The Best American Mystery Stories 2007

Jason Ockert Jakob Loomis

From The Oxford American

Therm is in the woodshed rubbing gasoline on his bloodstained sneakers when he sees a handcuffed man break from the woods and amble toward the house. Hefting an ax, Therm calls out, and the man, surprised, arms defeated behind his back, freezes.

The men consider each other over the short distance of semi-mowed backyard lawn in the cool prerain breeze. The mower hunkers to the bloodied ground between the woodshed and the house. For a moment the men feel the weight of their guilt, and then the moment breaks.

What the hell are you doing? Therm asks, stepping forward with the ax.

Hoping I could get a little water, the handcuffed man says, nodding to a green hose heaped next to the house.

Therm is a big man with broad shoulders and a measurable gut. He isn’t a fighter, but he can defend himself if he has to. Especially with an ax. And if his potential opponent is handcuffed. There is nothing threatening about the restrained man; he is a foot shorter than Therm and has wiry hair, sun-browned skin, and a long chin. What makes Therm uncomfortable are the man’s eyes. There is something off about them — not crossed exactly, just crooked.

Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble, Therm says, squaring himself against the other man.

The man raises his eyebrows, cocks his head back, and gazes down his chin at the bloodied patch of lawn. You too, he responds.

What, that? That was an accident. I hit a snake, Therm says.

A lot of blood for a snake.

A nest of them, I guess.

Therm was new to his house, just out of a wasted marriage to a woman who cheated on him with several of the felines in a low-budget theater troupe who performed an interpretation of Cats in town for a season. Therm discovered a long whisker on the stairs and thought nothing of it because of Molly and Digger, both big, nervous cats. Then whiskers started turning up everywhere. Whiskers on the love seat, in the hamper, next to the lava lamp, in the trunk of their Suburban: brown, blond, green. Green, of course, made Therm suspicious. Then, because his wife considered herself an amateur actress, and because he wanted to make an effort to understand her passions more, Therm bought two tickets to the show. He was shocked by the performance; the unitard-clad men with unrealistic bulges in their crotches meowing and fawning across the stage didn’t impress him. When the green cat came out, Therm’s wife had emitted a low purr of sorts, and that was that. Therm didn’t make a fuss. She kept the property, he was rewarded a significant check her family could afford if the reason for the divorce stayed discreet. Molly and Digger remained with the wife.

Therm moved south and into the country where he wouldn’t be bothered. He was a contract cartographer and worked at the drafting table he erected in the family room. The missing boy, though he wasn’t missing yet, let his pet parrot free. The bird flew to Therm’s property, landed in a tree infested with gnats, and started squawking. Therm went outside to look at the pretty bird thinking that maybe parrots were native to this neck of the woods. He tried talking to it. He said, Hi birdie, birdie, hi, birdie, birdie, and so on. The parrot squawked and sometimes bobbed its head. Therm retired back inside for work on the rivers of the Middle East. The parrot kept at its racket. Therm tried to ignore the bird. He put cotton in his ears. Music didn’t help. Outside, he talked reason; Okay, bird, enough. Shoo or shut-up, birdie, birdie. The parrot preened its feathers and continued screeching. Gnats were abundant. Therm tossed rocks. When he called Animal Control they said that a noisy bird wasn’t an animal they considered a threat. He was put on hold for a minute. When the operator came back, he said to Therm, We’ll send a rescue squad over immediately. You’re in grave danger. Whatever you do, don’t let it hit you on the head with its lethal crap. You wouldn’t believe how many people die from parrot dookie every year. There was laughter in the background. Therm hung up.

All that night the parrot made its noise. The next day, more of the same. Therm couldn’t concentrate on the complicated tributaries of the Euphrates River. He took a long hike and disrupted a fox chasing a rabbit. The fox hid behind a slash pine and angrily glared at Therm as the rabbit dashed away.

A half-mile from home, Therm heard the parrot. When he listened hard, Therm detected a squawking pattern that he imitated for a while for fun. Then the pattern broke.

In bed that night, trying to ignore the bird, Therm thought of Madeline, his ex-wife. They had been an attractive couple in college, lost their virginity together, wrote their own marriage vows, enjoyed the mall on late afternoons. Damn her for throwing that all away, he thought.

In the morning, Therm started drawing irrational parallels between the parrot and Madeline and frequently yelled for Maddy to pipe down or put a sock in it. This made him feel a little better.

The bird kept calling and eating gnats and staring at Therm with sidelong eyes as Therm stood below it with the old rifle his grandfather had left him in the will. Therm figured he’d scare the damned thing by firing near its head. But the parrot didn’t budge, just twittered uncomfortably and changed to a higher pitch. A couple shots later, Therm knew he wasn’t trying to warn the bird anymore. Still, he couldn’t get a bead on the multicolored beast as it hopped from branch to branch.

At Food 4 U, Therm bought fruit he knew his ex-wife enjoyed; grapes, strawberries, and bananas. On the front door of the store was a black-and-white picture of the missing boy, smiling, that the clerk had just posted. Therm paid for his food. At home, he diced the fruit and laced it with rat poison from a bottle he kept under the sink. He placed the concoction on a paper plate and set it on a stump beneath the trees. He hid himself in the shed with the door cracked and waited all afternoon for something to happen. The bird squawked. A squirrel nosed the fruit but left it alone. Finally, just before the sun set, the parrot glided down to the fruit and investigated. It ate a grape and spit it out. It overturned the paper plate and shat. Therm rushed out of the shed with the ax, but the parrot was too quick and settled itself back in the tree.

Therm couldn’t get Madeline out of his head as he smudged the Tigris River. She had really whipped him good. She never let him eat spicy foods and complained when he walked around the living room naked. She wore wool socks to bed and rubbed her feet over his legs at night. Some mornings, he’d wake up with a rash. Then she sleeps with a clowder of cat-men? She didn’t even like sex, he thought. She had a bevy of excuses when he was in the mood; I’m tired, I’ve got cramps, Molly’s in heat, I just washed these sheets, and so on. Supposedly, one of the actors had a SAG connection and Madeline was going to be an extra in some romantic comedy coming out next fall. She screws me, Therm thought, finds success doing something she loves, and I’m here with the loudest parrot in the world.

Therm decided to call Madeline’s house and let the parrot bark its brains out over the answering machine.

In the morning, Therm went to Widgit’s Hardware and asked a Widgit employee for the most powerful nozzle they had. Next to the register was the black-and-white picture of the missing boy, smiling.

Are we talking fifty feet? the Widgit employee asked.

A hundred and fifty, Therm replied.

That’s a specialty item, it’ll cost you.

Charge it.

Therm attached the high-powered nozzle to the hose and tested it against the side of the house. It chipped the paint. Satisfied, Therm unwound the hose and stalked up next to the parrot-tree. The parrot quieted and watched suspiciously. Therm let it rip. The parrot was caught off-guard and fell from the tree. It started to fly, but Therm kept the water steady and knocked it from the sky onto his lawn, where it lay stunned.

Therm stood over the bird and sprayed it again for good measure. He bent down to flick the parrot’s head and it snipped his hand. Blood welled up around his knuckles. There was a rag in the shed. Also in the shed, the axe. By the time the bleeding stopped, he had convinced himself to chop the bird to pieces. He raised the ax. The parrot blinked a few times and made a feeble chirp. It kind of pouted like he’d seen his ex-wife pout. Therm couldn’t follow through. He went back into the shed, noticed that his hand was bleeding again, and fired up the lawn mower. The bird raised its voice. Therm set the mower on course, closed his eyes, told himself, This won’t hurt a bit, and pushed the machine forward.

Jakob Loomis was told to be home before dinner. That gave him plenty of time, he figured. He was meeting Tommy Tucker at the baseball diamond and the two of them were going to take Tommy’s pellet gun to the pond and shoot tadpoles. When Jakob got to the baseball field, Tommy was already there, waiting in the dugout. He had a worried look on his face.

Can’t do it today, man, Tommy said.

Why not? Jakob asked.

Mrs. Pratt called my mom and told her I cheated on our math test.

Dumb Mrs. Fat, Jakob said.

My mom grounded me. I told her I had to meet you and get the homework assignment, but I have to get back now. I brought the pellet gun if you want it.

Sure. Jakob took the gun.

See you in school tomorrow. Tommy said, and ran away.

The pond was located between two mounds of sand that Jakob had to walk over to get to the bank. The water was green and full of cattails and lily pads. Jakob spotted a tadpole, took aim, but decided not to fire. He couldn’t figure out why he should. When Tommy had the pellet gun, he took careful aim, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and fired. Nine out of ten times, the tadpole floated to the surface. This was impressive. But Jakob thought differently. There was no need to kill baby frogs, or any animal. He even set his pet parrot free because it seemed to complain about being caged all the time.

Your hand’s bleeding, the handcuffed man says. Snakebite?

No. I must have cut it on the ax.

Therm lets his hand hang loosely and bleed. A thin rain begins to slant down over the men. The handcuffed man tilts his head back and lets the water cool his face. Droplets of moisture linger on his eyelashes and a fine layer of precipitation forms on his forehead and chin.

Therm glances down at his stained sneakers. When he tried to clean them with the hose, the blood had merely smeared. Therm had washed the pulpy remains of the parrot from the mower down to the fringe of the woods. A cloud of gnats hangs over the remains. In a wicked moment, Therm tries to imagine Madeline’s face opening a package with the dead bird in it. Her jaw would drop and she’d cover her mouth with her ringless hand. She’d probably shriek something dramatic like, Oh, Christ, no! and ask her cat-boyfriends what to do. They’d say call the police. Therm would send the package anonymously, of course, and he’d use gloves so that fingerprints weren’t an issue. But there was a problem, Therm remembered. When the police asked Maddy about anything suspicious lately, she’d recall the odd message on her answering machine. The police would replay the tape with the recorded squawking and use a forensics team to determine that the pulpy mess had been a parrot and that the cawing on the tape had been a parrot. They’d trace the call somehow, arrest Therm, and he’d spend time in the slammer, humiliated. Better let the bird decompose in the rain and not make a big deal out of it.

If you’re not going to give me a drink of water, I think I’m going to move on, the handcuffed man says.

You can’t drink from that hose. There’s a high-powered nozzle that’d shake your teeth. The rain should be enough.

The handcuffed man licks his lips.

As far as letting you just walk off, Therm says, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police?

The handcuffed man tries to look as relaxed as possible in handcuffs. He says, Sometimes the police shouldn’t be involved.

Maybe so, but that doesn’t explain the handcuffs.

I’d rather not say.

Then I better call the police.

If you’ll feel better about it, call them. But the reason for these cuffs has got nothing to do with them. It’s more domestic.

I’m listening.

Cole’s Daddy was a snake handler and a preacher of the Gospel and of Jesus Christ the Savior, Our Lord. His Daddy told Cole he was born from a God-blessed serpent. Cole shared his crib with snakes, he learned to walk with snakes, and the first word out of his mouth was hiss. These things made Cole’s Daddy proud. He took his son all over Texas to preach the faith and demonstrate with serpents that the Good Lord watched over the faithful. In a trance with a viper, Cole’s Daddy got bit in the mouth. His lips and tongue turned rotten and made speaking nearly impossible. He tried to preach with just his hands, but nobody listened. So he turned to drinking. And he turned to his boy.

Cole really did like snakes. They were mostly quiet and friendly, and if there was any evil in them, he couldn’t find it. After his Daddy got bit. Cole tried his best to keep the faith. He learned some sign language and tried to teach it to his father. His father just shook his fists and Cole got the message.

When the money ran out, Cole’s Daddy figured he could use his son’s natural snake abilities to earn them a living. He believed God owed him that, at least. There were a lot of tourists and nonbelievers who would be impressed if they saw his boy crawl out of a sleeping bag filled with rattlers and moccasins and such. With the little money he had saved, Cole’s Daddy made flyers that said SEE THE SNAKECHILD ESCAPE FROM A SLEEPING BAG FULL OF POISON SNAKES! The performance didn’t draw a big crowd, but it brought in enough money to travel and to get Cole’s Daddy cross-eyed drunk.

Cole found it tricky to crawl out of the sleeping bag filled with snakes because the snakes were packed so tightly together that they became irritated. He had to wait until they calmed down and then very carefully pull himself out to the crowd of anxious people and the applause. Each time he had to move a different way to keep from rolling over a snake’s head. Once, after years of crawling out of the sleeping bag, during a snake roundup, just as Cole had pulled his head and shoulders out of the bag, a drunk said, Bullshit, those snakes aren’t poisonous, and he threw his bottle. It wasn’t a good throw and when it shattered in front of Cole a thin shard of glass struck the boy in the eye. The snakes hissed and snapped at one another as the crowd tried to decide what to do. The drunk thought he might have made a mistake. Everybody waited. Cole breathed lightly as his eye bled and the snakes settled. Finally, he crawled the rest of the way out.

The hospital couldn’t save Cole’s eye so they made him a glass one. Police went around arresting people for disorderly conduct and child neglect. Cole was sent to a foster home and Cole’s daddy found refuge in the church where he tried his best to apologize through cheap religious cards on which he wrote, Son, I’m so sorry, I’m really proud of you, God loves you and I do, too! in sloppy cursive.

Cole finished growing up quietly. He made few friends and had trouble looking people in the eye. His closest relationship was with God. After Cole understood that he wasn’t born from a serpent, he tried to figure out who his mother was. Through hospital records, and with reluctant help from his daddy, Cole learned his mother lived in Florida and worked for a theme park there. Cole turned eighteen, took a bus to central Florida, and paid for a ticket. Information directed him to the Hop Along Trail! His mother was a costumed, pink-furred rabbit who sang a happy song and hopped from foot to foot. Cole watched her in the thin crowd and munched on a candy apple. She was good at her job, a group of children clapped and danced to the song. The tune was catchy. Cole hummed along with the children. Nearby, a tall, young couple with a video camera glanced over disapprovingly. Cole realized he was out of place, all grown-up with candy apple on his mouth trying to have a moment with his mother in a sea of children. He blew a kiss and left.

An ad in the paper mentioned big bucks for capturing venomous snakes and selling them to pharmacies in order to make antivenom. Cole became a hunter and aged. On good days, he’d gather a dozen serpents. Once in a while the law gave him trouble for trespassing while he was wrangling snakes in private property. He bought a trailer out in the country and tried to mind his own business. He had girlfriends here and there. He attended a Methodist church. His Daddy passed away Godless and broken. On the television, Cole learned about the missing boy and made a mental note to keep an eye out for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jakob caught sight of a frog at the waterline. It was a white frog. Jakob couldn’t believe it. He had never seen a white frog and as far as he knew, they didn’t exist. But here one was. Setting the gun aside, Jakob crept closer to the frog and dove for it. He missed, slid half into the water, getting his pant leg soaked, and leaned against the mound to wait for the frog to reappear. It popped up on the other side. Jakob stalked it more carefully and when he got close enough, he wiggled one hand out as a distraction and plunged his other hand in after the frog. This time Jakob was successful. He pulled it from the water by a long white leg and clutched it to his body. His heart pounded and he tried to catch his breath. A white frog! Tommy wasn’t going to believe this. Jakob had to keep the frog to show Tommy tomorrow after school. The frog was slippery and he nearly dropped it as he climbed over the mounds and away from the pond. He’d leave the pellet gun there for now, find an old soda can or something to put it in, and show it off tomorrow. Then he’d set it free. It wasn’t dinnertime yet, the sun still had some life in it. All he had to do was find a container.

I’ve been seeing this woman named Samantha for a while, and the other day she says she wants to spice up our lovemaking, Cole says to Therm after a considerable pause in their conversation.

The rain turns to a wet mist. Cole leans his shoulder against the side of the house. Therm sets the axe between his legs.

Of course, I don’t know what this means, Cole continues. She says the ways we’ve been doing it is how she’s always done it and she wants to try bondage.

Bondage? Therm asks.

That’s what I said. I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly the most experienced rooster in the coop.

Therm nods. Maddy never mentioned bondage.

So, I go over to her place around noon to see what she has in mind.

She had handcuffs planned, huh?

Yes, and a blindfold. She cuffed me and called me a filthy bastard. I thought she meant it, but she explained this was role-playing and told me to wait in the dungeon while she freshened up. The dungeon was the bedroom, but I was supposed to use my imagination. I waited a long damned time sitting there on her bed. When you can’t see and you don’t know what’s coming to you your mind starts thinking awful things.

It does, Therm says, it sure does.

I tried to get out of the handcuffs but couldn’t. I wondered where she got the handcuffs and where she put the key. Hell, I even started thinking that she was going to chop me up like you read about in papers. Lovers get chopped up for one reason or another.

True, Therm agrees.

Then I heard some shouting out in the front yard. There was another man’s voice. This made me nervous, as you can imagine. I didn’t know if she was going to bring some guy into this bondage experience or what.

So what did you do?

I put my face into the bed and rubbed that blindfold off. Out the front window I saw Samantha arguing with this big guy, bigger than you, about something. Come to find out, it’s her husband.

She’s married? Therm asks.

Cole blows a low whistle.

That’s awful.

I thought so, too. I looked for the handcuff key, but it wasn’t in the bedroom. About the time that big boy comes busting in the front door, I manage to get out the back door and run for my life. I had to leave my car there. I imagine he had it impounded.

Therm rubs his fingers on the ax handle. After a moment he says, You shouldn’t have run.

He probably would have given me a good whupping.

Maybe you deserved it.

Not in handcuffs.

How long have you been cheating with her?

Oh, I don’t know, a month.

And you never thought to ask her if she was married?

It never came up.

Couldn’t you tell a man lived with her? Men’s shaving cream in the bathroom, shoes under the bed, trophies? Therm shifts the ax from hand to hand.

Most of the time she came to my place. She didn’t wear a ring.

Of course she wouldn’t wear her ring. Cheaters know better than that, Therm says.

Well, whatever. I just hate being caught up in this mess. I’d like to go back and sort it out with this guy. He’s probably rational enough. I’ll apologize. Is that what you think I should do?

It won’t be enough, but it will be a start. The major damage is done. Don’t even think about seeing her again, though. How would you feel if your wife was bonding with some other man?

I’ve never been married.

Yeah, well.

But I didn’t know she was married.

Now you do.

I’ll talk to him.

Therm sucks on his teeth.

I’ll go right now. I just wish I didn’t have these damned handcuffs on.

At approximately 3:15 P.M., Officer Ferris noted, a man in a blue Chevy Nova, 1986 or so, drove by with a busted taillight. Ferris had been instructed to stop any vehicles that drew suspicion and might possibly be carrying the missing boy. A busted taillight suggests a struggle; the boy could be in the trunk, tied down and helpless. Ferris flipped his lights on and pursued the blue Chevy Nova.

The afternoon was calm with heavy, low clouds above harboring rain. Since the boy disappeared, the weather had been somber. Ferris had tried to stay objective about the disappearance, he didn’t want to rule out all the possibilities. The boy could have run off or fallen into a sinkhole or just gotten himself really lost. But Ferris had dismissed these considerations after combing the woods with the boy’s mother a few nights ago. Ferris had been assigned to survey the woods with the mother while other officers worked deeper in the woods and the surrounding neighborhoods. After nightfall, the mother and Ferris followed their erratic flashlights around the soft sounds of crickets and distant shufflings. The first time the mother cried her son’s name, Ferris had flinched. The immediate loudness of her pain-filled voice frightened him. The more she called out, the more serious the situation seemed. Ferris eventually yelled for the boy, too, as much to hear his own voice responding to hers as to hope for a feeble reply from the woods. By sunrise, Ferris was spent and hoarse and convinced the boy had been nabbed. The mother’s doomsday worry had seeped into Ferris throughout the night. A mother knows, she said, and Ferris knew better than to disagree.

The team of officers uncovered a pellet gun by the pond, and a dead frog in a paper bag near the old elementary school. Footprints were either trampled by the team or erased by the drizzle and mist. Now, though, with the weather keeping the ground soft, if the kidnapper made a move, there was a good chance they would find prints or tire tracks or something that spelled foul play.

The blue Chevy Nova signaled and pulled to the shoulder of the road: 3:18 P.M., Officer Ferris noted, and it’s showtime. He exited his squad car, adjusted his belt, keeping his hand near his sidepiece, and approached the car. The perpetrator rolled his window down, stuck his head out, and said, Is there a problem, officer?

The perpetrator had stringy hair, sun-darkened skin, and a long chin. His eyes, Ferris determined, were shifty and cold.

License and registration, Ferris demanded, keeping his eyes on the perpetrator’s hands.

The man dug into his glove compartment. A Bible fell out, which seemed odd to Ferris. Why would a man keep one in his glove box? It didn’t make sense. You a man of the cloth? Ferris questioned.

No, sir, I’m not. There are some passages I like to read before I go to work.

The man handed Ferris the documents. The perpetrator’s name was Cole Bateman, born on December 16, 1979. He had vision impairment and lived in a remote trailer park just over the county line. This Cole Bateman fit the profile of a child molester, Ferris knew: late twenties, white, scrawny, a loner, overly religious, dirt under the fingernails; all typical. As Ferris returned the license, he heard a faint thud in the trunk.

Out of the car, Ferris said, withdrawing his gun and pointing it in Cole’s face.

What? Cole asked, recoiling.

Out, now. Ferris flung the door open and Cole cautiously stepped onto the road.

Hands on the hood.

Cole put his hands on the hood. Ferris yanked the perpetrator’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.

Stay put, Ferris said.

What did I do?

Ferris glared at the handcuffed man. I’m going to find out just what you did.

It took Ferris a few moments to locate the trunk-release latch, and his adrenaline made his hands fumble and his heart jump. He heard movement in the trunk again, no mistake about it. The trunk popped.

The perpetrator said, I caught those on public property, and Ferris raised his gun again. He told Cole to shut up, pervert.

In the trunk was a large potato sack thrashing from side to side. Ferris holstered his gun and pulled the sack to the edge of the trunk. It was lighter than a boy should be. He was probably starving, poor thing. Ferris loosened the knot at the neck of the sack and opened it. A cottonmouth struck his wrist, released its fangs, and struck his hand in an instant. A pygmy rattler attached itself to a finger on his other hand. Ferris flung the sack back into the trunk and shook the pygmy rattler from his finger. He screamed some oaths, drew his gun, and shot at the sack of snakes.

Cole ran.

Ferris lifted his gun and fired at the retreating perpetrator. His shot missed badly. The man scurried off into the forest. There was only a moment of hesitation, and then Ferris was in pursuit. A copperhead escaped, slid across the asphalt, and buried itself in a pile of woody pulp.

Jakob wandered around the woods looking for litter. He found a battered trash bag and broken glass, but nothing he could keep the frog in. His old elementary school was not far from here, maybe a half mile. The school had burned down after a fire started in the boiler room. The police said nobody was hurt, but the students believed the janitor had been trapped down in the basement and died. Tommy Tucker said that the teachers and parents didn’t want the kids to know because the janitor’s corpse had been burned so badly it would give everyone nightmares to think about. Everyone thought about it anyway.

In a trash can on the playground Jakob found a paper bag that could hold the white frog. The school was nothing more than a pile of rubble with a few scorched half-walls tugging out of the ground. Firefighters had cleaned up the site and there were plans to reconstruct it in a few years.

The playground was undamaged. Jakob poked a few holes in the bag for the frog to breathe, set it near the jungle gym, and ran over to the merry-go-round. Jakob couldn’t resist the merry-go-round. He grabbed the rusty green bars and grunted as he pushed it around, kicking up dirt. The merry-go-round squealed in protest, but as Jakob persisted and it gathered momentum, the noise stopped and with a final shove, he leaped up on it.

Jakob stood in the middle and tried to keep his balance without holding onto the bars. He loved the sensation of being dizzy; it was as if he were in a different world when he was spinning, a slower, dreamy world. He went around and around. Overhead, the high afternoon sky threw his shadow to the graveled ground. Jakob watched the image in front of him grow from kid-size to adult-size to giant-size. At its peak, Jakob raised his arms so that the shadow’s fingers stretched nearly to the woods. And in an instant, as the merry-go-round rotated and he turned to face the sun, his shadow diminished to regular size and smaller until it disappeared altogether.

Blinded, Jakob could not see the shadow that had been pacing him rise up and out of the ruins of the school.

I’d help you, but I’m no good at picking locks, Therm says, considering the handcuffs. Besides, if you go to the husband restrained, you’ll score sympathy points.

Yeah, or he’ll see what Samantha had in mind. He’ll be forced to think of she and me getting it on in bondage. Cole thrusts his hips. Probably won’t paint a pretty picture.

Good point, Therm agrees.

No, I think it would be best if I went to him with open arms. Also, if you free me, I can look at that wound on your hand. If a snake bit you, we should do something about it.

I told you it wasn’t a snake, and I told you I don’t pick locks.

Well, I don’t either. Do you know any locksmiths?

No, I’m new around here.

Maybe we could clip it with something from your woodshed?

I use that for the lawn mower and not much else.

What about the ax?

Therm lifts the ax and raises his eyebrows.

I’ll bet you could bust the chains in three swings, big boy like yourself.

What if I miss?

I don’t know, try not to. Take good aim. I’d do just about anything to have these off. You ever been handcuffed?

When they were children Therm and his brother used to play Cowboys and Indians. Therm always ended up the restrained Indian, but he didn’t mind. Those were toy handcuffs made from plastic and when Therm pulled hard they’d open enough to slide free. When Therm tried to run away, his brother shot him up with cap guns.

Sure, Therm says to Cole, I’ve been cuffed before.

You know, then, the Good Lord never intended to keep a man locked like this, Cole says, shaking his arms. How am I supposed to pray with my arms behind my back?

Therm doesn’t pray, but he thinks about it sometimes.

I’ve learned my lesson, Cole says. My wrists feel like they’ve been rubbed over with sandpaper.

They’re red.

I’ll go kneel by that stump, stretch the chain back as far as it will go, and let you have a whack at it. Then I’ll go apologize and take myself out of Samantha and her husband’s relationship for good. Maybe they can get counseling and patch things up.

Counseling could work if they’re both willing to try, Therm agrees. It isn’t a bad idea.

3:53 P.M., Ferris notes, and he is in trouble. The snakebite at his wrist has quickly pumped poison into his bloodstream. According to the police handbook, which Ferris knows by memory, you aren’t supposed to try and suck the poison out of a snakebite, but he tries anyway. With a piece of his shirt, he makes a tourniquet around his arm. He fears this is too late. He has gotten himself lost in the woods and regrets his hasty decision to pursue the perpetrator. The handbook never mentioned chasing a suspected child molester into the woods after you’ve been bit repeatedly by deadly snakes. The handbook mentioned backup. So, Ferris rationalizes, I’ve made a mistake. His right hand looks like an eggplant and the damaged finger on his left hand is paralyzed and swollen. Breathing is difficult. It had rained around 3:45 P.M. and then it stopped; now there is mist. Ferris is pretty sure he has passed that pepper tree three times.

In a small clearing, Ferris notices footprints that are smaller than his own. They lead around a bramble bush and farther into the forest. Unsteadily, Ferris follows.

4:10 P.M., and Ferris is on his hands and knees, gasping for breath and crawling from one footprint to the next. He can no longer feel the right side of his body and his vision has blurred. Still, he struggles forward, not yet ready to die.

The footprints stop. Ferris props himself on his elbows where the woods end and the grass of someone’s backyard begins. In the yard, a man lifts an ax and hesitates. Ferris only sees the back of a small person kneeling, arms behind him, before the executioner. He thinks of the missing boy. With his left hand, Ferris draws his gun, a last surge of energy carries his shaking arm up, and he fires. The ax falls.

Therm feels a burning in his chest as he heaves forward and drives the ax hard into the handcuffed man’s wrist. He falls to his knees beside Cole and tries to find some explanation in the man’s face.

The bite of steel in Cole’s wrist doesn’t hurt at first. He can’t believe the idiot missed. He was so close to freedom. But the pain comes when he tries to move his hand and feels that it is mostly detached from his arm. The warm flow of his blood down his backside drains him quicker than he thinks it should, and Cole finds he cannot stand up or stop the bleeding.

Ferris congratulates himself for doing the right thing. The police handbook clearly says, in chapter three: at all costs protect the victim. He rests his face in the grass. He thinks he should check his watch to note the time of rescue. He doesn’t have the energy to lift his poisoned arm.

Therm fingers the hole in his chest and recalls Cowboys and Indians. The wound is perfectly circular and seems fake peeking out from his torn shirt. He figures he’ll play dead for a while as he falls forward and hides his face in the lawn.

Cole collapses, chin first. He tugs at the handcuffs weakly, but his hand won’t snap off. There’s still enough bone to keep him locked.

The men take in the scent of the earth. Each locates a memory from when he was a child playing in the freshly cut grass, invincible and alive. They remember how easy it was to be a boy.