physical craving to fire up a joint. My tongue felt dry as a stick of chalk. If I ever wanted to detox again, I’d pick a less nerve-wracking time than it was right now. He knew I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. At the first dry, mossy patch, we bivouacked on his garbage bags spread out for ground cloths, one to each side of a fallen log.
Like a woodchuck, I nestled in a fetal ball position, wishing we’d a tarp to shelter us. The horror of arrows sliced from crossbows replayed behind my closed eyelids, and I feared a fatal arrow had lanced Edna. To calm down, I recited the words to a prayer: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou . . .”
* * *
In next to no time, a hand jostled me awake, and I blinked up. My grainy eyesight focused on Mr. Kuzawa crouched low behind the log and murmuring.
“We’ve got uninvited guests.”
I pulled up to my knees, and my fingers shucked out the shells from my pocket. Two shells spilled into the moss where I left them. Swallowing hard, I fed the ammo into the 12-gauge’s breech, slotting in a full eight-shot load. “Where are they?”
“Above us. I heard a silhouette slip along the ridge top. They’re out of our range, but I can snake my way up and ice them. Easy as pie.”
“You heard a shadow move on the ridge?”
“When I’m in my foxhole mode, I doze in spurts. It’s a handy knack you never forget.”
Wishing it was dusk bringing on the dark, and not dawn bringing on the sunlight, I had limited visibility to see much along the patchy ridge. “A bear or a buck is out foraging. Try hollering.”
He bawled out. “You there up in the trees! What gives?”
“Ahoy. Who have I the pleasure of addressing?” replied a man’s cultured voice from above us.
“Jerry Kuzawa.”
“Mr. Kuzawa … is that you, sir?”
“That’s what I said. Ain’t that you, Herzog?”
My confusion cleared. Herzog my lawyer had told me that he planned to scope out Lake Charles for hunting sites. A memory of our pre-trial meeting I kept avoiding added to my irritation.
“Come down and my 12-gauge won’t dust off your balls,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“No cause to perpetrate any violence, Kuzawa.”
Mr. Kuzawa’s militant eyes darted to mine. “Why is he on the prowl at sunrise?”
“He belongs to the gentlemen’s hunt club,” I replied. “He takes himself for a mountain man.”
“Yeah, and I’m Mary Fucking Poppins.”
A lumbering gait marked his course off the ridge and down through the trees. Besides his disturbing my sleep, hunger and frustration also left me in a pissy mood.
“Seeing you here makes me wonder,” said Herzog.
“I could say vice versa,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
The oafish Herzog halted within spitting distance where his Aqua Velva scent swept over us. “I’m out reconnoitering because my hunting lodge makes it a practice to prepare early. Next week Dr. Smith will race his red ticks and start their field conditioning. He’s heard Lake Charles teems with game. Have you spotted any turkey scratchings? Or wing feathers dropped under the pines?” Herzog shifted the strap to the brown leather game pouch that Pete Rojos had fixed.
“We’ve seen the usual boar hog wallows, but nothing in the way of turkeys,” replied Mr. Kuzawa.
“No toms are feeding or roosting in this stinking sump,” I said. “Paranoid is my middle name so seeing a hunting license will help to back up your claim.”
Unflustered, Herzog produced his wallet and showed me his state hunting license. It was current. Being legal was a lawyer’s stock in trade. “If only you were as conscientious in our meeting for your trial prep.”
“My sister Edna went missing. Did you see or hear anything?”
“Edna? Lost?” Returning his wallet to his pocket, he wagged his head. “If I’d seen her, I’d have shared it with you.”
My gaze appealed to Mr. Kuzawa. “How do I cope with this crap?”
Herzog shrugged. “It’s the God’s truth, Brendan.
Like a woodchuck, I nestled in a fetal ball position, wishing we’d a tarp to shelter us. The horror of arrows sliced from crossbows replayed behind my closed eyelids, and I feared a fatal arrow had lanced Edna. To calm down, I recited the words to a prayer: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou . . .”
* * *
In next to no time, a hand jostled me awake, and I blinked up. My grainy eyesight focused on Mr. Kuzawa crouched low behind the log and murmuring.
“We’ve got uninvited guests.”
I pulled up to my knees, and my fingers shucked out the shells from my pocket. Two shells spilled into the moss where I left them. Swallowing hard, I fed the ammo into the 12-gauge’s breech, slotting in a full eight-shot load. “Where are they?”
“Above us. I heard a silhouette slip along the ridge top. They’re out of our range, but I can snake my way up and ice them. Easy as pie.”
“You heard a shadow move on the ridge?”
“When I’m in my foxhole mode, I doze in spurts. It’s a handy knack you never forget.”
Wishing it was dusk bringing on the dark, and not dawn bringing on the sunlight, I had limited visibility to see much along the patchy ridge. “A bear or a buck is out foraging. Try hollering.”
He bawled out. “You there up in the trees! What gives?”
“Ahoy. Who have I the pleasure of addressing?” replied a man’s cultured voice from above us.
“Jerry Kuzawa.”
“Mr. Kuzawa … is that you, sir?”
“That’s what I said. Ain’t that you, Herzog?”
My confusion cleared. Herzog my lawyer had told me that he planned to scope out Lake Charles for hunting sites. A memory of our pre-trial meeting I kept avoiding added to my irritation.
“Come down and my 12-gauge won’t dust off your balls,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“No cause to perpetrate any violence, Kuzawa.”
Mr. Kuzawa’s militant eyes darted to mine. “Why is he on the prowl at sunrise?”
“He belongs to the gentlemen’s hunt club,” I replied. “He takes himself for a mountain man.”
“Yeah, and I’m Mary Fucking Poppins.”
A lumbering gait marked his course off the ridge and down through the trees. Besides his disturbing my sleep, hunger and frustration also left me in a pissy mood.
“Seeing you here makes me wonder,” said Herzog.
“I could say vice versa,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
The oafish Herzog halted within spitting distance where his Aqua Velva scent swept over us. “I’m out reconnoitering because my hunting lodge makes it a practice to prepare early. Next week Dr. Smith will race his red ticks and start their field conditioning. He’s heard Lake Charles teems with game. Have you spotted any turkey scratchings? Or wing feathers dropped under the pines?” Herzog shifted the strap to the brown leather game pouch that Pete Rojos had fixed.
“We’ve seen the usual boar hog wallows, but nothing in the way of turkeys,” replied Mr. Kuzawa.
“No toms are feeding or roosting in this stinking sump,” I said. “Paranoid is my middle name so seeing a hunting license will help to back up your claim.”
Unflustered, Herzog produced his wallet and showed me his state hunting license. It was current. Being legal was a lawyer’s stock in trade. “If only you were as conscientious in our meeting for your trial prep.”
“My sister Edna went missing. Did you see or hear anything?”
“Edna? Lost?” Returning his wallet to his pocket, he wagged his head. “If I’d seen her, I’d have shared it with you.”
My gaze appealed to Mr. Kuzawa. “How do I cope with this crap?”
Herzog shrugged. “It’s the God’s truth, Brendan.
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