The ‘Eye in the Sky’ zeroed in on Matt. The pit boss had alerted security that they might have a cheater on hand, perhaps a card counter. Whatever the case, he was winning at Blackjack and the casino didn’t like it. He was winning entirely too much.

Jesse Porter watched Matt on multiple screens. Jesse had been around for a long time and his face looked like a sun dried tomato. His beady eyes didn’t miss a beat and cheaters were his specialty. He could pick them out like ripe melons and split them open to reveal their secrets. Confidentially, Jesse loved cheaters. He loved finding out about their secrets.

Right now, his eyes were focused on Matt. He kept winning. It had been a game of cat and mouse without Matt knowing that he was the mouse. Jesse would change the environment and setting to see if he could figure out how Matt was winning so much.

“Change the dealer.”

“Change the cards.”

“Change the shoe to eight decks.”

“Send in Carla.”

It didn’t matter, Matt kept winning, even when Carla, a stacked blonde bombshell was sitting next to him, coming on to him like it was prom night. The cards kept turning and Matt kept winning.

“He’s got to be cheating!” screamed Harold the night manager.

Jesse studied Matt closer. “If he is, he’s the best I’ve ever seen. I’ve switched the cards to decks that I personally know are not marked in any form or fashion. I’ve rotated dealers and pushed him to the limit. He still keeps winning. How much are we down?”

Beacon’s fingers pulled the answer off the screen. They had been tracking every bet for two hours. He coolly said, “Eighty-five K.”

“Eight-five. Damn, he’s good. It’s not that he’s just good, he’s consistent. His bets vary from one to seven units. No more, no less. I just can’t figure out how he knows when to raise and lower his bets. He’s not counting cards, I’ve run the numbers. His bets don’t make sense at times, but he keeps winning overall,” said Jesse in admiration.

Harold touched the monitor and pushed on Matt’s face with his middle finger. “This sucker’s going down, one way or another, he’s going down.”

Beacon shyly called out to Harold, “He just broke ninety K.”

Harold’s face screamed red from his hairy neck to his balding forehead. “Damn it Jesse! Figure this guy out! How’s he doing it!”

Jesse continued to watch the flow of the cards. Matt would win some and he’d lose some. It was interesting, he had lost more hands than he had won, it’s just that his winning hands had large bets and his losing hands had small bets. Consistently.

Jesse shook his head. It was rare, very rare that he couldn’t figure out a cheater. He rubbed his veined stitched forehead and finally confessed, “Harold, I don’t get it. I can’t find a single angle that the kid’s using. I don’t think he’s cheating!”

Harold blew out like a bad tire, “He’s cheating! No one beats the house!”

Jesse looked at Matt again and watched his hands, his eyes, his every movement. Nothing. He couldn’t find the snake.

Harold tapped Jesse on the shoulder. “It’s time Jesse. Send down the goons and pull that kid up here. We’re going to have a talk with him and find out what’s going on.”

Jesse looked over to two well dressed thugs, “Do it.” The thugs thundered on the floor as they headed out.

Beacon called out, “He just passed one hundred K.”

Jesse turned his face back to the monitor just in time to see Matt look up and wink into the camera.

The phone was ringing as she walked in the door. Please, not again, she thought. She quickly locked the door behind her, throwing the deadbolt firmly in place. Her footsteps slowed as she walked towards the phone. She was halfway there when the answering machine picked up.

“Hi, this is Susan. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” She hardly recognized the perky voice on the recording.

There was a pause after the greeting, then she heard the harsh whisper she had come to dread.

“I know you are home, Susan.” Each word was spoken with quiet deliberation, as if the speaker was barely controlling his emotions. “Why don’t you speak with me, sweet Susie?”

There was another pause as the caller waited for her to pick up. Then, more casually, “I like the red sweater you’re wearing today. It’s new, isn’t it? You should wear red more often.” With a click, the machine disconnected the call.

Susan looked down at her sweater, a birthday gift from her mom. Her hands shook as she tore it off and threw it in the corner. It had looked so cheerful, so normal when she put it on this morning. Now he had contaminated it, just as he had contaminated the rest of her life.

She reached down and turned the answering machine off. If he stayed true to form, the phone would ring three more times tonight – at 7, 8 and 9 o’clock. Then he’d let her get her “beauty rest” until his wake-up call at 6:30.

She had tried everything to get rid of her special “friend.” When the calls had first started, she had hung up on him. When they continued, she’d quit answering the phone. When he filled her answering machine with details of her day, she’d called the police. Unfortunately, prepaid cell phones are impossible to trace. Besides, as they pointed out, he had never threatened her. At least, not in so many words.

She had finally changed her phone number, leaving it unlisted. The calls had stopped – for two days. Then they started again.

“Susie,” the whispering voice had said. “Why did you do that? That was very…inconvenient.” That was all he had said. No threats, no promises of retribution, only a simple statement. But the voice was different. It was darker, more controlled. Listening to the whisperer, she could hear the violent emotions swirling beneath the calm voice. The emotions were controlled – for now.

Susan jumped as the phone rang again. The caller ID showed the whisperer’s number. She glanced at the clock. 6:39. It couldn’t be him. It was too early. She let the phone ring.

After the 12th ring, he hung up. He always hung up after the 12th ring. He was consistent, if nothing else. Always 12 rings, never more, never less. Always one call in the morning, then four at night, and always on schedule. Until tonight.

The phone rang again. It was him. 6:44. Her mouth went dry as she counted the rings. One…two…three…four…after the twelfth, he hung up. She gave a sigh of relief. Somehow, she knew that she would be safe, as long as he stuck to part of his routine. As long as he stayed in control.

A little shaky, Susan walked to the kitchen to get a drink. Halfway there, the phone started to ring again. 6:49. She kept going, mentally counting the rings.

...five….six… She poured some orange juice.

...ten…eleven…almost over. She took a sip, enjoying its coolness on her parched throat. Suddenly she froze, the glass falling from her hand.

…thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

Some weeks ago, when they weren’t talking about anything in particular, Benjamin the Overseer had volunteered to Sheriff John Fordham that Calvin was “world-stupid”, and knew nothing of the world beyond Marse Vernon’s estate. It was an odd thing for a Maryland slave to say to a white Sheriff, especially about a fellow slave. As an Overseer, Benjamin had earned the reputation of being a trustworthy possession. A lesser man might well have been manacled and lashed for such an obvious breach of indentiture. It had now been two days since Calvin had seen fit to walk away from his duties in the fields and apparently seek his freedom in the woods nearby. An entire day had passed before Vernon Putnam, the aggrieved party whose human property was now missing, managed to get word to the county seat that an indentured man had made his escape, and another day still before Sheriff John appeared at the Putnam plantation. More than two days. Calvin could be in the next county by now.

But Sheriff John doubted that. He remembered the Overseer’s words. He decided that if Calvin was as “world-stupid” as Benjamin had said, then he would soon find the fugitive slave nearby, lost in the miles of unfamiliar woods that blanketed this part of Maryland. He and Vernon sat astride their horses at the edge of Vernon’s vast estate and spoke quietly about how they might best capture the wealthy man’s missing chattel without undue interruption to the autumn harvest. Sheriff John speculated that Calvin was now two days hungry. He would be barefoot and lost, unarmed and afraid, perhaps even willing to surrender himself for a hot meal. Sheriff John would sweep the trails around Vernon Putnam’s estate. He would not yet bother with the obvious trails that might eventually take Calvin south to Baltimore, or north to Pennsylvania. Sheriff John assured Vernon that Calvin’s capture was all but a certainty. The fugitive would be back in custody before long, perhaps even by day’s end.

From his hiding place in the bracken within view of Marse Vernon’s plantation, Calvin repeated the thoughts he had shared with his friend Benjamin many times over the past few weeks: “This is the world I know. If I can’t fight for my freedom near these fields, then I might as well be dead now rather than later. Let them come for me here”, Calvin had said. “I will find freedom in this life, or I will find it in the next.” Try as he might, Benjamin had been unable to deter Calvin from his plans. He understood his friend’s need to be free, but could not sanction the prospect of his death. He would help his friend.

Calvin lay still, thinking of food and freedom. It had been two long days. The loaf of bread that sister Mae had baked for him was gone. So he just waited, in the spot where he had been since yesterday morning. There. There it was. One loud chime from the Overseer’s bell. Silence. Then another. One man, just one. On most days the bell was used to call the workers in from the fields, but today Calvin knew that Benjamin was bravely warning him that one man was entering the woods, intent on capturing a runaway slave. He hoped it would be a man who believed he was pursuing a “world-stupid” runaway.

Calvin knew he needed a horse to escape to the north, and there was one headed his way. It wouldn’t be long now. Calvin tightened his grip on the hoe, which now must serve as a weapon. He was ready.

The two children looked anxiously around the dim attic. They were not allowed up there, Father said it wasn't safe. Father fretted over a lot of things and his children generally ignored his worries. The attic was one of their favorite hideouts. It was a great place to let their imaginations explode, though the space was mostly empty. There were a only a few moldy boxes of old clothes and a lot of itchy, pink insulation.

After breakfast Bobby and Sadie had raced up the rickety stairs to reclaim their territory from the dust bunnies. They played dress up with the old clothes for a bit, then decided to play hide-and-seek. Since the children were so familiar with the small attic, they always played hide-and-seek in the dark. A quick game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors,” declared Bobby “It” and he sped down the stairs to turn off the lights.

Sadie listened for Bobby to start counting, then crept quietly toward the back corner of the attic. Her favorite hiding spot was all the way in the back, between the boxes and the wall. She squeezed past the final box and wedged herself most of the way into the tight space, when her foot hit something on the floor. She tried to angle her head to view the object by her feet and saw only a faint, pulsing glow. The space was too small to get a good look at what was down there, and the boxes were too heavy for her to move.

“Bobby!” she yelled. “Bobby! Come here!”

Bobby flipped on the light and started up the stairs.

Sadie squeezed out from behind the boxes and hurried to him.

“No, go turn the light off. I'll wait right here for you.”

“What's going on?” Bobby asked suspiciously.

Sadie gave him a look, “Just turn it off and follow me.”

She waited for him to climb the stairs again, then took his hand. She led him to her corner, ignoring his questions about what was happening.

“Help me move these boxes,” Sadie grunted.

The two children slid the boxes about a foot away from the wall. The glow from the object pulsed brightly for a moment, showing off its shape. Both children gasped and stumbled back.

“W-w-what was that?” stammered Sadie.

Bobby grabbed her hand in the dark. “It looked sort of like an egg!”

“Yeah...a big, orange, glowing egg, hiding in our attic,” she said nervously as she gripped his hand tightly.

“Where do you think it came from?” Bobby wondered, staring at the egg.

“Sadie, Bobby!” They faintly heard their father calling through the house. “Time for lunch!”

“I'm not sure, but we can't tell Father. We're not supposed to be up here anyway, and the egg will just be another thing to make him worry. Do not say a word when we go down there!”

Bobby and Sadie snuck down the stairs and joined Father for lunch. It was an effort for them both to not say anything about their discovery, but they succeeded. They visited with Father for a small amount of time after the meal, then hurried back to the attic.

Sadie flipped the light switch, and they raced to the back corner. Sadie stopped abruptly and Bobby slammed into her back.

“Hey! What are you...” Bobby started to yell at his sister, then followed her stare. There was no longer an egg in the back corner of the attic. All that was left were some broken bits of shell quickly losing their glow.

It almost comical the way that seemingly inconsequential events turn out to be the ones that change your life the most.

Here I was, about to have the entire media watching public see my brains sprayed across the sidewalk, and it was all the fault of Panda Express and their orange chicken.

Ok, it wasn’t technically their fault, but when you’ve got cold metal pressed against your head, and a madman shouting in your ear, you don’t have time for anything but generalities.

Let’s see, when was it. Oh yeah, last week. I must have had a few too many martinis and left my debt card at Mickey’s Hangover. Hangover indeed, I didn’t realize it was gone until the day after that.

I called the bank and they assured me no charges had been made on my card and that my new card would arrive in about a week. Now for a girl who hasn’t held an actual dollar bill in her hand or written a check in over 2 years, this was a whole new life.

If they didn’t take plastic, then I didn’t want to shop there. If I couldn’t pay them online, I would find somebody who did take online payments. Step inside the bank? Not since I opened my account six years ago.

But, today I met my match. Panda Express and their no check policy, combined with my unnatural lust for their orange chicken and I found myself standing in the teller line waiting to make a withdrawal.

Now if I had done this before, I could have been in and out before all this started. Instead I held up the line for a good seven or eight minutes. At least that’s what I could hear impatient-nosy pants behind me muttering. I had just received my crisp new twenty dollar bill when I heard screams. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I whipped around.

‘Everybody get down, right now! Down on the fu……..’

The pounding of my heart flooded my ears as I threw myself to the ground. I looked around and saw that everybody else was doing the same. There were two, no wait, three guys with black masks. And very large, very black guns. I decided it would probably be best just to stare at the floor.

‘Let’s make this easy people. We want your money, watches, jewelry, anything of value. Just pile it on the floor in front of you. We’ll be out in 2 minutes if everyone cooperates.’

He continued, but I was no longer listening. I ripped off anything they might want and threw it in a pile with my twenty dollars. As one of the guys came around to collect, two of the men jumped over the teller counter.

‘One minute and counting boys. One minute.’

I just laid there, waiting for that minute to be over.

Shots rang out, one……two.

Oh man, this minute is never going to end I remember thinking.

And now, four hours later, I know that I have a minute for the negotiator to decide if my life is more important than giving in to the demands of a hostage taker.

‘Lenny, if you shoot that girl, there is no going back for you. I won’t be able to help you. Put down your weapon and we can talk this out.’

This only makes him jam the gun harder into my head. Ouch. If that hurts I tell my self, wait until he pulls the trigger.

I pray he doesn’t have an itchy trigger finger, but my faith is quickly vanishing.

‘You have to the count of ten to get me a car, or she’s gone.

10…..9…..8…..’

Peter gripped the steering wheel tightly, peered through the rain-streaked windscreen, and retorted: "Must we talk about my job with Jamie listening?"
Carol switched on the interior light and peered at their three year old strapped into his car seat. "No matter," she said tartly, "He's asleep. Anyway-"
Her next remark was cut short. As the car rounded a bend on the mountain track, the headlights revealed a huge rain-slicked boulder - right in their path.

"Peter!" she screamed.

Peter instinctively swerved away from the mountain. It was a mistake. The car sailed off the road in a graceful arc. Airborne for one brief, aching moment the car headlights revealed the canopy of a dense pine forest. Then came impact; a tortured rending of branches against metal, and blackness.

Peter awoke to the drip of water on his face. It was dirty, oily. He spat it out in disgust. Then panic surged as awareness dawned. Trying to control his rising hysteria, he took stock of his surroundings.
The interior light was still on, as were the headlights, but the wipers were entangled amongst a twisted mat of thin branches pressed against the windscreen.

"Carol?"
He twisted awkwardly in his seat to look, his heart full of love and fear. She was alive but unconcious; he could see her chest moving. Her legs were jammed under the lip of the glove compartment. The impact had thrown it open revealing a densely packed mass of maps and papers. Nothing had fallen out, not even Jamie's tennis ball thrust amongst the papers.

"Jamie!" he cried urgently, "Jamie!"
There was no answer. He listened intently. The wind howled, the car creaked. Then he heard his son's deep, even breathing and his eyes flooded with tears of relief - Jamie hadn't even woken up.

Then he discovered he was trapped himself. His legs were jammed under the dashboard and his seat belt release was so warped that no amount of tugging would free it.

His head began to throb madly, his seat belt cut into his shoulder cruelly and he was overwhelmed by a such a wave of claustrophobia that he writhed madly in his seat.
With a deep rending noise, the car suddenly fell a few feet and then stopped, still swaying slightly.
Realization hit him: the car was stuck in the upper branches of the trees. They might be at least 100 feet in the air. Any sudden movement could send them crashing to the ground far below.

He eased a Swiss army knife out of his pocket, stopping every few seconds to check the movement of the swaying car. Finally, bathed in sweat, he began to saw gently at his seat belt.

After what seemed to be hours, he was almost through, when a savage gust of wind buffeted the car from side to side. The car rocked dangerously. He stopped sawing, hardly daring to breathe. His eye caught a movement. It was Jamie's tennis ball, which had been freed by the rocking motion.
Peter stared in amazement as the ball fell from the glove compartment and sailed upwards towards the roof. Then, all the little incongruities hit him in one fell swoop: his throbbing head; the oily water; the seat belt biting into the top of his shoulder.
The car was upside down.

When the seat belt parted he would crash down to the car roof and dislodge the car from its precarious perch.

He looked down to see the last eighth inch of the webbing twist and unfurl by itself.
Jamie's voice suddenly screamed from the back seat: "Daddy!"

The seat belt parted; Peter fell.

Soon I will be in heaven. I welcome this chance. One hundred more heartbeats to keep my useless shell alive, in order that I might perform my last living act. One hundred more heartbeats and my soul will be free to soar forever in glory, a heroic passing for a mortal man of no earthly value. My value is in death. I welcome my glory. My future, and the future of my people, are beyond life.

Soon these infidels will be in hell where they belong. I will rise to glory as they fall to eternal damnation, and that is why I welcome death. When it is time I will drive to the curb near the door, about 40 metres away, where most of the infidels are seated in the outdoor patio section of the restaurant. I will wait a few more seconds until pedestrians have gathered at the crosswalk nearby, so that I can send even more infidels to their shameful end. The plunger is ready, in the seat beside me. The main force of the impact will radiate outwards perpendicularly from the passenger side doors and slightly to the front. I must be sure to position myself so that my single life is traded for as many lives of the impure as I can arrange.

Pedestrians are beginning to gather, so I will move ahead. I see a family of people gathered at a curbside table. Five people. That is good. Next to them is a table of four men, and further back a table of two women. There are restaurant employees nearby as well: I see a server and a cashier. Other people are walking by the patio area. All these people are well within the blast area. This is a good spot. I see two more people, a young couple, approaching another nearby table, so I will wait until they are seated. I welcome my opportunity for eternal glory.

I will put the car in park, but leave the engine running so that no one’s suspicions are raised. This is not a parking zone. I have the plunger in my hand, concealed in my lap, my thumb on the button. The young couple are not yet seated, and now one of the members of the family of five is rising from her chair. She is a young girl, eight or nine perhaps. I can hear an older woman saying “Cima, go with your sister to the washroom”, the same way my mother used to ask me to help my little brother. And now there are only three people at that table, and the young couple have decided to sit in an area farther away. Too late. I must wait for a new opportunity. Now the youngest girl is back. I see her whispering to her mother, who laughs. She gives the girl a small doll of some sort, and the girl leaves again. Mother says something to father, and they both laugh. Their son is smiling proudly. This is a happy family. I must dispatch these people before I become involved in their lives. I must not forget that they are infidels. Their happiness is not genuine. Their lives are built on lies.

Now the two ladies at a nearby table suddenly leap up and welcome a friend who has surprised them. They are laughing and hugging. Maybe this is the time. Two people have left, but one has arrived. This is a good time. But if I do this now, the two girls will be orphans.

I must wait. My glory can wait. I will wait until the two girls return. Then I will find glory. Dear God, make those two women stop laughing. Dear God, the girls are returning. Dear God …

John’s eyes slipped down to look at the frail child he held against his chest. He was slightly hunched over, trying to give her as much protection as possible, from the heavy rain that was falling. He held her tightly in one arm, his long, wet hair hanging down as he gazed at her.

She smiled at him. Her blue eyes were dazzling in their new born innocence. And for an instant, they were his world. Gone was the storm that turned the world into swirling gray mists around him. Gone was the sudden flare of the storm's furious lightning and its staccato bass thunder. Gone was the stinking filth of the city’s alleyway that he had run into trying to escape. There was only her smile and those trusting blue eyes.

His reverie was shattered, as the intense beams of xenon headlights flooded the entrance to the dead end alley he was standing in. He knew the doors were opening, even as it rolled to a stop in the tight space between those ancient buildings. More importantly, he knew they were coming for him.

Their silhouettes cut a black swath through the brilliant arc of the headlights. Three shadows, cast long, lying on the trash burdened ground, pointing directly at the child he held.

“Three?” he chuckled to himself, “I should be honored.”

The gloved fingers of his right hand instinctively tightened around the well oiled pistol they held. And the irony of his pose washed over him. Like an ancient god, grasping death in his right hand and life in his left, he sighed at the futility of it all.

He pivoted quickly and laid her behind him. Down on the watery stone of the alley, he placed her. Alone amongst the cold flow of the rains urban rivers, down where the only color in the mist of the storm and the void of their shadows, was the gentle blue of those eyes that he loved so much.

He turned back to them. They stood silent, as unmoving in their stance as they would be to any cries for mercy that he may mutter. Then the rage filled him once again. It seeped, silken soft, through the cracks in his broken psyche and filled him with the burning fury of a lost man, driven to desperation. It wrapped him in its scarlet embrace. It whispered to him in the lover’s voice of his now dead wife. Its fiery touch caressed his soul, stoking the fires in the forge of his heart, till it consumed his all.

He started to lift his right hand, the giver of death, before him. All of his training and instinct coming into the razor focus of a trapped predator that has nowhere left to run.

In that instant everything changed, the shadows moved, the gun raised and a lone child with crystal blue eyes wailed at the loss of her warmth.

I am a graduate of Amherst College with a degree in Psychology and a minor in Secondary Education. I write psychological evaluations for the Houston, TX court system, examining character profiles and emotional motivations. I then recommend behavioral modifications to the court system. Most of my cases deal with juveniles.

I have met some creeps in my time, but none have scared me like Jason Oakley. Jason is seventeen going on thirty. He slouched in my fine chair. I didn’t even want to think about the nastiness that he was depositing on the brown leather. Mentally I made a note to clean it immediately after he left.

His oily hair left remnants of dirt and grease on his forehead. His fingernails were black and his knuckles scabbed from fights. Jason didn’t feel the need to bath very often. He was wearing grimy jeans, a black Metallica T-shirt, and a filthy black leather coat. He wore an attitude dirtier than his clothes. He was here, in my office, because he had been arrested for brutally beating a sixteen year old sophomore at Palmer High School.

The victim’s face was bludgeoned raw. His nose and jaw were fractured. When he was found, one eye was hanging out of the socket. I looked at the scabs on Jason’s knuckles and wondered if there was still blood from the victim lingering among his own. I noticed the stains on his black boots. A chill went through me as I thought of his victim’s face feeling the force of those boots crushing his bones.

“Well, Jason, my name is Andrea. I will be your case worker. My job is to evaluate your mental stability and make recommendations to the court for your future. Do you have any questions so far?”

“Yeah, can I smoke in here?” he said as he pulled out his red pack of Marlboro’s.

“I’m afraid not. There’s no smoking in this building. The city doesn’t permit it.”

Jason pulled out a smoke and popped into his mouth anyway. He grabbed an old silver Zippo lighter from an outside pocket on his jacket and brought it to life. His gave me a defiant glare as the flame was sucked into his cigarette. As he exhaled, he threatened me with his eyes.

“Jason, you can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”

“You want the ashes on your floor or should I put them in something you give me?” he sneered.

“Jason, you can not smoke in here.”

He looked down at his cigarette and took in another long drag.

“Can’t smoke? Look at me, I’m smoking. What are you going to do about it?”

I realized this was someone who didn’t respect any form of authority so I reached for the phone to call security. Before I could dial security, he sprung from his chair and grabbed my wrist and bent it sideways and backwards. He yanked my hair back and pushed his filthy face into mine. His horrid breathed fell across my face, the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He inhaled as enjoyed himself and slowly blew the smoke across my face.

“My neck was strained backwards as I said, “Let go of me now!”

“Let go of you? Maybe, I’ll lock you in a basement like Wendy.”

I felt myself lose control. Wendy Bristol had been missing for two weeks.

“I shivered as I asked, “Are you talking about Wendy Bristol? Is she alive?”

Jason snapped my neck back further before he let go. He walked over to my window and opened it. He took a long drag of his smoke and flipped it at my face viciously as he slithered out the window.

“I’ll know soon.”

The light of the moon broke through the bare branches of the forest as Jim sprinted through the snow. He had walked this path to his hunting shed hundreds of times in the past, but he was thankful that the path had been illuminated for him this time. The icy wind kicked snow up into the air, bit into his face and left it numb to the touch. Tears streamed down his cheeks and fluttered off into the night. His eyes were so dry he could barely see where he was going. He had to trust his instincts and the glow of the moon.

Jim knew he didn’t have much of a head start, if any, so he zigzagged around the trees the best he could without sacrificing speed. Hundreds of questions flew through Jim’s head as he trudged through a solid foot of freshly fallen snow.

Who was this man? Did he know he had a daughter? Did he intend to go after her next? Would he ever see Dana again? His gun in his hunting shed was his only hope to answer any of these questions. He had to make it to the shed and--

Crack!

An explosion of pain shot through his side and into his back. Jim screamed in pain and collapsed onto the snow. He looked down and saw a river of blood pouring out of the side of his chest. He was hurt bad. This needed to end quickly. The wind died down for a moment and increased Jim’s visibility. He glanced back at his house and there, standing beside the back door to his house was the silhouette of his attacker, steadying a gun in his direction.

Jim rolled hard to his right and ducked behind a tree just seconds before two shots sailed through the air and over his head. With the rest of his strength Jim propped himself up on a tree and frantically searched for the hunting shed. There, just a hundred feet before him was the shed. He’d never make it. His back would be full of holes before he got half way there.

Just as Jim began giving up hope the wind picked back up and sent a wall of snow into the air. This was his chance. Without thinking, Jim made a break for the cabin, keeping as low as he could.

The sound of lead smashing into wood filled the air. Could he see him? There was no time to look back. While in full stride, Jim grabbed the door knob and flung himself into the shed. He landed hard and slid violently into a wooden work bench. Although stunned, he still had the presence of mind to kick the door shut.

The shed was almost pitch-black now. The muffled crunching of approaching footsteps pushed Jim through the pain. He reached up onto the work bench and felt around for his pistol. Found it, and luckily still loaded. Crouched in a dark corner underneath the bench, Jim took aim at the door the best he could. Images of his daughter flashed through his mind. God, she was so beautiful. Her eyes, her smile, her hair, he wanted to see her one last time. He wanted to give her one last hug, one last kiss.

One last goodbye.

No, he had to concentrate. He was going to see Dana again. Jim kept the gun trained on the door. Suddenly the handle creaked and slowly began to turn. A rush of frozen air swept through the shed. There were two loud pops then silence. Only silence...