WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) Read Free Page A

still provided him the focus he needed to block out all else, excluding his current objective.
    He detected a faint rustle in the distance at his nine o’clock. Maintaining his body’s position, he gradually rotated his head toward the sound. Not yet able to confirm the source, he listened. He detected the faint crack of a branch as it was bent and then released, followed by the almost inaudible sound of dew-covered spring leaves slapping against each other. All sounds, his and the target’s, were magnified in the damp morning air.
    Still tracking on the sound, Brad caught sight of his quarry as he turned abruptly. Stock-still, the target waited. His eyes were doing double-time, checking the area. Brad’s icy stare gave him no reason to suspect danger.
    The target continued slowly along his path, then froze. Only his dark eyes were moving.
    Brad elevated his Tikka T3 rifle the last few inches until the pad on the ultra-light polymer stock met his shoulder. Gradually, he brought the barrel above parallel with the ground. In the same motion he tilted his head and maneuvered his right eye into alignment with the rear lens of the scope. He centered the magnified image on the reticle. No adjustment needed. Target at twenty yards.
    Point of aim equals point of impact.
    The only thing between Brad’s right eye and the target’s left eye was the glass-etched crosshairs on the lens.
    The high-pitched report of the small-bore rifle raced through the woods and echoed across the valley. The target dropped. Brad stood.
    His eyes still on his victim, Brad cradled his rifle across his left forearm, grunted and stretched, attempting to recover from the period of immobility.
    Brad stepped cautiously through the previous year’s slick decaying leaves and empty acorn shells. As he reached the kill, he smiled. He bent over and inspected the entry wound. Blood trickled from the left eye socket and the exit wound in the rear of his head.
    “Center of the eye; one shot—one kill,” Brad said.
    He picked up the large amber-colored fox squirrel and finagled it into his game bag at the rear of his hunting vest.
    “That ought to keep Rocky busy for about five minutes.”
    Rocky was Brad’s Rottweiler; his friend and the hungry beneficiary of all Brad’s target practice kills.
    As soon as he heard Brad’s footfalls nearing the house, Rocky began his raucous welcome ceremony. It was rare when Brad’s homecoming failed to deliver Rocky a fresh breakfast. His barking and jumping against the chain link fence grew more energetic once he caught sight of his benefactor. Brad chuckled, then reached back into the game bag, extracted the rodent and hurled it up and over the fence. As always, Rocky was ready. It appeared he was killing it again, the way he pounced on the bushy feast, holding it with his paws and tearing at its body with his huge canine teeth. Brad could hear the bones break as fur flew in the wind. Rocky’s bark was now replaced by a satisfied low-pitched growl.
    As he reached the house, Brad removed his hunting vest and draped it over a hook on the screened-in back porch. Julie would have demanded he remove his boots before entering the ceramic-tiled kitchen, but she wasn’t there to remind him. He laid his rifle across the top of its hard composite case and grabbed the cold pot from the coffee maker. After pouring the remainder of his 4:00 a.m. coffee into his mug, he stuck it in the microwave for a minute and fifteen. He stepped to the sink, rinsed the coffee pot and gazed out the window at his buddy who was finishing his morning snack. It was just him and Rocky now. It wasn’t the same.
    Four months ago, Brad’s wife Julie was returning from a trip to Nashville to see her doctor when her car was struck by another driver who ran a stop sign. She was killed. Just that day, Julie had been diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer. She didn’t get the chance to share her fear or her depression with her husband. Brad found out