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819 E. Atkins St., Dobson 416 CC Camp Rd., Elkin 1409 Edgewood Dr., Mount Airy 647 South Key St., Pilot Mtn. 336.374.5021 • www.surry.net

Find out how a harmless prank entangles two college kids with a serial killer in the next installment of A DEEPER CUT, a novel of suspense and forgiveness by Mt. Airy author Sheri Wren Haymore. "You’ve been working late on your drawings,” Granny Jen commented to Hunter over breakfast the next day. “Oh, man. I thought I had my music pretty low,” he replied. “You didn’t disturb me,” she chuckled. “I just couldn’t sleep.” “Is something wrong?” “A lot on my mind is all,” Jen said. She chewed quietly, eyes closed, the morning breeze ruffling her white hair. Finally, she looked at Hunter and smiled. “What I want to know is, when is the unveiling?” “Uh, I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it.” He sat slouched in his chair, as nonchalant as ever, yet when he glanced up at his granny, he had the distinct feeling he no longer looked like a boy in her eyes. “Well, I’d really like to see what you’ve been working on so hard,” Granny Jen persisted. “I guess it’s about time to bring it out, if I’m ever going to.” Hunter looked away and frowned. The work had kept him occupied, had kept his mind focused, but he was still not sure why someone had tried to frame him, nor why no further attempt had been made. And, for certain, he had no clue as to how to get Miki away from Jack Franklin. Never had the feeling that she was in danger left him. “What did I say to bring on such brooding?” asked Granny Jen. “Oh, sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’ll go get my portfolio. You know,” he said as he started out, “I’ve always dreaded leaving here, going back to school. I’m sort of anxious to get back this year.” “Why is that?” she asked encouragingly. “I want my advisor to see these drawings. Whether he thinks they’re great or not, it will show him that I’m really serious. It’s hard enough to get a good internship without the entire department thinking you’re about to bail out.” With that, he left Granny Jen’s porch and headed across the lawn toward his apartment. He was halfway up his stairs when a car door slammed. Grayson Tucker came toward him, looking tired and strained. “Hey, Mr. Tucker. How’s it going?” “Hunter, I need to talk to you.” “Come on up.” Hunter led the way, somewhat resigned, somewhat curious. Once inside, he tried to sound casual. “Did you check out the cruiser?” “We have it under surveillance.” “Damn. You ought to be searching that sucker. Taking fingerprints.” “It’s your fingerprints I want today.” “What!”

Grayson held up a hand, halting the explosion. “I need the gun, Hunter. Today. And I need your fingerprints to help us sort out any other prints that might be on it.” “Mine are definitely on it. And if it turns out to be the gun that smoked that tourist-guy . . .” “I know who the boats belong to,” Grayson interrupted firmly. “Well, I sure didn’t read in the paper that you’d made an arrest!” Grayson’s voice was grim. “It’s not a crime to act suspiciously or to own scuba gear. So far, I don’t have enough to make an arrest.” “That’s why you need to search. Don’t you get it? It’s probably where he keeps the knife, too.” “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we’ll find a knife. Maybe we can prove it was used in those murders. Maybe not. There has to be something else that ties a suspect to a homicide. An arrest doesn’t mean squat if you can’t get a conviction.” “That’s why you need to check those boats. Don’t you watch TV? That dead tourist’s . . .”

“Mr. Sanders?”

“Yeah. Well, his blood is somewhere besides that beach. You said so yourself. Clothing fibers. Hair. Stuff like that. Go find that on those boats, and then I’ll give you the gun. I swear on my honor as a Southern gentleman.” Grayson almost smiled. “Those boats aren’t going anywhere. We’re watching them around the clock. And if I don’t get my hands on something concrete, very soon, we will search those boats and just hope we turn up something besides scuba gear and new shirts. I’m gambling on another piece of evidence, Hunter. And you may be sitting on it.”

Hunter stared long into Grayson’s brown eyes. “What happens to me,” he finally said, “if mine are the only prints on the gun and the boat guy has no link to the dead tourist?”

“The tourist’s name was Sanders.”

“Okay. Maybe you can prove the guy on the cruiser iced those drug dealers, but what if I’m still your best suspect in the Sanders thing? What then? What happens to me?” Grayson’s voice remained quiet. “Maybe I have another link, Hunter.” “Tying the guy on the boat to Sanders?” Grayson squinted slightly. “Who owns the boats?”

do everything I can to protect you. And that’s my word as a Southern gentleman.” Hunter sighed and looked toward his blue window. “Oh, hell. I may as well get it over with.” He walked to his kitchen and pulled out his only knife.

“Interesting,” Grayson said. “Not really. There used to be a whole box of these around here somewhere. I’m sure you’ve seen knives like this. Used to be a commercial fillet knife. I guess after it was sharpened a thousand times, it wound up this short and thin.” Hunter went to his closet and began to saw into the wall with the knife. He sat on the floor, one long leg stuck out into the room. Grayson studied him thoughtfully. “You know, Mr. Tucker, I have a theory,” Hunter said. “What’s that?”

“Well, it was weird how the noose was around my neck, and then it just lifted. Like evaporated.” He sawed carefully. “If you had arrested me, then I would have taken credit for at least one murder. By proxy, sort of. Maybe all of them. Anyway, I think the guy wanted to get all the glory. Be famous or whatever. I don’t know why he messed with me to start with, but I think that’s why he left me alone.” “Don’t touch the gun,” was all Grayson said. He came forward with a gloved hand, lifted the gun out of the wall, and bagged it. He left without another word.

When he reached his car, Grayson sat still and breathed deeply, then grabbed a bottle of antacid. Hunter’s theory was smart, and it fit his own theory of who the killer was. In fact, it fit so closely that he wanted to rush down to that boat and put every inch under a microscope. Not yet. Not yet, he told himself. Hunter opened the passenger door and climbed in. Grayson wasn’t really waiting for him, but he guessed he may as well go on and get the kid’s fingerprints. “My hands are shaking so hard, you probably can’t get a print,” Hunter said with a laugh. Grayson smiled and didn’t admit that his hands were shaking too badly to crank the car. He took a couple more deep breaths before doing so. He had the gun. He knew what type of knife he was looking for. And he knew where Rob Kittrell was at this exact moment.

“No! No, no, no, no!” Grayson slammed the top of his desk with his fist with each exclamation. His secretary tiptoed to the door, looked in and found him sitting with his head in his hands, and then left without asking questions. Grayson was not prepared for the lab report on Hunter’s gun. Because this case took precedence over every other investigation in the state, he had his answer almost too quickly. Yes, the gun had been fired recently. Yes, a .32 caliber could have been used to kill Doug Sanders. Yes, there was another set of prints on the gun. They were not the prints Grayson had wanted. They did not belong to the owner of the cruiser.

Grayson knew he had to make an arrest quickly, before the SBI went after Hunter Kittrell. The prints were the same as the second set on the tape recorder. Most likely, they belonged to Miki Stone. An hour later, Grayson had Miki Stone in custody. Grayson leaned back in the interrogation room’s leather chair, its oak arms stained dark from decades of oil and sweat. The chair squeaked as he swiveled from side to side, a monotonous sound that continued for five minutes. Afternoon sunshine streamed in through a high window, heating up the room. In a calm, deep voice, Grayson drawled, “Young lady, I’m waiting for you to tell me something that makes some sense.”

“Jack said you were bluffing before about the fingerprints.” Miki’s voice was icy. “Maybe.” Grayson pointed at her ink-stained fingers. “But very soon, I’ll have proof that your prints are on that gun. Now would be a very good time for you to explain that.” “I don’t have to say anything to you. I want a lawyer.” “Okay.” Grayson did not make a move. His big hands were folded on the table, and he stared at her across the four feet of hard oak that separated them. It was very intimidating, and he knew it. Defensively, Miki said, “I told Jack that I stole Hunter’s gun and then lost it.”

“Let me remind you that you have asked for a lawyer.” Again Grayson made no move toward the telephone. “I’m just telling you what you already know. Jack knew I had sneaked into Hunter’s apartment, and so he asked me about the gun. I don’t see what the big shock is that my fingerprints are on it.” She narrowed her eyes, matching his intimidation. “Or have you been too busy bench-warming to read what’s in your own reports?” Grayson didn’t flinch. Nothing in his eyes revealed that the reports Franklin had turned in didn’t say anything about Miki having stolen Hunter’s gun from his apartment. Instead, he said very calmly, “I’m not going to ask you any more questions until you have a lawyer. But there’s nothing that says I can’t make it very clear to you the trouble you are in. Doug Sanders took several photographs of you before he died. He seemed to have had an obsession with you, and he also seemed to think you were Vanessa Singer. He may have even thought he was going to see Vanessa the night he died.” Miki’s hard facade was crumbling fast. Grayson continued, “You and I both know that you’re hiding something about Gus York’s murder.