With a little pressure and a hard jerk of his arm, he removed the knife from Mrs. Carlson’s throat. Of course, he laid that same throat wide open in the process.
Crimson blood sprayed across the table. Dale howled his wife’s name, his face a picture of horror and shock. And Pavel went back to whistling as he watched Dale rock so hard in his chair it tipped over and crashed onto its side.
The old man howled again. But this bellow wasn’t one of horror and grief. It was one of pain. Pavel would guess the fall had broken the old man’s shoulder. Or perhaps his collarbone.
When he released Mrs. Carlson’s forehead, it had her crumpling forward in her chair. Blood poured from the wound on her neck to stain her flowery blouse. And her bound hands fluttered and twitched behind the chair as her bare feet scrabbled uselessly against the tile floor.
Barely three heartbeats later, she fell still. Silent.
The only sounds in the room were the high notes of his whistle and the wet, soggy cries that burbled up from the depths of Dale’s chest as he tried inchworming his way across the floor toward his wife.
Pavel carefully stowed the blade in his back pocket, then pulled out his handgun and silencer. After screwing the attachment to the end of the barrel, he checked to make sure it was secure. And then aimed at the blubbering old man.
“Shhh,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Quiet now. You were doing so well. You want to meet your death with dignity,da?”
Dale stopped crying long enough to lift his head and stare daggers at Pavel. There was rage in the old man’s eyes. But there was also relief. As if he were happy to hear he would not have to remain attached to his mortal coil now that his beloved wife had been cut from hers.
“Very good,” Pavel smiled. “Keep looking at me just like that and it will be a good death. Not a soft one, as the song says. But a good one.”
Curling his finger around the cool trigger, he started whistling again. But just as the muscles in his hands tightened, the roar of a motorcycle engine sounded outside. It was followed by the strobe effect as a headlight briefly beamed in through the kitchen window.
Craning his head, he caught a glimpse of the two riders as they motored past and then quickly disappeared. Their helmets made their identities indiscernible. But he’d bet his last ruble it was Major Jackson and Agent Beacham come to join the party.
Like moths to the flame. How convenient.
Dale screamed for help and Pavel shook his head, disappointed in the old man. Which made it that much easier to the pull the trigger.
Poom!
The silencer deadened the sound of the muzzle blast. But it didn’t deaden the impact of the bullet. Dale’s head snapped back and then rebounded on his neck so that, once again, he stared at Pavel. Only now, his eyes were sightless.
A deep, red hole in the center of Dale’s forehead oozed a single line of blood. So innocuous looking if one was to ignore what the back of his head looked like. Pieces of Dale’s skull and globs of gray matter had splattered across the tiles behind him.
Now, for Major Jackson and Agent Beacham,Pavel thought with anticipation as he headed out of the kitchen to the den and the sliding glass door that led to the backyard.
When his phone buzzed again, he rolled his eyes at Bishop’s relentlessness. With an annoyed press of a button, he turned off the device. He couldn’t have it alerting his prey to his presence.
27
Grace was off the back of the motorcycle the instant Hunter cut the engine. But he beat her to the front door, his long legs eating up the distance.
“Dale! Sissy!” He slammed the side of his big fist into the solid wood and then smashed the doorbell with his thumb. “Open up! It’s Hunter!”
Night had fallen, and the lights were on inside. Two cars were parked in the drive—neither of them sporting government plates, which meant her colleagues had yet to arrive. But only silence met Hunter’s appeal.
Silence, the gentle buzz of night insects in the grass, and the soft hiss of the breeze blowing through the trees.
Dale and Sissy Carlson lived in a little cottage down a long country lane. It was an idyllic setting. More shabby chic country chalet than cabin, all cozy and quaint with the porch light burning and the moon shining down on the tin roof. And yet…something felt off.
The air felt heavy. The quiet felt grim. The stillness felt wrong.
No, not wrong,she thought.Sinister.
She wasn’t big on the paranormal, but she’d been to enough crime scenes to know recent violence and new death had an otherworldly way of hanging in the atmosphere. Of befouling the air so anyone who entered the space could feel the ominous effects of it.
Guilt had swirled in her stomach the entire ride from Hunter’s cabin to the Carlson’s little cottage. Now that guilt mixed with dread.
Had she brought trouble to the doorstep of Hunter’s friends? Would he find something horrible on the other side of that door and blame her for whatever had happened there?
