Chapter 4

Sunday, June 20, 2:30 p.m.

Christopher Louis Phelps was being extraordinarily cautious.

He had followed her to church that morning -- on foot -- after observing from a discreet distance her departure from the house. Her church was less than two blocks from her home, where, he now was certain, she lived alone. Well away from the church, he waited until, a little over an hour later, she emerged, spoke briefly to a few people, and walked home.

At 2:30, he followed her when she left by car, drove to the center of the historic district, parked and entered a large, very old two-story residence. He waited in his car until a little before 3, when she emerged with an elderly couple, two additional portly, balding men who appeared to be in their late forties, and a tall, thin, middle-aged woman, incongruously dressed in a long-sleeved sweater, buttoned up to her neck. All six of them boarded a minivan parked at the curb and, with one of the bald men driving, headed for the bridge leading out of town and back toward the ocean.

Phelps followed. He kept cautioning himself. He couldn't be certain, but he thought the girl might have seen him yesterday at the beach. He didn't want to spook her. This woman was special. She had real potential.

Phelps well understood; even a woman with this one's star quality wasn't "on" all the time. He needed to handle her with care. He would be certain that she wouldn't see him again -- not until he judged her to be ready.

The van continued down the main highway, southeast toward the sea, for another twelve miles past the bridge. At last it turned off the highway onto a side road. Allowing two hundred yards, Phelps followed. After a sharp curve, the paved side road soon gave way to a broad, well-maintained dirt road, bordered on either side by tall pines. Even at 200 yards, and with a rising cloud of dust from the minivan, it was difficult to remain inconspicuous on the broad, straight, isolated dirt road. He dropped back further.

After another half-mile, the van pulled over and stopped. Phelps, driving at moderate speed, had no choice but to keep going. By the time he was even with the van, the passengers all were outside, heading through the pines a few yards to the right of the roadway. One of the men looked back at Phelps as he passed, but Emma Majeski did not.

When the group had disappeared into the pine forest, Phelps found a side road two hundred yards farther down. He turned left onto it, and parked his car in a way he hoped would leave it out of view. On foot, he recrossed the main dirt road, moved into the thick woods, and walked cautiously in the direction the group had taken.

Before long, he heard voices ahead of him. Phelps stopped and peered through the woods. One of the bald men, binoculars strapped around his neck, was standing, his back to Phelps, staring intently through the binoculars. The sweater-clad woman, her left hand on the girl's shoulder, was pointing at something in the bald man's field of vision.

"They're a bunch of fucking bird watchers!" Phelps thought to himself. "I'm watching bird watchers." Realizing there was nothing to gain from this risky approach to the girl and her group, he returned to his car and quickly left the area.