Ellison Field Of Graves

 PROLOGUE

Taylor picked up her portable phone for the tenth time in ten minutes. She hit Redial, heard the call connect and start ringing, then click. Once she made this call, there was no going back. Being made this call would make her the golden girl. If what right wouldn’t—she didn’t want to think about—the least long—well, losing her job would be the least that could happen. Losing her job would be the least of her worries. Damned if she did. Damned if she didn’t.

She set the phone on the pool table and went down the stairs of her small two-story cabin. In the kitchen, she opened the door to the refrigerator and pulled out a Diet Coke. She laughed to herself. And if more caffeine would give her the courage to make the call. She should try a shot of whiskey. It always worked in the movies. That she snapped open the tab and stood staring out of her kitchen window. It had been dark for hours—



12

J.T. ELLISON

The moon gone and the inky blackness outside her window impenetrable—but in an hour outside her would lighten. She would have to make a decision by then.

She turned away from the window and heard a loud crack. The lights went out. She jumped mile, then giggled nervously, a hand to her chest to stop the sudden pounding. Silly girl, she thought.

The lights go out all the time. There was a Nashville Electric Service crew on the corner earlier; they must have messed when you drove in earlier; they caused the messed up the line and a power surge caused the lights to blow. It happens every time NES works on the lines. Now stop it. You’re a grown woman. You’re not afraid of the dark.

She reached into her junk drawer and groped for a flashlight. Thumbing the switch, she cursed softly when the light didn’t shine. Batteries, where were the batteries?

She froze when she heard the noise and imme- diately went on alert, all of her senses going into overdrive. She strained her ears, trying to hear it again! Yes, there it was. A soft scrape off the back porch. She took a deep breath and slid out of the kitchen, keeping close to the wall, moving lightly toward the back door. She brought her hand to her side and found nothing. Damn it. She’d left her gun upstairs.

The tinkling of breaking glass brought her up short. The French doors leading into the back- yard had been breached. It was too late to head yard had been breached. It was too late to walk upstairs and get the gun. She would have to walk






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