Sudden movement.
His heart clenched for a second.
Before realizing he was wrong.
As he focused on the movement, he recognized a lone coyote throwing its shadow against the aging boards of the kennel.
Yes, that was it.
Now, the beast was apparently downwind and out of sight of the kennels.
He aimed the Glock at the narrow nose and glowing eyes.
Bit his lip.
But he didn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t risk the blast.
Tense, pistol in hand, he kept his gun aimed as the scrawny coyote trotted past the kennels.
Again the damned dogs sent up their warning howls! Baying loud enough to wake the damned dead.
Good-for-nothings.
Not even hunting.
But she liked them. So … fine.
Miserable curs.
Once the coyote disappeared, the hounds settled down again. As did his racing, reactive heart.
He lifted the trapdoor again and made his way down the stairs, checking his watch. He had little time. Would have to work faster.
He’d almost shot the marauding coyote, which would have risked everything. He couldn’t afford to be reckless. Not now.
He told himself he was just nervous.
Anxious.
Juiced by anticipation.
Back in the basement, he slid the pistol into its holster and glanced at the stones—shining and ready, sorted neatly by the open Bible. Repeating his favorite verse, he changed the music on the old stereo’s turntable.
Led Zeppelin.
“Stairway to Heaven.”
As Robert Plant wailed and the music filled the room, he slipped onto his stool, picked up a small chisel, and went back to work, carefully etching the number into the stone’s gleaming surface.
And then?
He glanced over to the vials propped in their rack. All neatly labeled. All with purpose. All shimmering dark red in the light.
Perfect.
But he needed to pick up his pace, he thought, as the song faded and he eyed the glossy photo he’d tacked to the bulletin board.
A headshot.