Walking away from Hannah, her blood already fading to brown, I remember thinking that I had just seen my first ever dead body.
How did that make me feel, having watched a girl tied to a tree and shot forty-nine times? Flesh, blood, death?
What if it thrilled me? Oh God, what if it thrills me?
We ducked out through the thicket and by the time we hit the trail, I was already twenty yards behind Matthew, too dazed to keep up as we headed back to Split Rock, where we always hid our bikes. All I remember of the trek out that day is the sight of Matthew moving farther and farther ahead of me, hauling me along in his wake.
He waited for me near the bikes, standing with one foot on the rock, looking like a dad snuck off for a smoke at a church picnic. When I got close, he unslung the bag from his shoulder.
* * *
EVERY TIME WE HEADED UP to the mountains, we took these two bags with us. We’d found them the summer before going through my dad’s junk in the garage, old fishing bags for two-piece bamboo rods, made of camouflage-patterned canvas. Wearing them over our shoulders we felt like soldiers out on patrol.
It was Matthew’s idea. He said one of the bags would be perfect for hiding my Red Ryder BB gun, although if anyone had looked closely enough, the gun was actually an inch too long for the bag. Matthew knew this might look suspicious, so he worked out a plan in case anyone ever stopped us.
We saved up enough money and cycled thirteen miles over to New Paltz, where there was an art supply store. Matthew had been right, I could see it was perfect as soon as he showed me the carry tube made of clear plastic. We bought the tube along with some good paper to roll up inside and also a tin of pencils. The plan was that if anyone stopped us in the mountains we’d tell them we liked sketching the scenery and I’d roll down the top of my bag and show them the tube full of paper, maybe even pull out the pencils.
Well, it turned out to be an excellent plan because one time we did get stopped by an old guy who worked for the Conservancy—the same old guy who sometimes came to our school to give us talks on geology and trees, all the good stuff kids find so fascinating. He called out to us, hurrying over and pointing at the bags, Boys, boys, you know there’s no fishing in the lake.
I’d already slipped the camo bag from my shoulder and was pulling at the string that cinched the opening. When the old guy got closer I began to scrunch down the canvas to show him the clear tube full of the good drawing paper. It’s OK, I said, we’re not fishing.
And then Matthew said, Tricky likes to sketch the lake, sir. Tricky’s really good with water, it always looks like it’s moving.
By now I’d pulled out the tin of pencils and started rattling them softly to keep all the attention on me, in case the dark inch of muzzle peeking out from Matthew’s bag caught the Conservancy guy’s eye. He seemed to be buying into our whole act, was even smiling at us like we were an unexpected pleasure, scratching at his half-white beard.
Shouldn’t you be home playing Atari? he said. That’s all my sister’s boys ever do these days. No, sir, I prefer to draw, I said. So you like to sketch water? he said. Yessir, I said. You ever sketch Jakobskill Falls? he said. All the time, sir. Well I guess you can’t come to much harm, he said. No, sir, I said. Just remember, though, said the old guy, half turning away already, no fishing in the lake, boys. Yessir, said Matthew.
After that we’d see the old Conservancy guy occasionally. Matthew even made me sketch Jakobskill Falls and then we had to carry the drawing around with us. One time we showed him my sketch and he pretended to like it. And when he came into school to give one of his talks he seemed to deliver most of the words in the direction of Matthew and me, as if we were the only kids who cared about this stuff. I couldn’t have cared less. But anyway, I suppose it was better to have the old guy on our side rather than chasing us away from the ridge. I’d say it’s a fair guess we probably broke several Conservancy rules while we were up in the mountains playing our games.
* * *
MATTHEW REACHED INTO THE CAMO bag, pulled out the gun and tossed it over to me. Instinctively, I caught it.
It has your fingerprints on it too, Tricky, he said.
I looked down at my hands, one curled around the stock, the other on the barrel. Of course it had my fingerprints on it, it was my damn gun. Only something about holding it right after the crime made it feel worse, as if mine were the fresher of the two sets of prints they might find.
So now we need a plan, said Matthew.
God, we always needed a plan. We need a plan might as well have been Matthew’s mantra. We couldn’t ride our bikes around aimlessly, there had to be a final objective, our time in the Swangums always having to come with a list of activities. Rifle Range, Trail Race, Lake Swim, Lone Ranger …
Plus it was always Matthew who made the damn plan.
And I was always Tonto.
Shouldn’t we tell someone what happened? I said, not daring to look at him.
Are you fucking stupid? They’ll put us both in jail for-ever.
We could tell them how we were playing a game, I said. Maybe it was all just an accident.
Matthew’s tongue was slipping from one side of his mouth to the other, his eyes somewhere else. Right, he said, this is what we do. First we ditch the gun. But the lake here’s too obvious, they’ll dredge. And nowhere in these woods. We should cycle over to Mannaha, we’ll throw it in the lake over there or bury it somewhere.
Mannaha was another one of the skylakes in the Swangums and also the name of the state park surrounding it, seven miles farther down the ridge. Sometimes we cycled over there even though it wasn’t so different from our own skylake and our own stretch of the mountains but there were days when we just wanted to loosen our legs, pedal hard down a different road.
I started to feel faint, dropped the gun next to our bikes and sat down on the rock. Tipping my head back to take in some air, I was half-blinded by sunlight and as I screwed up my eyes, a dark blot passed overhead. I knew what it was right away even though I couldn’t make it out properly—and in that instant, I knew exactly what it was I had to do.
Come on, Tricky, let’s get going, said Matthew, pulling me up by my hands.
And then I saw it again, farther down the road. Sure enough it was a turkey vulture, wings spread wide and its body flat, as if it were sliding over plate glass. I remember back then how I used to think of those turkey vultures as the vampires of the air, their gaunt bodies cloaked in plumage, prowling the skies on the lookout for their next taste of blood.
Blinking up at the sun, I pictured one of the vultures swooping down on Hannah, the thin stalk of its neck turning its red wrinkled head and its pale beak parting her hair, just like Matthew’s stick.
Hannah’s split eyeball was the path of least resistance and now I could see the turkey vulture going at her, its beak dragging out strings of flesh like snapped rubber bands, gobbling up wet dabs of brain, the vulture’s hooked beak penetrating her over and over …
Dammit, I was only twelve, this doesn’t have to mean anything. I had already failed to do the right thing. You think I haven’t regretted that ever since? I’ve waited my whole life for a chance to make amends. And at least in that moment twenty-six years ago, thinking about Hannah and the turkey vulture, I finally acted. Isn’t that what matters most of all?
We have to cut her down, I yelled at Matthew, and we have to bring her back and we have to tell someone what happened.
Matthew’s muscles tensed but for once I acted faster than him, turning side on, dropping my shoulder and charging, my speed and weight tackling him square in the chest. He went flying back, the air punching out of him as he landed on the road. And then I broke into a sprint.