long strides to the back door. The locked handle jiggled in his hand.
Griggs stepped back and raised his heavy foot to the door and kicked it in. He entered like Jack Lord, full of confidence and ready to kick ass. Shattered glass and splintered wood littered the floor. Ahead, an open door revealed stairs that led down to the basement. As he swung the beam to his right the light fell over the kitchen counter; pooled blood covered everything. The darkened basement could wait, he decided, and proceed into the gruesome kitchen.
The cabinets, countertops and backsplash were encased with gore. Blood-soaked towels were strewn everywhere as if someone had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to clean up. In the center of this gore sat a plate of chocolate chip cookies. As he stared at the cookies, Grigg’s attention was drawn to a lump of towels in the sink. He fought the urge to scream as he looked in horror at a pile of tiny feet and hands stacked in the sink, there were too many; three feet, four? How many hands? Griggs’s mind couldn’t register what he was seeing.
The Sheriff’s words echoed inside his head; Maddie took a call from Ken Reed, something about his babies being dead. And then, something happened and she lost him. Griggs turned quickly from the sink, retching, as a distant and muffled groan broke the silence. Johnny,” he whispered as he followed the bloody tracks and drag marks into the living room, “Sheriff, is that you?”
The light fell on Ken Reed’s bludgeoned body. His face, neck and chest were slick with blood. The phone rested on the floor beside his outstretched hand. It too was bloodied. The Deputy scanned the room and saw the streaks and spatters that covered the walls and furniture and even the television. Looking down at the lifeless body, he instinctively reached down to check for a pulse, although clearly, there was no need. As his fingertips touched the fresh blood and the cooling flesh, he jerked his hand back.
Griggs followed the trail of gore deeper into the house as it led down the hall. Thunder rolled overhead as the wind picked up intensity, sending sheets of rain beating down on the roof and against the windows. Occasional flashes of lightning accompanied the thunder. And, as much as Griggs cringed at the sight of the carnage those lightening flashes revealed, it was what may be waiting unseen in the shadows that sent a cold stab of fear into his heart.
Buck Tanner had seen a lot in his 20-plus years in law enforcement. As a young deputy in 1959, he had been the first on scene to a wintry twenty-three car pileup. The stark contrast of the warm blood melting into the cold snow had been almost more than he could take. Luckily, instincts and training took over and it wasn’t until hours later after he had returned to the relative privacy of the station that the shakes and tears erupted.
The worst, however, had been a farming accident. Although not uncommon in rural communities, this one had been especially grizzly. It was the summer of 1964, his first as Sheriff, and he had been called out to Dick Reynolds’ place. The old man had set off with his grandson in the combine harvester at sunrise. They packed jelly sandwiches, pears from the tree in the backyard and a jug of water. They weren’t expected back until late in the afternoon.
Shortly after 7:00 that evening Mrs. Reynolds had grown worried and put in a call to the station. By the time the Sheriff had rolled up in his cruiser, a group of five or so neighbors and friends were loading into trucks to drive the fields looking for the pair. Buck climbed into the passenger seat of Dale Watson’s truck and for an hour they drove down the dirt gullies and tracks of the farm’s four hundred acres. Dusk was falling when they stumbled upon the boy. He was walking aimlessly through the fields, his face red and wet with tears.
It took some time but as the boy led them back to where the combine was parked they coaxed the story out of him.
Griggs stepped back and raised his heavy foot to the door and kicked it in. He entered like Jack Lord, full of confidence and ready to kick ass. Shattered glass and splintered wood littered the floor. Ahead, an open door revealed stairs that led down to the basement. As he swung the beam to his right the light fell over the kitchen counter; pooled blood covered everything. The darkened basement could wait, he decided, and proceed into the gruesome kitchen.
The cabinets, countertops and backsplash were encased with gore. Blood-soaked towels were strewn everywhere as if someone had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to clean up. In the center of this gore sat a plate of chocolate chip cookies. As he stared at the cookies, Grigg’s attention was drawn to a lump of towels in the sink. He fought the urge to scream as he looked in horror at a pile of tiny feet and hands stacked in the sink, there were too many; three feet, four? How many hands? Griggs’s mind couldn’t register what he was seeing.
The Sheriff’s words echoed inside his head; Maddie took a call from Ken Reed, something about his babies being dead. And then, something happened and she lost him. Griggs turned quickly from the sink, retching, as a distant and muffled groan broke the silence. Johnny,” he whispered as he followed the bloody tracks and drag marks into the living room, “Sheriff, is that you?”
The light fell on Ken Reed’s bludgeoned body. His face, neck and chest were slick with blood. The phone rested on the floor beside his outstretched hand. It too was bloodied. The Deputy scanned the room and saw the streaks and spatters that covered the walls and furniture and even the television. Looking down at the lifeless body, he instinctively reached down to check for a pulse, although clearly, there was no need. As his fingertips touched the fresh blood and the cooling flesh, he jerked his hand back.
Griggs followed the trail of gore deeper into the house as it led down the hall. Thunder rolled overhead as the wind picked up intensity, sending sheets of rain beating down on the roof and against the windows. Occasional flashes of lightning accompanied the thunder. And, as much as Griggs cringed at the sight of the carnage those lightening flashes revealed, it was what may be waiting unseen in the shadows that sent a cold stab of fear into his heart.
Buck Tanner had seen a lot in his 20-plus years in law enforcement. As a young deputy in 1959, he had been the first on scene to a wintry twenty-three car pileup. The stark contrast of the warm blood melting into the cold snow had been almost more than he could take. Luckily, instincts and training took over and it wasn’t until hours later after he had returned to the relative privacy of the station that the shakes and tears erupted.
The worst, however, had been a farming accident. Although not uncommon in rural communities, this one had been especially grizzly. It was the summer of 1964, his first as Sheriff, and he had been called out to Dick Reynolds’ place. The old man had set off with his grandson in the combine harvester at sunrise. They packed jelly sandwiches, pears from the tree in the backyard and a jug of water. They weren’t expected back until late in the afternoon.
Shortly after 7:00 that evening Mrs. Reynolds had grown worried and put in a call to the station. By the time the Sheriff had rolled up in his cruiser, a group of five or so neighbors and friends were loading into trucks to drive the fields looking for the pair. Buck climbed into the passenger seat of Dale Watson’s truck and for an hour they drove down the dirt gullies and tracks of the farm’s four hundred acres. Dusk was falling when they stumbled upon the boy. He was walking aimlessly through the fields, his face red and wet with tears.
It took some time but as the boy led them back to where the combine was parked they coaxed the story out of him.
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