He was leaving, putting as much distance between himself and the store as he could walk at a healthy clip even though his feet protested. He cursed himself and rubbed his tired eyes. What was he thinking? He knew better than that. Why In the hell would he touch a crime scene then get caught doing it? He was breaking every rule in the book getting away, a rule book he reminded himself that he threw out a while ago.

“What the hell are you doing Ryan?” He asked himself and jumped the guard rail and onto the grass.

Already he could hear the police sirens going the sound of the racing engine firing on all cylinders. The red and blue flashing lights breaking through the night as it came to pass him on the opposite side of the freeway. They were fast, the state trooper who patrolled these roads at all times of the day would be on the scene in seconds. The man saw his face, that too would complicate things. They would want him, want to speak to him. He couldn’t have that, he wouldn’t get away. A truck passed by him and he felt the air be pulled with it. On the opposite side of the guard rail, the grass here slowly started to dip down to a stream that cut through I-95 and traveled down along the side of it for what looked to be thirty feet before turning into a tunnel that he guessed lead to the other side of the freeway. He started down to it, stepping carefully down one by one and slow enough that he wouldn’t slip on the wet grass and go down into the rushing waters. Here he walked along the bed of the stream up to where the river broke into the tunnel. It was also shallowest here as it broke open and much wider as it went into the tunnel. He took a second judging its depth before walking across the water to the other side. It splashed up onto his blue jeans and he was sure any blood that had not been converted up by the mud or scraped off by the grass had now washed away with the river.

On the other side, he continued going back up the hill and hugging the trees as he walked back up the slope back to where he had originally been walking. He was probably a mile or two from the scene now and he could imagine what happened. The cop on scene rushing in gun out, calming the man once clearing the store to make sure that the killer still didn't lurk by. Then he would begin by checking for a pulse, standard procedure in such incidents. Although he knew there wasn't any, the hole in her forehead had confirmed that. She was shot from behind he could tell that much as well as she wasn't on her knees or kneeling by how the body had been laying. Like a maranet without strings, she fell where she died. He was back to walking along the road now as he thought about the scene. That part of him taking over again, the part that had him looking for the truth in what happened in things. He shook his head he couldn't think about that because the next thing that would happen as more cops and police arrived would be the statement from the man detailing what happened. That's also where they would discover that he was there. Not that they would know who he was but they would have a description. They would start looking for him, who would run from a crime scene or not call the police themselves? The killer of course and he knew he was soon to be their prime suspect. Although they wouldn't say that, the press releases that came out with his image would say they just wanted to talk.

The Crime scene units that would collect evidence on the scene would find that he had tampered with the scene if the very least. Not to mention that his skin cells and fibers would be on her shirt where he pulled her over. He cursed again, he was in the DNA database, if they got a warrant he would be identified quickly then things got even more complicated. Desperate now to put distance between himself and the scene he stuck his thumb out hoping for a ride. Hoping someone would pull over and help him along. At least he could get farther down I-95 faster. The news report wouldn't be out till the morning if he was lucky too, now the clock was really ticking. Of course, the driver would tell the police once he put two and two together but chances were by then he could backtrack and take a side road or two that would lead back to the highway. Another truck passed him by and he slipped around the metal pole holding up the signs for the exits. A black SUV passed then a white town car then red explorer. Eventually, as he watched the cars pass and none stop an old beat up worn down truck pulled off the road. It was a black rusted out 2002 Chevy Silverado. The inside of the bed that he could see was rusted out clearly showing the rear gearbox and transmission under the bed. He walked over cautiously and slowly to help not spook the man. Hitchhiking was dangerous for both the one picking up the hitchhiker and himself. What had once been a common practice was now a dying art because who knew who was picking you up. A murder rapist thief anyone could be in that driver seat. The same went for the driver, he could be anyone he’s picking up and he’s taking a chance to do that. A chance with his life that not many would take.

At the tail light of the truck, the window rolled down. He kept a good foot distance from the truck as he stopped by the single cab door. The man inside was older probably seventy-five with thick glasses held on his head by silver wire. He had silver hair that was long and pulled back in a ponytail. He was frail and old the skin hanging off his bones. But what had him off guard the most was the man was wearing blue jeans and a black Def Leopard t-shirt. He was an odd one at that but he didn’t have anyone else offering a ride.

The man pushed up his glasses, “what’s your name buddy?” He asked in a low harsh smokers voice.

“Ryan.” He said using his real name. He had no reason to lie, and when his name did get out there with his face it’s not like it would be hard to track him down. He was actually surprised the man hadn’t recognized him yet if at all. Did people still look at wanted posters anymore? He guessed not.

“Where are you heading to?” He asked reaching onto the dashboard of the truck for a smoldering cigarette butt that was stuck in an ashtray. Ryan could smell the smoke drifting out of the car now and it stung his nose.

“As far down I-95 as you’ll take me.” He said shrugging. The man looked out the windshield thinking then back to Ryan. The truth was if the position was switched Ryan wouldn’t have picked up someone looking like himself. He was big six four and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He had a beard starting that every once in a while itched and his plaid button-down shirt was tucked into his blue jeans. His tan work boots worked in well enough that the seems we’re coming undone where the white stitching coming out of the leather. His black hair starting to get longer too and he started to have to push it out of his eyes

The man hit the button on the side door and the locks on the car popped open. With a free hand, he waved Ryan in, “cmon I’m only going a few miles down the road, it’ll at least get you off your feet for a while.” He said

Ryan gave him a smile as he popped the door a smile that rarely showed but in this case he found it necessary. “Thank you.” He said as he got in and close the door.