Free Impulse by Joann Ross

measured look.
    Then, without another word, he turned and strode back toward the brightly lit crime scene.
     
     
    T he man watched the events unfold amidst the beehive of activity with interest.
    He hadn’t expected Sheriff Bridger to be so competent. So totally in charge of both himself and the situation. Gossip around town had him a burn ed-out head case who’d run back to his hometown like a cowardly dog with his tail between his legs after a cop shooting had gone wrong down in Savannah.
    Apparently those rumors were, if not wrong, at least exaggerated.
    And wasn’t that just interesting?
    He’d learned at a young age that the world was divided into two types of individuals. There were predators. And prey.
    He’d been bo rn a predator. Surprisingly, it appeared that just perhaps Will Bridger had, as well.
    Which, following that line of thought, would make hi m the sheriff’s quarry.
    Hmm.
    That certainly changed the game.
    Hunter/quarry.
    Predator/prey.
    The two were intrinsically entwined. Yin and yang. One couldn’t exist without the other.
    But, in the end, one of them would die. The other would live.
    As he watched the teen vomiting just feet from the lifeless body of the slain girl, the man who’d been raised by wolves smiled.
    He’d always loved the hunt.
     

 
     
    13
     
     
    T he sheriff’s office was located on the second floor of the hundred-year-old courthouse, next door to the fire station. The acrid scent of burning coffee and stale cigarette smoke hit Josh’s nostrils and set his gut to churning again the moment he walked in the door.
    Earlene Spoonhunter, the night dispatcher, who Josh figured had to be at least as old as the building, glanced up from the afghan she was crocheting. Her eyes, as black and bright as a raven’s, gave nothing away.
    “The sheriff called,” she informed Sam in a flat Western tone as expressionless as her gaze. “Seems a tourist swerved to miss a fool sledder crossing the road, hit some black ice, and ran his rental SUV into a tree. He ended up with a broken arm and some bums from the air bag; Will’s taking the guy to the hospital and figured he should be here in about thirty minutes.”
    “Well, we’re sure as hell not going anywhere,” Sam said. He opened a side door, gesturing Josh into a small room. “Have a seat, kid. Can I get you something? Maybe some coffee to warm up? Or a can of pop?”
    Josh had seen enough cop movies to know the drill. The trick was to bond with the suspect by offering him something to eat or drink. Get him off guard, so he’d spill the beans. The thing was, Josh didn’t have any beans to spill.
    “I wouldn’t turn down a 7UP.”
    “Don’t have any 7UP. How about a Mountain Dew?”
    Josh shrugged. “Sure.”
    “I’l l be right back.”
    The deputy, who made the old lady in front seem outright chatty, shut the door behind him, leaving Josh alone in a room with a brown metal table and four battered wooden chairs that looked as if they’d been retrieved from the Dumpster behind the Salvation Army.
    There was a mirror on the wall. Suspecting he was being watched from the other side, Josh slumped down into a chair and, resisting the urge to rub his clammy, cold hands together to warm them, folded his arms across his chest.
    He felt the aloneness come crashing down like a huge stone onto his shoulders. Felt the dark weight of it inside him.
    He’d always felt alone. Most of the time he’d managed to convince himself he’d gotten used to it. Preferred it. He was also a world-class liar; especially when he was lying to himself.
    This wasn’t his first time in police custody. He’d been “detained” once for shoplifting a leather L.A. Lakers jacket by the security guard at the Nordstrom South Bay Galleria in Redondo Beach.
    A call to that year’s stepfather, who was conveniently the managing partner in a Century City law firm, had made the problem disappear, and after receiving an apology from the sto re manager for