Last Light by C. J. Lyons Page B

the hydrangeas. He looked up sheepishly when Drew approached. “It’s bad, boss.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Real bad. I ain’t ever—”
    “Is the scene cleared?” Drew asked.
    “I—I think,” Prescott stuttered. He was Drew’s least experienced deputy, hired a few months ago by the old sheriff. Second cousin’s son or some such thing. “The boy’s who found them. He and his old man are waiting for you.” He nodded to a large black Dodge Power Ram with the Blackwell logo emblazoned on it.
    Drew left the deputy and approached the crime scene. Lily Martin’s Subaru sat on the right hand side of the drive. Two bags of groceries were spilled onto the gravel and one of the rear doors was open. Peter Martin’s rusted-out pickup stood beside it.
    No signs of any blood out here. Drew crept toward the house, avoiding the main walk in case there was any evidence left behind. The front door was ajar. He drew his weapon—first time he’d ever done that as sheriff. Never had much need for it as deputy either, maybe a handful of times had even thought of taking it from his holster. Never discharged it off the range, certainly never shot at a real living person. But he couldn’t take any chances. Someone needed to clear the scene.
    He kicked the door open. It hit something, bounced back. He startled, then tried again, this time easing it open with his foot and peering around it. The first thing that hit him was the smell—there was nothing else like it, not in this world. It raised hackles on the back of his neck as if every fiber of his being was warning him to turn back before it was too late.
    Peter Martin lay facedown in front of the door. Most of his skull was blown apart and there was blood on the back of his denim jacket.
    Gingerly, he stepped around Peter into the foyer that separated the living room from the dining room and kitchen. It seemed as if every light in the house had been left on. So whatever happened must have happened last night.
    The TV was on but the sound was off. He wondered at that but only for as long as it took him to make sure there was no one in the hall closet or behind the couch. Next he cleared the dining room, kitchen, and laundry room. Only thing unusual were the groceries left out on the table and some dishes left soaking. An empty carton of milk and empty box of cookies sat on the counter.
    Had whoever killed Peter stopped for a snack? Or was it left over from the son, Alan? The Martins had a baby girl as well. Where were they?
    He crept down the hall to the bedrooms. The first was painted pink with a rainbow on the far wall. The baby’s room. But it was Lily Martin he found first. Tied to a rocking chair with clothesline, her face contorted, slashed, gouged, her mouth slit wide in a parody of a clown’s grimace. Blood covered her dress, dozens of slashes and cuts. Her skin was a dusky shade of blue, cold to the touch. She hadn’t gone quickly, that was for sure.
    Why here? In the baby’s room? He almost wished he hadn’t thought of the question. First, he cleared the closet. Finally, he turned to the baby’s crib. There was a puddle of blood below it and more sprays of blood on the pink crib bumpers.
    One look was all he needed. The baby had fared even worse than the mother. Christ almighty, what kind of sick bastard had done this? He could almost forgive Prescott for losing it.
    Backing out of the room, taking care not to step in any of the many puddles of blood, he turned to the other room across the hall. Alan Martin’s. He’d be, what? Six?
    He hesitated, his hand hovering above the doorknob. If they didn’t spare the baby, no way in hell would they have spared the boy. Grimacing, bracing for what lay inside, he opened the door.
    The room was decorated with racecars. No body that he could see, but there was blood—a trail of it leading from the bed as if someone had been dragged out from underneath it. A small palm print against the bed rail, the