The Introductions

Introductions

By Ray Hawkins



“Paper’s here, Missus Becket,” Grace called from the hall.          

“I’d really prefer it if you’d just call me Sally.”

         “Why yes Missus Be— Sally, ma’am.”

         Sally laughed.

         A smile barely creased Grace’s pink cheeks as she stood in the living room doorway, clutching the newspaper. She was short and plump, and wore a simple blue frock, but her eyes were bright. They seemed to dance.

         “Just bring it over to the coffee table,” said Sally. “Thank you, dear.”

         Grace curtsied and left the room.          

Sally took a delectable bite of warm bread with butter. “Do you have anything planned for today, Grace?” she called.

         “Well, I do for this evenin’, ma’am,” the exuberant voice replied over the sound of the sweeping broom. “I’m going out with a man who I’ve been seein’ for a couple weeks now.”

         “Oh, that’s wonderful, dear,” Sally exclaimed. “It should be very pleasant this evening. It’s certainly a beautiful day.”

         Outside, sunlight bathed lush grass and wildflowers in a golden glow. The sky was as clear as glass, and the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies towered in the distance.

         Sally fiddled with the string that bound the rolled newspaper, enjoying the warm breeze as it blew through the open window. “So what’s the young gentleman’s— oh my God.”

         Murder. The headline sprawled across the page in bold capitals.

         “What’s wrong, Missus Becket?” Grace rushed into the room.

         Sally stared at the small photograph provided in the article. The woman looked familiar. She had a kindly face, framed in jet black hair, and could not have been over thirty.

         “Someone… someone’s been killed,” Sally muttered. “A young woman.”

         “Killed?” Grace walked to the side of Sally’s chair, gasping when she saw the article.          Sally read aloud:



Laura Crawford of Corner Road was found dead in her house yesterday, April 17, killed with a gunshot to the head. Sheriff Turner found no weapon near the body, ruling out a suicide. As the killer is still on the loose, the sheriff has advised everyone to be cautious and to lock their doors at night. Please come to him immediately with any evidence in relation to the murder.

         Mister Crawford is currently working on a coal train in the East, and will be home in the summer. We express deepest regards for his loss, and…



         Sally placed the paper face down on the coffee table as Grace burst into tears.

         “She was my neighbor!” Grace wailed. “I never got to know her very well.”

         Sally rose from her chair and wrapped the girl in a hug.

         “She brought us bread and jam once,” said Grace amidst muffled sobs into Sally’s shoulder. “I wanted to get to know her better, I really did. But Dad said I shouldn’t try and meet her. Said we should just work to get by, and not trust anybody, even if they’re nice to us.”

         Sally patted Grace’s frizzy blond head. The distant gray and purple pinnacles formed a solemn procession. She thought of Laura’s husband who would return to an empty home in Montana, and suppressed the burning in her throat. Thoughts like these brought back memories.

         “I’d better go soon,” said Grace, taking a step back. Her eyes were red but she had stopped crying. “My dad’ll be wondering what’s kept me.”

         “Why does he worry about you so much?”

         “He just likes to know where I am,” Grace snapped. “He’s had to look out for me by himself ever since my mom died.”

         “I’ll… just get your money then.” Sally turned to hide her puzzled expression. Why did Grace exhibit grief one minute and haughtiness the next? This wasn’t the first time her mood had swung so drastically.

         Sally walked to the kitchen and scooped up Grace’s payment from the countertop. As she turned back, her eyes fell upon the only nearby house, perhaps a quarter mile away, visible through a window above the sink.

“Have you seen Dr. Holland lately?” asked Sally as she returned to the living room.

Grace shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I hear he’s been awfully sick. Barely leaves his house. He won’t even see anyone ‘less  it’s a real emergency.”

Sally recalled bitterly that he had served for the Confederates in the war… but he had been a medic, not a soldier. “Well I hope he gets better soon. I don’t know where this town would be without a doctor. Here’s your money.”

“Thank you, Missus Becket.”

“That’s Sally.”

“Oh… right. See you in a couple days, Sally.” Grace disappeared into the hall, taking small and quick steps.

Sally smiled. “Goodbye, Grace.”

The door swung shut. Sally reached for the newspaper and recoiled, not wanting to see Laura Crawford’s picture again.

Baking was a good way to take your mind off things, and Sally resigned herself to that for the rest of the afternoon. She baked three loaves of bread and a blueberry pie. Her cat, Robert, kept her company, getting in the way as always.

“I miss him, Robert. For twenty-seven years I’ve missed him every day.”

“Meow?”

“My husband. He was Robert, too, you know. You’re his namesake.”

“Meow.”

“Yes. It is an honor.”

That night, Sally said a prayer for the late Laura’s husband. She rarely prayed, but she knew he needed it. He would have to endure what she once had. A storm kept her awake late into the night: roaring thunder, hammering rain, screaming wind. It was hours before fatigue took over, and she found sleep at last.



*****



Something was scratching: tiny claws tearing at wood.  Sally pulled her covers more tightly around herself and rolled over, burying her good ear in the pillow.

Silence. Blissful sleep.

“Meow!”

Sally’s eyes snapped open. Piercing yellow orbs framed in tufts of gray glared at her.

“Meow!”

“Oh stop your complaining, Robert!” Sally forced herself out of bed, sending the cat flying to the floor.

It seemed early, due to the partial light let in through the window. Sally yawned and followed Robert down the stairs. “Oh yes, I s’pose you need to go out, don’t you? Couldn’t let me sleep a little longer?”

The cat responded by darting to the door and scratching fiercely at the wood.

“Yes, yes, I’ll let you out. No need to tear down the—“ Sally paused as her eyes fell upon the grandfather clock that towered against the wall. It read ten thirty.

Was it really that late? Sally usually got up around seven. Then she remembered the ferocious thunderstorm that had kept her eyes peeled open the night before.

Robert bounded out the door as soon as Sally began to open it. The overcast sky was gloomy and gray, a thick blanket that had been thrown over the earth, blocking out the sun’s light. The dampness in the air made the cold more potent. Sally shivered and closed the door.

Over a slice of bread and butter, Sally watched Robert through the kitchen window. He slunk up the steady slope, his body taught with readiness. An unfortunate field mouse was surely about to become his meal.

Suddenly, Robert’s head turned, and his wide eyes met Sally’s. He stared back through the window for a few moments, and bolted.

“Robert…” Confused, Sally stood up and pressed her face to the glass.

The cat was pelting up the hill toward the doctor’s house, not like he was chasing something, but as though he was running away.

What has gotten into him? Sally grabbed her coat and made for the door, but doubled back to the kitchen. If she brought a pie for Dr. Holland, it would give her another reason to be poking around his house. God knows, the man needs a visit anyway.

Robert had disappeared completely, but Sally was fairly certain she knew where he had gone. Why he had gone there was another matter.

The caked mud of the road crumbled beneath Sally’s boots as she walked. She kept her gaze fixed upon the house ahead. Its peeling paint was grayer than the sky, its curtained windows lifeless.

“Robert!” Sally called. “Robert, where are you?”

The sallow walls of Dr. Holland’s house offered up no answer. Sally was off the road, and heading up the narrow path through the tufts of uncut grass. She shivered. There was not the sound of an insect or a bird. Everything was silent and still.

“Robert!” Sally called, softer than before. She felt like an intruder. This house had seemed so innocent from far away, but up close it was menacing. As she approached the door, she had a potent urge to turn around. What if the doctor didn’t want to be disturbed?

         Sally shifted the pie to one arm and stepped up to the front porch. The ancient wood creaked with protest under her feet. She lifted her hand to knock—

         But the door was ajar. Only four inches or so. Strange. Maybe it had blown open in the storm.

         “Meow!”

Sally’s heart jumped. Wide yellow eyes peered up through the crack in the door.“Oh, Robert, there you are! You gave me start. What’s gotten into you?” She sighed and rapped on the door. The dull thud echoed in the silence.

“Meow.”

Sally waited, but nothing moved within the house. 

“Hello? Doctor?” She knocked again. The only response was a flick of Robert’s bushy tail.

         He’s not here, Sally thought, but why would he leave his door open? This was all rather strange. She would just leave the pie inside and bring Robert home.

         The door groaned as Sally nudged it open and stepped inside.  She could barely see, the hallway was so dark. The exception was a shaft of light that shone through a doorway on the right side of the hall, illuminating… something that lay on the floor. Sally squinted. It looked like a frying pan.

         “Meow.” Robert began walking towards it, his tiny claws barely making a sound on the hardwood floor.

         “Robert!” Sally hissed.  “Robert, get back here!”

         Her legs felt shaky as she followed the cat down the hall.  He stopped and sniffed the pan. 

         “Robert, what is wrong with you?” said Sally, her hushed voice pleading.  She would grab her cat and carry him back home if she had to. 

         “Meow!”

         Something glistened on the frying pan… something red.  The pie fell from Sally’s arms with a crash.  It was blood.

         Sally lunged forward and made a grab for Robert, but he darted out of the way.  She looked through the doorway and screamed.



*****

         “Missus Becket, are you tellin’ me this man was murdered… with a frying pan?”

         “That’s… what it looked like, Sheriff.  But I didn’t stick around to look very closely.”

         “No… no a’course not.”  Sheriff Turner leaned back in his chair, a look of fear and disgust on his badly shaven face.  “Why would anyone kill the doctor?” he muttered, shaking his head.

         Sally took a deep breath.  “Maybe the killer stole something.  Doctor Holland was wealthy.”          

         “That’s possible,” the Sheriff agreed.  “Could have just been lookin’ to steal something and the doctor got in his way, made him panic.  I’ll check out the house, but….”

         “What is it?” Sally prodded.

         “I don’t know,” said Turner, his face pained.  “It’s just....”  He leaned forward, his chair creaking under his bulky frame.  When he spoke, his gruff voice was almost a whisper.  “This is the second murder in three days.  Now I don’t know if there’s a connection, but Missus Crawford… there was no motivation to kill her that I could see.  No sign of a fight, nothin’.  Bastard just walked into her house and shot ‘er.  It’s… it’s like there’s some kinda’ sick person out there who’s just killin’ for fun.”

         Sally winced as the picture of Dr. Holland’s body flashed through her mind.  His battered head, the blood….

         “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare ya.”  The Sheriff forced a chuckle as he stood up.  “It was probably just a burglar.”

         Sally nodded, standing as well.  “Probably.”

         “I’ll go check out the house right now,” said Turner, taking a revolver out of his desk drawer and shoving it into his holster.  “I can walk you back to your house.”

         “No thanks, I was planning to go to the store. But good luck.”

         The Sheriff donned his hat and made for the door, stopping to look at Sally.  “You own a gun, right Missus Becket?”

         Sally remembered the shotgun she kept over the mantelpiece.  She had used it back in her farming days, but that had been years ago. “Yes,” she replied.

         Sheriff Turner’s mustache bristled as his mouth tightened, and he made a few rapid nods.  “Good.”

         The street was all but empty as Sally made her way toward the general store. The only signs of life in the few shops and houses that made up the center of town were the wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys. Sally clutched at her coat and looked over her shoulder. The Sheriff was just visible still, riding his horse up the hill into the trees. God, I hope he finds the killer.

         Sally turned back and her heart jumped.  A man was coming down the street toward her, staggering. He wore torn and dirty clothes, and a brimmed hat obscured his eyes.  Where had he come from?  Sally stood rigid.  Should she run?  Call for help?  He was getting closer: only twenty feet away.

         “Well Missus Becket, good day to you.”  His speech was lazy and slurred.

         Sally sighed.  She recognized him now.  Of the few times she had met Grace’s father in the past, he had always been drunk.  He must have come out of the saloon when her head was turned.  “Good day to you, Mr. McDowell.”

         “Oh no.  No, please.”  His bearded face turned up with a false grin.  “Call me John.”

         Sally nodded, her nose crinkling as he got close.  “You can call me Sally.”

         “Not… a… chance, Missus Becket,” McDowell drawled emphatically.  “I can refer to an esteemed lady such as yourself only as Missus Becket.”

         “Thank you.  Well I must get to the store, so—“

         “Now tell me,” McDowell interrupted.  “How’s my girl Grace been?  She behavin’ herself?”  He belched loudly.

         “She’s been excellent,” Sally replied, a little coldly.  “A great help around the house.”

         “I should think so!” the drunkard boomed triumphantly, looking around as if there was an audience listening.  “With the amount o’ money she comes home with twice a week, she must be quite the lil’ worker.”

         “I think I pay her fairly,” said Sally.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to the store.”

         “A’course.”  McDowell stooped into a mock bow, almost falling over as he did.  “I wouldn’t want to take up… Missus Becket’s time.”

         Sally brushed past the wretched man and continued briskly down the street.  She resented the types like John McDowell, who had never worked a day in his life yet criticized the more fortunate.  She wondered where he even got money for his beer, and realized with rage that he probably took it from Grace. 

         Sally had always relished in hard work.  She fiercely missed her days with Robert on the farm in Ohio, when they had worked side by side every day, harvesting and selling crops.  As her aunt Jennifer had said, it wasn’t the sort of life Sally was born into.  But she had chosen it, and she had loved every moment of it.  Why did it have to be so short-lived?

         Sally shook away her thoughts and held her head up.  This was no time to get sentimental.  What did she need?  Meat.  The butcher was closed; she would just have to manage without it.  Luckily, the general store was open.  Ammunition for her gun was something she did not want to spend another night without.



*****

“Robert, get over here,” Sally whispered, sitting up in bed.  She couldn’t sleep.  The night before, thunder had kept her awake.  Now it was the silence, the deafening silence.

         Robert slunk around the foot of the bed and leapt up into Sally’s lap.  She ran her fingers through his smooth fur, taking comfort from his purring.  “Well I’m glad at least one of us can sleep,” she said as the cat closed his eyes.

         The sky outside had finally cleared, giving way to pale moonlight.  Sally glanced again at the ghostly house at the top of the hill, but quickly turned away.  She wished it were not visible from her bedroom window.  You’re safe, Sally told herself, looking at the bolted door in front of her, and then the gun that leaned against the wall next to her bed.  If he tries to come in, you’ll hear him.  You’ll be ready.

But logic was no consolation.  It didn’t matter that there were few valuables in her house, that there was no reason for anyone to kill a sixty-five-year-old woman.  Logic was useless against fear.  As Sally shivered in her bed, the silence seemed to laugh at her. 

What time was it now?  Probably midnight at least.  Fatigue drummed at Sally’s consciousness, but she did not want to lie down.  Images of the doctor’s body raced through her mind.  She battled the urge to look out the window again, wishing she could forget all about it, wishing she could just go to sleep.

She stole another look at the house on top of the hill and almost screamed.  There was a light.  It shone dimly but unmistakably from one of the ground floor windows.

Sally sat, frozen.  Sheriff Turner would not be inspecting the murder scene in the middle of the night.  It had to be the killer.  He had returned to steal valuables, to get what he hadn’t been able to carry the first time.  Sally let out a few unsteady breaths.  She would wait and watch.  The thief would leave once he had ransacked the place.  She would be safest where she was.

         Robert stirred within her rigid fingertips.  No, she did not want to wait.  She should run to town and wake up the sheriff.  What was to stop the man from coming to her house when he was finished at the doctor’s?

         Sally placed the sleeping cat on the bed beside her and got up.  She dressed quickly, keeping her eyes fixed on the distant light.  She donned her coat and picked up her gun.  It was heavy; it would only slow her down.  But she could not leave it.  The cool metal in her hands meant safety. 

         After a last glance out the window, Sally unlocked her bedroom door and tiptoed downstairs.  The incessant tick of the grandfather clock cut through the silence.  It read twelve fifteen.  Sally unbolted her front door and nudged it open, walking out and closing it quickly behind her.  She stopped when she reached the road.  The light was still on.

         Go, Sally told herself.  Get the Sheriff.  Go!  She could see her short breaths in the moonlight.  She wanted to run.  That would be the safe thing to do.  She wanted to get as far away from the doctor’s house as possible.  But she knew that by the time Turner got back, the killer would likely be gone.  Sally remembered Dr. Holland’s mutilated body, and then Laura Crawford’s picture in the newspaper.  She had been young.  She had been married.

         Sally’s legs shook as she set off up the hill towards the light, but she gripped her gun in determination.  She was going to find out who this murderer was.  He would not be ready for her.  She would catch him by surprise.

         Sally reached the path leading up to the house and stopped, her heart pounding.  The window to the lighted room was only about fifty yards away.  She could see a few chairs, a coffee table.  But no sign of him. 

What if the sheriff just left this light burning by mistake? Sally wondered, wiping cold sweat from her brow.  Maybe you’re just getting all worked up for nothing.

The light went out. 

Sally froze. Her mind raced but she could not think. Had she been seen? Was he coming out?  She remembered to breathe, and gasped in a mouthful of icy air. Then she remembered the gun, and forced her rigid arms to lift it to her shoulder. She stared down the barrel at the front door.

Minutes passed. Sally clamped her jaw tight to silence her chattering teeth.  Her instincts told her to run, but she was afraid her legs would not move. A cloud passed over the moon, and everything was reduced to almost total darkness.

The door creaked open, slowly. Sally held her breath again. Someone stepped out of the house and closed the door. The form was barely visible as it walked down the steps towards her, the footsteps only a whisper in the grass. Sally’s finger tightened on the trigger. Her lungs were bursting. He was close.

The cloud passed away, and the form froze in the moonlight.  He had seen her.  A man, his back hunched under a bulging sack.  Neither of them moved.  Sally could feel his eyes, invisible under the brim of his hat, boring into her.  Long seconds passed.  Then he turned, dropped the bag, and ran.

“Stop!” Sally tried to yell, but her tight throat barely let out any sound.  He was running down the hill towards town, fast.  She would lose him, the murderer.

Sally took aim and fired.  Pain exploded in her shoulder as the stock kicked back.  The man yelled and stumbled. 

“Stop there!” 

He kept running at a limp.  Sally reached into her pocket for more shells, but by the time her trembling hands could reload, he was well out of range.  She could just see him pass her house and disappear into the trees.



*****



“What was in the bag?”

“Silverware, candlesticks, a watch… it’s probably still on the ground up by the house if you want to take a look.”

Sheriff Turner nodded, and his jaw flexed up and down as if he were chewing on something.  “Well, it seems like he’s just a thief after all, though he doesn’t mind killing to get what he wants.  Must have already taken some loot the first night, and came back last night for a second load.”

“But that doesn’t explain Missus Crawford.”

         There was a long pause.  Finally Turner looked up, his brow furrowed.  “Look, that was brave what you gone and done last night.  ‘Cause ‘o you, we might catch this bastard.”

         Sally nodded, unconvinced. She had not injured the criminal too badly, and all the Sheriff had to go on was a generic description of his height and build and the chance that he might have a slight limp.  The murderer, on the other hand… “He’s seen me. He’ll know exactly what I look like.”

         Turner leaned forward and put a thick hand on Sally’s shoulder.  “Look here, Missus Becket. That… man, he’s not goin’ to touch you. Me and my boys are goin’ to find him, if it means orderin’ every man in town to drop his trousers and show us if he’s got buckshot in his ass.”

         Sally managed a chuckle.

         “Now I’ll be lookin’ for this man all day, but this evenin’ I’ll come by your house and see how you’re doin’. A couple o’ my boys can stay in your livin’ room tonight, unless you want to stay here in town. And that’s only presumin’ we don’t catch the son-of-a-bitch today.”

         Sally nodded.  “Thank you.”



*****

         “Apple pie, Missus Becket? Smells delicious.”

         “You’re welcome to a piece when it’s done in the oven. And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Sally?”

She said it laughingly, but as she walked out of the kitchen to see Grace dusting the mantelpiece, the girl whipped around, her eyes on fire.

“Well sorry, Sally! My dad always taught me to treat adults with respect!”

Silence.  Sally did not understand where the girl’s flare of anger had come from. “There’s… nothing disrespectful about calling me a more familiar name if I…”

         “Well I don’t think we should get too familiar!” Grace screamed, stepping forward.  “I just work for you! You’re not like me! Not everyone is born with enough money not to work any—“

         “What do you know about....” Sally was yelling but she stopped herself. “You got this from your father didn’t you?”

         For the first time Grace lowered those fiery eyes.

         “Look, Grace, I don’t think your father is one to judge. You work harder than he does.”

         She was starting to cry.

         “You work very hard, Grace.” Sally walked to the girl and took her hand. “You should be proud.”

         Tears were rolling down Grace’s freckled cheeks. “H-he tries. He’s always wanted to take care of me. But now I need to take care of him.”

         Sally noticed a bluish bruise on the girl’s arm and wanted to yell in rage.

         Grace sniffled. “And now that he’s hurt--”

         Sally dropped her arm, taking a step back. Grace’s eyes widened and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

         “What do you mean he’s hurt, Grace?”

         The girl shook her head, the tears flowing.

         “Grace, you must tell me. How is your father hurt?”

         “You can’t tell anyone!” she whispered, rushing forward and grabbing Sally’s hands. “Please. He said I couldn’t tell anyone!”

         Sally did not like lying, but she had to know. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

         “Okay.” Grace gulped. “He was hit with a shotgun. I don’t know who it was or what he was doing. He came home late last night and needed help…”

         Sally pulled Grace into a hug, her eyes closed. “How badly hurt is he?”

         “I think he’ll be okay. I had to pull the pellets out of his thigh. There was a lot of bleeding.”

         Sally fought back her own tears. Why Grace’s father? Why?

         “I think you’ve done enough today, Grace. I’ll go get your money and you can…” Sally paused on her way to the kitchen. “Why don’t you go out tonight, Grace? What’s that boy’s name? You deserve to take your mind off things, have a little fun.”

         “We were planning on it, actually.  He’ll be coming at eight o’clock.”

         Eight o’clock. Sally retrieved Grace’s money, and emptied her bag of all the extra cash she had on her.

         “But… this is too much,” said Grace as Sally returned and gave her the money.

         “Just take it. It’s a gift, in thanks for all your hard work so far. Just… don’t show your father. Let’s keep it our little secret, okay?”

         “Thank you… Sally.”

“You’re welcome.” She walked with Grace to the door. “Have fun tonight, whatever you and your friend decide to do.”

Grace smiled. “I will.”



*****



The sun had disappeared behind the Rockies, and a pale orange met the darkening blue of the sky. Sally opened the action of her shotgun. It was loaded, just as it had been the other three times she had checked. She snapped it closed and stroked the soft fur of her cat as he circled the leg of her chair. The grandfather clock read five minutes to eight.

         “Almost time, Robert.”

         The waiting had been torture. Like the months on the farm in Ohio, when she waited desperately for her husband’s return. He would write her whenever he could, but one day the letters stopped coming. And then a letter from the government, saying that Robert had died, heroically fighting to preserve the Union. She had wanted to kill herself that day.

         She had waited because she had to. And these few hours of agony were the same. If she had gone right to Sheriff Turner with what she had found out, he would have insisted on taking McDowell right away. Grace would have been there when her father was arrested, and Sally could not let that happen. Perhaps she was stupid; perhaps it would make no difference. But she had felt she owed Grace at least a few hours more.

         In the distance, the church bells struck eight. Grace’s gentleman friend would be at her house now. It would take Sally ten minutes to get to the Sheriff’s office, another five or ten for him to get his men together and ride to McDowell’s. Maybe she would meet Turner on the way; he had said he would come by. She would give it a few more minutes. Grace’s friend might be late, and Sally had to be sure the girl was out of the house when it happened.

         Four minutes past, and Sally could wait no longer. “I’ll be back soon, Robert.” She stood up and walked out through the door, locking it behind her and returning the key to its place under the doormat.

         Her pace quickened as she reached the road and turned left towards town. This is it, she thought. We’re going to catch the murderer, make him pay for Laura Crawford and Doctor Holland.

         The woods ahead were becoming darker as the sun set. Leaves rustled; Sally froze. It was nothing, just an animal. She gripped the gun and continued walking. There was no moon, and she could scarcely see under the thick canopy of branches. Not long, and she would be out of the trees.

         John McDowell. Despite Sally’s dislike for the man, she had been surprised. A drunk and a thief, sure. But a murderer? She did not want to think about what would happen to Grace. Her father obviously didn’t treat her well, but he was all she had. Except for this friend. Maybe they would get married. Grace was getting older, more mature; maybe she would be alright.

         Sally was almost out of the woods, thank God. In the darkness, the trees twisted into the shapes of her nightmares. The smiling face of Laura Crawford began to cry, the bleeding doctor begged for mercy. Stop it. Sally closed her eyes and shook her head, but her demons were still there. She would run to Sheriff Turner’s, as fast as she could.

She opened her eyes and screamed. He stood against a tree—that hat—it was him. Sally raised her gun and fired, blowing a whole in his chest. He stood in silence.

No, this isn’t happening. Sally dropped her gun and forced her eyes shut. You’re going crazy. You’re seeing things. She counted to ten and opened her eyes. No!

There he stood against the tree, discernable even in the darkness. A stream of blood trickled into the road.

Sally forced herself to walk to him. She reached forward, and trembling, pulled off the hat. John McDowell’s face was frozen in a look of horror, his eyes bulging out of his sockets and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. A rope was lashed around his neck, tying him to the tree. He had been dead before Sally had arrived.

Sally staggered back, shaking her head. This didn’t make sense. Who had killed the killer? Was it vengeance? The Sheriff? No. Who could she trust?

She picked up her gun and began running back up the road. Whoever it was, he could still be about. No sane man could have done this. Sally stumbled and got back up. The trees seemed to be closing in on her. Run!

She burst out of the woods, and cut across the grass to her house. Security, a place to think. She would lock herself in and wait for the Sheriff; he had promised to come by. She ran up the steps and pushed through the door, slamming it behind her.

Gasping in mouthfuls of air, Sally slid to the floor, her back against the door. Her legs felt weak, and her right knee throbbed with pain. She no longer felt she had the strength to stand.

The house was pitch black. “Robert?” Only the ticking of the grandfather clock. Sally counted sixty seconds. Something was wrong; what was it? She turned to lock the door, and realized it with a gasp, her heart pounding. She had locked the door when she had left. Someone had unlocked it.

Sally reached into her pocket for more shells and she opened the action of the shotgun with a reverberating click. How could anyone have come in? She was the only one who knew where the key was kept… except—“

Sally screamed and dropped the shells as a match was lit farther down the hall. An oil lamp sprang to life. “I hope you don’t mind, Sally. I let myself in.”

“Grace?”

The girl’s frizzy blond hair was disheveled, her dress smeared with blood. She held the lamp in one hand and a long bread knife in the other.

“Y-y-you? All of them?” Sally’s trembling hand moved to pick up the shells.

Grace smiled, her eyes dancing. “Robert has already met my friend. Would you like to meet him?”