Marcus waited in the driveway of Maureen Hill’s beautiful home. Earlier in the day, he had wished to never set foot inside the grandmother’s house again. It was a dark place that he wished he could forget.
Now, however, he needed to get back inside. The urgency to discover the truth overwhelmed him, a feeling that had once been a daily part of his life. He felt like a cop again.
In the distance, he saw headlights approaching. The car pulled into the driveway, and the Sheriff stepped out of the vehicle onto the dusty ground. “What was important enough to drag me away from my supper?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what happened here. When I got home today, I kept replaying everything in my mind, searching for something I had missed, something that I overlooked. Finally, it hit me.”
“What hit you?”
“Let me show you.”
He led the Sheriff through the house to the kitchen.
“When I saw her upstairs, her body desecrated like that, I was so angry that I ran through the house like a madman. That’s why, when I went to the back door, I didn’t notice that it was locked from the inside. Which could mean that—”
“Someone else was in the house before you and locked the door behind them,” the Sheriff said. The older man’s face took on a dark, somber expression. “Or it could mean absolutely nothing.”
The Sheriff turned to Marcus and voiced his concerns. “Say that it does mean what you think it means. Who, other than the killer, would have come in this house and not immediately reported the murder? Accomplice of some kind? And whoever it was must have taken great care not to step in any of the blood that the killer left behind. We didn’t find any other sets of footprints, other than the killer’s and yours. Any ideas?”
Marcus shook his head. “I was hoping that maybe this new information might shed light on some other clue. Lead us in the right direction. I don’t know, I just …” He looked out the back window and noticed something strange. He walked to the back door, unlocked it, and stepped outside. The Sheriff followed.
The skyline had morphed into a glistening spectrum of reds and purples as the last fingers of the sun spread out across the darkening sky and began to lose their grip on the world. It was a sight of deep and majestic beauty. Under any other circumstance, he would have stood in awe of its magnificence. Now, however, something else had caught his eye.
A light shone in the window of one of the farm buildings behind the house.
“We checked all of the buildings and found nothing. None of them had any lights on,” the Sheriff said.
“You know that old cliché about the killer returning to the scene of the crime? This time, that may hold true.”
“You may be right.” The Sheriff pulled up his right pant leg to reveal a holster containing a backup weapon. The elder cop pulled back the slide, checked the gun, and then handed it to Marcus. “I suppose you know how to use one of these?”
The compact nine-millimeter resembled a backup weapon that he had carried himself in another life. It had been a long time since he had held a gun. He hated guns, even though he had always been talented in their use. He loathed the fact that his only real skills seemed to be the ability to cause damage and inflict pain.
Why couldn’t I have been born a painter?
*
Aware of their presence, a dark figure moved like a shadow among the buildings behind Maureen Hill’s home. He moved in the direction opposite the house. He floated unseen among the out-buildings. Then, he doubled back and swung around the far corner of the property. He circled behind Marcus and the Sheriff, preparing to spring the trap.
*
Marcus and the Sheriff crept up to the building, trying to stay out of sight. The small tool shed had doors on both ends, and the Sheriff motioned for Marcus to enter the east door.
Well, at least I’m getting a chance to bond with Maggie’s dad.
Marcus moved to the door and mentally prepared himself. His heart raced with adrenaline-inducing anticipation. He could feel that on the other side of the door lurked a wolf in the hen house. It fell on him to play the part of the good shepherd and drive the wolf back into the darkness from whence it came.
Steeling himself, he entered the small shed. He scanned the room, paying special attention to the corners, but found no one on first glance.
The shed contained all manner of tools and equipment. Woodworking implements and devices that he guessed would be used in the butchering of animals littered the shelves. The shed was larger than the impression given by its exterior. The inside consisted of one open room lined with several rows of tall shelves.
He had expected the shed to provide little cover to someone trying to avoid detection, but he had been mistaken. It offered several places to hide.
With cautious movements, he checked every row of the shelving.
A cold and foreboding silence filled the space. The only audible sound that he registered was a slight rustling of dirt that he reasoned to be the footfalls of the Sheriff. The smell of oil and dirt clung to everything.
A main workbench surrounded by open space stood in the middle of the room. He glanced around the corner of a shelf and could see a few other tables and tools littering the open space.
Weapon at the ready, he stepped around the corner, and his heart jumped as he realized that he had been right. The killer had returned to the scene of the crime.
A man with cold, gray eyes sat next to one of the tables. They were eyes that had stared down upon countless victims. They were the dead eyes of a predator that killed without remorse or mercy and held no capacity for either emotion.
Marcus knew that no good would come of this. Good things never came from days when the devil climbed up to play.