If I had been observed, the roving patrol would have driven out to investigate. If an officer had driven out, I would have been in trouble in more ways than one.

There was, I just discovered while searching for a flashlight, a firearm in the vehicle. Firearms on state prison property were against the law.

In addition to the Smith .38, Dad had an expensive pair of binoculars, which came in handy.

I sat there in the dark watching and thinking, my window rolled down.

Eventually, Captain Skipper appeared near the front of the institution—walking an inmate into the sally port and getting into a van.

In violation of DOC policy, the inmate was neither cuffed nor shackled, and there was no armed officer accompanying them.

The front gate rolled open and the van pulled out of the institution, heading down the two-mile county road to the main highway into town.

I followed.

The night was pleasant, the moon full, the sky clear.

I followed a quarter of a mile back with my lights off.

When the van reached the main highway, it turned toward town.

As I neared the intersection, a car passed by on the main highway. Turning my lights on, I followed it, leaving it between me and the van.

At the next intersection, some two miles from town, the van turned left and the car between us continued straight.

When the van had a sufficient lead again, I turned and followed.

The highway was desolate, with only the occasional house or trailer, most of which sat a good distance off the road under the cover of pine trees.

Pulling over and using the binoculars, I gave the van as much of a lead as possible.

About a mile and a half up on the right, the van turned in to the residence of Russ Maddox, the president of Potter State Bank, the wealthiest man in Potter County and Laura’s uncle.

Russ Maddox was a middle-aged bachelor who had lived alone for as long as I could remember. Slightly effeminate, odd and awkward, he was the subject of much small-town speculation.

By the time I reached the driveway, the van had disappeared into the woods that served as Russ’s front yard.

I pulled the Explorer off the road about a half mile down from the driveway and moved through the woods toward what was known in town as Maddox Mansion.

The light from the moon shone down so brightly the pines cast shadows.

No breeze. No movement.

The undergrowth was thick, moving through it slow, and at one point I tripped over a fallen scrub oak it was camouflaging.

The ground was dew damp and cooler than I expected.

When I reached the end of the woods at the edge of the yard, I could see the front of the house.