to Butch.
The narrow, snow-packed trail to the massacre site had become a common snowmobile route for those paying homage to the boys who died there. Butch and Thad had skis strapped to their backpacks for the trip down. They passed through a desolate world of snow-laden trees with humps where boulders rose and pushed the evergreens apart, at times, allowing sunshine to peek through between the treetops. Butch and Thad drove the tips of their ski poles into the packed snow and steadily plodded up the steep trail.
Morrison continually slipped, often clawing on all fours or using trees along the trail to pull himself. He endured the still cold of the forest trail, but on the edge of the massacre zone, the wind whipped up snow from the clearing and tossed it in their faces. Covering his ears with his gloved hands, he tucked his face into the top of his coat.
At the Massacre site, Steve pulled a digital camera from his coat pocket and began clicking shots. It looked desolate, as though there had never been life there. He noticed bullet holes through the tree beside him, then other such holes in trees nearby. "What the hell did this?" He looked at a gaping hole through a sixteen-inch tree trunk; a tree sparrow had since nestled in the cavity to escape the elements. The Spectator reporter stepped around to the back of the tree and found dried bloodstains. "They shot right through the tree and killed them," he mumbled to himself. He clicked several pictures of the phenomenon.
"You said you weren't an American Reporter," Butch declared sternly. He noticed a Spectator News identification tag on the camera. "What's with the camera?" The two onlookers stood side by side feeling double-crossed, Thad, the silent adjunct. "So, that ID you showed me was fake."
"Look Buddy--" said Steve.
"It's Butch."
Steve reached in his breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. He held out four twenties to Butch. "You got your money." The money flapped about in the breeze as the two boys scalded the stranger with their gaze.
"Well, if you don't want it, fine." A shot echoed through the valley below, several miles out. "What was that?"
"A Remington 306." Butch stated flatly. "It has a muzzle velocity of 2000 feet per second. You're one dead Fed." The money continued flapping in the wind as the Rousell brothers began untying the skis from their backs, preparing for the downward plunge.
"Boys, I'm not like the other Journalists," Steve claimed. "I'm trying to find out the truth about Dixville."
Thad tugged on his brother's arm and pointed to the Boston Bruins tie pin exposed through the reporter's open coat. Butch turned to his brother and nodded. "You from Boston?"
"I grew up just outside Boston," Steve was lying again. He didn't know what the boy's fascination was with Boston but he played along. Steve Morrison had no place he called home.
Through the communication system at Max's deer camp, the Rousells sent notes to The Wizard regularly. He had told the boys Boston was his home; the Rousells had developed an affinity for the city. They had heard about the expedition in March and planned on going. Butch didn't trust the reporter but admitted the connection, "The Wizard is from Boston, too. He can do just about anything. He's in the Vermont Covenant, ya know. But me and my brother have to know the truth about you before we can tell you anything."
Steve squatted in front of the boys. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of gum and offered them a stick. Each boy pulled off a mitten and cautiously accepted a piece. Steve unwrapped one for himself. He could no longer dismiss the boys and simply get a story and go. "I'm here because I believe the White House has blamed this
The narrow, snow-packed trail to the massacre site had become a common snowmobile route for those paying homage to the boys who died there. Butch and Thad had skis strapped to their backpacks for the trip down. They passed through a desolate world of snow-laden trees with humps where boulders rose and pushed the evergreens apart, at times, allowing sunshine to peek through between the treetops. Butch and Thad drove the tips of their ski poles into the packed snow and steadily plodded up the steep trail.
Morrison continually slipped, often clawing on all fours or using trees along the trail to pull himself. He endured the still cold of the forest trail, but on the edge of the massacre zone, the wind whipped up snow from the clearing and tossed it in their faces. Covering his ears with his gloved hands, he tucked his face into the top of his coat.
At the Massacre site, Steve pulled a digital camera from his coat pocket and began clicking shots. It looked desolate, as though there had never been life there. He noticed bullet holes through the tree beside him, then other such holes in trees nearby. "What the hell did this?" He looked at a gaping hole through a sixteen-inch tree trunk; a tree sparrow had since nestled in the cavity to escape the elements. The Spectator reporter stepped around to the back of the tree and found dried bloodstains. "They shot right through the tree and killed them," he mumbled to himself. He clicked several pictures of the phenomenon.
"You said you weren't an American Reporter," Butch declared sternly. He noticed a Spectator News identification tag on the camera. "What's with the camera?" The two onlookers stood side by side feeling double-crossed, Thad, the silent adjunct. "So, that ID you showed me was fake."
"Look Buddy--" said Steve.
"It's Butch."
Steve reached in his breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. He held out four twenties to Butch. "You got your money." The money flapped about in the breeze as the two boys scalded the stranger with their gaze.
"Well, if you don't want it, fine." A shot echoed through the valley below, several miles out. "What was that?"
"A Remington 306." Butch stated flatly. "It has a muzzle velocity of 2000 feet per second. You're one dead Fed." The money continued flapping in the wind as the Rousell brothers began untying the skis from their backs, preparing for the downward plunge.
"Boys, I'm not like the other Journalists," Steve claimed. "I'm trying to find out the truth about Dixville."
Thad tugged on his brother's arm and pointed to the Boston Bruins tie pin exposed through the reporter's open coat. Butch turned to his brother and nodded. "You from Boston?"
"I grew up just outside Boston," Steve was lying again. He didn't know what the boy's fascination was with Boston but he played along. Steve Morrison had no place he called home.
Through the communication system at Max's deer camp, the Rousells sent notes to The Wizard regularly. He had told the boys Boston was his home; the Rousells had developed an affinity for the city. They had heard about the expedition in March and planned on going. Butch didn't trust the reporter but admitted the connection, "The Wizard is from Boston, too. He can do just about anything. He's in the Vermont Covenant, ya know. But me and my brother have to know the truth about you before we can tell you anything."
Steve squatted in front of the boys. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of gum and offered them a stick. Each boy pulled off a mitten and cautiously accepted a piece. Steve unwrapped one for himself. He could no longer dismiss the boys and simply get a story and go. "I'm here because I believe the White House has blamed this
Similar Books
