08 - December Dread Read Online Free PDF Page A

the killer’s hat, plump, glistening flakes so large and whimsical that they make a tiny sound when they land. The town is asleep, or close to it. Ten o’clock on a Sunday night is considered late in farm country, where the animals rise before the sun and need tending to. Even in town, where the farm work gave way to waitressing, office, and health care jobs decades ago, people still live by the rhythm of the agricultural clock.
    It is odd for the killer to be undertaking this mission in such familiar territory.
    This one has taken longer than the rest to plan because the killer has to decide whether to build the snowmen in advance or create them from scratch in the women’s yards. In the end, the most sensible route is a compromise. The trunk of the sedan, this time a blue four-door Dodge, is packed with three huge white globes of snow, each as large as a prized pumpkin. Six more are balanced in the back seat of the car, three basketball-sized, three cantaloupe-sized. It takes only moments to roll each ball across the virgin snow to pick up more girth, then construct the three-foot-tall snowmen in the center of each yard, wind a scarf around their necks, pop in two button eyes and stick arms, and balance a candy cane on the edge of each stick claw. Even if people had been out and about, there are few things less threatening than stumbling upon a person building a snowman.
    Targeting multiple women is a recent addition to the master plan. Seven women in White Plains had received a candy cane. One had drawn the short straw, along with her mutt. Previously, in the other states, there had only been one calling card and one death in each city. The addition had been accidental. There had been so surprisingly many viable candidates in White Plains, so many beautiful, trashy brunettes selling themselves so cheaply online, that in the end, it had been necessary to educate more than one. Killing seven would have been ridiculous, but contacting seven, forcing the misguided ladies to reflect on the error of their ways, was a good idea. Plus, it was smart not to put all your eggs in one basket.
    It was a happy accident the way the seven calling cards had affected the whole town. It’d be awhile before any White Plains woman exposed herself freely to the world. That is a greater good.
    Building seven snowmen, however, simply is not practical. Fortunately, only three women in this town truly need the wake-up call. The killer pats the last bit of snow into place on the third and final snowman of the night. It is a little small, but extra buttons provide a smile for this one. The other two snowmen only had eyes.
    The killer reaches for a tissue. The night wind is bitter, the snowman-building tedious, especially when she is so loud and demanding inside the killer’s winter jacket. The pocket she is housed in doesn’t muffle her complaints, and they are constant, even though she is well-bundled in her Jackie O winter gear. Don’t jostle so much. I’m cold. Hurry. Don’t be so stupid.
    The nagging becomes grating.
    Nose blown, the killer steps forward to knock on the front door, then melts into the shadows around the corner. The snowflakes fall more softly here.
    Inside, footsteps sound. She’d been watching the 10 o’clock news. She should have known better than to answer the door in her pajamas. She looks through the window first, maybe, surveying the landscape of her front yard before deciding to let down her guard. In any case, she opens the door and spots the snowman. She laughs and claps her hands. Does she think a secret admirer has left a surprise? If so, she’s right, in a way. She slides her feet into slippers and skips through the snow.
    Is it her childhood she’s thinking of? Fresh fat snow, hot chocolate, sleigh bells? She’s standing immediately in front of the snowman when she notices the candy cane hanging from its stick finger. Her hand goes to her throat. She backs away, trips, falls into the jagged crust of snow