The story takes place one July morning in 1982.
I was late for my job as a fry cook at a country club on Cape Cod. As I raced my jeep over back roads in a rural part of town, I came around a tight bend in heavy morning fog. And there, standing in the middle of the road, was a man. Pale, and sweaty, he was wearing only a pair of shorts and a backpack.
I saw him only for a split-second, before I swerved and went off the road. But I’ll never forget the face. He stared straight ahead, looking me right in the eyes with a wide-eyed, maniacal look on his face. His mouth was open as if he was screaming, but there was no sound. I got out of the jeep and ran back looking to take a swing at the guy, but he was gone.
It wasn’t until ten years later that I saw him again. On TV. His name is Hadden Clark and he’s a serial killer. He’s the man I saw that morning in Woods Hole. I have zero doubt about it.
You don’t forget a face like that.