Canis Major

by Jay Nichols

Chapter 23

  "What did I tell you, Valerie? I’m suspended, not fired. I’ll get reinstated once this all blows over."

  Caldwell Price’s wife leaned against the doorframe of the former sheriff’s upstairs study, looking in as her husband of seventeen years struggled with his sanity. Strewn across the desk and hardwood floor were crumpled balls of paper—failed attempts at requests for letters of recommendation from former police chiefs and judges—and empty cereal bowls with rings of dried milk encrusted to their bottoms. The man at the desk sat shirtless and pantsless (the room was sweltering), though he still wore his boxers. Valerie promised herself that once those came off, she’d make the call to the funny farm.

  "All the same, why don’t you come to bed, darlin. It’s past midnight."

  Price grabbed his graying hair with both hands and pulled. When he let go, miniature horns jutted out from the sides of his head. "Not till I finish this letter to Judge Samuels. Gimme one more minute."

  Valerie sighed and walked away.

  "Wait!" Price called out. "Come back."

  Valerie reappeared in the doorway and Price asked her, "Do you think there’s gonna be a trial?"

  She considered her next words very carefully. "I don’t see how it matters one way or the other. You’re innocent. Someone’s bound to see that down the line."

  But you’re slowly going crazy, she wanted to add, and jurors don’t like crazy.

  "No. That’s where you’re wrong," Price replied. "They might not be able to prove Vince killed that old lady, but they sure as hell can prove that I tried to cover it up—that I did cover it up—and that’s worse, by far, because it shows intent on my part. Intent, Val. Not negligence. I’m as guilty as they come."

  She wanted to enter the room and rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, but she couldn’t trust him to accept the gesture with amity. He might snap. He might bite. She had no idea what he might do, given the state he was in.

  "You’ve got connections. I wouldn’t worry about it," she said, backing away from the door. Yawning, she added, "That’s it—I’m going to bed whether you’re coming or not."

  Price watched her leave, and when she was out of sight, said, "I’ll be down in a little bit. Just let me finish this letter."

  "That’s what you say every night," she whispered, descending the first flight of stairs.

  "Honey?"

  "What?" she replied, raising her voice to meet his.

  "Did we get any mail today?"

  "I don’t know. I haven’t checked."

  "Well, can ya? I’m expecting a letter."

  Of course you are. "Sure."

  She descended the last flight and went out the front door. A cricket blared its pulsating tune somewhere close by while the shadows of a million leaves threw a milky quilt over the yard. She walked the stone path, through the ephemeral shadows, to the front curb, where she opened the mailbox, removed the small stack of letters, and headed back to the house.

  "Bill, bill, bill…junk…another bill…junk, junk, junk…. What’s this?"

  She closed the door and looked at the object that had piqued her interest: a white sheet of paper, folded in thirds, and addressed to her husband. The letter lacked both return address and sender name, and their street address was also curiously absent. All that was written on the outside was "Mr. Price" in sloppy, backhand script. Examining it, turning the queer letter over in her hands, she noticed that it gave, like a spring, to the pressure of her fingertips

  Unfolding it, a swatch of dark brown hide slipped out and fell to the tiles. A trail of fine, black particles eddied in its wake.

  Goddamn hunters…. Only my husband would associate with people too redneck to use an envelope.

  She looked at the unfurled sheet.

  When she finished reading, her knees buckled and the world slid out from under her. Less than a second later, she was landing on her plump butt and jerking her elbows behind her torso to prevent her head from cracking open on the floor.

  The foyer spun, the lights dimmed. Far away, a sharp report, more like an explosion than a gun shot, rang out. Almost instantly, her husband began a jackrabbit’s sprint down the staircases. Valerie could only hope he was responding to her falling and not to the loud nighttime bang.

  While waiting for Caldwell to arrive, she propped herself up and stared at the scrap of desiccated flesh lying on her otherwise spotless floor.

  "How…"