Amazingly, the fuselage of the mangled floatplane remained intact—a perfect shelter for the night. Only one question remained. Was the murdering killer of little girls planning to come back? I decided to stay just in case.

The back of the fuselage was a filthy pig pen. Under a cowling blanket, I discovered a cooler full of stale bread. I found a plastic food container full of empty beer cans—the bottom of which flowed in tobacco juice mixed with spittle. Saliva began to fill my mouth as the nausea welled from the pit of my stomach. I dashed to the open side door and thrust my head over the edge. Standing on a tree limb directly below was a large, bearded man with a high-powered rifle. Startled, he looked up at me, his mouth wide opened in abject surprise. By now, the nausea had worsened, and the contents of my stomach erupted like a waterfall, directly into his gaping pie hole.

Frantically, I grabbed my .44 magnum and blindly discharged three rounds over the edge of the cargo door opening. I didn’t recall the bullets hitting the fuselage, but I do remember one hitting me in the arm. It went limp, and my weapon fell to the ground below.

Alfred Creek