I told him to get some sleep and assured him I’d telephone him again the following morning. ‘Sleep? There’s little chance of that,’ he said. I knew how he felt. I took a room at a Holiday Inn at Holbrook, my window giving me a great view of the endless mountain desert. It reminded me of when I’d chased the serial killer, Tubal Cain, to his Mojave hideaway in an ill-fated attempt at saving my little brother’s life. Before I’d arrived, Cain had already stripped the flesh from John’s back and had begun whittling away at his ribs. I stopped Cain but it hadn’t been enough to save John. My brother had died within three days; no one could have survived his injuries. I closed the blinds. I’d purchased a sandwich and carry-out coffee from a nearby 7-Eleven, and made the most of both while studying the photographs of Jay and Nicole. I’d placed the missing person poster alongside them on the bed. It hadn’t struck me before but Nicole Challinor and Helena Blackstock were not unalike.
