THEO
THE NORTH SIDE of the mountain was filled with hiding places. I closed in on the cabin. My jaw tightened. I gripped the steering wheel and whirled forward; gravel and dust filled the open convertible. A thin red line etched the bottom of the sky, then lightning lit up the clouds. Storm. Thunder crackled and camouflaged the crunch of my tires.
I finally reached the top of the hill and turned off the lights, then entered the foreboding homestead. My stomach climbed to my throat. I’d searched burned-out villages unsure of what I’d find: slaughtered villagers, children, and women, grandparents, blown to smithereens. I blinked those images away and called out, “Tula? Teddy?”
The rustic cabin was in the center of the lot. The shop and barn towered behind the cabin, though they were nearly engulfed by a thicket of pines and an old oak tree. The sound of rain was everywhere, hitting the tarps that covered remnants of cut wood, filling the otherwise quiet yard; a yard redolent with the lives of animals hunted and skinned on the ground where I walked.
Swiftly moving from window to window of the cabin, I stared into the darkness of each, shotgun poised and ready. Sounds filled my head: heavy breathing, footsteps on bamboo bridges. Heard them everywhere, like the ubiquitous sound of rain. I readied my finger on the trigger and squeezed my eyes shut—chased away another ghost.
An empty oil barrel drummed as the rain hit. I progressed toward the barn. The bushes on the left side of the cabin had familiar fabric hanging from them: a yellow sweater. Tula’s sweater.
Across the yard and inside the barn was a dim light. A split deer, its hooves bound and dangling from a pivot the size of my arm, was suspended at the entrance of the door. I stepped through the blood-drenched ground that led inside but stopped cold in the doorway. There was a scratching sound behind me, inside a small trailer next to the oil drum. Something inside scratched to get out. I heard a growl. Solly?
I turned back to the barn. The rain battered the aluminum roof panels so hard that the birds frantically scattered from the beam twenty feet above. When I opened the door, the smell of rotting meat was overpowering. Bird droppings everywhere. I struggled to see through the shadows. Just then, a glimpse of something in the back, a flicker of light off metal. A gun? Knife? I ducked behind a barrel and watched. It moved again, then a match burst to life and a lantern glowed against the darkness. There he was.
Hansel stood in the yellow glow, two burlap potato sacks, large enough to hold one child each, lay at his feet. One was moving, the other was not. He poured gasoline on the bags. Tula screamed from inside one. The other, Teddy, didn’t move. My heart dropped.
Then Hansel disappeared into the shadows of the massive barn.
I aimed the shotgun into the corner and said, “It’s over.”
“Not over,” he said, not a hint of surprise in his voice. “Fun’s just beginnin’.”
I turned toward the sound of his voice—he’d approached quickly. Something slammed against my ribs, and my gun dropped to the ground, I to my knees.
“Just beginnin’, Padre.”