The Dead Man

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Sheriff Ed Beedles grabbed the barrel of his shotgun, yanking it from the rack in his patrol car. He knew Charlie Brennan well enough to know better, but there he was, standing in front of his brother's farmhouse not fifty feet in front of him, covered in blood, one arm wrapped over his ten-year-old niece, Maggie, clutching her like she was a hostage, the girl wearing nothing but a nightgown, shivering in the cold. The dispatcher had taken Charlie's call thirty minutes ago, Charlie screaming at her that Sam and Gretchen were dead and that he had Maggie.

The Brennan place was twenty miles south of the sheriff's headquarters in the Johnson County courthouse in Olathe. He'd made good time, taking advantage of the new highway, Interstate 35, that had opened earlier in the year, making it to Spring Hill in twenty minutes, then heading west and busting it over the last few miles of rough county road. He fishtailed making the turn into the Brennans' property, tires spitting gravel and ice laid down in last week's storm, siren blaring, his heart riding in his throat the last quarter mile to the farmhouse. He was first on the scene, his deputy Tom Goodell, and two ambulances five minutes behind.

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