Her head snapped backward. She spun, skis cutting the air like out-of-kilter chopper blades.
She dropped dead in her tracks.
“Bingo,” he whispered, thrilled that he’d brought her down, one of the most newsworthy women in all of Grizzly County. “And then there were five.”
Just as the first few flakes of snow began to fall, he shoved hard on his own ski poles, driving them deep into the snow, pushing himself forward. In easy, long strides, he took off through the trees, a phantom slicing a private path into the undergrowth deep within the Bitterroot Mountains. He’d lived here most of his life and knew this back hill country as well as his own name. Down a steep hollow, along a creek and over a small footbridge, he skied. The air was crisp, snow falling more steadily, covering his tracks. He startled a rabbit a good two miles from the kill site and it hopped away through icy brambles, disappearing into the wintry woods.
Darkness was thick by the time he reached the wide spot in the road where he’d parked his van. All in all, he’d traveled five miles and was slightly out of breath. But his blood was on fire, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the thought of what he’d accomplished warming him from the inside out.
How long he’d waited to see her fall!
Stepping out of his skis, he carefully placed them inside the back of his van with his rifle, then tore off his white outer clothing. Ski mask, ski jacket, and winter camouflage pants, insulated against the stinging cold, were replaced quickly with thermal underwear, jeans, flannel shirt, padded jacket, and a Stetson—his usual wear.
After locking the back of the van, he slid into the vehicle’s freezing interior and fired up the engine. The old Ford started smoothly, and soon he was driving toward the main road, where, he knew, because of the holidays and impending storm, traffic would be lighter than usual. Only a few hearty souls would be spending Christmas in this remote part of the wilderness where electricity and running water were luxuries. Most of the cabins in this neck of the woods were bare-bones essentials for hunters, some without the basics of electricity or running water, so few people spent the holidays here.
Which was perfect.
At the county road, he turned uphill, heading to his own cabin, snow churning under the van’s tires, spying only one set of headlights before he turned off again and into the lane where the snow was piling in the ruts he’d made earlier. Yes, he should be safe here. He’d ditch this van for his Jeep, but not until he’d celebrated a little.
Half a mile in, he rounded an outcropping of boulders and saw the cabin, a dilapidated A-frame most people in the family had long forgotten. It was dark, of course; he’d left it two hours earlier while there was still daylight. After pulling into a rustic garage, he killed the engine, then let out his breath.
He’d made it.
No one had seen.
No one would know . . . yet. Until the time was right. Carrying all of his equipment into the house, he then closed the garage door, listening as the wind moaned through the trees and echoed in this particular canyon.
In the light from his lantern, he hung his ski clothing on pegs near the door, cleaned his rifle, then again, as the cabin warmed, undressed. Once he was naked, he started his workout, stretching his muscles, silently counting, breaking a sweat to a routine he’d learned years ago in the army. This austerity was in counterbalance to the good life he led, the one far from this tiny cabin. His routine worked; it kept him in shape, and he never let a day go by without the satisfaction of exercising as well as he had the day before.
Only then did he clean himself with water cold enough to make him suck his breath in through his teeth. This, too, was part of the ritual, to remind him not to get too soft, to always excel, always push himself. He demanded perfection for himself and expected it of others.
As his body air-dried, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked to the hand-hewn desk attached to the wall near his bunk. Pictures were strewn across the desktop, all head shots, faces looking directly at the camera . . . his camera, he thought with more than a grain of pleasure.
He found the photograph of the woman he’d just sent to St. Peter, and in the picture she was beautiful. Without a trace of her usual cynicism, or caustic wit, she had been a gorgeous woman.
No more. Tossing his hunting knife in the air and catching it deftly, he smiled as he plunged its sharp tip into the space between his victim’s eyes. So much for beauty, he thought as he sliced the photograph. Staring at its marred surface, he rattled the ice in his drink and swept in a long swallow.
“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
Turning his attention to the remaining five photographs, he felt his insides begin to curdle. God, he hated them all. They would have to pay; each and every one of them. But who would be next?
Sipping from his glass, he pointed at the first with the tip of his knife and moved it to the others. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo . . .” But before he could continue and make his selection, his gaze settled on one face: Stern. Brooding. Contemplative. With a hard jaw and deep-set eyes. In that instant, he knew who his next target would be.
Dan Grayson.
Make that Sheriff Dan Grayson.
“Merry Christmas,” he said to the photograph as the wind picked up and rattled the panes of the old building. With his new target in mind, he took the last swallow from his glass and felt the whiskey warm him from the inside out. Deep in his heart he’d known all along that Grayson would be next.
He hoped the bastard was ready to die.
Grayson snapped off the lights of his office and whistled to his dog, a black Lab who had been with him for years. “Come on, boy.” With a groan Sturgis climbed to his feet and, tail wagging slowly, followed Grayson through the hallways of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department.
The cubicles and desks were gratefully quiet tonight, the staff composed of a few volunteers like him, who had elected not to celebrate with their families so others could be with their loved ones.
“You outta here?” Detective Selena Alvarez asked. She was huddled over her desk, computer monitor glowing, a cup of tea cooling near her in-basket.
“Yeah.” He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after midnight and already a few of those who had either agreed to or who had drawn the short straw were arriving. “What about you?”