They had since returned to the road that the pick-up had gone off of. The traffic of other cars had since washed away the tracks of what General had suspected to be a sedan. All that was left were pummeled weeds in the ditch where the truck had come to rest, and where Cooter had recently pulled it from.

"What're we doin' back here?" General inquired as they rolled up, the others climbing out.

"We're gonna see if we can figure out just what happened here. Maybe somethin' got overlooked, like somethin' that could tell us where they went," Luke explained, walking to the shoulder and resting his hands on his hips.

General rumbled thoughtfully. "Well, the tracks were about here, which would mean that he came from this road." He pointed to the intersection with his nose. "Which would suggest that he was followin' Bo from the intersection to here, where he ran him off the road."

"And here I serve to stress the importance of a witness," Clayton said, a bit annoyedly.

"Which's exactly why he did it here. There was no one on this road, no one saw him. He could quickly grab Bo and then disappear again. It was the perfect crime," Luke replied.

Clayton shook his finger. "To you, it may be. But I happen to be an expert on crime of all kinds… and predictable human behavior."

"Okay…" Cooter trailed off, expecting him to elaborate.

Clayton grinned, walking back to where General was. "So, this's roughly where our missin' Duke boy was supposedly run off the road." He then walked to Luke. "And this is where the truck went into the ditch."

Luke thought for a moment, looking between Clayton and General. "The truck didn't get very far. He got hit hard."

Clayton pointed a finger at him. "Exactly! Now," he moved to stand in the ditch, pretending to stagger a bit as he did, "poor, disoriented Bo crawls outta the truck, and what does he see?"

Cooter shrugged. "The car that run him off the road?"

"Right you are!" Clayton laughed, putting a foot up on the opposite side of the ditch. "And as you can see now, I'm cornered."

Luke shook his head, folding his arms. "Bo wouldn't have just gave up like that."

"Mais, of course not." Clayton reached up to the barbed-wire fence in front of him, plucking something from it and holding it out to Luke. "Voila! The thing you missed!"

Luke took the new item from him, finding it to be a small piece of torn fabric. His throat tightened. "Look… this's great and all, but we still don't know where they went."

"Mais, Allen's a cripple, so he can't have gone far. In fact, I believe he musta known that Bo was gonna run, and waited for him."

"Yeah, but you of all people know that he's more than capable-"

"I doubt he's very far from here. Someone in his state with his profession wouldn't prefer to go far."

"Or he's a hundred miles away and we ain't got a prayer of findin' either of 'em."

"You sayin' I don't know what I'm talkin' about?"

"I'm sayin' you could be wrong."

Cooter broke things up before they could escalate. "Alright, alright, y'all calm down now, ya ain't gonna do Bo no good fightin'. And, as much as I hate to say it, Clayton makes a pretty good point."

Clayton gave a slight bow. "Of course I do."

"So, we do what we'd do in any other situation and start checkin' all the abandoned warehouses and mills and houses, and whatever else we can come up with."

Clayton sent a snide glance towards Luke who scowled.

"Fine, we'll do it your way," he said.

Clayton smiled. "Allez, then!"

Not far away, crouched in the brush, eyes spied and watched, observing the small group on the road. Detective Tollefson chewed gum as he watched, sitting back on his heels when the group turned to leave.

"What is it?" Jay, his now self-proclaimed civilian consultant asked whilst blowing smoke from a cigarette.

"Looks like they're onto something," the detective replied.

"What makes you say that?"

The detective nodded to the departing orange Charger on the road. "Looks to me they caught Ridgefield's scent." He tapped Jay's shoulder as he stood. "Come on, we'll follow them, see where they lead us. With any luck, they'll stumble upon our killer out there and we'll get to save the day."

Jay agreed and followed, grinding out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe.

He'd been free for a couple of hours at best and had since been running throughout the basement looking for a way out other than the door at the top of the stairs. There was a window on the other side of the room, on the adjacent wall. He was tall enough to where he could reach it and press on it with his hands, however, it seemed as though it was sealed. Who was he kidding, it was sealed. Not that there was any breaking it. Not unless he wanted to cause a racket and potentially injure himself in the process. Not that he wasn't already hurt, of course.

The gash that Allen had carved into his leg not only impaired his ability to walk, but it was beyond painful. Not to mention that upon being released from the chair he'd been tied to, he tried to run to the stairs and endured quite the beating as a result of that. Nevertheless, the experience reminded him quite a bit of the days he'd spent at Hollow Hill.

And he wondered how long it would be before Allen busted out something like a whip or a switch. He supposed that Allen was the kind of guy to happen to have those kinds of things lying around. He just hadn't gotten around to using them yet.

Maybe today would be the day. Surely biting the man's ear and tearing it from his body had been enough to anger him to such a degree that he felt inclined to use them. But then again, perhaps he'd be wise to keep his distance this time.

Nevertheless, he could hear the man coming down the stairs again, and quickly reeled away from the window, moving to stand in the middle of the room, ready to fight if need be. He watched as Ridgefield hobbled down the stairs on his cane, his other hand holding a glass of water. And Bo couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten the chance to drink water. In fact, he didn't really know how long he'd been down there. Two days? That seemed about right.

He took a couple of steps back as Allen got closer. The man lifted his fingers from the head of his cane, a salutary gesture. Like waving a white flag. Bo wasn't falling for that. No doubt it could be a trick. He remained poised, ready to fight, to hurt.

Allen moved slowly, Bo imagined he was saying the 'no sudden movements' phrase in his head. He caught sight of the thick bandage on the side of the man's head. Forget the water, he'd tear open that bandage and drink the man's blood if he got any closer.

Either way, Ridgefield set the water down on the floor, then backed away: a good five feet. Bo glanced at the water, then at him, still not making a move.

Allen's gaze was still fearful, but he nodded to the water, looking back at Bo. "It's been a couple of days, you should drink something."

Did Andy get water too? Or is that privilege only reserved to me because I did that to him? "Did you give them water too?"

Allen's answer was reluctant, but he finally answered, "Dehydration causes low blood pressure. If you pass out, you can't feel pain. I don't want that."

If I pass out, I can't wring your neck either. "Right."

He knelt on the floor, finally moving from his tense position. The thought of making Allen pay made the water that much more enticing. He reached for it. And, as far as he could tell, it was just an ordinary glass of water. No strings attached. He first brought it up to his nose. To smell it. After the most recent incident with Hughie Hogg, Luke had informed him of the different ways one could tell if their drink had been drugged. If there was ice, and it wasn't floating, meant that it'd been drugged. A perfumey smell also indicated the presence of drugs.

There was a smell, but it wasn't like perfume. It was like dish soap, the kind you put in the dishwasher. In any case, the glass had just been cleaned. He touched the glass to his lips. And it was cool. Finally, he gave in, and he drank.

It wasn't until the water was gone did he notice a light residue in the bottom of the glass. Then, he thought, maybe, just maybe, the glass had not been recently cleaned. But his head felt like radio static. And the dim lighting of the room was fading.

The glass shattered on the floor.

The search had unfortunately come up empty. Luke had half a mind to give Clayton the old 'I told you so' but wasn't in the mood to pick fights. It was late enough by the time they made it back to the farmhouse anyway.

Luke was ready to call it a day, however, he paused in the doorway of his bedroom. His hand was still on the light switch, but he couldn't take his eyes off the empty bed on the other side of the room. It wasn't a common thing. For him to sleep alone in this room, that is. And the thought, no, the dread of it maybe being permanent only made him sick.

So, he stood in the doorway, too afraid to move. And he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. Daisy was standing there, worried gaze looking up at him.

"Luke, are you all right?" she asked.

Luke shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine. Go get some rest, Daisy."

He guided her with a hand back down the hallway to her door, where she lingered.

"You sure you're okay? I mean, with everythin' that's happened, I-"

"I'm fine, Daisy. Go to bed," Luke replied shortly, shutting her door behind her.

And he stayed there a moment, resting against it. He could feel the fatigue pulling at his eyes. But he forced them open. He knew the moment he closed them, his imagination would run wild. He didn't need that. Not now.

Reverently, he stepped away from the door, heading to his own and closing it softly behind him. As he sighed into the quiet night, thinking about his trip to New Jersey in his original search for Ridgefield, a sudden memory popped into his head. One of the ward with a girl whose hair had been buzzed down to her scalp and a very skittish man. And a little black book. That he'd kept tucked away in the box filled with other things from his time in the Marines.

He quickly went to it, locating it in its usual spot on top of the dresser. He wiped the thin layer of dust off of it, plucking it from its perch and moving to sit down on the edge of his bed. As he felt his weight sink into the mattress, he stared down at the top of the box, hesitant to open it. Finally, he pushed it open with his thumb, lifting the lid, eyes resting on the little black book that lay inside. Passively, he reached inside, pulling the book out and setting the box aside.

And for a moment, he only sat with it in his hands. There was a reason for him not having opened it all this time. And the truth was, he was scared. Scared of what he would find in there, in the deep recesses of Allen's mind. Finally, he sighed, laying the book down on his nightstand. No, he wasn't ready to see that.

Dejected, he shifted, lying on his side and reaching up to turn the lamp off. Again, he sighed as his weight settled again, muscles finally relaxing. However, he couldn't seem to keep his eyes closed. The room felt oddly still and quiet. The bed opposite him felt oddly vacant. It was all odd. Unfamiliar. The room felt cold and strange. It didn't feel like home.

With a groan, he sat back up, flicking the lamp back on and snatching the book from the nightstand. In his mind, it was like quickly ripping off a bandaid to prevent pain. He quickly opened the book, eyes landing on the familiar sight of Allen's scrawling handwriting. It was more scrawled than normal, however, the man had rushed through this, writing fervently, furiously, passionately. Perhaps there weren't enough adverbs in the world for the writing of the book, but Luke moved on and read anyway. Best he could, anyway.

To anyone else, it would seem as though the book was just the ramblings of some paranoid schizophrenic, but it was familiar to Luke. It was Allen's very active imagination. His thoughts, his fantasies, his plans. Things that he'd done and that'd happened in the past. His school days of being bullied and beaten, being called slurs in the hallways. The fear of being drafted. The relief upon finding a friend. Making a friend. A close friendship that had lasted until it hadn't. A friendship where they had sat, and talked, and smoked, and shared pictures of their loved ones back home. A friendship where they had bled for each other in the dirt and had killed for each other. A friendship that had ended in betrayal.

And that was where it grew maddening. That was where the ranting and the pain and the psychosis emerged. And with every word of fury that illustrated the man's pain and ill intentions, Luke came to realize the hatred directed toward him. He read of the things that Allen wished to do to his cousin, the ways he wished to kill Luke. Words wasted only for them to be read too late. And the punishment being served was to the wrong person.

He was the one who deserved to have been murdered. He should be the one being punished.