Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
* * *
Outside in the parking lot,Laura sucked in lungsful of cold air and blew them out slowly to make the knot in her stomach ease its grip. Ms. Ritter, the child advocate with the tired eyes, lit a Kool in cupped hands as she walked toward her from the guards’ station.
“All three of those kids were in foster care,” she said by way of greeting. “I’m having the files pulled. My guess is that the other two were sold to Cruz out of care too.”
“This is a thing?” Laura said. “Kids sold out of foster homes for cash?”
“Sometimes it’s barter. I had a foster parent last year trade a four-year-old for a season ticket to the Falcons.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Look, I’m glad your department’s giving this some attention.” Betsy Ritter blew out a stream of smoke. “I only hope you’re not all down here to make a show, take some pictures, and make it look like you’ve done something. ‘Cause this system is broken. It’s rotten. and there’s damn-all the state can do to catch up, even if they wanted to.”
“What are you saying?” Laura was taken aback by hearing words like this from a social worker.
“I’m saying, if you really want to make a difference here, you’re gonna have to go to war.”
Laura thought,There might be someone out there doing just that.
His beard crinkledwith frost while Wesley Ruskin worked on dressing the buck. Vapor drifted from the warmth of the open carcass, which was split from throat to rump, the rib cage held open with a stick.
He’d hung it up the night before to let it bleed out into a pit he’d dug for the purpose. The pit was filled with dirt now to hide the guts, forelegs, hooves, and the scent of blood from the foxes and coyotes and wild dogs that roamed the ridges around the holler. He’d heard a bear once back in the summer and assumed it was off somewhere, napping through the cold.
“Hey,” a voice called from the pines toward the foot of the gully. “I’m coming in. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Wesley called back.
The man who called himself Isaac Kane emerged from the morning gloom with a pack over his shoulder. His hands were empty. No rifle.
“Big buck. That the same one my girl had in her sights?” he asked as he set the canvas pack down.
“Yeah. He’s an old one. Thought I’d make way for a young buck to make his move, you know?” Wesley worked his curved skinning blade to peel back the hide, revealing lean muscles over ribs marbled with thin ripples of yellow fat.
“You’re gonna have to let that soak awhile.”
“I know. Old fella’s gonna be gamey as hell. Got some wild onions, dried mustard. Ran outta vinegar a while back.”
“Maybe this’ll help.” Isaac rummaged through the pack and pulled out a bottle of red wine.
“That’ll sure do. You always bring vino along when you hike?”
“This pack’s not for me. It’s for you. Brought you some clean socks, some Payday bars, some chocolate, salt, sugar, and a couple cans of coffee creamer.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“So the next time I come up here, I don’t have to drink that nasty-ass coffee of yours.”
“I’m nobody to you.” Wesley set his knife on a tarp next to his saw and a longer filleting knife.
“I live about ten miles that way.” Isaac nodded to the south. “No one lives between my back property line and here. We’re practically neighbors.”
“Then let me make you some coffee.” Wesley reached for a stained strip of terry cloth to wipe his hands.
“I’ll make it. You keep on trimmin’ that buck.”
Isaac had brought a steel mug for himself and poured a serving of heavily sweetened and creamed coffee for each of them.
“Damn, that’s good,” Wesley said after draining his mug.
He returned to dressing the buck and Isaac helped, holding the carcass from swinging while it was being hided. Once it was stripped of its skin, they hoisted it higher to keep it out of the reach of predators. It would hang there in the cold air for a week or more to age the meat properly.
They raised the buck out of reach and tied off the hoist line around a tree bole. Wesley asked, “You sure you don’t want to take some home with you?”
“I might take a haunch next time I come up. You got a tub for marinating it?”
“I’ll use my storage container like I done before.” He nodded at the deerskin, which was now draped over his tent.
“Let me bring you something next time. A plastic tub.”
Wesley took a seat, leaned against the trunk of a tree, and regarded Isaac with narrowed eyes.
“Okay,” Isaac said as he felt through the main compartment of the pack. “We can talk about it over breakfast.”
“You invitin’ yourself to breakfast now?”
“No. I’m inviting you.” Isaac removed a carton of eggs, a plastic-wrapped pound of bacon, and a Tupperware tub of cooked grits.
* * *
They ranthe skillet and mess plates under water from a spring at the base of the holler. Wesley scrubbed them clean with a rough cloth while Isaac dried.
“You have family?” Isaac asked.
“My mom and dad in Murfreesboro. My sister’s married and moved on up to Indiana. My brother-in-law’s got a good job there with a drug company.”
“You’re not married?”
“Naw. Came close. When I got outta Walter Reed I come back home, only I didn’t call her. What’s she want with me now? Wakin’ up the whole house most nights, screamin’ and shit.”