The First Time I Hunted

by Jo Macgregor

  I needed more paper to draw the three separate images that had followed each other in quick succession when I’d held all the objects together but couldn’t find anything. Making a mental note to buy a notepad — essential equipment for any investigator, surely — I resorted to using the inside of the doughnut box lid and quickly sketched the buttons on the floor, the man, and the house with the darkness nearby, trying to include the details of what I’d seen and felt.

  The man was middle-aged and thin, with a stern face and patchy graying beard. Recalling his contemptuous, angry expression sent a ripple of fear and horror through me. I might have just seen the killer. I warned myself not to leap to conclusions. The man was connected to the case, but that didn’t mean he was the Button Man. Perhaps he was the father of one of the victims. My limited artistic skills couldn’t capture the emotion in his gaze, so I wrote the words next to the picture. Hate. Rage. Contempt.

  The house I’d seen was free-standing and a bit rundown, with a huge tree to the left of it. I hadn’t seen any other houses alongside it, but just visible behind had been the roof of a building with some kind of chimney or turret topped by a cow-shaped weathervane. What had struck me most intensely was an ominous feeling, something I couldn’t see but that I knew was at the side of the house, beyond the tree. I didn’t know how to draw that, except as a solid black scribble. I did know that I needed to find the scary man and the old house with that spot of obsidian darkness where death lingered. I knew the house and the darkness were related, but was the man connected to the house or to the buttons? Were the buttons on the floorboards of that house? There was no way to tell.

  Still feeling shaken and tapped out by all I’d seen, I started my car and headed home. Home. It was the first time I’d thought of my new living space as home, and the thought pleased me. On the drive to Rutland that morning, I’d been so preoccupied that I’d hardly noticed the scenery. Now, I made myself drive slowly, carefully checking both sides of the highway, searching for an old house with a front porch and a tall tree alongside. The image of the man with the cruel, furious eyes was disturbing, but for now at least, it led nowhere. But I sensed that the house with the vortex of darkness churning beside it was connected to the killer, and it was a more solid lead. Searching for it, however, would be needle-in-haystack territory. Short of driving up and down every road in New England, I didn’t see how I could find it.

  Inside my handbag, my phone rang. Maybe it was Agent Washington calling to crap on me for landing him in hot water. Or just maybe it was Agent Singh calling to apologize for manhandling me and to beg me for the details of my visions. Yeah, right. That would happen when pigs grew wings. Checking my review mirror for traffic — and the sky for flying swine — I pulled off onto the muddy shoulder of the road to take the call.

  My phone had stopped ringing by the time I got it out of my bag, and the caller hadn’t left a voicemail, but my list of missed calls showed neither of the G-men had tried to contact me. The call was from Professor Bradley Deaver; no doubt he’d wanted to check if there were any updates on the case. Singh must feel about me like I felt about Deaver, wanting to get information but not wanting to share any details in return. I’d sensed when touching the professor’s lunchbox how much he valued order and control. Being out of the loop on this must be killing him.

  I didn’t return the call, partly because I was tired of him bugging me but also because I truly had no new facts. I did, however, have new information that might lead somewhere useful if I could get some expert assistance, and Deaver’s call had given me an idea in that regard. Finding the number on the university’s website, I called the School of Architecture, where a helpful assistant listened to my rambling request.

  “We’ve got a couple of experts in local architecture in the department. I’ll put you through to the friendlier one.”

  Professor Schultz was indeed friendly. “I’d like to help you, but your description sounds like half the houses in New England. I don’t suppose you have a photograph?”

  “I only have a very rough sketch,” I said.

  “Well, if you send it to me, I’ll take a look.”

  “Can I text it to you?”

  “Sure,” she said and gave me her cell number.

  I thanked her, photographed my drawing, and sent it to her immediately along with my contact details. Then I drove back to Pitchford and went directly to the police station. Officer Veronica “Ronnie” Capshaw was on duty at the front desk, ready to throw a wrench in my plans on principle, but I had a strategy to subvert that.

  I placed the box of doughnuts in front of her and smiled. “Hey there, Officer Capshaw. These are for you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Officer Capshaw was many things: heavy of bone, strong of muscle, no-nonsense in disposition, smart, efficient, and skeptical to a fault. But one thing she wasn’t was friendly or gregarious, not to anyone in general and not to me in particular. She had little tolerance for my woo-woo side and, I suspected, resented my influence on Ryan. She opened the Dunkin’ Donuts box and peered inside, no doubt noticing the two gaps where doughnuts had been, and then treated me to her best raised eyebrow.

  “If it’s any consolation,” I said, “those two went to one of Vermont’s finest law enforcement officers.”

  Giving me an unconvinced look, Capshaw asked, “And you’ve brought me these … why?”

  Deciding that honesty might be more to her liking than tact, I said, “They’re a bribe, Ronnie. I want to see the chief, and I don’t want to have to wrestle you aside to do so.”

  Her lips twitched fractionally, and then with a sniff, she jerked her head back in the direction of Ryan’s office.

  “Thank you! Can I just—” I snagged one of the doughnuts and a piece of blank paper to carry it on. “It’s for the chief.” Then I walked through the low swing door beside the front desk only to return immediately. “Sorry, I just need this.” I tore the lid off the box and scampered down the corridor before she could say anything more.

  – 16 –

  Sticking my head into Ryan’s office, I said, “Surprise!”

  He looked up from the paperwork covering his desk and smiled. “Hey, you.”

  I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me, and handed him the doughnut. Then I settled in my usual chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  “What’ve you got there?” he asked, indicating the doughnut box lid that I’d folded up and was stuffing into my handbag.

  “Sketches of visions, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to come say hi and ensure you’re getting your proper nutrition.” I gestured to the doughnut. Chuckling, he took a bite. “You’re looking tired,” I said, studying the shadows under his eyes and the droop of his shoulders. “You taking care of yourself, Chief?”

  “There was an accident involving one moose and two cars on Route 100 last night. And this morning, I’m stuck with all the admin.” He finished the doughnut.

  “Anything I can do?”

  Ryan sucked sugar off a fingertip and then gave me that slow, sexy smile of his that always did something to my heart. And other parts too.

  “You could kiss it better,” he said softly.

  I stood up and leaned over the desk, noting with satisfaction how his eyes dipped to the V of my blouse. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, I tugged him closer to kiss his irresistible dimple. Then I moved my attentions to his mouth, licking sugar off his lips before tasting him fully. Ryan made a noise deep in his throat that I took as encouragement, so I stepped around to his side of the desk, moving my hands behind his head as he stood up and lacing my fingers through his thick hair. I pressed my lips to Ryan’s, ignoring the invisible cloud of cold air that suddenly enveloped us.

  It was a good minute before I realized that the increasingly loud banging was someone knocking on the door rather than the hammering of my heart. Reluctantly, I pulled away from Ryan. “I’d better go,” I said,
sighing. “Ronnie is never going to let me have my way with you.”

  “Tonight?” Ryan said, fingers touching his lips.

  “I’m pretty beat. Can we do tomorrow instead? My place, and I’ll cook.”

  “I’d love that.”

  Ronnie must have stashed the doughnuts because I saw no sign of them as I left the station. I drove home, singing along with Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me” on the radio until static killed the song.

  “Cut that out, will you?” I told Colby.

  As I turned into the driveway at Henry Mason’s house, a grocery store van pulled up behind me. I signed for the delivery and lugged it to the main house’s kitchen, where I found the man himself tucking into a late lunch of bacon, eggs, sausage, and pancakes swimming in syrup. When I raised an eyebrow at his plate, he thrust out his chin and glowered at me.

  “Don’t even think about telling me what I can and can’t eat, Missy,” he growled.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Thwarted by my mild reply, he launched another salvo. “If you didn’t emerge from the womb that way, how the devil did you wind up with one blue and one brown eye?”

  “I drowned, and when I was brought back to life, my left eye turned brown.” Henry looked like he didn’t believe me. “The doctors said it was a medical mystery.” I placed the box of groceries on the kitchen counter. “How did you wind up with gout, assuming you weren’t born that way?”

  “I read up on the subject after I noticed it during that pitiful excuse for a job interview last week.”

  “What, gout?”

  “No, differently colored eyes,” he snapped.

  I peered inside the box. “Oh, look. Carrots and kale. Yum!”

  “They’re called dichromatic.”

  “I think they’re called superfoods. And Gwyneth said these” — I unpacked a bunch of celery and a huge head of broccoli and shook them like maracas — “are your absolute favorites.”

  He snorted. “I researched the meaning of your mismatched eyes in folklore and mythology. Very interesting and entertaining it was too.”

  “Glad to have brought some amusement into your life.” I unpacked skinless chicken breasts, diet soda, and a packet of quinoa.

  “In Eastern European pagan cultures, they were believed to be the sign of a witch.” He said the last word with unmistakable pleasure.

  I took the last item out of the box and studied the label. “Carb-free keto cookies! Who knew? My, my, this all looks delicious.” My voice was bright with false cheer, but I could feel that my smile was evil, and it must’ve given me away because he scowled at me.

  “I don’t for a single moment believe you think that, but if you do, then you’re welcome to it. Take it all!” Mason said. “My daughter keeps sending me this … this rabbit food. I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want it. Some of it’s downright inedible.”

  At my challenging look, he ripped open the package of keto cookies and insisted I try one. Cookies being right up there on my favorite foods list, I happily bit into one. Two seconds later, I spat the masticated mulch out into the trashcan.

  “Told ya so!” Blue eyes twinkling with glee, he stacked pancakes on a plate, anointed them with syrup, and handed it to me. “This will clear the taste of them.”

  “Gwyneth would not approve,” I said around the first heavenly mouthful.

  “That’s because she believes — incorrectly, I need hardly say — that it’s preferable to live forever, miserable on a diet of bran and beans, than to head into the afterlife a little sooner with a round belly and a smile on one’s face.”

  “See now, I thought it was because she loves and wants the best for you.”

  “Bah! She fusses too much.” He eyed me warily. “You’re not going to snitch on me, are you?”

  I considered for a moment. “Well, I did promise your daughter that I’d keep an eye on your health.”

  His bushy brows lowered.

  “But I’m not in the habit of ratting out friends,” I continued sanctimoniously. “So I’m willing to strike a deal.”

  “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “I won’t spill the beans about your” — I pointed at his plate — “fat and sugar consumption if you promise to eat some vegetables occasionally.”

  After a moment’s consideration, he gave a grudging nod.

  “And if you swear to tell me if you’re ever not feeling well,” I added.

  He scowled, but said, “All right!”

  “And—”

  “More conditions?” he demanded.

  “You’re a lawyer. You should be used to it.” I licked maple syrup off my fingers. “And being a lawyer, you will have noted that I said I don’t rat on my friends. Which means, Henry, that you’re going to have to be less ornery and more friendly to me.”

  His scowl vanished. “You strike a hard bargain, young lady, but it’s a deal.”

  – 17 –

  Saturday, April 14

  Checking my email the next morning, I was surprised to see a reply from Professor Schultz, but the reason for the quick turnaround on my query was soon clear: there wasn’t much to say about the house in my sketch. It was, she said, a wooden structure with a shingled roof and had probably been built around 1900. The tree beside it looked like a beech, but she was no arborist. She was sorry not to be able to tell me more, but there really was nothing distinctive about the building. She didn’t know what the black patch to the left of the house was — had I just been scribbling to check my marker worked?

  Her email got more interesting toward the end, though.

  As to where it might be located, the area looks rural, given that there’s a barn in the background. In fact, I think that barn is your best bet for trying to identify the house. What little you drew of the roof is enough for me to tell that it’s a round barn, and those aren’t very common. That weathervane on top of the ventilation shaft’s cupola is pretty distinctive too.

  You may not know it, but there are people who are passionate about cataloguing and preserving New England’s historic barns. They’re called barnologists or barn-spotters. :)

  She listed a number of websites for me to explore, wished me luck in my search, and said I was welcome to contact her again if necessary.

  I stared at my sketch, amazed. I hadn’t even realized the roof belonged to a barn, let alone that it might be round or that the chimney-like structure was actually a ventilation shaft topped by a cupola. What the heck was a cupola anyway? A quick online search informed me that in this context, it was a small pointed roof on top of a ventilation shaft.

  I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a handful of animal crackers, and parked myself in front of my laptop to research barns in New England. I learned that the round ones were usually dairy barns, most commonly built in the period between the 1890s and 1910s. Although there were different styles, they generally had three levels: a basement for collecting and storing manure, a ground level where the animals and equipment were kept, and a hayloft for storing the feed. There was often a raised drive sloping up to that upper level so that bales of hay could be easily unloaded from wagons and stored in the dry, airy loft. The feed would then be dropped or lowered to the ground floor for the cattle, and when the indigestible remains emerged from the animals’ rear ends, it would be swept into the cellar through a trapdoor-covered hole in the floor. The ventilation shafts allowed the stench of manure and the fumes of cattle farts to escape and also helped to keep the barns relatively cool in summer. It was a pretty ingenious design.

  Prof Schultz hadn’t been kidding about there being people passionate about the barns. Several organizations worked to preserve what remained of the historic structures and to get them listed as protected buildings, while barn afficionados posted photographs and wrote blogs about their visits to different sites, checking them off on lists as bird spotters did with different species. Best of all, one of the sites Schultz had linked to maintained lists of all the round barns in ea
ch state in New England, giving exact GPS coordinates. Finally, I had some factual information and somewhere concrete to start my investigation.

  Outside, it was gloomy, and rain had started to fall. From my window, I could see Henry’s greenhouse glimmering ghostly pale in the worsening weather.

  Darkness. Deep darkness.

  The furious man with the blazing eyes.

  The flashbacks were over almost before they began, but they left me uneasy. That thin man was filled with hate and violence. I just knew it. I checked myself. Did I really know it — like know it, know it? — or was I just making assumptions based on his expression and my own intuition? My visions had, so far, proved to be accurate, if not always useful. My intuitions, however, had been less reliable.

  Was the angry man connected to that vortex of darkness beside the house? The only way to find out was to locate it. And the only way to do that was to check out each potential site. I printed off the lists of round barns and studied them, crossing off those with pictures showing them to be located in the middle of fields with no other buildings nearby since the barn I wanted was near a house. That still left scores of sites to visit.

  Next, I printed out a map of New England and marked the locations of the round barns on it. I decided to start by visiting the ones nearest to Pitchford the next day. Of course, “nearest” was a relative term; the route I plotted — south to Andover, northeast to Weatherfield, up Route 91 to Hartland, then heading northwest along Route 89 to East Bethel with a sideways jaunt to Tunbridge — would take a full day. What better way to spend my Sunday?

  That night, I cooked dinner for Ryan. I found a recipe online promising the best chili in Texas, and it turned out pretty good, even though I probably made it too hot, judging by how much water and then milk he gulped down during the meal. He chatted about work and the mysterious case of Pitchford’s vandalized mailboxes. I told him about my visit to the FBI and my most recent visions. Then I brought out my fancy dessert — a giant pack of dark chocolate peanut butter cups — and we moved to the couch.