The Legend of the Hooky Killer
They set up a perimeter around the woods. Ever since the Harbinger and his brother went on those rampages years back, no one was taking any chances. Every available officer on the force had every conceivable exit surrounded. Each sweep of flashlight beams, each crunch of twigs underneath their boots, brought them no closer to their mark. He may as well have been gone.
Sergeant Patterson's latest sting was a bust. But he was sure he was here. He sent his best men out to secure the rim. Syben. Barter. Goodwin. Ramos. All trustworthy men, and damn good at their jobs. No sign of the man with the gleaming hook.
They wanted to pack it in. But Patterson knew something wasn't right. This killer was different than the others this town had seen. Even those fitness freaks who tried converting people to their cult a year ago. That was forced assimilation, but they crept around silently. This guy...this guy wanted attention. He wanted a show. And here was his stage. It didn't make sense.
Sarge made the call: They were staying the night, taking it in shifts. As they hunkered down for the long stakeout, Patterson put Ramos up as first watch.
"This guy's late to his own funeral," the Sergeant muttered to no one, as if to steel his resolve for his long, final night ahead.
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