21

FOG STILL HUNG in the treetops. Oliver fired at the can, missed, and the shot echoed sharply through the woods. He handed the rifle to John.

“So, you suspect Yount,” Oliver said.

John pulled back the bolt and slid a shell into the receiver. He closed the action but didn’t raise to fire. “It’s hardly suspicion. Everything is all too clear. And how do I tell my son he’s been betrayed by his wife and his best friend?”

“He must know something,” Oliver said and took the rifle. He looked down the sight, then back at John. “So, what do you do?”

“This man is hurting my son, my grandchild. He’s threatening my family.”

“You want me to kill him?”

John laughed, but a look at Oliver silenced him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am, though.” Oliver traced the trigger housing with his finger. “I’ve come to love you. This man is fucking with your family. He deserves to die.”

John was speechless. He looked away, into the trees, at the fog.

“The family is sacred.”

“Who are we to administer justice?”

Oliver fired at the can and hit it. He kept his eyes on the place on the log where the can had stood. “Tell me, who’s better qualified?”

John found a cigarette and lit it. Shaking out the match, he said, “Well, that’s certainly something to think about.”

“Yeah. Something to consider.”

John watched Oliver reload.

“You find all this disturbing?” Oliver asked.

“To say the least. To say the most, you’re scaring me to death.”

“Then let’s change the subject.”

“Okay. While we’re on scary things, Ruth wants me to meet her mother today.”

“Hmmmm.”

“I agree.”

“Well, I guess it’s not so strange,” Oliver said. “You are a man in her life.”

John laughed. “I feel like I’m using her.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You most certainly are,” said Oliver. “Being with her gives you pleasure. You enjoy her company, intellectually and physically.”

John dropped his butt and pressed it out with his toe. “I don’t know where it’s going.”

“That’s stupid. Where it’s going? That it’s going at all should be enough. It’ll go for a while, then it’ll stop. Then you’ll miss it. Then you won’t.”

“But I’m meeting her mother.”

“I admit, I don’t envy you that. If it gets rough, just remember you’re probably old enough to be her mother’s father.”

“Thank you. That’s helpful.”

Oliver smiled big. “Any time.”

Just before they got into the van to leave, a beat-up pickup parked beside them. A bearded old man climbed out and waved to them. “Hey there, young fellers.”

Oliver grinned and, as he walked by John, said under his breath, “My God, he’s older than us.”

“You boys out huntin’?”

“No,” Oliver said. “Shootin’ targets.”

The old man frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know, targets. We were shooting at cans.”

“Go on.”

“Really,” said Oliver.

“Why, that’s a damn waste of bullets.”

John laughed.

The old man took his rifle from the truck and came closer. He looked at Oliver’s .22. “I guess you were shootin’ at tin cans. You couldn’t kill nothin’ with that pea-shooter.”

“Hardly,” said Oliver.

“What are you hunting?” John asked.

“Anything and everything.”

“I thought that season was over,” said John.

“Fuck seasons. If it’s movin’, it’s in season. I hunt for my victuals.”

“You live around here?” Oliver asked.

“So to speak. I live in my truck and it’s around here.” He scratched his beard. “I’d best get goin’. Maybe I’ll get me a raven.”

“You’ve eaten raven before?” John asked.

“I have.”

“What’s it taste like?”

The old man thought for a bit. “A lot like owl.”