I brought Sally in at sundown and fed him some Kentucky Fried Chicken. The Dodgers were playing the Padres, and I let him watch the game. By the time it was over, I’d resolved to drive out to Beaumont’s again. I locked Sally in the crate for this trip, tired of his constant jabber and wanting to see if I could find my own way. I remembered the route fairly well, made only a couple of wrong turns. Parking in the same spot as last night, I walked up the rise alone. This evening there were lights on in the house, and music played faintly, something classical.

I started thinking I should go in after Beaumont right then. The .45 was under my arm, the knife strapped to my leg, and Czarnecki’s bag, in the camper, had everything else I’d need. I talked myself out of the notion pretty quickly. I didn’t know the layout of the house and wouldn’t have the advantage of daylight. And what if someone else was with him?

I watched a while longer but learned nothing new. I won’t say the trip was a waste of time, but I don’t feel the need for any more scouting. If I’m going to do this, I’ve got to do it. And tomorrow’s the day. I’ll storm the house at noon, and if I can’t capture Beaumont, I’ll kill him. Sally will be disappointed if that’s how it goes down, but what are a monster’s tears to me?

July 4, 1976, Las Vegas

A blunder, a battle, a deal with the devil. I’m taking advantage of a quiet moment to set down what happened over the past twenty-four hours, and they may well be the last words I ever write.

As I’d planned, I parked up the road from Beaumont’s house at noon yesterday, guns loaded, knife ready, crowbar in hand. I left Sally chained inside the crate, and snuck to the top of the rise. Lying beside the little tree, I scanned the house through the binoculars. The drapes were drawn, but I was sure Beaumont was inside.

I said a prayer to steel myself. Dear Lord, you are my refuge and fortress, you are my sword and my shield. Fill me with bravery and strength as I prepare to confront evil.

Then…nothing. I lay on my belly in the dirt. The fire I’d been stoking all morning had gone out. Five minutes passed, ten, as I tried to will my body to stand and approach the house. I pleaded with myself, reasoned with myself, slapped my face until my cheek throbbed, but it was no use.