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Fresh shoe prints in the dirt outside the abandoned Sterling homestead confirmed that Deputy US Marshal Colin McKenzie’s hunch was likely right—the arsonist who’d nearly destroyed Colin’s life a decade ago was back. And once again, Colin was going to put Brian Sterling right where he belonged—in prison.
But he had to catch him first.
He drew his Glock 22 and scanned the thick woods that surrounded this remote mountain property half an hour southwest of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Late-afternoon sun slanted across the one-story craftsman-style house, casting shadows along the sagging porch. The once proud structure sported peeling yellowed paint that had started out white, railings missing most of their spindles and a cracked picture window that he remembered had an amazing view of the Smoky Mountains.
Back when the Sterling siblings and the McKenzie brothers had gone to Gatlinburg–Pittman High School together, a split three-rail fence had marked the line where a manicured lawn ended and wilderness began. Now, half the posts were tipping like drunks desperately trying to catch their balance. The rest littered the ground, having surrendered to the high winds and violent storms that often blew through the area. This decaying family home was a sad reminder of what the Sterlings had lost, all because of the selfish son who’d destroyed everyone’s plans for the future.
Including Colin’s.
He tightened his grip on his gun and crouched down to make himself less of a target as he crept from the gravel driveway to the house. Most of the windows didn’t have curtains or even blinds anymore, giving him a decent view of the rooms. They were surprisingly neat and tidy. Maybe the Sterlings paid someone to come up from town every few months to clean the place. Too bad they weren’t paying equal attention to the outside.
After a full circuit around the structure, he was confident his nemesis wasn’t inside waiting to take a shot at him. A tour of the cobweb-filled shed and the sadly empty horse barn out back confirmed that no one had been in them for quite some time, probably years.
Cursing the summer heat, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and returned to the front yard. All the while, he kept his pistol trained on the trees that surrounded the property. Was Brian out there right now, watching him? Or had someone else left that shoe print?
It wasn’t like a hiker would accidentally stumble across this place. The Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Appalachian Trail were several rugged miles east. And the steep winding road up here only led to the Sterling homestead and one other house, Colin’s, two miles farther up the mountain. But Brian didn’t know that. Colin had purchased the land and built his home several years after the Sterlings left Gatlinburg for Memphis.
From what Colin had heard, the move cost Brian’s father over half his client list. Had he been able to rehabilitate his once successful financial-advisor career in Memphis? Did his wife find a church community that she enjoyed as much as the one here? Was their daughter happy? Had she managed to forget everyone here she’d once loved, or who’d once loved her?
Colin tightened his grip on his pistol.
He didn’t have the answers to any of those questions. All he knew for sure was that the family had sacrificed everything to move six hours away so they could be closer to FCI, the Federal Correctional Institution, where Brian was serving his fifteen-year sentence.
