Chapter One

There was once this lawyer by the name of Ronnie True down in Byrd’s Landing, Louisiana. He wasn’t so much a good man as he was a human one. He had these good intentions, but he also had to deal with the needs of the flesh. He was a married man who took care of his family, but he was porn-addled and whore-addicted. He was charitable with his money but would lie in a lightning second to fill his pockets by one extra fifty-cent piece. And how he came by the money didn’t matter much to him. He didn’t give a hoot if he got it by honest work or defending some pervert against a scared, sixteen-year-old mama-to-be. His thinking was that there were a lot of honest, faithful folk in the homeless shelters.

Another thing about Ronnie was that he was a man who liked to hunt. He wasn’t one of those hunters who couldn’t bag more than a hangover on an overnight hunting trip. No. Ronnie was one serious man about killing animals. It was like he was born to it.

He mounted his kills on the oat-colored walls of his office. There was this shoulder mount black bear with teeth bared and claws out. The whole snarling face jutted so far out it looked like the thing was fixing to rip itself right out of the wall so it could get a taste of human flesh. Ronnie was able to face down what he would tell people was a monster and kill it, something that would have had a person of lesser determination fouling their underpants. Never mind that the black bear was the gentlest bear in the forest. His audience was still plenty impressed.

He had some pictures up on the wall, too, of course – Ronnie on a fishing boat in Florida with a big marlin swinging from the end of his line, his hair flying up like black wings on either side of his bald head. Then there was the picture with the dead elk and Ronnie standing beside it wearing fatigues in the middle of some tall yellow grass, grass so dry that it’d probably catch fire from an angry look.

But the bear was Ronnie’s favorite. He’d tell all sorts of stories about the day he shot it – especially to new clients or other lawyers he was up against. It thought it had ole Ronnie, he would say, leaning way back in his big leather chair, and you might’ve thought that too if you’d been there. But look, and he would wave his hand, now it’s on my wall. Ronnie fancied himself a tough son-of-a-sumpthin’ like that politician who sent dead fish to people who riled him.

Ronnie was thinking about that bear now, about hunting, because for the first time since lifting a rifle when he was eight years old, he knew what the bear must have felt like, way deep down in his screaming insides, in that place that tried no matter what to hold on to this hell-bent earth. Because this time Ronnie wasn’t the one doing the hunting. He was the one being hunted. And Ronnie wasn’t running away or preparing to fight. Ronnie was just plain caught.

Another kick and he was sure his ribs cracked. The pain of that cracking spiraled along every single one of his nerve endings. He inch-wormed along the thick carpet of his office, trying to make it back to his desk, where he kept a loaded Smith & Wesson revolver in the bottom drawer.

For a blessed several long seconds the beating stopped. Ronnie thought it would finally be over. Maybe he wasn’t worth it. A fish too small, or a doe not worth the bullet or the effort.

But no. It was just a change of weapons. He felt a whack across his back and knew it was the new 9-iron that he had been admiring while leaning back in his office chair that very morning. He screamed, arched his back. He begged, his words coming out wrapped in snot and blood. The only thing he got for his trouble was a return scream of rage. What he thought he heard was, “You were supposed to take care of him.” And on each high note a slam of the 9-iron across his back, the pain so deep and long-lasting that he knew even if he survived, it would always be there lurking in his bones.

Even with the pain, the blood, the screams of rage, the Smith & Wesson gave him hope. After all, it was a special edition with ‘We the People’ engraved all fancy on the barrel. He wouldn’t let himself be prey. Not good ole Ronnie. He would reach the third desk drawer and then in a burst of energy he would pull from way down deep somewhere, he’d throw open the drawer, grab the gun and aim for the chest.

He did get there. But he wasn’t near as fast as he needed to be.

Before he could bring the barrel up for the shot, he felt a barrel press against his own forehead. For a terrible instant he saw the light in the eyes of the person who wanted to erase him from earth. The third drawer, the Smith & Wesson, every dang bit of it was too late.

The bear that had been unmoving on the wall behind his desk all these years was now moving, its yellow teeth ready to tear out Ronnie’s throat, the sharp claws going for his eyes. And he swore he heard it laughing. At least you won’t be killing anything else. At least more kids won’t die, you witless piece of filth. He started to say something, to beg some more, but then a jolt stunned all sound from his throat, scrambled his brains so that he couldn’t catch a thought if it had walked up and slapped him in the face.