Meanwhile, on the other side of town a man huddled in the corner of his cabin, crimson eyes exhausted from a night of fitful tears. Scattered around his feet were dozens of nails, their iron points glinting in the sun, awaiting completion of the three unfinished coffins near the door.
The two Ridgways and one Coomer lay across the man’s bed, colorless and rank.
Three open graves near the lake, dug in the moonlight hours ago, would put this case to rest, surely, pleaded the man to whatever fates would listen. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to finish what he had started; his hands were too shaky to drive the hammer another time.
One body he could cover up. Two bodies, and related ones at that, would be quite a bit trickier. Stealing Fred Coomer’s corpse from his own home put the man in over his head. There was no turning back now. Provided a fourth person didn’t get killed, he’d finish the job by noon and never be seen again.
No one ever said campaigning was easy. Larry Pillsbury picked up the hammer again.