Free Stutter Creek by Ann Swann

possible. Then he could finish his business and get on with his life. He was beginning to crave getting high again.
    As the sun slipped behind the mountain, Kurt sat on the boulder and reminisced. His first victim had been only a few days after he’d snatched Danny. He’d had to train Danny first, and then the rest had been easy.
    Her name was Sherylyn Combs. She was a night clerk at the Wal-Mart in Pine River. Three days earlier he’d followed her to her car, an older model SUV. She must’ve been really tired. She never looked at him once. Didn’t notice him at all. She lived in a rundown duplex in the suburb of Yellow Bend a few miles away. He had followed her again the next night, just to be certain she always took the same route.
    Kurt had been driving the rusted Ford that he had obtained as part of a trade with Dave, the cokehead. Now, Dave was undoubtedly zoned out on his own urine stained sofa back in the big city, a tribute to the excellent Mexican brown heroin Kurt had turned him on to. Something he’d procured just for that purpose. At first, Dave had resisted, saying he was just a cocaine man. But when Kurt had turned to go, muttering about how he had plenty of other buddies who would want it, Dave had undergone a sudden change of heart.
    Kurt had been so excited he couldn’t wait to get started with his plan. He’d found Sherylyn on Facebook. She had listed Wal-Mart under “Where worked” on her profile page.
    Kurt thanked Fate that all his camping supplies could be found at the same store where the first name on his list was a cashier. As soon as he entered, he picked her out of the line of cashiers. Her profile picture had obviously been taken a few pounds ago, but when he saw her face in profile, he was certain she was the one.
    Whistling a lullaby under his breath, Kurt had unhurriedly gathered his supplies—Danny was passed out in the car under a blanket—and then he headed for Sherylyn’s checkout stand. Her plastic nametag confirmed that she was definitely the one he wanted.
    She’d made small talk as she scanned his ice chest, tent, and flashlight. “Going camping, huh?” She hadn’t really looked at his face. Her hands moved with their own kind of grace and symmetry as they picked up each item, rolled it to find the bar code, then slid it effortlessly across the scanner. Beep.
    Kurt had grinned and fingered the duct tape in his pocket. “Yep. Hunting, too.” His voice was jolly. If Sherylyn had looked into his eyes, her hand motions would have been halted at the discrepancy between his jolly voice and the intent in his eyes.
    But she hadn’t looked up. Nor had she noticed the excitement coating his words. If she noticed anything at all, she never let on.
    Kurt had felt a stirring his groin as he stood there talking to the first name on his victim list. In his mind, he was imagining her face contorted in pain.
    Unaware of his excitement, Sherylyn had continued to scan the smaller items—beef jerky, Pepsi, bottled water—and then she sacked them up.
    He paid with cash. No paper trail for Kurt Graham.
    He was too smart for that.
    Now, sitting on his boulder on the slope of the mountain, Kurt had become so lost in his gruesome thoughts that he almost missed the wedge of blue that flashed between the trees a hundred yards away. He’d known there was a cabin down there; he’d even briefly considered using it as his hideout, but it was way too close to the road. But what was that flash of blue? Was it a car?
    He stood up on the boulder for a better look. The sun was almost down; it was difficult to see. No way. It couldn’t be . . .
    It was.
    He jumped lightly from the boulder and followed the path of the creek for several minutes until he had a clearer view of the cabin.
    A blue ’69 Camaro sat in the circle driveway. He was close enough to hear the tick of the cooling engine.
    Kurt grinned.
    Fate had just smiled on him, again.
     
    He was so high on his own morbid thoughts he never