PROLOGUE

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The two stalwart highway patrolmen guarding the barricade stared at her without registering any emotion, but because of the media blitz of the past few days, she knew they recognized her and that, in spite of their implacable demeanor, they were curious to know why Judge Holly Spencer was angling to get closer to the scene of a bloodbath.

" . . . bullet hole to the chest . . ."

" . . . ligature marks on his wrists and ankles . . ."

" . . . half in, half out of the water . . ."

" . . . carnage . . ."

Those were the phrases that Sergeant Lester had used to describe the scene beyond the barricade, although he'd told her he was sparing her the "gruesome details." He'd also ordered her to clear out, go home, that she shouldn't be here, that there was nothing she could do. Then he'd ducked beneath the barricade, got into his sedan, and backed it into a three-point turn that pointed him to the crime scene.

If she didn't leave voluntarily, the pair of patrolmen would escort her away, and that would create even more of a scene. She started walking back to her car.

In the few minutes that she'd been away from it, more law enforcement and emergency personnel had converged on the area. There was a lengthening line of cars, pickups, and mini- vans forming along both shoulders of the narrow road on either side of the turnoff. This junction was deep in the backwoods and appeared on few maps. It was nearly impossible to find unless one knew to look for the taxidermy sign with an armadillo on it.

Tonight it had become a hot spot.

The vibe of the collected crowd was almost festive. The flashing lights of the official vehicles reminded Holly of a carnival midway. An ever-growing number of onlookers, drawn to the emergency like sharks to blood, stood in groups swapping rumors about the body count, speculating on who had died and how.

Overhearing one group placing odds on who had survived, she wanted to scream, This isn't entertainment.

By the time she reached her car, she was out of breath, her mouth dry with anxiety. She got in and clutched the steering wheel, pressing her forehead against it so hard, it hurt.

"Drive, judge."

Nearly jumping out of her skin, she whipped her head around, gasping his name when she saw the amount of blood soaking his clothes.

The massive red stain was fresh enough to show up shiny in the kaleidoscope of flashing red, white, and blue lights around them. His eyes glinted at her from shadowed sockets. His fore- head was beaded with sweat, strands of hair plastered to it.

He remained perfectly still, sprawled in the corner of the backseat, left leg stretched out along it, the toe of his blood-spattered cowboy boot pointing toward the ceiling of the car. His right leg was bent at the knee. His right hand was resting on it, holding a wicked-looking pistol.

He said, "It's not my blood."

"I heard."

Looking down over his long torso, he gave a gravelly, bitter laugh. "He was dead before he hit the ground, but I wanted to make sure. Dumb move. Ruined this shirt, and it was one of my favorites."

She wasn't fooled by either his seeming indifference or his relaxed posture. He was a sudden movement waiting to happen, his reflexes quicksilver.

Up ahead, officers had begun moving along the line of spectator vehicles, motioning the motorists to clear the area. She had to either do as he asked or be caught with him inside her car.

"Sergeant Lester told me that you'd—"

"Shot the son of a bitch? That's true. He's dead. Now drive."

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