“Some things are better kept secret,” said a quiet voice.
Christina jumped about three feet. “HOLY SHIT! Oh, it’s you, Mr. Smith. You really need to stop spooking people like that. If I still had Custer’s gun with me, there’d be a huge hole in you right now.”
Mr. Smith barely smiled. He placed his old umbrella next to the desk as he leaned over Christina’s shoulder, reading from the computer screen. Thank goodness for the wireless hotspots that most smartphones came with these days. As he paged through the document, she said, “Why are some things best kept secret?”
“Well…take your rifle, for example, the one that was given to you. How long do you think you can keep it once the authorities find out about it? Or his descendants, if he has any.”
“They’ll probably take it away from me.”
“And still, you earned it, and it was given to you. It will probably end up in a museum; or worse, bagged as evidence in storage for ages to come, until someone wealthy buys it at an auction.”
“Maybe it belongs in a museum.”
“Maybe it does, and then wouldn’t it be more right and proper if you were the one donating your property?”
“You scared me only to tell me this?”
“No, ma’am. The others would like to see you, whenever you’re ready. But if that comes out…” He nodded at the screen.
“What comes out?”
“What you might know of that. Imagine what it might do. A secret society murdering people who they think are enemies of nature, who have been doing it for centuries? One that explains the skinwalker and berserker legends, who knows maybe even bigfoot? Just imagine all the copycat killings that will follow.”
“But how do you know that?”
Mr. Smith smiled and said, “Who says I do?” He just stared at the computer screen, then watched as Christina walked over and petted a gray kitten sleeping in a lounge chair. On the floor in front of it lay Winston the bulldog, moaning sadly as he stared at his chair, giving the little intruder a very sad expression. Christina petted the old dog, and he just rolled his eyes at her and then back to his chair. Christina laughed, then headed outside.
Mr. Smith looked at the Croatoan files Christina had downloaded, then turned off the computer. He looked at the rifle and then on the umbrella with a sad expression.
When Christina exited the vehicle, she found Claire sitting in a lawn chair, looking like a concerned mother; next to her sat Christina’s new dogs, Hunter and Nugget, both wagging their tails. She petted them and exchanged pleasantries with Claire, but her mind wasn’t focused on anything in particular.
“He’s over by the horses, talking to his sister on a phone, I think,” Claire said pleasantly.
Christina found Robert standing by a line of horses, petting one of them. She walked up to him and cleared her throat. He slowly turned, facing her. Suddenly she blushed; but then she got her act together, and walked right up to him, only inches separating them. She looked up at him, and he looked back, both trembling a little.
“So tell me, how does a girl get to know a guy like you?” she asked after a long, quiet moment.
“She has to answer my question.”
Christina looked at him suspiciously and mischievously. “What’s the question?”
He smiled and looked like he was about to say something, when suddenly he leaned forward. He smelled wonderful. Christina stood on her tip-toes and closed her eyes; again she felt his stubble on her cheek as it brushed her face. But the expected kiss never came; instead he leaned to her side, breathed into her ear, and then he asked her his question: “What does a man have to do to keep a girl like you around?”
SOUTH AFRICA
Einar Leeu stood on top of a hill by a river bank, watching the vultures and hyenas fighting over the spoils left behind by illegal poachers—local scouts and several wealthy overseas tourists.
Two large male lions lay next to him, licking their bloody paws, their bellies full. One of the giant cats moved up to Einar and pushed his massive, bloody head and mane into his human’s chest, just like any cat wanting affection. He petted it lovingly, and buried his head in the thick mane. The cat purred with happiness; soon the second giant joined them.
A moment later, he looked on fondly as the two cats walked down to the river as if they owned it and began lapping up water. Nearby stood a gazelle, drinking delicately from the river, but the two lions couldn’t care less; and the gazelle knew it.
Einar walked over to his Land Rover, an older model 4x4, a vintage vehicle without a hard-top. He slid into the driver’s seat and taking an open brown envelope from his breast pocket, he looked at it for some time; and then he took out the letter and read it again and again, and as he did, his eyes watered. But there were no tears. Facing him was the hot, reddish African sun, setting on the horizon, heat-mirages dancing in the air.
By now, his adoptive father would have made his exit. No doubt it would be all over CNN when he returned to civilization.
He started his vehicle, and made a one-eighty turn before driving away, leaving his cats behind. Absently, he turned on the CD player; AC/DC’s Thunderstruck roared out. Dead eyes stared into the rearview mirror at the setting sun.
Whereas some people like to have large plush dice hanging from the rearview mirror, Einar Leeu, a.k.a. Tala Caligula Butler, had two shrunken heads—and they weren’t made of plastic.
THE END
Erik Martin Willén has been creating science fiction worlds since the time he was a young boy, even working with a friend on a short-lived comic book version of Nastragull. Erik loves creating worlds of epic proportion and exploring those worlds in the stories he creates.
Erik currently lives in southern Sweden and is a devoted author who loves to write and create stories that keeps the reader “wanting more.” He is currently completing the fifth book in his epic space opera series, Nastragull, due out in 2018. He is also working on a Nastragull spinoff novel, called Vixens. The Lumberjack is his first suspense novel.
Visit the author at:
www.erikmartinwillen.com &
www.bhcpress.com
Twitter: @ErikMartinWilln
Google+:ErikMartinWillénAuthor
The Lumberjack Page 38
