NIGHT FALLS AT DAWN

SHE, CALLED VENGEANCE

"Matilda!" The pale ghost like creature with red hair that seemed to be aflame under the white light of the single lamp post on the empty jetty, turned around to look at me without feeling.

It was a cold night, the wind bore a chill. There were no stars in the sky. The both of us wore long coats against the cold. She wore a red scarf around her neck, her hands neatly tucked into her pockets. She stood still as if frozen, cold as the night.

"Sheriff". Her voice was as cold as ice, not a shred of fear or hate, nothing at all. Like glass, clear and smooth, not a crack anywhere.

Her dark eyes looked me over with no interest as if I were a pebble by the roadside. The wind caused her coat to flap, revealing the slender and pretty body beneath. Her red hair which fell freely to her shoulders fluttered like a violent flame in the wind. She was in her late twenties as opposed to my thirty years of age.

She was a beautiful woman, no doubt. Even now, her coldness gave her beauty even more glow; full red lips frozen in stillness, the perfect pointed nose. She had the grace of a carved nymph by some famous skilled artist.

She stood so still looking at me but appearing unaware of me. Then, she spoke on. "I was worried you might not make it. It was getting late. The streets are quiet now, most good folks are in bed now. It's just us, sheriff. Just us out here in the open with the sweet breeze in our faces and it looks almost perfect for a picnic." She gave a wry smile.

"Although, I can't say I brought a picnic basket with me, did you? No of course. Sheriffs don't carry picnic baskets at night. They carry guns instead." All this she said without the least amusement on her face, save a smile that seemed as real as one carved from stone.

I moved closer, until the light cast against my bronze face. I readjusted my hat out of habit, my other hand in one of my long coat's pocket.

I tried to appear casual, cool, indifferent as the woman before me. I don't think I was so successful. I was poised for anything. Would she attempt any sudden moves? Try to escape? A gun? Perhaps in her coat?

Then, I struck up my officer face, which brought my brows to a knit and narrowed my eyes to intimidating slits.

"You did it, didn't you? You killed Don Roberto."

The river dashed against the jetty with gentle swooshing sounds. The wind rushed against her coat again. She cast her eyes into the dark river as if it had some attraction for her.

"Now sheriff, is that a question or an accusation?" She chuckled in a way that made me nervous. It was not a deep chuckle, a little more than the sound of chipping a glass.

"What is wrong with this lady? Was she a killing devil with a pretty face?"

"I will spare you an answer, you know as well as I do that I killed him. Yes, I did. I blew his brains out and I don't regret it. The bastard deserved it and more. It was justice."

She had just admitted to murder! Her eyes were cold still as ice, unmoved, no remorse. She could have at least shouted or sworn, cursing him beyond the grave but she didn't. She simply admitted to committing murder like it was the same as telling the time of the day.

This was no jilted lover to grow remorseful after the act! Or a sweet little girl frightened into killing an abuser. She was something else, a cold, calculating creature.

My fragile attempt at coldness gave way to surprise as I glanced at the lady.

In my ten years career as an officer and three years as sheriff of Yellow Hills town, I have seen a lot of things: dirty secrets -some unearthed, others wisely buried - murder, rape, abuse and burglary. It really was a big town, more like a small city. It was worth its place on the map, with the usual share of urban vices.