Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  Almost everything.

  He pulled his dingy green ball cap lower, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and trudged through the muddy slop to the old barn, glancing back twice to make sure the boys weren’t following.

  Thick wood slats, faded to gray and rotted at the ends, covered the building’s exterior, standing in stark contrast with the silver metal rooftop. Paula had questioned his decision at first. She said it was pointless to spend good money on a roof to protect a decaying structure, that the weight of the metal would knock the building over. He knew better, and she’d quickly come around to his way of thinking.

  They’d been sweethearts since high school and married as soon as they graduated. After a few years in a small apartment, they moved into his family home. Mom had died years earlier, and Dad just kind of faded away after that. He started sleeping later, eating less, and going days without leaving the house. He even stopped whittling. His death came as a blessing to Mason. Watching his father shuffle through life was a painful lesson. The slow downhill slope toward the grave was no way to go.

  The farm became their life and they threw everything into it. Paula rarely grumbled, could be a bit stubborn sometimes, but she loved her family more than anything. She’d stood by his side through thick and thin. There’d been a lot of thin.

  He reached the old building and paused. His granddad built the barn and its bones were still solid. Sturdy. The wind had no trouble finding its way through the cracks, but that helped keep the dust down. The old equipment needed a place to stay, and it didn’t seem right to store the relics in the new barn with its shiny tools and tractors and other gadgets. There was a connection between the old tools and the land and family. A historical link that needed to be maintained and nurtured.

  The old barn was his place to relax and unwind in peace, with no thoughts of weather or farm loans or crop prices. This place was off-limits to unwelcome visitors, which pretty much meant everybody. The secrets inside were his to keep.

  Mason unlocked the heavy double-door and shoved one side open. The midday sun lit up the interior, spotlighting the wispy dust particles that constantly floated around the structure. Fluorescent lights swayed over the workbenches, but their harshness wasn’t what he wanted today. He grabbed a kerosene lantern off the ground, lit the wick, and pulled the door closed, locking it from the inside. Sunlight shot through the walls in a few locations and he inspected each narrow beam, deciding none of the boards warranted replacement yet. He inhaled deeply, savoring the musty smell of dirt and hay. Sometimes other odors crept up from below. Rotting meat with an odd hint of sweetness, heavy enough to coat your nose hairs but not so bad that you turned away. At least not anymore.

  He placed the lantern on a workbench and ran his tongue over dry lips. Tradition hung on the walls, reminders of what a good, honest life was meant to be like. It was the same every time he came here. He spent time looking and remembering. He ran his fingers gently over the scythes and chains that had been in the family for years. He fingered the once- smooth handles of the shovels and pitchforks, now splintery with age. He inspected the old oilcans and wrenches and hand drills, made sure the horseshoe still pointed up so the luck didn’t run out onto the ground. Pliers and saws and hammers and everything he could ever want were there, all touched by his father, and his father before him. Corn hooks and sickles stacked to one side, hog scrapers and drawknives lined up on the wall, and bull leaders and pulleys piled on the floor. Tools that were made to be used. They had a job to do, and all were still useful if you had an imagination.

  He glanced over to a distant corner, too far for the lantern’s light to reach. Always the darkest part of the barn. Tarps hung from the rafters, covering the walls and blocking the sun. A plethora of vintage tractor parts sat piled there next to the entrance to the old root cellar. The underground space had also once served as a family refuge against tornadoes but had long ago been replaced by the concrete bunker closer to the house. A haphazard stack of broken pallets, crumbling barrels, and oak logs lay next to a cast-iron stove, its open mouth begging to be fed.

  Soon.

  He pulled on a pair of stained leather work gloves and grabbed the hog scraper, a small drawknife, and a pulley. The pitchfork and lantern joined the collection, and Mason took another look around the barn. One day, all this would be passed on to his sons. Such good boys. He’d teach them the importance of traditions, just as his dad had taught him.

  Heart full and chin high, he hummed as he stepped toward the storm cellar, careful not to trip on the faded orange extension cord snaking along the ground and under the cellar’s doors. The pitchfork scraped the floor behind him, leaving four fingernail-like scratches in the dirt.

  It was a good day to work.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After finishing his work in the root cellar, Mason trod back to the house, kicked his boots against the back steps until the biggest chunks of mud had given in to gravity, then stepped onto the rubber mat just inside the back door. His glasses fogged, and he let them slide down his nose before untying his shoes and leaving them. His plans for Saturday did not include watching Paula mop the kitchen floor.

  Oak logs popped in the living room fireplace and shot a faint scent of smoky autumn through the house. He wandered in and stood with his back to the fire. His wife sat on the flower-pattern sofa, a book in her hands and legs tucked under her grandmother’s handmade afghan.

  “Done for the day?” she asked.

  Mason shook his head. “Sounds like those dogs are back. Got the cattle all stirred up. Best go deal with ’em once and for all.”

  Paula looked up from her book. “Want me to go with you?”

  “Nah. I’ll take the boys. About time Andy learned a few things and the target practice will do them both some good.”

  “They’re still in their room. Playing video games, I imagine. Good luck getting them off that thing.”

  Mason kissed the top of her head. “Never met a boy who would rather shoot a fake gun than a real one. We’ll be back soon enough.”

  She returned to her reading. “Mmm hmm. You boys be careful.”

  “Always are. Boys! Let’s go!”

  A mumbled response filtered into the room and Mason sighed. “Okay then. Guess I’ll take care of those stray dogs myself. Just need to GRAB MY RIFLE.”

  Muffled thuds were followed by screams of “Wait for us!” and bangs against the walls as the two boys jockeyed to be first.

  Mason winked at Paula and headed to the gun safe. “Told you. Boys, get your boots on. It’s a little muddy, and we’re walking. Don’t want to scare off the dogs with the four-wheelers.”

  “Make them wear their coats,” Paula said.

  “You heard your mother.”

  Andy’s bottom lip jutted forward. “But Dad, it’s not even—”

  Mason tilted his head forward, raised his eyebrows, and peered over his glasses at the five-year-old boy. Nothing else was needed.

  After a twenty-five-minute walk to the pasture, the three slowed their movement and crept toward the barking. The dogs didn’t pose an immediate danger to the cattle, but if the canines got hungry enough, and a few more joined them, they could seriously injure one of the cows. And come spring when the calves were birthed, the dogs would be a real threat. They’d gone feral and at this point were no better than coyotes. Best to deal with them now.

  Mason motioned for the boys to stop, and they squatted to get a better view. The cattle wandered about slowly, seeking any grass that had survived the winter. Near them, four dogs, none with collars, yipped and panted. None of them over thirty pounds probably. All of them filthy.

  “Okay,” he said. “Choose your target.”

  Lucas, the oldest, spoke first. “The little brown and white one.”

  Mason nodded and scrubbed a hand across his chest, enjoying the pride swelling within. That would be a tough shot. Small dog. Hyper. Probably got a lot of Jack Russell in it.

  Andy pulled his camouflage ball
cap lower, the old bright orange T sewn on the front now nearly pastel. He squinted and bit his bottom lip. “I’ll take that black one.”

  Bigger dog. Part Labrador and part who-knows. Good choice.

  “You sure, boys? Remember, aim steady and true. One shot, no suffering. Aim for the front third of the chest. That’ll end it quick.”

  “Dad,” Lucas said, “can I go for a head shot?”

  “This isn’t a zombie movie, son. You want to aim for small targets like that, shoot cans down by the creek. Hunting’s about doing what’s right by your prey. End it quick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mason brought his rifle up. “They’re going to run as soon as they hear a shot. Get ready.”

  The boys each placed a knee on the ground and leveled their weapons at their chosen dog.

  “Got your targets?”

  Grunted acknowledgments.

  “Good hunting, boys. Here we go. Deep breath. Hold it. Now let it out slow. Three. Two. One. Fire.”

  Three reports sounded in the span of a half-second. Mason lowered his rifle and watched the fourth dog scamper off over a rise. The cattle moved a few feet away, then resumed their search for food.

  “Got him, Dad!” Andy said.

  Lucas patted his brother on the back. “Good shot. Let’s go see where you hit him.”

  Mason stood and stretched. “Let me have your rifles. I’ll walk over there with you to check it out, but then I’m headed back. You two drag the carcasses to the far edge of the pasture. Leave them there for the coyotes and vultures.”

  “Why can’t we leave them here?” Andy asked.

  “Think about it,” Mason said. “Do you want to attract coyotes around the cattle? Course not. Drag those dogs out somewhere secluded and everybody’s happy.”

  The young boy brushed his palms along his pants. “Oh. They’re kind of yucky, though.”

  Lucas laughed. “Yucky? Wait until you gut your first deer. Won’t seem so yucky then.”

  “This is the year, right, Dad?”

  “Depends on whether you get one, I reckon.”

  Andy extended his arm and held a pretend rifle. “Pow! One shot and I dropped a thirty-pointer.”

  Mason laughed and tugged the bill of his son’s cap. “We’ll see.”

  As they neared the animals, a low whimper floated toward them. One of the dogs wasn’t dead. Small as the Jack Russell was, any shot probably killed it instantly, and Mason knew his own target had seen its last day. Andy’s Lab must still be alive.

  “Come here, boys. Remember what we talked about? Doing what’s right by your prey?”

  Both boys nodded.

  Mason exhaled loudly and patted Andy’s back. “I’m afraid one of the dogs is still alive. It happens. Who knows why a bullet does what it does once it gets inside an animal? But what do we have to do now?”

  “Finish it,” Andy said. “Put the target out of its misery.”

  “Yep. Wouldn’t be right to leave an animal like this. That’s why no matter what you’re hunting, if it runs off after you shoot it, you track your prey and finish it. Leaving an animal to suffer is, well, just about one of the worst things you can do.”

  Lucas bent over until he was eye level with his brother. “It’s your dog, Andy. Want me to do it for you?”

  “No,” Mason said. “No. This is your brother’s responsibility. He can handle it. We’ll wait here.”

  The young boy looked unsure. “How close do I need to get to it?”

  Mason flipped open the sheath attached to his belt and removed his hunting knife. Four-inch fixed blade with a drop point. Orange handle with leather strap. Good for getting the job done.

  He handed the knife to his son. “Take this. You can do it. Keep a tight grip on the handle. The blade’s good and sharp. Don’t want to cut yourself with it. Just like we practiced, remember?”

  Andy took a deep breath, then squeezed his lips together in a look of determination. “I can do it.”

  The boy marched toward the whimpering animal, slowing his approach as he neared. He stared at the dog for a heartbeat, glanced back, then knelt beside the wounded canine. His shoulders rose and fell in time with his breathing.

  Mason shifted his stance. Can’t see the boy’s face. Fear? Hesitation? Excitement? Lucas’s first knife kill had been professional. Unemotional. Matter of fact.

  Andy’s knife rose and fell, punctuated by a sharp yelp. Then quiet, save for the sound of the cows moving slowly away.

  Mason didn’t need to see the boy’s face. He knew his expression. He’d seen it in his own reflection on many occasions. The joy of a successful hunt. The surge of adrenaline. The raw supremacy that came from taking a life. And the knowledge that nothing, nothing , could equal that power.

  It’d been that way for Mason. He’d been six years old when his dogs treed a raccoon and he’d shot the varmint down. Even with its left front leg practically gone, the coon was still very much alive. Provoked and irate, the animal was a threat to him and his dogs. If his dad had been with him, he’d have made him shoot it again. Not get too close. Its razor teeth could easily tear into his skin, and this coon was a whopper. Maybe sixteen pounds or more.

  Mason had dropped his rifle and unsheathed his knife. He could still remember the pounding in his ears as his heart shoved the adrenaline through his body. The tingling in his fingers. And the desire to finish it.

  He’d told himself the animal was suffering. Be merciful. Make it quick. It’s the humane thing to do. All true.

  But not the real reason.

  Andy stood beside the dog and bowed his head. Mason edged closer and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. A tear dripped down the boy’s cheek. Might be a couple more years before he understood the power he’d unleashed. “You did right. Nothing to fret about.”

  “Dad, do animals go to heaven?”

  The boy’s got his mother’s soft heart. “Well, I never gave it much thought, but I suppose they do. Can you imagine a place with no animals? Doesn’t sound much like heaven to me.”

  Andy bent and ran his hand over the Labrador’s head. “Do you think he’ll be mad at me when he sees me there? For not getting a clean kill?”

  “Mad? Of course not. He’ll probably run up to you, all wagging his tail and stuff, and lick your face. You did him a favor, son. Sent him on to a better place.”

  The boy poked out his lips and looked up at his dad. “He’ll be happier there?”

  “Much happier.”

  Andy thought for a moment. “So killing’s a good thing then.”

  Now he’s getting it. “It can be.” He nodded and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “It sure as heck can be.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jeremy moved his mouse in a circle, following the white arrow as it arced around the monitor’s wallpaper. It’d taken a buddy in IT to bypass the laptop’s restrictions and install the unapproved drawing, but the picture of the tiger was his new favorite. A fluffy orange body accented with thin black stripes. Two long fat legs and two short skinny ones. Thick Groucho Marx whiskers below bright yellow eyes. All adding up to a truly regal beast. Rebecca, Maggie’s five-year-old daughter, was getting better with her crayons.

  He glanced back at the paperwork in front of him. Another white- collar case. Insurance fraud this time. Staged auto accidents. Serious stuff, to be sure, but not why he joined the Bureau. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the pleather manager’s chair. Got to focus. He cleared his throat and stared at the file, forcing himself to ignore the itch at the back of his brain.

  Fourteen suspiciously similar vehicle accidents within the past two months. Each in a remote area. No witnesses or ...

  Not happening. This case was entry-level stuff, better assigned to rookie agents. He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. Pleather. What is that and why does it smell like plastic rubber?

  It’s gonna be a long day. He cut his eyes toward the manila folder in the bottom left drawer of the des
k. The itch needed to be scratched, but just a quick look.

  Catherine Mae Blackston. Two months had passed since they’d located her car, and still nothing. No hits on her credit cards. The camera hadn’t shown up at any pawnshops or on eBay or Craigslist. She’d disappeared. Ceased to exist. She could’ve left voluntarily of course, but Jeremy had doubts. Strong ones. Maybe it was the paranoia of having seen so much of the darkness people were capable of. Present company included.

  His cell phone vibrated on the desk, dancing in a semi-circle before he picked it up. A warm wave washed over him when he saw the caller ID. Maggie.

  “Good morning, stranger,” he said. “I was just sitting here admiring this stunningly beautiful tiger drawing. Rebecca got the whiskers perfect.”

  Maggie laughed. “Uh-huh. Looks like he’s got a mustache. And shouldn’t you be working instead of critiquing my daughter’s masterpieces?”

  “I am working. I’ve got a couple of interviews scheduled today on this auto insurance scam. Doing a little bit of prep.”

  “Gonna wrap up the case soon?”

  Jeremy leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Probably. The gang doesn’t seem too professional. One of them will roll on the others soon enough. The dominoes will start to fall.”

  “Sounds like they’ve got the house of cards stacked against them.”

  His heart fluttered. Nobody could mix their words like Maggie. “Oh, they do. I give it two days, maybe three. So, what’ve they got you working on now?”

  “Eh. A possible dirty judge. Some questionable sentences given out to a couple of major drug dealers.”

  “You sound thrilled.”

  “No, it’s okay. Keeps me close to home.”

  “Must be nice. I was thinking about maybe arranging a trip to D.C. or something. Fly up and spend a couple of days in the office. Possibly drag it into a long weekend?”