Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 1. Whole No. 791, July 2007

Dead as a Dog by Doug Allyn

Doug Allyn returns to EQMM this month with a strong new protagonist and a tale that is characteristically atmospheric, suspenseful, and moving. The Michigan author never sets out to create series characters, but he’s so good at getting inside his fictional creations that they live in readers’ minds and demand a callback. It’s those unforgettable characters that have earned the Michigan author eight first-place finishes in the EQMM Readers Award voting.

“A girl asked me about killing Hitler today,” I said.

Janie gave me a taut smile but it was all she could manage. The hospice aide who was massaging Janie’s calves glanced up at me with arched eyebrows.

“I teach Political Science at Hancock State,” I explained. “We’re covering assassinations this week. Martin Luther King, JFK, Sadat. How destructive to society their deaths were. But if a student asks me about killing Hitler or Stalin, I know it’s going to be a good class.”

“So you teach ’em what? That whacking some folks ain’t such a bad idea?” the aide asked drily. She was an older black woman with a soft Afro, liquid eyes, strong hands. Her nametag read Norma. I wondered how she could work every day in a place where most patients were dying. Like Janie. My wife. My life.

“I try to impart a given number of facts,” I said. “And beyond that, I hope they learn to think for themselves.”

“Wish I’d had your class,” Norma smiled. “If I’d thought a little harder, would've skipped nursing school, found me a rich man to marry instead.”

“And miss all this excitement?” Janie murmured.

And we laughed. Partly because it was funny, mostly because it’s amazing that a woman in her condition can joke at all.

My wife is dying. A glioblastoma, a cancerous tumor, is wrapped around her spinal cord. Inoperable. Terminal. And very aggressive. It’s early October now. They tell me she won’t see Christmas.

So I laughed, though it wasn’t much of a joke. There aren’t many smiles in my life these days.

After my morning hospice visit, I headed home for lunch. I wasn’t hungry but Sparky would be.

Our suburban house is larger than we need. We’d planned to fill it with more children, so it sits on a large, five-acre lot, bordering a forest. When we first looked the place over, I think the land was more important than the house to Janie.

She loved the outdoors, a four-season girl. Skier, cross-country runner, backpacker. Anything to be out in the wind. I do those things too, but only to be with her. The flame of Janie’s vitality could melt a snowman’s heart. But it’s burning low now. And I’m not sure I can go on without her. Or want to.

But I don’t have a choice. We have twins, Seth and Josh, seven and a half years old. Fraternal twins, not identical. Seth is more like me, dark and slender. Josh, more like his mother, blond, square-faced, a blocky little body bursting with energy.

The boys are staying with my in-laws for the duration. A blessing, though I miss them terribly. With Janie’s illness and the teaching schedule that maintains our health insurance, I have all I can handle.

Silence greeted me as I walked into the foyer. Usually Sparky, Janie’s bull terrier, charges the door when I come home, barking, a barrel-chested black and white pirate of a pup. The noisy greeting lasts until he sees I’m alone. Then he gives me a dutiful tail-wag and goes on about his business.

Not today. Tossing my jacket on an easy chair, I walked through the house. “Sparky?”

Nothing. Probably outside. He has his own dog-door exit into our fenced backyard. I walked through to the den and scanned the yard through the picture window. Still no Sparky. The yard was empty... Damn! The back gate was open.

Double damn. I’d noticed him jumping at it the other day, meant to tie it shut... Grabbing my binoculars off the window ledge, I quickly scanned the field beyond the fence. And felt a flood of relief as I spotted the little terrier lounging in the grass just outside the gate.

I opened the back door. “Sparky! Lunch!”

He raised his head, then laid it back down. “Sparky! Come on!” This time he didn’t move at all.

Odd. Concerned now, I started across the lawn toward the gate. But halfway there I broke into a run. Even at that distance I could see the blood.

“Arnie?”

I glanced up. Dr. David Westbrook, our veterinarian, rested a hand on my shoulder. And I could read the bad news in his face. “How is he?”

“I’m sorry, Arnie. He’s gone. Too much blood loss.”

“What happened to him?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” he said, glancing around his busy waiting room. “Could you step back here, please?”

I followed him into the sterile operating room. Sparky was laid out on a stainless-steel table. The wound in his guts had been cleaned up a bit, but it was still a vile, savage hole.

“My God, Dave, what would cause something like that?” I whispered.

“A hunting arrow, I think. Where did you find him?”

“In the field behind our house. He got loose, may have been running in the woods—”

“And deer season opened three days ago,” he finished for me.

“It’s not open season on family dogs, and we own that land. You think a hunter shot him?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve seen arrow wounds before, but never one quite like this. Some high-tech broadheads pop open like switchblades when they strike. This one apparently blew clean through, more like a rifle.”

“Then why do you think it was an arrow?”

“See these blue smudges around the wound? It’s chalk dust from a tracking string.”

“Chalk dust? I don’t understand.”

“Some bow-hunters attach a string to their arrows, dusted with chalk. When the arrow strikes and the animal bolts, the string drags on the ground, leaving a trail they can follow. But I’ve never seen blue dust before. Most hunters use Day-Glo orange chalk, easier to spot.”

“My God. Day-Glo dust? Switchblade arrows? I thought hunting was supposed to get you back to nature.”

“I know, it seems cruel. But the truth is, once the animal’s been hit, anything that kills them quicker is more humane in the end. Not that there’s anything humane about the sonofabitch who did this. We have a crematorium here. If you like, I can take care of the remains for you.”

I just stared at him.

“The remains,” he repeated, not unkindly. “If you—never mind. I know a thing like this is a helluva shock, Arnie. Go home, take a break. You can call me if you decide to—”

“Thanks, David, but I’ll take him home with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. Right now I’m not sure about anything.” But as I drove back to town, I had a small parcel in the trunk of my car. The final remains of our beloved dog. Which left me with two impossible questions.

One, how could anyone do a thing like that? Kill a harmless pet?

And two, what on earth was I going to tell Janie?

The second problem had an easier answer than the first. I lied, flat-out. Perhaps the first time I’ve ever lied to my wife about anything serious.

A risky thing to do. Ordinarily, Janie can read me like a neon billboard. And her first question is always, “How are the boys? And Sparky?”

“He misses you,” I said. And she missed the fib. Perhaps because her eyes were closed. She was in a lot of pain. Some days it takes all of her concentration to keep it at bay.

I didn’t stay long. When the pain gets this intense, they have to sedate her to prevent seizures. The intervals between attacks keep getting shorter.

But God help me, just this once, I was almost grateful for it.

Driving through the village on my way home, I passed Algoma Sporting Goods. On impulse, I parked in front and went inside. A big store, family owned, in an older building, barnboard walls with a high, embossed-metal ceiling.

The front of the store was mostly filled with school gear: baseball gloves, cleats, basketball jerseys. I bought a Nerf football for my boys here once. But halfway back, the games change from high-school sports to woodland slaughter.

No Nerf gear back here. The clothing is heavy canvas, color-camouflaged to resemble the northern Michigan forest. The entire back wall is a gigantic display of firearms, rifles, and shotguns, three tiers of them, floor to ceiling. Every caliber from a Boy Scout beginner’s twenty-two popgun to a monster .458 Winchester Magnum, capable of killing an Alaskan grizzly at three hundred yards. Even if the bear’s hiding behind a tree.

But it was the display beside it that caught my eye. Modern hunting bows of enormous complexity, equipped with offset pulleys and wheels and counterweights and telescopic sights, arrows of aluminum, titanium, and fiberglass composites. Robin Hood wouldn’t have recognized a damned thing on that wall.

“Can I help you?” A redneck salesman materialized at my left shoulder. Paunchy with a scruffy beard, wearing a faded flannel shirt. This definitely wasn’t the Gap.

“Do you carry chalk dust for tracking strings?”

“Sure, right over here,” he said, moving behind the counter. “What’s your poison, pal, Day-Glo orange or neon yellow?”

“How about blue?”

“Blue? Sorry, we don’t carry it. I expect you can get blue dust down the street at the hardware store, though.”

“Do you know anyone who uses blue chalk?”

He blinked, confused by the question. And glanced over my shoulder, as if the answer might be behind me. “Blue? Naw, not offhand. You ain’t a bow hunter, are ya, mister?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. 'Scuse me, I got other customers.” He beat a hasty retreat, jumpy as a kid with a crib sheet up his sleeve. I turned to see what he’d looked at... and froze. The wall behind me held a stunning display as surreal as a Star Wars set.

Crossbows. But not the ancient arbalests of the Middle Ages. More like weird weapons from Middle Earth. Ultra-modern killing machines. Hollow plastic stocks, geared cranking mechanisms, bipods and rifle scopes. Names like Revolution XS, Quad 400, and Talon Super Max.

They didn’t fire standard arrows, they shot bolts of steel, with replaceable broadhead tips, some with serrated bleeder blades sharp enough to transfix an elk.

Or gut a small dog.

At home, I actually paused in the doorway a moment, waiting for Sparky’s welcoming racket. Which was crazy. He was in the box under my arm. And he’d never welcome anyone again. But as bad as I felt about it, I couldn’t let my guard down now.

With Janie in the hospice and the boys staying with my in-laws, we didn’t need the added stress of a slaughtered dog. Better to tell everyone Sparky just... ran away. It was thin, but I could probably sell it. But to make it work, I had to conceal the evidence.

Grabbing a spade from the garden shed, I carried Sparky out of our backyard into the grassy field beyond our fence. The greenbelt stretches the full width of the subdivision, nearly a quarter-mile, room for the kids from a dozen families to play together. The homes are all similar, faux New England saltboxes with vinyl siding, set on two-acre lots that end at the edge of the field. Our lot is a bit larger, a full five acres that extends well into the deep woods beyond.

Halfway across the field, some juniper bushes shielded me from view. It would have to do. Gently setting the box down, I began to dig. In the soft, moist earth, it didn’t take long. The hole, two feet square, four feet deep, seemed much too small to contain the spirit of our rambunctious little dog. For a moment I could see Janie running across this very field with Sparky in hot pursuit...

I slammed the slide projector of my memory shut. Hard. I can’t afford to think too much about Janie. If I start to cry, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. Janie’s always been the strong one, irrepressible. But it’s my turn to carry the weight now. She needs my strength, and so do the boys. Somehow I have to manage this. So mostly, I try to shut myself down. To keep from feeling anything at all.

But burying Sparky in that empty field, alone, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

Placing him gently in his little grave, I recited the Lord’s Prayer. Couldn’t think of anything else. Then I carefully covered him over.

The turned earth looked too raw, too visible. I was gathering scraps of underbrush to camouflage it when I noticed the blood.

Glistening crimson dewdrops, darkening to maroon now as they congealed in the autumn air. Sparky must have dragged himself past this spot earlier. Bleeding. And dying. In agony. Trying to get home.

In the late afternoon sun, the blood trail gleamed like a beacon in the grass. Showing where he’d passed. And where he’d come from.

I don’t recall consciously making the decision. But when I’d finished concealing Sparky’s grave, I turned and marched slowly into the forest, tracking the blood spoor, clutching my spade like a spear.

It was like stepping back in time. At first, the trees were scattered, mostly aspens at the edge of the wood, new growth that had sprung up after the land had been leveled for the subdivision. But a few yards beyond them, I was already deep in the primeval woodlands, poplars and pines towering overhead, their swaying limbs splintering the sunlight, dappling the forest floor, making the blood trail damned difficult to follow.

But I managed. As I took each careful step, totally focused on the sparse red spatters on the matted leaves, I felt myself slipping into an ancient rhythm. A mindset left over from an earlier age, when men had stalked this land for survival, when losing a blood trail might mean slow death from starvation...

It faded out. The distance between blood dots had been gradually lengthening until I had to stop at each small spatter and scan the ground ahead for the next one. Twice, I lost the trail and had to circle the last dot until I crossed the next. But not this time. The blood had vanished altogether.

And as I straightened up and took stock, I realized why. This was the place. I was standing in the killing zone.

Off to my left, the forest floor was roughed up in the center of a small clearing, leaves scattered, the soil gouged, torn by the paws of a small dog thrashing about in agony. I was certain of the spot. Some of the displaced leaves were smudged with blue chalk marks. And smeared blood.

I did a slow pirouette, scanning the forest around me. Most hunters favor the dawn hours and late afternoon. Perhaps the man I wanted to meet was watching me even now...

Then I spotted it. Thirty yards off. A small hut, a shooting blind, hand-built of dun-colored canvas and dead branches. Artfully camouflaged. If I hadn’t been looking, I would never have noticed it.

I approached it warily, gripping my spade fiercely with both hands. But there was no need. The blind was empty. As I peered inside, I realized I was trembling with tension, taut as a bowstring. Or a cocked crossbow. I’d really wanted the bastard to be here.

But he wasn’t. So instead of splitting his skull with my shovel, I took my rage out on his handiwork, ripping his hut apart with my bare hands, hurling the pieces as far into the forest as I could. In two furious minutes I reduced his hunting blind to a few bits of scattered wreckage. A stick here, a shred of canvas there. Nuked. Utterly destroyed.

Like my world.

Half an hour later, I was in the school gym, helping with my sons’ peewee basketball practice. It was a hoot: short-legged little grubbers charging about like puppies in a pen, lofting impossible shots, blundering out of bounds, fouling one another with glee, having a grand time as suburban dads like myself tried to teach them a few basics along the way.

I’ve never missed a practice or a game, struggling to keep things as normal as humanly possible for the twins as their mother fades out of our lives. But today I was especially eager to be here. The assistant coaches are all part-timers. And one of them, Jerry Landry, is an Algoma County deputy sheriff.

He was at a corner basket, teaching the rudiments of rebounding to a half-dozen half pints, tossing a ball against the backboard so they could scramble for it on the way down, grinning as they knocked each other sprawling.

“Can I talk to you a second, Jerry?”

“Sure. What’s up, Doc? Or should I call you Professor?” He lobbed up another ball, letting it drop into the scrim. A tall, rawboned man, thinning reddish-blond hair, western sideburns, a torn Algoma High sweatshirt, striped uniform slacks, and soiled sneakers. A single dad, divorced. A club I’ll be joining soon enough.

“What are the penalties for killing a dog?”

“Depends on where the dog was and what it was doing. And who did the killing.”

“The dog was on my property—”

“Let me guess, you live in that new Birchcrest subdivision?”

“That’s right. So?”

“So don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, Professor. We’ve had beaucoup complaints about dogs and cats being killed in that neighborhood.”

“What are you doing about it?”

“Not a lot. We’re the sheriff's department, not the pet patrol—Hey! Settle down out there! This is basketball, not Saturday Night Smackdown!”

“You’re telling me some loony’s killing pets and you’re not even trying to find him?”

“No need to,” Landry said evenly. “We know who he is, or think we do. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you’re not from here. You moved up here to teach at the college, bought a nice house, probably joke about the local rednecks in the teachers’ lounge, right? But now your dog’s dead. Well, welcome to my world, pal.”

“What are you saying?”

“Probably more than I should. Can we go off the record a minute? Not a citizen beefing to a cop, just two guys talking in a gym?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. We’re fairly sure the guy killing the animals is Chandler Sinclair. That name mean anything to you?”

“You mean—?”

“Right. Sinclair Paper Mill, Sinclair Timber, the Sinclair Library at the U. The folks who employ about four hundred people in this town. That Sinclair family.”

“And? Because they've got bucks they’re above the law?”

“Nope, not for a second. If Chan runs a stoplight or shoots the mayor, I’ll bust him like any other perp. But since his fat campaign contributions helped get my boss elected, our little force has better things to do than worry about pets disappearing in Chan’s neighborhood.”

“It’s not his neighborhood, it’s mine.”

“It used to be his. All of it. At one time, his family owned most of this town.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Anything you want, Professor. Just don’t expect us to do it for you. Truth is, Chan Sinclair’s not wrapped too tight. All he gives a rip about is taking game with high-tech weapons that probably cost more than my car. When his dad was alive he could control him, more or less, but the old man died last year and now Chan’s off the leash. He’s only got a sister left and he treats her like hired help. You can file a complaint and I’ll have a talk with Sinclair. But even if you could prove he killed your dog, Chan would only pay a fine and it might bring retaliation from Chan or his lawyers. The law's a little different up here for strangers like you and a local guy like Chan. He may be a crazy sumbitch, but he’s our crazy sumbitch.”

“And his plants employ a lot of local men, I understand that. But that doesn’t give him the right to kill people’s pets.”

“Nobody said it did. I’m not telling you to let this go, Professor. If he’d killed my dog, I’d damn sure do something about it. Don’t know a man who wouldn’t. I’m just saying you’d best keep it off the books, if you get my drift. Hey, Jake! Don’t hold the ball like that, they’ll tie you up every time. Swing your elbows, boy, clear yourself some room!”

“That’s a little rough, isn’t it? For grade school?”

“We ain’t just teaching basketball, Prof, we teach life here. And it’s good advice. If you mess with Chan Sinclair, you’d best come down swingin’ your elbows. High and wide.”

Interesting advice. Especially from a cop. After basketball practice, I took the boys out for grease-burgers at McDonald’s. Chose it deliberately, because it has a playroom. The twins had a great time scrambling through the tunnels. And I had time to think.

And what I thought was: This was no time to swing my elbows at Chandler Sinclair or anyone else.

With Janie ill, I had to stay focused and keep things together. I don’t have tenure at Hancock State, my contract runs year to year. The administration has been very understanding about Janie’s illness, but the fact is, our income has been cut in half. I need my job to keep food on the table and to maintain our health insurance. And the Hancock administration is ever so proud of its new Sinclair Library wing.

So I decided to do the prudent thing. The adult thing. I would let it pass. And I did.

Until the next day. When all hell broke loose.

After morning classes, I stopped by the hospice to sit with Janie awhile. She was getting her rubdown, listening without comment while I rattled on about school. I was afraid her silence might indicate pain. And it did. But not the way I thought.

Halfway through the rubdown Janie gave Norma a look, and the woman excused herself. Janie sat up slowly, and turned to face me, squinting against the pain the effort caused her. I reached out to help but she shook her head.

“I had a visitor earlier,” she said coldly. “Yvonne Westbrook, the veterinarian’s wife? She brought me flowers. Thought I might be depressed because of Sparky.”

Damn. “She had no right to tell you.”

“It’s not her fault, Arnie. It probably never occurred to her you’d lie to me about something so serious. I’m not gone yet, you know. I’m still a part of this family. And I’m entitled to the damned truth! From what Yvonne said, I gather someone deliberately killed our dog. Is that true?”

I hesitated, then caved. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Sparky got out the back gate and went exploring in the woods behind the subdivision. He was apparently shot by a hunter.”

“Where was he?”

“Maybe... forty or fifty yards into the woods. A bow hunter had a shooting blind there.”

“But... we own that land, don’t we?”

“I think so, yes.”

“A bow and arrow,” she said flatly. “My God. Do you think the children might be in danger?”

“No, of course not. I know it’s difficult to accept, but Sparky was only a dog.”

“And you’re positive that a psycho who could shoot a helpless animal and leave it to die might not do the same to a child? You’re willing to bet the lives of my sons on his sterling character and judgment?” She closed her eyes, fighting against a wave of nausea. Then took a shallow, ragged breath.

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Of course. Well, sort of. I talked to Jerry Landry at the gym, he’s a deputy sheriff. He said that even if we could prove it, the man would only get a fine. And he might retaliate against us.”

“How? By killing our dog? Or will—?” She broke off in a spasm of coughing. Then lay carefully back on her pillows, utterly ashen. The aide hurried in a moment later. Janie would need absolute quiet now to avoid a seizure. I had to leave.

Outside the door, I lingered in the hallway, wanting desperately to go back in, to somehow change the look in her eyes. Erase the contempt. In nine years together, she’d been angry with me many times. But never like this. We needed to talk this out. But we couldn’t.

I swallowed, hard, only a notch away from crying. Started walking, so no one would see. And realized I was right on the edge of losing it. My love was dying, I’d be raising our sons alone, my job was shaky, and now...

Enough! I just couldn’t take any more. Couldn’t deal with one more goddamned thing.

But at the same time, I realized that any chance of letting Sparky’s killing pass was gone now. I’d have to do something about it.

The Sinclair house wasn’t hard to find. Algoma’s a small town and Chandler Sinclair was listed in the phone book with everyone else. Nor was his home particularly plush. The yard was broad enough for football, but the house was a rambling red-brick ranch, set on a hill that looked down on the woods behind our subdivision.

We were practically neighbors.

I rang the doorbell. A woman answered, wearing designer slacks and a red silk blouse. Mid twenties, pudgy, dark hair, dark circles under her eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Professor Dylan, from Hancock State College. Is Mr. Sinclair in?”

“He’s in, but he doesn’t see many people. What’s it about?”

“I’m sorry, you are...?”

“Dana Sinclair.”

“Ah, the sister, of course. I really do need to talk to Mr. Sinclair. It’s about hunting.”

“You don’t look much like a hunter, but maybe he’ll see you. It’s all he really cares about.” She hit an intercom button, set in the wall beside the door. “Chan? Some guy to see you, says it’s about hunting. You in?”

The croaked reply through the small speaker sounded like a frog’s command. I couldn’t understand it, but Dana apparently could. Long practice, no doubt.

“He’s in the den. Through the living room, that door over there.”

“Thank you.” Odd décor for a living room. Hardwood floors, no carpeting. Furniture widely spaced. More like a rough country cottage than a wealthy home. The den door was intricately hand-carved, though. A hunting scene. I knocked, and went in.

And stopped. It wasn’t a den, it was a trophy room. The upper walls were lined with mounted heads, dozens of deer, bear, coyotes. Below them, a rack of weapons that could have equipped a small army. Rifles, pistols, and at least a dozen different crossbows, ancient and modern.

The man coming toward me was equally shocking. Bloated, misshapen, he was dressed in full military camouflage, olive drab, but he didn’t look like any soldier I’ve ever seen. More like an egg with broomstick arms. And withered legs. His thighs were thin as sticks thrust into boy-sized boots. He was in a power wheelchair with four oversized wheels. Built like a tank. Or an ORV. Its cleated treads were powered by an electric motor that hummed like a dynamo.

“What?” he asked, stopping in front of me. “Oh. They didn’t tell you about my chair.”

“No,” I managed. “I didn’t know—”

“That I was handicapped?” he finished. “I’m not. They are.” He gestured at the trophies with a withered talon of a hand. “They’re dead. I’m still here. Dana said something about hunting?”

“Actually, it’s about killing. I believe you killed my dog, Mr. Sinclair.”

“No kidding? So what’s the problem? Was it an expensive dog?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is? We’ve got a leash law in this county, mister. A licensed hunter can shoot any dog guilty of chasing deer. Which makes any dog loose in the woods fair game.”

“He was on private property.”

“What property?”

“The five-acre plot at the end of the Birchcrest subdivision.”

“It was you!” he said, his bug eyes bulging. “You’re the sonofabitch who tore up my blind!”

“I destroyed a blind. It was on my land.”

“Your land? My family owned and hunted that section for a hundred years. Trophy bucks don’t give a damn about property lines, they range five to ten miles a day—”

“I don’t care what bucks do or what your parents used to own. We own it now, and you’re not welcome. You had no right to kill our dog.”

“I didn’t kill your damned dog! Every time somebody whacks a mutt around here they blame it on me. Usually because they want a payoff. If they ask nicely, sometimes I pay. But not this time. Where do you get off wrecking that blind? Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to build it, with these hands? Even with Dana helping, it took me days.”

“You should have built it somewhere else.”

“There isn’t anywhere else! Not for me. Not that I can get to in a chair.”

“You should have thought of that before you killed my dog.”

“I already said I didn’t kill it.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t believe you.” I moved to the display of crossbows on the wall. Steel bolts with savage broad-heads were on the shelf below them. Along with a cardboard vial of chalk dust. Blue. “Why do you use blue chalk dust, Mr. Sinclair? I’m told most hunters use orange.”

“That’s why I don’t. It’s a bit difficult for me to track game with my... situation. If another hunter spots an orange mark, he knows it’s a wounded buck. He might find it first, claim it for his own. Make off with it.”

“Maybe you should take up a gentler sport. Like chess.”

“Screw you, Dylan. You don’t hunt, do you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. You should try it. Men are natural predators, you know. All men. It’s in our genes. Even snobs like you.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“Wrong. I know a million self-righteous wimps like you! You think eating tofu makes you morally superior to people who kill their own food. I’ve got news for you, pal, taking game is a reality check for life. From the eagles in the air to the worms that get us when we die, every natural creature on this earth spends most of its time hunting. God must love hunters, he sure made enough of them. Including us. Especially us. You ought to give it a shot, Dylan. Hunting’s how the world really works. Puts you in touch with your inner predator.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Sinclair. And from now on, stay the hell off my land.”

Sinclair stared down at his clawed hands for a moment, as if wishing for the strength to strike me. Just once. When he looked up, his eyes were as blank and hard as a lizard’s. Crippled or not, he was a very formidable man.

“Maybe I will, maybe not. If you want trouble, you came to the right place, sport. When you wrecked my little hut in the forest, you messed with my life. Maybe I’ll return the favor.”

“I’d stick to dogs, if I were you. They can’t shoot back.”

I stalked out of the den, slamming the door behind me. Dana Sinclair overtook me in the foyer at the front door.

“I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m very sorry about what happened, Professor Dylan, but... well, you see how he is. Was your dog black and white? A little guy?”

“You saw him? You were there?”

“I’m always there. I have to walk Chandler out to his blind in case his chair gets stuck. He did kill your dog. And others, too.”

“Would you talk to the police about it?”

“No! And for God’s sake don’t tell anyone I told you. Things are hard enough for me as it is.”

“Then why do you stay?”

“He’s my brother,” she said simply. “When I was a girl, we lived in a lovely home on State Street. Three stories with winding spiral staircases. But after Chan was born, the stairs were too difficult for a wheelchair, so we moved here. One level, easier for him to get around. No one asked me whether I wanted to move. It was all for Chan. And when my father died, he left everything to Chan because he knew damned well if I had two nickels of my own I’d be gone. This is my home as much as his, but I’m just a housekeeper here.”

“Sis!” the intercom crackled to life. “Come here, please. My colostomy bag’s almost full.”

“I have to go. But you’d better watch yourself, Professor. Chan’s mean. When he warned you about your house, he wasn’t kidding. He’ll get even somehow.”

As I backed out of Sinclair’s driveway, I noticed a patrol car parked in the turnout at the end of the block. Couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, maybe Jerry Landry, maybe someone else. But it wasn’t just sitting there, it was idling.

As I drove off, the prowl car pulled out, tailed me half a block, then made a U-turn and drove back to the Sinclairs'. And stopped.

It could have been a coincidence, but I didn’t think so. It felt more like a message. That in this town, the Sinclairs had their own private police force. Bought and paid for.

“We’re flunking the Hitler test,” Janie murmured. “The law failed us when they left that psycho running loose. We’ll have to deal with him ourselves.” I was sitting by her bedside at the hospice. It was noon, but the shades were drawn and the lights dimmed to avoid any strain on her eyes. Her equilibrium was very fragile now. Teetering on the edge of the abyss.

“How do you mean that?” I asked.

“You’re the political scientist; how do governments manage a problem like this?”

“Well, if a nation is attacked or its citizens are injured, it can counter with a measured, equivalent response sufficient to deter future aggression. The police actions in Korea and Desert Storm, for example. Or it can act on a massive scale to remove the threat. As in World War II and the second Gulf War. I think we can skip the nuclear option.”

“Do any of those apply?” Janie asked. “I can’t think.”

“I don’t think so, honey. Even if we found a way to strike back, would retaliation help the situation or make it worse? I’m not sure the man’s playing with a full deck. And he’s wealthy enough to cause serious trouble for us.”

“More than I have now, do you think? Too bad it didn’t happen a few months ago, when I could still hobble around. If I could move, I’d do something about this maniac. God knows I’ve got little enough to lose.”

I caught the savage edge in her tone, and realized her anger was a stimulant, pumping her adrenaline, keeping her mind off the pain. But her judgment was as shaky as her condition.

“Janie, we can’t respond with anything illegal. If I get caught, the kids will have no one. The law isn’t perfect but it’s all we have. We should leave it to them.”

She didn’t speak for a very long while. I thought she might have fallen asleep.

“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.

Dead? Couldn’t tell from here. Had no idea where the arrow came from or who shot it. From that angle, it could have been meant for me.

Keeping low, I circled warily around to Landry’s crumpled form, coming up behind him. Ready to bolt at the slightest move. But he wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing, either. I reached carefully around for the service revolver still in his fist.

“Leave it,” Sinclair said, humming his wheelchair into the clearing. His crossbow was back in its mount, loaded, and centered on my chest. Beyond him I could see the crumpled form of his sister, cowering against a tree, clutching her arm.

“What happened?” I asked, rising slowly.

“Dana tried to pick up the shotgun. I ran her down with the chair. I think her arm is broken. And you’ve got some explaining to do. Why did you come out here? With that gun?”

I thought about lying to him. Something in his eyes told me not to.

“I came to have it out with you. To kill you, if it came down to it.”

“Over your dog?” he said, disbelieving. “I told you I didn’t shoot it.”

“It was more than that. Landry and your sister were planning to get rid of you and lay the blame on me. To make it work, they vandalized my home, and one of them, probably Landry, fired a crossbow bolt through my den window. It could have killed somebody. And it was dusted with blue chalk.”

“Dana, most likely. I taught her to shoot a few years ago. Thought hunting might make her more self-sufficient. It didn’t, though. Some people don’t have what it takes to cut it in this world.”

I couldn’t tell if the irony was intended or not. “What happens now?”

“A hunting accident,” Chan said coolly. “Poor Jerry stumbled into my line of fire, got himself killed. His family will collect a nice settlement, the department will avoid a scandal, and my sister will stay out of jail.”

“She meant to kill you.”

“She’s still my sister. My responsibility.”

“What about me?”

“Nothing about you, Dylan. You were never here. Any problem with that?”

“No. I’ve got troubles of my own.”

“So I understand. I made a few calls about you after your visit the other day. I’m sorry about your wife.”

“So am I. I have to get back. Do you... need anything from me?”

“Take your gun with you, it'll save me some explaining. Do you have a cell phone with you?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. I hate the damned things, especially in the forest. Ruins the atmosphere. When you get home, would you call nine-one-one for me? Just tell them where I am. I’ll take it from there.”

“You can’t really believe you’ll get away with this.”

“Sure I will. I can handle Stan Wolinski, and as for the rest, well, I’m used to coping. Been doing it all my life. No choice. When I tell people I’m not really handicapped, I’m dead serious.”

“Yes,” I said. “I can see that now.”

Retrieving my gun, I headed out, half expecting a crossbow bolt in the back with every step. But it didn’t happen.

When I glanced back, Sinclair was where I left him. A half-man with withered legs and barely functional arms, sitting in his chair ten yards from the corpse of a man he’d killed. Talking quietly to his sister, enjoying the afternoon sun.

He was right. Despite the chair, he really wasn’t handicapped. He could cope.

And if he could do it, maybe I could too.

I was losing my wife. But not forever. I believe in a hereafter. I will see her again.

Meanwhile, I have our sons to raise. And maybe some growing up to do myself.

As I left the woods, I noticed an eagle circling high in the autumn sky. Free and magnificent. A pure predator. Like Chan Sinclair. Or like most of us when you rough away the veneer of civility.

Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. As I scanned the trail ahead, my vision seemed sharper, my senses more alert. For danger. Or prey.

Perhaps it will fade after a few weeks back in the classroom. If I let it. But I don’t think I will.

Someday soon, I’m going to bring my sons out here, to show them the countryside their mother loved so much.

And I’ll teach them to hunt. With a camera or a weapon, their choice. I’ll teach them to move silently, and listen. And track. And show them whitetail bucks battling over turf. And foxes stalking rabbits, and soaring hawks scanning the fields for mice.

I’ll show them how the world really works.

So that later on, if they happen to meet Hitler? They’ll know exactly what to do.

© 2007 by Doug Allyn