DEATHSCAPE
by Dana Marton
--He will do anything to put her in jail for her crimes... even if he's falling in love with her.--
Copyright © 2012
Dana Marton
Chapter One
The fox behind the hundred-year-old Pennsylvania farmhouse inched forward in the withered grass as it stalked the meadow vole. Gray winter clouds rolled above, forcing their way across the sky, large brutes that had been twisted into violent shapes by the winds of the troposphere. The fox paid little mind to the weather, its eyes on its prize.
At the other end of the farmyard loomed a dilapidated barn, filled with the scent of moldy hay and rotting wood-the sweet scent of decay. A man crouched in the shadows of the hayloft, looking out through a gap in the boards to watch the fox.
Some hunters stalked their prey; others baited their trap, then lay in wait for the ambush. He preferred the challenge of setting up the right trap, drawing his victim to him. He liked to think his way, since it required more finesse, was the nobler way.
Anyone could follow a guy into a dark alley and shoot him in the back. But a quick death was not what he had in mind for today. Detective Sullivan had dogged him for too long, had caused too much trouble. Outsmarting the guy over the years might have provided some amusement, but not enough to let him live. He'd reached too close this time.
The man glanced at the tool case at his feet. He couldn't allow the detective to jeopardize his legacy. His masterpiece had to be preserved for all the ages, for the generations that would be evolved enough to understand and appreciate it.
Outside, the fox pounced; then, a second later, it allowed the wriggling rodent to escape for a few staggering steps before pouncing again. A quick kill left no time to savor, gave the hunter no chance to improve his skills. Then the fox's ears flicked, and in the next instant, it snatched up the vole and darted into the stand of barren bushes.
Sullivan's black sedan rolled down the dirt road at last.
The detective had come alone. He would. He was that cocky.
A good hunter knew his prey and used its weaknesses.
The man in the hayloft pushed to his feet as the car rolled to a silent stop. Sullivan got out, surveyed the buildings and the surrounding barren fields, his right hand staying close to the weapon in his holster. He started for the house, crossing the yard in careful strides.
He almost walked past the chunk of bone, damn near tripped over it before he froze mid-step. Judging by the way his expression darkened, he realized pretty fast that the broken section of femur was human.
He squatted and bagged the piece of bone as evidence, by the book, called it in just as the first heavy, half-frozen raindrops crashed out of the sky. Instead of going back to wait in the safety of his vehicle for reinforcements, he kept going.
Jack Sullivan waited for no one. He worked with no one. He trusted no one. He asked for no quarter and didn't give any.
Anticipation of the pleasure of taking down a man like that, taking him apart piece by piece, gave flavor to the hunt. The man in the hayloft adjusted the rubber gloves on his hands.
He had at least twenty minutes before Sullivan's backup would show-he'd driven the distance on a half-dozen occasions in various traffic conditions and measured the time.
