LITMIR.BIZ

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the barn.”

      Kat jerked her head in the direction of the barnyard. “Do you mind if I poke around out there a bit?”

      When Alma shrugged again, the hopeless lift of her shoulders said, Sure, go out there. Find your clues. But it won’t bring my husband back. He’s gone forever.

      After thanking Mrs. Winnick for her time and patience, and after offering her condolences once again, Kat left.

      Outside, she tramped across the yard toward the barn. The sun was still out, thanks to daylight saving time, which had gone into effect the previous morning. The newfound brightness allowed her to look for footprints in the snow. She saw dozens of them—from Alma, from George, even from the stray cats that seemed to roam everywhere. If the killer had crept through the yard the night before, it would be impossible to trace his steps.

      Inside the barn, Kat found herself confronted by a surly Rottweiler chained in a far corner. It barked ferociously as soon as she entered. When it lunged in her direction, the chain hooked to its collar stretched so tight she thought the animal was going to choke itself to death.

      The noise from the dog set off the horses housed in stalls along the barn’s right wall. There were three of them in total, their heads shaking in agitation at the presence of a stranger. The only animal not perturbed was a black cat sleeping in a square of fading sunlight that slanted in through a cracked window. Unlike the other animals, it didn’t move a muscle.

      Kat surveyed the cluttered barn, the scent of hay and manure stinging her nostrils. In addition to the animals, the barn housed a tractor, a riding mower, and a plow. A pyramid of hay bales sat near the horse stalls.

      This was where the farmer first encountered his killer. She was certain of it.

      The killer had most likely entered the barn not long after faxing the death notice to Henry Goll. His presence there had irritated the animals, which in turn roused George.

      Kat put herself in the place of George Winnick, standing in front of the open barn door in about the same spot where he would have entered. She saw what he would have seen—a barn full of shadows.

      She took a few steps forward. Cautious ones. Like what George might have taken.

      Because there were no signs of a struggle in the barn, her assumption was that the farmer didn’t notice his stalker until it was too late. Perhaps he didn’t see him at all. The killer could have snuck up on George, creeping up quietly behind him.

      Looking around for hiding places, Kat saw the possibilities were endless. Behind the barn door, for one, or in the shadow of the tractor. Near the sleeping cat was a small alcove, no larger than a broom closet. The killer easily could have hidden there, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he waited for his victim.

      Kat crossed the barn and peeked inside the alcove. She saw a modest nook consisting of a clean concrete floor and plank walls. Her view from the threshold gave her no reason to enter the alcove outright. Besides, if George’s killer hid there the night before, then a tech team needed to do a thorough scan of it. Maybe it would turn up something. A footprint. A stray fiber. Perhaps a hair. Anything would help because at this point they had nothing but a corpse, two pennies, and a wooden box.

      Leaving the alcove, she gazed at the cat lying a few feet away. It hadn’t moved the entire time she was there. Not once. She watched for the tiniest of movements—an ear wiggle, the idle sway of a tail—but saw nothing.

      Approaching the animal, Kat nudged it with the toe of her boot. It was as still as a brick and just as heavy.

      The cat was dead.

      Kat bent down to examine the animal further, noticing a small pile of sawdust around its hind legs. When she nudged it again, more sawdust trickled from a gash in the animal’s stomach.

      The cat had been cut open, a long incision across its stomach showing where the knife had sliced. In place of its organs, someone had filled it with sawdust, which explained the heaviness. An unruly pattern of fur-obscured thread crisscrossed the incision. Stitches, used to sew the cat back up.

      Kat inched away from the dead animal. What it meant to the case, she didn’t know. But staring at the poor creature sprawled on the ground, she clearly understood that despite her theories and best guesses, she didn’t have a handle on the situation at all.

      Tony Vasquez was the first member of Nick Donnelly’s team to reach the barn. With him were a half dozen other state troopers. Tony stretched police tape across the gaping barn door. He then ordered two troopers to go on the other side of it and stand guard while the rest went to work.

      Not wanting to get in the way—and not wanting to destroy any evidence in the process—Kat retreated to an empty corner of the barn and parked herself on a bale of hay. From her itchy perch, she watched as Rudy Taylor arrived, armed with enough evidence bags to seal up every strand of hay she sat upon.

      Nick Donnelly and Cassie Lieberfarb showed up five minutes later. While Cassie joined her coworkers, Nick made a beeline to the bale of hay.

      “I need to talk to you,” he said.

      “That’s good,” Kat replied, “because I have to talk to you.”

      Nick plopped down on the bale next to her. “You first.”

      Kat took a deep breath and began. She told Nick about the death notice faxed to the Gazette newsroom before George Winnick died. She then moved on to what Alma Winnick had said about George investigating noises coming from the barn. That led to the search of the barn itself, where she found the dead cat stuffed with sawdust.

      “That confirms my theory,” Nick said, once she had finished.

      “And what’s that?”

      “That it might not be the Betsy Ross Killer we’re dealing with.”

      It wasn’t what Kat wanted to hear. Strange as it seemed, she had been hoping that all of this was the work of Betsy Ross. It’s easier to face the devil you know than the devil you don’t. And whoever killed George Winnick was one sick devil.

      “All of this—the fax, the dead animal—sounds far different from what Betsy Ross does,” Nick said. “Serial killers like him do sometimes change their MO, but not as extreme as this. And George’s wounds were different from the ones on the Betsy Ross victims.”

      “How did he die?”

      “He bled to death.”

      “From the cut on his neck? That was barely three inches long.”

      “Three and one-fifth inches long,” Nick clarified. “Wallace Noble measured it. And it was more than just the cut that caused him to bleed out.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      Nick leaned forward. “Do you know what the carotid artery is?”

      “Sure. It’s where the nurse checks your neck for a pulse. What does this have to do with George Winnick?”

      “His right carotid was sliced open,” Nick said. “It’s difficult but doable. Whoever did this most likely reached through the cut in his neck and pulled the artery out of the body. One careful incision later and you have a blood geyser on your hands.”

      Kat felt a stress headache coming on, signaling her brain was getting overloaded. The slight pain began just behind her eyes, ready to spread to her temples. Considering the circumstances, she was surprised the headache had taken so long to arrive.

      “It’s a horrible way to die,” Nick said.

      Kat couldn’t agree more. Perry Hollow had experienced its share of tragic deaths. Accidents. Brutal falls. But what Nick described seemed so cruel and hateful that she couldn’t quite believe it. Making someone bleed to death implied premeditation and planning. You needed to be prepared to do it.

      “It gets worse,” Nick warned. “Do you want me to go on?”

      Kat didn’t,

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