“Sorry about that,” he said, “but I warned you. The sheriff's probably on the phone to Chan right now, telling him you were here. And as whacked-out as he is, it might push him over the edge. You’d better look to your family, Professor. Especially your boys.”
“How? What am I supposed to do?”
Again, Landry glanced around. “Look, I could lose my job for telling you this, but you won’t get any help from this department. Sinclair owns it. The sheriff has to run for election and Sinclair’s his biggest contributor. But that doesn’t mean he owns all of us. Between you and me, I think Sinclair’s dangerous. And if he were threatening my family... well. During hunting season he never misses a day in those woods. Hunting accidents happen all the time and they’re damned hard to solve. We’ve been carrying a few on the books for years.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing, Professor. We never had this conversation. If I can help, let me know how and I’ll try. But keep in mind that I’m a police officer and I have to do my duty. And my duty is whatever that man in there says it is. You can see how things are here.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I can.”
“Then you do what you have to and good luck to you. See you at basketball practice next week. And remember, keep your elbows up.”
That night, the unthinkable finally happened. Sometime in the early hours, Janie Doyle Dylan, my wife and my soul, slipped into a final coma. Her death was inevitable now. She might linger a few days or a few weeks, but she would not regain consciousness.
Nor would there be any extraordinary efforts to hold her here. She had always been a bold spirit. And as her sturdy little body failed her and her time in this world became shorter and less endurable, she’d grown impatient. Ready for her Next Great Adventure. Eager for it, I think.
And now she was almost on her way. Already on board, waiting for takeoff. And I was left in the terminal, unable to do anything but watch her go. And so help me God, if not for the boys, I would have gone with her.
But I did not have that option. After calling my sister-in-law to update her on Janie’s condition, I headed home to pack a few things. I’d already made arrangements to share Janie’s room at the hospice for this final time.
But as soon as I stepped in our front door, I knew something was wrong. The furnace was roaring and I could feel a chilly draft from the rear of the house. I hurried through to the den. And found it open to weather. The picture window had been smashed, glittering glass splinters were scattered all over the room. Stunned, I looked around for a rock or...
A crossbow bolt was stuck in the den wall. Titanium. Its broadhead buried just above a smiling photograph of Janie and the boys. Along the way it had knocked down the easel holding a watercolor painting of the backyard Janie had been working on. Her last painting. Unfinished. And now it always would be.
I knelt to retrieve the painting, but didn’t rise. Stayed there awhile, just holding it. It wasn’t very good. Janie daubed away with more enthusiasm than skill. But she loved doing it. The arrow had slashed the picture, slitting it open as it ripped through. I flipped the painting over. On the back, on the pristine canvas, the faint smudges were obvious. Blue chalk.
I rose slowly, carefully replacing the watercolor on its easel. Considered calling the police. But I could almost hear Wolinski. “Just because a man owns a crossbow doesn’t make him guilty. Mr. Sinclair owns a lot of things.”
Including the local police.
Janie was right, this was a true Hitler test. Letting it pass wouldn’t mollify Sinclair, it would only make him bolder. Like leaving a rabid dog running loose in a neighborhood full of children. My children. My neighbors’ children.
If evil is staring you in the face and you turn away and fail to act, then Dachau or Darfur or whatever follows is on your head. I knew I was moving into dangerous territory. I desperately needed to talk it through with Janie, but I couldn’t. She’d been my rock, my love, and my life for nine short years. Long enough to know I could never be sure what she might do in a given situation. Especially not one as treacherous as this.
But I knew one thing for certain. She wouldn’t have let this pass. And neither could I.
Enough.
Trotting upstairs to the attic, I rummaged around for a particular cardboard box. And found it. It held my father’s old Remington shotgun. A Kmart special, Model 870, common as dirt. I hadn’t fired it since I was a boy. My mom shipped it to me after the old man’s funeral, years ago. But with little kids in the house, I’d simply stored it away.
No one in Algoma knew I even owned a gun and I’d watched enough CSI to know shotgun pellets are impossible to trace.
And like the man said, hunting accidents happen all the time.
Keeping the gun mostly concealed beneath my coat, I trotted across the field behind my house. Following the faint remains of Sparky’s blood trail. Once I reached the bushes on the far side, I didn’t bother to hide the weapon anymore. Amid the falling leaves of an October autumn, a man with a gun is unremarkable. Grouse season, deer season, rabbit season. All that’s required is a taste for wild game and a hunting license.
And maybe there was something to what Sinclair said about men being natural predators. Moving through the woods, carrying my father’s old gun, other afternoons came back to me. Half-forgotten memories of walking with my dad on golden afternoons like this one, in the sweet silence of the forest. The old man patiently explaining the art of the hunt. How the depth and span of a deer’s hoofprint reveals its size and weight. How the texture of the soil can tell you whether a track is fresh or not, and how many hours since the animal passed through. How to use the wind to mask your movements and your scent.
In a way it was like slipping on a comfortable suit of old clothes I hadn’t worn for a long time. But I didn’t kid myself. Remembering a few boyhood ploys didn’t make me an expert. I was in Sinclair’s territory now and the murderous cripple was a proficient, highly skilled killer, much better at this game than I ever would be. I’d have to move very carefully. And keep my elbows up.
I checked my watch. Nearly three. Most deer hunters favor first and last light, early morning, late afternoon. Sinclair could be along any time now. If he wasn’t here already.
With his shooting blind destroyed, he’d need a new spot. And it would have to be close-by, somewhere near the deer trail. Starting from the old blind site, I began circling, looking for wheelchair tracks. And a likely spot for an ambush.
It wasn’t hard to find. The power wheelchair limited his choices to high, firm ground. His new lair was in a low clump of young cedars with a few boughs cut and rearranged into a crude shooting box. Not as cozy as his earlier blind, but not half bad.
Crouched in his chair, Sinclair would be nearly invisible in there. The cedars would mask his scent and movements, and a long stretch of the deer trail would be well within the lethal range of his crossbow. A perfect spot for a killing. One way or another.
Backing away from the cluster of cedars, I began scouting for a nest of my own, cover that would conceal me but still give me a shot at Sinclair’s lair. Couldn’t find one immediately, and as the trees began to thin, I realized I was approaching the edge of the forest again.
Through the thinning stands of aspens I glimpsed my house. And the shattered window. The bastard must have fired from here... No. He couldn’t have. The angle was all wrong. The bolt would have stuck in the opposite wall.
Curious now, I began circling the edge of woods, looking for a second blind, or at least a spot that would line up with the smashed window and the bolt in our den wall.
And I found it. Perhaps forty yards along, I came upon a narrow access road, wide enough for a car or a pickup truck. Or a wheelchair. Probably used by the groundskeepers to bring their lawnmowers to the field.