Jack dressed in the dark, picked up the 30-30 Lever Action Marlin in its frayed canvas carrying case and stepped out into the cold night.
Outside, he glanced back at the bedroom where Cass lay sleeping, curled up on her side of the big bed, and the window next to that, Bobby’s bedroom window outlined by a soft glow from the fish tank light. In a couple of years, he thought Bobby would be old enough to go along with him.
Last night, he got out the Hoppes #9 and showed Bobby how to clean the Marlin. He taught him how to load and eject the bullets through the slots on the side and how to check the barrel for the pepper-like dirt by reflecting light up the barrel with a knife blade. It was a trick his dad had taught him when he was Bobbys age.
“In two years, when you’re twelve, you can go hunting with me,” he’d told his son. “That’s how old I was when my dad took me.”
It was still dark when he pulled his battered truck into the driveway of the Stanhopes large, brick house. There was a light on inside. In the kitchen, he found his brother-in-law, Brad, hunched over a map spread across the table. Jack’s sister, Sally, dressed in a quilted robe against the chill, handed him a cup of steaming coffee.
“Thanks, Sal. What’re you doing up?” he asked, grinning at the sleepy face, a mirror image of his own with her halo of black, unruly hair and deep-set brown eyes.
“I just wanted to see you two off.”
Brad looked up from the map, his face puffy looking under the overhead light, Jack wondered if he’d had a drink to start the day or if his florid, bloated cheeks and nose were permanent now.
“How’re you doing, Jack?” Brad asked.
“Not bad,” Jack said, “Considering it’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out there.
“Today’s weather report said we might get some snow later,” Sally commented. “Just in case, I made lots of coffee and extra sandwiches.” She put a large thermos of coffee and foil wrapped packets on the table. Jack slipped a couple of the foil packages into his jacket pocket.
“Thanks, Sal. How’re you feeling? Have you got another kicker in there?”
Sally grinned as she rubbed her pregnant belly. “This one has just started to really move. Not kicking like the boys. Cass and I both think it’s a girl this time.”
“It’d be nice to have a girl in the family,” Jack said.”
“It’s a boy,” Brad announced, folding the map. “I’m gonna have my own basketball team.”
“We’ll find out next week with a sonogram,” Sally said. “And girls play basketball too,” she added softly.
“Not on my team, they won’t,” Brad said, standing. He grabbed the thermos and sandwiches. “Let’s go Jack. That’s enough gabbing about the kid.”
Sally gently touched Jack’s arm as he put his coffee cup down.
“Jack, Cassie told me you’d try to find her some bittersweet. If there’s enough, will you bring me a few sprigs for the door wreath I’m making? Those tiny orange berries would be pretty in a wreath. Make it glow.”
“Sure, Sal. And maybe enough to put some on the mantle like mom always used to do when we were kids.”
Once in Jack’s old truck, they headed south toward hill country.
“I checked out a good place to hunt,” Brad said. He held a flashlight over the map on his knees. “It’s a big piece of land that’s for sale about twenty miles from town. I drove out there last week to look it over. Sure pays to be in real estate.” “Is it posted?” Jack asked.
“Nope. It’s not.”
The early morning mist turned to shifting fog as they drove past miles of corn and soybean fields, weathered-looking barns and still dark farmhouses.
“Slow down,” Brad muttered. “We’re close to the place.”
He directed Jack to turn onto a gravel side road which led them to a boarded-up farmhouse, its once tended lawn and garden covered with unraked leaves. A tire swing hung from a large maple tree beside the house.
“I could buy these 400 acres for a song, bulldoze the buildings, put in a golf course and turn it into a fancy, up-scale development,” Brad mused. “Maybe add a lake”
Jack looked at the house. “Seems a shame to tear the house down. It’s a nice old place. Barn looks to be in pretty good shape, too.”
Brad laughed. “It’s all junk. None of it is worth shit in today’s market. People want big, fancy houses with a lot of extras.”
They sat on the back porch steps, drinking coffee as the eastern sky began to turn pearly gray over the empty fields.
Brad took a 300 Weatherby rifle out of its tooled leather carrying case. “Put a Bausch and Lomb scope on a couple of days ago,” he said, sighting toward the barn.
“Even in this bad light I could hit every knothole over there.” The mother-of- pearl inlaid stock glowed softly against his cheek. “It’ll be like shooting at Bambi in my backyard. Brings everything right up to you,” he bragged, grinning. “Lot of deer signs all around. I sent a couple of guys out here to do a preliminary survey. They found tracks down by a creek and out in the pasture. We could probably sit right here and bag our deer while we’re drinking our coffee.”
Jack stood and pulled a bright orange vest over his old faded brown winter jacket that he’d worn with a pair of faded jeans and scuffed work boots.
“You make a real fashion statement,” Brad laughed as Jack handed him the other orange vest. He pulled it over an elaborate jacket which matched the camouflage material of his pants and hat.
“Let’s go,” Jack answered. “It’s getting light. No sense standing out here in the open, yacking.” He led the way across a field of corn stubble, wary, watching for deer at the edge of the woods beyond the field.
They walked along the tree line looking for a path through the thick stand of blackberry canes that grew at the edge of the field. Jack remembered being in a field like this once with his dad and sighting a doe and a fawn that stood in the early morning light beside the blackberry brambles. They had watched her silently, until she and her fawn moved away. He had been grateful that his dad hadn’t wanted to kill that doe.
“There’s some bittersweet,” he said, pointing toward a small tree at the edge of the woods. A vine had twined itself into the branches of the tree so that its clusters of small orange-gold dried berries glowed against the tree’s grey bark. “Don’t let me forget to pick some of that for Cass and Sally before we leave today.”
They found a narrow animal trail and stepped in among the trees, trying to make as little noise as possible on the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Jack liked the look of the thick woods after the crisp, fall air had turned the leaves to shades of reds and yellows. His eyes adjusted to the patterns ahead. The ash and elm trees growing straight and tall, competing for light. The walnuts and sycamores which spread their thick, gnarled trunks, demanding space.
They stopped at the crest of a small hill to look around. A creek flowed through the valley below.
“Why don’t we stay here for a while,” Jack said quietly. “We can see the whole valley from here.”
When they’d settled, the only sounds were crows cawing, somewhere, deep in the woods and the insistent drumming of a nearby woodpecker. They sat in silence watching the light change on the opposite hill. It was cold. Jack could see his breath as he looked at the canopy of bright-colored leaves outlined against the grey sky. Sally could be right. They might get some snow by afternoon from the look of the leaden early morning clouds.
By midday they began following the meandering creek bed, walking on the shale and sand along its banks. Occasionally, they heard the far-off sound of gunfire.
“That’s a long way from here,” Brad said. “Probably way over past the county line from the sound of it. “I’ll have this place posted as soon as I buy it. Keep the dammed locals out.”
They’d seen plenty of deer tracks along the creek bed and matted-down grass in a clearing where deer had rested.
“There’re here watching us,” Brad seethed. “The sons of bitches know we’re here lookin’ for ‘em.”
“Deer are smart, they get real wary during hunting season,” Jack answered. “You’ve got to be patient.” He watched as Brad took a drink from a small leather- covered flask. “How about we eat the sandwiches Sal gave us?”
Jack ate while Brad smoked beside him. “My dad used to hunt with a guy during the depression, who always ate raw turnips for lunch while he hunted. Dad hated turnips but he’d always trade something for one so the guy would have some real food,” Jack said.
“He was probably conning your dad,” Brad smirked.
“No. I don’t think so. He was poor. Dad said he thought he had to hunt just to feed his family. If he bagged a couple or three rabbits, they’d be able to eat for a week.”
Jack pulled the second sandwich from his jacket pocket. “Man, I’m hungry,” he said.
“Want some juice with that?” Brad asked. “It’s good stuff. Warm your gizzard.”
“No thanks. I want to be able to see the deer if they ever decide to show.” He leaned against a tree and looked at the interlocking branches overhead, “God it’s beautiful back in here. Seems a crime to bring in a bulldozer into these woods. Put in roads and houses.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s perfect land for an up-scale development,” Brad said, stubbing out his cigarette. “You’ve gotta start thinking big or you’re never gonna make decent money. Not while you’re struck in construction anyway.” “I’m doing okay,” Jack answered.
Brad sighted through his scope. “You should get one of these, Jack. It’s great. The guy who sold it to me said I could hit a target 300 to 400 yards away. That’s about three football fields. Not bad, huh.”
Jack looked intently at the crest of the opposite hill. “There’s something moving Over there,”he said quietly.
“You sure? Where?”
Just as he spoke, Brad fired, the sound deafening, reverberating against the hills. A flock of crows rose from the trees behind them, cawing loudly in alarm.
“C’mon,” Brad yelled. “I got him. Had a clean shot.”
Jack followed Brad down the hill, through the laurel thicket, across the creek and up the other hillside.
“It was a big buck,” Brad bragged as he labored up the steep incline. Must’ve been at least ten points. It’s gonna be tough haulin’ him back over to where your truck’s parked. I’ll probably field dress him. Just take the best steaks and leave the rest for the buzzards.”
“We may have to track him,” Jack said.
“Oh, I got him all right. Saw him drop in his tracks. Up by that big tree.”
They approached the crest of the hill where a large walnut tree stood, a squirrel scolding angrily from high in the branches. At the base of the tree lay a heap of tan and orange. Jack reached the top of the hill first; fear grew as he climbed toward what looked like a bundle of clothing.
“Jesus Christ, you hit someone,” he said, turning to face a sweating, panting Brad who stood nearby, mouth agape, shaking his head.
“Couldn’t have. I swear it was a buck,” Brad argued, his heavy jowls slick with sweat.
Jack knelt beside the lanky body, gently feeling for a pulse. It was a boy. A skinny, blond teenager. He was on his side, a cap with SCOTT FEED stitched across the front, black on red, lay on the ground next to his head. He wore a soiled and tattered orange vest over a tan sweatshirt and jeans, patched at the knees.
“No pulse,” Jack said. “Jesus.” He looked at the thin, young face with its prominent Adam’s apple and unshaven down on the upper lip. “He can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen.”
“What the hell was he doing up here?” Brad muttered thickly. ”Must be some damn farm kid from around here, poaching.”
There was a neat hole in the boy’s back, another, gaping one on his chest where bits of bone mixed with blood still flowed, staining the torn orange vest and crisp leaves a bright crimson. His lifeless hand clutched an old twenty-two with a nicked stock. An open canvas bag beside him held a dead squirrel.
Jack gingerly checked his pockets. “No ID. Probably lives close by. I’ll go call the sheriff. My cell phone is in the truck. You want to stay here or go with me?” he asked, looking up at Brad’s sweating, red face.
“We’re not calling the sheriff,” Brad said quietly, lighting a cigarette.
“What in hell are you talking about? Of course we are. We have to, Brad. What do you plan to do? Just walk away. Leave the poor kid here?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean? Yes.” Jack looked up at the puffy, impassive face above him.
“I mean,” Brad said quietly, deliberately, “that’s exactly what we have to do. Unless you want to take the rap for this. I’m sure as hell not. There’s too much at stake.”
“Jesus, Brad. You can’t be serious. You’d walk away, leave the kid here and not tell anyone. I can’t believe you’d really do that,” Jack said, trying to remain calm, reasonable.
“Look, Jack. I’d probably be up for manslaughter. Maybe so to jail. It’d ruin me. What do you think would happen to Sally and the kids if a mess like this gets out. You’d better think about your sister’s future.”
He began kicking piles of leaves around the boy. “You gonna help me or what?” he asked.
Jack watched as Brad draped a couple of branches over the top of the body. He added another to over the rifle and canvas bag.
“What you’re doing is a crime, Brad. I can’t be a part of that.” Jack said grimly.
“Suit yourself,” Brad grumbled, panting with his effort as he tossed another branch on the heap. “Let’s get out of here.” He picked up his Weatherby, turned and walked away rapidly downhill toward the valley below. “C’mon. “Let’s go,” he called over his shoulder.
Jack looked down at the brush-covered boy, hesitated and then slowly followed Brad, retracing their route through the hills, across the corn field to his truck where Brad stood carefully wiping down his gun.
“This is wrong. What we’re doing. It was an accident, Brad. Let’s not make it worse by not telling the sheriff.” He tried to remain calm, convincing.
“Don’t start, Jack. I’m not going to talk about this anymore. And, if you know what’s good for all of us, you’ll drop it right now,” Brad fumed, spitting out the words. “Are we going back to town or not?”
They drove for several miles in a tense silence. Finally, Jack asked, “what about the moral issue here? What about the kid’s family? How can you live with that hanging over you for the rest of your life?”
“Let me worry about the rest of my life,” Brad muttered.
“What about me?” Jack asked quietly.
“If we keep our mouths shut, nobody’s ever gonna know we were there today. We’re off the hook unless you blow it,”
“I’m talking about living with this, not about how we’d get away with it,” Jack said, angrily.
Brad stared at him. “You were in Afghanistan. You killed people. After a while you’ll stop thinking about it. It’ll fade like those times.”
“Jesus,” Jack exploded. “This is insane. An insane, immoral, awful mess!”
“Not unless you plan to make it one,” Brad said coldly. He turned on the radio, ending the conversation.
Snow began to fall as they drove into Brad’s driveway; Sally opened the front door and waved. Jack waved back. “I forgot the bittersweet, Sal,” he called. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. The flower shop may have some,” she answered.
“I don’t suppose you want to come in for a drink,” Brad said, sourly.
“No.”
As Brad opened the truck’s door, Jack asked, “what are you going to tell her?”
“Nothing, I suggest you do the same.”
“I’m not promising anything,” Jack said.
Jack drove aimlessly for a while, trying to think. He passed the road to his house, crossed the bridge to the city and into the old downtown business district. He parked across the street from the metropolitan police station and sat in his truck, watching patrol cars pulling in and out of the lot beside the building. Finally, cold and feeling sick, he drove home.
Bobby was doing homework at the kitchen table when Jack walked in the back door, “Did you shoot a deer, Dad?” he asked eagerly.
“No luck this time, son,” Jack said dully.
“Can I hold the Marlin?”
“No! It’s not a toy.”
He saw Bobby’s expression change from eagerness to hurt at the sharpness of his quick answer That instant, he saw the dead boy’s face in his son’s look. He touched the top of Bobby’s head, letting his hand follow the soft blond hair down to the nape of his neck.
“Maybe later you can help me clean it before I put it in the gun safe.”
Cass looked at him closely, her face flushed from pulling something from the oven. “You feeling okay?” she asked.
“Not great,” he said quietly.
“You look pale. Maybe it’s the flu. There’s a lot of it going around now. Are you hungry? I made a big pot of stew.”
“No, not really, Cass,” he said.
“Honey, you don’t look so good. Maybe you belong in bed.”
Grateful for the release from the need to talk, Jack went upstairs, peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower, trying to erase the days’ ugliness under a torrent of scalding hot water.
Cass came to check on him, bringing him hot tea and toast. “You should try to eat something, if you can.” Concern showing in her hazel eyes. A strand of pale- blond hair fell across her face as she leaned over to put her cheek against his forehead.
“You’re warm, Jack. Let’s take you temperature just in case,” she said, shaking a thermometer. “I told Bobby to let you sleep You can talk about the hunting trip in the morning.
All Jack wanted was for this gentle, caring woman to go away and leave him alone when he wasn’t sick. “Thanks, Cass,” he said closing his eyes, feigning a sleepiness he didn’t feel.
The next day he remembered the bittersweet.
“Cassie, I forgot to bring it. There was a tree full of it and I meant to pick some before we left for home. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. Maybe next year you and Brad will go back to the same place to hunt. The bittersweet will still be there. You were coming down with a bug and needed to get home. No wonder it slipped your mind.”
After a few days he began having trouble sleeping at night. It started with a dream about the boy, a nightmare pf people digging under a small tree, coming closer and closer to where the body was buried. The first time Jack had the dream, he awoke in the dark room with Cass breathing gently beside him. His heart was pounding. The images were vivid. That night he didn’t go back to sleep he was so afraid the terrifying dream would return. He began to stay up later every night in the hope that sleep might finally come.
Every day, he combed the paper to see if anyone had been reported missing. He never found anything about a missing teenager, After a search for Scott Feed, the name on the boy’s cap, he found it listed in a nearby farm town, drove to the place but sat outside the rambling building in his truck, unable to go inside. That trip to the feed store left him shaking.
His eyes began to look sunken, his face haggard. He had no appetite. Cass, concerned about his health, began to push him to have a check-up.
That fall, he found a flower shop that had a few bunches of bittersweet to sell. He bought all the florist had and split them between Cass and Sally.
“Where’ve you been?” Sally asked when he stopped that day to give her the dried flowers. “I’ve missed you.” She looked closely at his exhausted face. “Cass told me you’re super busy right now. She’s worried you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
Jack watched her hold the small bunch of bittersweet and rub a protective free hand over her pregnant belly.
“Ya. I’m sorry for not being in touch, Sal. Just trying to get a little ahead while the work is available.” He knew his excuse sounded lame.
The two families always had Thanksgiving dinner together; this year it would be at the Stanhope’s. Jack would finally have to talk with Brad. He dreaded the coming occasion.
When they arrived, Bobby raced ahead to find his cousins, nine-year-old twins, Martin and Joe and their younger brother, David. Jack followed Cass who carried a freshly baked pumpkin pie and a plate full of cupcakes she handed to Sally. The two women headed for the kitchen while the excited kids ran outside to play.
Jack found Brad in the den watching football on tv.
“You look awful, Jack,” Brad said in greeting.
“Thanks. You don’t look so good yourself. You’ve put on a bit of weight.”
Brad glanced at him, his eyes hard in the doughy-looking face with its network of broken capillaries.
“You’re not starting to come unglued are you, Jack?” he said quietly, eyes narrowed. “We can’t afford that now.”
Jack stared intently at the man and felt as if he were viewing him for the first time. He was stunned at how much he disliked Brad. He decided to hold his tongue, not say the ugly thoughts that would come.
In December, Jack suggested, to Cass’s delight, that they drive up to Michigan and spend Christmas with Cass’s younger sister, Julie. It was the only way he could think of avoiding having to spend another holiday with Brad Stanhope.
“You can learn to ski on this trip,” he told Bobby. “Your Aunt Julie is a pro.”
“Wow. That’s great.”
“We’ll be up there for nearly a week. You’ll be a good skier by the time we leave.”
The trip to Michigan was a relief, marred only by one incident when Jack suffered what everyone feared was a heart attack. Cass and Julie raced him to the hospital while he held his left arm He was sweating, shaking and unable to draw a deep breath without terrible pain in his chest.
After comprehensive tests, the doctor told him, “You’re having a panic attack.” He sheepishly left the hospital and promised Cass that he’d cut out his seven day work week and slowdown from now on. It was a wake-up call.
Two days after they got home, he had another panic attack in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and his arm hurting.
“Jack, I’m really getting worried,” Cass told him as she held his shaking, sweating body. “Please go see Dr. Sanderson. You’re not sleeping, you’re losing weight. Something’s wrong, Honey. I’ll make an appointment?”
He kept the appointment which included another battery of tests. He made up a story for the doctor about work fatigue and went home with a tranquilizer prescription and a heavy feeling of guilt for his deception.
Jack had started visiting Sally on his lunch break while Brad ate lunch at his country club or downtown near his office. To explain his absence on weekends while Cass and Bobby went to visit the Stanhope’s, he spent the time at home catching up on bills and paperwork.
Sally went into labor early in the morning on a chilly January Sunday. She called Jack while Cass and Bobby were eating breakfast.
“I’m sorry to call for your help, Jack. Brad isn’t here. He’s down in Miami at a Golf tournament. Do you mind taking me to the hospital?”
“Of course not. Cass and I’ll be there in ten minutes, Just hang tight, Sally.”
“Bring Bobby. I’ve got a sitter so he can stay here with the boys.”
The baby was another boy.
“Do you have a name picked out?” Jack asked hours later when he and Cass were allowed to see Sally.
She grinned. “Yes. Patricia Anne for both of our mothers, I didn’t want to know the baby’s sex. On purpose. Brad will be happy. He only wanted a boy and has been calling him Butch for months.”
Spring finally arrived and with the warm weather, Sally’s and Cass’s planned an Easter Egg Hunt and picnic in the Stanhope’s big backyard. Unfortunately, the weather report for Easter weekend called for rain.
“Not a problem,” Sally announced. “We’ll move the fun inside.”
Jack asked Cass to go ahead with Bobby in her car while he checked his construction sites. “I’ll meet you there, Cass. I want to make sure the tarps are secure covering the lumber and bags of cement.”
Using heavy cinder blocks at each location, Jack pinned the tarps over stacks of building supplies against the pounding rain and strong wind gusts. It took almost an hour to complete the job before he headed back to the Stanhope neighborhood.
He spotted the red flashing lights of emergency vehicles as soon as he reached the front of the house. He parked on the street and sprinted toward the door, his gut filled with an unknown fear of what may be happening inside the house. The front door was ajar. He pushed the door open, stepped inside and was greeted by the smell of baking ham and the sound of kids crying hysterically.
Sally was in the living room with her arms tightly gripping the weeping twins, Martin and Joe. Sobbing and shaking, Joe, kept repeating the same words, “I didn’t mean to do it.” There was no sign of the new baby, Sally’s seven-year-old son, David, or Cass or Bobby. He took one quick look at Sally’s red, tear-streaked face and kept moving.
He saw Brad standing in the hallway near the den with a police officer who was writing on a small pad. As he passed them, he heard the officer say, “in this state it’s against the law to leave your gun safe unlocked with loaded weapons inside.”
“I’m sure it was locked,” Brad muttered angrily. He glanced at Jack and quickly looked away without speaking.
The den was full of people. As Jack entered the room, two firemen passed him with a gurney holding a black body bag. He stood aside to let them leave and spotted the small, huddled figure of seven-year-old David in a fetal position under the heavy pool table. The fact that all the kids were now accounted for except Bobby hit him with a stunning, gut-wrenching realization of who was in the body bag. It was his son. It was Bobby. He began to shake from the raw pain of the truth.
And then he saw Cass. She was covered in blood, her face ashen. She leaned against the badly damaged, blood splattered wall near the gun safe. A paramedic knelt beside her holding a blood pressure cuff. A second paramedic stepped up carrying a blanket. The two men, working gently and efficiently pulled her into a prone position, lifted her feet onto a small stool and covered her with the blanket.
Jack dropped to his knees beside her, but she didn’t seem to notice he was there. Her eyes were unfocused and her breathing shallow.
“I’m here, Cass,” he whispered as he searched for her hand under the blanket.
“I’m her husband,” he said. The boy was my son.”
The paramedics nodded. One of them said “sorry, man.”
“She’s in shock,” the other man said. “We’ll stay with her, though she would be better off in the hospital. Shock can be serious.”
After a few minutes, they decided to take Cass to the ambulance. While they carefully place her on a gurney, Jack said, “I’ll follow and meet you there.”
He stepped into the hallway behind the paramedics and faced the policeman and Brad. Jack stared at Brad who looked at him with undisguised fear. Jack wanted to grab him but swallowed his rage enough to say, “You just killed my son, Brad.” Jack’s voice was ragged, cold. “Your careless arrogance did it. You didn’t think of what could happen to Bobby or one of your boys when you decided to leave that damned, loaded gun in an unlocked safe.”
Brad’s bloated face twisted in fury. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes. I do,” Jack shot back grimly. “Now Cass is on her way to the hospital. She’s in shock. The paramedics said it could be serious. If something happens to her, that’s on you too, Brad.”
Brad smirked and shook his head. “Why don’t you shut your big mouth,”
Enraged, Jack shot back, “I know who you are, and I know what you’ve done.”
The policeman, sensing trouble, stepped between the two men and spoke calmly, “the authorities will be in touch with you regarding the charges, Mister Stanhope. Do not leave town.”
Jack watched the man close his small notepad and put his pen and the pad in his breast pocket. What Brad had done to his life overwhelmed any more hesitation. Silence to keep peace with Brad Stanhope was no longer an option.
As the policeman turned to leave, Jack said grimly, “No. Don’t go, Officer. There’s more.”
Jenny Clark started writing under the name Jennifer Shull after a long career in the film industry as a casting director . Writing is her life now. It gives here great pleasure. Her work tends to be dark and full of villains. She met her own personal villain years ago in Los Angeles. She was pure evil and caused Jenny endless grief. She has always been Jenny’s template for the ugly villainous behavior of every character, male or female, in Jenny’s writing. She is long gone but her evil lives on as Jenny’s inspiration.
