

## Call Me Kid

Can an alcoholic help a dying girl while tracking a killer?

By

### Billy Sharpe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Billy Sharpe

All Rights Reserved.

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This labor is copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author in the future. Thank you for your support, Billy Sharpe.

Author rating for intellectual content and vulgarity: Would you believe this material is appropriate for a five-year old with the permission of a parent? How about a twenty-one year old? Maybe someone forty-six?

Benjamin Franklin believed the wild turkey should be the national bird.

### Chapter 1

Not only did the Tobacco Land Kid energize the children on this hot, dusty playground, but also, away from his job, he kept people dazzled with his rock-hard charm, rock-hard sociability, rock-hard word of honor, and his magnetism. What boosted this charisma? For starters, his voice descended to a low C, which resembled a bullfrog or foghorn, triggering people to report that the sound penetrated their bodies and vibrated their insides. His other physical attributes provided further grist for the public mill; furthermore, his looks identified him—-ugly. Could he have experienced mutation? With the body of a chimpanzee, he stood six feet two inches tall. Picture a chimp with red hair in a ponytail, flashing blue eyes that twinkled, captivated, or bored a hole.

He possessed guts and foresight, guts and hindsight, guts and more guts. During a barroom fight, a strike from a hawk bill knife had made a cut on his left cheek; afterwards, with steady fingers, needle, and nylon thread, he sewed up the wound; nevertheless, a large gathered-up scar remained.

In a later altercation, a big baldheaded black enthusiast smashed his nose to the left; but worse, in the same fight, the dark-skinned man, still unhappy, delivered a blow with a wine bottle. This wallop drooped the Kid's non-dominant eye permanently.

He demonstrated a cocky manner which implied he would sway any person. Bearing that fact in mind, neither the thinkers nor the non-thinkers understood this, since he demonstrated no manners or training; furthermore, his clothing amounted to monotony, because he wore khakis plus stylish two-hundred-dollar blue monogrammed dress shirts, except when he went into the woods. On occasions, he dressed in a black overcoat. Regardless of his activities, he always put on a hat.

To him, this aforementioned playground symbolized Carnegie Hall, with him the conductor and the children, the pop group.

In groups, they played, laughed, screamed.

One of the boys, wearing short brown pants, and pockets bulging with marbles, hurled a kickball over the Kid's head. The little jinx knew the outcome, in textbook form, placing the heel of his left foot near the arch of the right. In a twinkle, the Kid came to the ready position and shouldered an imaginary shotgun, while his tongue issued a loud click. In unison, all yelled "boom." He chuckled.

His usual duties kept him at Wilson Senior High in Wilson, North Carolina, where he taught social studies, but in the spring, he rotated to one of the kindergarten-through-eighth-grade schools where he spent Mondays and Fridays wiping noses, tying shoes, and fixing hair bows. He loved these days--and George, too.

His assistant, George Meadows, stood forty yards away. The burly George, wearing white sweatclothes and a five o'clock shadow in a show of loyalty, maintained the manner of a drill sergeant. Due to his efficiency, the Kid's mind often drifted.

The Kid scuffed at a scrap of coastal Bermuda grass. Oh me, here comes an office assistant. Wearing the expression of the little match girl, she handed him a sealed envelope. He read the note, made a ball, and shoved the crumpled memo into his jacket pocket.

He stormed toward the parking lot. Then he pivoted and walked backwards in order to speak to George. "Gotta go to the office." George nodded glumly, while a seed of apprehension sprouted in the Kid's brain, causing him to take a second look back. "Finish observing recess for me." With his chin flopping, George gave another nod.

The Kid swallowed. He squeezed his nose in the area between his eyes. He thought. What's next? Had Waterloo arrived?

He walked through the crowd of junior high cheerleaders in their garnet-and-gold uniforms as they practiced somersaults, flips, and cartwheels. He stumbled. His awkwardness triggered nervous laughter from the five boys and six girls. A flash of anger from his blue eyes wilted them, but the wrath faded to a wave of melancholy, since he always loved them as well as the baseball players. Just the same intuition informed him those moments had ended, along with his career.

When he continued, they smiled to reveal their love.

In the parking lot, he jumped into his red eight-year-old '05, four-wheel-drive pickup and sped to the high school. Halfway there his hands trembled, and from his glove compartment he retrieved an open pint of Scotch. He knocked down two hard swallows, which in minutes stopped the tremors, giving him some similarity to the old Kid.

With steady hands he swung from the pickup and went straight to the principal's office. Straight ahead, perched in the doorway, at ninety-three pounds, stood Miss Hannah Gertrude Peabody, the school secretary. She wore a white dress, which went from neck to shins. The students alleged she had worked for one hundred years in the Wilson County Schools.

Your girlfriend left you? See Miss Peabody. Cut your finger? See Miss Peabody. You failed a test? See Miss Peabody. "Kid, you're in trouble." She took him by the shoulders, shook him, led him to her bathroom, and opened the door. It creaked. The students always claimed the creaking came from her back, but the noise originated from a rusty hinge. "Here, mouthwash for the Scotch breath. Wash up, too."

He stepped into her private room before Mr. Sanders, wearing a suit and tie, opened his door, which revealed the usual principal's workplace in any sixty-year-old building. "Where ...? Can you believe...? Late, too?"

"He's here," said Mrs. Peabody. "He's washing off playground dust."

"Send him in when he finishes."

"Rachel Phipps called. The longer she waits... Want me to call her?"

"No, lemme."

A few steps on pencil legs and child-sized feet carried her back to her restroom door. "I bought you seven minutes," she yelled in a whisper. "Focus. Don'tcha stumble."

Using her yo-yo-size arms, she helped him to a chair. With her palm covered in cold sweat, she brushed a lock of red hair from his good eye. When she took her hand away, the wisp returned to its former position.

The doorknob squeaked. With her hearing loss, she did not hear the screech, but the Kid did. He leaned around her to smile. "Good afternoon, Sir,"

The principal shook his head and wiped his forehead. He ambled toward his black swivel chair. "Come in, Kid. Take a seat. We gotta talk."

The Kid thought: Scotch has invaded your brain. Don't stagger. Touch the doorframe for a little balance. Sit with care. A flop in the chair means miscalculation. He shouldered his imaginary rifle, pointed at a golf ball on a table, and then clicked with his tongue and cheek.

Before the principal spoke, the old schoolmaster crossed his arms on his chest. Unfolding them, he dropped his hands into his lap. "I smell alcohol and Miss Peabody's mouthwash. Two weeks ago, you fell down at La Fontana's seafood restaurant and regaining your feet caused problems, too."

The awful day has come. "Aw, I don't drink much."

The principal stuck the tip of his pinkie from his right hand to the edge of his mouth. "What's wrong deep inside?"

"Nothing."

The black, rotund, bald principal leaned back in his chair. "Tell me the story about the soft drink. I like the yarn."

"Yes Sir, a friend left my house after we drank a ginger ale. I mentioned that the next time he came back one would be waiting for him. Well, he moved to New York City, but he might visit anytime. Keep six in the fridge. My word, you can put it in the bank."

"Kid, thirty years here at Wilson High you've won three state baseball championships. In four losing seasons, you and your boys played a game or so below five-hundred ball. The worse things got, the calmer you got."

"Correct."

"Kid, one thing I can't grasp. Just about everybody loves or likes you, especially Spiffy. Exceptions include Richard Hardy and Clarisse Bovine."

"Yes, Mr. Sanders, Richard, everybody calls him by his nickname: Mean Man. A long story. Mrs. Bovine, remember? After we won a state championship, one of the boys celebrated nude in the locker room. I said No to her request to enter."

"Anyway Kid, the assistant coaches, players, too, tell me they'll stick with you and storm a big league stadium with crowbars to break in and play the home team if you say so." He paused. He rubbed his chin. "Yeah, there's something about you...Something shines through. People follow you. What is it?"

"I don't know, Sir. I love everyone: yellow, black, white, brown, especially children."

"Kid, maybe an element shimmers in your ugly face."

The Kid thought. He's making eye contact. He leaned forward. His confidence has peaked. The hard part's coming.

"Enough small talk, Kid. You're boozing at work."

"No Sir, I'm not."

"Yes you are. Your breath... Almost everybody here supports you, but you have enemies, plus a bottle of expensive Scotch hidden under a false bottom in a drawer, which you keep locked."

"Okay, yeah. What you say is true."

"A violation of state law. Let's get to the summit. Put your resignation in this office by five o'clock Monday. If you don't, I'll recommend the Board of Education fires you. I'll trust the public supports me. Make a decision."

"I'll talk with my wife before sundown. Oh, one thing Sir— between your legs lays a real pair of balls." The Kid aimed at the golf ball.

With the news echoing in his head, the Kid went to his office. He snatched open the false-bottomed drawer. A shot stopped the trembles. At four o'clock, he drove home while praying no confrontation with the Wilson Police Department would take place.

He cruised on Highway 42 East, cherishing the pinewoods, the gray farmland, the lazy streams, and the small swamps. Most of all, he treasured the land which grew chest-high tobacco.

### Chapter 2

Arriving in Wilbanks, he parked his pickup in the driveway. For thirty minutes, he sat.

From behind an old tobacco barn, his devoted sidekick Spiffy appeared, wearing a purple shirt and yellow pants. His birth certificate showed Algonquin Meriwether Steele. This man would nibble the grass the Kid trod.

He had earned the moniker Spiffy thanks to his poor choice of clothing. He wore flamboyant clothes with color combinations that drew attention. His hands attracted the most interest. Ham-size they were. What came in third place? The face: the protruding top teeth gave him a chipmunk appearance. His ears made his head look like the front view of a car with the doors open.

As for strength, bench-pressing most people over twenty-one presented no difficulty, and jumping out of a fifty-five-gallon barrel without touching the sides provided a party trick.

He demonstrated loyalty, followed by trustworthiness, and dependability.

"Where's your scooter, Spiffy?"

"Broken."

"How'd you get here from Wilson?"

"Hitchhiked."

"You came at a bad time."

"Aw yeah, Kid, your face tells me something's bad wrong."

"Got fired today."

"Aw yeah, talk hasn't been good about the drinking. I'm with ya."

"Don't sweat the small stuff. Just a bump in life. I'm not an alkie. Need something, Spiffy?"

"Borrow the old '72 pickup to ride to Rocky Mount?"

"Like your hometown still? Okay, bring her back in one piece. No dents or bruises like you gave quarterbacks in high school or college."

"Sure. Want to deal with more street talk?"

"Shoot."

"Last week, a Native American man and his two sons flew into the Raleigh/Durham Airport, looking for me to answer questions about you. They inquired about your talent with firearms and your practical understanding of the woods. I explained you dream the forest, eat the forest, and drink the forest. Furthermore, many nights you sleep with a rifle. The inquisitor also made inquiries about how well you play 'Texas Hold 'Em.' To which yours truly observed you'd been playing since college."

"Learn anything about them?"

"Ah yeah, I told him turnabout is fair play. He boasts of a daughter. He wants a favor for her, but beyond this knowledge, the visitor only acknowledged that he and his two sons owned and managed an electric supply business out west."

These meager facts supplied little information; nevertheless, the Kid trusted his instincts, which told him the request must deal with hunting, shooting, woodsmanship, or perhaps all three. In those arenas, few equals existed, and he took pleasure in the fact. He also recognized no superiors. On deciding to assist the young girl, his talents in the woods would conquer any realistic difficulty; however, the obstacle could prove unrealistic.

He waved Spiffy adios and strolled to the rear of the house. He glanced back at his departing friend while enjoying the purr of the 350-cubic-inch engine.

Passing the swimming pool, the Kid remembered to call the cleaning service to prepare for the summer. Entering the game room, he scooped up the cue ball, spun the white sphere with his thumb and trigger finger, and sent the object into the cluster, scattering them all. He walked to the poker alcove; he drew one from the deck. After staring at the four of clubs, he flung the card back on the green velvet. All the while, the scene with the principal rotted in his guts.

Below the crown molding, around the room, a host of trophy animal heads looked down. The most stunning, a Rocky Mountain goat he shot nine years ago, maintained a spot in the top ten in the record books. He received a phone call a month from envious hunters asking for hunting tips. He thought. What a prize, someday I'll use the creature in a poker game— maybe something else, too.

From another room, voices broke his concentration.

Jennifer finished a conversation with Maria, the cook, stepping through the door; her heavy legs displayed textbook examples of lack of use. What used to be jet-black hair showed streaks of white, which framed an unwrinkled marble face, while her blue dress, if waterproof, would make a one-man tent. "Kid, you got no surprise. The principal called... You have..."

"Lousy break— some think I consume too much alcohol. Sure, Granddad, Uncle Charlie, and Aunt Sarah were alcoholics, but alcoholism does not run in families."

"Lord, Kid. Whiskey. Your Uncle Fred, drunk as a louse, ran over his son in the driveway."

He stared at her. "My luck's gone sour. The million-dollar idea never came. Life is no challenge unless I can think of something original and make a fortune"

Jennifer walked across the room and plopped on a leather sofa in front of the Kid's executive desk "I'm giving thought to leaving you."

"What?" "Nothing's wrong with your hearing. Before you came home, I bought myself a new four-door sedan."

The Kid paced to the bar, picked up a full container of Scotch along with a large glass of ice. He strode back, laid them on his side table, and collapsed in the swivel chair behind his solid mahogany desk. "So what? With the profits from our stocks and bonds, we can afford five new cars a year."

"Haven't left yet. Just thinking."

He fondled a picture of Jennifer in her wedding dress. "Aw, heck, come on, Honey— let's hit the sack."

"Why, Kid? You ready for one of yo five-second semi-erections? We don't experience a sex life. Making love was unbelievable. Kid, I remember incredible times with you in everything. Things are crumbling."

He removed the top from the bottle. Three feet to the right lay a trashcan. He tossed the lid, missing the can, and the cap clicked on the parquet. "At least you're not leaving now."

Jennifer leaned forward and placed her left hand on the couch. "Deal time— give me yo resignation. I'll put the letter on Mr. Sanders' desk Monday morning around eight. I'll stay a little longer with yo po drunk tail."

"You have my word." Some Scotch and water spilled on his trousers. Holding the vessel off to the side, he tilted the container to drain a measure onto the carpet, which insured manageability. Turning, he glared at Jennifer.

Crossing her arms, she leaned back. "The Internal Revenue Service's going to call."

"Yeah?"

"Found yo federal and state tax return you didn't file. Financial ruins ...."

Frowning, he downed a third "Things'll work out."

"No, they won't."

Trembling, he seized the decanter around the neck. Erratic contact when the edge touched the bottle made a tinkling sound. He raised his voice. "Stop fretting, Jennifer."

"Oh Kid, be nice. Your harshness reminds me of my parents dying from carbon monoxide fumes. And with this depressing situation I almost forgot. An hour ago, someone came."

"Who?"

"A man 'ccompanied by two young males. We talked for ten minutes."

"Spiffy told me that. Don't let anybody come. They can all go straight to hell. Retired people ought to do anything they want. Now for the time being, Jennifer, get your ass out of here."

She rose. Gathering her robe about her, she wept. She took twelve-inch steps until she grasped the doorknob. She pulled the door open and turned. "My parents... Grew up near Charlottesville, Virginia. Took me to Monticello. Played there. Dad showed me Mr. Jefferson's plow. We all hoped to have a farm and vegetable garden... My only friend Mary Sue died... My childhood..."

She left.

***

Three Months passed. The Kid fell. He split the right side of his face. Jennifer raced him to the doctor. The surgeon stitched twenty neat ones on his cheek. Before sending him home, he gave the Kid a lecture about his drinking.

### Chapter 3

When the clock struck ten, Jennifer stood and glanced at the Kid. Shuffling while clutching her favorite gray wool robe against the December cold, she lumbered to the stairs. With a twisting motion, her right hand seized the banister, causing the wood to groan. In addition, with each of her steps, his anxiety grew, while the sound of the creaking boards ruptured his insides. He listened. His heart followed her to the second floor.

His double Scotch nightcap lay on the counter. He wobbled to the glass. He raised the amber cocktail to sip, but before the first nip, the doorbell chimed. Irritated, he threw the drink into the sink behind the bar. "I'll get sober just to show them. They'll stop all this talk of alcoholism".

He lurched to the front entrance while his hands sought stability from furniture. "Who are you?"

A face from the porch stared through one of the side windowpanes. "Mr. Hendricks, we are harmless folks. All we want is to talk over a little business proposition with you. We've been here before, but you wouldn't see us. We ain't quitting. We're coming every day."

"First, call me Kid, because at Fishburne Military School I shot twenty bull's eyes in a row. They nicknamed me 'the Tobacco Land Kid.'

"All right Kid, can we—?"

The Kid held his head higher than usual. "If you want an altercation, I'll take you on, one at a time."

"We ain't here for no trouble."

"Nobody is talking problems. I'm saying just a fist fight."

With his thumbs locked around his belt buckle, the stranger nodded. "Please, Kid, let us in to talk business."

"Why didn't you ask?"

He unlocked the door. If for only a moment, the wind won a victory over the odor of Scotch. So too did the gusts defeat the stench of the Kid's T-shirt and tail, since neither had seen daylight nor a good washing in days.

The three entered before the rain soaked their clothing. Each swept off a baseball cap, which they held at their sides, all clean-shaven, wearing khakis, blue work coats, and steel-toed shoes.

"Be brief, gentlemen. I'm quite busy."

"My name's Warren Hawk." Warren pumped his hand. "We're from out west. Yes sir, you got a reputation all over Eastern North Carolina and Southern Virginia because of your heroics with them girl scouts, not to mention them championship baseball teams and hunting skills. Seen stories written by and about you in hunting magazines, too." Warren smiled and nodded. "Folks tell you're able to put a box of bullets in a target three hundred yards away. Your shooting's so good and the group's so tight, George Washington's picture on a dollar bill will hide every hole."

The Kid motioned for them to follow him to the game room. "Yes, if the weather conditions are suitable." He flopped into his chair while they stood.

"Excuse me. Meet my boys. This is Floyd. This is Andrew. Anyway, they also tell me one day you went in the woods with nothing but a sharp knife. Two weeks later, you came out with a pair of antlers and a wild turkey beard."

"Mr. Hawk, the present is not good to me. I never can get the idea to send me forward. I used a hatchet not a knife. I always carry matches with a half pint of gasoline in an unbreakable metal container. The area is like an old backyard. My high school lies in the Shenandoah Valley, Fishburne Military." After walking to the bar, he poured himself a scotch over the rocks. He offered neither Warren nor the boys anything. They remained standing, keeping their hats at their sides. The Kid returned to his seat and leaned back, causing the chair to squeak. He glanced from one to the other. They listened for twenty minutes while he communicated knowledge about his skills of the forest. "That's a few things I've learned over the years."

The Kid rose, then walked around the leather furniture to pour another short drink, but this time, most of the beverage missed the glass and landed on his feet. He paused and his eyes swept the trophy animal heads.

"You're something, Mr. Kid," said Warren.

He pointed a shaking finger at Warren. "I told you what to call me, Mr. Hawk."

Warren smiled. "I believe you're the best woodsman and turkey hunter in America. You went into the George Washington National Forest by yourself, ahead of the rescue squad, to find some lost girls?

"Yeah." With one gulp, he killed the glass of scotch. "Went in during a snowstorm, carried food in, got 'em out. Nothing to it. Their car broke down on Coal Road. Borrowed the Yount family car, crammed the nine girls in. Got back and sent help to the scout leaders. You wish for me to sell outdoor equipment or something?

Warren's lips twisted. "I want to hire you to take my daughter turkey hunting. I ain't no multimillionaire."

"I like all three of you. That's some request. Something you're not telling me?"

Warren glanced at each of his boys. "Maybe."

"You have your reasons. My retirement time is here. You've heard I drink a little. Don't get any ideas about alcoholism."

Warren bit his thumbnail.

The Kid's chin dropped to his chest. "I'm not interested. Find the Chameleon."

"Who's he?"

"No one's like him when the conditions require hiding or camouflage. Folks say he appears out of nowhere just to prove how good he is. One hunter came out of the woods, said he fell asleep while turkey hunting. When he woke one of the Chameleon's cards was lying in his lap, along with a bottle of mineral water and cheese and crackers."

The Kid thought. The hands are shaking. Why don't they stop? Take another small drink. "Finding this mystery man of the forest can be a difficult task, Warren. I think he's a gentleman. He may assist you. The law wants to ask him some questions, too."

"What gives you the thought he'll help?"

"Listen. He's a person of patience. Does things correctly. Never frightens anyone. I'll bet he's not a loner. Put the word out among the turkey hunters. Perhaps he'll show up."

The verbal sparring continued. Warren had done his due diligence, but the Kid's skull gave shelter to an unusual brain. No matter how drunk he got, he controlled his judgment. Furthermore, he weighed all issues with care upon giving his word. Regardless of his state of intoxication, he kept the promise. The Kid would offer the name of an outstanding turkey hunter, and without hesitation, Warren countered by proving the individual could not do the task. Warren gained no ground. "Spiffy's as strong as an ox, ain't he?"

The Kid suspected a change in his strategy when Warren posed a question about Spiffy.

He eyed Warren. "Why the sudden interest in Spiffy?"

Warren's eyebrows rose. "Folks say you're strong, too."

The trembles came back.

The Kid thought. Let one hand hold the other steady. This nonsense with Mr. Hawk must stop. "Strength's important to you. Why?"

Warren did not return an answer.

Exasperated, the Kid ran his fingers through his hair. He walked to the door. Warren and his boys followed him to the main entrance. While stepping onto the porch, they donned their hats. Warren turned. "We'll be back."

### Chapter 4

"We'll be back, we'll be back, we'll be back," muttered the Kid. With the aid of the banister, he swayed up the steps. His stomach clenched as the stairs rose and fell like the crowded fishing boat they rode years ago. "Oh, Jennifer." Stumbling twice, he caught himself with his right hand, while the goal of the million-dollar idea remained in his brain.

In the next few days, he ate little, but he felt no hunger. Casting the thought of food aside, staggering to a corner of the bedroom, he picked up a firearm-—a Garand—-then fell crosswise on the sheets.

***

Light's coming in through the cracked bathroom door. The beam forms something of a narrow triangle on the ceiling. Its shape is similar to that of a rifle shot group, with two well-placed rounds as well as another, off the mark. Shouldn't be that way. The Garand's in zero, sights adjusted for a given distance. Shoot again. He aimed. He clicked three times with his tongue to imitate the hammer of a rifle striking a firing pin. No improvement. The best thing to do is practice more. Yeah, then with the old form established, a dime can cover the rounds on a target.

The rest of the area above is dull, and creepy. Why? What's wrong? If only these hands would stop shaking. Something is coming into the triangle. Yeah, a Smokey Brown cockroach. The exterminators don't open until nine in the morning. Wait— maybe tomorrow is Saturday or Sunday.

The Smokey is an insect. The creature is detritivorous, which means they gorge on decaying matter and feces. Spikes cover the six legs. The thorax is dark and shiny, while the upper side is mahogany-colored. The head has a prehistoric appearance and under magnification, some cigar-shaped brown crap appears near the neck. They can run and weave like a football halfback. Only the agile can run one down and mash it.

The insect disappeared. Wait. Did the bastard fall on the bed? Yes, on the pillow— look at those antennas brushing the air for information. Maybe sizing me up? The Ancients imagined their fearful description of the devil. Would the cockroach make a better image of evil?

Now the roach's back beside the ceiling light. Millions are coming out of the gray creepy area to join the one! They're running down the walls! They're crossing the floor! They're going to storm on top of me!

A full clip lies on the night table. Shove the bullets in.

The bolt drove a live round into the chamber. By pushing his trigger finger forward, he took the safety off, which prepared the rifle. He opened fire. Seven times he aimed. Seven times he fired. Seven times a flash came from the muzzle. Seven times the roaches kept coming. With one shot left, he aimed at the middle of the mass of insects and pulled the trigger. The follower at the bottom below the bolt caused a 'ping' when the mechanism sent the empty clip into the air.

With desperation, his heels pushed the mattress in an attempt to move backwards, losing all traction because a cold perspiration covered his body. He gained nothing except mental bankruptcy.

A scream.

Light blistered the room.

"Kid! Kid! Kid!" Jennifer threw her two-hundred pound frame on him. She spent the night with racking sobs erupting from her chest.

***

The loblolly pines swayed, making the sun's shadows dance on the flowered sheets and pillowcases. "Kid, are you okay now?" Jennifer rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

"For the time being he is," said William E. Hendricks.

Jennifer looked into her son's eyes. "Oh, Ervin, Ervin, when did'ja get here?"

He had black hair. His face displayed no disfigurements. With those exceptions, he bore a resemblance to his dad, wearing a suit, shirt, and tie, all cheap, from a bargain house, but on Ervin, the clothes said, "New York."

"When you screamed, I let myself in. As a medical doctor, I decided to plan rather than act."

"Ervin, last night the train station said you would not 'rrive before dawn."

To determine the Kid's pulse, Ervin stepped forward. "The problem was a minor obstruction on the rails—-we continued with just a ten-minute delay. He's coming around a bit. How are you feeling, Dad?"

His hands shook. "Not so good, Son."

"Want a scotch and water, Dad?"

The Kid seized Ervin's arm, pulling him close enough to give him a three-stroke knuckle haircut. "Yeah, Son, I need one."

Ervin smiled. "Same old Dad. Let me pour. Can you hold the drink using two hands to steady the glass?"

"Yes, Son. I'm not an alcoholic. I just need a short one to calm my nerves."

The mattress squeaked as he managed to sit. Ervin handed him a drink. The Kid's fight for control proved fruitless, since the liquid rose to the brink on one side, then fell on the other. He pressed his hands to his chest to gain control of the container. Working the tumbler upwards did the trick. He leaned back and drank.

Jennifer's head drooped. She pressed her lower lip against the top until the bottom lip protruded. "Is this what they teach you in medical school? Give them scotch."

Ervin kissed her on the cheek. "Mom, think a little."

"Yes Ervin, I gave him some alcohol during the night."

Ervin replaced the cap. "Here Dad, I'll leave the bottle. Your hands should settle. If need be, pour yourself another short one. Mom, I'll be downstairs cooking you something to eat. In med school, we all learn to keep our expenses down."

While shaking his head, the Kid pursed his lips. "Ervin, you are aware of our finances. Anytime we can help, say so. Besides, Son, I'll get the million-dollar idea."

"Your gestures are always appreciated, but let me fend for myself."

***

Ervin walked into the kitchen. Using one hand, he cracked an egg. From habit, he checked for blood spots. None appeared. Two more passed, and all three went to a skillet with hot olive oil. In minutes, the eggs, sunny-side up, showed shy bubbles creeping from the edges. In the second pan, he fried bacon; the sizzling reminded Ervin of his grandfather's fabrication shop, because the crackling sounded like stick welding. A smile crossed his face when he noted the same color smoke. The intoxicating fragrance caused Ervin to close his eyes. The aroma bore no resemblance to anything in metalworking, but after breakfast, what would be his encore with Dad?

Jennifer entered the kitchen. "Ervin, I think you demonstrate more talent as a cook than a doctor."

"A compliment or an insult?" Ervin swept the eggs into a platter.

Ervin put two pieces of bread, each topped with a slice of cheese, into the oven. "Mom, listen to my plan. Let's sit in the living room."

***

Furnished with Early American antiques and heart pine floors, the room also displayed blue puddled curtains.

They sat on a sofa.

"Son, this plan better be good. I can't believe his condition is so dismal. That scream.... He's going through a stage called the DTs. Right?"

"Yes, delirium tremens. The symptoms may last from three to ten days. I imagine he will refuse this food."

Jennifer pulled out a handkerchief, not to wipe her eyes but to give her nervous hands something to do. "What can we do, Ervin?"

Ervin took a seat beside her and stressed the need for at least two strong, reliable people. Furthermore, to preserve the Kid's dignity and reputation, he decided that the discussion must not leave the house. Ervin let Jennifer know he could resist; if he did, they would tie him to the bed. Shirking from the task meant his death in less than six months.

With bursts of whimpers, Jennifer cried.

After getting herself together, she told the story of a man with his two boys—-they traveled the county gathering information, hoping to persuade him to help his daughter hunt a gobbler. They appeared to be solid working people, maybe Native Americans. They had given her their cell number. Ervin suggested calling them for an interview. Jennifer picked up the phone and dialed.

***

An hour later, three men arrived by car.

Jennifer waddled to the door. "I remember you. Come in, gentlemen."

Warren whisked off his baseball cap. "Mrs. Hendricks, my name is Warren Hawk." He nudged one of his boys. Quicker than jackrabbits, they removed their caps, too.

With a sweep of her arm, Jennifer signaled them to sit. She and Ervin took single chairs.

Warren's Adam's apple jumped. He pressed his lips together. "We're sorry to trouble you folks, but we need the Kid's help real bad. We want him to take our daughter hunting to shoot a wild turkey gobbler."

Ervin nodded for Jennifer to speak. "Warren, why's the Kid so important? North Carolina has a few professional hunters, not counting many talented amateurs, from which you can choose."

"The Kid's the best."

"Warren, you telling us everything? I don't like people trying to fool me."

"We want to catch the Kid in a good mood," said Warren.

Jennifer wiped a tear. She shifted in her chair. The chair complained. "Warren, there's much you don't know." She glanced at Ervin. "This's my son, Ervin."

"Nice meeting you, Doctor,"

"Same here, Warren. What makes you think I'm an M.D.?"

"You have a license, but you gotta' do a residency. Your dad is the most famous hunter in North America. Good barroom fighter, too. His reputation makes some people curious about his family."

Jennifer plastered on a smile. "Warren, just before you came, we were discussing you along with the possibility of a little quid pro quid—"

"Mother, quid pro quo."

"Ervin, that's what I said and ...but first, I have some tea or orange juice for you and your handsome sons?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hendricks."

Jennifer rose. She stumbled. "Hell!" She regained her footing. "Oh, me." She shuffled to the kitchen. Her backside looked like two grizzly bears wrestling in a tent.

Ervin covered his smile with both hands. He stood. "Warren, will the three of you come stand in the hall while I tell you a few things? I want Mother to hear, so she can fill in if necessary. Warren, is your word good? Everything's confidential?"

"Of course, Doctor, we're Native Americans."

Ervin stared at the floor. He looked up. "Guys, listen. I'll be blunt. The Kid is an alcoholic. Help us. We'll assist you. If we can encourage him to guide your daughter hunting, we will... We cannot guarantee anything. We need to dry him out. Get good food in him. Force him to weight train, et cetera. Do you understand?"

"You promise to back us when we try to talk the Kid into taking my daughter turkey hunting? You'll understand when you know about her health."

"Yes, Warren, let me get you straight. You do, of course, grasp the fact that if for some reason we disagree with your motives or discover something heinous, we won't keep our word?"

"Doctor, nothing's wrong with anything we say."

"One more item, Warren. The Kid may die as we carry out this plan. If this happens, we wish for you to walk away without feelings of guilt whatsoever."

"Yeah, doctor. But that'll be hard."

### Chapter 5

Seated in a chair, the Kid cocked his ears when he heard footsteps echoing in the hall. "Who's there? Answer me!"

The intruder entered, followed by his sons. "Remember me, Kid? I'm Warren Hawk. We still want you to take Samantha hunting."

A clownlike grin spread across the Kid's face. "Leave here, all three of you. I'm a sick man."

Warren nodded. "Kid, what you need is to get off the booze. We're going to help."

The Kid rose but staggered. He kept his balance by taking small steps. "Where are my wife and son?"

Warren's hands went to his hips. "When we came they left. She said to me she's leaving for good because of the alcohol. I asked if we could talk to you. She said, yes, if you're still alive. Your son mentioned something about 'how pitiful'."

From a pine tree near the house, a crow cawed and cawed.

Panic swamped the Kid. His eyes darted. "They'll come back. They know I'm sick. They won't desert me. I'm able handle my liquor. The Scotch isn't getting the best of me." He slurred the words.

"You may be right, Kid. Anyway, here's some food your son cooked for you. At least eat the eggs."

"Do I act hungry? All I want is one shot to settle my nerves. If I don't get a drink, these hands will start shaking. Ervin left a bottle a third full, but I drank the last drop. I keep a spare in the cellar. I'm heading for the basement. When I come back, you three better be gone, or I'll call the police."

From a burlap sack, Warren withdrew five twenty-foot pieces of nylon rope. "Tie up that monkey body. If he tries to scare you with the deep voice, fasten him even more. Make 'em tight, boys. We gotta' keep him in bed. Kid, we're gonna violate your civil rights."

The Kid balled his fist. He struck a boxer's stance. With zombie speed, he cocked his arm in preparation for a jab. He launched a right hook.

With a smile, Floyd shifted his body in order to deliver a tap to the Kid's jaw. The blow left the Kid sprawled in bed.

Within the hour, bound tight as a nail in an oak board, he sank into the depths of withdrawal.

Warren and the boys had their work cut out for them.

Hallucinations washed over him. The roaches appeared; however, worse than those, he pictured a bottle of Scotch suspended outside the window.

***

Three days later, Warren pulled himself from a chair. "He's coming out of the withdrawal. Kid, I thought you were going to die."

He focused on Warren. "Do you know where Jennifer and Ervin are?"

The boys removed the ropes. Warren nodded. "All in good time, friend."

"Warren, you and your sons are in violation of the Civil Rights Act."

"Guess so. If need be, I'll go to prison for Samantha."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes, I will."

"I like that. Ya got guts."

"′Preciate the praise, Kid. Coming from you that's about the biggest compliment ever laid on me."

Just as his body stunk from sweat, fecal matter, and urine, so too did the sheets, spread, and mattress reek like an outhouse on a hot summer day.

Warren opened all the windows.

First they put on green latex gloves and scraped the feces into a one-gallon plastic bag. That bag went into a larger garbage bag. After that, the rest was easier. Jennifer had a large-capacity washer, but the machine had to handle a second load.

***

Returning the Kid to bed, Warren, ever relentless, broached the subject of his daughter's obsession, but the Kid refused to accommodate him. Warren made a simple statement: for the Tobacco Land Kid to carry her would be tantamount to a big-league baseball player carrying a young boy to the stadium.

Warren's analysis expressed true cracker-barrel philosophy.

As exasperation swept the Kid, he glared at Warren with fist clenched,. He uttered, "I'm sick of this. How old is she?"

"Seventeen."

"Oh, Warren." He slapped his hands together. "This conversation stays here.

Ervin stepped into the doorframe and leaned on the jamb. "You need a sedative."

Hearing the sound of Ervin's voice, the Kid's eyes focused on the door. Ervin entered, with Jennifer close behind. He stopped and rested his hand on the frame of a floor globe while Jennifer leaned against his antique secretary with a rollback top. The scene overwhelmed the Kid, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He sobbed. "You didn't desert me."

They stepped to the bedside. Jennifer, too choked up to speak, looked at Ervin to give explanations. "No, Dad, we're trying to remove the bottle for good. If we don't, you'll be interred in six months."

The Kid shook his head. "Is this true?"

"Yes, Dad. Stop drinking or go to your grave. Dad, someone is coming."

"Who?"

The president of the local Alcoholic Anonymous entered the room. All formed a semi-circle around the bed. The AA leader took the Kid's left hand. On the other side of the bed, Jennifer took his right. The rest joined hands to form a complete circle. They prayed. The Kid gave his word to Almighty God never to touch another drop.

"I'm that far down, Son?"

Nodding, Ervin gazed into his eyes.

"I must stop socializing with people who drink. When Spiffy comes, if you smell beer on his clothes or breath, tell him to leave. Spiffy isn't in the shape I'm in, but he should quit, too.

Warren leaned forward. "Here's a goal for you. This job will take your mind off the bottle. Carry my daughter turkey hunting. "

"Warren, I don't think so."

Warren's eyebrows lowered. "We worked hard. Please meet her."

"I can say No tomorrow. Ervin, give me something for sleep."

With his sons following, Warren departed. Jennifer slumbered, clothed, on the bed while snoring like a three-hundred-pound boar hog. Ervin napped in a recliner while the Kid listened and watched.

### Chapter 6

Weeks passed. The Kid's iron will fought the desire for booze. Even though this battle would last the rest of his life, he would win.

***

One night, the Kid glanced at the clock and halted Ervin as he rose to leave., "Sleep here tonight. Alotta Vendetta comes on in ten minutes. Met her two years ago when she came to town. She interviewed me for a slot on her show about hunters and the forest. Been to see her many times. She overdoes some things and throws sex into her routine because she wants to get noticed and maybe find a job in New York. She even pays a band with her savings. Before new employment, she needs to get her flat nose fixed. We're close friends."

The Kid changed channels to WROT to see Alotta's show, but before her newscast started, Ervin fell asleep.

In the corner, Alotta's band called Wiley's Wussies hung out. The group consisted of two black dudes, one on an acoustic guitar and the other curled over an array of drums, while a white dude sat at a keyboard. All dressed in blaze-orange tuxedos, white shoes, and black ties. At their pleasure, they played a four-second measure that endorsed her words or movement.

Wearing a red baseball cap with black letters that said, "I'm good," Alotta sported a beige halter emblazoned with crimson kissing lips and white boy shorts. The back of the skimpy pants showed blue handprints. Rather than walking around the desk, she sprawled over the top while teasing, twitching, and twisting. She ended up on the floor showing a full split.

The Wussies played a four-second measure.

Bouncing to her feet, picking up a baseball bat, stroking the barrel, she kissed the top. "This is nice and stiff, and I'm Alotta Vendetta with hard, hard, hard information from WROT."

The Wussies played the four-second measure.

She perched on the large end. "Breaking news—-a new poll released today shows Senator Archibald "Little Archie" Winston's ratings continue to fall with the people of his district in North Central North Carolina. The figures indicate Congressman Winston's approval rating has plunged, if not to thirty percent, at least to twenty-nine. Remember—-he provided money for the Montclair Dam and labeled the other projects as wasteful spending or simple corruption. Folks in TV land, he locked himself into a situation which will cause his defeat in the next election."

The band played the measure.

Standing, she moved her prop from her seat to the batting position. "He has two strikes and some balls— for him to survive, something else must come into play."

The band played the measure.

She brought the bat down. She swung the thirty-three-inch piece of white ash six times in the role of a batter in the on-deck circle. Again, with her hands on her knees, she rested on the big end. "A little background, folks: two years ago, with the help of historical human remains dogs, sheriff's deputies exhumed a fourth body on property owned by the eccentric Roscoe Willbrant Slaughter. This matter started after the first of the four cadavers turned up in Mr. Slaughter's woods. The discovery took place when children playing in the forest found human foot bones. He denied any knowledge of the bodies. The sheriff's office steadfastly maintains no evidence exists whatsoever with which to arrest him, but he remains a person of interest. This reporter called him this morning, and without saying a word, he slammed the phone into its carriage."

The band played the measure.

"On another subject, our bad boy, naughty-naughty Chameleon, has been inactive. Hmm, Mr. Chameleon, do you work in a machine shop? Enjoy using a hand or bench grinder? My number is at the bottom of the screen. Find a pay phone. Let's chat."

The band played the measure.

"Last but very important: sadly, the funeral for Wong Lee will take place in Durham County tomorrow at the Everlasting Arms cemetery at 11:00 am. The community will sorely miss him. He came to the United States from Asia with his parents many years ago and started a restaurant. He amassed a fortune, and his pocket stayed open for the needy. Sad to say, the police hold no clues to this cowardly slaughter, but robbery seems to have been the motive."

Allotta and the band removed their hats and observed a moment of silence.

"Allotta Vendetta from WROT, until next time."

The Kid slept.

In the dressing room, Alotta slid, shimmied, and squeezed into a snappy New York City outfit. She departed.

### Chapter 7

He wore warm camouflage clothing and a matching ski mask while carrying a two-pound, forty-inch spade and a ninety-pound corpse. A full moon played hide-and-seek with a number of fluffy clouds drifting in a starry Pittsylvania County, Virginia sky. With frosty breath, he glided through the woods on quiet feet. Now and then he stepped on and broke a stick. He would pause and take a minute to study the woods. He followed a frozen six-foot-wide stream until one of the larger clouds dimmed the moon. He trudged along— since he knew the territory, straying a bit would do no harm. After the cloud flowed by, the moon brightened and revealed an awesome sight. It must be the Chameleon in disguise. What could he do? Snaking his fingers around a double action .38 revolver, he crept forward. He found that the object turned out to be a pine tree which the wind had snapped at the height of six feet, due to a pitch-covered canker. In the semidarkness, this had turned into a bogeyman. A sudden breeze struck his cold sweat, and even with winter clothing, he shivered and rubbed his clenched stomach. Sucking a breath, he promised himself this would be his last entombment in this forest.

A new terror struck him. A sound no longer tickled his ears. Without pause, he slammed the body to the ground. Before him, two vacant eyes stared at the heavens, while a bit of tongue protruded through the girl's harelip mouth, but what could have happened to the sterling silver charm bracelet which had tinkled now and then? A search around the body revealed nothing.

He slipped away to another burial location, never to return to his favorite graveyard.

### Chapter 8

At dawn, Jennifer and Ervin entered the Kid's room.

Jennifer scrambled beside her chair to gather her knitting equipment, but the doorbell interrupted her attempt. She walked to the window. Her eyebrows rose. "Kid, It's 'lotta Vendetta and two men. She knows, Kid. She knows."

"Oh heck, Jennifer, who cares? She can't prove anything. We've been friends for a while. Say nothing. Send her up. Wait. If the men are not here with Miss Vendetta, send them up first."

They were detectives, one from Pittsylvania County, Virginia, the other from Caswell County, North Carolina. They appeared ordinary in dress and manner. Furthermore, they looked like your prom date's Uncle Fud.

The Dan River lay between their counties. The Kid asked them to sit. The officer from Pittsylvania, with a nervous voice and a hacking cough, started with the bodies found on the Slaughter property. The Kid held up his hand to cut him off, telling him he knew all that. He instructed him to get to the point. The officer said that the public was upset, to say the least, with no progress in the matter while elections approached.

Restraining his coughing, he reminded the Kid a portion of his popularity had dwindled since the Shenandoah rescue, but many people in Eastern North Carolina and Southern Virginia still remembered him. If he would discreetly ask a few questions, he might turn up something. For the moment, the only suspects were an ex-insurance sales representative called "Mean Man," Mr. Slaughter, the Chameleon, but most likely a perfect stranger living near the graveyard in the community.

They both leaned forward when the Kid asked them to add a suspect, telling them his name was Jim "Twenty-two Points" Gunther. The Twenty-two Points nickname originated when he shot a huge whitetail deer in Saskatchewan some years ago. The Kid elaborated. He had poached the Slaughter property with Jim many times. During those occasions, the Jindley family had owned the acreage. The officer from Pittsylvania asked the Kid to explain what aroused his suspicions. The Kid said that he had never trusted him. Something about his body language plus the look in Jim's eyes and his facial features when he looked at adolescent girls. Furthermore, Jim had no job but never lacked for money.

The officer from Virginia handed the Kid his card, telling him the code name would be Johnny. They walked to the door. One of the detectives put his hand on the knob. Pausing, he stared at his counterpart. Both nodded. He told the Kid to keep this in total confidence: during a fight, Wong Lee, a restaurant owner using a night deposit in Durham, managed to pull some hair from his killer. Hence, they would appreciate a blood or body sample of any suspect— the chance might occur that a connection existed between Wong Lee and the bodies found on the Slaughter property. When the detective twisted the knob, the Kid halted him, pleading for them to allow Spiffy to have access to all information.

They stared at each other and both nodded.

***

With the moves of a skilled hot, wet stripper, lean as a Cheetah and dressed in killer tight black slacks and a low-cut cropped crimson blouse, Alotta entered. "How've you been, Kid? Think I know why you haven't been to see me lately. This is my new assistant, Mee Erotica."

"Welcome, ladies. May I help you?"

Alotta leaned her head toward her right shoulder. She held her fist next to her face, opened it, exposed her palm, and wiggled her fingers. "An interview?" She gave her body a quarter turn to speak faintly to Erotica.

Mee Erotica, a twenty-something black woman, dressed in a "go to hell" dark green Robin Hood uniform, could pass for an Olympic hopeful or a movie star. Using her tongue, Mee flipped the camera "on" switch. Turning her head, she smiled at the Kid and licked her lips. With Alotta twisted to the side and flipping through a note pad, Mee spun, bent over, and twerked the Kid.

With grace, Alotta let the Kid off the hook when he denied alcoholism. She allowed him to talk about his glowing retirement years. Looking at her watch, she kept the interview to six minutes. At which point, she signaled Mee to exit the room. Like a bunny, she hopped to the steps.

Alotta smiled. "Off the record, you're an alcoholic. Big time, right?

"Yeah."

While rolling her hips, she cruised to his side. Like a curious calico in heat, she purred, growled, and crawled onto the bed. Leaning, she ran her fingers through his hair. Smiling, she teased her bottom lip, using her tongue. She brought her thumb between her lips to suck. She removed it coated with saliva. Grinning like a sprite, she tilted back on the footboard to rub his calf with her right hand. Rolling from the bed, she stood. "Gotta' feeling you're going to send big news my way. Little Archie's a goner. The Chameleon's too elusive. I need something else. You used to see me. Get back in shape so you can come. I know you want to come." She nodded. She swept her curly brunette locks to the top of her head. They toppled to her shoulders. She walked to the door. She swayed her hips. Placing the tip of her little finger into the corner of her mouth, she smiled and raised her open right hand. With palm forward, she wiggled her fingers. "Ta-da."

***

Jennifer returned. "Kid, our daughter is waiting downstairs."

The Kid took a deep breath. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth, caught the red-eye, huh?"

"Yes, Kid, Spiffy waits downstairs, too, while Warren discusses the importance of good electrical work with his boys."

The Kid pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's get through this misery Jennifer, so we can send Warren packing. Of course, let Spiffy stay a bit."

### Chapter 9

Elizabeth, an established attorney from Philadelphia, led the entourage. A brunette with flowing hair, she lacked beauty but had the cute girl-next-door look. She wore a hand-tailored outfit and displayed an aristocratic manner. She hugged the Kid; they whispered. He frowned and cried.

Elizabeth's hands went to her hips. "Stop that, Dad. Yes, I remind you of Faith. You have to remember. Your twin sister's death by drowning wasn't your fault."

Silence.

All five stood around the oak bed.

Spiffy lost control, dropped his Wilson County Public Library copy of _The Man in the Iron Mask_ , whirled from the others, and threw his face on the Kid's chest. The Kid, responding with a few pats on the back, waved him to a chair next to his bed, where he blubbered nonstop.

The others took chairs.

Spiffy's actions gave control to the Kid. Sensing this triumph, he rose and pulled a rocking chair next to Spiffy.

The Kid locked eyes with Warren's. "Be brief, about this matter, Mr. Hawk. You stand here only because of the great debt I owe you."

"Yes Sir, we're just electricians. We work out of our own shop. We hire fourteen workers to wait on our customers and to make calls. I know you'll help us, since you and your family are high-class people. Kid, I want you to meet my daughter Samantha. Why don't you ask Samantha a few questions?"

Without waiting for permission, Warren walked to the door. He motioned for her to enter.

She wore the clothes of a Native American. She paused in the doorframe, placing her right hand on the doorjamb, bringing the other hand to her hip. With confidence, she dropped both arms to her sides and crossed the threshold.

The Kid looked at her. He thought: My goodness, what an entrance! What a natural strut. She can't be just seventeen. More like twenty-two or three. A looker, too, with shoulder-length raven hair, big brown eyes, nice height, and good teeth, not to mention a trim, solid figure. The clothes make her a magazine model. That gold necklace sets off her outfit. Those outrageous good looks, she didn't get them from Warren. Her exterior qualities must come from her mother's people. She carries herself like a princess, too.

Jennifer scratched her rear. "Kid, speak to her."

"Hello, Samantha, how are you, young lady?"

She looked at him. "Hello, I love your bass voice. It rattles around in my body." She placed her right hand over the middle of her chest. "Those eyes, they capture me. You do have magnetism. Wow. I do feel drawn to you. I thank you, Sir. So you are the Tobacco Land Kid. It thrills me to meet you, Sir."

"Thank you Sam, now, you'll have something to tell your friends when you go back to school today."

"With all courtesy and respect to you sir, my name's not Sam. It's Samantha. I'm seventeen. I've been a woman since I was thirteen."

The Kid squeezed his lips together. He thought. She's a brusque thing. Yes, she is. "Jennifer, switch chairs with Samantha. Tell me why hunting interests you so much."

Warren leaned forward. "I can tell you—"

The Kid stopped Warren with his eyes. "No, I asked _her_."

Samantha's eyes closed. She grimaced. "Seems we can establish some common ground, but I have a question. Before I entered, I visited the guest bathroom. A black drape covers the mirror. One of you a vampire? Do I need wolfsbane? Should I trade this gold necklace for a silver cross?"

The room became quiet. The Kid, Spiffy, Jennifer, Ervin, and Elizabeth glanced from one to another while Warren's boys crept in and took seats.

Ervin, usually reticent, cleared his throat. "The Kid has a doppelganger, German for double walker."

Elizabeth forced a smile. "Okay baby brother, we know you aren't a psychiatrist, but you can explain best."

Ervin began with a speech that lasted for twenty minutes, explaining that a doppelganger inhabited a person, and in due course, blossomed into the personification of evil. Triggered, perhaps, by the unfortunate drowning of the Kid's baby sister. Perhaps from the Kid's perspective, he proceeded to yield, without intentional thought, to this wickedness in the form of an alter ego or a split personality. Ervin changed course, allowing his instruction to include the personalities of Percy Shelley, John Donne, George Tyson, and others.

The Kid slumped in his chair and he put his hand over his face. "Stop there. Now! That will do, Ervin."

Samantha went to his chair, sat on the chair's arm, and put her arms around his neck. "A Jekyll and Hyde, huh, to take me hunting. You got problems? I got problems. Let's help one another. Remember the hymn, ′Others′?"

" _She is a knockout skirt, Kid. Later, you can touch her,"_ whispered the doppelganger inside the Kid's psyche and into his heart.

Warren squirmed in his chair, "May I interrupt for a minute?"

The Kid glared at Warren. "You already have. Go ahead."

"I'm sorry."

"Hellfire, go on! Go on!"

Jennifer pulled at her own hair. "Kid!" She calmed down. "Kid, in college I had two nicknames, I.Q. and Basketball Ass. I didn't do good in school, but I never did act like you just did."

The Kid forced a smile. "Warren, proceed."

Warren cleared his throat and swallowed. "Since Samantha's childhood she's quivered at anything about the woods or hunting. Even in the first grade, I remember Samantha cutting out a picture of a man kneeling in front of a twenty-five pound gobbler. She still keeps the picture, along with thousands of others about hunting. Yet she has never put one foot in the woods."

The Kid's fingers played about his lips. "Why not?"

Warren rubbed his cheeks. "Samantha's mother always felt it was a dangerous place for a girl. It gives a young woman no training to be a proper lady, but a year ago, Mrs. Hawk drew her last breath due to a meth-loaded driver. Samantha, tell them what the doc says about you now."

She stayed with the Kid. She buried her face in his shoulder. "Yup, new Daddy, the doctors say I'm in the early stages of acute myelogenous leukemia. I also suffer from depression." She snatched her head right, then left. "Not going to snuff the candle. With good healthcare, I may live two years, but they say don't count on it since I refused chemo and other stuff. Before I found out, I had two goals: to sit around the house on Christmas Eve with a wonderful husband and three children in front of an open crackling fire, and the second being to shoot a wild turkey tom."

Silence descended.

The Kid placed the largest knuckle of his shooting finger between his teeth. He thought. Be kind to her. Say something nice. "Miss, I'm so very sorry. Sad to say, it doesn't change the fact you know nothing about the woods or the craft of being a woodsperson."

"No Sir, I know nothing."

He reached to his desk and as his chair squeaked, he picked up some pictures. "First, my dear, look at these three pictures." He handed them to her. "I've used them to teach children when I worked in the schools. Tell me what you see."

"Well, the first is small trees, the second has larger trees, and the last has big trees. What are you getting at?" She laid the pictures on the desk.

"In the first picture, the forest curtain is only two or three feet deep, in the second it's about fifty feet deep, and the third maybe fifty yards deep. The curtain is the distance the eye can see. Of course, the curtain zigzags. Did you see the six-point buck?"

"No."

"By the same token, you have no knowledge of firearms."

"I've never fired one."

The Kid lowered his head and rested it on his right hand. "Young lady, please understand: we have an impossible task here. I walk with the aid of family. Please find someone else. My body, my mind flinch from the task."

Samantha stood to sweep back her shoulder-length raven hair; she spread her fingers and raised her arms, exposing her armpits. "Does the famous Tobacco land Kid have an empty scrotum?"

Ervin blinked.

Elizabeth put her hands over her mouth.

Jennifer's face turned red.

Warren's jaw dropped.

The boys suppressed laughter.

Spiffy kept blubbering.

The comment took the Kid by surprise, and the right side of his mouth trembled. He fought to hold back a smile. "Please, please listen to me, Child." He attempted to regain the high ground, but his voice revealed a trace of surrender. "My health."

Samantha looked into the Kid's eyes. She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Kid, what makes you think I am a child? In front of you stands a woman. Tell me, Kid. Eighteen bull's-eyes in a single match made you famous at Fishburne, leading some to say you never miss in practice, a postal match, or a shoulder-to-shoulder competition."

The Kid brushed her hand away. "Correct, Samantha. With ease, at two hundred yards I can put twenty rounds on a casino playing card in twenty-seven seconds or less. Also, imagine a pie tin so far it's a tiny speck of silver, just a little fleck—-I can hit it." He pointed to a ten-space mahogany gun cabinet. "The rifle on the far left shoots a .270. I sent her away to have ammunition harmonized for her. I have few equals with a rifle. In other words, under any conditions, I'll always hit what I need to when I have to."

"I'll bet you're good with a shotgun, too."

Realizing he had said too much, he stroked his lips, rubbed his nose, and regained his composure. "Not quite, young lady, but there's something few know about shot-gunning. Maybe I'll tell you sometime, or maybe I'll show you."

Samantha's eyes danced. "Listen to me, Kid. You're a recovering alkie. You have a chance. I don't. Life stops for me soon. A train leaves the station with me on board. I cannot get off. Nobody halts the Grim Reaper at the throttle. My chance lies with experiencing a few things before the train rolls down the track. Kid, give me something to be proud of in my few days left. I beg you, Kid. Somewhere out there a big gobbler will clutch a limb tonight. Make him mine, Kid. I'm a Native American. I'll sleep with my ancestors. My blood will be content."

"You're a convincing young lady. Anything else you wish to say?"

Samantha stared at him.

"Very well. My answer is No."

Samantha pulled the oak chair close to the Kid. She sat. "Is it true you play cards?" She put her right hand on his wrist. She crossed her legs, right over left, and rocked her foot. Her left hand went up to support her chin. "Let's play twenty hands of blackjack. I win, you take me hunting 'til I get a turkey."

"I don't play blackjack."

"Fine, we'll play Texas hold 'em."

The Kid massaged his mashed nose and thought. She's clever. Bet she's darn good, too. If I win, people say The Tobacco Land Kid took advantage of a young girl. Lose, oh brother. Had the stacked deck ready for her to win. Knew all along... "Warren, if I win I really get nothing but off the hook. Put up twenty-five thousand to sweeten her side of the pot or the deal's off."

Warren pulled out his checkbook.

The Kid's head tilted back. "Let's play Texas hold 'em. Each of us will deal three hands before turning the deck over. Start, Miss."

In the first hand, the Kid won with two kings, one four, a three, and an ace. Samantha showed no emotion.

The Kid leaned back in his chair. "For the moment, let's forget the hunt. Samantha, I'll bet you a .410 pump shotgun you can't beat my hand."

Uncrossing her legs, she swept her raven hair back, and then shook it smooth. "Throw in a case of shells, too?"

"Sure."

Samantha laid down two sevens, two twos, and a five, which beat the Kid's hand and guaranteed she would come out with something.

The game ran for an hour; the Kid fell behind six hands.

She handed the cards to the Kid. He smiled. "Everybody check out the mountain goat on the wall." While they looked, the Kid switched decks from a secret compartment under his side of the table. Now they played with a stacked deck.

"Trust me to shuffle?" said the Kid.

"Sure."

He looked into her eyes. "Make it winner-take-all on the next hand. It's time to end this circus." The Kid grinned. He dealt. "That's what I'm going to make out of all of you goats."

Samantha thumbed her cards. Her composure collapsed; her eyes widened. "Are you going to take a ca-card, Kid?"

"No cards, Samantha. I said, 'win it all or lose it all' on this hand."Her head dropped until it touched her chest while she trembled. "Okay, okay." She sat for two minutes. She shook her head and her eyes filled.

Jennifer rose, touching Samantha's arm. "You okay, Honey?"

Samantha's head bobbed while clutching the cards to her chest. "Winner takes all?"

The Kid laid down a nine of spades, a nine of diamonds, with a nine of clubs. He followed the three nines with a deuce of spades, and a jack of hearts.

Samantha spread three sixes. She sucked in a deep breath. Tears flowed down her cheeks. In slow motion, she laid down another six.

The Kid's chin dropped. "Another six!"

With her right fist, she scrubbed her face. "Yeah, Kid, you just got your lunch eaten. Suck on that."

The Kid's chair stopped him from going over backwards.

After a rattling belch, Jennifer took another bite from a raw turnip, tearing a purple section from near its top. "It was just in them cards for her to win." She made short jumps into the air while clapping her hands. "Don't you get it, everybody? It's in them cards for her to win." No one noticed Jennifer or her little gag, since all had gasped when a teenage girl vanquished the mighty Kid at one of his own games.

Pretending shock, the Kid sat, unsmiling, with his chin touching his chest. The loyal Spiffy started reading _Last of the Mohicans_.

After Jennifer finished destroying the turnip, she and Warren determined Samantha would move into the Hendricks' home until the quest ended. Warren expressed his gratitude and said goodbye to Samantha. With magnanimity, the Kid rose from his chair, wished the three well, then saw them to the door.

Ervin told Samantha he would assist her with health issues, and with her arm around his waist they climbed the carpeted stairs to Elizabeth's old room. Ervin entered first and flicked the light switch. The room held a collection of colors, toys, and stuffed animals. One stuffed plaything in particular, a three-foot clown doll with crocodile tears of happiness streaking its face caught Samantha's attention. Within the hour, after splashing her face with Elizabeth's perfume, she went to sleep with the doll.

### Chapter 10

At dawn, the house sprang to life. Ervin cooked, the Kid pumped iron, Jennifer snacked on chocolate. Spiffy helped the Kid in the weight room.

The training did not go well. The Kid bench-pressed only twenty-five pounds while sweating like a lion-chased zebra. Similarly, the remainder of his exercises ended no better. Spiffy tossed him a towel. After wiping his face and arms, with a smack he slammed the cloth on the bench. "Not good, huh, Spiffy?"

"Work harder."

"What d'ya you think I'm doing?"

"Give it time." He handed the Kid a morning paper. "Read 'Unidentified Body Found′."

The Kid turned and faced Spiffy. "Changing the subject to put me at ease?"

"No, why?"

The Kid sat, read, and laid the paper back on the bench. He pondered. "Interesting murder. Seems some Boy Scouts slipped away from camp and walked to an old abandoned boat ramp in Virginia. With moonlight, they saw a pickup truck stop and a man drag something to the end of the companion walkway to the launch. They heard a splash. Two days later a corpse, with a bullet hole through both temples, a life preserver on his torso, and a yellow ribbon around his neck showed up near Milton, North Carolina, tangled on some low-lying branches on the North Carolina side."

Spiffy nodded. "The stiff crossing into another state makes that an FBI case, right?"

"I think so, but I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You're not Dr. Watson. You read too much. Let's go."

With Spiffy at his heels, he left the mini-gym for the game room, where he flopped into his favorite chair behind the mahogany desk. He sat. He drew small breaths as he thought about Scotch. The voices of Jennifer, Ervin, and Samantha approaching filtered in, giving his morale a boost. They entered the room and found chairs. Samantha located a hassock and placed it beside the Kid.

Her brown eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"Scotch."

Silence.

"Don't any of you worry," he said. "I want a drink, but my willpower controls the situation."

The Kid placed his elbows on the armrest and his fingers in a steeple like position in front of his face. "Young lady, you may never realize how proud you make me. Listen. November ends today. We'll hunt December thirty-first and New Year's Day."

Her mouth opened, her fingers covered her lips, and her hands dropped to her sides. "What?"

"We don't have time to locate the .410 pump you won. If you're lucky enough to bag a mature adult tom in one of those days, the postal service should deliver your prize in no more than a week. Ervin, loan Samantha yours."

"Sure, Dad, the single barrel .410?"

With open palms and fingers spread, Samantha shrugged. "Just one shot. What if somebody sneaks up on us in the outdoors?"

The Kid smirked. "Listen, Samantha, nobody slips up on the Kid in the woods." He paused. As he rubbed his lips, he coughed. "One might."

Samantha bounced three times in her seat. "Who?"

"Perhaps you'll learn."

The conversation had Samantha's head swimming. "Wait a minute. I don't like this. Do you mean we aren't going to delay the pursuit of a tom until next spring?"

"Heavens no, why should we? Remember, young woman: My defeat in the poker game assures you I'll carry you hunting. That does not permit you to pick the season, time, or place, or give you the right to make any decisions about the hunt. Most of all, you should thank me for my zealousness. Ervin, go get the .410 and a box of shells." The Kid thought. Look at the hysteria sweeping her face. She understands the action's starting. The realization overwhelms her. This might be fun. Hmm, she rubs her hands together.

"Yup, what's up with the firearm now?"

"Miss, you're going to learn to shoot a gobbler. Or would you rather put salt on a wild turkey's tail?" The Kid shoved Spiffy in the ribs, triggering a storm of coyote howls.

Jennifer tightened her lips and dropped a stitch in her knitting. "Kid, not 'bout to fire a gun in this house. Even the numb nut college girl in our dorm that gave me the nickname I.Q. would have better sense." She shook her head and continued knitting without repairing the faulty stitch.

"Listen, Jennifer. We can handle this. Spiffy, lower the window. Put this plastic soft drink bottle on the top of the frame. We'll worry about the screen next spring."

He stiffened, and an uncomfortable hunch swept him. He tried to shake the intuition, but the cold blast from the open window reinforced his instinct. Had his reaction drawn attention? No.

Ervin entered, laid the .410 and a box of shells on the Kid's desk, and moved to the back of the room.

His nimbleness improving, the Kid's thumb snapped the release. The breach popped open, revealing an empty chamber. He displayed the shotgun for examination and, picking up a live three-inch load with his right hand, held the article up for stage management. He then laid the object in the palm of his left hand to allow additional inspection.

The next move would be typical Kid. With his hands moving faster than the jump of a camel cricket, he ordered: "Everybody look at the bottle!" This statement redirected their eyes, preventing detective work. So the Kid palmed the red charge, and then snapped the empty breach shut before their eyes reconnected to the gun, the round of ammunition, or his movements.

The Kid smirked: "Think you can shatter the container with this four-ten, Samantha?"

She jumped from her seat, seized the shotgun away from the balance, and labored to bring the machine to her shoulder while spreading her legs far apart.

He wiped his face using his right hand. "Mercy, what sloppiness!"

She yanked the trigger. As the firing pin fell on an empty hole, a sound rang from the .410, since nothing lay in the orifice. Without a percussion cap to detonate and powder to burn, no explosion occurred, which resulted in a click originating from the chamber.

Everyone but the Kid and Spiffy got the jitters. The Kid clicked often for emphasis, and he sounded like the firearm. All eyes darted back and forth from the firearm to him.

He sucked in air. "I'm not sure which upsets me the most, Samantha, the icy wind or your gun handling skills."

"First," said Samantha. "Why does the cold trouble you? Aren't you the Tobacco Land Kid? The weather shouldn't worry you."

The Kid nodded. "I don't understand. The breeze just gave me an inner chill. Let's talk about your unspeakable shotgun management. Had the chamber held a live load, you would've missed. The snatch pulls the .410 off target. You must concentrate on a firm, steady draw."

She gazed at him. "No more tricks, please. How do you cock the piece?"

"All you do is draw the hammer back and keep the finger out of the trigger guard. You will hear the cocking mechanism connecting with the sear. It's armed differently in a turkey woods. Listen. In the forest, bring the initiator to the rear. Pull the mallet all the way back. Release the starter. Now you hear no click."

"If I miss, I'll snap open the breach like you did, insert a second shell, aim, and fire again. Correct?"

"You won't be able to chamber an additional round. The turkey will be fifty yards away."

"Gosh Kid, you serious?

"Damn right, Samantha. Even those shooters with autoloaders or pump actions don't get off a good second shot. So the first must count."

"Let me say this: I don't like profanity. I'm a lady."

"Very well. Now, let's get down to fundamentals. Now aim, then fire at the bottle with the empty .410."

After drawing a bead, she pulled the trigger. This time the barrel stayed in place.

"Better?"

"Yeah, you'll be shooting number fours. Why? Because I say so. Most use fives or sixes. I disagree. Those woodsmen are wrong. Something is needed to not only break bone, but also to snap small twigs in the process of arriving at the target, which are the head and the top six inches of his neck. By the way, the fours will give you more range."

"I'm getting cold feet. Let's wait until the spring so I can practice this stuff." She hesitated. "No, I have cancer. Let's go this winter."

"Ervin, here's my drivers' license. Go online and get me a Virginia hunting license. Call Warren. Tell him to order a Virginia license. The season has a couple of days to run there. Have one of his boys bring the permit. She is a minor; she can hunt on his. Now, all leave except for Spiffy."

The group filed out of the game room. Spiffy, resembling a squire for a knight or else a plain nut job, jumped from his chair and knelt on one knee to await orders.

The Kid touched Spiffy's shoulder. Like a jack in the box, Spiffy sprang back.

"Spiffy, what do you think of this situation?"

"I'm not sure."

The Kid sat with his chin resting on the thumb and index finger of his left hand. Leaning forward, he told him to go to a sporting goods store and outfit her from head to toe with the best of clothing. Pausing, he wiped his brow before changing course.

"This venture may produce no fruit. Nevertheless, the child will earn some memories, but above all, when her dad comes to get her, she must be in good health unless she declines due to her disease."

Though seated, he jacked up his pants. He asked Spiffy to join the hunt; if he stuck to the end, at the conclusion, a prize would be his.

With his black-bear teeth and mule-like shredding motions, Spiffy tore at the chewing gum. Using his linebacker hands, he swept back his straight shoulder-length, jet-black hair, causing his biceps to swell to softball size. "Stick with you? Put it in the bank."

"Success is doubtful, yet, something crawling in my subconscious says, 'maybe.'"

Spiffy stopped chewing. "Remember your faith in God."

"Mine is deep and strong, but some things aren't meant to be. I'm glad for the memory of the eighteen bull's eyes at Fishburne. The past is better, since the future doesn't exist for me. Anyway, I need to shake these tremors about this first hunt."

"Aw yeah, sure you can, but the weatherman says we're in for a reinforcement of this cold air. A low pressure system from the Gulf of Mexico is cranking up, putting its snout into all that water."

"Gonna' get rough, huh?"

Halting the gum whacking, he smiled. When he grinned, his mouth took the shape of a vampire priming the pump for a midnight snack. "Your health good enough for this venture?"

"Think so. If for some reason I can't carry her out of the woods, can you?"

Spiffy thumped _The Last of the Mohicans_ on his right knee. "Like a sack of onions. Hey, I liked that misdirection trick using the goat."

"Used that stunt in bar fights. If ever in a death fight, I'll use the maneuver. Wait. In case you're on the scene, put the method into play."

***

The Kid crawled into bed. With a grab, he covered himself and then, pulling the spread back, he stood and sank to his knees; he begged the Almighty for strength to stay away from the bottle. With the completion of his plea, he lay down.

The doorknob squeaked.

"Come in, Jennifer. What took you?"

She laid an afghan she had knitted on top of him. "How did you know to expect me?" She didn't wait for an answer. "You doing better. Hang on. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you and Samantha go hunting. Kid, remember..."

"I can tell...Heck. Go ahead."

"You don't mind me telling you 'bout Sarah from my college days?"

Silence.

"You sure, Kid?"

Silence.

"Sarah never called me I.Q. or Basketball Ass. She was sweet to me. She married a dentist who was a stud. She said he could really 'pull and fill'." She chuckled. "'Sarah, doctor in the house?" More chuckling. She broke wind. More chuckling.

He shook his head and pulled the pillow over his face while mentally seeing the afghan loaded with defective stitches and Jennifer's head loaded with...

### Chapter 11

The red six-year-old 1905, four-by-four pickup, fully loaded, careened from the driveway with tires screeching and Spiffy at the wheel. The Kid rode shotgun and Samantha lounged in the backseat, her left arm cradled around the three-foot clown doll with the tear-streaked face. She enjoyed herself, smiling and stroking the doll's purple hair. The Kid swiveled in his seat to prepare to indoctrinate Samantha with the fact that complete authority in this operation belonged to him.

"Did you pack the medicine, ah, for depression?"

"Yes; don't pester me."

"I assume you also carry your dad's hunting license. You'd better, because turkey season's out in the area of Virginia we're planning to hunt. We don't need further complications."

"Yup, Kid. I understand... What! Out of season!"

Yes, I've never hunted the other part. Don't know the territory. Not to worry. Nobody can find me in the forest." He stroked the back of his neck. "Perhaps one."

"Clue me in. Put me on the know wagon, Kid."

"Later."

"Samantha squirmed and smirked. "Later, later, later."

The Kid ignored her disrespect. "Some new orders for you. If I say, fingers in ears, eyes shut, you comply without question. Do you understand?"

"I guess."

"You never make any decisions or attempt to influence mine."

"I need to go to the bathroom now."

"Stop at the next suitable place, Spiffy."

The Kid was quick, smart, and perceptive. These attributes grew like spot-welds into his DNA, and as a result, he would guard future statements to prevent backfires. Being human, he laid his frustrations on the good-natured, easygoing Spiffy.

"For heaven's sake, chew something else."

Spiffy replaced the chewing gum with two garlic cloves, and his gnawing released the aroma of the vegetable into the cab. The smell sent the Kid into a sentimental mood. While tears formed, a lump inflated in his throat. He gazed down, because the odor reminded him of his late father's welding business. The acetylene producers added a garlic odor to the fuel tanks for safety. This scent disappeared when the hand held striker ignited a fiery torrent at the torch tip; nevertheless, the fragrance brought memories. He shuddered. One day, he and his nine-year-old twin sister, Faith, had finished their cleaning chores at the shop. They slipped away to swim in a pond. Halfway across, she slid beneath the surface. Terrified, with arms thrashing, he swam to the spot, but didn't find her in the murky water. He vowed if anything like that happened again, he would die trying to change the outcome. He mumbled. "Can still hear the arms flogging, the water splashing."

Spiffy's lips tightened. "What, Kid? You okay?"

"Yeah, be quiet. Keep driving."

***

A search located three motel rooms in Danville, Virginia.

The next morning at four the Kid knocked first on Samantha's door. Afterwards he woke Spiffy. In five minutes, he returned to her room. He tapped, and she admitted him.

"Samantha, the temp's dropping. Heck, the chill numbs me. Let me say this, Sam."

"Don't ever call me Sam. I am a woman. You spell the name S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A."

"The thermometer shows thirty degrees outside. Another cold front's coming behind this one. The weather report says a snowstorm will start around dark tonight, because a low-pressure system is moving up from the Gulf of Mexico. The system's sticking a leg in the water, which will pick up moisture to sling snow from Georgia to New York. The coast has to prepare, too. Whatcha' say we write this trip off to business? Go home and concentrate on strength training and wait for winter to end."

"I might be dead before next spring. Are you forgetting?"

"No, Samantha, but I may lose you before tomorrow morning if the weather's as bad as they say. I'm so weak, carrying you out will be too difficult."

With each hand, she clutched her hair. Her voice lifted to a crescendo "I'll meet my ancestors and cherish the fact that at least I tried to bag a trophy gobbler. Running's not in the game!"

"Gotcha' gun, shells, and everything?"

"Yup."

"Wait by the truck,"

Eight minutes later, the three were navigating Piney Forest Road in Danville, Virginia.

***

The quick hands of Spiffy, allied with the directions of the Kid, steered the red four-by-four into an ascending rocky path.

"Stop here, Spiffy." He put a foot on the ground before the vehicle halted.

He opened the smaller back door. "Are you chilly, Samantha?"

"What do you think, oh Wise one?"

He thought. Ignore her smarty-pants talk. "Take the chill as best you can. Even your ancestors shivered. They hunkered down sometimes, too."

She gave a nod. "As long as the departure from these woods is honorable."

The Kid thought. Did the statement link to her depression? Don't ask.

"Here's the deal. Spiffy stays here." As the Kid spoke, Spiffy's head nodded while he crammed a pack of chewing gum into his mouth. "Samantha, carry this black pouch, the .410 and five shells. One shell is all you'll need."

A quiver ran up his spine. "Spiffy, grab the blaze orange roll of marking tape out of the glove compartment. Cram the ribbon into her bag."

"Why five shells?"

"Perhaps you'll get a shot," said the Kid. "If we do, and you miss, we change locations and try again, after we allow time for the forest to settle down... Enough talk. Snap the breach open, chamber a shell, close the mechanism. Don't shoot yourself, Spiffy, or me."

"Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, Kid."

He thought. She shows accurate and quick fingers. "Your handling of the exercise impresses me."

"Thanks, Kid. What does 'let the outdoors settle' mean?"

"You'll learn, Spiffy. Samantha, you listen, too. Check the eastern sky, at sunrise— if clouds conceal the sun, the weatherman's timetable comes into question. The snowstorm may arrive sooner than they think. Spiffy, we'll be about a mile or two back in the woods. In case I need you, I'll ring your cell. Do not come stomping into the forest unless I call. A tom turkey might lurk near us. You'll spook him. Now, how can you find me?"

Spiffy pulled at his belt buckle. "Easy, which way are you going?"

With a nod, he signaled. "Dead south."

"With the compass, I sight to the furthest tree, then the next, and so forth until I find you."

"Okay. Crank the engine if you get cold."

"Once the sun rises, the truck will get warmer," said Spiffy.

"Don't bet on the fact, Spiffy. Let's go, Sam."

"Don't be a dorkster. My name's Samantha."

He dropped to one knee. His companions followed suit. "We're an odd pair. An alcoholic and a dying Native American girl. You, the Mysterious One, distinguish whether or not we succeed, but also what is in store for us. God, we implore, help us. Her quest kindles a thirst in her mind and in her heart. If not triumph, death quenches her desire. Nevertheless, to go without fear is in itself a proof of faith. With humility, we place ourselves in your hands."

Eager yet reserved, confident yet cautious, happy yet not maudlin, they ventured forth with the Kid leading, over a fallen tree, around rocks, across thin brushwood while enjoying the light of a three-quarter moon shining through the whisper of a coming storm.

With sound and the grip of his coat, she followed the prodigy. "You're something."

They stopped. He took her arm. "I'm a failure. Let's stay until dawn."

"Why here, Kid? To make sure the one person who can track you isn't slipping up on us? What's-his-name?"

Whispering, he delivered a sketch of the Chameleon and his actions, as revealed to him by a friend who worked at the police department. "He's a man of secrecy, a master of camouflage and, using these qualities, he moves in the forest like a wisp, sometimes leaving food with a card to sleeping turkey hunters. But he has another side: murdering people. Killing because he sensed some justification. Furthermore, he recognized a call to duty. These standards—-perhaps erroneous—-left law enforcement with one word—vigilante. He sliced two men's throats, he inserted his card in their mouths, probably before they bled out. First, he drove a spike to create a pilot hole. Using a sharpened length of three-eighths-inch rebar threaded on both ends, he hammered from the peak of their skulls, angled to exit near the throat. To show finesse, to demonstrate art, to do the ultimate final additions, with four round pieces of metal with a hole in the center— washers— an adjustable wrench, and two nuts, he bound the victims' jaws. The nuts and washers secured the rebar at the top and bottom.

"Oh me, my gosh, Kid, I can't believe you." With wide eyes, she took a breath.

"Show no concern, Sugar. You won't meet up with him. In fifteen minutes, the light will be brighter. This is a good place to listen for turkeys flying down. You cold or tired?"

"Both. I'm fine. I'm alive."

With misty eyes, warmth, love, and kinship swept him. "Samantha, in the truck, I imagined you, me, and my twin sister played. You were the youngest."

"You belong to me. Think of me as a daughter and a sibling, too. Jennifer told me about her."

They lingered for first light. In ten minutes, the fingers became visible at fifteen inches. In thirty, the black had switched to gray. In forty, the nudity of a December woods appeared.

From a tree, a hen clucked.

"That cluck is their talk for 'where are you׳," whispered the Kid into Samantha's ear.

The hen repeated the cry. She flew. Nearing the ground, she pierced the forest with a chattering fly-down cackle. Nak, nak,nak,nak. The helicopter like whump-whump of her wings promoted a soft landing fifty yards from their position. She stood invisible in the dim light.

He pulled Samantha closer to a sofa-sized rock to give them cover from the radar eyes of the turkeys. From experience, he sensed a winter flock perched in the trees around them. Shooting and shot selection in this dim light would be unworkable for her.

He placed his mouth to her ear and whispered. "Be very still. No shot here. Enjoy."

In irregular order, seven turkeys sailed to the ground with yelps and flapping wings. The latter represented an assemble call. The Kid and Samantha observed the birds, causing a rattling noise in the leaves with their churning feet while they scurried about to assemble. The yelps from gobblers sounded similar to rhythmic rusty gate hinges swinging back and forth, while the females' yelping struck the human ear as smoother tones.

"This flock should be large. So far, they seem like hens, young and old, with one gobbler. Maybe others remain hidden from view by a small cluster of orphan leaves or a twist of branches. Birds roost—as low as a basketball goal; of course, they may be higher off the ground— in taller oaks, pines, and in a swamp, bald cypresses. Watch. Appreciate the show. We'll try to call him up after he lands. Betcha' a big boy's up real high."

They crouched. The north wind swirled leaves, stung their noses, fingers, and toes, as their breath resembled that of a team of workhorses pulling a wagon. The view from their perch at the crest showed a valley one hundred feet deep, fifty wide, and a half mile long, with a three-foot stream; to witness this picture dulled the punishment hurled by the wind and cold.

On the opposite rim, the creature decided to move out of gun range by thirty yards. From high in a northern red oak, flapping signaled a wild turkey springing from a limb, accomplishing air speed, pulling up the legs, straightening its neck, plunging amid the frozen naked branches, gliding, gliding, gliding, tipping its shoulders, using an airfoil up or down to dodge limbs, accelerating, clearing the lowest boughs, locking its spread wings, slanting and playing into the crosswind, gracefully plummeting down the ridge into the ravine, dipping its body by backpedaling, using his flaps, and putting his feet to the ground to land safely and slowly beside a three-foot stream--possibly because he felt secure here.

"Oh." Samantha's jaw slumped. "This is a wonderland."

The Kid grinned and eyed Samantha. "A big boy, Sugar. Note how large and dark he looked."

She leaned forward, locating her mouth an inch from his ear. "So wonderful. Never in my life, but their wings seem too small for flying, don'tcha' think?"

"Rest assured. The One who hung Orion knows how to build turkeys."

"Kid, what now?"

With his open palm in front of his face, he wiggled his fingers. She tagged along behind to the area where the tom had landed. They came to a stream, three feet wide. At the bend in the flow, he took a stick and pointed to a wrinkle at the water's edge. "Freezing." She nodded. He stepped to the opposite side and extended his hand to help her with the jump. She landed. She crunched leaves with less noise than would a fawn. Once across, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on top of her toboggan. He added a three-stroke knuckle haircut and motioned for her to follow him up the hill.

With the nimbleness of a shoplifter, the Kid pulled an object from a pocket.

They whispered.

"What's that, Kid?"

"A turkey call."

"Looks like a round black plastic box the size of a baseball with a piece of slate on top."

"Exactly."

He removed another article.

"Looks like a plastic peg with a tiny thing on one end. The small item looks like the big ones cheerleaders used umpteen years ago."

"It's called a striker. The rod is acrylic, and the cheerleader gadget is a megaphone. I make turkey sounds by the angle and pressure of the striker on the slate. Let's start calling."

She spoke into the Kid's ear. "You made a terrible noise. Squeak, squawk, cluck. How does something so majestic respond to such gobbledygook?"

"Thanks, Samantha. Memorize what you heard. When the sound becomes the worst mess imaginable, you witness perfection."

After thirty minutes of working with the slate and acrylic striker, all they got was silence. Either no turkey had answered, or else any that had answered came in mute.

"Remember, Samantha. I told you the difficulty of calling turkeys in the winter."

She shook. She rubbed her gloved hands together.

"Oh, me." He rubbed the four days of beard growth. "The sun's creeping above the horizon and the glow's dimming."

Samantha's trembling returned him to the futility of winter turkey hunting. "Hey, hey, hey. You're shaking like a dog coming out of water. Whatcha' say we leave and try this spring?"

"Let's move about a little. My hands and toes are tingling. The feeling is like millions of needles. I'll be okay, Kid. Didn't we 'set up' too far for one of those turkeys?"

"Where did you learn the term?"

"Reading turkey-hunting stories."

"Good. Yes, we did. If we drew closer, we'd be on the property of one Roscoe Willbrant Slaughter."

"So?"

"Everybody calls him, Ross. Samantha, some terrible information circulates about Ross, but his is the best place in Pittsylvania County to hunt."

"What? Give me the breaking news."

"Can't now. Let's concentrate on you filling a big game tag. Let me be blunt. I'm not sure your health is up to this."

"I'm dying. I would rather die here trying than to live sitting by the fire, wishing to hunt somewhere like this."

"Ya got spunk. I'll give ya that. Listen. We'll work our way through this draw, away from Ross's place to a ridge, where we'll stay thirty yards apart, search for turkey scratchings. We find them, we check 'em out."

"Kid, where are we?"

"In a woods."

"Very funny. You understand what I mean."

"Samantha, this is the last time." He pointed at his temple. "What's in here?"

"A compass."

"Miss, you pester me. Stop now."

Samantha giggled, but she did not smile.

"Wait a minute. You're scared. Your face shows fear. Nothing will happen to me. My backpack has a cell phone."

"Yup."

"Show faith in the Master."

"Gotcha."

They ambled while daylight took a grip. The brightness teased the gray woods into a wonderland of colors— standing blackjack and spruce pines showed an evergreen shade except for one pine struck dead by lightning. A strip without bark from top to bottom proved death by electricity. Other trees, now nude, supplied a rich appearance to the forest floor, while lighter beech and beige dogwood leaves as well as the darker oaks and hickories furnished the majority of material.

He grabbed her shoulders, freezing her in place. A pileated woodpecker with red, black, and white feathers landed near them. The kitten-size animal pecked away at the decaying base of a rotten tree; then the shy bird saw the invaders and flew.

"Let's meander up this ridge," said the Kid. "Perhaps by the time we reach the summit we'll find some turkey scratchings."

"Kid, I've read about them. "Feeding, huh?"

"Correct." The sun rose behind clouds.

"Samantha, listen to me. The last weather forecast at three this morning said we'd get a heavy snowfall beginning around sundown. I think they're wrong. We'll hunt 'til twelve. I'll bet you'll glimpse the first flakes by one today. We see those, we leave."

After they had taken several steps, the Kid seized Samantha by the nape of her neck. "Whoa! See something?"

"Nope, nothing, Kid."

"Try again."

The Kid, with his keen vision and eyes trained for the woods, had spied a rabbit. He had learned to spot feral animals naturally camouflaged by coat, shape, size, in their usual habitat.

"You must learn a skill in order to see that tom's head poking out in the woods." He told her to pick out four trees and to draw an imaginary box in her head. She must read the area like a page in a book, and he told her to remember what she had learned in school about punctuation. Sometimes use a period and stop, other times a comma and pause. Start at the beginning. Proceed from left to right, six inches at a time, until you finish. If the rabbit did not appear, reread the page. Of course, her brain's eye detected the animal in a flash, but the cells within her cranium didn′t assemble Peter Cottontail until everything linked to coordinate the detective work.

"Nothing, Kid."

"Keep trying."

"Kid, I'll humor you until you end this farce." She stiffened. "At the base of the oak on the right. Balled in a knot not much bigger than my fist. The leaves surrounding him added to his camouflage. Those brown eyes expose him. Double wow, Kid."

"Good job, Samantha. The exercise should train your eye to discern the old tom's head when he sneaks in through brush looking for the caller. Also, note Mr. Bunny resides on the sunny section of the tree to receive protection from the north wind. Want to flush him?"

"No, Kid, he's so cute. Let's don't make him leave his warm bed."

"Good decision; Mr. McGregor may well make an appearance. Up the ridge we go, and when we arrive, you'll learn what's meant by 'letting the woods calm down'."

"Kid, finding the rabbit means something to me. Does the process get easier to do?"

"Oh, yes, faster, too. I didn't pause to study the ground, did I? Keep practicing. Quail are the hardest. Soon the picture will leap to you. Consider a snake, for instance. Mister Serpent has good camouflage, but he can't hide his curved lines. Those are what give him away. Keep trying and learning, Sweetie."

"Thanks to you, I'll die a much happier girl without a twenty-pound tom."

"Who knows? We might."

Shrieking past the trees, a blast of arctic air rocked them. Samantha grabbed a rotted branch for balance. The limb broke, but the Kid grasped her coat to keep her from pitching forward onto a chair-size rock. With freezing breath streaming through her nostrils and mouth, she canted to the right, smiled, and pushed into his chest. "You're the best!"

_She can be yours. Examine your habits. You're an alcoholic, a cheat at cards, a liar, and a whoremonger_. A cackle of dark laughter racked the Kid's soul. _Above all, you let your sister drown. You got a bigger inheritance, huh?_

He stepped behind her. He bit his lip. He shuddered. As best he could, he disregarded the malevolent inner presence. He gestured toward the ground. "Tell me the name of these."

"Scratchings."

"Good girl. The books taught you some things. What else?"

"Turkey doo-doo."

"Talk to me, baby sister and daughter."

Her eyes filled. "You _mean_ those words. Wow! The droppings remain unfrozen, therefore fresh. The ones shaped like mud a child has squeezed from his fist are from a hen. The other is a male, a big one, 'cause the manure resembles a fishhook, and the fecal matter's as large as your little finger."

"Good, Sam. Now tell the way they go and how many?"

After a lengthy pause, she answered with an air of expertise. "First, my name is Samantha. They are move-move-moving downhill. The piles of leaves are on one side. Their scratching efforts throw everything backwards, like barnyard chickens. With all these scratches, the flock may contain as many as twenty turk-turkeys."

"Samantha, I'm impressed, to say the least. Are you cold?"

"No, silly dorkster, this is typical Mi-Miami Beach weather. I'm freezing. I'm fighting to keep from shivering, stut-tut-tering, too."

With his thumb and index finger, he held her chin. "The lips aren't blue, but pull the wool facemask down."

Struck by another frigid blast of wind, she crooked her right arm to encircle the trunk of a dogwood tree. Tottering, she hung on. A shiver swept her. "Cold as heck, tired, but never so happy. God bless you."

***

The Kid picked a location that snuggled them out of the wind. They huddled among what used to be the top branches of a spruce pine, but now the tree lay storm-thrown. Those limbs of dark brown blended well against their winter camouflage. The spot rested at the crown of a ridge sprinkled with mature red oaks, tulip poplars, and beech trees. At the same time, the precipice gave them a view of the basin, sixty feet below, where a four-foot stream, now brick-hard-frozen, rested on a twenty-foot wide floodplain.

The wind howled, sending dried leaves of brown, crimson, and gold across the ground in a chatter.

Without speaking, they waited and listened and looked and waited and listened and looked.

Some say the woods are neither ally nor adversary, but serve those capable of understanding the ways to connect with her. At any rate, forest wildlife detected invaders. They responded with wariness. This would take an interlude of adjustment.

Time passed. This earned the human beings a place. The animals, sensing no danger, began to reappear. A squirrel's head jutted from an old woodpecker's hole in a lightning-killed tree. Seeing nothing threatening from the air or woods, he scurried out, descending to a lower branch. Glancing about with tail quivering, he darted to earth. Without making a sound, the animal dug holes into the ground. As if by magic, an acorn appeared in his clutch. Cherishing the prize, bearing the morsel with his front teeth, climbing the dead tree in a spiral and lingering for a moment on the limb, he disappeared into his den.

A house wren flew in. She landed in the brush at their feet. Small vegetation lay crushed by the fallen tree. Possibly the winged animal spent time scavenging this section, since she went straight to work, first scratching one place then pecking at another. Looking, hopping without fatigue, she located a small treasure, and with a blur of wings she flew.

"Samantha, listen. A gobbler lives here. The dimensions of the droppings suggest a large bird. I'm going to cluck to him. Keep an eye out. You're learning. Start practicing on directing your breath down into the scarf or clothes. He'll see the moisture if you don't."

He removed a 'box call' from his pack. The sides of the brown object consisted of thin pieces of wood. The base measured two by eight inches. A wooden paddle with a convex bottom served as the lid, and single screw secured this movable part on one end. The sound came from the action of the paddle when swung against the top of one slice of thin wood. One side imitated the hen and the other impersonated the gobbler.

He prepared. Removing his gloves, he blew warm breath on his fingers to aid agility. Together he flashed them back and forth. He chafed the box on the tom side. "Cluck."

"Oh," whispered Samantha.

"Yeah, Samantha, sounds bad. Stay sharp. The old boy must be near. He may not be the boss, since he's with hens, but he can still be the trophy you desire. The real leader is possibly a hermit. I'll nudge you if something comes. You do likewise. Search for him like you did Peter Cottontail. We've reached midday. Look at the sky. Snow's coming."

Samantha shivered hard.

The wind, his skin, and the touch of metal spoke to the Kid. Uncomfortable hunches ate at his guts. He thought: We do not want dark to catch us here. Freezing before dawn becomes a risk. Stop these ideas.

"Anything wrong, Kid?"

"No, you worried?"

"Not really, you act funny."

"Gettin' on my nerves. You show a wild imagination. You watch too much television. Stop trembling. Be vigilant. A hunch says we'll lure one in."

"Kid. Stay cool."

Thirty minutes crept by.

Nothing.

A rustle from heavy brush and an eight-point buck with an eighteen-inch inside spread strolled into view, sauntering from their right. He stopped, displaying no fear, strolled again, hesitated, and ambled into a crosswind, which slammed the human scent into his nose. The deer vaulted, ran, jumped a log, ran, leapt a boulder, and ran, waving the white underside of its tail to warn other deer.

The Kid breathed easier, because the animal issued no alarm snort or snorts, which would have broken the stillness of the forest.

Minutes later, a gray squirrel poked his face from a leaf nest. He detected danger from neither the air nor the ground. The squirrel pranced from his perch, descending by circling the trunk of the red oak tree. Noting its direction of movement, the Kid grabbed Samantha's knee. He squeezed. In seconds, the creature scampered across her foot. It searched, dug a number of holes, found an acorn, seized the plunder, and dashed to the tree. It parked on a limb and dined. Satisfied, the animal played Houdini by disappearing into its home.

He whispered into Samantha's ear. "Gray squirrels can't pick out well-camouflaged hunters."

She murmured, "Thanks for grabbing my knee. You stopped a scream."

He took the opportunity to shift his body for comfort. Seeing him, she followed suit.

A mockingbird landed on the barrel of the Kid's pump shotgun. The dull gray colors matched the darkening forest. A sassy thing, her tail and beak pointing into the air gave her body a C shape. Five seconds later, she distinguished the two pairs of eyes gazing at her. She bolted.

He whispered. "The buck, birds, squirrels, do they teach you anything?"

Her teeth chattered. "Y-y- yes."

"Persevere. You're suffering, but he's around here somewhere. What have you discovered from those animals?"

"A nor-normal woods, one, one un-undisturbed or set-settled."

"Are you sure you can tolerate another hour of this cold?" He thought. Oh, the fight in her face and eyes.

"I'm happy, K-Kid."

"You demonstrate spirit. I'm like you." He sent a gobbler cluck through the frozen woods, while they braced from the increasing northern blusterer, blowing harsher toward the south, triggering more leaves to dance and prattle.

Their exhalations came out in swirls.

He nudged her. "Turkey's coming, final instructions. Deflect your breath downward into the ski mask. This helps hide the frost. Note the four-foot pine ahead of you. The tree represents the maximum range of the .410. One additional thing— wait until they all pass behind an object before you shoulder your gun. Any slight movement will alert them."

"Kid, what do I do if one or more don't go behind something?"

"My dear, make a solid judgment. Don't be afraid to fail."

"Thanks."

"Cock the .410 as I showed you. Use your modifications."

Samantha pulled the trigger all the way to the rear with her left index finger. Next, she drew the hammer back, using both thumbs due to the strong spring on a .410. She released the trigger with the quietness of a sunset. She needed no further preparation.

The ease of her motions, the flash in her eyes produced a lump in the Kid's throat.

A six-inch hickory tree in front of his face gave him some protection from the eyes of the turkeys. This allowed him to move and see Samantha. Her blood took over. Her eyeballs swept back and forth to analyze the territory. Her eye movement stopped.

The Kid peeked with his left eye.

A couple of big toms, a pair of large hens, and two lesser birds stood ninety yards to the front. The woods' curtain, in the mature forest, rested behind the turkeys. Past the screen, no eye could penetrate.

With the gobbler side of the device, the Kid clucked again. The six marched forward. They halted. Stretched necks put the larger males' heads to hip high level. They stood, unmoving, seeming to say, "We have endured. We will endure."

One of the large toms answered the cluck. The other male, the dominant one, spread his wings and lowered his head to challenge his partner for vocalizing. In addition, still annoyed, he simulated an attack with a weak peck as the non-dominant bird sprinted several steps sideways to avoid a hassle.

"Samantha, guess which is the leader."

"Gotcha, Kid. Can they recognize our whispering?"

"Naw, too far away. If they come closer, you must stop shuddering so you won't spook them."

He sent another gobbler cluck, causing four to march forward. They drew to within sixty-five yards, but this time, the bigger males didn't advance. They departed.

"Oh, me, Samantha, turkeys show their unpredictability. Those weighed twenty pounds, too. Perhaps they'll change their minds. They do strange things sometimes. Some hunters say these birds are wired different from other forest beings."

The four advanced to within forty yards. He became mute; calling this close might have spooked them.

The largest were mature hens, while the two lesser were an immature tom (jake) and an adolescent hen. The jake wore a three-inch beard and had a black body with a pink face. The young hen had lackluster brown feathers.

The older birds weighed about thirteen pounds. Their brownish bodies, weights, and blue heads identified their sex. One of these stood taller as she issued a cluck. By vocalizing, she showed herself as the dominant member.

The four turkeys posed with their heads pivoting on eighteen-inch necks. Their eight eyes sought the tom or anything different.

The hunters crouched in the pine boughs; they realized their chance to bag a turkey lay with the missing males; hence, unless those birds reversed course and reappeared, this hunt would fail.

All the birds walked forward, shrinking the range to a mere fifteen yards, a good viewing distance.

Twenty minutes had passed since the six birds had appeared.

Snow fell. Heavier gusts of wind blasted the flakes in at a fifteen-degree angle. The deposits pasted the once-windblown leaves. Neither the hunters nor the hunted paid attention. The flock relaxed. They grazed; nevertheless, those eight eyes studied the wind-thrown pine and the surrounding area, not only for danger, but also for the male they thought had clucked.

The hunters' camouflage, this time, succeeded; however, Samantha quivered. The birds caught the movement, and with a burst of energy, the escape started. They spun rearward, wings popping, struggling for air speed. The turbulence from the thrashing feathers all but cleared the ground of snow, swirling and churning the white powder. They erupted skyward, climbing like rockets. With the aid of air currents, they accomplished a fifty-mile-per-hour horizontal escape.

"Wow, Kid! Wow, Kid! Wow, Kid!"

"Some show, huh, Samantha?"

"Fantabulous!"

"Don't forget. Your trembling spooked the turkeys." The Kid pulled the .410 from the snow."Here, Samantha." He offered her the gun. "You're learning better than expected. Remember to care for your firearm. Be ready. Some animals carry rabies. Who knows? You might run into a hooligan or two, robber, rapist or worse, but I doubt anything like that will happen."

She failed to recognize a word, since her brown eyes stayed glued to the clearing where the turkeys had vanished.

"Samantha, are you listening to me?" He received no response. He seized a shoulder in each hand. He jiggled her.

"What, Kid?"

"Things might get a little dicey. The temperature falls. The snow flies faster. The snow's sticking. It's twelve thirty. The weatherman miscalculated. Remember: we travel two miles through this slippery stuff. Ready?"

She shivered. She nodded.

"Don't worry, Honey. The return trek will get your juices flowing to warm you up. Follow my orders and me, too. Can you walk back?"

She nodded.

"No more whispering, Samantha. The hunt's over for today. If you're in shape, we'll try another area tomorrow.

"I'll cut the heat up in my motel room. By midnight, the place will be ninety degrees. I think."

***

They came to a small gully fifty inches wide and eight feet deep.

"Samantha, it's getting bad out here. Time's important. We can't go around things. Gotta jump or climb over. Now, I leap first. Grab me when you jump."

He walked three paces behind Samantha. He turned. With fast strides, he cleared the opening. Without waiting, Samantha sprinted after him but to his left. As he landed, she glided. Her foot struck a softball-size stone. She screamed. She turned her ankle. She crashed. Trying to stand, she slanted backwards, spinning, while grabbing at the opposite bank. Her fingers dug into the dirt. Losing her grip, she slid into the bottom.

He jumped into the channel.

"Didn't listen," she berated herself. "From now on, I will. The design of snow tells you what lies below. Go ahead. Fuss me out."

He helped her to get up. He locked his fingers and turned his palms up. He nodded. She put her uninjured foot in position. He boosted her to the bank.

"Your ankle's swelling. Are you able to stand?"

Samantha struggled to her feet. She shrieked. He caught her before she hit the ground.

"Sugar, you broke a bone, maybe. Hopefully, you just caused a mean sprain. Let me call Spiffy. I'll talk him down here. He'll come to our rescue."

He snatched off his gloves and blew on both hands. Opening the cell phone revealed a dead battery. "The cold killed it. Spiffy follows my orders. He won't come. Honey, we face problems. If we don't stay calm we chance at best losing some fingers or toes. At worst, we might die here. I'm unable to carry you out. I'm too weak for that. Sit on this coat, which will be a sled. I'll try to drag you to the truck."

He paced.

She put the .410 butt plate on the ground, knelt on one knee and centered the muzzle on her throat. She positioned her thumb on the trigger. "Don't move."

The gold necklace slipped out of her clothing and looped the barrel. The wind swung the ornament. The metal tapped, tapped, tapped six inches below the front sight.

The pinging reminded the Kid of Mrs. Jones's "get quiet bell" in the sixth grade. He remembered one day sitting by the radiator when she sent all but him out to recess. Instead of drawing a picture, he took his crayon and heated the wax on the radiator. After it had melted, he pulled a string from his shirt to build a candle. When Mrs. Jones approached, his hands sweated, his eyes blinked faster, and his heart raced. She'd rubbed his hair. She'd complemented him on his imagination and charisma, but above all, his resourcefulness. She'd smiled, "Your originality will always save you."

They remained in place.

The slanting snow changed to sleet.

Their eyes locked.

The corners of her mouth turned down, while her eyelids became slits.

Oh my, look at that face: a picture of depression. "Don't want me to move, okay; at least let me put my gloves on." He thought. Condition her to movement. When you get a chance, run toward her.

"Go ahead."

"Samantha, with the large sleet striking us, the tree limbs sound comparable to a crackling fire. Don't you agree?"

"No."

He took one-step. "Samantha, why this extreme reaction?"

Her breathing slowed. At six-second intervals, frost appeared from her nostrils. "Simple—-I refuse for you to drag me out of here. I am not a piece of side meat. I'm tired. Just don't care anymore. You forget—Native American blood runs in me. Don't take another step."

"Yeah, Sugar, but before the white man, I'll bet Native Americans gave their companions support in times of trauma."

With her right hand, she made a swipe at her runny nose.

The Kid stampeded, cutting the distance in half.

She placed her finger into the trigger guard. With the muzzle pressing into her windpipe, she snatched the trigger!

He ran.

Seizing the gun, he ripped the firearm from her!

With a deep breath, his blood slowed.

"When I picked the shotgun out of the snow, I lowered the hammer to the safety position. Something most people do. Learn this."

The Kid's peaceful deep voice stroked her. He caressed her hair. "Now, Miss, you put your right arm over my left shoulder, together we will hop down this hill and up the next. But first, did you take a tranquilizer this morning?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Didn't think I needed to."

"Where are they?"

"My backpack."

"Swallow two now."

"Ervin said one."

"Did Ervin tell you to keep them at room temperature? Should've placed them close to your body."

She pulled her chin into her chest. She licked her lips. She shook two into her palm and showed them to him. Her left hand went to her hip. "I'll gulp 'em."

"Okay Samantha, up we go."

"We can't make..." She sobbed. She shivered. He held her until the crying stopped, but she still shook from the cold.

_She can be yours_.

They stumbled. Midway to the ground, he grabbed her; she fell on top of him and together they slid to the base. The Kid received the worst of the accident, since snow crammed into the neck of his coat.

"Kid, you okay?"

"I can make sixty yards up that hill."

"Why?"

"At the top lies a rock overhang. The ledge points south. I put you under the shelter. I'll go for supplies and return if I can. If I can't...Tell you later."

She looked upward. "Our luck changed. There's a boulder inches from our heads. Wow. We stopped in time."

"Remember, Samantha, we are Christians. We don't believe in luck."

"Yup."

"Samantha, if I help, can you get up the hill?"

"Sure."

The rock ledge formed a partial cave. The strip thrust out seventeen feet from the base, leaving a six-by-eleven-foot interior.

They reached the spot, crawled under, and stretched out to catch their breaths.

His face drowned in misery. "Listen."

She stared.

He put his index finger perpendicular over her lips to keep her quiet. "Sugar, when I looked into the little stream earlier, my doppelganger appeared. He spoke to me today."

"What did he say?"

"Don't ask."

He threw a wad of toilet tissue on the soil and doused the paper with gasoline from his metal flask. With the dull side of the knife, he struck a rock made of quartz. Sparks landed on the target soaked with gas, igniting a fire. He lit a candle, dripped wax on a flat stone. With a twisting motion, he mashed the base into place. "Put your hands around the flame as a wind guard."

"Wow, Kid!"

He sheathed the high-carbon blade. Drawing his favorite knife, he opened a container of beans. After pouring the food into two plates, he cut out the bottom of the can. "Here, a lamp shade and six candy bars. The flavor will surprise you."

"Will you return, Kid?"

"I think so; for sure I'll leave markers for Spiffy with the blaze orange tape. He'll come back tonight with a sleeping bag. Take my heavy coat. No time to argue."

"But—"

"But, nothing."

He draped his large wool-lined jacket over her, stripping an extra toboggan from a side pocket. He crammed the stocking cap over the one she wore.

"Kid, you'll freeze."

"Not to worry. I'll give you my word that I'll arrive at the truck. When I do, I'll take five minutes to call Jennifer and tell her everything's hunky-dory—"

"What's hunky-dory?"

"Means fine. Don't interrupt again. Then I'll take five minutes to call your dad."

"And ask about my brothers."

"Oh, Samantha, I hope to come to you with a queen-size sleeping bag. I can't promise it."

Without saying good-bye, he left.

### Chapter 12

Wind, snow, and the darkness intensified.

She shivered more from loneliness than from the chill.

Famished, she annihilated both plates of beans and wolfed down two candy bars. Yes, the Kid spoke wisdom. The food tasted terrific.

The Kid's coat provided warmth; yet the biggest improvement sprang from the candle. but the more the flame fought a battle with the increasing darkness and the determined temperature drop, the more the wind shrieked and moaned and struggled to exceed its allies: the cold, the snow, and the dark. Samantha huddled over the precious flame, while the glow fluttered, suggestive of a frightened bird. She peered from under the overhang. "Stop. Stop. Stop." she sobbed. A tree or branch crashed, which she observed as a denial to her plea and a shattering of her faith. She yelled. She bit her bottom lip. "Come on. Suck it up now. The tree falling has nothing to do with you. Stay busy. Make up a game or something."

Studying the eerie dancing light cast on the overhead rock gave her an idea. She manipulated her hands above the candle to form a silhouette on the ceiling. As she failed to shape a sheep's shadow, so too she botched a big butterfly. At a minimum, she learned the light needed to come from the side, not the bottom, to fashion profiles.

Drowsiness swept. Through her mental fog, a catch-22 swamped her. Would she die from exhaustion, by freezing, or both?

Out of the darkness came a voice; however, the air currents dimmed the words.

She shook her head to bring back reality. Was the wind playing tricks? Why not? Stories tell of the eye sending confusing signals to the brain. In one turkey story, a huntsman opened fire on a stump because a cardinal was perched on top.

She questioned her sanity. She forced a smile, but again, closer, she heard the utterance. "Don't be frightened, young lady."

Perplexed, she trembled, mashed her eyelids shut, hoping the Kid would come. When she opened her eyes, a business card fell. The paper came to rest beside the candle.

"Pick up the item."

Hesitating, reaching again: if the card is real, the voice was genuine; on the other hand, the article could have been an illusion. If an hallucination, lunacy overtakes me. Show nerve and afterwards deal with the situation. She scooped up the rectangle. Blank. She flipped it. In bold raised type, two words appeared.

THE CHAMELEON

"May I enter?"

"Will you pull off your mask and let me see you?

"Nobody sees the Chameleon."

"Cool! Don't kill me. Hey, you carrying an extra blanket?"

He chuckled. "Yes." He squeezed inside until he drew close enough to spread a black throw over the shivering girl. "Keep the throw. Paid $5.88, tax not included."

"Thank you, Mister."

"Why do you say Mister? The Chameleon could be a female."

"You sound like a man."

"I can camouflage anything, including my speech."

"Sir, you may be a woman camouflaging your voice, but I doubt it. Besides, you wear men's English Sparrow aftershave lotion, too."

Samantha's observation brought forth a masculine tidal wave of laughter. She flinched. The surge lasted to such an extent, she considered the possibility that she faced insanity, but her fear would be short-lived.

He halted the straitjacket pose, and his arms dropped to his sides. He reclined while sucking in breaths.

Samantha imagined that beneath the mask lay a smiling, contented man.

She could not remember an outfit like his. The white was the hue of salt crystals. The thin black stripes, with lesser streaks of brown and gray, further interrupted the pattern.

She mulled over his clothes. Little wonder this man could hide himself, since the suit he wore blended with nature's background, allowing no eye to distinguish the material from the natural landscape. The name Chameleon, likely self-chosen, indicated a clever, nonetheless appropriate, choice.

"Miss, where did you learn the fragrance of my lotion?"

"Dad wears the brand."

"He must possess discernment, judging by the jewelry you wear. Let us talk for a while. The Kid will return soon."

"Are you sure? He's weak. The drinking over the years put him in a bigger mess than a pickpocket at a nudist camp."

"You are correct. Listen. He'll come back tonight. He's the Tobacco Land Kid."

"You respect him, don't you, Mister Chameleon?"

"Yes, I do. Please, just Chameleon. Indeed, you could win a part in a Hollywood script as a Native American."

A bond formed. When he inquired as to the honor of her word, she informed him she was of the first Americans. Satisfied, he nodded and led the conversation, beseeching her not to reveal certain details of his visit.

"Chameleon, give me your cell number. I'll let you know where we are so we can work together." With this request, he scribbled the information on the back of one of his cards. She glanced at the digits. Smiling, she burned the message in the candle, nudged him in the ribs, and touched her right temple with her index finger.

"Sweety, you and I are new acquaintances, but so soon a bond exists with us. Listen now. I ask for you to abandon the idea of bagging a gobbler, for a greater objective is the capture of the murderer."

"Sure. Chameleon, the capture of the killer is the most important thing."

"Furthermore, encourage the Kid to seek information about Mr. Roscoe Slaughter, such as Why is he here? Why did he buy the property?"

"He is here for one reason; the reason for the purchase of the property might be a horse of a different odor. The reason for that could be as simple as the fact that the country is so beautiful here. Who wouldn't want to own it?"

"Samantha, maybe he thought he could hide the graves better if he bought it."

"A good point."

He grasped both of her shoulders. Staring with his face inches from hers, he lowered his voice. He said that a connection existed between him and one of the four females found buried on the Slaughter property. He knew nothing of the male victim or the other girls. Once apprehended, he believed the culprit's throat must be cut and a piece of rebar driven through his perverted head; however, as a Christian vigilante, he could do nothing until the facts proved his guilt. Pausing for a moment, he continued by saying his plans included shadowing the Kid's activities. By assisting their cause, of course, he would appreciate something in return.

He rambled. He concluded his remarks by asserting that nothing limited his ability to camouflage himself as any object or person. Examples included a doctor, police officer, or ditch digger.

His head twisted to the right. "He should return anytime. English sparrow, huh?" He chuckled, rolled from under the overhang, and disappeared.

"Goodbye, Chameleon." Hoping for another message, Samantha eavesdropped into the howling wind, but the gusts carried only snow and the fading shuffle of his feet. "Come back. Let me see your face."

Did the Chameleon come, or must she confront the fact of insanity? If not, everything may have been a dream. She might wake up a poor little sick girl dying in a hospital instead of freezing to death while having the time of her life.

"Footsteps?"

"Kid, how pretty your ugly, charismatic face is to me!"

He flopped to his knees and lowered his body, letting the air mattress and bag roll forward.

"Put this stuff where, Kid?"

He brought his right arm up to use his trigger finger to point. "As far toward the back as possible." Sucking wind, as if the Almighty no longer made air, he pointed again. "Give us enough room to turn over." Taking aim at the valve stem, he tossed the pump. "Use this. Move your blood. Do you sense your fingers and toes?"

"Yes, but imagine thousands of pins sticking into them. Kid, you will never understand the sensations sweeping me. I love you...Dad."

He pulled a .38 special from under his coat. "Spiffy came halfway to carry the sleeping equipment. From now on, I'll have a flashlight or two. One round fired will tell him I'm got here okay, and he'll return to the truck." Stepping outside, he shot the revolver.

"Samantha, we sleep together in this queen size. The bed came special-made. The length is eight feet. For warmth, we snuggle deep inside where our breath will add heat. The manufacturer rates this equipment good down to ten below zero. Now, as best you are able, hop outside to use the bathroom, even if the snow flies worse than ever, because this is going to be a long night."

"Kid, why didn't you say, 'It's a dark and stormy night'?"

"Huh? That's for amateur writers."

With thumb and index finger, she stroked the card. "Kid, the Chameleon called on me tonight."

"Forget the trip outside," said the Kid. "Unless you really have to go, crawl into this sack. Soon, with my help, warmth will overtake you, we'll be okay. Above all, remember. The Kid sticks—"

"Think I harbor hallucinations, huh?"

"Snuggle in with me." He removed his shoes. He slid into the bag.

"You believe I'm delusional? Explain this quilt and this." She thrust the Chameleon's identification in front of his face. Her action hit with the strength of an electrical current. He rose and bumped his scalp against the low-hanging ridge. He held the card behind the candle. "Samantha, I'm so sleepy..." He slunk into the bag like a squirrel into his den, and blackness swallowed him.

"I'll be back in a moment. I'll blow out the light. I have many things to let you in on, and questions to ask..." she began, but he snored.

Feeling safe from the bitter cold, Samantha snuffed the flame. Once the darkness was total, the situation confounded her. She blinked several times, but this exertion caused no stimulation of the senses. The black void would stay until dawn.

With heat gliding across her, the tingling stopped. On her good foot, wiggling her toes caused warmth and perspiration. She pulled her wool toboggan over her ears, squirmed deeper, and fell asleep.

### Chapter 13

Samantha awakened and scrambled to uncover her left wrist. To light the watch face, she pressed the switch. The time was 4:05 a.m.

His snoring resembled a chainsaw using a bad spark plug. Sputtering. Running smoothly. Sputtering. She hesitated to wake him. Nevertheless, she bumped him on purpose. He did not rouse, but his snoring smoothed. To shock him awake, with her fingers in the shape of cats' claws, she latched on to his shoulders. She shook him.

The Kid left dreamland.

"What...?"

"Wake up."

"Why? You cold?"

"I'm cozy, but we need to talk."

"What's time is it, for gosh sakes?"

"How's Dad?"

"Fine. Go to sleep."

"No silly! I asked you a question. What did Dad say?"

"Nothing, I talked to Andrew. He said Floyd and Warren had gone on a call. What time is it?"

"You didn't know Andrew always gets out of work. Didja? Me and Floyd have to do...Are there bears around here?"

He thought: Appease her. She has information. "Tell me something about the Chameleon."

From memory, she narrated the account of the teenage girls and one man rotting in their graves on the Slaughter property. She cited words and muscle movements of the mysterious Chameleon.

"Now Kid, what do you know about Mr. Slaughter? I'm not afraid of bears, Kid."

"No, little scamp, you told me nothing except bull doo-doo."

"Well, he's on our side. The items you probably assume are also correct. Do you care if I carry a phone? Is Jennifer okay?"

"What does a telephone have to do with the Chameleon?"

Singing to the tune of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," she demonstrated a stellar performance with her soprano voice, "Read between the lines again, hurrah, hurrah. Listen between the lines again, hurrah, hurrah. Think between the lines again, hurrah, hurrah."

"Okay, Madame, your recital demonstrates the most creative way a person has used to give information and at the same time keep their word. When day breaks—"

"You didn't answer me about Jennifer."

"She's all right. When day breaks I'll count out three C notes. Buy a cell. I'll bet you memorized his number. I gather Mr. Hawk doesn't want you to own one. I'll square the situation with him. I'm so glad we took this trip—"

"Does this place have many bears?"

"Enough. Let's go back to Roscoe. Four girls found in graves would make you say he is a child molester, but the authorities discovered one murdered businessman who maintained the reputation for carrying large amounts of money. Hmm, a poor pervert who needs to rob to live."

"Catch the murderer. Forget the turkey if you want to. Find out everything about Mr. Slaughter."

"Oh, now I'm supposed to be Sherlock Holmes, among other things."

" _Touch her, Kid," said Wolfgang_.

"You're familiar with a lot of people in North Carolina and Virginia. Heck, the killer has to be him, or someone in Mr. Slaughter's neighborhood."

"I'll consider the situation later. Let's discuss the Chameleon. Hmm, interesting, yet you received no hint as to his identity."

"None whatsoever. Kept his mask on, too."

"Samantha, we must discuss our departure tomorrow."

"No, wait. I want to talk."

_She likes you. Fondle her_.

"Shoot."

"I played as a child like any other— dolls, crayons, sandboxes. However, at thirteen, I experienced my first period. I bawled. I realized I had become a woman. Anyway, pressures at school, and worst of all, the unexpected death of Mom, the cancer attack..." She cried. He listened. He sensed her wiping her face. She continued with a nervous voice. "I developed depression or possibly a case of blues in high gear. Listen to me. I'm a virgin."

"Samantha, stop."

"Get real. Be a man. Mature a little. I'll be fortunate to live two years. Today I'm fine, but at some time, I'll go downhill. The decline will be fast or slow. Maybe resembling a roller coaster. Should I try a boy?"

"Samantha."

"Help me."

"All right, young lady, in most states, the age of consent is eighteen. I think. In Mexico, fifteen. Yeah, I believe's correct."

"Yup, good answer, Kid. Excuse the expression. If I jump in the sack with someone, count on the fact he won't be a loser."

_You're no failure, Kid_ , whispered Wolfgang.

"Kid, we'll chat regarding sex fixation in minutes or sexation. How? How? How in the name of good judgment do you manage to see yourself as anything but a winner?"

"Because I lack the kind of success that leads somewhere."

"Kid, some bull doo-doo. I refuse to believe a line like that. If you don't mind, please explain."

"Samantha, note well. All of my money I inherited. They taught me the ways to generate more. I have never created anything."

"Have you considered the state baseball championships?"

"The titles didn't take me anywhere."

"Where did they need to go?"

"Into some area that will allow me to create something else. Albert Schweitzer became a doctor—-he went to Africa and built a hospital. Look at you and me. You are my daughter. I'm your Dad. Nobody on earth is as close as us, and to think, I didn't like the idea of taking you hunting. I believe inspiration might come out of our relationship regardless of our hunting success or some role we play in pursuing a murderer. Maybe it'll be the million dollar idea."

"Please listen. You hold everything!" She screamed; she sobbed. "Someday, you will grasp the fact—-few winners exist like you. You possess hang-ups, lots of them besides the doppelganger thing. Right now, let's talk about sex."

"Samantha, perhaps there are some further aspects of being a loser that need discussing."

"No, what's the feeling when you fondle Jennifer?"

"Samantha!"

"C'mon Kid! How long before you finish?"

"May I make one final comment so we'll both be through?"

"Oh heck, sure Kid, shoot."

"The act is overrated. Samantha, what's the time?"

"Four-thirty by my watch. Today I gained control, but yesterday, I pulled the trigger. Stick with me. I'm sure I won't get a turkey. Help me to enjoy these days. I'd better take the tranquilizers twice daily. Don't forget. Worry more about catching the killer."

"I've got problems, too. I blame myself for my sister's death. Perhaps I earned the doppelganger, the alcoholism and other things."

"Tell me what happened to your sister."

"Me and Faith's job was to clean the welding shop on Saturday mornings. Dad had given us permission to go swimming after we finished. While he cut the grass and tidied the yard with a weed eater, I cleaned the bathroom, since she cleaned that area last week. Faith swept up the metal filings and placed them into a barrel. I collected the cut pieces of metal and put them into the scrap bin. We made sure the safety caps were tight on the acetylene tanks. Dad entered and we passed inspection."

The Kid paused.

"Though late May, the temperature had climbed to ninety, but the water registered in the fifties. We left the shop and ran to the pond. I waited for her at the deep end. She arrived, and we dove into the cold water to race to the other side. I swam maybe twenty yards and looked back. She had disappeared into the murky ten-foot water. I looked for an hour and realized no hope existed for Faith."

He closed by telling her he had dreamed twice about himself, Faith, and her playing outside the welding shop.

A strong gust of wind whistled throughout the forest. From nearby, either a small tree or large limb fell.

"Two more hours of total darkness," said the Kid. "Spiffy'll be making his way here. He should appear in an hour. So, we speak of a departure about eight. How's the ankle?"

"As long as I don't try to move, there's no problem. It's swollen as stiff as a board."

"Maybe no fracture, just a severe twist."

"About yesterday things grew out of hand for me. I went bonkers. Today begins something new for me. Sure, I accept all the help you and Spiffy will give me to reach the truck."

"Bonkers yesterday? I remember you sprained your ankle. Nothing else happened."

"Oh, Kid. Oh, Kid." Deep sobs burst from her. Moments later, with her fist she pounded his upper body. As she weakened, the thumps waned. She pressed her face into his chest, while the weeping ebbed. She slept. He made her a fresh pillow with the Chameleon's blanket and eased her away from him.

Daybreak came. The raging wind modified, but the stinging chill worsened, while orphan snowflakes fell.

The Kid remained awake, pondering whether his Maker had deserted him. He thought about last night and realized Samantha would be the key to his million-dollar idea, but would she let him publish their experiences?

His owl ears detected the crunch, shuffle, and struggle as someone approached. The feet, lacking rhythm, left the Kid no means to determine if Spiffy produced those sounds, since the snow and ice changed the normal gait of the trekker.

The Kid's steady fingers searched for the black handle of the stainless steel .38 special.

"Kid?" called Spiffy.

His hand recoiled from the revolver, he whispered. "Spiffy, good job, you're right on time, too. Any problem with the compass reading?"

"No compass. Followed the orange tape. How's Samantha's ankle?"

The Kid turned toward her. He thought: What a sleeping beauty, with her chest rising and falling so gently.

Glancing back at Spiffy, he shrugged. "She has a bad sprain, maybe a break."

"Can she walk?"

"Not sure. Anyway, can you carry her most of the way?"

"Say the word. I'll lug her piggyback, no problem, I know you're still weak."

"Spiffy, stick with me to help this young woman harvest a turkey, and I'll buy you a new car."

"Kid, what if she fails to hit the mark when the bird comes close?"

"Spiffy, let's say win or lose, you get that prize. Besides, Spiffy, all she's going to receive is one chance, maybe. I hope the memory will be enough for her. I see no chance this girl can learn the skills to nail a gobbler. Now, wake her, Spiffy."

After three hours and six rest stops on the south side of large rocks and trees, the party reached the car Exhausted and snow-caked from the knees down, weaker than rotten tobacco string, they sprawled alongside the vehicle for five minutes.

With an order from the Kid, they loaded up. Spiffy crumpled into the front seat with a copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_ , and with two blankets, Samantha folded in the back. The Kid dropped the truck into drive, slammed the heater wide open, punched the four-wheel transmission button, depressed the gas pedal, and the red pickup purred and lunged through the foot of snow.

The outside temperature indicator on the rear view mirror registered minus two degrees.

Plugging in his phone, the Kid called Ervin. Receiving no answer, he left a message for Ervin to call the drugstore across from their rooms and place an order for a fresh supply of tranquillizers. He tried Jennifer's cell. She answered while eating a pizza at Dirty Larry's. They talked while she demolished a large pepperoni. He understood enough words to get the message. He hung up and called Warren, and they talked for thirty minutes; he closed by saying he'd call back if her leg was broken.

He rang the desk at the motel to inquire if an employee had a teenage female to spend the night with Samantha. The clerk told him his daughter was sixteen, but he would not allow her to take the job. In reply, the Kid stated that the pay was one hundred dollars; likewise, the father would also receive this amount. The man agreed to ask his child to assist.

He turned to Spiffy. "Tonight we rent motel rooms in Danville. We give Samantha some off time. Hmm, we check out other things, too. Oh, you ever eat pizza in the morning?"

"Jennifer does, huh?"

### Chapter 14

Samantha lay on the bed while the Kid and Spiffy loomed over her.

The Kid knelt to manipulate her foot.

"Ouch! Trying to be funny?"

"Samantha," he smiled. He swallowed a lump. "You'll face some tough situations before you put a big boy in the leaves. Stiffen those lips. Furthermore, don't ever ask me again if I'm joking."

"I might."

"You _might_ , huh? Well you _might_ need to become mentally and physically tough. You _might_ need to lift weights. You _might_ need to..."

The Kid's phone rang in Spiffy's pocket. Spiffy answered. "Kid— Alotta."

The Kid reached for the phone with his right hand while holding up his left to Spiffy and Samantha. "Alotta, doing okay?"

"Not exactly. You haul your tail up to Virginia with an unhealthy Native American girl to hunt for turkeys, but I'm not invited. Did she shoot a turkey?"

"No, who gave you the story?"

"Privileged info. Since it's you, Jennifer told me."

"Oh, how about this? From now on, you'll receive all the facts, and I'll invite you. You can put my word in the bank."

"Good enough for me. Of course, you'll call me when you get back?"

"Sure. Another item, Alotta, how's Senator 'Little Archie' Winston doing in the polls?"

"Rotten. He's got this damn awful habit of telling the truth. People are disgusted with him."

"Too bad, he's a straight-up-and-down guy. How about the Chameleon?"

"Oh, yeah. Once a week he drops by. We chat for an hour or two. You kiddin'?"

"Stay in touch."

He called Jennifer again. "Forgot something. We're in kinda a hurry. Spiffy wants to visit a sick friend here in Danville. Call—"

"Kid, who's buried in Grant's tomb?"

"Oh, Jennifer, call Warren. Tell him to bring Samantha's things to our house. She'll be living with us for a while. Take care, love. Bye."

A tap sounded at the door and Spiffy answered. Priscilla, the motel clerk's daughter, entered.

The Kid glanced at her. He thought. She'll do fine. A pretty, precocious peek-a-boo blond, will be good company for Samantha. Girl talk's coming up.

"Samantha, me and Spiffy are visiting an ailing friend of his. The temperature's warm in here. Your stomach's full of pizza. Lock up behind us. I'll check on you two when we get back."

"Sure, Kid, I can hop around enough to do the essentials, and the .410's beside the bed. We' won't let anyone in."

She held out her arms in the "give me a hug" position. He thought: What a joy she is! With a fresh lump in his throat, the Kid embraced her.

With the heater on full-blast, the red four-by-four plowed through the snow. Spiffy blew frosty breath into a fist. "Kid, we're shooting for a whorehouse. Why did you use me by dumping a load on me about the ill friend crap?"

"Had to tell her something. Suck it up, Spiffy."

He handed Spiffy a sealed envelope along with a roll of hundred dollar bills with a three-inch circumference. Some years ago Jim Gunther had told him an uncle, Arthur Reginald Smithson from Buncombe County, had died, leaving him $500,000 dollars.

The subject gnawed at him.

He gave Spiffy orders. He would rent a car, proceed to the area, and read the will of the deceased (if indeed such a person ever existed) with a date of death at about 1959. He would proceed to discreetly inquire about Jim's association with Mr. Smithson, at which point, he would, if something did not feel right, call the enclosed number, ask for Johnny, and tell him all he had learned. The job should take a few hours. He told Spiffy Samantha would go back home with him. He would complete the Smithson task as soon as possible, return to Wilson, and keep what was left of the money.

Spiffy took the envelope. "I'll get the job done."

A dry grin spread on the Kid's face. "Perhaps we'll be the next Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

### Chapter 15

Marilyn's dating parlor resembled an upper-middle class living room, furnished with puddled drapes, a chandelier, chairs, and a couple of leather sofas. Somehow, the pink carpet didn't match the decorations; one corner held an enormous high-definition television on a six-foot stainless steel table. While broadcasting a constant background, the set played Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_.

They flopped on the couch, along with an old gentleman holding a cane between his legs. The rubber tip rested on the floor. Both of his hands twisted around the hook. His head stayed level. He sat erect, wearing a charcoal suit, blue shirt, and a snappy tie.

Two women entered, one in red, the other in black. The man rose, but the Kid and Spiffy remained seated.

Neither of the ladies stood still. They responded like puppets handled by a nervous puppeteer, touching, picking, and brushing turned the old man's cheeks pink. The woman in red giggled, held her hand beside her face, and wiggled her fingers. A tear trickled from her eye. "Hi, Smitty." With a hop to his right, she seized his arm, while her companion in black did the same on the left, grazing his shoulder with her lips. After these courtesies, each gave him a kiss on the forehead. All three walked to the steps. While leaving they passed Marilyn who, wearing a smart outfit, strolled toward two of her old customers, the Kid and Spiffy. Both remained seated.

He liked this whorehouse best. He remembered when Marilyn, now thirty-one, won a beauty contest years ago. "Long time no see. Kid, you two sober?"

"Yes," said the Kid.

Marilyn canted her head to the right. "The Kid of yesteryear would say 'damn straight.'"

Spiffy leaned forward. "He's aiming to help a young girl get her sights on a wild turkey. She wants him to stop cursing until they're through."

Marilyn's hands went to her hips. "Well, I'll be. Anyway, what can I do for you, Kid?"

He grinned like a fox with a mouth full of chicken feathers. "You ask?"

Marilyn smiled. "Kid, Petunia's upstairs."

"Petty still works here? Great, saves tracking her down."

"Same room, Kid."

He rose and climbed the stairs in threes with his hunting boots registering clicks on the hardwood steps. Without knocking, he marched in. "Oh, Petty, been okay?"

She had brown hair, green eyes, a trim figure and a cute face. Her character traits included meekness and friendliness, but she had no backbone.

She leaned forward in her chair. "Great, I work here part time to pick up some money for Tommy. Kid, I can never thank you enough for what you did for us."

"Is Tommy able to walk yet?"

"Yes, thanks to you and the children's hospital. They didn't charge a dime, either. You look the same. What's the situation with the doppelganger?"

"Stagnant. Oh my, Petty, the terrible suggestions the double makes to me."

"Keep struggling to throw him out. You'll succeed."

"Yes, I will someday. Missed you. Remember the incident which kept us from getting married?"

"Yes."

"I need a favor, Petty."

"Name the errand, since you and my brother..." She cried. She wiped her eyes. "...were roommates in college in North Carolina."

"And hunted together here in your home county, Pittsylvania. "Rubbing his chin, he thought: Be careful now. "You wouldn't happen to be familiar with Roscoe Wilbrant Slaughter, would you?"

Petty twisted her lips. "Never heard of him. Does he live around here? Wait. Sometimes, something's on the news, but I don't pay much attention."

He nodded. "A loner."

She reached for a phone book. "Lives in Keeling, yes, here's an R.W. Slaughter. Must be him. Didn't you and my brother hunt that area?"

He leaned forward, "Yes, we did. Call Mr. Slaughter. Tell him he's a random selection for a free massage. Visit his house. Find out what's going on. Remember everything you can. If something special strikes your eye, steal the article. Check on the reputation of the place. Use good judgment. Should anything spook you, forget the whole deal. Leave."

"For you, yes."

He stood. "I'll go downstairs and wait for Spiffy."

Petty rose. "How long since college? Remember the time you beat the guy up in a bar over me?"

"Sure, I do. I'll be in touch, Petty."

"Not so fast." She pulled off her blouse. "Come here, nut job."

He put a hand on each of her shoulders.

***

Two hours later, the Kid stood over Samantha. He examined her sleeping while she clutched the clown doll. All the while her fingers twitched a code.

Priscilla slept in the other bed.

The television played. Scenes switched. Colors flashed. Shadows danced.

With satisfaction, he left the room. Pausing under a cold starry Virginia sky, a wave of confusion washed over him. They had had a bad experience. What would come next?

In the spring, the dreadful weather would be over.

Perhaps we'll get a chilly rain, so many things to do— talk to Ervin about weight training.....we may hire somebody, too. Shotgun practice, she must learn the proper technique to develop muscle memory. Why, oh why, does Ross Slaughter's property bounce around in my head? We'll hunt his woods as the site of last resort, if the journey doesn't end sooner than we expect.

### Chapter 16

On Friday afternoon, the Kid slumped in his black leather chair and waited for Spiffy. He entered and handed the Kid the information from Buncombe County. A glance confirmed his guess. Arthur Reginald Smithson had left an estate, after the executor paid all expenses, of $12,532.68. The Kid read the entire document. Rising to his feet, carrying the material to the window, stepping to the side, he inserted the papers into a shredder. He calculated that James Walter Gunther received $6,266.34, while Beaver Plains, a non-denominational church in the same county, collected an equal share.

He informed Spiffy of his intention to locate the person or persons behind the murders of the people buried on the Slaughter property; furthermore, he and Jim Gunther had poached, if not thirty, at least twenty-five properties in Southern Virginia, which routinely included the burial site. In his opinion, Jim qualified as a suspect simply because of the money he possessed but appeared never to earn. In respect to wealth, Jim's inheritance demonstrated a marked contrast from the five-hundred thousand he had bragged.

"Ah, Kid, hope you don't mind—what I learned nudged me to call the number you gave me, and I related the info. Left a message sayin' I was Spiffy."

He leaned forward and unclenched his fingers. "You called them?"

"Yes, they instructed me to tell you, but how did those detectives find me? I called from a pay phone."

"Elementary, Doctor Watson, what did they say?"

"Ah yeah, they said the details didn't mean much. Many people make money and don't report figures to the authorities. Some might steal, shoot pool, gamble, lots of ways. The detectives pointed out John Gunther has never received a speeding ticket, 'Sherlock.' Somehow Swampy Joe's name has come to their attention."

"Continue."

"Ah, yeah, they said Swampy's not a Sunday school teacher. He's been convicted of stealing from stores and has even been questioned about a couple of bank heists. The law has threatened to bring charges against him for using profanity and telling dirty jokes to seventeen-year-olds. Kid, how did Swampy get into the picture?"

"I'm not sure, Dr. Watson. If I remember correctly, Joe has told me he has hunted in the Danville area and he lives twenty-seven miles away in Yanceyville, North Carolina. Joe hasn't mentioned poaching the Slaughter woods. If he killed those people, of course he wouldn't say he had hunted the Slaughter property. Considering the detective's comments, I believe Joe looks guiltier than Jim. In first place remains Roscoe Slaughter. Now I'm not sure where to put Joe. Gets confusing, huh? Anyway, the perpetrator must be someone familiar with the boundary lines. Are we back to an unknown member or members of the Keeling community? How can someone go in at night and bury a corpse? Keep the body in a freezer? Go on a full moon?"

He rose and walked a few steps. Turning, he stared at the baseballs on his desk. After picking up one of the state championship mementos, he smacked the ball into his left hand.

"Spiffy, did Samantha tell you the Chameleon paid her a visit when I went after the sleeping bag?"

"No!"

He gave Spiffy the information, advising him to keep these facts secret.

He returned to his seat and examined a calendar showing March 5; he sat.

Yesterday, Ervin had pronounced Samantha fit to launch weight training for three hours a week; this exercise, coupled with the arrival of private tutors to fulfill her county's school requirements, should produce agreement for body, mind, and spirit.

His job, with Spiffy's help, was to teach her how to shoulder the .410, not an easy task, because to build muscle memory, the lessons would demand one thousand gun mounts, minimum. She could not think, only react.

The desk calendar displayed a Bible verse; he drew satisfaction, since the words offered no foresight. Doubts flooded his awareness. Nothing showed progress. Guts twisted. A thousand drawbacks and snags and hazards and disappointments lay ahead, but he swept these fears aside with the conclusion that he would take control of the situation, reach the end of hunting season, and that he would send Samantha home remembering her adventure, if she lived. Memories would be all she carried home, no turkey beard for the scrapbook. She could fire once, but one shot would initiate recoil shyness. Anyone who flinches pulls the gun off target.

The doorknob on the study revolved a quarter of an inch. The Kid saw the motion.

"Come in Samantha."

_Don't be a sucker. Touch her, Kid_.

She wedged her head around the door. "How the heck did you recognize me? Furthermore, how did you realize someone was standing here?" She tiptoed in.

"The knob moved."

"You saw the movement!"

"My dear, you should understand the Kid misses very little. Glad you came. The time comes to get down to business. This is the first week in March. I can't prepare you to hunt in Georgia or the low country in South Carolina for their earlier seasons. Prior to any shot at a wild turkey, you must learn the proper method of mounting a shotgun."

The Kid sent Spiffy for Samantha's 410. He advised her to watch. Her eyes widened when he placed his feet only six inches apart with the heel of his left near the arch of the right. "Looks odd, huh? But this system works. I taught Spiffy. He'll work with you." He walked to the corner and selected a gun from a solid cherry cabinet. He started back and smiled, swinging the shotgun around, propping the firearm against his right bicep with the ejection cavity forward and the barrel pointed up. In a whirl, he repositioned the pump under the crotch of his arm. With a snap, he brought the butt plate to his shoulder. With the bead of the front sight aimed between the eyes of the Rocky Mountain goat, he issued a loud "click."

"Double wow!"

"Now you try, Samantha."

"Get off my back. I can't."

Her brain cells tried, but they were unable to copy the movements.

"Yup, how about a little slo-mo for your old pal?"

"Sure Sam, why not? Don't fret, we'll make the style work. The process will become automatic."

"Remember. My name's Samantha."

He laughed. With a quick bear hug, he overwhelmed her. She giggled and play-fought. After the embrace, he dealt a three-stroke knuckle haircut.

"Come in, Spiffy."

"Something else, Kid, may I please touch my gun for the first time, maybe practice, too?"

"Sure, Samantha."

Spiffy chewed the gum laced with garlic. He slid the forearm of the .410 to the rear and inspected the magazine, along with the chamber. Finding no shells, he closed the action. While pointing the muzzle toward the ceiling, he presented the gun to Samantha.

"Now listen," said the Kid. His deep bass voice hovered above a whisper. "William James said 'the proper mental attitude at the time a task is begun is the one thing which determines success.'" The Kid locked eyes with her. "Get your head straight."

"Number one daughter sitting on ready with head straight."

"Good, Smarty Pants; position the feet. Situate the shotgun in any spot you wish. Think. All this time you are using your eyes like radar, tracking the target, preparing to pull the trigger in order to pop the cap, to burn the powder to release the shot. This is of the utmost importance. Remember to find and track the object. Let me throw this tutorial in, but you'll never use the lesson. In case a turkey is running sideways to you, trying to escape—or heck, he may run obliquely—focus on his beak.

"Kid, isn't the most important thing to maintain the right mental attitude when you start a task?"

"Sheesh, Samantha, sure but you...Well, let's continue. I hope your eye is as clever as your tongue."

The phone rang. At the same time Spiffy fumbled for the cell, the Kid stared at Samantha. "Do not shoot the shotgun as if the tool were a rifle. Just snap, boom."

"Hello," said Spiffy. "Friend of yours, Kid."

He took the phone. "This'll take about five minutes. I'll step to the patio." Then "Petty, you okay?"

"Terrific."

"How's Tommy?"

"Straight A's in school."

"Been to Roscoe's house?"

"He ordered me to call him Ross. He paid me and gave me a one-hundred-dollar tip. Gotcha' ears on, Kid?"

"Shoot."

"This guy's weird. Creepy, too. Asked my dress size before I came. The moment I arrived, he dressed me in this black outfit and put on a Roman toga thing and danced around me while scattering rose petals. Next, he threw toasted pecans and asked me not to eat them. Yeah, thanks. Okay, he took a bathroom break and I prowled a little. Something strange, on the nightstand—I found a sterling silver bracelet. To read the inscription on the back didn't require touching the item. The engraving said, 'I love you, Gretchen, Dad.' Old family pictures lay scattered in the room, and several confirmed three boys, while none showed girls. After he came out of the bathroom, everything seemed okay for a minute or two, but then out of nowhere, he started cursing and throwing things and yelled for me to leave. He threw the money, too, which I grabbed on the way out."

"Don't go back. The guy must be bipolar or something."

"Damn you. You sent me to the place."

"Hold on, Petty. Can't afford to let anything happen to you, since people at Marilyn's were aware of your location. The sheriff's office keeps a close eye on him, too."

"If he calls, I'll keep you posted. Hope I helped."

"Take care, Petty. I'll be in touch, bye now."

The Kid walked back and handed Spiffy the phone.

Without a word, he reached for and received Samantha's gun. Holding the .410 across his chest in slow motion, he brought the butt plate around to the edge and a little under the right armpit. He shouldered the firearm, keeping both eyes opened, dropped his head to the comb, and clicked as he rocked forward. To finish, he lowered the repeater to the floor.

Samantha shuddered, her jaw plunging, "You are the Tobacco Land Kid." She touched his cheek. "You handle a gun with the class a master plays a violin. Yes, you are a virtuoso. The elegance, the style you give a firearm, oh, me, me. As if your hands, when they touch a shotgun, become man and wife. Do you caress Jennifer with the same proficiency?"

He rolled his eyes, shook his head, sat down, and dropped his face into his right hand.

Grinning like a mule with a mouth full of briars, Spiffy placed two cloves of garlic in his jaws.

The Kid decided the best course of action would be to change the subject, remembering to expect absolutely anything from her.

"Spiffy, do you and Samantha want to go to Labelle tomorrow to the annual dinner some turkey hunters are having?"

While chewing and smacking, he sat up straighter. "Sure, why not."

Samantha's bottom lip pushed against her top. "A couple of things here, Kid— Mean Man plus several others might attend. Daddy told me about him. Anyway, they all see me as a meal ticket. They want talk shows, sell turkey calls, who knows what. Kid, I don't wish for anybody to use me. Don't ever tell our story. Promise me."

"Sure, you have my word."

Spiffy's Adam's apple jumped. "Mean Man's got a grudge."

The Kid's hands went to his hips. "So?"

Samantha shook her head. "He doesn't like you," she said as she flopped beside Spiffy.

The Kid's jaws tensed. "Well?"

Spiffy leaned forward on the couch as he placed his arms between his legs. "Kid, he says the next time ...understand what I mean?" Spiffy wrung his hands. He stopped and bit the knuckle of his trigger finger.

A smile sneaked across the Kid's face. "Yes, I think so. Where did you gain this... latest piece of education?"

"I left the room for a moment and I answered the ground line. You received an anonymous call— a trip to Labelle might not be a good idea for you."

The Kid shrugged. "Call Alotta and give her the location, time, and place. Let's make certain we attend. If Mr. Mean Man Harding wishes to entertain some sort of understanding with me, perhaps I should not disappoint him. Wanta go, Spiffy?"

"Sure Kid, how is the muscle training going?"

"Are you askin' if I'm in good enough shape to take on Mr. Harding?"

"Aw, yeah."

"Hmm, I'm not certain I can whip him after I'm one hundred percent. Maybe— I'm somewhere around eighty. Anyway, in case you two wonder how the trouble started between Mean Man and me, I'll tell you. It started in the fifth grade. We played marbles, and I won most of the time. Later, I made the baseball team, and he got cut. He asked Sally LeJohn, the prettiest girl in school, to the senior prom. She said no to him but yes to me. People loved me while they tolerated him. This made him jealous. Here's the strange part. I pitied him. He picked up on this and became bitter. Nevertheless, everybody needs one friend, so I let him hang around whenever he wanted. We hunted together. I began a career with the schools, and he sold insurance. Heard he became ill. He came to our house and acted funny. He didn't look right in the face. That hasn't changed. We argued, we fought. His speed failed to match mine. Thereafter, we never witnessed situations the same, and I tried to avoid him. Something has gone wrong with Mean Man's head."

The Kid nodded at Samantha. "Go use the bathroom."

She left.

After leaning back in his seat, he motioned for Spiffy to slide closer, to inform him about going to La Comida for a purpose, to watch Jim Gunther with hawks' eyes. Jim would attend, since he never missed. Years ago, they'd become friends at the event and begun to hunt together. A fair amount of the hunting took place when they poached the property now belonging to Roscoe Slaughter. In conclusion, he told Spiffy to carry green surgeon's gloves, several plastic bags, and cotton swabs, with hopes of capturing a bit of blood or something for a DNA sample.

The focus of interest shifted to Samantha's shooting, prompting Spiffy to push his chair back. The Kid listened intently when Spiffy reminded him that the trees were smaller due to the changes in logging practices. Then the Kid struck his hands together. Both nodded. They must get her into an open area for an unmoving shot; nevertheless, her instincts said the turkey would be walking or running.

Sitting up straight, Spiffy smiled. "I'll talk to your old coaching assistant, George Meadows, about the pitching machine."

The Kid nodded. "That's correct. The logging these days leaves clear cuts. The first years produce a thicker growth. However, the Slaughter woods is mature, maybe fifty years old, leaving the few remaining big trees far apart--The type of forest Sam's instincts suggest. What draws us to Ross's property?

Spiffy squinted. "Got a thought?"

"Not sure yet."

### Chapter 17

The Kid wore his usual uniform of blue shirt and khakis, Samantha dressed in her Native American clothes, and Spiffy sported black pants and a yellow shirt; at noon, they departed. The black limousine zipped from Wilbanks toward La Comida. Samantha showed her love for Spiffy by leaning over from the backseat to swing her gold coin back and forth across his face. "Spiffy, you ever juked a woman?"

"Spiffy, just ignore her...Samantha, why can't you....She probes me with those bull crap nonintellectual interrogations when I least expect them."

"I'll answer."

She bounced in her seat. "Fire away, Spiffy."

Spiffy stopped smacking on the garlic. He closed his library copy of _Gone with the Wind_. "What facts do you want, Samantha?

"Hmm, my time runs out, Spiffy. I can't decide whether to or not."

"Aw yeah, tell me your conclusion, should you discover you will live a long life?"

The Kid chuckled.

***

The miles slipped by until a sign that read "La Belle, Home of the Beavers," appeared. He guided the limo into a combination burger joint-gas station-and-vegetable stand. They got out of the car, which reeked of onions and garlic.

"Ah, Kid, you going into the restroom?"

He frowned. "Don't tell me, Spiffy, I recall a mirror hangs on the wall. I won't peep."

At the same time the Kid entered the men's room, Samantha entered the ladies'.

The Kid relieved himself, flushed the toilet, turned, and halted at the washbasin. He thought. Don't gaze up. Heck, he hasn't spoken to me in a while. The sound of water running in the toilet stopped. Perhaps he's gone.

He looked at the mirror. Wolfgang appeared.

" _Kid, Wolfgang drapes your psyche. Relax, Kid. Talk to Wolfgang for a change."_

"Sure Wolfgang, communicating with you troubles me little, because they named me the Tobacco Land Kid. At one time, I resembled you more. You got into the barroom fights. Now, though, I discover the best in me. You demonstrate my old weaknesses. You may creep around in me, but I abhor you and everything you stand for."

" _You are me, whether you admit the details or not. Remember the chatter. Think of the talk about eighteen bulls' eyes in a row at Fishburne."_

"Yeah, Wolfgang, you forget. The Kid has the targets and a note of recognition from the rifle coach. The packet includes a picture, too.

" _Huh, okay, I'll grant you, but how about the bull you told Spiffy?"_

"What? Go ahead. Spill your guts!"

" _You make gibberish of not being afraid to lose. Hell, Kid. Yeah, I'll call you Kid if the term makes you feel better. You fear fights, but you let me brawl. Don't drop your eyes, Kid. Now, doesn't eye contact trigger good feelings?"_

"Perhaps. Anyway, I can aim down glass or iron sights at you anytime, Wolfgang."

" _You utter an odd statement, Kid. You will receive an invitation to do such in a moment. First, though, give up all this nonsense about helping this girl bag a tom. Heck, go ahead. Have sex with her. You should. I command you. Unless you do, I'll take over the lead role and do the honor myself._

"No, you won't!"

" _Listen, Kid. Tonight, I'll gamble a special old enemy of yours is coming to this supper. Here is an opportunity to put you on the good side again. Think Kid. All you need to do is let someone else carry the child hunting, and you will find the fishhook gone from the flesh. Take a couple of drinks. Relax with the boys. Simple, huh? In addition, hey, she's a cute chick. Touch her. I'll bet she'll quiver."_

"Screw you, Wolfgang. You think of things I don't."

" _Kid, what waits in your right hand? My goodness, the faithful hunting knife. Bet the blade gives you comfort."_

The Kid reviewed the edge with an air of disbelief. "Why did I...?"

" _Yeah Kid, fall on the point stomach first. Everyone will think you made a misstep."_

"Wolfgang, the Kid doesn't make those."

" _Yes you do. You didn't swim beside Faith. You let her drown."_

"You're a liar!" He jammed the handle butt-first into the mirror. The shards tinkled on the concrete floor.

Spiffy snatched the bathroom door open. "You okay? I heard you talking and the sound of glass breaking."

"Spiffy, run up front. Hand the owner this hundred-dollar bill. Tell him to treat himself to a new mirror."

Samantha arrived at the car first. When they appeared, she demanded he get in, while asking Spiffy if he would wait outside. He was so pale, she questioned him. After he admitted he had just suffered through a session with his doppelganger, she popped him on the shoulder. "Hang in there, Kid. You're not going to a nuthouse. I'm not dying until I get a turkey or enjoy the time of my life trying."

Spiffy swung into the driver's seat, cranked the engine, and snapped the transmission into D. The vehicle's tires barked on the cement, causing back-wheel drift.

***

The black car veered into the La Comida parking lot. Before stopping, the Kid spotted Mean Man's ride, and he pulled within hearing distance to observe what type game Mean Man played. Hands on hips, dressed all in buckskin with three-inch leather strips hanging from each sleeve, he chatted with three strapping young men. Sporting a maniacal grin, a huge well-built body, milk white skin, a shaved head, and a pig's face, his appearance summoned one word— terrifying.

He offered the youths a hundred dollars apiece if, all together, their efforts flung him to the ground. The exhibition began, bearing resemblance to three eighth-grade boys grappling with a black bear who was unaffected by the experience in spite of all their panting and sweating,. The young men yielded. The contest lasted five minutes.

Looking skyward, extending his arms perpendicular to his sides, slobbering, spewing frenzied laughter, this nutcase, in an attempt to be a magnanimous "great guy," handed each boy a bill with Benjamin Franklin's picture.

The Kid nodded, smirked, and gunned his ride. Spinning the steering wheel counterclockwise, he slammed the brakes. The left side of the Kid's vehicle halted one foot from Mean Man's unit after a shower of inch-and-a-half pieces of granite, with an ear- splitting sound, dented the driver's section. He drove the automobile to the front and backed up so his rear bumper rested six inches from his nemesis's car. Dropping the gearshift to D, putting his foot on the brake, and revving the engine, he released the vehicle. With tires screaming, the machine broke traction, spraying the front of his adversary's auto with rock.

The Kid steered his unscathed automobile into a safe harbor.

"Listen, Samantha."

"Yes, Kid."

"You pay attention to learn something about me, okay."

With her hands on her chest, she picked at her fingernails.

He continued, "I never lie unless the situation demands such. The untruth also has to meet other criteria. Do you understand? He's coming. Both of you stay in the car."

After opening the door to the limo, he slammed it shut. Feeling his blood race and his hands sweating, he held a balled fist behind his head. As his mouth tensed, he stared.

Here he comes. This won't be easy. Be ready to fight. A rusty screwdriver lies about three yards ahead. When he crosses the tool, rush him. Set your feet. Aim to knock him flat.

The Kid's shoulders squared to the aggressor. "Long time no see."

Mean Man stopped short of the mark. "Yeah, Kid."

The Kid's fists balled and went to his hips. "Want some action? At least we'll get this over with."

"How about after supper? Never liked to fight on an empty stomach."

They stared at each other.

"Huh, think you can make me mad, Kid?" He broke the stare. "Nope, you can't control me in any way. The car's from the seventies. So forget it. Before we leave, let's meet right here. I won't hurt you bad. I'll let you off with a bloody nose and nothing more."

"Settle down. We lost control of the car when we came to the restaurant."

Samantha stepped forward. "He tells the truth."

The Kid gave her a fatherly swat on the seat. "Go to the rear with Spiffy, please."

Mean Man undressed her with his eyes. "You're the girl I came to talk with. You wear a pretty gold necklace, too."

"She is lovely," said a feminine voice. Its bearer swaggered out from behind one of the trees bordering the steps.

The Kid thought, oh me, that remark translates into problems. The squawking comes from the wife of the biggest cog in the political machine, the one who jerks the filthy strings while working as an aide to the governor.

Though as fat as a bear with a backside the size of a tobacco barn door, she had a narrow face resembling a chicken's. While her eyes darted about the way chickens' do, her white dress with the accessories made her look like a male Brahman breed.

The kid turned to Swampy Joe Phillips as he stepped out also. "A cedar tree blocked my view of you. You working with these two?"

"Oh, hell no, Kid. You 'preciate the fact I ain't got no better friend than you. Durn, remember the time in the Okefenokee Swamp? You yelled a big 'gator was a cruising to my hand dangling in the water. I has a long memory."

"Huh, you do?" barked Mean Man. "Best you leave now 'cause I remember things good, too."

"Stay where you are, Swampy Joe. My strength is at eighty percent. I'll get stronger." He glared into the eyes of his enemy. "Like we said, let's settle this bad blood after dinner."

"Can't wait."

The Kid sneered. "Now, Mrs. Clarisse Bovine, or should I say 'Clarence Bovine?'"

Bubbles of snickers floated from the twelve men who had gathered.

Mean Man strode forward.

At eye level, the Kid shook his trigger finger. "Mrs. Bovine, remind your at-the-moment king our appointment takes place after dinner, not now."

"Say any rude things you wish. I came here to talk to the girl. Honey, listen to Aunt Clarisse for a minute." She placed a hand on each of Samantha's shoulders. "Mean Man has his ways. Nevertheless, my dear, he will locate one with long spurs for you. Don't count on the Kid. Remember, Honey. You need to sell turkey feathers. All Mean Man wants is to schedule an appointment on talk radio or something."

The Kid's eyes flared. "Whoa! Samantha, explain to me about these quills."

Samantha's arms plunged to her sides, and her shoulders rose. She stared at the ground.

His bass voice lowered while he put a closed right fist on the back of his neck. " You will."

Mrs. Bovine shoved her face twelve inches from the Kid's nose. "Excuse me, please. I think Samantha and I wish to talk."

"Thank you," said Samantha. "But I lack reasons to abandon him. Even if I wanted to, I find myself too far along the trail to change horses."

"The mistake belongs to you, my dear. All the same, Kid, I want a word in private with you."

They ambled to the edge of the parking lot while Spiffy and Samantha lingered around the entrance. At the perimeter, with his thumbs locked in his belt, he pivoted. As expected, she opened with the first volley.

"Why don't you quit this entire business?"

"Does the old locker room incident still bother you?"

Without troubling herself to answer, she took another shot. "Kid, stop shooting blanks and let Mean Man take over. He meets our requirements, not you."

"Does this little Native American girl somehow figure into Washington D.C.?"

The Kid's charisma, reputation, and his legion of followers made far too much distraction for her to ignore.. His wit plus his fast tongue overwhelmed her. She had to press for an advantage. "Perhaps this will teach you something. You drive and the highway patrol stops you. No matter where you hunt, the game warden interrupts. How does the picture look?"

"Not good, but with the dirt going around about you, we can also add 'intimidation of state employees'. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Remember— they work hard for themselves and their families. Decipher this. The three of us will cross the Dan River to hunt. In secrecy, your husband controls the governor and everything else, but he doesn't control anything in Virginia."

"Good bye, Kid." She sulked to her chauffeured limousine.

Confidence expanded his guts. He strolled to the entrance of La Comida. From his left came a voice. "Compadre, long time since we done poached Slaughter's place."

He halted. "Of all people, well I'll be—James 'Twenty-two Points Gunther, the worst turkey hunter in the entire United States. Been doing okay, Jim?"

The Kid's phone rang. He showed Jim an open palm, traffic cop style. "Gotta' take this one." He walked around the building and leaned against the scaffolding that surrounded a chimney under repair. He propped his left foot on a stack of new bricks.

"Hi, Alotta, I sent word about where we were going. Why aren't you here?"

"We're in the lot in a gray van, beside the night light."

"Betcha' you're taping."

"Right, don't worry—I'll turn you into a hit. We'll be inside working in ten minutes. Listen. Can we meet again sometime soon? I mean, not about news. You know."

"Sure, wait a sec." To keep anyone from hearing, he stepped around the corner of the building. "I need R.W. Slaughter's cell number in Keeling, Virginia, to determine if he holds information about a missing girl named Gretchen. Bye, for a while."

He snapped the phone shut, walked back to Jim, and stuck out his hand. "How are you, Jim? Still driving the blue-and-white pickup and dying your hair?"

"Never better. Yep, same old truck. 'The 'worst,' huh? Would you likes to try deer hunting again' me?"

"I don't think so—not today, anyway. Jim, you're as dashing as ever—the gold necklace, the one earring, the stylish clothes, the hair—dyed blond now—brown eyes and handsome face. I speculate your skills with the women show no decline in the last few years."

"Right on, Kid. I looks for either the deer or the d-e-a-r, 'cept for today. Gimme two minutes."

"Fire away."

"Kid, do 'ya still hunts the area in Keeling, Virginia, above Ross's property called, 'the mountain'?"

"Yeah, going downhill, Billy Goat Rock is on the boundary line."

Jim told a story about a huge gobbler, which ranged on or around the Slaughter woods. The creature weighed perhaps twenty-five pounds. A bird of those proportions represented a Virginia record, he said. Jim gave a brief description of hallucinations he witnessed in the past, but this animal stepped out into the open not fifty feet from where he sat. It was a vivid picture, not a tangle of bushes, which had played on his fatigue or overworked eyes since he'd spotted the gobbler three hours after dawn, from a tree climber.

"Remember. I'm a lefty— No way to twist that far to the back left and shoot."

The Kid winked. "End of story?"

"Not quite. You comes into the picture. I hears of your idea to hep the young girl and I makes a decision to join the fun. The next trip back to Keeling, I asked around concerning the mystery turkey. Everybody's quiet. I finds out who stalks the gobbler in the area better than anyone else. I screws his wife. She says she's aware of nothing. I tell her to notice what she can. I'll make love to her for the information."

"Ah, so much good dwells in you. I'm all warm inside. Your compassion overwhelms me to learn you prostitute yourself for a worthy cause."

At the sarcasm, both smiled.

"Kid, I bust her again, and she says the rumor regarding the turkey's correct. Her husband calls the tom to the end of a rough cutover where the old boy stopped 'bout seventy yards out. The creature halts before approaching the jake and hen decoys. But instead of coming to the calls, he vanishes into the brush. The guy's wife also tells the monster walks within fifty feet of another man, but this happens in the summer and not during hunting season. They are shut-mouth since they each want the trophy for themselves. The turkey hunters near the mountain develop an unspoken rule about the giant bird. In other words, they know the facts, but they ain't talkin'."

"Thanks, Jim, I cherish your friendship."

"Same here— heard about your plans for the girl, seen her and Spiffy at the door. Ain't she purdy, too. I turkey hunt very little, but I'll join in to hep. Oh, they call the giant gobbler Goliath."

"Come with us, Jim. I'll buy you dinner." The Kid never remembered Jim's eyes cooperating with the rest of his body, and his feet, most of the time, pointed away.

At the entrance, thirty people lounged by the door. The scene pleased the Kid, since some were strangers. The scene pleased the Kid, since some were not. The scene pleased the Kid because each waited for his turn to show their friendship.

The Kid showed his friendship in several ways: chats, handshakes, smiles, or pats on the arms. On entering, he stopped a waiter, threw his arm across the young man's shoulder, walked him to the window, made conversation, shook hands, and then departed to another group.

An idea struck him. He remembered the supports around the chimney used for repairing the brick works. Of course. Yes. Mean Man with the metal framework, you will not only become the fool, but also suffer defeat.

The dining arrangements consisted of five rows of tables. Each row held one hundred chairs. The Kid spotted Mean Man and led his little group away from him to four seats near the back. Moving while chatting with dozens took ten minutes before they arrived at their table. He sat between Jim and Spiffy. Samantha maneuvered to Jim's right. Swampy Joe came last and perched on the edge of his chair like a bird, opposite from the others. With discomfort, he eyed Jim. "Dern, Jim, why'd you mess me up in South Carolina?"

"What 'chu talking about?"

"You said you'd meet me at the Cypress Loop, but you ain't done that."

"You got sumpin' wrong. I ain't never hunted with you in South Carolina."

"You tellin' a lie, Jim. As much as we talked about a girl named Gretchen disappearing, too and how bad it were."

"Callin' me a liar, huh?"

The Kid glanced from one to the other. "You two stop now."

To foster tranquility, Samantha supplemented the Kid's manifestation with a deflection. "Must you talk to and entertain everybody here?"

"Suppose you enlighten me about those turkey feathers Clarisse mentioned."

"Poor judgment. We plan to leave one souvenir in each envelope with a poem and sell them for ten dollars, to raise money for an orphanage for homeless children."

"For children without homes, isn't that as good a use to help orphans as anything?"

"Stop trying to be sarcastic. This business means a lot, into the millions."

"Sam—"

"You mean 'Samantha' don't you?"

"Samantha, don't let money corrupt you. Something tells me you will harvest a nice long beard. Nevertheless, these stakes keep escalating."

"Stay cool. We'll jerk through this thing."

"Okay, no more interviews or deals without consulting me."

She leaned back, reached around Jim, shook his red ponytail, smiled, and winked. "Okay."

A self-appointed leader, Billy Forbes, issued opening comments while insisting the Kid's party dine with him at a speaker's table.

The Kid held up his fist with the thumb pointed down. Shunning the spotlight for the short term would accomplish something. Why be pretentious? In those pictures of championship baseball teams, who stood on the last row? A humble approach among the little people might steer them to a quiet foundation to build support to make a leap toward the million-dollar idea. At the same time, he would demonstrate to the group that those who show superiority do not give the Kid orders.

Mean Man rose and invaded the Kid's area. He poked the shoulder of a patron seated beside Samantha. Like a frightened puppy, the patron scampered away. Mean Man captured the seat, and no one made a comment.

The Kid popped his hands to draw attention. He thought: Make the timing perfect. Extend your arms palms up to get the people on their feet. The crowd followed his lead, which upstaged Billy.

A preacher in the audience said grace. Billy nodded and all took their seats. The waiters in white aprons, light blue shirts, and paper caps made the rounds with loads of barbecue, fried chicken, cold slaw, potatoes, corn sticks, and hush puppies—an Eastern North Carolina meal.

Billy seized his belt buckle to jack up his pants. "Boys, keep digging in. Try not to get any on the walls or ceiling. Listen up. This year something special happens with a certain turkey hunter. We all comprehend the challenge if he accepts. He has not learned the details of a situation. Therefore, allow me to tell him." Billy patted the right side of his chest. "Kid, my coat pocket contains checks totaling ninety thousand dollars."

A murmur floated through the crowd, while Billy sucked in a deep breath and smiled.

The Kid cut his eyes toward Jim. "Ya heard about this?"

Jim finished eating. While he spoke, he wiped clean his knife and fork which he had brought and returned them to a black case. "Naw, you my man, Kid. Anything I discover, you'll find out in minutes."

Billy looked upward. "This money comes from all across America, some from outside the U.S. These people lay a wager you cannot help Samantha Hawk harvest a gobbler by the end of this coming spring's turkey season. In other words, we mean a tom with a beard of seven inches or better. Kid, all these people put up their money to compel you to try harder. Will you match the bet of ninety thousand plus whatever we raise here tonight?"

With a screech, the Kid slid his wooden chair back over the oak hardwood floor. He stood. "Well, now, let's hold a little chat among friends. I might. First, though, I demand conditions."

Billy shrugged. "What?"

"As a number of you are aware, my daughter, Elizabeth, has a law degree. She works with a firm in New York City. The money has to travel to her. She will place the formal transactions through some sort of clearinghouse in an area where gambling of this type breaks no laws. In addition, we can't take gentleman's bets. All wagers must be in the form of cash, recognized credit card, or a good check. Everything goes into the bank of our choice. The funds must be in my name only. Billy, call Spiffy next week to receive the necessary phone numbers and addresses. Elizabeth will set up a website which you can access with little trouble. Most assuredly, when you lose, I become even richer than I am now."

The Kid's final comment drew a howl of laughter from the crowd. Many summoned Billy to collect further bets. One spectator asked for the floor.

"Excuse me, Kid, do you take odds?"

"I assume you mean on an individual basis. Talk with Elizabeth. Tell her what you require. She may be able to accommodate you. Waiting for the website may be a good idea. Many things must be determined. The site might have to be set up in another state, country, or in an island nation. Nevertheless, spending the money will be a joy. Do any of you contemplate additional questions?"

Mean Man stood. "I'm not rich. I've done okay in the sales field. I saved twenty-five grand for my twin daughters, Cara and Calla, to go to nursing school. I must double the amounts. So, I'll wager all to say he can't help her score a gobbler. Yeah, Kid, I'll be glad to take twenty- five later, plus a little of your hide after this supper." From his buckskin jacket pocket, he yanked a pen and checkbook, scribbled out a check, and passed it forward.

The Kid thought: He has that kind of money? "You might acquire some hide since I've lost strength, but believe me, Buddy, you'll never get the cash. Take note, dear friends. Samantha Hawk is going to shoot a mature gobbler. He will weigh over eighteen pounds with a seven-inch beard. I give you my word."

A hush descended. No one believed the boldness of the Kid. His promise constituted his bond; now he ran the risk of giving his honor on something he might not deliver. The only sound for two minutes came from the waiters rattling dishes.

Later, the group filed out, expecting to see a fight.

With both hands, Samantha tugged at his sleeve.

"What's bothering you, Samantha? Tell me."

"I ran into a whiff of English Sparrow aftershave lotion."

"You did! Tell me if you strike the scent again. Samantha, you and Spiffy mosey to the car. While you go, see if you smell the fragrance again. Perhaps we'll be able to put a face on the Chameleon. The info might come in handy. My brain has hatched a plan to defeat Mean Man. Jim, leave in your truck. Get back with me later. Spiffy, Samantha, when we depart, be ready for a real ride."

He marched to the door while his enemy followed a step behind. They walked past the staring spectators.

The Kid ran and leaped from the steps to the ground. Circling to the left, with his chimpanzee body, he climbed three stories while the metal framework responded with squeaks. At the top, the cross-boards became a dance floor as he performed a jig. "Come on up. The weather's fine."

Mean Man said, "Bring your tail down Kid, or let everybody learn what a coward you are."

"Calling me yellow, huh? These good folks surmise the booze has sapped some power. So here I dwell to even the odds."

"Stay by the chimney, Kid. We'll settle things sometime later."

Mean Man sauntered away. When the Kid observed his advancement stretched to a safe distance, he descended. "Make your move, you ugly, pig-faced, shaved-head sucker. I stand on solid ground waiting for an arrogant bully such as you to come feed upon a knuckle sandwich for a midnight snack."

Mean Man ran to the scaffold, but lacked speed because of his bulk. The Kid scampered back up while the crowd roared approval.

Mean Man stayed at the bottom. "The trick earned you some real laughs. Take care. We'll get to it another day."

"What's wrong with now?"

"You'll scamper right back up. You can't fool me."

"Let's cut a deal."

Mean Man's hands went to his hips. "What?"

"You realize some vigor's gone."

"So?"

"Give me a handicap."

"You already have one." Laughter burst from Mean Man. Three others chuckled.

"Grant me a request, and I'll come down."

"What, Kid?"

"Okay, listen. You must fold arms across the chest, close your eyes, and allow me the first punch."

He marched near the chimney works. "Your word."

"Yes."

He complied.

Without hesitation, he dropped from the scaffold, programming the touch of his monkey feet and legs for contact— this timing insured the use of his knees as shock absorbers, creating, not only a soft, but also a quiet landing. With three steps, he drew within striking distance. He lifted his right leg until his knee reached belt buckle height. With his toes pointed, he swung his foot into Mean Man's crotch.

Amid the cheers and howls of supporters, the Kid bounded to his ride and jumped into the passenger's side. "Gun it, Spiffy!"

The limo raced onto the interstate.

The Kid nodded. "Sheesh! Let's reflect a moment. We start on this hunt to aid you to get a gobbler, which we will do. Easy enough, huh? Mean Man, among others, steps into the act to gain money, notoriety, turkey call sales, a talk show, or most of the above. From the Witch of the North, I learn about the sale of the feathers. Yeah, Samantha, did you note her face? All she needs to sport on top of her widow's peak is a black pointed hat. Anyway, the governor's aid wishes to use you as a ticket to send somebody to Washington. Hmm, yeah, the people are beginning to see through him, so he needs to boost his popularity. Oh, how could I forget? The betting at the meeting sent the total to over one hundred thousand. Of course, the problem with the money lingers with what to do with the cash. I'll lose sleep later. Samantha, are you aware of any further stakes in this game? Samantha, do you hear me talking to you?"

"Sure, Kid."

"Answer me."

"Real Dad is lining up some talk show deals."

"What else?"

"My congressman in Washington plans to introduce me to 'The Man'."

"'The Man', huh?"

### Chapter 18

Ten days remained before the opening of turkey season in Virginia.

The Kid discontinued her strength training. The girl had worked since the dinner at La Comida. She had gained two pounds of muscle, though she faded when he added additional minutes plus weight to the schedule. Neither he nor Spiffy mentioned it, but her good looks grew fainter.

These last ten days would consist of gun mount drills. Samantha practiced on the patio, while he and Spiffy sat behind the glass doors.

"Aw, yeah, you're kinda quiet. Whatcha' thinkin'?"

"That meal at La Comida. Didja notice Jim had his own knife and fork?"

"No."

"When he finished eating, he wiped them clean and stowed the utensils in a black pouch. Maybe he shows his woodsman instincts. I'm not sure. He has no record, so no fingerprints as evidence would be any good. Betcha' he wears latex gloves when he's in uncomfortable situations."

"Aw yeah, where ya' going with this?"

"We need a DNA specimen. At least, that would tell if he murdered Wong Lee, but he never spits, takes a leak, craps, or cuts himself where we can get an example. Let's both of us keep carrying latex gloves and plastic bags. Maybe we'll get a break. Enough of all that. What's she doing wrong?"

"Aw, yeah, she has her left foot pointed too far out— the mounts are mechanical, but she's smoother, more effortless— deep concentration— the sweetie works hard."

Noting Samantha's progress, the Kid's jaw set and a look came to his face. "Dr. Watson, we can win this entire shooting match. Samantha gets the turkey. We catch the killer.

The Kid's cell rang. Spiffy answered, and held the device to his chest. "Allotta." He handed the phone to him.

He clutched the phone with both hands. "Spiffy, do you mind helping with her foot placement?"

"Alotta, what's up?"

"Plenty, all bad. We need to talk. Can you come to my place?"

***

Wearing black pumps, slacks, a red blouse, and a smile, she opened the door. "Hi, Kid, let's get the worst over first."

"Shoot."

"Six months ago, a little girl vanished from her backyard swing set in South Carolina. Everyone assumed a kidnapping. The grandparents had adopted her after her parents died in an auto accident. Her grandmother passed away, and at present, her granddad is in a home with Alzheimer's. DNA from him corresponded with samples from Gretchen's old clothes. To date, she is missing. This brings me to why I called you here. Those two men that came to your house when I was there for an interview. I took their car license tag numbers. With a few favors, I learned they are detectives. Being at your house means they asked for your help. Come on Kid. For the benefit of the public, let's put everything on the table."

The Kid rubbed his forehead. "Oh my, now, for gosh sakes, don't you dare tell what I'm going to say. I'm working with those two sheriff's departments, one on each side of the Dan River. The code name is Johnny. Did you learn about the hair found in Wong Lee's right hand?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think you would know that. Except for the hair, Alotta, you probably know just about everything I know."

"Kid, are you aware Mr. Slaughter has given the law free run of the property?"

The Kid massaged his lips. "I'm not. Does a connection exist between Gretchen and Wong Lee? Did some pervert kill Gretchen for sex? No doubt the killer of Mr. Lee murdered him for money. Is it possible one person committed both crimes? We're skipping around a little here. Are you aware I added a suspect?"

"That's right, you said 'just about.' Who?"

"Jim Gunther."

"He's a good-looking, good-for-nothing, but I don't visualize him as a killer. Yeah, met him at La Comida."

"What else's bad?"

"WROT won't let me cover the hunt. They say it's hopeless. They don't want to spend money on the venture."

"No problem. I'll locate another witness to come with us. Remember, we'll share info, confidentially."

Their eyes locked. She grabbed his right arm while unbuttoning his shirt. "Mee is standing behind you in the bedroom door. Let's make this occasion a threesome?"

He turned to Mee, who was carrying a length of rope over her left shoulder and a yellow rubber duck in her right hand. She wore no clothes.

The Kid displayed a poker face. "Why not?"

***

The sun touched the horizon; he squinted into the glare all the way into sunset.

He clipped on the television. It buzzed with an editorial concerning the incompetence of Little Archie. He snapped it off.

Without a word, Spiffy came in and flopped down. He yawned. "Where's everybody?"

"Upstairs. Jim arrived. Took him up to a room. He's watching television or something. Talk to me, Spiffy, What are you reading now?"

"Finished my last one. You've got nothing for me to do, I'd like to go to Wilson to the library to get a copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_."

"Can you change your plans to learn how the criminal mind works?"

Spiffy put his hands on the armrests to lean forward. "Sure." He rose and walked toward the door.

"Wait, Spiffy."

"Aw, yeah, Kid."

"I'm not through. Go to Columbia, South Carolina, to their library to find out all you can about a Mary Gretchen Thompson. I have to believe she was kidnapped in that state and buried in Virginia. Take this check for three thousand dollars. It should cover everything, including a couple of trips to a whorehouse. You run short, call me. You don't, keep the change, but be back here by seven a.m. for a meeting on April 11th. Turkey season starts on the next day. You learn anything earthshaking, call me."

Spiffy left.

The Kid rose to his feet. He paced. He thought: Make twenty or so phone calls to see if anybody knows anything about all these murders. Hmm, what did Sherlock Holmes do without a phone?

Two hours later, he dialed Petty's number.

"Petty, how've you been?"

"Fine. When you coming to see me?"

"I will, but I need a favor first."

"What?"

"Steal the necklace with Gretchen's name."

"Oh, Kid!"

### Chapter 19

They assembled in the game room at seven a.m.

"Turkey season opens tomorrow at sunup. Show time."

"Give us the plan," said Samantha. "We finish ten glorious days of gun mounts and peace and solitude, where the only things invading our brains is my bang bang, and Spiffy's smack-smack. Now we crave some action."

Spiffy scratched his head. "But the reporters with the television cameras— except for money-short WROT— circle the streets like buzzards. They won't leave us alone. Their pestering will keep Samantha from bagging a long beard."

Jim squirmed. "The Kid's got hisself a good plan. Listen."

"Thank you, Jim. You forget with whom you deal? I'm the Tobacco Land Kid. Spiffy, show respect for the media. They try to earn a living at what they do best. Okay, here's the setup. Get your stuff ready, because today at three the Wilson Plumbing Company truck pulls up and parks around back. A guy I taught to shoot owns the business. We slip into the vehicle and the driver takes us to another location. Behind an old pack house waits our four-wheel-drive red pickup with the king cab. In the truck lies a fake driver's license." He handed Samantha a pair of scissors and a waste paper basket. "I don't use mirrors. Snip off this red pony tail."

"Sure, Kid."

After pruning the ponytail, she produced a crate Jennifer had purchased from a party shop, with instructions for the contents ordered by the Kid. The container held a joker with a three-cornered hat. Thanks to wheels, gears, and springs, a buffoon did a dance, which made the three-hat bells ring. Samantha removed the lid, "Here, Kid, Jennifer bought this wig and fake mustache to match the driver's license in the driver's door storage area, but those won't cover the mashed-in nose and the scar on your left cheek."

"Samantha, I'll say the right side is the worst to throw them off." He burst with laughter, while Samantha, holding the container, rotated the top clockwise to jar the joker into motion.

"Samantha, don't you understand?"

Her lips formed a sly smile. "What, Kid?"

"Nothing, Smarty-Pants."

Samantha sent Spiffy a broad grin. "Here's a black Stetson hat, fake eye glasses, and a mustache."

Next, the Kid removed a men's long-sleeved priest's clerical garment. He spoke in a low voice while using his eyes for detective work. "Ever been a choir boy, Jim?"

With a hand on each shoulder, Jim took the shirt and pressed the attire to his chest for sizing. "No, ain't been no choirboy. I'm a Protestant."

The Kid thought. His face nor body shows a flicker of anything—not an eye blink, not a twitch or a swallow. A good acting job? The whole scheme produced nothing about Jim.

The Kid's head tilted. "Wait. Turn around and lemme' strip your jacket and then try the shirt again."

The Kid thought. Something's in the right side. The pockets slant back. Tip the coat and dislodge the object.

"See Kid? Ain't no better."

At an angle, the Kid held out the windbreaker. An object fell to the floor.

The Kid picked up the blade. "What's this?"

"It'sa tantō. Jap suicide knife. Got me a Jap sword, too."

"Interesting, Jim," said the Kid.

"Aw, yeah. Kid. The hat with the glasses will be enough for me. I'll put the mustache back in the box."

"Yes. Now. Here's the rest of the plan. Maintaining secrecy is paramount. Spiffy knows what he talks about. A failure to shake those media people will lead to them hounding us every step of the way. If we must, we'll head for the huge regions, such as the George Washington National Forest. We don't wish to hunt the area, because of Samantha's health. Spiffy, we'll try the small areas around Keeling, Virginia that I memorized like the back of my hand. If the weather becomes cold and rainy, we head for a motel. I'll carry five thousand in cash. Also, should we need more, Danville has a BB&T bank. Something else — a couple of our people are spreading the word we'll be hunting in Caswell County. Assuming this ploy works, the media will be on the wrong side of the Dan River. Afterwards, we play the role of the fox— they want find us until we bag a turkey. Remember, even these days, a great deal of backwoods lies in Virginia. Spiffy, field strip the shotguns. Place them into the largest suitcase. We're breaking several laws, so the guns must be disguised, too."

"Kid," said Samantha. "I never thought to ask. What do you consider a large turkey?

"I got one that went twenty five. You find one bigger in the woods, you'll appreciate huge. Unlike me, Jim, Twenty-one Points never lies. The light, the desire, the forest--with other factors--might cause the eye to play tricks. For the same reason, Jim is a solid person. The turkey has to exist. In any case, the locals whisper about Goliath."

Jim ran his fingers through his blond hair. "Thank you, Kid, for sayin' them things. I'll work hard fer you. You too, Spiffy. Samantha, don't doncha worry. We'll pull this here thing off."

"Thanks, Jim. Now, where doth yon mountain lie?"

The Kid's lips and jaw tensed. "It's the place we spent the night in the snow."

Samantha wrung her hands. "You're giving me the heebie-jeebies."

"Samantha, let me give you the whole story. About seventy yards below the ledge lies Billy Goat Rock. Three feet beyond is the several thousand acres owned by R.W. Slaughter. His nickname is Ross. The authorities have located four bodies—Ross is more than a person of interest."

"I don't want to enter the area."

"If I say so, you will."

"Remember what I almost did to myself? Now you remind me about the corpses on the property. A killer or killers... No-no-no."

He put her in a bear hug. "Settle down."

"Did you do some checking?"

"I've made a lot of phone calls, but nobody says anything. I'm not Sherlock Holmes. Let the authorities handle the situation."

Samantha nodded. "If in any way you can help, let's forget the turkey. All those people..."

Apart from the ticking of a grandfather clock beside the fireplace, the room fell silent.

The Kid sucked a breath. "As long as we have a reasonable alternative, we'll forgo the Slaughter place. You suck up the fact, young lady."

The kid's cell rang in Spiffy's pocket. With one hand he swept back his black hair; with the other, he picked up the phone. He listened, pointed to the door, and handed the phone to the Kid.

The Kid stepped out. "Petty, what's up?"

"I stole the bracelet. You in Wilbanks?"

"Yes."

"I'm going by the post office in an hour. Listen. Gotcha ears on, Kid?"

"Yeah."

"As I left, the sheriff's deputies showed up, asking to search the house. The nut job started following them while playing a violin. He played "Hearts and Flowers." Keep listening. He comes to Marilyn's. They ask him to leave. I drop by a grocery store. You guessed the answer. He stands beside the counter, staring. He makes me shiver. He doesn't smile. He says next time he wants to tie me up in the basement."

"Stay away from him. I like to fight. I might pay him a visit."

"I won't go back. Keep in touch."

Reentering the room, he fumbled with the phone. "As I said, young lady, you'll suck it up. Now listen. Once you pass Billy Goat Rock, you go downhill. The descent to the bottom is two hundred feet. The temperature's cooler at the base."

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Try last January."

The Kid's jaws tightened. "No sarcasm, please. You come to a lush meadow surrounded by mature oaks. The turkey hunting's excellent because Ross patrols the area to keep everybody off. Samantha, nobody will harm you."

"But we won't hunt the acreage except as a last resort, right?"

"Correct, we'll try White Oak Mountain first."

### Chapter 20

As planned, the plumbing truck arrived at four. After twenty minutes, the group crept to the van. The plumber drove them away.

Three hours later, they sat in a motel in Danville, Virginia, where they had escaped the media. The Kid issued a pep talk and at the conclusion, Samantha requested to rehearse more gun mounts. He refused.

He brushed a lock of hair from her right eye, gave her a three-stroke knuckle haircut, and blew air onto her scalp. He knew the puff of air felt like spit landing.

With wide eyes and an open mouth, she touched the spot. "Dry. Now your joke sucked." She pummeled him with openhanded blows, while Spiffy laughed and Jim chuckled.

He grabbed her, squeezed, and twisted. He thought, her shotgun skills approach perfection, but she fails to rock forward when she dry fires. If she shoots my 12 gauge without rocking to the front, most likely the recoil will pitch her backward.

***

They left the motel at three a.m. and stopped at an all-night greasy spoon. An hour later they stood a half-mile into the woods near the bottom of the mountain.

He placed his cupped hands around his lips. "From now on, everybody whispers. This is the first day— six more weeks remain in the season. Didja hear the noise?"

Jim nodded." A turkey done gobbled."

The Kid blinked one time. "He's perched on a limb about four hundred yards straight down this draw. The woods has many hunters on opening day, but on this section, the place is vacant; so let's try him."

He lowered his facemask, and so did the others. He whispered for Spiffy to come closer. He crept about twenty yards and leaned against a red oak tree. He began to chew on his mixture of chewing gum and garlic, making his jaw jump, which gave the mask the appearance of a bat caught in a butterfly net. The Kid chose a pebble and tossed it to hit Spiffy's right shoulder. The rock did the trick. Spiffy stopped chomping.

He slipped a diaphragm call on top of his tongue. The instrument left his hands free. He knew calling a turkey to the gun was one of his strengths. After moistening the frame and reeds, he sent air through to make a yelp followed by a cluck. The sound went forth as an invisible hook, which advanced to the turkey's ears and brain to snare the turkey with attractive love thoughts.

The Kid nudged Samantha. "Hear him swoop downward, Honey?"

"Heard something. That him?"

Jim chuckled. "Don't matter. Not important. Your ears ain't trained for the sound."

The Kid smiled. "Let's try some yelps, cackles, and purrs to determine his willingness to come to us."

Nature sent a sassy female house wren to perch on Samantha's gun barrel. With head and tail pointing skyward, the bird posed as if she were a beauty queen. Samantha blinked. The bird darted.

The next gobble rang within range of the normal ear. Samantha stiffened. Realizing the waist-high brush to the front would cover his movement, the Kid patted her knee to telegraph confidence and comfort with father-daughter closeness. He called. The turkey gobbled. This pattern continued until the creature approached. He tarried below the screen, still at a hundred yards of total distance, but the bird would need to come seventy closer to give Samantha a good shot. The Kid sent a purr. The tom double-gobbled. Instead of approaching, the animal left the narrow valley to climb up a hardwood ridge, away from their position.

The Kid's head dropped. "Yikes, guys. This boy must own a hen or so. She's leading him far afield. Listen— Spiffy, Jim, follow me. Samantha, stay here. We're moving down this ridge to find out if we can call him back. This is a slow gobbling day. We get him or nothing, unless a stray tom drifts by."

She compressed her lips and shook her head.

"Samantha, why No? You'll nail a turkey, but first, listen to me."

"Kid, I'm scared to be alone in this big woods."

"Samantha, you shouldn't be. What frightens you? You didn't show any fear last winter on the mountain."

"Everything slept. Now, Kid, anything: a rabid animal, a snake, or a bad person might arrive."

"Oh, Samantha, think of your ancestors. I'd rather not leave Spiffy. Stop being a baby. The gun you hold—did the instrument come as a prize from a package of breakfast cereal?"

"Nope."

"Use the firearm to shoot whatever alarms you."

"Do I even nail a human being?"

"Samantha, tell them to stop where they stand and leave. If they refuse, put one in the very middle of the chest."

"Why can't Spiffy stay with me?"

"A big old tom might come. Remember, I've been calling from here. Those calls make this the best spot for a stray gobbler to appear. My intuition says the gobbling turkey won't return for you to get a shot. At least one female has him in tow."

"Kid, I'll stay, but suppose the man who killed those women creeps up on me?"

"Jim, what would you make book on the killer being in these woods?"

"No tellin'. Millions to one."

"Hang tough, Samantha. I want you to learn to feel safe in woods by yourself, too. We'll return in a bit."

The Kid, Spiffy, and Jim drifted down the ridge. In moments, they disappeared.

The recent rains kept the ground soft with moisture, but if the dampness had been gone, the leaves would have given off a crunchy sound. Now wet, man or beast could drift across them as quietly as a cat walking on carpet.

Samantha sat. For fifteen minutes, her eyes swept the woods to pick up something. Movement appeared on the perimeter of the forest curtain. Believing the motion to be some large animal such as a deer or a human being, since the fleck happened at chest-high level, she shivered. With her vision, she smothered the spot. Her stomach tensed.

Two men stepped into view, one an angular man dressed in camouflage clothing with a face composed of misarranged parts. The left ear dipped lower than the right while one eye rode higher than its counterpart did. Concerning disfigurements, these items took second place to a mouth of rotted stumps.

His partner wore brown pants, but no shirt. He showed a smile that resembled that of a frog; the contortion stretched from one earlobe to the other, and when the lips sealed, teeth did not show. Nastiest of all, bulging beady black pupils gazed. Those dark eyes locked with Samantha's.

"Stay where you are. Go away."

The toothless one stared. "Ain't friendly, is ya' darlin′?"

His amphibian-faced friend crumpled a beer can and burped as he flung the container over his shoulder. The discarded vessel dinged upon bouncing off a chair-size stone.

"Hester, you dang fool. I bet somebody done listen to dat."

Both men paused for several minutes. Nothing moved in or near the forest curtain. They relaxed.

"Don't you worry none," said the angular self-appointed spokesman. He approached until he struck the twenty-five yard mark, which placed him in gun range. She brought the .410-pump from her lap to the ready position.

The man with decayed teeth grinned. "Hello dar. We′s coming over."

"Go away, please." Her trembling voice betrayed her gestures with the .410.

"Shoot, little girl." The leader stepped forward. He swept the firearm from her grasp.

"Hester, dis here skirt done wears sumpin' purty around her neck. Pull that thang all the way out."

Samantha shuddered.

Hester collapsed as a stone struck his nose. Blood flew. Samantha screamed. Hester lay dazed.

Something stunned his companion. He staggered, fell, gained his feet, but dropped again.

Hester, recovering, struggled to one knee. Jim kicked him in the face. Hester, flattened, rolled to his side and grew still.

The Kid appeared with Spiffy. A twenty-four inch black sling dangled from the Kid's right hand.

Samantha, crying, wringing her hands, cascaded into hysteria.

The Kid rocked her. "Now, Sugar, easy, whoa."

She breathed in short burst. "Wh-what to-took you?"

"What took us? A tinkle of metal meeting rock told me something occurred here. So we hauled back pronto. We come up the draw running on stones, when possible, to limit the noise. Jim's faster than us. The rest, you know. Tell me everything else."

"Lo-ve you. You speak- cra-zy."

"Samantha, the first stone to strike Hester belonged to me. Who threw the second? Spiffy, find the other. The additional may tell us something."

"Ah yeah, Spiffy's three steps ahead of you. Here it is by this log. A rubber band is holding a note in place."

The Kid took the stone, removed the retainer, flipped the message, and smiled. "Reveal yourself, Chameleon. You hide nearby." He showed the card. "Here's the proof."

A voice floated from the woods. "Nobody ever sees me. With your good hearing, plus the ability to pinpoint sound down to a square foot, you realize where I stand. Finish here, and don't harbor any concerns— the decent people will withhold support from these two. Do the essentials. I'll trail you."

With his eyes welded open, the Kid gazed at the spot his senses computed. As forecast, beside an opening a shimmer developed. He seized Samantha's hand. "By the hickory tree!"

Samantha regained her composure. "Nope, stay cool, dude. The Chameleon takes cover behind brush or something."

"Not so. Please listen. Never have I witnessed anyone hide in an opening while using the forest shutter as a backdrop. He waits long enough for all of you to give up. He realizes and appreciates my persistence. However, he hopes I will miss his movement, which I don't. His next move proves ordinary. He uses the four-foot wide red oak to the left to cover his exit, since the other tree is too small. Did you get a glimpse of him, Jim?"

"A flicker."

Samantha preened her hair and smoothed her clothes. "Kid, how far did you go after the turkey?"

"Hmm, about three-hundred yards. Why?"

"Oh, Kid, you detect the tinkle of a crumpled beer can striking a rock at such a distance?"

"Yeah, tell me the reason for not shooting."

"Okay. They come. They put me in jail. We're finished turkey hunting."

"Oh, Samantha. Next time, shoot. I'll manage the details. Samantha, fingers in ears and close eyes. Remember. You needn't witness what happens next."

The Kid rose. He approached Hester, whose feet scraped the ground while he struggled to rise; to reward his efforts, the Kid drove his right foot into Hester's ribs.

His next target stood, started off in a shuffling stumble to escape; in one stride, the Kid caught him by the nape of the neck. With one good snatch, he yanked him backwards, slamming the second target into a pine tree, where he flopped on the leaves like a burlap bag full of shucked corn. With a final tumble, his legs spread apart. The Kid thought: here's opportunity. He used his right foot.

The four viewed the scene, while two men caught their breath. The Kid, though not as swift as Jim or as strong as Spiffy--perhaps due to the metabolism of the monkey body--suffered neither fatigue nor rapid breath.

He gazed at his followers. "Our thinking is incorrect. We saw these people from our passenger side window outside the hot dog stand this morning. They followed us. We worry about the media yet this happens; nevertheless, we face other issues."

With a wave, he sent Jim to Spiffy's side. Putting his arm around Samantha, he led her to a dry streambed. "Sugar, you called the Chameleon, right?"

She nodded.

"Cooperate with him. Be smart. The police are looking for him, too. Stay here twenty minutes to select a dozen stones for my sling. Me, Jim, Spiffy need to cross some bridges."

***

Over the last several days, a series of ideas had sprouted in his brain. When thoughts occurred, Spiffy and Jim needed to be informed.

He told them, "I won't put up with Mean Man much longer—I must kill him. The messier the killing, the messier the cleanup, and how messy depends on factors too difficult to predict." He touched Spiffy's arm. "Remember the Rocky Mountain goat trick." Spiffy responded with a nod.

Jim rose to his feet. "Sorry, guys, gotta go to the bathroom." He hustled off toward the brush.

Spiffy chuckled. "Wait up, Jim. You've given me inspiration." Upon leaving, he nodded to the Kid.

The Kid squatted and stirred leaves with a stick. Spiffy was going to try for a DNA sample.

Ten minutes later, Jim returned. Spiffy came back in fifteen. At the right moment, he gave the Kid a headshake.

"Since you two have finished your 'business,' let's continue. The Chameleon, for some reason, has a vigilante complex— therefore, he wants a share in the punishment of the murderer or murderers of the people found on Mr. Slaughter's property. Furthermore, the possibility exists for a personal connection to at least one of the murders. Ross Slaughter is probably the killer, but do not rule out the possibility that another individual or individuals are the perps."

Spiffy stared at the Kid. Jim did not make eye contact, but he blinked faster, while his feet angled away from them.

"To the point, Samantha's quest for a gobbler no longer occupies first place."

Samantha came back laughing, attempting to juggle four stones with little success.

The Kid slung on his backpack and picked up his gun. "Ready?"

"But ..." She pointed at the beaten men. "Shouldn't you call the emergency squad?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Samantha, listen. Never mind." He thought: The naiveté of youth.

He looked at her and stroked his chin. "Pay attention, gang. My watch says eleven forty- five and Virginia has a twelve o'clock shooting deadline until the last two weeks of the season. The cutoff time forces us to confront reality—opening day lapses, we get no shot. Don't fret, Honey. You'll drop a turkey in the leaves. What I can't tell is when. Tomorrow is Sunday. I have to make some phone calls. Me and Spiffy may visit a friend Sunday evening. Samantha, I'll arrange for Priscilla to come at sundown. At eight-thirty, lights out."

"Great, we'll catch up on our girl talk."

"Jim, call me if their room isn't dark by nine."

"Yes, Suh. You da' boss."

### Chapter 21

The Kid tapped on Samantha's door.

In five minutes Priscilla, with her usual peek-a-boo glance, swung the entrance open and left.

He entered. "Today's Monday. The weather forecast calls for a low of sixty with a high of eighty-three, without a cloud in the sky. Load up."

She rubbed sleep from her eyes. "We awoke early and snapped on the TV. What methods can the authorities use to hook this serial killer? Or killers?"

"Don't worry, Samantha. The cops will succeed."

They piled into the red four-by-four. Fifty minutes later, they halted beside a mixed forest of pine, oak, and yellow poplar, which lay four miles west of Keeling, Virginia.

A three-quarter moon supplied the predawn light, and the hooting of great horned owls signaled goodbye to the dark, with their familiar, ''Who cooks for you," while the cries of whippoorwills echoed from ridge to valley.

Sunup arrived. Through the forest screen fifty feet away, five coyotes appeared, dashed, and pranced into a meadow.

Oh, boy! What a day! What a girl! She's confident. She holds the .410 with both hands four inches below the muzzle with the butt plate on the leaves.

"Ready, Samantha?" She nodded.

Five minutes passed. The sounds of yelps, clucks, and gobbles mingled with songs from varieties of birds and insects.

They took a logging path which wound to the top of a ridge. Stopping at the summit, pulling her closer, he spoke into her ear. "Take-your-pick time, Sam."

"Yup. You mean 'Samantha.' Check."

"Correction— Samantha."

"Cool. The turkey gobbling his brains out to our left— sounds like he gobbles from a tree halfway along the ridge. Perhaps we'll be able to slip up on the dude by following the crest. Then we come out above him. Calling him in will be as easy as making snot on a cold day."

"Samantha, you've read those books on my shelves. In addition, you possess good auditory acuity. Time to get moving."

A quizzical expression crossed Jim's face. "What does audie cuty mean?"

Spiffy turned to Jim with his palms up. "She has the ears of a bat."

The Kid listened while the gobbler continued his love song. From their starting point, this bird lay five hundred yards away. When the distance shrunk to seventy, he would be in calling range, but still hidden, because these woods consisted of mature timber, which meant that from any given area, the turkey's vision penetrated in an uneven line. For about fifty yards before that length, the Kid would have the forest to provide invisibility.

On the approach, the Kid saw five abandoned buildings—years ago he had learned about heart pine and its resistance to decay. Several doors lay on the ground because the hinges had failed, owing to rust. Boards had fallen due to nail failure, but those constructed of resin-laden wood challenged rot for years. All of the buildings' foundations sat on native rocks. The craft persons had worked with selected stones matching them to hide cracks. As a result, human skill created art. With the marriage to gravity, the structure stood.

After the last building, he motioned for them to follow him to the edge of a twenty-foot stream, with a temperature in the forties. To ford a creek in April over boulders of varying sizes with an uneven bottom could have been trouble.

The Kid watched and listened as the water tumbled over and around rocks large and small.

He crossed first.

Spiffy received her gun and handed the .410 to Jim. "Take two?"

"Sure."

Spiffy crouched. She climbed on. With his size twelve shoes, he took them across in nine strides.

"Play football in college?" said Samantha.

"Linebacker. Go Pumas."

The Kid nodded. "Nice job crossing, gang. Nobody has wet socks, huh? Try not to fall in on the way out— it's early spring and the water's cold. Now, let's hurry to a good setup. Spiffy, follow me, Samantha next, and Jim, stay in the back. " He stroked Samantha's hair. Cheer up."

Samantha, cheer up, Samantha cheer up, she thought. Kid, you dorkster, sometimes I don't get you. All Jim will do is stare at my nice rear. Little good the view'll do him. Yeah, Jim Gunther, he gives me the creeps. He's handsome and very confident, but something's wonky about him. I'll stay a virgin before he or any creepy person touches me. Hey, think, girl. He has hunted the Slaughter property. I wonder...

As she touched the Kid's shoulder, a turkey gobbled. His head tilted in that direction. "The old boy gobbles for us. When we get to the spot, be prepared. He'll run in or fly to us. He might sort of slip in."

She faced him and held her hands out palms up, "But what about—"

"Quiet."

With an air of skepticism, Spiffy, Samantha, and Jim stared at him.

"Kid— what's up?" said Samantha.

"Someone's following us. Listen— footsteps. Also, the crack of a stick. Both sounds come from one hundred yards to the left." He nodded toward the direction of the noise. "He stopped. He hunts the same turkey. Perhaps he doesn't comprehend our presence. He stands behind the drape so I can't detect him. At this point, the screen doesn't waver much, anyway. He takes two---no, let's say three steps. I'll bet he listens for us due to the turkey gobbling his brains out. This person hesitates to move into position to call. Okay, gang, we'll play the game this way. We go ahead and hunt while I watch this individual with my ears. Perhaps, 'the dude,' as Samantha calls some people, lacks hunting skills and means no problem for us. At any rate, we find ourselves too involved with this turkey to look for another. Are we set?"

"Owl ears call the shots," said Samantha.

Jim nodded. "Right, Samantha."

Ten minutes later, they huddled among a mixed stand of white and red oaks, which included some scattered brush. Many years before, the area served a family farm to house and cure tobacco. The Kid and Samantha rested their backs on large trees while Spiffy leaned against a curing barn with a foundation made from stones. Beside the structure lay a sprawled tin roof, which covered the skeleton of a tobacco looping shelter. Jim, with lighter-colored camouflaged clothing, blended with an ordering pit, a four-foot foundation constructed with native rock. Much of the underpinning supported a blanket of honeysuckle, Virginia creeper, and poison ivy. This back cover, for all four, rendered them invisible from behind.

Instead of a mouth or a box call, the Kid selected one made of slate, of the friction variety. It came with an acrylic striker. He issued a number of yelps. This imitation of one hen calling to seek another triggered the lovesick tom to glide to earth, confirmed by the "whump whump" sound of his wings arresting his airspeed, putting him softly down. After landing, he double clucked at the base of the tree. Pausing for ten seconds, he triple gobbled. The Kid drew the striker across the slate in a backward question mark to create a sexy purr to excite the tom. To arouse him further, he punctuated the sound with a series of yelps, but the gobbling ceased.

He sprung to Spiffy's side, whispered something, and slid to Samantha. "My ears warn me. Someone approaches from behind."

"Same here. Next to yours, mine are best."

He chewed his bottom lip. "It's bad news. I'll betcha' the turkey's coming. Let's hope the bird arrives before the intruder. Sit here. I'll take a position on your side of the shoulder-high boulder and watch. Give me the instruction I want to hear."

"Gotcha," said Samantha. "When he goes behind anything opaque, I place the gunstock under my armpit. When he approaches to within thirty-five yards, I wait for him to vanish behind something else. After he becomes visible, I shoot, or he might tuck his neck and head, puff up his feathers, spread his tail, and strut. Most of the time, he'll turn around. Okay, shoulder the shotgun and be patient until he pivots. Whew."

"Samantha, who loves ya'?"

"You do."

He swallowed a lump. He moved to the boulder. Why did his skin crawl? If the footsteps continue, the failure of the owner to pause will spoil the hunt.

The turkey drew closer. After stopping and double gobbling, he ran toward Samantha, closing the distance to seventy-five yards.

Mean Man burst into view and rushed to the gobbler. Samantha went to the ready position. The creature caught sight of the intruder sprinting and waving his arms. Its powerful wings drove him skyward while a tail wind increased the speed to forty-five miles per hour.

"You suck!" screamed Samantha.

The Kid stood mute. He paced to the right. Spiffy started to rise, but the Kid motioned for him to stay seated. Aside from the contracting and rising of his upper body, the enemy remained motionless, his face exemplifying mental incompetence.

He signaled for Samantha to lower the hammer on the .410. "Did you enjoy your trick?"

A maniacal grin swept Mean Man's face. "Yeah Kid, you like the show?"

"Let's fight," said the Kid.

His grin did not fade. "Sounds good to me."

"Fine, give me a few minutes." He walked to Samantha, gestured with his fingers, and she followed him for a quiet talk. "Samantha, walk back to the pickup with Jim."

Jim moved into their space. "Right Samantha," He seized her shoulder and shook her. "This ain't no place for a girl."

She snatched away as if he'd metamorphosed into a brain-eating zombie. "I am not a child. I'm not going."

The Kid pulled her by both shoulders until their faces lay inches apart. "Yes, you will."

Her eyeballs floated. "This scene scares me. Can I stay? If anything goes wrong, I'll give him a free one in the chest."

He fought a smile. "Do what I say."

"Can you take this sucker?"

"You betcha! Back to our truck, hit the trail with Jim."

His pupil sashayed through the woods until they vanished into the curtain. He sucked air. "Will a fistfight satisfy you? A struggle that leaves the other whipped?"

"Why not?" Mean Man jerked a forest green camouflage handkerchief from his pocket to bind his forehead, but he failed to discover an object which the bandanna dislodged. With the exception of the Kid, the item fell unnoticed.

"Say, Mean Man, how about we hold this little altercation across the stream?"

"You planning something?"

"Several of these trees are easy to climb. If I happen to beat your tail, you cannot say I used them as I did the scaffold. So let's fight in the clearing. We eliminate climbing from the equation."

"Sounds okay to me."

The Kid paused, extended his hand toward the path with palm up. The trick worked. Mean Man left first. The Kid snagged the fallen object from the ground. In minutes the Kid, Spiffy, and Mean Man stood among the heart pine buildings.

He withdrew the item. "Oh, by the way, I believe this red and white cord belongs to you."

Mean Man slapped at his pocket. He studied the Kid's eyes. The Kid backed up.

"Satisfy me about something. How did you find us here after we ducked the media?"

"Easy. I hired a detective to trail you. He stayed at a distance to keep me posted with a cell phone."

The Kid stuck out one arm and leaned against a tree. "Where is this private dick now?"

"I paid him about an hour before light this morning. He left."

"You murdered those people. Why else would you carry a three-foot length of one-quarter inch polyester cord? This won't stretch. The material makes the perfect strangulation tool."

The mild-mannered features from long ago when he hunted with the Kid appeared.

Mean Man leaned his gun on a maple tree. "I use the rope only to tie turkey legs. Others do the same thing. Listen— let's forget this whole issue of fighting. I shouldn't have spooked the turkey."

"Good idea. I'll find another tom for Samantha. If we—"

In a blink, the gentleman of old submerged. The reinstatement of the maniac took place. Lunging for Spiffy, grabbing him by a shoulder, he pressed a stiletto to his throat.

"It's over. Release him. If you kill him, I'll run away. The sheriff will come and lock you up, but one alternative remains."

"What?"

He threw the cord, which landed on Spiffy's shoulder. "Now, take Spiffy over to the small oak tree. Tie him. Fight me. Murder me. Finish Spiffy. Next, hunt down Samantha and Jim. Leave. You stand a good chance of lying your way out of everything. Perhaps you should do away with any more rope you have on you or might be laying around the house."

"Ease over here, Kid. Lay the pump gun at Spiffy's feet. Wait— empty the shells first."

He tied Spiffy to the tree, seized the shotgun, placed the muzzle to the ground, and with all his might, shoved the barrel ten inches into the dirt. He pulled hard sideways to deform the equipment.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, such crude mistreatment of a fine hardware renders me speechless."

Mean Man brandished the stiletto. "Soon you'll be more than speechless. You'll be dead."

The Kid drew his hunting knife. He had honed the edge. The blade would cut through a piece of notebook paper.

With a stiletto, Mean Man counted on a stab for victory.

They faced each other. The Kid brought his knife to eye level, a foot from his right cheek.

"Take him, Chameleon!" yelled Spiffy.

Mean Man spun one hundred and eighty degrees. He'd fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. The Kid struck. The steel entered, severing the right jugular. Blood spurted.

He dropped the stiletto and covered the wound with his palm, trying to staunch the red tide, but to no avail. Fighting terror, he slammed his left hand over the right.

The Kid slashed the other jugular. A ruby waterfall flooded him from the neck down. Panicking, he stretched forth his bloody hands to attack, but the Kid pushed him down. He rose and fell. Struggling to his knees, enduring a moment, flopping forward, he died in minutes from shock.

His eyes lay still. His tongue protruded. A bluebottle fly buzzed, landed, and strolled on his bald scalp. Another alighted. Good news travels fast.

The Kid ran to untie Spiffy. He rubbed his rope-sore wrists, flexed his shoulders, shivered, stroked his brow, slumped forward on one knee, and vomited.

After dropping beside Spiffy, the Kid smiled. "Are you able to hold together?"

"He never got his soul right, did he?" He spat three times, wiped his mouth with a balled fist, and swabbed the hand on his shirt. He puked again. "Oh, Kid." This time he croaked nothing. Staring at the sun, he trembled. "His soul? How..."

"A real mess here," said the Kid. "Let's move. Will you ever mention anything about this?"

"Tell what?"

"Gotcha."

With a crack, a projectile struck and shattered bark on a hickory tree. The Kid sprinted to retrieve the object.

"What's this?" said the Kid. He examined the item, a ball bearing with a card attached. "This must be from the Chameleon. Oh, yes, the back says, 'I note the act of public service. Remember his weapon. His car's old. I'll short-wire the vehicle and ditch it.'"

"Spiffy, my gosh, how could we forget the stiletto?"

Spiffy sprung to his feet. Sprinting to the spot, grabbing the dagger, vomiting, he gulped air before thrusting the point into Mean Man's back "Where can we put the body?"

"The basement of the ordering pit," said the Kid.

In his college days, the Kid had worked in ordering pits. He remembered the farmers used the two-story buildings to increase moisture in tobacco. To bring into order meant to take dry heat-cured leaves, which would shatter when handled, and put the foliage into the cellar tied to sticks where the leaves absorbed water from the damp air. This makes the material flexible to work into bunches ready for market. Once the tobacco comes into order, they hand pass the sticks through a trap door in the floor to the upstairs workers, who remove the leaves from the sticks and tie the vegetation into bundles.

They sprinted the fifty feet to the entrance.

The Kid knew how heart pine resisted rot. A forgotten Virginia craftsperson had labored well in hanging the door, and the roof sported a two-foot overhang which protected the hinges and nails from rain. At a later date, someone had attached a fixed staple hasp, secured with a case-hardened lock, making an entry available only to a strong person with the correct tools.

The Kid shook his head. "We can't bust through. Even if possible, the damage would draw attention. The structure is heart pine. I'll bet the lock is to keep kids out. Check in back."

After two minutes, Spiffy's head stuck around the corner. He grinned like a mule with a mouth full of briars. With his fingers, he summoned the Kid. "Look."

The Kid's lips parted and his jaw dangled. "Someone knocked a hole to crawl down."

"And found no treasure and crawled out," said Spiffy.

Laughing, the Kid rubbed his hands together. "This is where the body goes. The stones bumped inside will fit into the opening. They rejected these in the pile to the left. Hmm, bet they brought the load with mules and a cart."

In he went, with fury, and boosted rocks to the opening. Spiffy made a pile. After the last stone clicked as it hit the stack, Spiffy dug a heel into the ground on each side of the cavity. Positioning himself into the hollow, locking hands to wrist, Spiffy lugged him to daylight. Five minutes later, they pulled on a leg of the three-hundred pound corpse. Halfway, Spiffy stopped, leaned over, and placed his palms on his knees. His stomach shuddered. With ruckus, he dry heaved. He spat and his nose wrinkled. "Aw, what a stink! Blood, sweat, urine, and the load in his pants—yeah, that's the worst."

The Kid grinned at Spiffy. "Reach down—don't be a wussie."

"For you, Kid."

They reached the opening.

Thousands of flies buzzed. With a blue background, four turkey buzzards, seeking carrion by their sense of smell ascended and descended, curved and circled. The Kid pointed. "Those poor devils don't understand we're gonna cheat 'em, big time. Okay, push his feet together to line him up with the cavity."

The Kid sailed into the pit and, reaching back, he grabbed the cooling ankles; outside, Spiffy lifted the shoulders. Together they moved the corpse forward. On the way in, the top of the entrance stripped the stiletto from Mean Man's back. With a thump, he crashed to the bottom. The flies boiled in excitement.

The Kid threw the blade and the rocks out. Spiffy grabbed him under the arms and assisted his exit. With no pause, they began replacing stones. The first consumed a few minutes but, similar to a jigsaw puzzle, the pace increased with the disappearance of pieces. Within one hour, with a final scratch and click, the Kid slid the last rock into place.

Spiffy ran to the brook and put his lips into the stream. He slurped and drank faster than a horse. They washed the blood from their hands, and clothes. When they finished, the Kid sucked a breath and tossed the stiletto into the channel.

They ran.

Spiffy regained his color.

They approached the pickup. The Kid thought: Something's not right. She sits, leaning against a tire, in a ball, with her cheeks near her knees.

"Talk to me, Jim," said the Kid.

"She wouldn't let me tote her or hold her arm. She fell in."

The Kid pulled her to her feet. He pressed her to the truck. His right hand moved to the back of her neck as he forced her face into his chest. "Talk to me, Samantha."

"Ki, Kid. You-you smell worse than a go-goat."

"The sweat with an adrenaline rush or something, I don't know. Spiffy, here's the truck keys. Bring her dry clothes. Get them to me. Do this, but turn your back to us. Jim, find some fuel for a fire."

Jim sprinted into the woods. Spiffy responded. The Kid drew his blade to cut off her wet clothes. He thought. Thank goodness, I rinsed my knife.

He wrapped his body around hers to hide her nudity as well as to provide heat. After removing her garments, he ensured the gold necklace rested around her neck.

"Spiffy, find my overcoat."

After bringing her clothes and the Kid's coat, with his stomach churning, straight to the truck he went, where he positioned his face down on the hood. Using his forearms, he covered his scalp.

The coat failed to stem the shivering. He thought: She's queasy. Don't take the coat off now. Dress her after she warms a little. Turn her around. Lower her to the ground. Let her rest on her hands and knees. Swing your right arm under her stomach for support— hold her head with the left hand. Pull her to you. Tighten the grip. That's a tidal wave of nausea engulfing her now.

Her eyes bulged. "Oh, Kid. Oh, Kid."

She banged out two chest-rattling retches. Her lungs sucked in air. An inner chill swept her. Her stomach seized. She pressed her palms to her temples. "My head." With a croak, most of her breakfast spewed on the ground. He held her. His right arm curled around her waist with the hand supporting the abdomen, his palm upon her forehead to lend support. With another croak, she vomited the remainder of her meal. The next heave produced a green fluid. The area stunk. She spat three times with a "thu" sound. "Oh, Kid! Oh, Kid!" The Kid prevented her from falling face down. Something from behind popped. A boot came down beside him. The quarter-inch gap between leather and pant cuff revealed black skin. The Chameleon bent over, placed a light silver hand warmer on the leaves. The device operated on lighter fluid. He added his business card with a thermos bottle. With his fingers, he stroked the Kid's back. Like magic, the Chameleon disappeared.

Jim returned. He began a fire.

"Spiffy, right now! Get Ervin on the cell!"

"How do I look?" said Samantha.

"The same as always— you possess the air of a Native American princess."

"Kid, you lie like whale doo doo on the bottom of the ocean. Now tell the truth, Kid. I love you. Besides, my character can absorb punishment."

"Your eyes pull back into the skull. The pallor of the skin gives you the appearance of a corpse."

"Not cool, Kid, not smooth either. I feel better when you fib. Kid, my train pulls into the station."

Without pause, the Kid picked her up, carried her beside the truck, and plopped her in the normal sitting position. "Now hold on, Miss. What's in front of you? Tell me."

"The usual—the forest, bushes, songbirds, all sorts of stuff."

"Correct, but do you visualize a turkey flopping with a load of number four shot from your pump shotgun?"

"Nope."

"Good, because the train departs without you until you view a big old red, white, and blue head of a tom with the iridescent black feathers flopping in the leaves. With imagination, picture a locomotive, with a conductor getting off. Now stick up your hand. Wave good-bye to the bastard. Fine. Young woman, we will not allow you to let yourself, me, Spiffy, or Jim down. Reach inside. Get a grip on those guts. Hang on."

"Kid."

"What?"

"Don't, don't curse anymore."

"Okay. We make a deal. You don't die, I improve my speech. Take a drink of the Chameleon's best. No need for me to sample the liquid— we can trust him."

She drank. "Kid, the Chameleon makes great hot chocolate. Now we learn something else about him."

The beverage stayed down.

She fainted.

She awoke. "That icy water must have broken my body's strength to fight. The cancer has caught up with me." Some color returned. She smiled. "You killed Mean Man, right?"

"Naw, the coward walked away."

"Nope, you cooled him. You came back too clean and smooth. I believe I understand why your shirt cuffs are wet. I say he rides the one I missed."

"Samantha, the ride you passed up goes the wrong way for him, perhaps. Now, Sweetheart, relax. Knowing Ervin as I do, an ambulance from the Triangle Regional Hospital will arrive soon. Remember, three weeks remain before the turkey season ends."

### Chapter 22

For fifteen days, she floated back and forth between reality and dreamland. The doctors traveled the distance. For the first time, she agreed to chemo, blood transfusions, along with a host of medicines. She demonstrated steel. She fought. She rallied. On May 12th., she sent for him.

***

The doctor smiled as he administered a sedative to Samantha. "Mr. Hendricks, you're the one they refer to as the Tobacco Land Kid, correct?"

"Yes Sir, call me Kid."

Spiffy appeared at the door. The Kid waved him in.

The physician looked into Samantha's eyes. "Relax, you'll be asleep soon. "He faced the Kid. "Nice to meet you."

Her eyelids flickered. They closed. She slept.

The general practitioner left.

Due to Samantha's health and mounting financial problems for her dad and the Kid, Elizabeth returned from practicing law in New York. She tiptoed in. Spiffy gave her his seat. The Kid nodded and smiled.

After a second knock, Jim entered.

The Kid caught his eye. "Where you been, Jim?"

"Catchin' up on a little sleep."

Elizabeth lowered her chin and stroked her lips. "Maybe you better let me lead off."

The Kid's eyes locked with Elizabeth's. "Proceed, beautiful daughter with the blond hair."

She sucked a breath. "Give me the total sum of your assets."

"Hmm, above fifteen million."

"Oh, Dad, hold on. Steady now. The bets exceed something like twenty million."

He shrugged. "So what?" As he spoke, Warren entered with his sons.

Elizabeth rubbed her neck. "What's his name? The one who got you into this mess."

Jim leaned forward. "Billy Forbes."

Elizabeth smirked. "Yes, and you're Jim, the ladies' man I've heard about."

"Thank you, Miss."

Elizabeth eyes swiveled. "Anyway, Mr. Forbes advises these people to hire lawyers so they will get a pro-rated share. In addition, the wagering continues until the final seconds of the turkey hunting season, which draws to a close at sundown Saturday."

"Elizabeth, you better check an almanac to find out the closing time so we won't lose any money."

"Dad, you're ruined. This makes you a laughingstock." Elizabeth paused. She took a breath. "Kid, even with all the consequences, you belong to us. Our blood is the same. Who else but the Tobacco Land Kid would perform the task you did for a sick girl?"

Warren rose. He motioned for him to follow. In the hall, he stared. "What can I say? The money."

"Warren, more than ever, will you trust me?"

"With my daughter and anything else, including my life."

"Leave here. Don't come back. No matter what, do not communicate with the media or anybody. Go into seclusion until Saturday night."

### Chapter 23

"Today's Friday. Talk to me, Samantha," said the Kid.

"When the doctors and the nurses aren't here, I walk some. I can do three pushups. Everything's cool, Kid. Let's go hunting. The doc is a smooth hunk, but he says I can't leave until Monday. Break me out."

"Okay, business comes first. Spiffy, you remember we left in such a hurry when Samantha got sick, we ran over my shotgun." He thought. Spiffy'll catch the lie.

"Aw, yeah Kid, now you require a new one."

"Right, go to Jasper Harper's Gun Shop. Charge one to me. Pick up four or five suits of spring camo clothing, different sizes. Don't forget the masks, gloves, the works."

"Aw, yeah. Elizabeth didn't get around to telling you all the facts."

"What?"

"When you left the room with Warren, we heard Elizabeth say to Ervin your credit is gone. The bank won't cash any checks. She said the financial institutions believe you're insolvent. That's a direct quotation."

"Okay, Spiffy— find Jennifer. Ask her to open the family safe. The box contains twenty thousand dollars. Tell her to hand you five. Pay cash for the gun. Samantha, your shotgun received a thorough soaking. Don't worry. The pump still shoots. Now, listen to the rest of the strategy. First, we make sure. Ervin has no affiliation with the hospital. He just rode with you in the ambulance. Correct?"

"He comes now as a visitor," said Samantha.

"Spiffy, here's the fun part. Friday night you, along with Jim, visit. Down the hall on the right is a room the interns use to dress. Jimmying the lock will pose no problem— it has a mechanism which allows the movement of the catch to the back. Use any stiff item such as a credit card. Wear this intern's badge I stole from the nurses' desk. Steal the essential clothes. Take a wheel chair to her room." He reached under his coat and pulled out several "Out of Order" signs. He handed the posters to Spiffy. "Put these on the passenger elevators, use the one marked 'freight.' Now, get this. You and Jim walk fast. Don't answer anybody's questions. No garlic. Jim, if there's a problem with a woman, sweet talk her."

"Gotcha."

"I disappear," said Samantha. "Not a soul knows we go hunting. Nobody follows us into the woods."

"Samantha, Spiffy, Jim, do you have questions so far?" Excluding Jim, they kept eye contact. "I'll mislead the press by calling some of them together Friday night at a restaurant to tell them Samantha hovers near death. I'll fake grief. Look for me to arrive at the hospital at one a.m. Saturday morning, ground level, at the exit to the freight elevator."

The Kid pulled Spiffy into the hall. "Been thinking, Spiffy, so much money has become involved in this pursuit, a fair number of gamblers might challenge the outcome should we win. We need witnesses that will stand up to any mention of fraud."

"Good point. Got any good ideas? "

"Maybe Alotta for one. Let me mull it over. I'll come up with someone. "

His cell rang in Spiffy's pocket. Spiffy answered. Without comment, Spiffy handed him the phone and nodded to the hall.

"It's me, Petty."

"What's up?"

"Things are worse with Ross."

"How so?"

"He comes here because the sheriff's office is no help."

"Why in heck not?"

"He gave the department fifty thousand dollars for salaries. He keeps telling me he wants to tie me up in the basement."

"Give me his phone number."

"Got pencil and paper?"

"Shoot. Thanks, Petty. I'll make a call. Bye." He leaned back inside the doorjamb. "Gimmie five more minutes for a couple of calls."

"Hello. I assume you are Mr. Slaughter."

"Yes and you are?"

"A friend of Petty. The Kid."

"Goodbye. We have nothing to talk about."

"What? Wait!"

The Kid thought. The line's still open. Make this good. "For personal reasons, Mr. Slaughter, I must gamble. We'll meet you sometime before sundown, Saturday afternoon, at Billy Goat Rock." The Kid thought. Make conversation. Arouse his curiosity. "By the way, do you realize the authorities gathered some hair of Wong Lee's killer?"

"I heard about that murder. No, indeed I did not."

"Did the officers of the law ask you for a sample of something to obtain your DNA? Did they acquire your finger prints?"

A pause.

The Kid thought. The line's still open. "Ross, are you still on the line? Ross—"

"They can't have the information, since I avoided capture for several crimes in other areas, but I steered clear of physically hurting anybody, except I fought in bars like you. My lawyer says the statute of limitations hasn't run on a number of check forgeries, theft, con games, and conspiracies in various states, including North Carolina. On the other hand, I'm clean in Virginia."

"You ever killed a person?"

"No, I told you I never injured anyone. Now be very careful. Don't trust anybody but me."

"Couple more questions, Ross. Why did you buy the property?"

"Hell, it's beautiful here."

One more question Ross. How did a bracelet with the name of Gretchen end up in your house?"

"I think you mean the one Petty stole to give you?"

"Well...Okay...Go ahead."

"The back side of my property fronts on Briar Patch road. The teenagers used to use an old tobacco path, which leads off the main route for a lovers' lane. I stayed after 'em until they quit. Found the item about twenty feet off the highway right-of-way."

"Why didn't you give the jewelry to the sheriff?"

"Never thought of that. Ran an ad in the local paper trying to find the owner. Check the want ads out." He hung up.

The Kid thought. Ross guards the property. I didn't ask, but he's not going to mess us up when we hunt there. I just know that. He looked at the phone. He dialed Alotta. "Hello, old friend."

"Kid, how's things going for you? Not so hot, huh?"

"What do you mean ′not so hot′?" Samantha'll bag a turkey Saturday."

"Oh, you're a terrific lover, but you live in a dream world. Some say you're going to end up in prison for fraud or whatever. You're broke, too."

"The situation demands two reputable witnesses to her shot. Want to be one of them? It'll land you a position on one of the big nets."

"You'll fail, but I'll meet ya. I'm off Saturday."

"Come to Pittsylvania County in Virginia. Go to Keeling. We'll be at the intersection of Slatesville Road and Thistle, four a.m. sharp, no cameras."

"Okay."

He walked back. "Alotta's coming as an eyewitness and we need one more. Let's consider none other than Senator 'Little Archie' Winston."

Jim pulled at his belt buckle. "He ain't poplar in this here state."

"Yes, but the thinking people believe he's solid. It'll assist him, too."

Spiffy scuffed the floor with his foot. "What's the plan? Walk up to the senator's door and say, 'I'm the Tobacco Land Kid, I'm preparing to help a sick Native American girl fulfill her lifetime dream when she bags an adult wild turkey tom. I need you as a witness."

***

With the butt of his twelve-inch knife, the Kid struck the door one smack. In thirty seconds, the senator appeared. "I'm the Tobacco Land Kid, and I'm preparing to help a sick Native American girl fulfill her lifetime dream when she bags an adult wild turkey tom. I need you as a witness."

"Won't you please come in, William?"

He scraped against Little Archie when he crossed the threshold. "Call me 'Kid.' Swanky place you live in. Piped-in music, too."

"Beethoven—Kid, yes—who hasn't heard of this silly quest?"

"Inane, huh?" said the Kid. "Not half as ridiculous as the numbers in your polls. The smart people appreciate what a good, decent person you are. The rest will come along, with my help, of course. Stick with me, and the next stop for you is the White House. All I'll ask is four little weeks in the Lincoln Room—well, make the total eight little weeks."

"Under no circumstances will I help you, Sir."

"Oh yes, Archibald." The voice came from a high wingback seat facing a bay window. Arising from the seclusion of the chair, she faced them.

The Kid thought. Hmm, she passes for a president's wife.

Little Archie approached her with his arms outstretched. His hands open."I can't, Winona."

Her palms went to her hips. "You can. You must. Mr. Hendricks, may I be the only one to refer to you as William, and not be corrected?"

"Call me 'Kid.'"

"You've got guts, Kid. Archibald wandered into the forest as a child. He became lost. He's been terrified ever since. I won't utilize the P word, although he is one in several respects. Nor will I use the B term, even though I can tell you own large ones."

What must I call her? "Thank you, Winona."

"You're welcome, Kid. I've always loved your voice. I shall retire for the evening. You four work out the details. Oh, Kid, if he bothers you or gets scared, slap him, hard!" She walked to the door. She stopped next to Jim. "A ladies' man, not by my standards." She departed.

"Senator, we'll be looking at ya at four a.m. sharp, Pittsylvania County, Keeling, Virginia, on the corner of Slatesville and Thistle, this Saturday. I'll supply everything you need."

### Chapter 24

Saturday, May seventeenth. Last day.

Spiffy and Jim sprung Samantha from the hospital at one in the morning. The plan worked because of Jim's charm with two of the nurses on the floor.

Not a hint leaked to the media.

The four arrived at Slatesville and Thistle at three fifty a.m. Spiffy, after pulling to the shoulder, killed the lights and engine.

Jim shook his head. "Will they come?"

The Kid nodded. "They better. What Samantha does is no good without those witnesses. Anyway, I've been trying to reach a certain person for weeks. Stay here. The temp's forty one degrees. Nobody needs to get chilled."

"Yup, don't worry about me."

The Kid stepped outside. He walked a few yards for privacy. This will be a freaky day. By two, the thermometer's going to eighty.

He punched in Swampy Joe's number.

"Hello."

The Kid's eyes flared. "I've called you for weeks. Where in the heck are you?"

"A swanky hotel in Miami with a hot chick. Been in the 'glades for a while helping these folks get rid of them dern Burmese pythons. My cell battery went dead after the second day, but I weren't worried none. This is the Kid, ain't it?"

"Yeah, need a little info." He posed questions.

Swampy Joe told him that he and Jim had been hunting in South Carolina when Gretchen Thompson vanished. Admittedly, he gave no proof of Jim's presence in the state, but made indications that Jim had lied that night at La Comida. Swampy continued by saying Jim might commit murder, while he assured the Kid he himself would never hurt anyone. The last thing he mentioned was that Jim had never looked into his eyes.

The Kid tried to puzzle this out. He couldn't. The conversation, if anything, deepened Swampy Joe's involvement. Maybe both were involved. Perhaps neither, since the real criminal might still be somewhere in Pittsylvania County. On the other hand, the original suspect, Ross Slaughter, might have been guilty, but he liked Ross's voice and attitude. The circumstances grew muddier— if only some sense could be made of the state of affairs.

The Kid thought. None exist...Take a chance... Well, a mistake here...Future friendships... Lawsuits...Just do what you believe is right— nevertheless, the shot will come from the hip.

He bit the tip of his trigger finger.

Wait. Make one more call to Johnny. Find out about recent activities.

Johnny offered nothing.

***

At four, Little Archie arrived. Spiffy snatched two spring camouflage suits from the back seat of the red king cab. He gave one to the senator. "Strip, Senator— put this on."

Archie did not budge. "The cold."

The Kid approached.

Archie disrobed.

Alotta arrived. He handed her the second suit.

"Kid, I'm going behind my car to change. Wanta come?"

"I don't think so. Hurry up."

She glanced back. No one looked. She slipped a camera, capable of still or motion pictures, into a pocket.

Spiffy, acting as quartermaster, distributed hats, gloves, and a small backpack, which contained food, toilet tissue, and a quart of water. With no light, he snapped open the gun cases and loaded the Kid's twelve gauge and Samantha's .410.

The Kid and Samantha took their guns.

He briefed the group. "The instructions are simple—starting right now, only whisper, and try not to fall."

Alotta cuddled up to the Kid. "If I think I'm going to trip, can I grab onto you?"

He nudged her away. "One more thing—do what I tell you. Let's go."

***

They walked. The path ended. Dawn cracked, helping the newcomers to become surefooted. The light, coupled with the previous day's three-inch rainfall, ensured quiet footfall for all creatures. The team made no more noise walking than a plow mule in a field.

The Kid stopped. He placed his index finger perpendicular to his lips. "Shh." He pointed to an opossum in their path. The creature grinned, showing fifty teeth. From a gland in the rear, the animal discharged a foul odor. He took his pump shotgun, and upon feeling the butt plate on his back, the animal played dead. "He's entered catatonia—he'll come around."

Archie's mouth dropped open; his head slumped forward and his eyes glazed. Jim shook him. Alotta giggled. The Kid squeezed her neck.

They moved on. The sun, though hidden, rose, but a rumble of thunder cast unease into the group.

Oh, no, here comes our ten percent chance of a thunderstorm.

They carried no rainwear. What would he do?

"Follow me."

Five minutes later, they arrived at the rock ledge where he and Samantha had escaped the snowstorm. He took her in first, stripped the roll blanket from his shoulder to construct a makeshift bed. Alotta lay with her. The others jammed inside. Deep thunder rumbled, but all slept. Due to rising early and walking hard, only the Kid, aware of the roars, remained awake. For two hours, rain pummeled the area, then slowed and stopped. "Listen. Everybody move outside but Samantha, Alotta, and me. Do not get more than twenty feet from here. Stretch your legs. We'll be out in a few minutes."

Samantha stared at him. "I can't move anymore."

He brushed his fingers through her hair. "What's wrong?"

"The hunt's over. You want to go past Billy Goat Rock, all the way to the bottom where the meadow lies. Evil is with us. They found murdered people buried here. I know these things from the newscast. I worry about you."

"I worry about you, too."

"Me? I'll be dead soon."

"Don't you want a tom?"

"No, forget the turkey."

Alotta stroked the Kid's cheek. "Go out with the others."

Five minutes later, Alotta emerged with Samantha. Alotta nodded at the Kid.

"Okay folks. One behind the other, follow me."

They descended. About halfway, he called a halt. They placed decoys. He put on a performance with his mouth diaphragm. Later, they stopped again. This time, he used a wooden box call, but still nothing responded.

At the next location, he tried an aluminum friction device with an acrylic striker and sent a cluck ringing through the forest. A sound came from the left. Everyone froze in place.

A black bear appeared, paused, and tilted his head toward them. Archie shivered. From their torsos down, the low brush blocked the animal's view. The Kid grabbed one of Archie's legs and Spiffy the other. They squeezed. Archie sucked it up. The bear took two steps in their direction. He halted; rising to his full height, he investigated the air. But they lay fifty feet upwind, and thereby his superior nose did not smell them. Suspecting nothing, without ruckus, he dropped to all fours, turned, and left the area.

Spiffy grinned. "Senator, need some toilet paper?"

Archie gritted his teeth.

The Kid gave Archie a knuckle haircut. "Pay him no mind, Flash Bulb Eyes."

The bottom and the meadow lay two hundred feet below. The Kid halted the group. He pointed to a spot two yards off the path. Archie took a step in that direction.

Jim whispered, "Stop, Archie. Copperhead."

Alotta, Samantha, and Spiffy nodded.

Archie's upper lip curled, his eyes narrowed, and his head jerked backwards. "I do not see a snake, thank you."

Jim touched Archie's shoulder. "He's a′lying on them leaves. Dat camouflage done fooled you. Adjust them eyes. Notice them curved lines."

Archie squinted while his face contorted. He fell to his knees and vomited.

The Kid didn't laugh. The rest smothered laughter with their hands.

Putting his mouth to Archie's ear, the Kid whispered, "You're a forty-year-old man. I can't slap you because of the noise, but you listen here, get a grip. Spiffy, get a pill out." He plucked one from the Kid's backpack. He passed the capsule to Archie and grabbed his shoulders. "This'll settle the butterflies. Pay attention. You are a good man. In Congress, you stand up to some of the worst trash ever. Behind your belt buckle lies a belly full of guts. Now, let's see you reorient a few yards of those intestines into a different direction."

Archie swallowed the pill. He blinked three times and sucked a deep breath as a fire burned in his eyes.

The Kid thought. Wow. Whatta face. "Saddle up, Archie."

### Chapter 25

The path to the complex of tobacco fields, not long before abandoned, wound down to the bottom where a five-acre rock-strewn area lay. These acres showed the traces of natural reforestation, the vicinity populated with thousands of pine, oak, and other species, all ankle-high. The rocks ranged in size from golf balls to some the size of living room chairs. The group walked to the middle of the parcel and admired the forty-year-old stand of mixed timber which stood on the opposite side of the field.

Two images leaped to the trained eye. Three male turkey droppings were unmistakable— the fishhook shape, larger than a person's pinkie, moist, shiny, and deposited after the driving rain. A fierce shower would have obliterated them.

The Kid eyeballed the tracks. A dollar bill long: my gosh, he is a huge tom.

Like a butterfly, a sound fluttered, but it originated too far away to identify.

The Kid thought. Cock your head. Put the sound together. Strain— a dog barking, a crow calling, or perhaps...No, wait. Keep listening. He held out his hands with palms up. "Anybody recognize anything?"

All shook their heads.

Another wave nudged his eardrum. "Detect the little flutter?"

A ridge lay in front of them.

Samantha tugged at his sleeve.

He sprung on the balls of his feet and clapped his palms.

Samantha's shoulders slumped. She gazed down. She heaved a sigh. "It's after five o'clock; the hunt's over. I love you. Oh Kid, you've lost your cool. You're a nut job, too. Let's go home."

Twenty seconds passed.

The sound repeated.

Samantha dried her eyes. "A flicker came through, but the sound's too far away for me to figure out."

He smiled. "You heard a tom yelping. Bet he's listened to me all along. He keeps moving. He's walked this meadow. I'll bring him back."

From the Kid's backpack, Spiffy pulled out a turkey call. "Kid, use Shively's Super Yelper. Remember the times it's made the difference."

He sent a cluck plunging into the forest.

They waited.

And lingered.

A lanky crow lazily landed in a hickory tree, stretched one leg, spread its tail feathers, and cawed three times while hunching. With a burst of speed, the bird flew.

"Someone moved and startled the creature." He glared at each person.

From due west, two hundred yards in front came a yelp too raspy for a hen.

"Okay, folks, show time. The crow caught a glimpse of movement. Now, stay still." He pointed. "The tom has flown from the ridge. He glided in without beating his wings to break his fall." He led them thirty paces into the woods. He placed them, putting Jim with Spiffy, flat on the ground. The location prohibited observation from any angle. Alotta hid at the back of a red oak, which was three feet in diameter, allowing her to peep around, using one eye. The senator he arranged in a sitting position against a tree. He pulled his mask down.

He put his mouth one inch from the senator's ear. "Listen, Archie. Adjust the veil to aid vision. The gobbler's coming right at us. You can blink, but don't move anything else. If you itch, use willpower."

The Kid gathered up the guns, along with Samantha's seat, to make her follow. A snatch of the head did the trick, placing the chair, not between two seven-foot cedar trees, but four feet back at the middle, to give her a semicircle to swing the gun. Without a sound, she sat. She did the unexpected by laying the .410 on the leaves and picking up the Kid's pump shotgun.

He swallowed a lump; he swallowed another.

The disease had ravaged her. Before him was a drooped living corpse. Under each eye, she had a dark patch, and two vacant eyes sat buried into her skull. The formerly nimble hands were now gnarled, while the once-supple skin stretched across the no-longer-pretty face. Perhaps the most pathetic feature, revealed by a torn sleeve, was a broomstick arm, and her rolled-up ripped trousers showed a leg the diameter of a baseball bat barrel.

The Kid bit his bottom lip. His hands trembled. He locked them together. She doesn't have the muscle strength to raise the 12 gauge, but her heart will lift the shotgun.

Try another cluck. No, a purr.

The tom triple gobbled.

The gobbler drew closer.

Like a crab, the Kid scurried to Archie. He whispered. "He's sixty yards at the rear of the forest curtain. Scratch your tail or whatever. Get still— he'll be here soon." He carried the same message to the others. Scrambling to Samantha, he knelt on his left knee. He touched her hand and whispered into her ear. "Show time, Baby."

His cold sweat tickled her.

She thought. This is really living. I'm alive. He must be somewhere straight ahead. Wait. That cluck came from the left. There, I see him in front of a rock. I see him. I see him. Oh my gosh, it must be Goliath. Those colors: the red, white, and blue head, with brown and black scattered on the body, lots on the tail. He's strutting showing shimmering shades. Are they bronze or gold? Oh my gosh, another tom's stepped out. They've puffed up. Oh, my gosh. Listen to the sound they're making, bum-barum, and bum-barum over and over. The sound's deep, like the Kid's voice.

Whoa! Has something spooked them? A coyote, fox or what? They've stopped strutting. The sounds coming from the smaller turkey must be alarm clucks. I've read about those in the Kid's books.

Heeding the warning, Goliath and his counterpart ran at an angle between cedar trees and joined with other brush, thus allowing Samantha privacy from those four radar eyes. This seclusion would last seconds. She grasped the stock and slipped the thumb safety off. Her right-hand index finger glided into the trigger guard, while her other palm skated to the forearm with robot precision. Though she was sitting, she maneuvered her body to the proper shooting posture.

The two scampered, and the smaller tom closed the distance and sped twelve inches behind Goliath. Opaque objects aided their escape but gave Samantha concealment. A rock. She stood. Ready position. Their toes tore and slashed and pushed and thrust the ground backwards, while necks strained in the manner of guitar strings. Accelerating, faster, faster. With the cover of trees they ran. She swung the pump. Solid rocks, swinging, dense brush, swinging. In the open, swinging. swinging, swinging. Snap to shoulder. Trigger.

Ka-Boom.

She failed to tilt forward. The recoil from the four drams of powder crashed her backward, to the left, and over the Kid.

"Kid! Kid! Kid! Did I get him? Did I get him?"

The Kid dropped on her. His blood raced. "Sweetie." He wept. "You nailed both of them. The lesser tom got caught with the back part of the pattern. Oh my! Be glad you didn't wait a millisecond, because Goliath's head lurched toward the armor of a white oak tree two feet in diameter."

"Who's better than you, Kid?"

"You are, Sweet Pea."

Jim danced and spun around.

Alotta cried. She held up her camera. "Pictures," she sobbed. "I got lots of them."

Archie sat, rocking, with sounds coming from his throat.

The Kid rolled over on his back. Spiffy flopped on him. The Kid cried "Spiffy!" while Spiffy exclaimed "Kid."

Samantha rubbed her shoulder. "I think my shoulder's broken, and you two just cry and repeat one another's name."

Spiffy gained a little control. "You'll live."

"No, I won't." She burst with laughter.

Everyone laughed.

Too soon, the party ended. They examined the turkeys.

The Kid hefted Goliath. "He'll weigh over twenty-five pounds, my gosh. Samantha, you may own the Virginia record!"

Tears streaked her face. She looked at him. "I owe all to you. Mirrors tell me I'll die soon. Heck, listen to me."

"Okay, gang, listen. My watch says six-thirty. The sun sets at eight sixteen. Remember— going back isn't downhill. We need to get Samantha out of here and into bed. We'll stay at a motel in Danville."

"I've taken good pictures. Wait. Please let me to go to the station. I got a real story to break."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "Alotta, take Little Archie with you. Put him on camera. Say good things about him. I'll back everything up. I'll check with you. Another report may be coming. No, an additional story will surface."

The Senator got to his feet. "You won't mention the snake incident, I hope."

The Kid grinned like an opossum eating persimmons. "What snake's he talking about?"

All shrugged.

***

The Kid shouldered Goliath. Spiffy carried the other turkey. At seven-thirty, they arrived at Billy Goat Rock. He ordered a rest. He put Goliath down, walked from the group, and grinned at the others before flopping under a tree. Ten minutes later he issued an order. "Little Archie, with Alotta's help, can you two carry these turkeys a bit? The rest of us need to discuss a situation."

No one understood what the Kid thought, but his bass voice held a peculiar ring. Archie swung Goliath to his shoulder. "Alotta, grab the other. He's in charge. He says go, we leave--you too, Samantha."

The Kid's brain went into a ready mode: ready for bald-faced lies, ready for deviousness, ready for friendship, and ready for killing.

He waited until they walked away. "You with us, Ross?"

Mr. Slaughter stepped from behind Billy Goat Rock. "Yes."

He strode forward with a grin, while fully clad in a tan suit, carrying a violin case, a riding crop, and sporting a black string tie.

Jim pointed a finger at Ross. "He's duh killer. The law ain't never been able to prove nuten', but he's da' one. Put dat gun on him, Kid."

He pumped Samantha's spent shell from the shotgun. "Grab thu empty, Spiffy. Samantha'll want it."

Jim shuffled his feet. Then they pointed away from the group toward the forest. "Good, Kid. Use the live ammo. Shoot the son-of-a-bitch. We'll drag'em in the woods— society will be better off. Lot cheaper too. Cost one shell." Nervous laughter sprang from his mouth.

The Kid nodded. "You're the killer, Jim."

Jim pointed at Ross. "Ain't so, Ain't so! He is!" Jim dropped his arm, and his eyeballs flitted like bats from one person to the next.

"Jim, I talked to Swampy Joe," said the Kid. "You did hunt with him in South Carolina. He never cleans that nasty piece of transportation of his—I'll bet your fingerprints are on the passenger side, but you vanished. He figured you left. The truth is you kidnapped Gretchen and killed her, like the rest buried here."

Spiffy lowered his voice to a whisper. "I researched everything, Jim. All the papers referred to her as Gail, but her birth certificate lists her first two names as Mary Gretchen, with her last as Thompson. In Columbia, an individual told me the family nicknamed her Gail. She lacked good looks—even harelipped, retarded, and black. On top of everything, they lived in an old trailer. The public soon forgot her. Betcha you did the awful deed. Most of all, I went to Buncombe County. A record exists of an Arthur Reginald Smithson leaving you an inheritance of $6,266.34, not the five hundred thou' you bragged about. How did you live these many years?"

"All that stuff proves nothing."

The Kid's tongue flicked out. "This story made the news. The authorities found a body in the Dan River, in North Carolina near Milton, NC, wearing a life preserver and a yellow ribbon tied around his neck. The sheriff's office identified multiple lacerations and contusions on the head and evidence of, most likely, a .38 special round through the skull that finished the job. Afterwards, inability to determine the location of the murder, whether in North Carolina or Virginia, threw the jurisdiction of the case to the FBI. Two days later, a scoutmaster called the authorities. He had some scouts camping near a deserted boat ramp in Virginia. During the night, three boys started rambling and they spotted, with the help of a three-quarter moon, someone dragging something along the walkway on the launch. Bet that was you, Jim. Could you have stepped in a little blood and tracked the sample into your truck? The forensic boys and girls are at work. The Feds took fingerprints from the victim. Little Archie encouraged the Feds to feed me all the info. These prints showed the deceased had numerous felony convictions in four states. At the time of his death, he worked as a bagman while hanging around a seedy establishment near Wake County. A man along with a woman at the hangout say they can identify an interesting person who visited, made friends with, and maybe left with the illicit money handler. A hooker at the joint said the killer drove a blue-and-white pickup. Come on, Jim. How many trucks around with those colors? I'll bet you disposed of the body in a different way to throw the authorities off-track, but before him, you killed a restaurant owner named Wong Lee. In a struggle, he grabbed your hair." He withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket. "This container contains a sample of your fecal matter Spiffy gathered in the woods. We sent a portion to two detectives who enlisted our help. This evidence proves you killed Mr. Lee. The DNA matches the samples in Wong Lee's hand. I talked to a detective this morning. They're on their way to arrest you now." He pointed at Ross. "Have a hunch you killed all in the graveyard on his property. Yeah, Jim— black hair bleached blond." While shaking his head, he pursed his lips. "Always liked you, Jim, but the eyes say one thing, while the body says another, not to mention the times I caught you ogling young teen and pre-teenage girls. Kinda' noticed a person or two along the way edgy about you, too."

"Like Archie's wife, you mean."

"Yeah, her."

Spiffy grabbed Jim, shook him, and shoved him backwards. "Why don't you give us the whole story?"

Jim took five more steps back. "Made certain not to get caught. Wid a little research, I learned that Ross, in his younger days, fought in bars like the Kid. Later, he earned a fortune in Pennsylvania speculating in land. Never found out where his seed money came from. I picked people with some past trouble with the law. Mos' of the time, I selected absentee landowners who seldom if ever visited their property. This helped keep my graveyards secret."

"Thought I might need this." Ross stepped to the side, and pulled out a phone. He filmed.

Jim paid no attention.

Spiffy balled his fists. "Graveyards?"

"Yeah, 'tween here and California, got ten of 'em. The men I killed for money, credit cards, cash, and sometimes jewelry. All women is miserable sluts. 'Dear mother' beat me raw with a tobacco stick. Afterwards, she locked me in a dark closet. Killed her, too. Dad disappeared on my first birthday. In school, the principal paddled me because I pulled a girl's pants down and felt of her. A father slapped me for feeling of his daughter. I enjoyed killing them after taking what I needed. The older fat ones, such as those nurses at the hospital, proved to be easy. Say nice things and tell them I loved them, and they laid down. No thrill to kill them, though. The kicks came when I killed the young ones for sex. I orgasmed as they died. I wanted Samantha for the big prize. Bitch, she acted like she's better than me. Wouldn't even hold hands to cross a stream. Most played the same role. Sides, she looked similar to the girl the principal whipped my tail for. Didn't get the moment. Never knew where the Chameleon might be hiding. I'm different from the rest of the serial killers."

Cradling the shotgun with his right, the Kid placed his other hand on his hip. "How?"

"The others get caught. They play games with the police, the media, and the public. Me, I love the woods, the freedom. I ain't going to jail."

Reaching up his sleeve, he pulled out a tantō and held the knife shoulder high as if to stab.

The Kid swung the shotgun, pointing the muzzle at Jim's right kneecap. "Believe in miracles? Don't." He slipped the safety to the off position. "We're taking ya' in. Wanta go to prison as a one-legged man? Better think. You raped and murdered, among many others, a poor retarded thirteen-year-old black girl with a harelip, yeah, a small child with little chance in this world. Jim, imagine a prisoner in the broom handle hotel with stovepipe arms, holding a yellow-handled broomstick." At that point, his voice turned to display a mixture of false generosity, arrogance of spirit, with a touch of sarcasm... "While three or four others support you on one knee. Kinda' tough, huh? Oh, maybe not, a number of the trustee prisoners might keep you from the ground to take the pressure off the single joint, while a few will weep for a helpless one-legged person. "Yeah, Jim, only a witch can do more tricks with a broom handle than the prisoner with cast iron arms. You'll tell where poor little Gretchen lies."

Jim's eyes enlarged, a screech tore from his throat. He said. "I liked her mouth. Forgive me!" He trembled. "Johnson Gurganus Smith. Look for a map in my bedside table."

Raising the barrel to point at Jim's head, the Kid eased the tip of his finger to the trigger, while waves of disgust, and anger, and revenge, rage, and possibly the worst, hatred, swept over him.

To add power, Jim locked his left hand over the right. Together, they crammed the tantō into his stomach; he snatched the instrument sideways, dropped to his knees, and slumped to one side, with his lips curving and twisting as if chewing on a caustic substance. His eyelids fluttered. The face contorted. The damage set off by the razor edge started a waterfall of blood, which flowed to the hilt, to his hand, to his fingers, to the ground, forming a puddle, while a stream of scarlet surged from his mouth. His eyes rolled back. His tongue fell out, dripping blood. The warm red flow dripped on a train of ants.

Ross stared. "Died fast. Six minutes."

The Kid nodded. "Shock."

Like eighty-year-old men viewing the stock market ticker on a television screen, they gazed with blank faces.

The yellowing spread into Jim's crotch, and as Jim's urine stained the air, so too did his fecal matter, cold sweat, and blood lend their aroma to tarnish the forest. No breeze stirred; no birds sang; no animals appeared; no clouds covered the sun's diminishing rays.

Ross removed his violin from the case. "Unless someone objects, I will play for Jim Gunther and Mary Gretchen Thompson and the others. In the end, he came clean. Johnson Smith used to live on the one-acre lot about two miles down the road. The house burned down and now he lives with his brother in Cincinnati. I suggest the authorities search the property and Jim's entire bedroom."

Before he performed, the Kid tapped him on the shoulder. "Let me and Spiffy add an old sick friend with the nickname of 'Mean Man.'"

He played Chopin's funeral march.

The Kid shivered.

Concluding the piece, Ross brought the phone chest-high to punch in the numbers. "Alotta, Ross, here sends you information."

"Wait." He pushed the safety back on the shotgun. "Tell her she gets an exclusive on this story, and to copyright what you text. Yeah, Ross, give her all the info, especially concerning Gail."

Ross nodded.

Spiffy stared at the Kid. "Sherlock, concerning Wong Lee's hair, you know I never found a DNA sample in the woods."

"Elementary Watson, I lied."

"Sherlock, the man with the ribbon lashed around the neck?"

"Oh, Watson, a grain of truth here and there in all that crap. Johnny did tell me about the fingerprints and some details about the whorehouse. Little Archie didn't get involved in any of that. I just made all that mess up. I put the odds on the blue and white pickup. Hell, just figured it had to be him. Betcha' a couple of people popped in his head when I said 'a man and a woman.'"

Spiffy kept nodding, but his arms grew still. "Aw, yeah, but what if you had been wrong, Sherlock?"

"Let's don't go there. Dr. Watson, ya' know sumpin'— I think Swampy Joe's filthy pickup got things going in the right direction."

He shook Ross's hand. "Thanks— we appreciate everything."

"Sure, one more thing Kid; I enjoy the forest, too. Bought an option on the property with the old timey tobacco-ordering pit. Got a key with the deal. How does this sound? Think I'll hire three feet of concrete poured in through the trap door. You know— raise the cellar floor level, store stuff in. Good idea, huh?"

As he fought a smile, he turned his back to Spiffy, "Get the nylon rope out of my pack."

The Kid tossed the cord to Ross. "Use this item in the basement."

Ross chuckled.

The Kid winked, "Stay in touch, Ross."

### Chapter 26

The Kid and Spiffy jogged up the slope to catch the others. Rounding a curve, they found them resting under a dogwood tree. The temperature had reached ninety. All were hotter than a half-bred fox in a forest fire. Samantha smiled at Spiffy. "Piggy-back time?"

"Sure, Honey— who wouldn't give the queen of turkey hunters a ride?"

She climbed on his back and looked from the Kid to Spiffy. "Where's Jim?"

The Kid said, "Let's go. Tell 'ya later. Betcha' old Spiffy's smooth walking will put you right to sleep."

It did.

Twenty-five minutes later, they arrived at the vehicles. The Kid, Spiffy, and Samantha drove to Carson's General Store in order to register the turkeys according to state law. Little Archie left for home with his chauffeur and Alotta followed the pickup. A steady all-night rain began.

Thirteen patrons occupied the business. Eight consisted of old-timers having supper. Two younger men played checkers. Three teenage boys ogled a girly picture. When the group observed the exhausted hunters with the sleeping girl, they showed their respect with silence. The Kid rearranged several bags of seed corn. He made a pillow with his camouflage jacket., he slipped her like a piece of fine china from Spiffy to place her on the sacks. She squirmed. Her eyes cracked open. She smiled. She wriggled. Closing her eyelids, she fell asleep once more.

The store clerk, dressed in khakis with a white shirt, adjusted his eyeglasses. "Hep you folks?"

Swinging his thumb toward the car, he nodded at Spiffy. "Mister, this young lady bagged a tom. We'd appreciate the courtesy. Will you weigh him?"

"Heard about you. Ya' did the job, huh?"

"If she were awake, she'd say, 'yup.'"

All in the store gathered behind the Kid at the cash register. None spoke. Alotta took pictures.

Owing to the bulk, the weighing preparation took two minutes, but with a tug and a nudge, Goliath's head hung off the white scale one foot from the counter. With boldness, Mr. Carson removed his hand; to deter falling, he kept his palm above Goliath's breastbone. The pointer steadied at twenty-seven pounds fifteen ounces, while the creature's beard extended to sixteen inches and his spurs to two.

At the conclusion, everyone sagged, from the balls of their feet to their heels, and a murmur drifted through the group. With a wry smile, the owner listed the smaller turkey in the Kid's name, since Virginia allowed a one-a-day bag limit and three per season.

Someone in the back spoke. "Mister Kid, you're everything people say you is."

His base voice rattled the walls. "Call me 'Kid'."

***

The Kid, Spiffy, and Samantha stopped at a fast food restaurant. Afterwards, Spiffy drove them to a motel, while he visited a taxidermist to leave Goliath.

He rented a room with twin beds. On entering, he drew hot water into the shower, handed her fresh clothes, and switched on the television. She showered. Afterwards, in less than five minutes, she fell asleep with her clown doll.

A knock at the door, which sounded more like a mouse scratch, seized the Kid's attention. He answered. Pricilla giggled past him to jump into the other bed.

He moved in with Spiffy.

***

At ten before eight in the morning, Spiffy knocked with the toe of his boot. He entered and plopped three plastic plates on the chest of drawers, along with coffee and drinks. While they ate, the Kid snapped on Alotta's news program. They caught the last of a shampoo commercial and at eight sharp, she appeared.

"Folks, talk about the story of a century— you'll learn what took place here on WROT at twelve noon. Until then, just a bit. We'll make public the video section. For now, the Tobacco Land Kid beat the odds, and more importantly, the road ended for a serial killer. A tape exists concerning the perp's last minutes alive, but the D.A. refuses to release the clip. Not to worry, WROT seeks a resolve of the issue. Also, Senator Little Archie joined the expedition as a witness. A woodsman of distinction, a huge asset in the forest, and a fine gentleman, he saved this reporter from the deadly bite of a copperhead."

The Kid choked on his coffee.

Alotta took a step and pointed her left hand palm up toward the wussies.

They played a four-second measure.

Alotta winked and shook her breasts.

***

A secret arrival required timing and execution.

With his cell phone, the Kid began. He sucked in a deep breath when the highway patrol informed him his road needed to close to all local traffic unless he granted permission for various individuals to enter. He thanked them, asking them to allow a stretch limousine through at 11:00 a.m., sharp. With one last call, he spoke with an old shut-mouth friend who lived a half mile from his home. The individual agreed to hide their vehicle behind his pack house. From the building, a half-mile walk through the woods took them to the Kid's back door. His manipulations accomplished two things. People would make note of the limo, enhancing his mystique. Also, Samantha, exhausted, escaped the tension.

***

Jennifer invited fifty friends and all attended.

They swarmed around the new celebrities. With gentle elbowing, Elizabeth made contact with the Kid. He hoisted Samantha so she could hug Elizabeth. Using this opportunity, he placed his mouth near Elizabeth's ear. He whispered, "Get her out of here. Put her to bed. Tell Ervin to check her, now." He carried her to the banister and plopped her on the second step, pinched her cheek, and kissed her on top of her head. She craned her neck at him until she'd ascended to the next floor.

The Kid excused himself to go upstairs to change into a suit. Leaving the room to look for Samantha, he found Elizabeth waiting for him.

"She's asleep—Ervin's with her. She bruised her shoulder. ASAP meet me in the library. We need to talk."

With encouragement, a receiving line formed and the guests filed past. Elizabeth stood first, since she knew most of the names. A woman dressed in black approached. She showed a printed note by Jennifer, which made her attendance possible. With a sweaty palm, she shook the Kid's hand. Standing at his side, Jennifer whispered that he would need to speak with her and Billy. At two p.m., the last guest departed except for Mr. Forbes and the mysterious lady in black.

Elizabeth tugged the Kid's coat, pulling him into the library. He collapsed into his leather chair. His right elbow fell to the armrest as his chin sunk into his palm.

"Kid, stay focused for a few minutes. We have commerce items to manage. Jennifer says you must speak with three people."

"Business first."

Elizabeth stunned him with the figure—twenty-three million dollars with more to come. He sat erect and shook his head. She assured him her law firm had locked up the loose ends, everyone had put up their cash in advance, and money came from all over the world. The mechanics of the process grew complicated. Even ships in international waters played a role to keep everything legal. Nevertheless, with affairs in a whirl, she'd failed to check with her office in the last forty-eight hours. The figure could double. At six p.m. tonight, one mouse click would put twenty-three millions into his checking account.

"Thank you, Elizabeth, sounds simple enough. Send those three people in."

Elizabeth admitted the woman in black. The Kid rose to his feet, and they shook hands.

"Kid, I'm Richard Hardy's wife. Well, maybe his widow, anyway I've come to apologize for his behavior to you over the years."

"Mrs. Hardy, yes, we were rivals, but if Richard stood here now, he would agree that no bitterness existed between us.

Her jaw quivered. "He had syphilis, and the disease went to his brain." She broke eye contact and looked at the floor. With a clumsy smile, she looked up. "He took measures not to infect me."

The Kid thought. That infection likely ran him nuts. Poor guy. We went to the same whorehouses, too.

She gathered herself to express the purpose of her visit. He left her penniless. Their twin daughters Cara and Calla couldn't afford nursing school. The Kid admitted that what college cost these days gave all students a bath. He urged her to set her mind at ease. For their education, checks drawn on his personal account constituted no issue. When Richard returned, a meeting to discuss a payback scale would occur.

With a smile of satisfaction, she disappeared.

In walked Billy Forbes; however, before he could say a word, Elizabeth stepped ahead of him with a phone in her hand. She nodded at the Kid. "You want this one."

"Hi, this is Allotta," she blubbered. "Oh, Kid, you've made me very rich. We're leaving for New York. We're buying tons of clothes." She couldn't stop sniffling."We're heading for the big time. First, we'll spend a day or two in D.C. to get my nose fixed. Please come. Mee wants you to come, too. Remember the yellow duck."

"Stay cool. I'll call soon."

He handed the phone back to Elizabeth. She nodded for Billy to enter, and he settled in a chair. The old Billy Forbes, the witty master of ceremonies, faded into obscurity. Before him slumped an unshaven, nervous, rye whiskey-soaked bum. This derelict was like Icarus melted and hurtled to the bottom.

Though slurring his words, he attempted to open the conversation with small talk.

"Nice farmland around here. What do they cultivate?"

"Sometimes the land grows men and women. Sometimes the land grows fools."

With his assertion, Billy wasted no time in his quest to beseech the Kid to return everyone's money and call the whole deal off. With all tact, courtesy, and a touch of humility, he explained to him the impossibilities of untying the knot. Although few in number, other winners anticipated their rewards too, but the most outstanding reason lay in the fact that several millions in legal fees could not go unnoticed.

He stood and placed five thousand dollars in Billy's shirt pocket, told him to make a new start in life, and sent him away.

He flopped into his chair, telling Elizabeth to allow him a five-minute breather before sending in Spiffy.

He swiveled his seat one-hundred and eighty degrees to face a mirror. He looked. You are history, Wolfgang. I am a different person now.

With a knock, Elizabeth pushed the door open to admit Spiffy.

The Kid stared at Elizabeth. "I can't read the expression on your face."

She shook her head. Spiffy touched her shoulder. "Aw, can me and the Kid talk a little in private?"

Pausing, she smiled, "Something I don't understand—some establishment in Danville, Virginia bet over twenty-five thousand on Samantha."

He leaned back. "Name of the place?"

"Marylyn's."

"Marylyn's? Must be a restaurant. Comment, Spiffy?"

"Never heard of it."

With a shrug, she left.

"Oh Spiffy, let me apologize for putting you last, but I wanted to be done with those two as soon as possible."

"Kid, listen. I won't be coming around anymore."

The Kid rose. "Spiffy?"

Tears welled in Spiffy's eyes. He carried a copy of _Don Quixote_ , which his nervous fingers rubbed. "I found a girl, Kid. She's a nurse. She won't marry me unless I track down a full-time job. Her cousin works for the fire department in Rocky Mount. He says he can get me on."

He sat. "Spiffy, let's examine some old facts. Seven years ago one morning, you knocked on my door."

"Aw, yeah, a week or so after I finished college. Heard stories about you for a long time. Didn't want money."

"Spiffy, some say Albert Schweitzer never asked a question. Anyway, let's forget him for a moment. I've often wondered. How have you lived from before college until now?"

"Mom and Dad died when I was a freshman in high school. An uncle passed away my senior year. He left an estate, which sends me eight hundred a month for life. I got by. With a football scholarship, managed to finish college, too."

"I understand. Your lady friend, I hope she won't object to you coming back for a visit."

"No, Kid, I'll bring her, also. How about twice in the Christmas season, and a couple of times during the year?"

"Sounds good. Now, as a reward, I owe you an automobile. I'll make it five hundred thousand for the works—a car, a house, a wedding gift, college for the future children."

"Kid, you shouldn't."

"I should. We'd never been successful but for your brains and brawn."

"One more thing, Kid. I'm through with the whores."

"Same here. Remember. We used to talk about finding two ten-thousand-dollar-a-night hookers in New York City." The Kid broke into hysterics. "Let's just call those prostitutes a 'might have been'."

"Sure, Kid, what a ride, huh?" He walked to the door, turned, looked, and departed.

Elizabeth entered. "Kid, you show manners now. Where did you learn them?"

"Mother and Grandmom."

Elizabeth took a long look at him and left the room.

He wiped a tear. A wave of fatigue swept him. He ambled to a couch. He stretched out and glanced at the grandfather clock. Two-thirty. Sleep 'til three. Tomorrow, make a call to Boston to buy fifteen or twenty suits. The shelter for the homeless will receive the blue shirts and khakis.

### Chapter 27

Moonlight lit the room. The grandfather clock rang one.

Without a sound, he climbed the shadowy stairs and entered her bedroom, but her bed held rumpled pillows and the sad clown doll. He ran to Elizabeth's room. Empty. He swung into the hall. "Jennifer! Jennifer!"

"Easy, Kid, easy, couldn't sleep, so I sat beside the pool,"

"Where's everybody?"

"About twelve thirty, Ervin and Elizabeth took her to the emergency room. With your exhaustion, we didn't want to wake you."

***

With a lump in his throat, he entered the hospital. The odor struck him. His stomach clinched. His hands sweated. One of the desk nurses, with a pallid face, recognized him. Rising from her chair, she motioned for him to follow her down the corridor. Striding off-tempo, her softer clicks differed from his steps on the waxed linoleum floors. At Samantha's door, the nurse stepped back and disappeared. Ervin gazed up from a tan plastic hospital chair. Recognizing his dad, he rose and, shaking his head, he walked out. Warren Hawk, with his sons, stood by the bed. With flooded eyes, Warren approached the Kid, nodded, and touched his arm. With his boys behind him, they departed.

"Hi, Kid."

"Hi, Samantha. You rest up for a few days. We'll go scout for fall turkey hunting. The season starts in November."

"Nope, Kid, my train's here. I'm leaving. Your heart beats with mine—no games."

"Okay, Sam, talk to me."

"Samantha."

"Sure, Samantha, what do you want to discuss?"

"Let's finish up." She leaned forward. "Thanks for putting two where they belong." She sank back into the bed. "Strange—my wish for a turkey took those men off the streets. On the way here, Elizabeth told me the good news."

"What did she say?"

"Gosh, all sorts of offers come in— talk shows, movies, maybe a visit to the White House. Kid, one man spoke about a contract for you. The famous weekday program, _Sunrise Surprise_ , wants us on tomorrow even if they must film in the hospital."

"Samantha, come to the ready position like I taught you. Keep your eye on the target. Shoot."

"No, the train's coming. Nobody sees me ...these tubes... Other stuff... Let them...Let them..."

"Listen to a request. Can I tell our story?"

"Nope. Take this letter. May I touch your face?"

With one step, his waist touched the bed. His chin quivered. He leaned over the rising and falling chest. He showed her the nine of hearts, placed the memento in her palm, and curled her fingers over the card.

She winked. "I understood all along. The Rocky Mountain goat trick never fooled me. Thank you."

Her bone-thin right arm rose. She stroked his left cheek. Her hand lingered. Her pinkie slipped away. One after another the other fingers followed, until her limb collapsed at her side. She smiled. "Take care, Kid."

"Bye, Samantha."

***

He took a seat in an empty waiting area. The television did not play. Ten minutes passed, and a woman carrying a baby wrapped in a pink blanket stepped inside. "Mister, I've seen you on TV. Please excuse me, but you can be trusted with anything. I need to step into the ladies' room for a minute or so. Will you hold Barbara for five minutes?"

"Sure, lady."

He bounced the laughing infant on his knee. She returned, took the baby, thanked him, and strolled away.

An hour passed. A doctor walked in. "You're the Tobacco Land Kid, correct?"

"Call me 'Kid.'"

"She's gone. Can I share something confidential with you?"

"I give you my word."

"She said her final words— Kid, Kid, Kid. Her hands started moving. She smiled. Her eyes rolled back. She left."

"You're saying she boarded her train."

The doctor rubbed the Kid's shoulder, wiped a tear, and departed.

The Kid read the letter concerning her funeral arrangements.

***

Some days later, they held a memorial service. The minister handed the Kid her ashes in a glass jar; taking the container, he headed for Keeling, Virginia, a parked his red truck, and walked to the rocky outcrop. Spiffy, wearing a tuxedo, waited for him while leaning against a shagbark hickory tree. They did not speak, but Spiffy approached and gave the Kid a hug. With tears running down his cheeks, he left.

From the left, at the forest curtain, a mirror reflected the sun into the Kid's eyes. The Chameleon made three.

Removing the lid, he sprinkled the ashes —they included the burned nine of hearts— around and under the ridge.

He went home.

### CHRISTMAS EVE

After a better diet, along with days in the gym, a trimmer Jennifer, with every hair in place, showing legs returning to their old size and shape and a rear no longer the size of a number three washtub, unlocked the front door. "Kid, I thought you'd never get back. Today's Christmas Eve. My list says we need twenty more gifts."

"You buy them. I have to make dozens of calls about the talk show, which comes up New Year's Eve. The guests run from top football players to a famous psychologist. Time runs out. I'll fly to New York on the twenty-sixth."

"Oh, Kid. Well, fiddlesticks. Why do people use such a term?"

"Figure out the meaning yourself."

"What's wrong, Kid?"

He wiped tears. "The first Christmas after... seven months ago... I think of her... The wound remains open. She wouldn't let me tell our story... Our journey would make my dream of a million-dollar idea come true." He shook his head. A smile came to his face. "But, heck, life has its disappointments. Me, her, and Spiffy— boy, we traveled a road."

"Open your package. The contents might make you feel better."

He whirled and faced her. "What package?"

"My word, don't have a hissy fit!"

"Jennifer, remember— policies keep us safe. All containers come through a clearing channel."

"I forgot. Take on a hissy fit."

"Be calm. How did the parcel get here?"

"After you left, this man came to the door. He claimed he found this on the road. He said the box has this house address, and he wanted to do a good deed at the Yule season."

"Describe him."

"He wo' a ski mask. I told him the weatherman gave the temperature as seventy-five, but he rubbed his neck, saying he was incubating a sore throat."

"Hmm, so he used the word incubate, huh?"

She nodded.

"What did he drive?"

"Nothing. He walked down the road when he left."

"Jennifer, I'll take a small chance. Go stand out front."

"No, Kid."

"Jennifer."

"Yes, Kid."

His instincts informed him not to worry. He examined all four sides. He picked up the carton and found a card taped to the bottom.

"Jennifer, come in! This sweetie's from a friend!"

"Kid, who was that veiled man?"

"A loner, the Chameleon."

"Open the item."

The Kid stripped away the brown wrapping to view what must be some trite or corny Christmas gift; however, he brought forth several sheets of notebook paper. He sat and read the note from Samantha. "Who's your daddy? I'm back. Got a little story to tell you. At one a.m. before you arrived at the hospital, a doctor, accompanied by a specialist from out of town, entered. The consultant asked to visit in private. The resident physician assured him no one would enter here for twenty minutes. He left. When he did, the man walked to the bed, pulled out a card, smiled, and dropped it on my pillow. Yup, Kid, the Chameleon. Boy, what a hunk. Believe me. He pushes you. Oh, I love the fragrance of English Sparrow. On with the story—we talk. I change my plans. All this I dictate to him. Kid, I used to be your puppy. I'm getting...

I trust the door opens and I see you standing there before I catch the train. After our pleasant visit, I believed you would carry out the instructions. Got my instincts from you, huh? The Chameleon then said seven minutes remain. Here's a list.

1. The gold necklace I wore lies in the small box. The jewelry is only a piece of metal. You taught me where to put my faith. Give this to Elizabeth. The .410 I bequeath to Spiffy, and I bestow the empty shell Spiffy saved for me on Ervin.

2. Long ago, I decided not to trash myself. I'm happy I'm going to die a virgin.

3. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings by turning you down on our story, but the tale is all I possess to give you for Christmas. Write the account! Tell the yarn! Whatever!

4. I must hurry. The Chameleon's time runs out, too. Bye, Kid, I love you— the voice, and the twinkle in your eye, so charismatic. You took care of the murderer. I got the turkey.

When we meet on the other side, please say—"Hi Sam."

###

Thank you so very much for reading this book. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave a review at your favorite retailer.

This story is fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Billy Sharpe (bsharpe4@nc.rr.com)
