To continue: When the BH came out of the second shed, he wasn’t alone. He was pushing a very, very old man in a wheelchair.
Yup. You read me right.
They spent a long time in the house, and that’s when I made my mistake. I snuck up closer to try to see through a window, but I’m not totally Ms. Deerstalker and I must have cracked a twig. I don’t think he’s so good at walking on tiptoe either because he didn’t try. The guy came roaring out of that house after me like a bull with his pants on fire. I ran away and got far ahead of him, but I forgot that he could work out where I was going and when I got to my car I took at least three seconds to catch my breath.
That kind of laziness doesn’t fly when you’re fleeing this guy. He was already roaring up the street in his big fat black Mercedes SUV when I started moving. My little Porsche is a lot faster than that thing but still it took about thirty hours of flat out driving to get away from him. He just doesn’t give up. I got so I thought he could read minds, tap cellphones and maybe smell me. He had me scared enough that even when he really had given up I kept driving for two more days.
(continued in this post) — Flyss