Free Frozen by Jay Bonansinga

minimart for a moment.
    A moment was all the killer needed. He emerged from the shadows behind a garbage Dumpster, then strode across the radiant lot with his head held high and casual, his arms at his side. A tall, sinewy man with a long, gaunt face streaked with filth, he reached the green SUV and paused by the front quarter panel, glancing once over his shoulder to be certain no one was watching. His movements were precise and deft, despite the fact that he wore rags and smelled of BO and dried feces. The thing inside him cared nothing of hygiene. The thing inside him cared only of its higher purpose.
    The killer pulled a folding Buck knife from the back pocket of his stained, torn khaki pants. He worked quickly. Kneeling down by the front left tire, he unfolded the blade and slipped under the chassis. The task required less than a minute. Thirty seconds at the most. The killer found the proper cable and severed it with a flick of the knife.
    By the time the woman in the sundress had returned to the SUV, the killer had retreated back behind the garbage Dumpster, where his own vehicle, a stolen Mercedes SL-500, sat idling in the dark. He climbed behind the wheel. The interior of the Mercedes reeked of urine, spoiled food, and old sweat, but the killer hardly noticed it.
    The Honda SUV pulled out of the truck stop and started down Highway 15.
    The killer followed.
    The next thirty minutes or so were like a dance. The killer hovered behind the SUV, his headlights off, keeping just enough distance between him and the target to remain buried in the darkness of the desert. The woman named Carolyn Kenly drove above the speed limit. She seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. The killer watched as the rear of the SUV began to fishtail, the broken cable doing its job. Taillights flared. The SUV rattled over to the side of the highway.
    The killer performed the rest of the procedure with tremendous accuracy and aplomb. A half mile or so behind the SUV, he pulled over to the shoulder, parked, and turned off his engine. His bow, quiver, and tools were in the trunk. He gathered them up, slung the quiver over his shoulder, strapped the tool belt to his waist, and gripped the bow tightly in his left hand. Then he started toward the SUV.
    The desert was so dark, and the sky such a riot of stars, it was like walking across the dark side of the moon.
    It took just under five minutes for the killer to reach the disabled SUV and the frantic woman. The Honda’s hood was up. The woman was inside the vehicle, raving into her cell phone to somebody, probably her husband, or perhaps the clerk back at the Mason Dixon Truck Stop. It did not matter. The killer found an egg-sized rock and hurled it at the rear of the Honda.
    The noise sounded like a pistol shot, and made the woman jerk as though someone had slapped the back of her neck. She moved instinctively, throwing open her door and lurching out of the vehicle. She stumbled. The killer watched from behind a grove of joshuas. The woman still held her cell phone and still babbled as she staggered across the deserted highway and into the scabrous pasture to the north.
    â€œWhat was that? What was that!” she stammered into her cell phone as she hobbled along. “Danny, can you hear me? Danny, oh God, what was that? Danny, Dannnneeeeeee!”
    The killer closed in.
    Loping across hard-packed sand, not more than twenty yards behind her, not even breaking stride, he reached back over his shoulder to his quiver as if he were scratching his back. He was getting good at this part. With one graceful movement, he plucked an arrow out of the sheath and brought it up to eye level, snapping the bow back like a spring. The sling coiled. He held his breath, aimed, and let one go.
    The arrow whispered through the night.
    It hit the woman so hard in the back of her neck that her body rose off the ground. A yawp burst out of her that sounded like the squeal of air being forced out of a balloon, and she