Cold Sweat by J.S. Marlo

have a choice.
    The sheriff kicked the door of the outhouse wide open and looked inside for the longest time.
    There’s nothing in the shithole. Go back. Vince had pocketed all the splinters from the broken ski. There was no evidence left.
    Morgan lowered his gun, knelt, and brushed the snow. The branch had given a more leafy texture to the white stuff, but Vince didn’t expect a newly appointed city sheriff to notice the subtle difference.
    As the sheriff slowly stood, his gaze seemed to travel along the leafy pattern covering Vince’s boot prints.
    The butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder, Vince swallowed his impatience.
    Stepping sideways, Morgan raised his weapon. Unsure what prompted the aggressive move, Vince peered through the scope. Shit. A deer had crossed the clearing, but there was a large gap in the tracks of the animal. When Vince erased his prints, he’d accidently covered the deer’s as well.
    It appeared Morgan had noticed the inconsistency. The sheriff sneaked on Vince’s right, heading straight for his hidden snowmobile where he would stumble on the brat’s gear.
    On probation for threatening a neighbor and shooting his dog, Vince couldn’t afford another strike on his record. Kidnapping charges would send him in jail for a long time. This wasn’t how he intended to enjoy his money.
    A branch cracked under Vince’s elbow. Shit.
    The sheriff turned. His gun aimed in his direction. “Freeze.”
    Vince pulled the trigger.
    Thrust backward, Morgan hit the trunk of a naked tree. A maroon stain expanded on the front of his jacket. He crumbled in the snow. Eyes closed.
    “Sheriff? Is everything all right?” The unfamiliar voice of a second man echoed in the forest.
    Double shit. Vince needed to retrieve the bullet, or else the police would match it to the one that killed the neighbor’s mutt.
    The gun had slipped from Morgan’s hand and landed by his thigh. Intent on shooting the other intruder, Vince pried the service weapon from the sheriff’s fingers. The bleeding man didn’t blink.
    Armed with a weapon he could fire at will and with impunity, Vince marched through the clearing.
    A young guy stood in the doorway of the lodge. “Who are you? Where’s the sheriff?”
    Bleeding to death—like you. Vince shot him. Twice.
    Blood poured from the side of the guy’s head, pooling on the porch. Without checking for pulse, Vince carried the body inside the lodge. One problem solved. He tossed the gun on the floor and closed the door.
    With any luck, no one would miss them until tonight. By then, the storm would have blanketed the entire region and postponed the search until morning.
    ***
    For a moment Amelia feared she’d crossed the line by assuming the lead in the sheriff’s absence. When Ford and Thompson hustled to gather the evidence and fax them to her office, her misgivings vanished. Richmond was right; he was surrounded by a great staff.
    Once she finished briefing Captain Jackman, Amelia introduced him to the deputies. She trusted the three of them to work out the details of the case and keep the line of communication open should she become unavailable.
    “If your Captain Jackman is as cute in uniform as he sounds on the phone, can I give his number to my sister? She needs a good man to straighten her out.”
    “Hold on a sec.” Thompson flipped a pen in the air. “Is that the same sister you tried to set me up with at the post office?”
    “Not the nutty one, Gil.” An ingenuous smile caressed Ford’s lips, accentuating the glow on her cheeks. “The naughty one.”
    The lively banter between deputies acted as safety valve. A vital protection against insanity.
    “Jackman has a wife and four kidlets.” Amelia stuck a post-it note on Ford’s computer screen. “Here’s my cell number. Call me if there’s anything new. I’m going to pay Norman a visit and refresh his memory.”
    Thompson dropped his pen. It rolled underneath his desk. “Would you like me to go with