EQMM, July 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Arnie, please don't take this the wrong way, but ... you're a teacher. You love to discuss things, talk them out. So leaving Sinclair to the law is a ... convenient option for you. Because it means you don't have to do anything at all. But it's also very dangerous. Because if that lunatic harms one of our children, it'll be too late for talk. And if that happens, I don't think you could forgive yourself. Nor could I. I'm sorry I can't think clearly enough to help you, so you'll have to decide. But if we're truly dealing with a Hitler situation here, you have to do the right thing, Arnie. Whether it's legal or not. You have to."

  "I will, my love,” I said softly. “Trust me.” But I don't think she heard. Her breathing had gone shallow as the sedation took hold, carrying her far away.

  A giant splotch of red greeted me when I pulled into our driveway. At first I thought someone had struck a deer in the road, then I realized the whole house had been splattered with red explosions. Paintballs, the bloody mess drooling off the roof, streaks of crimson down the siding like blood, as though our home had been butchered.

  * * * *

  Skidding my Toyota to a halt in front of the Algoma sheriff's department, I stalked inside, slamming the door open so hard that the officer behind the counter jumped, startled. Deputy Jerry Landry. One look at my face was enough.

  "What happened?” he asked.

  "I don't want to put you in the middle of this, Jerry, I need to see your boss."

  He started to argue, thought better of it. “Come on, I'll walk you back."

  I trailed him down the narrow corridor to an office at the end. He rapped once, showed me in.

  If anything, the office was more Spartan than the squad room. Institutional green concrete, tiled floors, a metal desk. A heavyset cop behind it, squared off and gray as a concrete block. His nametag read Wolinski.

  "Sorry to bother you, Stan,” Landry said. “This is Professor Dylan, teaches at the college. He has a problem."

  "That's why we're here,” Wolinski said. “What seems to be the trouble, Professor?"

  I told him about Sparky's death, my run-in with Chandler Sinclair, and the vandalism at my home. When I finished, Wolinski arched an eyebrow at Landry, and Jerry confirmed that I'd reported it.

  "Did you write it up, Landry?” he asked.

  "Yes, sir. And the prof here isn't the only one. We've had a number of reports about pets being killed in that area."

  "Reports?” Wolinski echoed. “Has anyone actually filed a complaint against Chan?"

  "No, sir, no official complaints."

  "Can't say I blame ‘em,” Wolinski sighed. “Can I ask you something, Professor? If you don't hunt, why should you care what Chan Sinclair does in those woods?"

  "Maybe I wouldn't if he hadn't killed my dog."

  "I understand that, and killing a dog is serious business. It's also a dangerous charge to make without proof. Do you have any evidence that Chan did it? Did you see him, or did he admit to it?"

  "I was told that he killed the dog by someone who would know."

  "Does that someone have a name?"

  "I promised not to involve them. My dog was killed with a crossbow bolt. Does anyone else in the area hunt with a crossbow?"

  "Not that I'm aware of, but the fact that the man owns a crossbow is hardly conclusive. Mr. Sinclair owns a lot of things."

  "He also dusts his tracking string with blue chalk, which I understand is quite unusual. There were blue chalk marks around my dog's wound."

  "Several of the other reports mentioned blue chalk too,” Landry offered.

  "Even so, with all due respect, Professor, from where I sit, this comes down to a disagreement between neighbors. This part of the state, we're a little more casual about property lines than folks are down in Detroit, or wherever it is you come from. Up here, a fella hunts another fella's land, no one thinks much of it. If a dispute arises, grown men should be able to work it out."

  "This is a lot more than a dispute!"

  "So I gather. And I want you to know we take your concerns seriously. I'll have Deputy Landry here talk to Chan about the paintballs, but if he denies it, and I expect he will, our hands are tied. Every kid in town owns a paintball gun these days. And I'd advise you against taking any further action against Mr. Sinclair on your own, Professor. Don't tear down any more blinds. There are laws against hunter harassment in this state."

  * * * *

  Landry walked me out. In the corridor, he glanced around to be sure he wouldn't be overheard.

  "Sorry about that,” he said, “but I warned you. The sheriff's probably on the phone to Chan right now, telling him you were here. And as whacked-out as he is, it might push him over the edge. You'd better look to your family, Professor. Especially your boys."

  "How? What am I supposed to do?"

  Again, Landry glanced around. “Look, I could lose my job for telling you this, but you won't get any help from this department. Sinclair owns it. The sheriff has to run for election and Sinclair's his biggest contributor. But that doesn't mean he owns all of us. Between you and me, I think Sinclair's dangerous. And if he were threatening my family ... well. During hunting season he never misses a day in those woods. Hunting accidents happen all the time and they're damned hard to solve. We've been carrying a few on the books for years."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Nothing, Professor. We never had this conversation. If I can help, let me know how and I'll try. But keep in mind that I'm a police officer and I have to do my duty. And my duty is whatever that man in there says it is. You can see how things are here."

  "Yes, I'm afraid I can."

  "Then you do what you have to and good luck to you. See you at basketball practice next week. And remember, keep your elbows up."

  * * * *

  That night, the unthinkable finally happened. Sometime in the early hours, Janie Doyle Dylan, my wife and my soul, slipped into a final coma. Her death was inevitable now. She might linger a few days or a few weeks, but she would not regain consciousness.

  Nor would there be any extraordinary efforts to hold her here. She had always been a bold spirit. And as her sturdy little body failed her and her time in this world became shorter and less endurable, she'd grown impatient. Ready for her Next Great Adventure. Eager for it, I think.

  And now she was almost on her way. Already on board, waiting for takeoff. And I was left in the terminal, unable to do anything but watch her go. And so help me God, if not for the boys, I would have gone with her.

  But I did not have that option. After calling my sister-in-law to update her on Janie's condition, I headed home to pack a few things. I'd already made arrangements to share Janie's room at the hospice for this final time.

  * * * *

  But as soon as I stepped in our front door, I knew something was wrong. The furnace was roaring and I could feel a chilly draft from the rear of the house. I hurried through to the den. And found it open to weather. The picture window had been smashed, glittering glass splinters were scattered all over the room. Stunned, I looked around for a rock or...

  A crossbow bolt was stuck in the den wall. Titanium. Its broadhead buried just above a smiling photograph of Janie and the boys. Along the way it had knocked down the easel holding a watercolor painting of the backyard Janie had been working on. Her last painting. Unfinished. And now it always would be.

  I knelt to retrieve the painting, but didn't rise. Stayed there awhile, just holding it. It wasn't very good. Janie daubed away with more enthusiasm than skill. But she loved doing it. The arrow had slashed the picture, slitting it open as it ripped through. I flipped the painting over. On the back, on the pristine canvas, the faint smudges were obvious. Blue chalk.

  I rose slowly, carefully replacing the watercolor on its easel. Considered calling the police. But I could almost hear Wolinski. “Just because a man owns a crossbow doesn't make him guilty. Mr. Sinclair owns a lot of things."

  Including the local police.

  Janie was right, this
was a true Hitler test. Letting it pass wouldn't mollify Sinclair, it would only make him bolder. Like leaving a rabid dog running loose in a neighborhood full of children. My children. My neighbors’ children.

  If evil is staring you in the face and you turn away and fail to act, then Dachau or Darfur or whatever follows is on your head. I knew I was moving into dangerous territory. I desperately needed to talk it through with Janie, but I couldn't. She'd been my rock, my love, and my life for nine short years. Long enough to know I could never be sure what she might do in a given situation. Especially not one as treacherous as this.

  But I knew one thing for certain. She wouldn't have let this pass. And neither could I.

  Enough.

  Trotting upstairs to the attic, I rummaged around for a particular cardboard box. And found it. It held my father's old Remington shotgun. A Kmart special, Model 870, common as dirt. I hadn't fired it since I was a boy. My mom shipped it to me after the old man's funeral, years ago. But with little kids in the house, I'd simply stored it away.

  No one in Algoma knew I even owned a gun and I'd watched enough CSI to know shotgun pellets are impossible to trace.

  And like the man said, hunting accidents happen all the time.

  * * * *

  Keeping the gun mostly concealed beneath my coat, I trotted across the field behind my house. Following the faint remains of Sparky's blood trail. Once I reached the bushes on the far side, I didn't bother to hide the weapon anymore. Amid the falling leaves of an October autumn, a man with a gun is unremarkable. Grouse season, deer season, rabbit season. All that's required is a taste for wild game and a hunting license.

  And maybe there was something to what Sinclair said about men being natural predators. Moving through the woods, carrying my father's old gun, other afternoons came back to me. Half-forgotten memories of walking with my dad on golden afternoons like this one, in the sweet silence of the forest. The old man patiently explaining the art of the hunt. How the depth and span of a deer's hoofprint reveals its size and weight. How the texture of the soil can tell you whether a track is fresh or not, and how many hours since the animal passed through. How to use the wind to mask your movements and your scent.

  In a way it was like slipping on a comfortable suit of old clothes I hadn't worn for a long time. But I didn't kid myself. Remembering a few boyhood ploys didn't make me an expert. I was in Sinclair's territory now and the murderous cripple was a proficient, highly skilled killer, much better at this game than I ever would be. I'd have to move very carefully. And keep my elbows up.

  I checked my watch. Nearly three. Most deer hunters favor first and last light, early morning, late afternoon. Sinclair could be along any time now. If he wasn't here already.

  With his shooting blind destroyed, he'd need a new spot. And it would have to be close-by, somewhere near the deer trail. Starting from the old blind site, I began circling, looking for wheelchair tracks. And a likely spot for an ambush.

  It wasn't hard to find. The power wheelchair limited his choices to high, firm ground. His new lair was in a low clump of young cedars with a few boughs cut and rearranged into a crude shooting box. Not as cozy as his earlier blind, but not half bad.

  Crouched in his chair, Sinclair would be nearly invisible in there. The cedars would mask his scent and movements, and a long stretch of the deer trail would be well within the lethal range of his crossbow. A perfect spot for a killing. One way or another.

  Backing away from the cluster of cedars, I began scouting for a nest of my own, cover that would conceal me but still give me a shot at Sinclair's lair. Couldn't find one immediately, and as the trees began to thin, I realized I was approaching the edge of the forest again.

  Through the thinning stands of aspens I glimpsed my house. And the shattered window. The bastard must have fired from here.... No. He couldn't have. The angle was all wrong. The bolt would have stuck in the opposite wall.

  Curious now, I began circling the edge of woods, looking for a second blind, or at least a spot that would line up with the smashed window and the bolt in our den wall.

  And I found it. Perhaps forty yards along, I came upon a narrow access road, wide enough for a car or a pickup truck. Or a wheelchair. Probably used by the groundskeepers to bring their lawnmowers to the field.

  This was the spot. I was now facing our den window straightaway. Fired from this angle, the crossbow bolt would shatter the den window and lodge...

  No, not here, either. The house was too far off now, two hundred yards or more. A crossbow could shoot that far, but Sinclair would have to tilt his weapon upward to compensate for the distance. If it had been fired from anywhere near here, the bolt would have been dropping sharply when it crashed through the window. Lodging in the floor, not the wall.

  Sinclair must have gotten closer somehow. No problem. There were enough bushes to offer concealment for a cautious stalker, especially one crouched in a chair.

  But he obviously hadn't come this way. The earth was moist and spongy. Much too soft to support the weight of Sinclair's wheelchair without leaving deep gouges. I knelt, scanning the ground closely for wheel tracks. No sign of any. But I did find tracks.

  Footprints. Moving carefully, I traced the faint impressions to a small clump of underbrush at the edge of the field bordering the subdivision. The perfect spot. Easing down onto the moist earth, my elbows came to rest in two nearly invisible depressions. Steadying my weapon, I aimed it across the field. Directly at the shattered window of my own home.

  * * * *

  I lay there for a time, thinking. Rethinking, actually. Applying a different template over the same set of facts. And realized I wasn't dealing with a Hitler problem at all. More like a class struggle. Between the haves and the have-nots.

  Any of a half-dozen Shakespearean plots dealt with this situation. Macbeth, for one. But there was nothing academic about this problem. The trap was very real, artfully laid. And I had blundered right into the middle of the killing zone. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

  He could already have me centered in his sights, his finger poised on the crossbow's hair trigger. Ready to touch off that high-tech replica of medieval weaponry and slam a fletched shaft into me. The same way he killed Sparky.

  No! I still didn't have it right. I didn't have to die for the plan to work. But my being out here made everything all too easy. And it would happen very quickly now.

  Scrambling to my feet, I sprinted back into the forest, running flat out. Modern crossbows are lighter than the originals and their sights are deadly accurate, but they're still too bulky to swing quickly. My only chance was to keep moving. Fast.

  Forty yards into the forest, I flattened myself against an aspen, panting, expecting a crossbow bolt to punch into my guts at any second. But it didn't. And as the moments passed, I gradually slowed my breathing, willing myself to calm down.

  Listening.

  Somewhere nearby I could hear the faint hum of Sinclair's power wheelchair, and I knew I only had a few moments left.

  Glimpsing him coming through the trees, I edged toward the sound of the chair, keeping low. But not low enough, not for a born hunter. The chair stopped.

  "Come out of there,” Sinclair barked.

  I stepped onto the path. His crossbow was mounted on a swivel attached to the chair. Centered on my heart, as near as I could tell. His sister was with him, both of them dressed in woodland military camouflage, ready for war.

  "What are you doing out here?"

  "Looking for you,” I said.

  "He's got a gun, Chan,” Dana said, moving up behind the chair.

  "I see that,” Sinclair said. “Hunting, Professor?"

  "Listen to me, Sinclair, this may sound crazy—"

  "Kill him!” Dana hissed.

  "What?” Chan said, stunned. “Are you off your rocker? He's—"

  "He's here to kill us, you moron!” Grabbing the crossbow, she wrestled it out of her brother's hands. Easily. Despite his bearish appearance, Chan
obviously had very little manual strength. As she struggled to bring it to bear, I raised my shotgun—

  "Hold it,” Jerry Landry shouted, his pistol at the ready. “Drop that gun, Dylan. Everybody just calm down half a second."

  "He knows,” Dana said, nodding at me.

  "Knows what?” Chan Sinclair said, baffled. “What's going on here?"

  "They're lovers, Sinclair. They mean to kill you. With you gone, Dana will inherit—"

  "Shut your mouth!” Landry roared, raising his pistol to cover me.

  I started inching backward.

  "Don't even think about it,” Landry warned.

  "You're the one who needs to think, Jerry,” I said, swallowing. “Your story only works if I'm killed with a crossbow."

  True or not, the thought froze him for a second. And I was off, sprinting into the trees as Dana sent a crossbow shaft whistling through the spot where I'd been standing a moment before. Landry's shot followed a split-second later. Plan or no plan, they had to kill me now.

  "Grab his shotgun,” Landry roared at her as he charged into the brush after me. “Do your brother!"

  I kept moving, dodging from tree to tree as Landry came on, firing at me wildly, gaining ground as I ducked this way and that, trying to keep trees between us. Knowing I wasn't going to make it. I was running out of cover. The trees were thinning out as we neared the edge of the wood and I'd have no chance at all in the open—Someone screamed behind us. A woman, I thought, but couldn't be certain. It barely sounded human.

  "Dana!” Landry shouted, freezing in his tracks, scanning the woods, trying to spot me. I stayed put, a poplar at my back. The last tree big enough to use for cover.

  "Dana!” No answer. Only a bubbling moan.

  "My God!” Landry wheeled, sprinting back to the clearing. I turned too, running parallel, trying to keep him in sight. If I could get deeper into the forest—Landry stopped suddenly, raising his weapon. I froze too, but it was too late! He had me dead to rights, caught in the open, flatfooted. My only chance was to—but suddenly Landry lowered his pistol...

  He turned toward me, a look of utter amazement on his face. And even at that distance I could see the feathered butt of a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest below the armpit. And the crimson circle widening around it as he dropped slowly to his knees. For a moment he desperately tried to pull the shaft out with this free hand, then pitched forward, sprawling facedown in the golden leaves.