Chapter 50 Mack
Mack
Was it just luck, then, that this unfortunate jogger lived maybe five actual turns away from Mack, tops?
Or was this whole setup more about Mack, and less about wanting to kill this particular guy?
Did it matter? Because somehow here Mack was, heading for the frontier of a housing development that looked pretty much like a bigger version of his own, minus the Great Lake.
Deerfield Woods consisted of one long Deerfield Lane, lined on both sides with maybe twenty fully-grown houses, from what Mack could see.
It was still dark, but he could make out big trees and mature hedges; he saw the shadows of Christmas decorations and the outlines of frosty basketball hoops and tree houses.
He followed the road as it wound around to the right and the yards became scrubbier, newer.
One house still had a dumpster out front; then a few empty lots down there was what looked like a French chateau whose roof hadn’t been finished in time for winter.
There were piles of lumber under tarps out front, freshly covered with snow.
Mack cut his lights and kept going.