Damian Truth is an FBI agent who, with the help of his deceased brother Andrew, is able to sketch crime scenes prior to the crimes occurring.
The Highwayman is a serial killer who travels the roads of western Pennsylvania in search of his next victim. The Highwayman is whoever he wants to be -- he's anyone and anywhere, frequently creating and discarding identities. Fueled by murder, revenge, and heartlessness, he’s unstoppable.
Will Damian, with his partner and lover Ridge Tyson at his side, be able to catch the monstrous killer before any more innocent male victims are slain?
Damian worked for twelve minutes straight. His right set of fingers turned black from the carbon pencil. His index finger and thumb ached because his strokes were steady and quick. Black blocks created pictures on the white paper in front of him: an unused lighthouse, a rickety pier, a crescent moon, the choppy lake, a sprawling beach, and a small boat. Words began to appear within the detailed pictures: SHEPPNER, PIER 19, LUCINDA 3, 2AM.
When he was finished sketching he placed the pencil down and admired his work. Damian was out of breath and he was sweating. Both hands shook and his heart raced within his chest. His head felt foggy and he wondered if he could stand. Again, he took in the lighthouse, which was small in size, next to Lake Erie, on a sandy beach. And next to the lighthouse was a pier, which he guessed to be number nineteen. His brain surmised that the boat in the sketch was called Lucinda 3. And the moon in the drawing hung overhead, which told Damian that the sketch was foreshadowing an event at two o’clock in the morning; a horrible occurrence that had yet to transpire, but soon would, since it was just after midnight.
“Tonight,” he whispered down at his work, pleading. “It will happen tonight. I can feel it.”
He wasn’t done sketching, though. Fire had consumed him from the inside out. And a rush of energy swept throughout his middle as he leaned forward, snatched up the pencil, ripped off the first sketch, immediately set it off to the side, and started sketching on a new page in front of him.
He created something horrible on the pad, but it seemed very helpful. A body had appeared on the white piece of thick paper. A young male with wide eyes and an opened mouth came to life at his fingertips. The man was shirtless and his neck was sliced open from ear to ear. Bubbles were rising out of his mouth. His long hair waved around his head as if it had a life of its own, as if the victim on the pad were alive, or in the process of dying, fighting for his life.
“He’s under water,” Damian said. “He’s drowning.”
A thick cloud of blood was drawn next to the young man’s neck, flowing out of its jagged wound. He pushed by the victim’s bare shoulder, a seashell, and what looked to be the profile of a tennis shoe. He wrote in bold letters: BLEEDING, BURIAL, DYING.
And then he stopped sketching again because his head started to throb. His temples beat wildly and his lips felt dry. He could barely keep his eyes open because of the sudden wash of pain that swept throughout his skull. Although he had never had a migraine in his life, he was pretty sure that he was suffering from one now. Damian’s stomach ached and he thought he was going to vomit. Sour bile began to rise in the back of his throat. Droplets surfaced inside his mouth and tasted like hot urine, which stung his tongue. After swallowing the shit back inside his system, he turned around and saw the silhouette of Ridge in the bed. “Ridge,” he called out, semi-whispering. “Ridge, you need to look at this. I sketched something worth your time now. This is going to help us. Ridge, you need to get up. Come on, guy. Wake up.”