a twisted grin, and a two-fingered
salute, then slammed shut his truck door and walked across the
street toward Ned Craig's house, and up the walk with an air of one
who belonged there.
Jesus, she thought, could this be Craig? She
had pictured the man as more official looking, and wearing a
uniform, but maybe this bony, puny redneck was what game wardens
looked like in this inbred backwater. If it was him, she
would never have a better opportunity. She could take them both
now. If he went in and sat on the couch next to his bitch, it would
be the perfect setup.
Jean feverishly cranked open the window and
picked up the gun once more, twisting her body so that she could
shove the barrel through the window. But the geek didn't walk right
in through the door. Instead he knocked and waited, his hands stuck
in the hip pockets of his jeans.
The woman inside jerked upright, and Jean saw
her get up and walk to the door. That did it then. Whoever it was,
it wasn't Craig. Jean choked down her disappointment, set the rifle
back on the seat, rolled up the window, and started the jeep. She
pulled away without looking back.
She hadn't gone two blocks before she realized that
she was relieved that she hadn't had to kill anyone. But she told
herself that didn't mean that she wasn't capable. When the time was
right, she could do what had to be done. She could kill Ned Craig and his bitch. She could do it for Andrew, and she could
kill for the animals.
M egan had been
thinking about her late husband Butch when she heard the knock on
the door, and when she opened it she gasped, because she thought
for a moment that it was Butch standing there in the cold, his red
wool shirt open as always, as if to show everybody what a man he
was. The man outside was Butch's height, and had his lanky build as
well, along with the natural smirk that drew up the left side of
his mouth. The resemblance was so uncanny that she almost
flinched.
"Yes?" she said, thinking that he didn't look
like a salesman, or like the Jehovah's Witnesses who came through
every year or so.
"Oh...Mrs. Craig?" God, the voice was the
same pitch as Butch's too, and had that petulant bite to it.
She wasn't about to correct his mistake,
though. It wasn't this little man's business that she and Ned
weren't married. "You're looking for Ned?"
"Well, ma'am, I guess you could say I'm
looking for a friend."
The nonsensical words and the purposeful,
almost desperate look on the man's face made her think for the
first time that he might have something to do with what happened
the day before, with what Ned had had to do, and she drew back a
step.
"No need to be scared, ma'am," the man said
as he too retreated several steps, back to the edge of the porch.
"I know Ned well. We been close, him and me."
"Who are you?" Megan asked.
"Well, you just tell him his brother came to
call."
"His brother?"
"Yes, ma'am, that's right. "His blood brother." The man jerked his arm, and a knife with a long blade
fell from his sleeve into his right hand.
Megan sucked in her breath with a hiss.
Immediately she began to calculate the time it would take her to
slam and lock the door, then run upstairs and grab and load a gun
before the man beat his way in. She knew she should do it now, but
she stood there as if ensorcelled by the smiling man holding the
knife whose dull blade shone only at the very edge, where it
appeared to have been freshly honed. She knew that he could not
reach her before she could slam the door, so she stood and watched,
just the way she had stood and watched Butch grow madder and
madder, until it was too late to run.
But this strange man did not come at her with
fists raised. Instead he kept smiling, and said, "I just want to
leave a short message for my blood brother. Here it is." Then he
took the knife and drew it across his left palm.
Megan's eyes grew wide as the man grinned at
the pain. He held up his hand so that Megan could see the other
grin, the red one, in his hand. The
salute, then slammed shut his truck door and walked across the
street toward Ned Craig's house, and up the walk with an air of one
who belonged there.
Jesus, she thought, could this be Craig? She
had pictured the man as more official looking, and wearing a
uniform, but maybe this bony, puny redneck was what game wardens
looked like in this inbred backwater. If it was him, she
would never have a better opportunity. She could take them both
now. If he went in and sat on the couch next to his bitch, it would
be the perfect setup.
Jean feverishly cranked open the window and
picked up the gun once more, twisting her body so that she could
shove the barrel through the window. But the geek didn't walk right
in through the door. Instead he knocked and waited, his hands stuck
in the hip pockets of his jeans.
The woman inside jerked upright, and Jean saw
her get up and walk to the door. That did it then. Whoever it was,
it wasn't Craig. Jean choked down her disappointment, set the rifle
back on the seat, rolled up the window, and started the jeep. She
pulled away without looking back.
She hadn't gone two blocks before she realized that
she was relieved that she hadn't had to kill anyone. But she told
herself that didn't mean that she wasn't capable. When the time was
right, she could do what had to be done. She could kill Ned Craig and his bitch. She could do it for Andrew, and she could
kill for the animals.
M egan had been
thinking about her late husband Butch when she heard the knock on
the door, and when she opened it she gasped, because she thought
for a moment that it was Butch standing there in the cold, his red
wool shirt open as always, as if to show everybody what a man he
was. The man outside was Butch's height, and had his lanky build as
well, along with the natural smirk that drew up the left side of
his mouth. The resemblance was so uncanny that she almost
flinched.
"Yes?" she said, thinking that he didn't look
like a salesman, or like the Jehovah's Witnesses who came through
every year or so.
"Oh...Mrs. Craig?" God, the voice was the
same pitch as Butch's too, and had that petulant bite to it.
She wasn't about to correct his mistake,
though. It wasn't this little man's business that she and Ned
weren't married. "You're looking for Ned?"
"Well, ma'am, I guess you could say I'm
looking for a friend."
The nonsensical words and the purposeful,
almost desperate look on the man's face made her think for the
first time that he might have something to do with what happened
the day before, with what Ned had had to do, and she drew back a
step.
"No need to be scared, ma'am," the man said
as he too retreated several steps, back to the edge of the porch.
"I know Ned well. We been close, him and me."
"Who are you?" Megan asked.
"Well, you just tell him his brother came to
call."
"His brother?"
"Yes, ma'am, that's right. "His blood brother." The man jerked his arm, and a knife with a long blade
fell from his sleeve into his right hand.
Megan sucked in her breath with a hiss.
Immediately she began to calculate the time it would take her to
slam and lock the door, then run upstairs and grab and load a gun
before the man beat his way in. She knew she should do it now, but
she stood there as if ensorcelled by the smiling man holding the
knife whose dull blade shone only at the very edge, where it
appeared to have been freshly honed. She knew that he could not
reach her before she could slam the door, so she stood and watched,
just the way she had stood and watched Butch grow madder and
madder, until it was too late to run.
But this strange man did not come at her with
fists raised. Instead he kept smiling, and said, "I just want to
leave a short message for my blood brother. Here it is." Then he
took the knife and drew it across his left palm.
Megan's eyes grew wide as the man grinned at
the pain. He held up his hand so that Megan could see the other
grin, the red one, in his hand. The
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