A familiar hum filled his head and he licked his lips. From the corner of his eye, he noted that the dog wasn’t far off.
“Sturgis, come!” Grayson ordered, then looked directly toward the stump that offered him some cover.
The dog stopped dead in his tracks, nose lifted to the wind.
Stiff as a statue, ears pricked forward, the black Lab stared directly at him. Not obeying Grayson, but not bounding and barking either. Just watching.
Not good.
A shiver ran up his spine and he thought he’d have to take the dog out too. Fair enough.
Grayson stopped. Cocked his head. As if he’d suddenly sensed that he was being stalked.
The killer ignored the dog. Focused again on his mission.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The hum grew to a rumble. Loud. Roaring.
Now!
The humming in his brain increased. Louder and louder.
This time, he moved the rifle’s muzzle a fraction, just enough to get Grayson in his crosshairs once more.
Finally, he got a bead on the man just as the humming became a roar and he realized the sound wasn’t internal. The grinding noise was from an approaching car or, more likely, a truck, its engine whining as it climbed a steep hill.
A visitor?
To Grayson’s remote cabin on Christmas morning?
There was no other cabin nearby.
The engine’s growl increased, seeming to thunder in the killer’s head.
No, no, no! This is not part of the plan. An intrusion could ruin everything.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Through the veil of snow, he spied Grayson, still carrying his armload of kindling. The sheriff took a step toward the house, into the clearing, where he paused, as he, too, apparently had finally heard the approaching vehicle.
Ignore it! Focus!
A hundred yards away, the Jeep swung into view.
Now!
He pulled the trigger.
Blam! His rifle kicked back hard. The shot was off.
Grayson’s body jerked violently, snapping backward, his arms flailing crazily, his head spinning. Kindling went flying in all directions, bouncing and burying in the snow. His hat flew off his head, then skittered away, but the son of a bitch was still standing, facing away. Staggering, starting to drop. Not good enough!
Sighting quickly, he squeezed the trigger once more. His rifle blasted. Grayson jerked again like a marionette; then he fell, half rotating from the blast, blood blooming on his chest and upward through his collar, staining the pristine blanket of snow a deep, beautiful red.
“Die, bastard,” he whispered just as twin beams from headlights flashed in the early-morning
light.