Keith Anthony Baird's News, Blogs, Articles and Short Stories

Writer, Publisher

The Sable Lane Catering Company

9th November 2019
(Short Story)

He appreciated a bargain as much as anyone. The potato peeler; reduced in price by 75%, was a must-have item. It was one of those plastic cradle types with the swivel head. Sure, it was cheaply made, but essential kit for a man of his particular talents. He dropped it in the basket and continued on down the aisle. In all, the shopping had taken twenty minutes, which was just fine by him, as he was eager to get back to his latest culinary creation. But approaching the checkout he spotted her, chatting idly as she was with the cashier on number five. She'd be about seventeen he thought and she was now all he could focus on. He observed her discreetly by pretending to be interested in the impulse items stacked at his checkout, while his goods were being scanned. He'd not seen her around before but Lonely Pines was a big place, so there were lots of transients coming through, plus a glut of newcomers populating the new developments. She'd probably be one of those he thought.

"That comes to twenty nine dollars and sixty seven cents. Cash or card?"

The question, from the cashier, snapped him from his stealthy observation and he returned her standard line with a perfunctory smile.

"Cash," he said, simply.

By the time he'd fished the paper from his wallet and handed it over, the girl at checkout five was on her way out through the full-length glass sliding doors, and heading towards a waiting car. When he'd finished bagging his items, the car was nowhere to be seen in the car park, and he muttered a curse under his breath on leaving the minimart. The chances of seeing her again were remote but he knew he'd recognise her if indeed he did. Back home, he put the bag of goods on the kitchen table and turned the radio up. It was something 70s Classic Rock, though he didn't know the track or artist. Now, with a glass of orange juice in one hand, and a peanut butter-smothered bagel in the other, he drifted down the hallway which led to the basement door.

She was becoming vaguely aware of music as the effects of a drug were beginning to wear off, and creaking floorboards under footfalls were sounding somewhere. Bound tight in restraints, she was also unable to move her head due to the constraining apparatus which kept her facing forwards. A door latch snapped open in her sensory swim, and steps on the staircase were like some discordant countdown. As she registered her inability to move, it was a jolt which brought her quicker from a docile state. Panic was now in charge, and wouldn't relinquish its hold until replaced by the nature of something far worse yet to come. The meticulously arranged workbench upon which she focused, began to convey some meaning to the circumstances. All manner of knives, cleavers and saws sat upon it, in rows displaying their sequential sizes. A stainless steel autopsy table and powered equipment, such as a meat slicing machine and a grinder, occupied the rest of the space between her and the bench. Numerous hooks hung from eyelets in a stout beam above, and the outers of a shiny few were still bloodstained.

Behind her, a door creaked open and amplified the fear which already had her eyes crawling over the newspaper cuttings on the wall above the bench: 'THE CATERER' CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM AS MANHUNT INTENSIFIES; FBI 'MAKING A MEAL' OF HUNT FOR SERIAL KILLER; PINES MANIAC BRINGS BODY COUNT TO 14; MISSING TEEN'S REMAINS FOUND DUMPED ON WASTE GROUND - GRIM DEMISE BEARS CATERER'S HALLMARK; BUTCHERED BEYOND RECOGNITION - GRISLY FATE OF PINES LOCAL REVEALED. The list went on, but the appearance of his legs and midriff in her field of vision commanded her attention now.

Alarm and revulsion welled within and she shook in her restraints. Hopelessness was the rush which produced the tears, and she struggled to contain its emotional surge. Noting her distress, he moved closer and stroked her hair; which only served to heighten her fear and brought forth the screams.

"Hush now my sweet ... a delightful dish like you needs to stay tender."

As she cried continuously, and pleaded with him to let her go, he removed the potato peeler from a rear jean pocket and sat on the stool at the bench. Amid wails for liberty and life, he diligently employed a small file, which he slid in and out of the gap in the peeler blade. He sharpened its edges, in slow, meditative motions, whilst reviewing the next recipe for flesh in his mind. Her begging became a thing unnoticed, as a 'professional administration of pain' was being pondered. When done, and happy with the instrument's upgrade, he set it down after a final inspection. He alighted the stool and went out of view. She could hear him gather heavier objects but only saw what they were when he reappeared, and set them up in front of her. A video camera on a tripod would now be capturing what would unfold.

"Yesterday you were no one, but my intervention today, will make you a celebrity tomorrow."

He gestured to the cuttings on the wall and she wailed, as every minute that passed and everything he said, put paid to the hope she still clung to. She was sixteen, popular at high school, and from a family which sat perched on a lofty rung of the social ladder; all the things he looked for in his special subjects. She'd still not seen his face, and in a certain sense it was a good thing, yet if only he could see her want for life she felt sure he'd stop this ruin. She was wrong. He'd shown all his face, and before this was done, she'd see it too. It was of no consequence, for none made it out alive. He'd been interviewed twice by law enforcement officers and questioned on a separate occasion by two FBI agents; all of which routine in the hunt for the state's most notorious killer. As the owner of a high-class catering company, he'd been an obvious candidate for review, and one for an extensive search of both his home and workplace. It had been easy to cover his tracks, and easier still to keep his 'cadaver kitchen' hidden from their inspections.

"Have you ever fallen from your bicycle? Do you remember the sting you felt after your skin was stripped by the asphalt?

His questions silenced her, but only briefly, as their meaning conveyed his intent.

"Oh God no," was all she could say, before wailing louder than before.

He powered up the camera and its onboard light flooded her vision. She was centred in the viewfinder, as he'd perfected exactly where to set up the equipment. He disappeared from view once again and returned moments later wearing an apron. She begged he not do this, but her plea was ignored. Acquiring the potato peeler, he made his way slowly across the room and knelt down to the right of her. He made an obvious show of presenting the instrument of torture to the camera, and only in that moment did she fully connect the meaning of all his actions and words before this. A scream froze in her throat as first the bite, and then the searing pain, raced through her, as he traced the contour of her ankle bone with a slow downwards motion of the peeler, which slowly removed the first sliver of skin. She'd not known pain like it before and her reaction was delicious to him, as he deposited the curl of tissue onto the platter, which sat on the floor beyond her line of sight.

Amid her suffering he repeated the process, and by the time he'd removed five strips from that highly sensitive area, she was already drained to near unconsciousness. He stood, and moved to her left, before setting the platter of skin peelings down and kneeling once again. That he intended to do the same to her other ankle was a notion which set her straining against her restraints, as if escaping his touch by even a millimetre would be enough to instil a sense of psychological distance. It was an act of delusion which lasted all of a second, before the suffering returned. Five more were removed in the same slow, precise manner and she was exhausted from the physical and mental cruelty; yet it had only just begun. He planned each preparation well; each different from the last and designed to yield maximum suffering from delicate artistic effort.

The platter was taken away and put on a side table beyond her view. She'd have dropped her head and stared at the floor in the aftershock if she'd been able, such was the power of the trauma induced by the situation, and its afflictions. He moved in and out of her sight, but the inevitability of it all forced her into a denial all his other victims had shared before they'd met their ends. A hopeless logic rose within, fuelled by survival reflex, but utterly futile nonetheless.

This can't be happening. I want to go home ... I want to go home. Daddy. Oh my God, oh my God. No ... no ... please, please God help me.

She suddenly spiked from this, as the sensation of something being put about her fingers hauled her from delusion. He tightened the cable tie, which secured the four digits to the upright of the chair, then secured another so the ties were positioned above and below the knuckles, then added a third across the back of the hand to keep the palm pressed tightly against the wood. He applied this method to the other hand, then took a moment to wipe tears from her cheeks in a show of chilling care.

"I'll be good. I promise. I won't tell anyone if you'll just let me go," she pleaded.

He moved to the bench and picked up a microplane grater, then took up position front of camera and again, presented the instrument of torture. This time it wasn't slow and deliberate like before; more a frenzy of strokes which removed the zest of flesh from the knuckles of her left hand. The unrelenting sting of it was intensely focused. Her screams came shrill throughout, and her thrashing against restraints was more convulsions than anything else. When done, he reached over and banged the edge of the panel grater against the rim of a bowl on the autopsy table, and the tissue 'rind' dislodged into it. He repeated this to harvest what remained stuck in the tool, then set to work on her other hand. She passed out before he finished.

Smelling salts brought her back to seething pain. He clicked his fingers in front of her face and told her to focus.

"It gets easier now. You're growing accustomed to the pain. Take comfort in the knowledge that the more I reduce you, the bigger the star you're going to become. Everyone in Lonely Pines will know your name. In fact, the whole country will see your face on TV. I'm giving you your fifteen minutes of fame."

He stopped talking, and carefully rinsed the grater over the sink, before drying it and turning to her.

"That's what you want right? I mean, you're popular at school. You've got lots of friends and get to do whatever you want. Money is no object, as daddy is wealthy, yes?"

She heard everything, but didn't possess the will to answer. Raw wounds were the things which spoke the loudest, in a living nightmare she could barely endure. He moved out of sight once more, only to return moments later with a stainless steel cucumber slicer in hand; the single-panel rectangular type with a handle at either end. There was no need to file this one, as he'd already prepped it months ago, and used it on others before her. Again, he presented it to the camera, before turning and dropping his gaze on her right kneecap. She saw a little of his features now, and caught the upturn of the corner of his mouth, as he focused on his next anatomical target. Her legs were already bound tight to the chair, and the first of them to take the splice of the blade simply shuddered in its bindings, as he sliced clear the thin tissue from the cap. His sweep was heavy but clean, and the flesh was removed in a swift arc. Her scream was exquisite to him, as he half-spun and brought the slicer down on the other. The pieces were taken in deft moves, and he was pleased with the execution of their removal.

Exposed ankle, knuckle and knee bones were a collective nerve response inducer; one which pulled her under once again. He let her be, and gathered the prized pieces together before heading to the other side of the room and placing them in a refrigerator. The cooking area was amply decked out with all he needed, with a granite-top island for easy cleaning. Appliances were all top of the line, and integrated where necessary. It was the heart and soul of his operation and he loved it so. Kept religiously sterile, it was where his creativity was given a means to achieve culinary greatness. He returned to his subject and used the salts again to bring her back to consciousness. She was in deep shock now; the mind having shut down on a body which no longer belonged to it. The camera was switched off as he decided she should rest. After all, she'd need her strength for what was to come. He traced her cheekbone and jaw line with a finger, before leaving her in darkness as he hung up his apron and killed the lights on exit. The sound of the radio playing upstairs washed in momentarily, then was cut off just as suddenly as it'd flared.

In the living room above, he turned the TV on with the remote and did some channel-hopping. A state news bulletin was just seconds into its delivery and he quickly turned the volume up. The search for the girl in his basement was in its initial stages, and he watched with interest as the reporter, on the ground in Lonely Pines, went through a textbook account of her disappearance. It never failed to amuse him; how these scenarios were exploited in a bid for viewing figures. The familiar face of county sheriff, Grady Kendrick, scrolled into view, and he smirked at how stupid this tin-star hick actually was.

I bet mom and dad feel mighty relieved good old Kendrick's on the case.

His focus drifted away from the screen and he looked out across the valley. The floor-to-ceiling windows of his expansive home afforded a breathtaking view. He set the remote down on a side table, slid open the patio door, and went outside onto the decking. Opening a storage box, he took out a set of binoculars and walked to the rail. Initially scanning the township unaided, he settled on a position, then raised the glasses to his face and set to work on the focus. The news channel wagon stood in a parking lot, flanked by patrol cars and a handful of officers standing around drinking lukewarm coffee. The reporter was still trading rhetoric with the sheriff, and their observer couldn't help but laugh a little. Though they stood just over a mile away, they had no idea where to begin the search for Molly Hoffman.

It was a beautiful day, with a cloudless sky cresting the dramatic mountain range in which the community nestled. At Cedar Park, earlier in the day, a number of locals armed with hunting rifles had gathered at the war memorial, intent on being a Pines vigilante group which would mete out the justice the police and FBI had so far failed to deliver. This fact was briefly touched on by the reporter, and a slightly skittish Kendrick dismissed such behaviour as unnecessary and foolhardy, as the bulletin came to an end. He was already back inside the house, and could only smile as he put the TV back on standby. It'd been three years and five months since he'd dumped the first body on a walking trail two miles south of the outskirts. A ranger, acting as a guide for a school field trip, had had the unenviable task of trying to calm three hysterical middle graders, who'd discovered what was left of victim number one.

His cell phone rang, and on answer he reached for pen and paper, as the enquirer sought his services for an upcoming event which required outside catering. He spent the best part of ten minutes in conversation, and jotting down particulars, before ending the call with his usual degree of charm. The commercial aspect of his culinary talent had afforded a lavish lifestyle, and brought with it a certain measure of cover for his 'other activities'. No one suspected the owner of a renowned Pines company; considering the perpetrator of such heinous crimes to be a social pariah, and not a man of good standing within the community. He went to the study, to do much-needed paperwork for a few hours, and left the Hoffman girl in her isolation to heighten her sense of desperation. It was growing dark when he returned to the basement and brought fresh panic to his captive.

There was further delicate work to be done; more prized pieces to be removed before the general reduction. The apron was donned, the camera turned back on, and she squinted in its light's sudden brilliance.

"Please don't hurt me anymore," Molly begged.

He stepped between her and the camera.

"Pain is not the reason you're here. You're here to bring satisfaction to others."

His explanation was lost on her, with his actions being what she focused on. By now he'd turned, was presenting a scalpel to the lens, and priming his process with the thought of what was next in the order of things. He turned back to her and moved in for the removal of tissue. Her bottom lip came away in three strokes of the blade, amid her most guttural screams yet. She shuddered in the extraction; something which continued for nearly a minute after the flesh was taken away, before passing out. The bleed was a satisfying body paint which he admired for a spell, before putting the lip in a bowl on the bench. It was time to switch the methodology, so while she was under he'd administer a wound, one which would bring her back to the suffering. He washed the scalpel, flicked it dry, then set it down and switched off the battery charger which had been running for hours. Removing the cell from its cradle, he slid it into the recess of the drill handle, and revved it up with a pleasing pull of the trigger.

With the tool presented, as with those preceding it, he knelt down and put the bit against her exposed right kneecap. Pressing hard, he fired it up, and leant in to bring a little weight to the action. The sound of steel on bone was a gratifying grind which sent a shiver through him, and a jolt of intensely focused pain into her, as the bit cleared the back of the cap and punched into the joint behind. She roused on a wave of agony and howled her torment through a destroyed mouth. Deep shock took hold as he put the power tool in reverse, and when he removed the bit, he knew by her demeanour he'd have to work fast to secure the remainder, as the trauma had taken a heavy toll. There were only two highly desired pieces left to remove, then beyond that it didn't matter how the rest of it played out. With little thought he half-tossed the drill onto the autopsy table as he rose, and went to retrieve the scalpel. A few seconds of scanning the bench revealed the other implement he required, and with both in hand, he returned to her.

With their presentation to the camera swiftly done, he used the small set of stainless steel kitchen tongs to grab the left eyelid, pull it taut, then remove it with a clean arc of the scalpel. This time she moaned in a low-level response, unable to register much as her mind was shutting down. Depositing the piece into a receptacle, he did the same to the other and stepped back from the mess of Molly Hoffman. She was drifting now; retreating from grim reality into a state devoid of sensory perception, but it mattered not as he had what he required. He downed tools after putting the other eyelid in the dish, then switched the camera off. The select cuts were taken to the refrigerator and placed amongst the others. Now the heavy work would begin, and a harvesting of the rest of her would take place on the autopsy table. He moved back across the room and repositioned the camera, switched it back on, then removed her from the restraints and laid her out on the metalwork. He cut off her underwear with the scalpel and hosed her down, and she whimpered in her loose grip on life.

That she was still 'of this world' impressed him, but it would soon be irrelevant. Making cuts along the veins of each wrist, he bled her out slowly, as pale flesh, crimson and steel, made a stark set of contrasts in the footage. Close to the end he opened up the jugular, and her last breath was almost inaudible as it left her. With surrounding blood hosed away into the sinkhole, he had his cadaver in the condition he required. Sawing, cleaving and stripping was employed, with choice cuts hung on the hooks above, lest they interfere with the rest of the process. After an hour it was done, and the Pines population count was down by one more. What was left of the Hoffman girl was placed in a body bag, and the camera turned off. The implements were cleaned, and then he stripped and stepped into the shower cubicle in the far corner.

Within ten minutes, igniters were lighting hobs and ovens, and switches making ready electric carving knives, air fryers and grilling machines. The pieces of her were arranged on preparation platters and the select cuts removed from refrigeration. He'd changed into his catering garb and an uninterruptible flow of creativity was being unleashed. In the space where art and murder were one, he truly came alive. He began with the prized pieces, for they required special attention. The rows of lashes on both eyelids were spliced away with a scalpel, using a mounted magnifying glass to ensure accuracy. Being so thin, they would be ruined by too much heat and metal contact. Next, he glazed them with an expensive honey, infused with aromatic spices, and placed them in the microwave. Peering avidly through the door window, he watched intensely to ensure each minor burst of cooking time he applied was just enough to achieve the desired outcome. Satisfied, he removed them after three short blasts, and placed each one in its own separate square glass container with small tongs. He put their lids in place, and moved on to the next pieces.

The knuckle rind, kneecap slivers and ankle strips were put in one air fryer, and as he'd done similar processes before, he had a good estimation of what they'd require. He set the device away and put the lip tissue in the other. This would be a little trickier, as it was more plump than the others. Monitoring was needed, and so he hovered around both devices, emptying the first when it was done and experimenting with the second until he got the result he wanted. The rind and strips were seasoned and the knee tissues were drizzled with a rich, complementary sauce, then topped off with sprigs of wild sage. As before, these were placed in their own glass containers and he focused his attention on the final special piece. This, he felt, would be the most wanted of all, and so he put his efforts into presentation and surprise. A different sauce was added, and a number of herbs were used as garnish for the dressing up. Complete to his satisfaction, it was put in glass alongside the others.

Bigger pieces and more general cuts were prepared using the meat grinder and slicing machine. For these he rustled up a special jus and seasonings, with some put to oven and others to griddle. A range of eating methods were accounted for, with some on skewers, some presented on beds of jasmine rice dressed in caramelised onions, or in a soup he could later warm at the event. Lastly, he set to work on a liver pâté; one to be served up on a rather excellent multigrain wafer he'd acquired recently. The bulk of this was set aside for the gathering, with a little of it being put in another container for a 'certain purpose', should an opportunity present itself. He smiled at the thought of that, then surveyed his handiwork. Good. It was done.

With everything put into cold storage, and surfaces and implements wiped down, he ditched the whites he was wearing into a laundry basket, then headed upstairs with the camera. The next few hours were spent editing the footage and applying titles. The finished piece was burnt to a disc, which he put in a plain black case and took with him as he went to the bedroom. He showered again in the en-suite bathroom, then took his time deciding what to wear from his extensive walk-in wardrobe afterwards. He had around an hour left to make it to the party on time and so upped a gear in getting everything turned around to make it on time; his customers weren't the type you disappointed. He grabbed the disc on the way out of the room, acquired his cell phone and wallet from the living room, and made his way to the ground floor.

The truck was backed into position. Once loaded, he pressed the fob for the electric gates and headed down the driveway. It was getting on to dusk as he departed, but a check of his watch told him there was still time to spare. He relaxed behind the wheel and turned the radio on. His eye was drawn to the container he'd placed on the passenger seat, and the plastic storage box next to it, which held some of those special wafers he'd picked up via the advert in Bespoke Catering Monthly. He patted the tub and hoped for a certain outcome. After a few minutes in town he'd be on the highway, and heading for the McConnell residence on the outskirts. The McConnells were big news in these parts; their ancestors having established the township with the wealth they'd acquired from mining and logging in the area. As he coasted up to the second set of lights on Main Street, he saw the police checkpoint stationed about three hundred yards past the junction.

A car was waved through as he approached, with officers satisfied there was nothing untoward going on with the Chrysler or its driver. As he slowed the truck to a stop, it took a great measure of composure not to laugh out loud, as the officer who directed him to pull over was none other than sheriff Kendrick himself: there is a god, and he loves me.

He lowered the driver's window and smiled at good 'ole Grady.

"Evening Casey, sorry we gotta do this," Kendrick said, giving a slight nod.

"Oh it's fine sheriff. I understand you boys are just doing what you gotta do."

"Do you mind if we take a look in the back?"

"Not at all, but can you please be mindful I've got to get to the McConnell place by nine."

The name drop planted a seed in the sheriff's mind, for the McConnells had friends in high places, namely state judges, politicians and local governors.

"It's just routine Casey. We'll have you along in no time at all."

He killed the engine, got out and made his way to the rear, flanked by the sheriff and two officers.

"Awful news about that girl. I hope you fellas are close to catching that son-of-a-bitch."

They all stopped at the doors, with Kendrick looking him straight in the eye.

"It's just a matter of time son. You mark my words," the sheriff vowed.

Fat chance, old man.

"There you go sheriff," he said, unlocking the doors, stepping back and gesturing they take a long look inside.

The officers shone their flashlights in, to give an impression of diligence, then shrugged at Kendrick.

"Sure smells good," their superior offered.

He smiled, looked at the ground momentarily to process a quick thought, then made the sheriff an offer as he locked up.

"Tell you what sheriff, I just happen to have a small sample of what's onboard up there in my cab. It'd be an honour if you'd try some, as I believe you've never had any of my catering before."

"Oh, that's all right, I got me a Twinky and a cold cup of coffee on the dash. Like I said, we won't keep you, but I appreciate the thought Casey."

By now, they were back at the driver's door, and the two officers had peeled off to return to sit on the hoods of their patrol cars.

"You sure sheriff? I mean, it's going spare and I don't wanna boast but I'm really rather proud of this special pâté I've conjured up. You'll be ... how can I say this? Tasting something quite delightful that you'll never taste again."

Kendrick took his hat off, mopped his brow with a handkerchief he removed from his pocket, popped it back on and nodded his agreement.

"You won't be disappointed sheriff," he said, smiling broadly.

As the truck rolled past the checkpoint, Kendrick finished the last of the wafer and liver pâté with a satisfied show of approval.

You'll never be closer to Molly Hoffman than you are now, Sheriff Dip****.

The sprint along the highway was a real buzz, as he relived the moment over and over, and turned the radio up to a pumping near-maximum. He'd hoped he'd get stopped and have to go through the routine, thinking if he managed to feed some of Molly to an officer, it would be a sweet little indulgence. But, to have Grady be the one, well, that was beyond sublime.

It was 8:53 as the broad gates of the McConnell place were illuminated by the truck's headlights. A brief exchange via the intercom saw them opened and he continued up the long artery through the estate grounds. When the winding road finally spilled into the parking area, he saw it was packed with more than thirty vehicles; all of which being high-end makes and models, with a few stretched limousines amongst them. He was met by a staff member who guided him to the usual spot and together they unloaded the buffet. Inside, guests milled around in the games room and the bar, until they were called to dinner forty-five minutes later. The dining room was laid out with Casey's cold cuts, along with a whole host of expensive dishes prepared by McConnell chefs. The east wall was dominated by the huge 110" TV which was mounted there, and as guests filed in, a credit flickered into view which read: A Night of Fine Dining Courtesy of The Sable Lane Catering Company. With its stylised Marten emblem in a prominent position just below.

After a brief welcome speech from host Burgess McConnell III, the evening's dining got under way, with the footage of Molly Hoffman being reduced in Casey's basement, providing the entertainment for this elite pack of sadists. When the scenes of her knuckles being shredded were aired, the 'movie' was paused, and guests began to place their bids for the chance to consume such perfectly acquired morsels. Buzzers on their tables were activated in quick succession, and a smaller screen to the right of the larger one, lit up with their names and current bids. Senator Calhoun pitched $10,000, and Judge Willard T. Durrell bid seven, with three others bidding the same as he. But the winning bid so far came from billionaire Cameron Sloane, who'd been eyeing his mistress periodically throughout the viewing, and promising her she'd get to devour the prize. He'd jumped straight in with an initial $15,000 offer and was waiting to see if any of the others would decide to up the ante.

It appeared they did not, for he was declared the winner to an accompanying round of applause, and the event continued. While the footage of the Hoffman girl rolled, with the ensuing loss of the tissue from her kneecaps, the knuckle rind was served to the winner, whose mistress smeared his index and forefingers with a relish, and topped them with sprinkles of the crispy skin. As the buzzers began to sound once more, she could be seen licking and sucking the prize from his fingers, in wicked delight. And so the evening ran on, with this assembled group of fine-dining cannibals placing bids for pieces of the girl which had been taken in the most delicious ways possible. All the while they dined on the rest of her, with a broth of reduced flesh and sweet cuts of meat on skewers. She tasted delectable, and they all agreed that Mr Casey Leidecker had outdone himself on this occasion. He'd pick up a handsome commission on the winning bids, as well as his usual fat payment for services rendered.

Meanwhile, at police headquarters in town, sheriff Kendrick was feeling a little worse for wear, figuring he'd maybe eaten something which hadn't agreed with him.

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Keith Anthony Baird
Keith Anthony Baird
(United Kingdom)

I'm a self-published author from the UK. I focus on works of dark fiction and have written two novels, a book of short stories and a novelette to date.