“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.”