CHAPTER 1
The rain fell methodically against the spider-web infested windows of the old barn. An
occasional bolt of lightning lit up the horizon, casting an evil glow on the November nakedness
of the massive weeping willows that engulfed the old Englewood barn. The barn isn't hard to
find; just head north on state route 52, twenty miles on the outskirts of Whitehouse Wisconsin.
Whitehouse is no different from any other small town; the quaint tree lined streets, the "everyone
knows everybody” atmosphere, the Welcome Wagon, and the good old boys down at the
Whitehouse Police Department. November in Whitehouse is a festive time. All the women in
town begin baking the upcoming holiday treats, and the aroma of fresh baked goods fill the
crisp air. This November brought not only the brisk winter wind from the north, but a feeling of
oncoming doom that swept down route 52, through the center of town, and deposited its first
victim at the old Englewood barn.
Mary Brockton loved working at the hardware store. Although Al's Hardware store isn't the
size of the trendy new hardware store over in Vicksburg, she felt at home here among the nails,
garden supplies and tools. At the new store she would have been just one employee among
many. Besides, Al's hardware is located in the oldest building in Whitehouse, and when you
walk in the door you can smell the history absorbed into the well-worn, hardwood floors. Mary
walked over to the front window of the store and noticed the lightning had stopped. She placed
the palm of her hand to the glass and felt that the temperature had dropped sharply as well. She
knew it would snow soon. The sky was heavy and gray, and just looking up at the ominous sky
darkened Mary's mood. Her bright mood returned when she realized it was Friday and she
could spend a possible snowy weekend cuddled in front of the fireplace with a good book.
Mary, reacting to the clock in the town square toll 5:00 p.m., bundled herself up against the
piercing wind of the impending winter storm, grabbed her purse, and locked the door behind
her. She jumped into her ancient Pinto; fingers numbed by the cold, and keyed the ignition. The
Pinto's engine roared to life. She allowed the old car to warm up ten minutes before turning
towards home, radiant with the thoughts of cuddling up with Homer, her beloved blue tick
hound.
Mary did not have any family, so Homer was her life. She had found him when he was only five
weeks old, near death, huddled beside the ancient spruce tree in her back yard. Mary nursed
Homer back to health, and Homer repaid her with total love and devotion. The love that bound
them would warm the hardest of hearts.
The headlights of the Pinto picked up the lazy swirls of the first snowflakes that marked the
beginning of winter. With the drone of the car heater and the hypnotic way the flurries danced
across the windshield, Mary started to relax. "Five miles to the Englewood barn," she said
aloud. "I'm almost home." She found great comfort in that thought, although she would never
make it home that night.
She had pulled off to the side of the craggy road to remove a dog that had been hit. Her
compassion for animals cost her life. Mary, if she had lived, would remember just a few facts
about her killer. She could tell how it felt when the killer's hand closed over her mouth and the
cold emptiness that gripped her heart when the barrel of his .38 met with her temple. She
thought at first that he just wanted money, but that thought was quickly dashed away as he
dragged her towards the abandoned Englewood barn. Kicking, biting and scratching, she tried
hard to loosen his grip on her. She managed to free herself, and gasping for air she ran for her
car. As she reached the passenger door her mind screamed at her hands to work, to open the
door, to get in, to get away! The killer pulled her back away from the car by her hair and
slammed her face down onto the ground. She had succeeded only in angering him, so with one
blow from the butt end of his pistol, he rendered her unconscious.
