Elmo kicked the door. Stepped inside, slid a little. His nose told him what his eyes had avoided seeing: he was standing in a pool of blood, still liquid but cold. He stepped past the entry and drew his .38, more for protection from the dead than the living.
“Elma! Are you here?! I’ve come for you!” he called. His own frosty breath hung before him. Today was cold, in the 20’s with a partly cloudy sky and light winds. Snow fell softly outside the splintered door. Elmo knew a body could last a long time in cold like this. He walked further, trailing crimson steps. He called out again, hoping Elma had left in time. If not, Elmo sensed tomorrow’s rain would provide no absolution.
Safe House
Published February 27, 1997
