The Fourth Victim by Tara Taylor Quinn Page A

the picture attached to Clay’s dash. Knew her and cared about her.
    He was there to work. And not to care.
    Emotion clouded judgment. Clay couldn’t afford to feel any.

6
    T he trees were barren, tall trunks and dead-looking branches with no leaves to offer protection from prying eyes.
    But the woods were thick, and just yards into them the road could no longer be seen. Making anyone walking among the fallen leaves and twigs invisible from the road. Invisible to anyone passing by.
    The area was government-owned. Protected land. Part of a battleground dating back before 1776. He’d walked among the trees as a boy, having ridden his bike out here with plastic cowboy and Indian figures in his pockets.
    When he was younger, he’d spent a fair bit of time in the cemetery in town, too. Pretty much everyone he’d known who’d died was in that cemetery. His parents. His grandparents. A friend from high school who’d been killed in a car accident. A friend from recent years, Bob Branson.
    Even his brother-in-law, the deputy he’d thought so clever but who’d really been a stupid, greedy man—Chuck Sewell. He’d been shot in the chest, killed with one bullet, by the female cop who’d outsmarted him.
    But that cemetery held other graves, as well. Graves of men who’d lived long ago, soldiers who knew the true meaning of bravery. Of sacrifice. Men who’d done whatit took to protect their own. Patriots. Men who’d inspired him, who’d taught him where he’d come from, what he could be. He’d read the tombstones so many times he could recite the words by heart. Didn’t matter that the stones were old, some fallen and crumbling, worn almost to the point of illegibility. He’d made out the words. Born August 19, 1776. Died October 12, 1802. Aged 26.
    And the children. There were children, so many of them. Little headstones with lambs or angels on top.
    And the young soldiers. Aged 19 years, 6 months, 14 hours. Aged 17 years, 4 months, 10 hours. Aged 24 years.
    They went on and on.
    The one he stopped at most often, the one that called to him, had a man’s name across it— Jonathan Abrams. Born June 1799. Died February 1892. And then, lower down, Elizabeth. That was it. Just a first name. Followed by Wife of Jonathan Abrams. Born November 1818. Died January 1892.
    They were his great-great-great-grandparents. Jonathan had been nineteen years older than Elizabeth, his second wife. And he’d loved her so much he’d died one month after her passing.
    Nineteen years older. Jonathan had been a celebrated war hero. A soldier. A God-fearing, country-serving man who’d helped found Chandler. A man of honor and distinction.
    And he’d been in love with a woman nineteen years younger than himself. There was nothing wrong with that. Elizabeth had been fourteen when Jonathan married her. Had children by her. Who’d had children, who’d had children, and so on, culminating with David and his sister, who had children of their own.
    David had been born to serve. To do whatever it took to keep Chandler and her people safe and thriving.
    He was a smart man. A quick study, his parents had been told when he’d started school. And he was a principled man.
    Many might not understand. He accepted that. Just as he understood his destiny.
    He was a patriot, walking the same ground as his forefathers, fighting the same fight—the battle to preserve freedom and the rights of the individual, to uphold the Constitution of the United States. But while the fight might be the same, the means were different. Because the times were different. They weren’t just warding off arrows anymore. And they weren’t merely trying to maintain control of their land.
    Walking through the now-barren woods in the quiet of a December Saturday morning, David thought back to that Saturday afternoon not so many weeks ago when he’d made a difficult choice.