Previously: Kiwi heard him the first time and the hidden security camera informed her who was knocking. She was in no hurry to go to the door. She would—eventually.
Slater decided no one was there—so he did what any visitor would do when no one is home—he turned the doorknob and surprised that the door wasn’t locked—he opened the door.
THAT was a BIG mistake!
Kiwi was standing behind the door and pushed Slater back onto the porch, “Now look lady…”
Slater didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence—he was too busy lying on his back—looking up at a broadly smiling Kiwi.
Adventure Nine—Silverthorn’s—Episode Seven… Slater—stunned—started to stand up and was surprised when a still smiling Kiwi helped him to his feet.
Slater stared at Kiwi a moment.
“They’re not here, Agent Slater,” Kiwi was still smiling, “They’re…”
Slater shot Kiwi dead. She was still smiling as she fell.
Slater calmly went into the cabin. Keeping his .45 out, and walking as quietly as he could—he first cleared the main floor.
He then went upstairs and checked each of the four bedrooms. Finding no one, he very carefully returned to the main floor.
After a little searching he found the door to the lower level stairs. He inched his way down the steps—he was certain this was where Boomer was hiding—and worried that he wasn’t alone.
At the first door, he slowly and carefully opened the door. The room was empty. He opened the next two doors just as carefully. They too were empty.
At the final door he paused. Took a deep breath and kicked the door open. And found the room just as empty as all the others.
Realizing he’d killed Kiwi unnecessarily—and that was murder. Cold-blooded murder.
“I’d better get rid of the body,” He thought—then realized that wouldn’t be enough. He spent enough time working crime scenes to know that blood would soak into the wooden porch floor—and no amount of cleaning would remove it all.
Fortunately, he hadn’t used his issue Glock .40 caliber pistol, but his personal Colt .45. That pistol was registered nowhere—he’d confiscated it from a drug-runner—a drug-runner he’d summarily executed with his own gun.
He knew how to sanitize the gun of all fingerprints and DNA. He would do that somewhere away from the cabin. Stepping carefully around Kiwi’s body, he went to his car just as the rain began to fall.
Sometimes the weather cooperates. This rain, along with the hard gravel of the parking area and driveway, would obliterate his car’s tracks.
He was smiling as he turned back on Historic Highway 61.
To be continued…