Blood Trail

two pain killers out of her purse, swallowing them dry. At eleven, Colin would be off shift. In an hour or so she'd head over to the police department and catch a ride back to the farm with him. In the meantime. ...

    "If you can put up with me for a little while longer, I think I'd better get started on the non-Canadian teams."

    Bertie looked dubious. "I don't mind. If you think you're up to it. ..."

    "I have to be." Vicki dragged herself up out of the depths of the armchair, which seemed to be dragging back. "The people I talked to tonight will probably mention the call." She raised her voice so she could hear herself over the percussion group that had set up inside her skull. "I have to move quickly before our marksman spooks and goes to ground." She gave her head a quick shake, trying to settle things back where they belonged. The percussion group added a brass section, her knees buckled, and she clutched desperately at the nearest bookcase for support, knocking three books off the shelf and onto the floor.

    With the bookcase still supporting most of her weight, she bent to pick them up and froze.

    "Are you all right?" Bertie's worried question seemed to come from very far away.

    "Yeah. Fine." She straightened slowly, holding the third book which had fallen faceup at her feet. MacBeth.

    This morning Carl Biehn had been wringing his hands, trying to scrub off a bit of dirt. Like Lady MacBeth, she thought, hefting the book, and wondered what had happened to make the old man so anxious. But Lady MacBeth's scrubbing had been motivated by guilt not anxiety.

    What was Carl Biehn feeling guilty about?

    Something his slimy nephew had done? Possibly, but Vicki doubted it. She'd bet on Carl Biehn being the type of man who took full responsibility for his actions and expected everyone else to do the same. If he felt guilty, he'd done something.

    Vicki still couldn't believe he was a murderer. And she knew that her belief had nothing to do with it.

    Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows.

    Strongly held religious beliefs had justified arbitrary bloodbaths throughout history.

    It wouldn't hurt to check him out. Just to make sure.

    He hadn't been on any of the Canadian teams but Biehn was a European name and although he didn't have an accent, that didn't mean much.

    "Are you sure you're all right?" Bertie asked as Vicki turned to face her. "You're looking, well, kind of peculiar."

    Vicki placed the copy of MacBeth back on the shelf. "I need to look at the European shooting teams. Germans, Dutch ..."

    "I think you'd be better off sitting down with a cold compress. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

    There was no reason why it couldn't.

    "No." Vicki stopped herself before she shook her head, the vision of the old man's hands washing themselves over and over caught in her mind. "I don't think it can."

    Storm tested the wind as he crouched at the edge of the woods, watching the old Biehn barn.
    The man from the black and gold jeep was alone in the building. The grasseater remained in the house.

    The most direct route was straight across the field but even with the masking darkness, Storm had no intention of being that exposed. Not far to the south an old fence bottom ran from the woods to the road, passing only twenty meters from the barn on its way, the scraggly line of trees and bushes breaking the night into irregular patterns. Secure in the knowledge that even another wer would have difficulty spotting him, Storm moved quickly along its corridor of shifting shadows.

    Although he longed to give chase, he ignored the panicked flight of a flushed cottontail.
    Tonight he hunted larger game.

    Neither the East nor West Germans had ever had a Carl Biehn on their shooting teams. Vicki sighed as she flipped through the binder looking for the lists from the Netherlands. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were little black marks on sheets of white.

    The way people move around these days, Biehn could come from anywhere. Maybe I should do this alphabetically. Alphabetically ... She stared blankly down at the page, not seeing it, and her heart began to beat unnaturally loud.

    Rows of flowers stretched before her and a man's voice said, "Everything from A to Zee. "

    Zee. Canadians pronounced the last letter of the alphabet as Zed. Americans said Zee.

    She reached for the binder that held the information on the U. S. Olympic teams, already certain of what she'd find.

    Henry stood in the shadows