LOCKSTONE CRUISED DOWN THE STREET, sharp eyes taking in every detail.

Large, expensive homes lined the residential street on either side of him. Immaculate lawns, shrubs, and flowers graced each palatial abode. Every house had at least one and sometimes several, of the shiny cars so prevalent in this world. Lockstone dismissed them all, his attention focused on only one home and one car.

Karen Prescott’s.

Suspecting a large man on a Harley cruising a neighborhood like this might raise suspicions, he allowed himself only one drive-by of Prescott’s house and the silver BMW parked in the drive. Having determined the main entry into and out of the exclusive neighborhood beforehand, he found a location from which he could remain unobtrusive while he watched cars come and go. Only a stone’s throw from the entrance, a grove of trees grew next to the road. He parked the motorcycle under the trees, then lounged on the bike, his back against a tree trunk with his feet propped up on the Harley’s handles. Anyone who observed him would think he simply found refuge in the shade from the hot Texas sun.

Eyes closed to slits to pantomime dozing, Lockstone sat up when he saw Prescott’s car stop and then turn on the road in front of him. A booted foot hit the kick starter, and the motorcycle rumbled to life. He let the BMW get a healthy lead, then released the clutch and followed.

For the next hour, the witch hunter watched Prescott make several stops which included a food store and clothing store. Her last stop came at a large brick building called First Federal Bank. When she returned to the car with her purchases, Lockstone’s hopeful anticipation rose to new heights. Maybe she made these purchases for Morganna.

When Prescott, apparently finished with her errands, took a route out of town rather than back to her home, the witch hunter’s heart threatened to leap from his chest.

She’s going to Morganna!

In the rush of excitement, he found it hard to follow at a discrete distance. More than once, he closed the gap with the BMW and had to throttle back. Cursing himself for such an amateur lack of patience, he prayed Prescott wasn’t paying close attention.

Fifteen minutes later, the silver car turned onto a tree-lined road. Lockstone stopped at the road and tracked the vehicle’s progress. Brake lights appeared in the distance when Prescott slowed and then turned right. He gave the bike gas and rolled after her. Moments later, he arrived at the same turn.

A wide, gated entrance greeted him. An elaborate brick and mortar façade flanked both sides, with a smooth asphalt road in between. Colorful flowers and shrubs grew from the base of the brick facing, and a high metal arch stretched from one side of the entrance to the other. A sign attached to the arch moved gently in the breeze.

Bass Club Lake: Lots available.

The witch hunter returned his attention to Prescott’s car. He saw it round a corner and turn into a dense grove of trees. A cottage, barely visible through the thick foliage, sat on the edge of the lake. Prescott stopped beside the cabin, got out, and went inside.

Scanning the area, Lockstone noticed other cottages near the one Prescott entered. Scattered about, there looked to be no rhyme or reason to their location other than proximity to the lake. A broad smile appeared on the witch hunter’s lips at the sight of the dense swaths of brush and trees…more than enough cover for someone used to moving with stealth to stalk witches.

He pulled the witch compass from his neck and studied it. The needle stayed fixed and unwavering.

It pointed true, right at Prescott’s cabin.

Ferocious joy filled his heart. His hands opened and closed in anticipation of placing them around Morganna’s neck. Breath pumped in and out of his lungs like a great bellows, the sharp edge of revenge red-hot within him. Minutes passed before he could bring himself under control and plan Morganna’s death.

He spun on his heel to retrieve the Harley, then drove back to the main road beside the gate. There he found a suitable spot, and pushed the bike off the road into a thickly wooded area. He rummaged through the saddlebags on the Harley and removed a small backpack. The witch hunter stuffed it with the equipment he would need, including a pair of binoculars. His last item—the Glock—he checked carefully to make sure the magazine contained a full clip, then shoved it into the back of his pants. He covered the motorcycle with leafy branches and stepped back to observe his work.

Satisfied with the camouflage, Lockstone shouldered the backpack and making his way out of the woods, struck out for the lake.

The vegetation provided abundant cover, but it took him almost an hour to get into position where he could get a clear view of Prescott’s cabin. Tempted to move even closer, he decided against it. The trees thinned near the cottage and he risked being seen. Instead, he waited for the cover of darkness to cloak his movements.

Mosquitos and other buzzing insects swarmed around him in the sticky, humid heat. Ignoring them, he looked up at the sky and estimated it would be an hour or more before the sun set.

The witch hunter took the binoculars out of the case and trained them on the cabin. The windows, curtains drawn across them, made it impossible to see any activity inside. It didn’t matter. He had time.

All the time in the world.