The snow had quit. The wind had not. It howled, driving temperatures below zero. Martin followed the tracks, wondering if his thick gloved finger would fit inside the trigger guard of his Glock.
The body lay just outside the halo of light from the park lamp. What was left was half buried in snow dyed red with its own blood.
“Oh dear God,” Martin gasped.
Flashlight beams trembled over the red covered white, tracing the line of tracks to the edge of the forest.
A howl rose on the wind.
Martin shivered. It had nothing to do with the cold.
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