Blood trail

25

IN THE SHED in back of my house I set up a stepladder against the far wall, where the shelves with old garden hoses, automotive parts, and sporting equipment have been for years. I don't turn on the light because I don't want to alert my neighbors I'm in here. Instead, I bite on a small Maglite flashlight and use the tiny beam to see. The shed smells of dust and long-dead grass.

As I climb, the beam of my flashlight illuminates the contents of the shelves-canning jars, paint cans, baskets, bags of fertilizer and grass seed, potting soil, containers of chemicals. A heavy coat of dust covers it all, and I take pains not to disturb anything.

On the top shelf, behind a barrier of ancient cans of deck stain, I grope for the handle of my duffel bag. I lift it over the cans and take it down to the shed floor. I unzip the long bag and inventory what's inside: dark clothes, boots that alter my footprints, cap, rifle, cartridges. And one last red poker chip.

Randy Pope is coming back.

Soon, it will be over.