Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  Mason swallowed hard and licked his lips. Heat flared in his ears, and the Remington bounced in time with the pulsing of his heart.

  Pretend. That’s all it was. Better move your finger away from the trigger.

  Ten seconds.

  The idiot shouldn’t be there. Not safe.

  Eight seconds.

  A whole morning. Wasted.

  Five seconds.

  Enough venison to feed his family for at least two months.

  Two seconds.

  Just another animal.

  One.

  The shot echoed through the predawn, sending a scattering of birds cawing into the sky. Duane Forsberg would no longer steal from him or anyone else. A blast of tension exploded from the pressure cooker of his chest. His fingers twitched as excess energy struggled to find a release. Mason wanted desperately to run across the clearing and burn off the adrenaline.

  Should he go over? See how much damage a .30-06 cartridge did to a human? Explain to someone that it was all an accident? That he didn’t realize the area was posted, off-limits to hunters?

  No. The risk was far too high. Questions would be asked, and even if they believed him, he might lose his hunting license. Unacceptable. Easier to fade away and hope he wasn’t caught. Could always claim he aimed for a deer and missed. Had no idea he’d shot someone. Gosh, are they okay?

  Nothing else moved. He turned and crept back into the woods. A few steps, freeze, then a few more. Look, but more importantly, listen. Nothing. A few more steps. Quiet. He was alone.

  .......

  Less than two hours later he was home, showered, and getting ready to work the fields. Another fifty acres of winter wheat needed planting, and rain was forecast for the end of the week. He had to get it done. He grabbed Paula on his way out the door and pulled her to him. “Don’t get too tired today,” he said. “Maybe see if you can whip up a babysitter, and we’ll go out to dinner.”

  She shushed him away, smiling widely. “Well, what’s got into you today? You’re in a mighty good mood considering you didn’t get a deer this morning.”

  “Thinking we might have to get to work on a brother for Lucas tonight.” Mason winked at her and jogged to his tractor, eager to go about his chores.

  He’d found something better than whittling.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A horn honk brought Mason back to reality, and he waved as the Monsanto rep drove past. It was still early, and Paula didn’t expect him home until tomorrow anyway. Could head back and surprise her. Maybe take them all out for some fried catfish and then let the boys play on the four-wheelers until dark. It had been a long winter, and sitting on the front porch swing with his girl and a big glass of sweet iced tea sounded like the perfect Saturday night.

  He leaned forward and looked up through the cracked windshield. The skies were overcast but warm, and the threat of a mid-May thunderstorm hovered overhead. Not the best of days to be outside. Still ...

  Mason cranked the pickup, pumping the gas pedal until the old truck started, and headed east toward the Trail of Tears State Forest in Illinois, just across the Mississippi. A quick drive through the park wouldn’t hurt. Check things out and head on home. Who knows? He might get lucky and, if he hurried, he’d still get to the house at a decent hour.

  And sweet tea always tasted better when he was relaxed.

  .......

  He drove along the forest’s meandering roads with his windows down, enjoying the sights and smells. Beech and sweetgum trees mingled with oaks and maples to hide the woodland’s secrets. The rich soil, darkened by years of decaying foliage and wildlife, oozed a dark, earthy scent. He’d give anything if his land smelled like that. Farming took a toll on the soil and on people too if they let it. He hated turning over the dirt on windy days and seeing the clouds of dust billow off into the atmosphere, but he couldn’t afford to let his acreage lie fallow.

  He turned left off the main street and followed a side road, twisting and turning onto other paths as the mood hit. A few vehicles clustered around a couple of the fire trails, their occupants hiking, picnicking, or doing who-knows-what. Gotta be careful in places like this. You never knew what trouble lay around the next corner. Like that T-shirt he’d spotted up in Gatlinburg said—Paddle faster. I hear banjo music.

  Another turn, then a quarter-mile later, a lone car parked near a trail entrance. A later model Toyota. Red with four stick figures on the back window. Dad. Mom. Girl. Boy. No dog? He drove several hundred feet past, pulled over, and stepped out of his truck. The forest was thick, and he’d have to fight through some briars to get very deep. A few scratches wouldn’t hurt, though. He hoped the chiggers would leave him alone. Worst things the good Lord ever created. Should’ve sent them into Egypt at the beginning, and Pharaoh would’ve begged Moses to leave.

  Once under the tree canopy, the world changed. Hunting did that for a man. It made him feel like he was real, like he had a purpose. The tree- huggers and PETA lovers would never appreciate that. Their loss. He moved easily, walking uphill toward a spot where he hoped he could get a better view of the landscape, and more importantly, the trail. A rotting log lay in his path, and he kicked at it. Crumbly slivers of bark peeled off revealing white grubs, ants, and beetles scurrying as the dim light invaded their hiding spot. Doubtless other critters were nearby as well. Maybe a fox or skunk, and surely a snake or two. He’d leave them be, as any respectable outdoorsman would.

  A few moments later, and he crested the rise. As feared, there was no sign of the trail. Too many trees. No matter. Hunting required all his senses. If his eyes were of limited use, his ears would make up the difference. He slowed his movement and crept forward, heel pressing firmly into the ground before he lowered his foot and took another step. If the trail ran straight, he’d have hit it by now, but he knew better. Most of the fire trails ran along the ridge tops, meaning he needed to go another hundred yards or so, down then up.

  Two or three birds took flight somewhere off to his left, squawking as they flew overhead. He froze in place and hunted with his eyes. There.

  His peripheral vision picked up movement down the hill near a small opening. He sidled beside a maple and eased to one knee. This time of day, could be a deer, but not likely. A squirrel clambered up an oak, jabbering at the unseen creature. Patience. Savor the moment. Confirm your target before acting. Safety first.

  Gotcha.

  A glimpse of a faded blue T-shirt through the trees. Seconds later, a better view.

  A lone figure skirted the clearing in the hollow, maybe eighty yards away. A man wearing shorts and hiking boots, a walking stick in one hand, binoculars in the other. Birdwatcher? Nature lover?

  Prey.

  Mason’s fingers stroked the hilt of the combat knife strapped to his leg. No guns today. Too many people around and even with a silencer the echo would bounce around these hills forever and a day. A gunshot would bring attention. The silent slicing of a jugular would not.

  People are stupid. Not like animals, always aware of their surroundings. Try sneaking up on any critter and killing it with a knife. Won’t happen unless it’s already wounded. It’ll hear you. Smell you. And assume you’re a threat. But not people. Oblivious to what was around them. King of the world. Top of the food chain. Assuming nothing’s going to hurt them because nothing’s more dangerous than they are.

  Stupid.

  The hiker looked to be in his early 40s and in decent shape. Good. Toting him the almost half-mile back to the truck wouldn’t be too difficult. Not like that overweight girl in Kansas. It’d taken two weeks for his back to recover from her.

  Blue Shirt raised his binoculars and turned in a slow semi-circle, scanning the treetops. Twice he paused and jotted something in a notepad. Birdwatcher.

  Mason waited and planned his hunt. A quick dash to those two pines, down to the half-dead sweetgum, over toward the redbud, finally to the clearing. Then wait until Blue Shirt reentered the trees to move closer. More ambush options tha
t way.

  He flexed his fingers and pulled camouflage hunting gloves from his pocket. Not that he was concerned about being spotted. Blue Shirt either looked up in the trees or down at the trail. Had no idea his life was already over. That he’d never make it back to his foreign red car with the four stick figures. Wonder if his family will peel Dad off the back window?

  He pulled the gloves tight until his fingers pressed against the seams. Had to be careful here.

  The knife handle tended to get a bit slippery when wet.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The restaurant was fancy, dark, and expensive. An FBI agent’s salary would take a beating at a place like this. Jeremy wasn’t worried. Cronfeld would pick up the tab. His invitation, his treat. Not like he couldn’t afford it.

  The two men sat at a table in the back corner, Cronfeld in a tailor- made black suit and red tie and Jeremy in freshly pressed jeans and an Oxford shirt. Other than a slight belly bulge, the colonel looked just as he had in Afghanistan. Thin, fair-skinned, and dark eyes no longer hidden behind glasses. Contacts or Lasik most likely. His nasally voice defied the Clint Eastwood stereotype of tough Marines, but Jeremy had seen the man in action. Underestimating the colonel would be a dangerous mistake.

  “Try the toasted ravioli,” Cronfeld said. “Delicious.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  Cronfeld shrugged and sipped his wine. “Suit yourself. Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “Water’s fine.”

  “The Jeremy Winter I knew would’ve never turned down—”

  “You don’t know me. Not then. And especially not now. What’s this about?”

  Cronfeld placed his empty wine glass on the table and motioned to the sommelier for a refill. “To the point. I like it. Fine. Bailey tells me you’re doing a bang-up job. One of his best.”

  Uh-huh. “And why would my job performance be of interest to you?”

  The wine steward approached the table and displayed the bottle to the colonel, who nodded and waited while the dark red liquid filled the bottom third of the glass. The sommelier faded into the background as their server placed their dinner before them and moved off.

  Cronfeld studied his plate of shrimp scampi pasta before sampling. “Love this stuff. Too bad it doesn’t love me. Terrible indigestion, but one of the benefits of traveling without the wife. No one to remind me what I shouldn’t eat.”

  Jeremy brushed most of the red sauce off his chicken parmigiana before taking a bite. “You talked to Bailey about me. Why?”

  “You and I shared an, oh, let’s call it an experience, shall we? Isn’t that enough reason?”

  “Are you responsible for my transfer to Saint Louis?”

  The colonel dabbed at his lips with the white cloth napkin. “Responsible. Such a strong word. Who can say who’s responsible for what? Things happen all the time, some of them within our control, some not. But you know that, right? The question you need to ask is how do you gain control of the situation? That’s why I’m here. You do something for me, and I’ll do something for you. Quid pro quo.”

  Jeremy frowned. “And that would be?”

  “Certain events transpired during the war. Necessary actions, to be sure, but taken in today’s light, they might come across as, shall we say, less than virtuous?”

  So that’s it. Jeremy took another bite, stared at the man opposite him, and waited.

  Cronfeld dropped his napkin and leaned forward. The candle cast dancing shadows across the man’s face, making him appear gaunt, almost wraith-like. “Winter, things happened over there. Not saying they were right or wrong, only that they happened. Had to be done.”

  “I was there. You don’t have to explain things to me.”

  The colonel pointed his fork at Jeremy. “Exactly. You were there. You understand. These days, eh, people forget. They don’t want to remember the anger and panic after 9/11. The things that had to be done to keep Americans safe. I don’t have to explain all that to you.”

  “Your point?”

  Cronfeld reached inside his jacket, removed a plain white envelope, and handed it to Jeremy. “Read that tonight after dinner. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  “What is it?”

  “A formality. A confidentiality agreement. Simply says that in the interest of national security, you won’t discuss certain events with anyone else without official permission.”

  “Uh-huh. And what if I’ve already discussed these certain events with others?”

  “Have you?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Not a topic I’d prefer to talk about.”

  “Thought so. Then we agree. Simple enough.”

  Do we? “Why now? It’s been a dozen years. Why the sudden concern?”

  Cronfeld waved to the wine steward and motioned to his nearly empty glass. “Closing the loop. Trying to move on, but aren’t we all?”

  “And the others? Did they sign?”

  “The others?”

  Jeremy dropped his fork on the plate and ignored the stares from the nearby tables. “Plenty of others were there, Colonel. Can’t imagine I’m the only one you’re talking to.”

  “True enough, I suppose. They were all still military, though. It was standard procedure to sign as a condition of discharge.”

  “Don’t believe that’s accurate. Easy enough to check out.”

  The colonel grinned and even in the subdued lighting, Jeremy could see his nicotine-stained teeth. “You got me. Allow me to clarify. For those particular men, it was a condition of discharge. Think of it as our own personal insurance policy. Throw in a few phrases like war crimes or court martial, and everyone was happy enough to forget they were even there.”

  “Sounds like blackmail.”

  “Such a dirty word. I assure you, Winter, those men are better off today because of me.”

  Better off? At what cost? “And if I sign this, what? I get transferred back to D.C.?”

  “Oh, I would never interfere with the inner workings of the FBI. I have no control over such issues. But I will say that I hope you can break your apartment lease on short notice. And if not, I’m sure Bailey can work something out.”

  Jeremy pushed his half-eaten dinner to the side and dropped his napkin on top of the plate. “And if I don’t sign? What happens then?”

  “Let’s not ruin a perfectly good evening. The details are spelled out in the agreement, and I’m sure it’s all to your satisfaction. Be a good career move for you too. Trust me, Winter. You’ll like having powerful friends. Makes life a whole lot sweeter. Take a week. Think it over. Talk to that redhead of yours if you want.”

  He’s done his research. Knows about Maggie. As for a powerful friend, he’d never be that. There was no trust on either side. If he gave Cronfeld what he wanted, maybe Jeremy’s life would get better. Maybe not. And the one card he held, his knowledge of the things that happened in Afghanistan, would be handed over to the only person, other than himself, who could be harmed by it. Yeah, life might get sweeter, but it could leave an awful bad taste in your mouth.

  The wine steward edged to the table and refilled Cronfeld’s glass. The colonel waited until he left, then took a sip. A small drop of the maroon liquid hung on his upper lip, and his tongue darted out to retrieve it. “An excellent vintage, Winter. You really should try it. Now, tell me. Shall we take a chance on the tiramisu?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jeremy sat alone in his apartment, a single lamp fighting to hold the two a.m. darkness at bay. The agreement lay on the sofa beside him, waiting for his fourth read.

  Official FBI letterhead from the Director. That took some pull. Bailey’s boss rarely got involved in personnel matters. Someone with pull must have interceded, and it wasn’t hard to figure out who. Cronfeld’s wife, Senator Diane Morgans, was the highest-ranking Democrat on the Senate Appropriations Committee. The colonel probably didn’t give a rat’s hindquarters whether anyone knew about his exploits. Bet he brags about them to his buddie
s over drinks.

  But his wife was a different story. Jeremy didn’t know anything about their relationship, but he could make an educated guess. Cronfeld, a retired war hero. Morgans, a lifelong politician from an elite Pennsylvania family. The colonel standing ramrod straight in his dress blues while the senator held her chin high beside him made for a fine photo op. Her access to money, and more importantly, power, gave him all he could ever want.

  And for some reason, Jeremy was now a threat to them, or more specifically, to the senator. But how? He’d never met Diane Morgans. Never even spoken to her. And Jeremy had never seemed to be a problem for her before. Was it possible she didn’t know her husband’s history until recently?

  Not likely. Lifetime politicians didn’t do anything without considering the impact on future elections. The colonel had surely been vetted heavily before Morgans agreed to marry him. That was, what, three, maybe four years after Jeremy left Afghanistan? Around the time Cronfeld retired? Seemed like ancient history.

  He read the agreement again. Short and specific. He, Jeremy Winter, would never discuss the events of Afghanistan with anyone without written permission from the Director of the FBI. Sprinkle in a few terms like “national security” and “public interest” and there you had it. Oh, and if he did speak of his time overseas, well then, it was off to prison to await a trial that would never come.

  And his reward for signing the document? Nothing. Cronfeld had hinted that a transfer back to D.C. would happen, but if that were so, it certainly wasn’t spelled out here. It was abundantly clear which party had the power in this situation.

  And if he chose not to sign it? Again, nothing. But Jeremy held no illusions. There were plenty of other FBI offices much farther away. They’d keep moving him until they found the one that forced him to sign. Dangle ever-growing carrots in front of him. Or worse, drag Maggie into it. Force her to transfer, knowing she couldn’t leave the state because of her divorce agreement. She’d have to resign from the Bureau.