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HALF PAST DEAD
Mass Market Paperback
(January 2006)
HQN Books; ISBN: 0-373-77063-4
"You've got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em,. Above all, a killer instinct separates a winner from a loser."
"Texas Hold-Em" was the man’s favorite television show. If he wasn't home to see it, he recorded the program. Most contestants on the game were fair players. He would grant them that much. But if he played with them, the suckers would soon find out they didn't have killer instincts.
He knew he would never play "Texas Hold-Em" on TV. His life was too important to devote so much time to the poker circuit. A pity. People would have no clue what they were missing.
The man’s attention was diverted from thoughts of "Texas Hold-Em" by the task at hand. He trudged through Mississippi’s waist-high underbrush in the dense forest of second growth pine. He'd driven into the area, using one of the dozens of overgrown logging roads in the area. He'd passed several hunting shacks hidden behind the dense brush. Like a carpet, ashy pine needles put a slight bounce in his step despite the slack load he lugged over one shoulder. The rank stench of the decomposing body made him breathe though his mouth.
He hadn't killed anyone in years, but he'd known it was inevitable. He accepted the risk the way he accepted a great many hazards. What else could be expected when he lived a double life? Risk brought a rush that ranked right up there with sex or money. He'd come to crave it like a schedule two narcotic.
This snoop on his back had forced him to play his hand. Murder had been his only option. A savage thrill coursed through him. Killing this blackmailer hadn't been as easy as he'd anticipated. She'd thrashed and moaned and bucked, but in the end her short, staccato breaths stopped and the life left her body like the air fizzling out of a party balloon.
His killer instinct had kicked in. Dump the body in the woods. By the time it was discovered, decomposition would have set in, and the authorities would have trouble identifying the corpse.
He pitched the women into the thicket. Her carcass hit some branches and several snapped, a dry brittle sound in the darkness. A whump told him she'd landed on the ground, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Maggots and spring rain would take care of the trace evidence. What more could he want?
He turned to leave. Was it possible for a human to walk away from a fresh kill without looking back at his handiwork? No way. He glanced over his shoulder. All he could see was her leg cocked at an odd angle in the underbrush.
Was he the best, or what?
His entire life fate had been with him. He chuckled, the thick foliage muffling his laughter. The changing tides of destiny never failed to amuse him. Fate guided him and wouldn't ever desert him.
Some secrets were carried to the grave—where they belonged. Dead men, dead women no longer have the opportunity to reveal your secrets. The power was his and always had been. This bitch couldn't be allowed to blackmail him and his life’s work crashing down around him. What was she? A nothing. He doubted anyone would report her missing.
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