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SEAN LYNCH was born and raised inIowa, in a Civil War-era brickfarmhouse restored by his family.After high school Sean obtained aBachelor of Sciences degree andserved in the U.S. Army as an enlistedInfantryman. He migrated to NorthernCalifornia’s San Francisco Bay Area,where he recently retired after nearlythree decades as a police officer.

A lifelong fitness enthusiast, Seanexercises daily and holds a 1st Dan inTae Kwon Do. He still watches late-night creature features. Sean is partialto Japanese cars, German pistols, andBritish beer.

Praise for SEAN LYNCH

“With Wounded Prey, Sean Lynch delivers a hellfor leather, wild ride of a debut with the ‘beenthere, done that’ authenticity that lifts it aboveother thrillers.

Matt Hilton, bestselling author of the Joe Hunterseries

“If you’re looking for the new Michael Connelly– a big thriller with heart, plausibility and senseof grounding that few other writers can match– then you’re really going to want to keep anon Lynch.”

Russell D McLean, Crime Scene Scotland

“Author Sean Lynch has the background in lawenforcement to know the nature of his plotting;but even more importantly, he is an excellentwriter. I consider it not just worth the initialreading, but worthy of re-reading as well.”

Mallory Heart Reviews

“Wounded Prey is a non-stop thrill ride of a book.Unrelenting, brutal, scary, and at times skin-crawling in its depiction of atrocious crimes.And yet it is also funny, warming andbelievable.”

Tony Healey

an excerpt fromWOUNDED PREY

by Sean Lynch

To be published June 2013(everywhere – US/UK/RoW)

by Exhibit A, in paperback andebook formats.

UK ISBN: 978-1-90922-306-6US ISBN: 978-1-90922-307-3

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-90922-308-0

Exhibit AAn Angry Robot imprintand part of Osprey Group

Distributed in the US & Canadaby Random House

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Copyright © Sean Lynch 2013

All rights reserved. However, feel free to share this

sample chapter with anyone you wish – you can

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book is even better...

Nevada, Iowa. November, 1987Vernon Slocum sat waiting in the driver’s seat of

a stolen Ford station wagon. When he saw thechildren his eyes narrowed.

They were right on time.The wagon was parked on University Drive, less

than a block from Franklin Roosevelt ElementarySchool. The engine was running. Both of Slocum’shands were thrust into the pockets of his faded greenarmy jacket. His left hand was a clenched fist. Hisright hand gripped a government-model .45 caliberpistol.

Slocum was a large man at six feet two inches.What gave him the appearance of even greaterstature was the girth of his chest and shoulders; aproduct of his Germanic ancestry and a lifetime ofphysical labor. His breathing was uneven and hisnostrils flared.

He sat up straighter in the driver’s seat when thegroup of second graders came into view. They were

CHAPTER 1

accompanied by two adults. An elderly matron wasin the lead, and a student aide of no more thantwenty-one brought up the rear. The procession wasreturning from a field trip. The youngsters werebundled in mittens and scarves and clutching leavesand other local flora in their tiny hands.

The children neared where Slocum hadstrategically parked his car.

He checked the ignition to ensure the screwdriverwas still in place. The first teacher, leading theprocession, saw the battered station wagon andbegan scrutinizing its lone occupant suspiciously. Shesaw a large, disheveled man with a tight crew-cut,unshaven face, and dark eyes.

Slocum felt the teacher’s challenging gaze andknew it was time to act. With agility and speedunusual for a man his size, he burst from the stolenFord. He moved towards the children, leaving thedriver’s door open.

The elder teacher saw him approach and stopped,the first signs of alarm wrinkling her face. Thechildren continued on, oblivious to anything buttheir playful thoughts.

Slocum gained the sidewalk in a few powerfulstrides, ignoring the frightened eyes of the teacher.

He grabbed for the hair of seven year-old TiffanyMeade. In her red mittens was a sheaf of autumnleaves which were to be the mainstay of her scienceproject. She’d selected them on the basis of their still-green appearance, despite the lateness of the season.

He caught the girl’s shoulder-length hair andpulled her to him. The force of his seizure wrenched

the breath from her lungs. The old teacher screamedand released her hold on the two children she heldat either side. Slocum encircled the girl’s neck withhis left arm and drew the .45, thumbing off thesafety.

The teacher ran at Slocum with arms extended,her face contorted.

“No!”Her shriek, part command and part plea, shattered

the serenity of the crisp November morning. Slocumwaited until she was at arm’s length to fire. Theheavy slug struck her above the right eye, and herhead snapped back violently. He didn’t remain towatch her fall. He made off with his struggling cargo,his pistol trailing smoke. He strode towards the carwhile stuffing the handgun into his coat pocket.

Slocum didn’t notice the terrified wails of an entiresecond grade class; the sound couldn’t penetrate theroar in his head. And he didn’t see the still-greenautumn leaves fall gently to the ground fromTiffany’s thrashing hands.

CHAPTER 2

Kearns ran along the river, the steady pounding ofhis neoprene-soled shoes creating a pleasant rhythm.He’d been running for just over ten minutes and wasbeginning to even his pace and regulate hisbreathing. From here on, for the next twentyminutes or so, it would be smooth sailing. The firstten minutes were the hardest.

Once he despised running. A hitch in the army asan infantryman did little to alter that sentiment.

It took the Iowa Law Enforcement Academy anda charismatic physical training instructor to instill anaffinity for running. It had been several months sincehe’d graduated the police academy, and he was nowa rookie deputy sheriff in rural Story County. Unlikehis academy classmates he still ran regularly, eventhough there was no longer an army drill sergeantor police academy PT instructor to mandate it.

Kearns jogged along the Skunk River and turnedonto University Drive. The Franklin RooseveltElementary School lay ahead.

He took the air in slow, through his nose, and

watched his breath leave in a visible plume. It waslate November, and winter was still a few weeksaway. Though the TV weatherman raved about themild weather central Iowa was experiencing, hecould feel the coming season in the sting of his lungs.Folks were saying it was going to be a hard one.

He chuckled to himself. He couldn’t rememberwhen an Iowa winter wasn’t a hard one. Looking farahead, Kearns yielded the sidewalk to a group ofschoolchildren who were hogging it; a wanderingmob herded by two harried adults.

He gave them a glance, and went back to focusingon that point on the ground avid runners seemunable to look away from. He jerked his head upwith a start when he heard the scream.

It was a short scream. The word, “No!” was all heheard. But in its tone was a stark, bone-chillingquality that made Kearns unconsciously break stride.He held his breath to listen better. It was what hesaw, however, that brought him to a complete stop.

Approximately seventy yards ahead a large manwas holding a child. Kearns could see the child’s legskicking spastically, well off the ground. The manwore a green army jacket, and all Kearns could seewas his back. The man retreated towards a clunky-looking station wagon parked nearby. An elderlywoman, perhaps the one who’d screamed, rantowards the man with her arms outstretched. In herevery move, even from his distance, Kearns senseddesperate terror.

Deputy Kevin Kearns instinctively started runningagain, this time in a sprint. His heart raced as the

drama unfolded before him. Suddenly everythingseemed to be occurring in slow-motion. He ran withall his strength, but felt he would never reach thechildren.

He formed no plan of action for his arrival. All hisconcentration was focused on simply getting there.His legs pumped furiously and he stretched his armsto lengthen his stride. The elderly woman’soutstretched fingers almost reached the jumbo-sizedman holding the child.

To his horror, the man drew a pistol from his coatpocket and leveled it point-blank at the approachingwoman.

With twenty yards to go, Kearns saw the flash ofthe pistol’s muzzle. The sound of the gunshotreached him a split-second later. The woman’s headjerked and she stopped in mid-stride, crumbling tothe ground. The big man turned away and beganwalking towards the car. He seemed oblivious to theweight of the child struggling in his grasp.

Kearns hoped the killer didn’t hear the sound ofhis fast-approaching footsteps. The big man lookedup just as the deputy reached him.

CHAPTER 3

Slocum caught motion from out of the corner of hiseye and whirled, causing the girl’s short legs to swirlin an arc. He saw a man running at him full speed.The man was medium-sized, with a muscular frameunder a set of gray sweats. He was young, in his earlytwenties, with short, military cut hair. Slocum’s eyeslocked with those of the approaching man’s. Theywere innocent eyes, eyes unlike his own, eyes thatbelonged to a man who had never drawn freshblood.

Slocum braced for the impact.

Kearns lowered his head and hit the bulky figure ina running low tackle with every bit of momentumhis hundred-yard/thousand mile sprint hadsummoned. Kearns, the big man, and the little girlhit the ground in a pile of flailing arms and legs.

Kearns was dimly aware of children screamingand scampering around him. He rolled in an effortto regain his feet. He realized the man mustoutweigh his own one hundred and eighty pounds

by at least fifty.Kearns got up and watched his opponent do the

same. He marveled at how the big man shrugged offthe collision. Kearns squared-off, and saw the manreach into his pocket for his pistol; the same pistolwhich moments before had cut down a defenselesswoman. There was no time to think. As a drillsergeant once taught him, it was kill or be killed.

He closed, clasping the man’s right arm with hisleft. At the same time he brought up a knee into thelarger man’s groin. He was rewarded with a gruntand felt hot breath on his face. He also felt the hardsteel of the pistol in the man’s pocket and clenchedwith all his might over the hand holding it.

Dazed by the groin shot, the man swung a quickleft to the deputy’s head. Kearns saw it coming andducked, taking most of the momentum away fromthe punch. It still hit him hard, and stars danced inhis head. He sent out a right hook of his own, andfollowed up with a headbutt to the man’s nose.Though he knew they were powerful shots, theyseemingly had no effect.

Kearns realized he couldn’t match his adversary’sstrength. With rising panic he felt his grip on thegun-hand slip. If he didn’t stop the man fromdrawing his pistol, he would join the courageousteacher in death on the sidewalk.

The little girl was crawling on her hands and kneesaway from the two men locked in mortal combat afew feet from her. She tried desperately to scream.There were tears of anguish in her eyes, but she’dyet to recover her breath.

Kearns hammered away at his foe’s head with hisright fist, punches that bloodied the distorted face.In his adversary’s eyes he saw hypnotic darkness. Itmomentarily distracted him.

The giant seemed able to withstand a tremendousamount of punishment. With a Herculean shove hepushed the deputy, catching him off balance. Bothwent down, the larger of the two men on top.

Kearns knew it was over. He fell backwards andlost his grip on the gun-hand. He groped desperatelywith both of his hands to regain his restraining gripon the pistol. He felt a vice-like hand clamp histhroat.

His eyes widened as he saw the pistol emerge fromthe coat pocket. He recognized it as a US government.45, the same model he’d been issued in the army.With all the strength he could muster he strainedagainst the weight of the large man straddling hischest. Kearns could almost feel the bullet enter hisskull and winced; death was a trigger-squeeze away.

The man’s face was a bloody pulp. He cleared thepistol from his pocket and brought the gun-buttdown on Kearns’ head. The blow landed over his leftear, on the temple, and rendered him instantlyunconscious. Switching the pistol slightly in his handto get his finger in the trigger guard, he pressed themuzzle against Kearns’ forehead.

An instant before he pulled the trigger, the managain sensed motion out of the corner of his eye.Looking away from Kearns’ inert body he sawTiffany Meade get to her feet.

Forgetting the deputy, the man rose to his own

feet. In several quick strides he had the youngsteronce again in his grasp. She shrieked and struggled.He was more dazed by his encounter with thedeputy than Kearns would ever know, and hesilenced the girl with a savage punch to the head.The second grader went limp in his arms.

The man looked around. People were running outof the school. He ran to the idling station wagon andhurled his unconscious bundle into the car. He gotin and slammed the door with a jolt.

Kearns fought himself groggily to consciousness;splashes of color and unidentifiable sounds overlaidthe agony in his head. He couldn’t get up, and for amoment fought the overwhelming urge to vomit.Blood ran freely down the left side of his face,obscuring his vision in that eye. What images hecould see through his right eye were out of focus.

He tried to push himself up but his arms wouldn’twork. He heard a car door slam, very near him, androlled over on his back to bring his right eye towardsthe origin of the sound.

He saw the mass of the station wagon bearingdown on him. Kearns rolled again, hard, with thelast vestiges of his dwindling strength. He felt thecrunch of tires as the car grazed past, missing him byinches. He looked up in time to see the stationwagon screeching away. He dimly noticed the carhad no license plates.

Pain seared through his head, and he feltconsciousness slip away again. His cheek hit theground, remarkably to him, with no sensation from

the impact.The last image Kearns saw through his fading

vision was a leaf, oddly green for so late in autumn.

CHAPTER 4

Slocum drove away from the school and the carnagehe’d wreaked there. The seemingly lifeless form of aseven year-old girl bounced on the passenger seat ashe gained speed.

He wiped snot and blood from his nose. He knewit was broken by the shooting pain he experiencedwhen his forearm brushed the tip. There wereseeping cuts over both eyebrows and his eyes werebeginning to swell. Slocum was no stranger to pain,and willed the rising tide of hurt from the front ofhis mind into one of its many dark recesses.

Slocum took a direct route to the viaduct whichspanned the Des Moines River. He eased the stationwagon off the street and onto an unpaved road nearthe railroad tracks, out of public view.

Slocum pressed a finger none too gently againstthe neck of the girl. Her breathing was shallow andher pulse weak, but she was alive. Slocum breatheda sigh of relief.

It was too early for death.He drove the station wagon directly under one of

the huge concrete pylons that formed the bridge’slegs. Parked near the wall was a beat-up Dodge pick-up truck. It was an inconspicuous vehicle in a partof the country where people made their living fromone facet of agriculture or another.

Slocum got out of the Ford pulling the girl towardshim across the seat by her legs. A faint groanemerged from the child’s lips. He took her roughlyin his arms and carried her to the truck, opening thedoor with his elbow. He placed the semi-consciouschild on the passenger seat as he’d done in thestation wagon. Reaching past her and onto thetruck’s floor, he grabbed a canvas tarpaulin andcompletely covered the inert girl. The key wasalready in the Dodge’s ignition, and a moment laterhe was pulling out of the gravel lot and back ontothe street.

He shifted through the Dodge’s gears and pickedup speed. He struggled out of the faded green armyjacket and set it aside. Under it he wore a sweat-stained shirt, its ragged sleeves rolled up past thick,muscular forearms. A squatting bulldog wearing acampaign hat and a snarl sat above the letters USMC,tattooed on his right forearm. Slocum shrugged intoa plaid work-shirt, pulling the collar up. He added aJohn Deere baseball cap in green and yellow, andwiped the blood from his face with a grease-stainedrag. He finished by tucking his pistol into hiswaistband.

He was almost out of town. He passed theminimart and the First Presbyterian Church with itspointed roof. He reached over and removed the tarp

from the girl. An ugly bruise was forming along thechild’s jawline where he’d silenced her franticstruggling.

Slocum’s breathing got irregular for the secondtime that morning. His vision started to narrow, andwithin the confines of the warm cab of the Dodge hecould smell the acrid scent where the little girl hadurinated on herself.

The scent of urine.He involuntarily rocked back and forth. Whining

sounds emanated from his mouth. His eyes closed,and he remembered how his own urine smelledwhen his father struck him with the hickory switch.The smell of urine also brought back the sound andthunder of mortar rounds slamming into the earth,and the screams of the dying. He breathed deeply thefamiliar musk and became lost in a maelstrom ofstark, hell-wrought images.

The crunch of gravel and the angry blare of a hornsnapped him back to reality. The smell of urinevanished as he opened his eyes and straightened thesteering wheel.

He’d faded again. The truck edged over the centerdivider, narrowly missing another oncoming pick-uptruck. Slocum steadied his hands on the wheel. Heshook his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

He squeezed a Pall Mall from a wrinkled pack onthe dash and lit it with a worn Zippo lighterextracted from a hip pocket. On one side of the Zippowas engraved an eagle, globe and anchor.

He took a deep drag from his cigarette and nudgedthe truck south towards the interstate.

CHAPTER 5

Kearns woke to the sound of an amplified voiceasking for Doctor Somebody to please reportsomewhere, and to a blinding white light. His mouthfelt thick and his head felt like it weighed a ton. Hetried to sit up and found restraining hands pushinghim gently back onto whatever it was he was lyingon.

Gradually his vision cleared, and through his righteye he could see a rubber-gloved hand over his faceat close proximity. He couldn’t see at all through hisleft eye. He realized he was in a hospital. The personwearing the rubber gloves dragged stitches throughhis scalp.

“Where am I?”A deep voice answered from out of view. “You’re

in the hospital, Kevin. You’ve taken quite a thumpon the head.”

He recognized the voice of his boss, Sergeant DickEvers, a former trooper who’d retired from the statepolice and joined the sheriff’s department a coupleof years ago. Kearns could feel the tingle of

anesthetic on his head as the rubber-gloved handstugged stitches through his skin. He realized theblinding light he’d awakened to was the spotlightframing the physician’s face. It prevented him fromknowing the identity, or even the sex, of theattending doctor.

“How long have I been out?”“About an hour,” said Evers’ bodiless voice.“What happened?”“You were there; you tell me. But you’d better talk

fast. The sheriff’s on his way, and there’s gonna beState Division of Criminal Investigation boys comingshortly. There’s also more reporters than you couldshake a stick at. It’s a regular parade. Buck’ll be inheaven.”

Evers was referring to Sheriff Robert “Buck”Coates, their Commander-in-Chief. Buck wasn’tliked by his men, and his swaggering style did littleto endear him to anyone else. Sheriff Buck spentmost of his off-duty time at the Elk’s Lodge invarying stages of intoxication, nurturing votersupport along with his Kessler’s. Anywhere the presscould be found, Buck Coates could be found too.

The doctor finished the final stitch and stood up,nodding to Evers and leaving the room. Eversfollowed him to the door and closed it. He went backto where Kearns lay flat on the gurney and helpedthe bandaged deputy sit up. He handed Kearns a cupof water.

Kearns gulped the water and looked up, meetinghis tall, lanky boss’s gaze. Finishing the drink, hethrew the cup on the floor.

“The old lady’s dead?” he asked, wincing.The sergeant nodded. “She took one right between

the eyes. You think it was gonna be a flesh wound?”“I had to ask.”“Didn’t mean to snap at you; I’m a little edgy,

that’s all. We rolled up and found thirty hystericalkids in every stage of blind panic. One teacher wasstone-dead, and the other teacher, a young thing,was in catatonic shock. I got a daughter no olderthan her.”

Kearns said nothing.“And to top it off, I find you in a puddle in the

street like goddamned roadkill, blood leaking outevery which way. I thought you’d taken a bullet inthe head yourself.”

“By all rights I should have,” said Kearns,remembering the .45’s muzzle pointing at his face.

“It took some time before we could find anybodycoherent to tell us what happened. The schooljanitor, a Korean War vet, heard the shot and thescreams and called it in, but he didn’t see anything.All the kids could tell me was that a man ‘grabbedTiffany,’ and you tried to stop him.”

Kearns winced, memories of the schoolyardtightening his stomach. The waves of pain cascadingthrough his head suddenly magnified. Heremembered the little girl. Her name is Tiffany, hethought.

“Sarge, we’ve got to get a broadcast out. He’sprobably still got her. We’ve got to–”

“Take it easy,” interrupted Evers. “We’re on it. Igot enough of a description from some of the kids

and the surviving teacher when she finally snappedout of shock. We’ve already put out a statewideBOLO for the guy, and the car, as well as a photo anddescription of the little girl.”

“How’d you get the little girl’s picture so quick?”Evers paused before replying, suddenly very

interested in the scuffed toes of his wellington boots.“I sent a deputy out to the girl’s house. I got theaddress from the school.”

“So the kid’s parents know?”“They had to find out sometime. Besides, I needed

a picture of the kid pronto.”There was a long silence. Evers broke it.“Kevin, do you know how big this is?”Kearns’ puzzled look was his answer. Evers

grimaced, shaking his head.“It’s big. And messy. And it’s going to get bigger

and messier.”“I don’t care how big or messy it is. We’ve got to

find that kid.”Evers grunted. “You don’t say? Now there’s an

original idea. Hadn’t thought of that. Good thingyou’re here, deputy. You’ve been a cop what, six,eight months? Catching the bad guy and getting thatkid home safe to her folks should be easy for anexperienced law enforcement officer like yourself.Probably have her home by supper.”

Kearns felt his face redden. “That’s not what Imeant.”

“I know. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just cranky.This is as foul a crime as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve beena cop over three decades. I don’t mean to take it out

on you.”“Forget it. I know I’m a rookie, and don’t know

shit. I just want to get the son-of-a-bitch, that’s all.”“You ain’t alone. But be careful what you say.

Folks are listening.”“Huh?”“Look around you. You wonder why you’re not in

the ER?”For the first time Kearns noticed he wasn’t in the

emergency room. He was in a private room. Helooked quizzically up at Evers for an answer.

“There are thirty, grade-school aged, psych-traumacases in the ER right now. There’s also a lobby full ofpanicked parents, a pair of grief-stricken parents, anda DOA under a sheet who was once a sixty-one year-old schoolteacher and grandmother. There’s ten ortwenty city and county cops, a posse of reporters,and plenty more cops and reporters burningpavement to get here. There’s also FBI guys from DesMoines en route, as well as forensics people. It’s onlybeen an hour, for Christ’s sake, and it’s already athree-ring circus.”

Kearns felt a sinking feeling overtake him.Evers went on. “We both know that kid is gonna

be dead and buried before sundown. That ain’tsomething I like, but I’ve been a cop too long tothink otherwise. Everybody wearing a badge is goingto want to bag this guy, and it’s going to get political.I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Especially whenthe federal boys arrive; they can’t take a piss withoutcalling a press conference.”

“Sarge,” said Kearns, standing up on shaky feet. “I

don’t give a shit if they call the ghost of Elvis Presleyin from Graceland. I want that kid back and I wantthe fucker who snatched her.”

Evers’ brow furrowed, not unkindly. “What youwant doesn’t matter, Kevin. You’re out of it, now.You’d better heed my advice and mind your tongue.You’re under a microscope.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”“It means, when shit like this happens, it spells

trouble. Political trouble. People looking to makecareers over it. Blame gets laid. People get hurt.You’d best keep your yap shut and your head down.You’re a little fish. Little fish that ain’t careful getchopped up for bait.”

“I don’t know what you’re driving at, but I thinkI can guess. I really don’t care who catches thebastard, and gets the credit, as long as he’s caught.And as far as taking the blame, I did all I could do.The bastard damn near killed me. I tried to–”

“Take it easy, kid. You don’t have to convince me.I’m the guy that scraped you off the sidewalk,remember? But others might not see it that way.You’re too new to police work to know this yet, butI’ll clue you in on a universal truth of lawenforcement: cops always get the blame. Always.”

“That’s ridiculous.”“Maybe so, but it’s true just the same. That’s what

cops are; a place for the buck to stop.”Kearns wasn’t convinced. “I’d like to see my critics

take that guy on. He was like the goddamnedTerminator. Anyone who witnessed the fight wouldknow I did all I could do. All anyone could do.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me, oryourself?”

“That’s a cheap shot.”“Agreed. But you’d better get used to it. It ain’t

gonna be the last shot fired at you. You’d best beready.”

“I did all I could to save that kid,” Kearns insistedagain. “The best I could.”

“Yeah?” said Evers. “That little girl’s mom isoutside in the ER getting sedated as we speak. Tell itto her. It ought to be a real comfort.”

CHAPTER 6

Trooper Dale MacKenzie pressed his foot further onthe accelerator, nudging the Chrysler past the eightymile-per-hour mark. He rolled up the window, thesiren too loud for the police radio with the windowdown. It was past noon and traffic on Interstate 80,though not heavy by metropolitan standards, washeavy enough to warrant extra caution.

The feminine voice of the dispatcher asked for anyunit in the vicinity to respond to the report of aninjured child along the westbound section of theinterstate east of De Soto, near the rest stop. Thedispatcher said the report was phoned in by ananonymous caller from a phone booth there.

MacKenzie heard the “Be on the Lookout”advisory, or BOLO, two hours before over the radio.The broadcast announced missing/presumedkidnapped Tiffany Meade, a white female, agedseven, last seen wearing a brown corduroy skirt andplaid scarf. The suspect was described as a whitemale, approximately forty years old, over six-foot,large build, last seen wearing a green army jacket.

The suspect vehicle was described as an older, full-sized, American-manufactured station wagon, whiteor cream in color.

The dispatcher’s voice cautioned that the suspectwas considered armed and dangerous, andpresumably still in possession of a handgun used inthe commission of the offenses of murder andkidnapping. There was no known direction of flight.

Trooper MacKenzie had over fifteen years ofservice, and was experienced enough to know theseriousness of the bulletin. He was also the father oftwo little girls. He spent the past two hours searchingthe highway for the suspect vehicle.

So when the report of the injured child came in,MacKenzie dropped the Styrofoam cup of coffee he’dpurchased at the minimart and headed for his car ata trot. The two incidents were too rare to beunconnected, and even if they weren’t, MacKenziewasn’t going to take the chance.

He cut a quick U-turn in the truck-stop parking lotand headed for the onramp, switching on the lightsand siren. MacKenzie’s 1986 Ford LTD CrownVictoria purred, and he was on the interstate in lessthan a minute.

MacKenzie was less than ten minutes from thereported locale of the injured child, making him theclosest unit by far. He blurted his call sign into theradio’s mike, signifying he was en route. He barelyheard the dispatcher’s acknowledgment over theroar of his engine and the shriek of the siren.

MacKenzie’s heart raced as he passed first onemotorist, then another. He grabbed the mike again

and asked the location of his nearest cover unit.Through the static came the voice of another trooper,giving his position as north of Winterset on Highway169, with an ETA of twenty minutes. MacKenzieclicked the mike button in response, not surprised.Unlike city cops, highway patrolmen and ruraldeputies were accustomed to having their back-up along way off, often in another part of the countyentirely.

MacKenzie saw the outline of the rest area in thedistance and began pumping his brake in quickbursts to control his deceleration. He saw a loneeighteen-wheeler parked in the rest area’s lot, itsengine running. He grabbed the mike from itsdashboard mount a final time, telling dispatch hewas on-scene. The cruiser skidded to a halt.

He scanned the vicinity of the semi-truck for itsdriver. MacKenzie ran over to the truck’s cab andjumped up on the step, peering into the cab. Therewas no one inside.

The trooper went around the far side of the rig andheaded towards the small brick building whichhoused the public restrooms. The rest area consistedof the restroom building and a series of picnic tablesin a grass courtyard nearby. At the edge of the grasshe found the truck’s driver.

He approached a tall, heavy-set man in a bluenylon windbreaker and cowboy boots. The driverwas bent over, his hands on his knees. He appearedto be out of breath, taking in thick gulps of air, whichhe let out in wheezing rasps. MacKenzie approachedhim, crinkling his nose at the smell of fresh vomit.

“What happened? Where’s the injured kid?” Hecould see a puddle of puke at the driver’s feet, someof which had splashed onto his trousers and cowboyboots. The truck-driver didn’t respond to thetrooper’s questions.

“Talk to me; I need some answers.” MacKenzie puthis hand on the driver’s shoulder. The driver lookedup, his eyes wide.

MacKenzie asked again, “What happened? Areyou alright?”

The driver finally nodded, spittle dripping from hischin. He wiped his mouth and stood up.

“Did you call in a report of an injured child?” Thetruck-driver nodded again, and MacKenzie realizedthe man was experiencing dry heaves and couldn’tspeak.

“OK, take it easy,” he said soothingly. “You’regoing to be alright. Where’s the kid? I need to knowwhere the kid is.”

Tears began to form in the big trucker’s eyes, anda sob escaped his lips between dry heaves.

MacKenzie was losing patience. “Damn it, youcalled in an injured kid. Where’s the kid?”

In answer, the truck-driver turned and pointed toa clump of elm trees framing the picnic area.MacKenzie followed the man’s fingers.

Hanging from one of the tree’s branches was alittle girl. She was upside down and her throat hadbeen cut, a thick pool of blood staining the browngrass and autumn leaves below her. She was hungby her ankles, and what looked like a fishing gaff wasthreaded through each Achilles tendon, the

connecting chain draped over one of the elm’s thickbranches. Her lifeless eyes were open and staringdirectly at Iowa State Trooper Dale MacKenzie.

Trooper MacKenzie felt his own stomach lurch,and he grabbed at the portable transceiver on hisbelt. He began to speak, working to suppress thetremor in his voice and the shaking of his hands ashe keyed the mike. He almost gagged, but caughthimself. He tried, several times, to look away fromthe staring eyes of the dead child. Even when heclosed his eyelids he could feel her eyes burning intohim.

Until the end of his life, Iowa Highway PatrolmanDale MacKenzie would still find himself occasionallywaking to the sound of his own screams and thenightmare image of Tiffany Meade’s sightless eyes.

It was late in the afternoon when Sergeant Evers andDeputy Kevin Kearns discreetly left the hospitalthrough a side door to avoid the throng of reporters.Kearns was still in his blood-spattered work-outclothes and was chilled to the bone. Evers drovethem to Kearns’ apartment for a change of clothes.Kearns asked to stay home and clean up, but Eversonly shook his head. “We’ve got to get yourstatement,” was all he’d say.

Once at the sheriff’s station, Kearns was allowedthe comfort of a shower. He let the steaming waterwash over him. The ER doctor told him not to getthe stitches over his left eye wet, but he ignored thewarning. The water not only cleaned him up, butcleared away the remaining fog from his recentconcussion. Feeling better, he dressed in jeans andboots and topped them with a fresh T-shirt and asweater. He wished he’d remembered to bring a coat;the thermometer was falling rapidly.

He’d finished dressing and was combing his short,bristly hair when Evers walked into the locker room.

CHAPTER 7

The physician had shaved a portion of Kearns’hairline on the left side to sew the stitches, and itgave him a somewhat ghoulish appearance.

“C’mon,” the sergeant said. Kearns followed hisboss up the stairs from the locker room, grabbing hisrevolver and badge as he closed his locker.

Once upstairs, Evers led him to the Inspectors’Division. All investigative functions of the sheriff’sdepartment were handled from that section of thesubstation. As a rookie deputy assigned to patrolduty, Kearns had only been up there a handful oftimes.

He was greeted by the stares of several men in thearea. Some of them he recognized: district attorney’sinspectors and sheriff’s investigators. Others hedidn’t know.

Evers nodded to a seat at one of the tables andKearns sat down, feeling the eyes on him. Eversaccepted a cup of coffee from one of the DA’s menstanding nearby. Nobody offered any to Kearns.

One of the men moved forward. He was ofmedium height and wearing an expensive-lookingthree-piece suit on a bony frame. He had a recedinghairline he tried to conceal with a perm and dye job.His tie tack was a Phi Beta Kappa key.

“Deputy Kearns, I’m Steve Scanlon, Special Agentin Charge of the Des Moines Bureau. This is SpecialAgent Tatters, and Special Agent Lefferty.” Scanlonnodded his head at two nondescript men loungingon the far wall. “We’ll be overseeing theinvestigation into today’s happenings.”

Kearns looked to his sergeant for any sign of how

to respond. Evers silently mouthed the words,“Watch out,” and turned his attention back to hiscoffee.

Scanlon continued. “As you know, a young childwas kidnapped and murdered today. Also murderedwas the teacher in charge of that child.”

“Wait a minute; I didn’t see the child getmurdered. I only saw–”

“Apparently you haven’t heard. The child’s bodywas found hanging from a tree on the interstateearlier this afternoon.”

Kearns felt the room begin to spin. He put his facein his hands. Through his fingers he asked, “Whywasn’t I told?”

Evers cut in. “I had instructions not to inform him,direct from the sheriff.”

Scanlon put his hands on his hips, an exasperatedlook on his face.

“Tell me,” blurted Kearns, looking up. “I want toknow.”

“You might as well know, Deputy,” Scanlon said,no attempt to disguise his disdain at beinginterrupted. “Tiffany Meade was found with herthroat cut out on I-80 twenty miles west of DesMoines. We suspect she was sexually assaulted aswell. She was hanging from a tree like a slab of meat.A passing trucker spotted her.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kearns said under his breath.“We’re going to need a full statement from you,”

said Scanlon.“I already gave one, at the hospital,” replied

Kearns, with no inflection. He was thinking of how

a seven year-old girl spent her last moments onEarth. He was replaying images of his fight with thegirl’s abductor, and remembering the screams of theother children. He closed his eyes, and a visionflashed of an elderly woman falling to the groundwith a .45 slug in her brain. He began to tremble.

“You’ll give another statement, Deputy. Andanother after that, if I think it’s necessary. Until I findout how your negligence resulted in two deaths.”

Kearns stood up and hit Federal Bureau ofInvestigation Special Agent Steve Scanlon a stunningleft hook to the center of his face. He followed it witha right, the knuckles already skinned from the fightin the schoolyard. He crossed his wrist expertly andleaned into it, driving from his hips. The agent’s headrocked back. He slumped to the floor unconscious,blood spurting from his shattered nose.

The two remaining agents lunged at Kearns, whostood his ground. Several of the sheriff’s detectivesand DA’s inspectors intervened and grabbed them,and Evers swiftly moved to a position betweenKearns and the fuming feds.

“You motherfucker!” Agent Tatters howled,fighting the restraining hands. “I’ll kick your ass!”

Evers faced the agents. “That’s enough. Calm yourbutts down.”

The two feds shrugged off the men restrainingthem and instantly began straightening their ties.Evers hid a grin. The detectives and DA’s men lookedaway, grinning also. Sergeant Evers bent over theunconscious Scanlon and held his chin.

“He’s out cold. His nose is busted, too.” Evers

motioned to the red-faced feds. “Get him to a doctor,and when you get back you can resume your littletaskforce. I think we can manage without theillustrious FBI for an hour or so.”

The two agents stooped to pick up their limp boss.“Rest assured, there’s going to be documentation onthis,” said Tatters.

“Kiss my ass,” Evers said. “Scanlon was way thehell out of line. Where does he get off talking to mydeputy like that?” Evers bent his thumb at theunconscious FBI man. “Get him the fuck out ofhere.”

Once the agents left, Evers gave Kearns a hardlook.

“What the hell is your problem?” he asked thedeputy.

“What did you want me to do?”“I guess when I was your age I was about as

stupid. How’s the hand?”“Not bad,” said Kearns bitterly, “considering it’s

only good for knocking out bureaucrats. It’s child-killers I wish I had better luck with.”

Evers poured himself another cup of coffee. “Ialready told you at the hospital it was going to getrough. When shit like what went down todayhappens, it might be nobody’s fault, but people lookfor someone to blame. It’s gonna be you if you don’tput a lid on your temper.”

Kearns nodded, not really listening.“Office pogues and reporters launch their careers

on high profile crimes like this one. Scanlon’s nodifferent. Hell, you know what he did?”

Kearns stared at his sergeant for an answer.“Scanlon already had the mother identify her kid’s

body. Can you fucking believe it? Walked right up toher and showed her a Polaroid. He said, ‘Is this yourdaughter?’ Mom went ballistic. She tried to do toScanlon what you just did, with less success. She hadto be sedated.”

“What an asshole.”“You ain’t kidding.” Evers sipped coffee. “But it

doesn’t change things.”“Everyone is acting like I did something wrong.

Like this was my fault.”Evers wrinkled his nose and poured the remaining

coffee in the sink. “Listen kid, I know you did all youcould, and you know it. But the rest of the worlddoesn’t know, and they don’t forget. This ain’t LA orNew York. This is a rural county, in a rural state,where things like child-killings aren’t supposed tohappen. And when they do, it grabs headlines.People around these parts have long memories.”

“Look, Sarge,” said Kearns, calmer. “I realizeyou’re looking out for my best interests. I can handleit. I’ll weather the storm.”

Evers reached into a pocket and pulled out a stackof Polaroid photographs. He tossed them on the tablein front of Kearns. “Got these from Scanlon,” he said.

Kearns looked at the photographs, not reallywanting to. The first picture was a close-up of whatwas once a seven year-old girl. She was hangingupside down from a tree. He didn’t want to look, butcouldn’t take his eyes away. He shuffled through thestack of photos, each grislier than the first; a deck of

cards from hell. After the third one he put thepictures down, his hands shaking.

“She was killed not long before she was found,”Evers said, “by her body temperature and thecoroner’s estimation of the coagulation of her bloodin relationship to the temperature outside.”

Kearns was ashen. Evers continued.“There were reporters everywhere; even more

than at the hospital. It’s all over the news. Still thinkyou can weather the storm?”

Kearns said nothing.“Go home. Get some sleep. Stay by the phone. I’ll

call you and tell you when to report.”Kearns stood up and walked to the door.

“Sergeant,” he began, “I want you to know–”“You don’t need to say it. Go home.”

CHAPTER 8

By the time Kearns got to his apartment the sky wasovercast and the temperature had dropped twentydegrees. Flakes of snow were starting to descend,and his hands shook when he inserted his key intothe apartment door. He didn’t know whether theshaking of his hands was from the fallingtemperature or the day’s events. After several trieshe got the door open and switched on the light.

Kearns’ apartment was sparsely furnished. He’dhad little time and money to obtain furniture sincehis police academy graduation. The apartment didhave a sound heater, however, and he turned it upto take the chill from his bones.

His head hurt, and he was exhausted, but he knewhe couldn’t sleep. Over and over again he replayedthe day’s stark scenes in his mind. He couldn’t erasethe images and sounds of the murderous attack. Thecrunch of his shoes on the pavement as he jogged;the frantic voice of the now-dead teacher; the chorusof terrified children; the deafening report of thepistol; the big man’s emotionless eyes. It was a

nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.Kearns went to the kitchen and started a kettle to

boil. He felt cold and weak, and knew the adrenalinedeficit was responsible. He removed his revolverfrom his belt and placed it on the kitchen table.

The weapon, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357magnum with a 2 ½ in barrel, was purchased whenhe’d graduated the police academy as an off-dutygun. His departmentally-issued duty revolver wasstill at the station in his locker.

Kearns stared at the blue steel of the compactrevolver and wished he’d had the weapon whenjogging this morning. The kettle’s whistle broke hisreverie. He gripped the kettle with both tremblinghands to keep from spilling the boiling water. Apounding on his apartment door startled him, andhe nearly scalded himself.

He heard several loud voices outside his apartmentdoor. Someone was knocking on the door andringing the bell simultaneously. Cursing, he putdown the kettle and answered the door.

He was immediately blinded by a flash. A din ofvoices bellowed, and he blinked his eyes to clearthem. He was aware of people crowding hisdoorway. Gradually his vision returned.

The group was carrying an array of cameras,videocams, and sound-recording gear, like peasantsbearing pitchforks and torches as they stormed acastle during a revolt. Kearns was puzzled and angryall at once. How did the reporters find out where helived?

“Deputy Kearns,” a woman’s voice erupted from

the crowd, “did you know the child was murderedtoday?” Without waiting for an answer, the samevoice asked, “Did you know after the kidnapper gotaway from you, that the child would in all likelihoodbe killed?”

Another voice, a man’s, came fast and harsh.“Deputy, do you know the kidnapper? Have youever seen him before? Was he–”

Still another voice interrupted, “Deputy, have youspoken with the child’s parents? Did you know theywere at the hospital at the same time you were?”

Kearns reeled, as more questions were hurled.Camera bulbs flashed sporadically, and he was awareof microphones in various shapes and sizes beingthrust at him like weapons. The crowd of reporterspushed towards him, as those in the rear movedforward to get their microphones and cameras in. Hetried to close his apartment door and found feetblocking it.

The deputy pushed his way into the crowd andmoved the bustle of reporters away from his door.As soon as he cleared a path, he backpedaled into hisapartment and closed the door and locked it.Instantly the doorbell began to ring again and thepounding resumed.

Kearns’ hands fumbled the phone from its cradle.After several tries he dialed the number of thesheriff’s department.

“Sheriff’s office, is this an emergency?”“This is Kevin Kearns. Get me Evers.”After a moment, “Dick Evers here.”“Sarge, it’s Kevin.”

“You’re gonna have to speak up,” Evers said. “Ican barely hear you.”

“That’s what I’m calling about. There’s a mob ofreporters at my apartment. They won’t leave.”

“How the hell did they find out where you live?”“I don’t know. Maybe somebody followed me.”“Sit tight. Don’t talk to any of them. I’ll be there

in a few minutes.”“Thanks.”He hung up the phone and sat down on a worn

sofa he’d bought at a garage sale. His tea grew cold,and he didn’t have the energy to make more. Hishead pounded in concert with the incessantpounding on his door. He felt like screaming.

Instead, Kevin Kearns put his face into his shakinghands and cried.

By the time Evers arrived Kearns had wiped awayhis tears and calmed his breathing. He wasn’t proudof his crying jag, but once over it he found his handshad steadied. He poured the remainder of his teadown the sink and ran cold water over his face. Henoticed the pounding on his door had stopped. Thissilence was followed a moment later by Evers’familiar drawl.

“Open up, Kevin, it’s me.” Kearns opened thedoor, hoping any evidence that he’d been crying hadwashed away under the water.

Evers came in, his breath visible. Behind him cameDetective Rod Parish, who Kearns had only met oncebefore. Kearns could see two uniformed deputiesoutside, roughly dispersing the crowd of reporters.

Evers made introductions, and Parish and Kearns

shook hands.“I didn’t know what to do,” Kearns said.“This was bound to happen,” said Evers. “Besides,

we need to move you anyway.”“Move me?”It was Parish who answered. “Kevin, things went

to shit after you left the station. The sheriff held apress conference and opened his big goddamnedmouth. There’re at least a hundred people at thedepartment, and more coming every minute.Reporters from every network, schooladministration people, church groups, plus the usualtroublemakers and rubberneckers. It’s a zoo.” Parishlooked around for a place to spit tobacco. Kearnsfound a plastic cup emblazoned with the Iowa StateCyclone and handed it to the detective.

After Parish spit, he continued. “The citizens don’tknow what happened, and they’re all worked into alather. Folks are confused; they’re grieving, andangry, and some of em are asking how come thegirl’s dead and you ain’t. The press ain’t helpingthings any, either. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s a mob alright,” Evers added. “It’s ugly as hell,and getting uglier.”

Kearns felt a stab of pain in his stomach.“Like I told you at the hospital, people get crazy at

times like this; they don’t think. Some are jumpingto foolish conclusions. Folk are looking to makesense out of something nobody can make sense of.They want someone to blame.” Evers took off his hatand wiped his brow. “They’re blaming you.”

“He’s right, kid. Things are really hot,” Parish said,

around his plug. “There have been threats.”“Threats? Against me?”“Take it easy. Like I said, people get crazy.”Kearns ran his hands through his hair, flinching

when he inadvertently rubbed the fresh stitches.“What the hell did I do? Why would somebody wantto threaten me?”

“It’s what they think you didn’t do, Kevin. Folksare worked up and looking to lash out,” Parish said.“You’re the most convenient target.”

“I’m not responsible for what happened to thatlittle girl! Is somebody implying that I caused thegirl’s death? That I’m responsible?”

“Sheriff Coates didn’t exactly say you weren’t,”said Evers.

“That fucking blowhard can’t keep his mouthshut,” said Parish. Evers nodded in agreement,cursing under his breath.

“What did the sheriff say?”“He didn’t say you were the cause of anything,”

Evers said, kneading his hat in his large, callousedhands.

“But he damn sure didn’t say you weren’t,”finished Parish. “Buck’s no JFK when it comes topublic speaking on a good day, but with the crowdthe way it was, he should have kept his mouth shut.I think he was trying to showboat and score a fewvotes, but all he did was rile everybody up. Damnnear caused a riot right out in front of the station.”

“How did reporters find out where I live? Myaddress and phone number are unlisted.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody at the station

leaked it,” Parish said. “Besides, it’s a small town.They’d have found you eventually.”

“Buck goes up for re-election in less than a year,”Evers explained. “He’s already campaigning, andhe’s afraid of voter backlash. He wants to distancehimself. The sheriff’s got no loyalty to you; you’re arookie. Hell, you’re still on probation. And nowyou’re a source of controversy. He ain’t saying youdid anything to cause today’s crime spree, but hedamn sure ain’t sticking up for you, either.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Parish. He spit a wad ofbrown juice into the plastic cup for emphasis. “ThatFBI fucker you crowned, Scanlon? He’s madder thanhell. He was at the hospital getting his face repairedwhen all the reporters showed up. He’s beenrunning off at the mouth about what a recklessasshole you are. Said even though the investigationis still in preliminary stages, he can’t eliminate youas somehow connected to the kid’s disappearance,that sort of shit.”

“Swell,” said Kearns. “What am I supposed to do?”“First off, we get you out of here,” said Evers.“Yeah,” agreed Parish. “We’ve got to move you.

You’re a hot potato. At this point, I wouldn’t putanything past anybody.”

“You’re not taking the threats seriously, are you?”All Kearns got for an answer was a hard look from

both veteran cops.“Pack a bag,” said Evers. “Take plenty of clothes. I

don’t know how long you’re going to have to laylow.”

Kearns began stuffing clothes and toiletry items

into a green army duffel bag. The last thing hepacked was the snub-nosed Smith & Wessonmagnum from the table and a box of cartridges. Hefollowed Detective Parish and Sergeant Evers fromhis apartment.

Parish led them to an unmarked sheriff’s sedanparked nearby. Evers dismissed the two deputieswho stood guard, and they left in their patrol car.There was half an inch of snow on the ground, andmore was coming down. Parish fired up the cruiserand the trio drove off. Kearns sat in the back withEvers riding shotgun next to Parish.

No one spoke as they drove past the city limits andonto Interstate 35. The snow was getting thick onboth the road and the windshield, and the wipersworked hard. After ten minutes on the highwayParish pulled into a roadside motel.

All three men exited the car, and Parish produceda key to a room on the ground floor. Kearns luggedhis bag in, followed by the two deputies. He didn’task why Parish didn’t check in.

“OK, Kevin, you’re on your own,” said Parish.“Don’t go out of the room. There are a lot of out-of-town folks, especially reporters, who are going to beflooding these roadside motels. Don’t give them achance to spot you. We’ll check in tomorrow.”

“I’m supposed to hide out? Like a criminal?”“Don’t think of it that way,” said Parish, spitting in

the snow. “More like a witness.”“Easy for you to say. You’re not being stashed in a

shitbox motel with orders to keep out of sight.”“It’s only for a while,” said Evers. “Until things

cool off a bit. Try to relax.”“Could you?”Evers and Parish exchanged a look. “We’ll be in

touch. Lock the door behind us.” They left.Kearns looked around the dingy room. The bed

had a device which vibrated if you inserted coins.There was a rotary phone, a bible, two white towelsin a bathroom which smelled too strongly of Lysol tobe truly clean, and a battered color TV with cigarettescars on its simulated wood grain plastic top.

He placed his bag and took off his coat, removinghis revolver from the pocket. He opened thewheelgun and made sure there were six cartridgesnestled in the cylinder. He replaced the handgun intohis coat and slung it over a battered chair.

Kearns checked his watch. It was past 10 o’clock.He switched on the TV and found a news station.The picture wasn’t great, but the sound wasadequate. He settled on the bed, watching andlistening intently. The television was tuned to anationally-broadcast news network.

“In political news today, the Tower Commissionreleased a damning appraisal of the Reaganadministration’s direct involvement in the Iran-Contra affair. What President Reagan personallyknew of his administration’s decision to sell arms toIran through Israel in exchange for the release ofhostages held by Hezbollah is still underinvestigation.”

Kearns switched to local news.“Tragedy struck in rural Iowa today. An

unidentified gunman apparently kidnapped a seven

year-old elementary schoolgirl after gunning downher teacher during a brazen daylight attack. We havereceived unconfirmed reports that after making hisgetaway, the lone gunman sexually assaulted thechild and killed her by unknown means.”

Kearns held his breath and wrapped his armstightly around his chest.

“What made this particular act of violenceespecially brutal,” droned the monotone voice of theanchorman, “is the fact that the suspect, accordingto law enforcement sources speaking on condition ofanonymity, apparently left the victim’s body at awell-traveled highway rest stop. Steve Buchanan, onlocation, has more on the story.”

The TV picture switched to a shot of the FranklinRoosevelt Elementary School crime scene, with cops,ambulances, and a large crowd milling about. Thelocation reporter, Buchanan, was babbling away inthe same monotone as the anchorman who’dintroduced him. Kearns barely heard him. In thebackground, medics were loading a sheet-coveredstretcher into the back of an ambulance.

From there the image changed to a still-photo ofa matronly woman in horn-rimmed glasses, standingproudly by a group of small children. The reporterdescribed the woman as a dedicated teacher,churchgoer, and grandmother who diedcourageously trying to save a child in her care.

Kearns felt queasy. He wanted to turn off the TVbut couldn’t take his eyes from the screen.

The TV shifted to a picture of Tiffany Meade. Theshot showed a small girl with a kitten in her arms

sitting in front of a Christmas tree. She was wearingpajamas and an ear-to-ear smile. Kearns flinched,tears forming in the corners of both eyes.

The camera changed once again. It switched backto the reporter, Buchanan, this time standing in afield. Snow was falling and his breath was visible. Inthe background, ringed by yellow crime-scene tape,were state troopers and sheriff’s deputies. There wasalso a crowd of onlookers. The reporter motioned toa grove of trees, and indicated those very trees werethe location where young Tiffany Meade’s body wasdiscovered.

Kearns closed his eyes hard in an effort to stop theflow of tears. He opened them an instant later to seefootage of the hospital, taken earlier that afternoon.Hospital staff scurried about tending to the hystericalchildren and adults in shock. He knew while thosepictures were filmed he’d been inside the hospitalgetting his head sewn up. He listened to Buchanan’sestimation of how hard the solid, blue-collarcommunity was rocked by the tragic event.

“We are receiving mixed reports that an off-dutysheriff’s deputy may have been somehow entangledin the day’s events. Unconfirmed rumors havesurfaced that the deputy has refused to cooperatewith the FBI task force. There’s been no commentfrom the deputy, who’s been tentatively identified asDeputy Kevin Kearns, a rookie with less than ayear’s tenure on the department.”

Kearns’ jaw dropped. He watched his policeacademy graduation photo displayed on television.He was shaking his head in disbelief when the

familiar face of Sheriff Buck Coates lit up the screen.“...assure you that my department will do

everything possible to apprehend the individualresponsible for today’s crime. You all can count onthat. You have Buck Coates’ word on it.”

Kearns couldn’t believe his ears. Coates was usingthe incident as a campaign platform. He began tounderstand Detective Parish’s assertion that ascapegoat was in the making.

The news story continued with a sketch artist’srendering of the suspect. The description was givento detectives earlier by Kearns at the hospital. Thestory ended with an admonition that the suspect wasconsidered armed and dangerous.

The news broadcast returned to the stern butfriendly face of the anchorman, who said the currentTri-State manhunt for the suspect was the mostextensive in the region’s history. Kearns switchedthe TV off.

He wiped the tears from his eyes angrily and drewthe curtains apart. He hadn’t turned on the lightsinside the motel room. Outside, gentle but heavysnowflakes descended on a blanket of fresh snowand reflected off the neon lights of the motel sign,casting an eerie glow. Kearns watched the fallingsnow. It reminded him of the picture of TiffanyMeade on the TV a moment ago. She was cuddlinga kitten near a Christmas tree. But Tiffany Meadewould never see another Christmas.

Eventually Kearns lay down fully dressed on thebed. He spent the remainder of a sleepless nightreliving each anguished moment of the past day.

Each time he dozed off he would awaken momentslater in a cold sweat amidst visions of childrenhanging dead from snow-covered trees.

WOUNDED PREY / Sean Lynch

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