12 Deaths of Christmas

by Paul Sating

  “Huh?” Jared asked, “Uh, nothing. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “You ain’t no bother,” the man said, then returned to his beer.

  Jared laughed. “Let me know if that changes, will ya?” God knows I’ve already done that to enough people in my life.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed as if he was examining Jared’s soul. Awkward and uncomfortable, Jared put his attention on the papers, an idle finger tracing their edges.

  The drunk squinted at him and laughed, coughing up things that came from deep within his lungs. “Whatcha lookin’ at there?”

  Nothing. The instinct to protect the knowledge on those pages was strong. It had to be. It was something all hunters of his kind developed early. If they didn’t, they didn’t stay in the game long. Jared had seen enough of them come and go in his twenty-plus years in the game. He knew what to do and how to do it. And when you hunted the things he did you learned to be careful. “These?” Jared tapped the pile of notes with his finger, looking at them instead of the drunk, “These are my life’s work. Child’s play to some, but to me … well, to me they’re everything I have.”

  “Mind if I ask what they’re about?”

  He smiled absently. “I track wild game, I guess you could say, and these,” his fingers wrapped around the stack, feeling the texture, an intimate connection, “these are some of the most important things I’ve spent my adult life on.” There was a time when he cared enough to have the notes bound and protected. But they had come loose during all those lost days since his life was turned upside down, becoming nothing more than a frayed and fragile system of knowledge.

  “Wild game, you say?” the man leaned toward him like there was an unspoken secret they shared. “Olympics or Cascades?”

  Everywhere. “Olympics mostly. I love the peninsula. Spend a lot of time out there.”

  The drunk nodded as though satisfied. “There’s worse places to be if you ask me. Used to do some hunting myself. Stopped when I couldn’t get around so easily. Now? Spend most of my days in this dump, drinking away the last of my brain.” The bartender scowled from his spot a few feet away, where he busied himself cleaning a few dirty glasses. The old man tipped his glass in the bar keep’s direction. “Oh, come now, Jack, you know I love your fine establishment. Just making conversation with … whatcha say yer name was?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s Jared.”

  “I’d shake your hand but … well, you don’t want to know where it’s been today, ain’t that right, Jack?” The drunk laugh-coughed again. It sounded like water gurgling out from a pipe. Jared wondered how long this man had to live. Would he finish the investigation before this poor soul saw out what was left of his life? Jared wasn’t betting on it. “Anyways, nice to meet you, Jared. So, you on your way out to the Olympics for the weekend?”

  Jared nodded. “Something like that. I go out for a few days at a time.”

  “Whatcha do that for?”

  What did he do it for? There was nothing to come home to now, not anymore. What was there to stop him from just staying out for a week or two, or until his supplies ran out? It was something he’d never thought about — not until now, and now it seemed so simple. He laughed, “You know, I don’t have a good answer. Habit, I guess? Used to come back every few days when I was married but I don’t have that obligation now. Just have a dog at home.”

  The drunk leaned toward his beer as if he was trying to smell it. Jared guessed it was a ploy to distract, that maybe the man had demons of his own — maybe an unfortunate ex-wife story, maybe something worse that hit too close to the heart. “Some of those habits are hard to break, my friend,” he finally said when he spoke again. “Don’t mind me if I’m prying too much into your life, but I’m imagining she didn’t want to be waiting for you any more than she already was? Prolly supported you the best she could until she couldn’t any longer? Somethin’ like that?”

  Something like that. Now it was Jared’s turn to look away.

  “Well, listen to me, going on and getting in your business,” he said. “My apologies. You look like a nice young man. Life’s going to throw you enough stress, don’t be letting me add to it. Got to ask. Ain’t deer season. Never seen a duck hunter, hell, any hunter, collect notes like you got there. Whatcha after?”

  Jared’s dead eyes never left his notes even as he replied, “a monster.”