White herons glide low over the evening lake to roost.
A cirrus sunset mirrors onto the rippling water in reds,oranges, pinks, fading slowly to  purple as the tree shadows lengthen.
The breeze dies,  leaf rustle ceases, and nightsounds become more distinct.

A bull frog sounds and another answers,alternatively. Adding bass to the treble  shrill of  crickets.  Night birds call, softly, an owl hoots in the tall pine.
Under all, the constant, liquid slap of water against the boats, and the shore. 
All is peace. The summer concert continues unless disturbed.
It is when it turns quiet, then one must be alert.

Hud knows the sounds of the night.  He sits on the porch of a small lodge, in an old wooden kitchen chair, comfortable and broken in, like him.
He has a cooler with bottled coca colas in it, near at hand. And a 870 shotgun, even closer. He sits in the dark. The chair creaks a little.The loudest sound is the pfffft. of a cola being opened, he catches the cap in his big hand, slides it in his windbreaker pocket.

Quiet, some things are best done quiet.
No lights means no bugs. Hud had rubbed repellant on himself before he sat down. 
So far, so good, the mosquitos were leaving him alone.
He heard the faint sound of a radio, strained to recognise the tune.
Checks on the redial of the cell he carries. It will vibrate to alert the ex deputy watching in another shadow. Quiet,
The night on the porch may have been boring to some, but Hud was alert and wide awake. He was ready for a tryst arranged long ago.

Back in '82, a series of killings sent locals and tourists away, some for good.
The killer, or killers came and went, seemingly invisible,for nearly two years.
Leaving the dead.  Five, all women. And no clues of who done it, that the small town sheriff  squad could find. They weren't all stupid, but the resources were not there. They couldn't be everywhere at once either. When Homicide from the city and county took over, hell yeah, come up, solve this, we aint proud.
Liars, all of them. They were embarrassed. Bad.

Eventually, a drifter was stopped in a car, not his, with cash, an expensive camera,and camping gear, not his either.  The owner was found dead in a ditch.  His cabin, open wide, and looted. The drifter was arrested and paraded around the courthouse in the city, down the mountains.  Pictured in the newspapers for weeks, wild haired, wild eyed, handcuffed, led by old Sheriff Cox.  The pictures calmed some people down, and tourism picked up after the trial year. He was sentenced, to death. His name was Troy Beeman.

He was a killer, but he wasn't the one.
                                                            

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