The remains of a man.

He approached slowly, although he realized this desiccated corpse could do him no harm. It appeared to have washed ashore after floating in the lake for some time.

Harold rolled the corpse onto its back—and immediately wished he hadn’t. The face was a puffy gray green, swollen and scarred; it had been horribly burned. Thin, translucent skin barely covered the skull. Harold couldn’t have identified the man if he’d been his best friend.

Then Harold noticed his legs. The man had been burned from the groin down—horribly so. To make matters worse, his body was riddled with deep, blackened stab wounds. It was grotesque.

Harold wasn’t a coroner, but he got the distinct impression that this man had died hard, slowly and painfully, at someone else’s hands.

He reached into the corpse’s pocket and found a leather wallet. Amazing that it hadn’t fallen out in the lake. There were twelve twenty-dollar bills inside. Well, hell, they weren’t going to do this stiff any good. But they would buy a mountain bike, and that would give Jimmy a lot of pleasure. And give Harold a lot of peace.

Harold thumbed through the rest of the wallet. A few pictures, a driver’s license, and membership cards for various organizations. Several credit cards, but Harold wasn’t stupid enough to try to use those. Nothing else of value.

He rolled the corpse back onto its face. A sudden chill swept through his body. He ran into the lake, consumed by the desire to cleanse himself. He ran his hands over his body, scrubbing every inch of exposed skin.

Finally he stepped out of the lake, feeling much better. He started to walk on, then thought of Jimmy, back behind him. Alone.

Harold headed back the way he had come, walking, then jogging, then flat out running, the whole time wondering who the hell Thomas J. Seacrest was and how he got himself into so much trouble.