October 21st, 1976
Hollow Creek, Pennsylvania
8:47 A.M.
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The Hollow Creek Sheriff's Department hummed with activity even prior to Sheriff Benham leaning forward over his cluttered desk, the acrid scent of stale coffee clasped between them like long-time acquaint Maps scattered the area below his elbows, some circled in red ink, others scrawled with question marks.
An open file labeled THOMAS BELL – SERVICE RECORD sat on the desk in front of him. Black-and-white photographs showed a man in uniform, clean-cut, and unreadable. Benham's hands played over the photographs, tracing invisible lines from locations and faces in his mind.
The office door creaked metally as it opened to admit the angular figure of Lieutenant Andrew Cross.
Cross entered, tidy in his Pennsylvania State Trooper uniform. He stood taller than Benham remembered, broad-shouldered and calm, with cold gray eyes and a grave gravity that made the room feel colder. He had a leather folder clutched in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other, setting both down with measured care.
"Sheriff," Cross said, nodding once. "Let's begin this nutshell case."
Benham rubbed his face, worn out from the night before's lack of rest. He indicated the cluttered desk and overlapping maps. "We've got two strong scenes and not a single distinct trail. Just when we near, he's fucking vanishes into thin air. You tell me where to start."
Cross unfolded his folder with slow, deliberate motions. "We start by altering strategy. Thomas Bell isn't leaving us anything to chase. He's been trained, and most definitely gained experience throughout Vietnam. He's waiting for our moves before we even think about making them. Something probably also learned throughout his tours in Vietnam"
Benham frowned, "You're telling me that sicko fuck head motherfucker is out here stalking us?"
LieutenantCross replied back to SheriffBenham saying. "I'm saying we're dealing with someone who understands rural escape tactics, better than most of our team combined, and hell probably the guy isn't just using some rural escape tactics but instead using Guerilla Warfare." Cross further added to his statement. "Though as of right now, Bell's using classic evasion—staying off roads, keeping to high ground, avoiding water sources except when necessary. He's not running. He's hiding and watching."
Benham grunted. "You think that sicko is toying with us? Cause hell he probably just is, I mean what if the motherfucker is a psychopath or sociopath?"
Cross shook his head. "No. I think he's hunting. And so far, we're getting close to his line of sight every time."
Benham shook his head, raking his hand over the back of his neck. "I'm not going to turn this town into Vietnam. The people still here are already on edge, and already had to handle seeing their kids and neighbors being sent off over there. The last thing I need is armored trucks rolling down Main Street."
"Then we move in without taking notice," Cross continued. "Strategic intersection checkpoints. Reassignment of overlapping zone patrols. Bell knows the ground, but so do we—if we coordinate this right.."
Benham paused, then reluctantly nodded.
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Sheriff's Conference Room
12:03 P.M.
A huge map of Hollow Creek and the surrounding woods filled the back wall, now scribbled up with strips of colored tape and pins. Deputies, troopers, and two state investigators moved around the room, their eyes following Cross as he walked over and gestured to the map with a pointer.
"These are the key locations," Cross began, his voice calm but firm. "Victim sites. Patrol sightings. Civilian reports. You'll notice the pattern—he's circling. Staying mobile, but not aimless. That tells us two things. One, he knows the terrain. Two, he's confident and hasn't been worried about how many murders he's done already."
Benham stood off to the side, arms folded, jaw tight. "Confident or reckless?"
"Disciplined," Cross snapped promptly. "Each step he's taken careful control of what he does. Bell isn't falling off the wagon. He's testing our response time. Watching how we deploy."
Deputy Marsh raised a hand, voice upset. "Sir, we got word from one of our rangers close to Green Hollow Trail. Fresh boot prints—size eleven. Mud was fresh when stepped on. No body present, but something frightened a herd of deer nearby."
Cross nodded. "That's our lead. Deploy three-man squads only. Nobody goes solo. They each have an operating radio, sidearm, and first-aid kit. Formation stays tight, and do not pursue if he makes a run for it. Monitor him."
Benham interrupted. "Have them check in on every ten-minute mark, no exceptions. The moment we do lose contact, we call them back. I won't jeopardize good people on an assumption."
"Got it," Cross replied. He faced the group again. "And keep the voice down. Bell doesn't have comms, but if he's eavesdropping with old field gear, he'll recognize our voice, our cadence. Make this a battlefield."
The room went quiet.
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Sheriff Benham's Office
3:11 P.M.
The operations board had been wiped and remade with a new focal point. In bold black marker, a name now took over the top:
THOMAS BELL
ALIAS: THE SILENT SOLDIER
Beneath it, pinned photographs, police reports, forensic documents, and torn notes covered every inch available. Red-written victim names. Blue-penned trajectories. And, in the middle of the bottom, Bell's army mugshot—flat, motionless, and utterly unreadable.
Benham paced alone, arms crossed, gazing at the wall as if waiting for the fragments to re-piece themselves. The man on the photograph glared back with uninterested tranquility.
He growled, not for the first time, "Where in the devil are you hiding, Bell? What's your angle?"
Behind him, the police radio crackled again.
Static first. Then a whirlwind of scrambled transmission:
"... Unit Four.... Negative visual... Signs of recent passage... Possible trail near the ridge."
Then nothing. A low thrum of dead air.
Benham turned slowly, gaze on the receiver.
From the edge of town to the uncharted forest off the map, there was a feeling spreading—one that the board could not follow.
And out there, in the shadow of trees older than the town itself, came The Silent Soldier with a step as silent as breath on glass.
Unseen. Unheard.
And coming.