A rush of tepid air blew Joshua 's Stetson from his head as he exited his cruiser, causing a chill to run down his spine. After retrieving his hat, he stood atop the dam and gazed across the expanse of the lake. The only indication the Plymouth was ever in the lake were the scars on the marred hillside where it was dragged from its resting place of the last 30 some odd years.
“Are you sure you 're ready for this, Hoss,” asked Joshua 's oldest, dearest friend, James “Hook” Fortner.
“No, Hook, I ain 't,” Joshua replied, “but, there 's no avoiding it now.”
“No it ain 't, Hoss. You 've been working toward this for the last few months- ever since you discovered those Dixon boys granddaddy was killing women back when your mama disappeared, you 've suspected she was murdered.”
“But it doesn 't make sense, Hook,” exclaimed Joshua. “If Dixon killed her, why do I have a memory of being here on the dam when I was a little boy? In the vision, it was dark, I was scared... Something, probably that car, was sliding down into the water- I saw the red glow of the taillights- I remember thinking they were red frog eyes, I don’t know why I thought they were frog eyes, but I did, and then I heard my mother yell for me to run.
If Dixon killed her, then how did she wind up at the bottom of the lake in a 1936 Plymouth? If he had of been the one that killed her, she 'd most likely be buried in a shallow grave somewhere, the way his other victims were!”
“You don 't need to yell, Hoss; I 'm right