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Acresville, May 8
7:25 p.m.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.
After he opened his eyes, Hoss gazed down at the hunting knife in his calloused hand and struggled to imagine the role it would play in the job ahead. Once completed, he would leave behind all that defined who he had been.
He found it eerie to hold the instrument responsible for changing the course of his life—a specter from his darkest past that now shadowed him with foreboding. Eighteen years ago, some other person—desperate, trapped by circumstance—had used this knife. Once more, he felt, that same person would use it again.
Shirtless in overalls, he sat on the top step of his veranda, forearms resting on his knees. Through the screen door behind him came the sounds of a radio—music, news of a world in turmoil, a promise of more hot weather.
The lower part of the sun seemed to touch the top of the mountain range. Here and there, wisps of cirrus clouds streaked the sky, white brush strokes on blue.
Earlier, the day burned bright and hot, the air so heavy with humidity it wrung sweat from pores. Shimmering waves had risen off pavement, off rooftops. Though many fine residents of the province reveled in the unseasonable heat wave, he preferred the wind and the rain. The kind of weather that made people hurry along with their necks sunk between their upturned collars, the kind of weather when no one would bother to stop to take notice of what other people were doing—the kind of weather that would make his job tonight a lot easier.
Beside him lay a large rectangular block of novaculite mounted to a cedar base. Already wet with mineral oil, the stone’s surface glistened in the waning light. With slow deliberation, he moved the knife’s cutting edge across the stone in a sweeping arc, following the curve of the blade. After ten passes, he flipped the knife over and repeated the procedure on the other side. When he finished, he carefully ran his thumb across the blade, testing its sharpness. A smile of satisfaction formed on his lips.
Perfect.
He fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and cleaned the grit off the blade and stone before putting everything aside.
He rose to his feet and stepped down off the porch onto the grass. The front lawn was deep, not very wide, with a stone walk and a pair of large maple trees. The sprawling farmhouse had fallen into neglect. It cried for a fresh coat of paint, repairs to the roof.
He stared out at Acresville in the distance. From here, the entire town could be seen—a postcard village tucked amidst the Cobequid Mountains. It was a rural community that bred wholesome values, where religion and a person’s name meant something.
His gaze traced a line to where his driveway climbed a slight grade to the open end of a barn next to the house. There were some pigeons inside, feeding on the grain strewn across the concrete floor. In the silence he could hear others cooing from the overhead loft.
He took slow steps to the backyard and stopped at a heavy iron gate hinged on one side to a thick wooden post. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smells of manure, silage, and wood. Beyond the gate lay rolling pastures of green, divided into three sections by barbed-wire fences. The hills cast lengthening shadows, and a steady, silent wind rode over the slopes, gently pushing the grass in currents.
Off to his left, another gate opened to a feedlot next to the barn. A metal trough sat in the middle. Cattle tracks rutted the soil around it.
Staring at them, he swallowed over a lump in his throat. He turned back to the pastures and gazed across the open expanse. For the first time in his memory, the farm seemed depressingly empty.
Dairying hadn’t been his first choice in life. Growing up, his ambitions were simple—leave Acresville and put the place behind him forever. Then one fateful autumn day had changed all that.
He placed both hands on the gate and lowered his head. For a moment, his eyes grew distant with the relived tragedy. The sense of loss was still palpable as he recalled the livestock transporter pulling away with the last of his cattle.
The headline “Local Farmer Fined For Dirty Dairying” still haunted him. In his paranoia, Hoss imagined the local townspeople laughing at him, a target of ridicule, much as he had been as a child.
A slow, sick anger welled up inside him, and his grip tightened on the gate. He raised his chin. He mustn’t dwell on what had happened. To do so would only drive him crazy. It was time for a new beginning—the end of one life, the start of another.
He returned to the front of the house and gathered up his things from the step. Then he went inside, the screen door bouncing off the jamb behind him. He crossed the living room to the kitchen. On the table lay a black leather sheath. After picking it up, he slid the knife into it.
A black duffel bag rested on the floor. He had it already packed with everything he needed to complete tonight’s job: cuticle scissors, a spoon, a small mason jar filled with a watery preservative, rags for cleanup, and a flashlight. He put the knife inside the bag and zipped it.
He began to pace the floor in tight circles, nervous, unsure of how everything would turn out. To calm himself, he poured a glassful of whiskey and walked to the kitchen counter. Peering out the window that overlooked the backyard, he saw the last edge of sun had nearly retreated behind the mountains, leaving the horizon tinged red and indigo.
Soon the sky would dim to gray.
Soon it would be time for someone to die.
