The Color of Death
By Paul Vail
Copyright 2012 Paul Vail
Cover image: file licensed by www.depositphotos.com/cobalt88
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The dying woman stared straight up at the starry night sky, apparently unaware of Jackson Hay as he squatted beside her with a camcorder trained on her face.
The woman was about thirty-five, with long mousy brown hair, brown eyes, a beaky nose, thin lips. Not a dog, but not especially attractive either. About average, really. Which was a shame. If she had been a hottie, this footage would be worth a small fortune. Still, Jackson would make out pretty well as it was.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead of words a rill of bright red blood gushed out and poured down her right cheek. A thin wheeze rose from her throat. Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to see something in the distance, the wheeze grew louder, and then she managed to squeak out, "Robert..."