Outfoxed

Начало книги

On October twelfth, silhouetted against a bloodred sunset, a cloaked figure carrying a scythe was seen by three people. A gray fox also observed the reaper.

A stiff breeze kicked up from the west, sending a sudden swirl of fallen, golden leaves spiraling upward. When they fell to earth the figure was gone.

“Did you see that?” Jane Arnold, known as “Sister Jane,” asked.

“See what?” the rugged man next to her replied.

“On Hangman’s Ridge, I swear I saw the Grim Reaper.” She pointed to her left, the deep green ridge rising softly from the meadows, a lone, massive tree commanding the middle of it.

“Sister”—Shaker Crown put his hands on his hips, shaking his head—“dipping into the flask again.”

“Balls.” She smiled at him.

It was an alluring smile and one that still carried a sensual message to men that even her seventy years couldn’t erase.

“No, ma’am, I didn’t see anything. Tell you what I do see. Fontaine Buruss hasn’t kept his word.”

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