John spun and bolted across the linoleum. He managed just two steps before a silenced round burst from the man’s weapon, striking John in the back. He grunted and twisted and fell hard to the floor. The bearded man closed the distance as John struggled for air. The stranger took aim again, and ended John’s life with a quick second pull of the trigger
TWO
Harper Ridley squeaked her Ford Bronco convertible to a stop along the curb and stepped out. Though in her late forties, she looked and moved like a much younger woman. She had long dark hair kept in a ponytail, glasses, a trim figure, and pale skin. A writer for the Keynoter for the past twenty years, Harper was always on the lookout for a good story. And her uncle assured her that this time, his find was the real deal.
It was the photograph that had convinced her, and the deep curiosity it summoned.
How had a Confederate belt buckle ended up in the Keys?
The mystery puzzled her enough to get off work early and make the hundred-mile drive northeast, taking on the traffic of US-1.
As she strode across an uneven cobblestone path, she noted that the front lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in a month. There were also patches of overgrown weeds gnawing at the walkway’s edges, and the planter boxes flanking the green front door were so crowded with growth that she couldn’t tell what had originally been planted.
How many times do I have to remind him to take care of the place?
The truth was she’d lost count. Her uncle Johnny was always metal detecting, or getting lost in a Cussler novel in his study, or watching a baseball game. He’d never cared for tasks like yard work.
She picked out a silver key from the ring in her hand and slid it into the lock. She twisted, but there was no resistance. No sliding metal against metal.
Uncle Johnny never leaves his door unlocked. Or at least that’s what he always tells me.
She shrugged it off, removed the key, then twisted the knob and pushed. She figured he must’ve forgotten with all the excitement. After all, it had been a while since he’d found anything beyond quarters and bottle caps.
She pocketed her keys and stepped through onto the shag carpet. The TV in the small living room was on, displaying a baseball game.
Shutting the door behind her, she said, “Hey, Uncle, I thought you nev—”
She turned around and froze as her eyes focused on the living room floor. There was a food tray on its side with an upside-down plate and a spilled beer bottle on the carpet.
Harper froze, then crept toward the mess.
“Uncle Johnny?” she said, her tone serious and her voice raised.
There was no reply. No sound beside the game’s broadcaster spewing off random stats about the hitter shuffling into the box.
She flicked off the TV and listened.
“Hey, Johnny?” she said again, her voice laced with worry.
She dropped her notebook, tiptoed over the spilled food, then dipped into the kitchen. The smell of cooked pizza filled her nostrils, along with something else. It was faint, but it smelled like sulfur, and charcoal.
The second her shoes hit the linoleum, she spotted bare feet extending out from the edge of the cabinets. Another step and she saw John’s body lying facefirst in a puddle of blood.
Harper gasped. She dropped down, placed her hands against her uncle’s motionless body, then forced him onto his back. His face was covered in a layer of deep red, his eyes shut and his mouth open.
Tears welled up in Harper’s eyes and she began to shake as she placed two fingers against his neck.
No pulse.
Given her occupation, she’d seen bodies before, but never family. And never by surprise.
Her breathing frantic, she looked over his corpse. He had a bullet wound to his lower back and one to his neck. He’d been gunned down right there in his house.
Looking around, she tried to piece together the story. Telling stories had been her job for most of her life. She couldn’t help it.
The mess in the living room meant that most likely a scuffle had broken out. Or, perhaps her uncle had run for it.
But why would he go into the kitchen?
Then her blurry eyes scanned in front of her and she saw a row of cereal boxes on the counter beside the fridge. One of them, a box of Fruit Loops with a labeled expiration date from the early nineties, was empty. It was where he stashed his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. She remembered that from when she used to hang out with him when she was younger. She’d almost poured herself a bowl of alloy and polymer when he’d stopped her in the act.
She looked back at John’s corpse and tried her best to compose herself.
What the hell am I doing? I need to call 911. I need to…
She clutched her phone, then froze as she heard a sound coming from down the hallway behind her. A slight creaking of floorboards. Footsteps. And they were getting louder.
Harper glanced back at John, focusing on the part of his bloodied neck where she’d placed her fingers moments earlier. His body was still warm. The faint smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air.
The killer is still here.
Her heart hammered like an angry drummer. She sprang to her feet and lunged across the kitchen. The approaching steps grew louder as she grabbed the empty box of cereal with two shaky hands, reached inside, and gripped the silver revolver.
A middle-aged man with a round belly, ivory skin, and a shaved head stomped into the kitchen just as she pulled the weapon free. She jerked
