WINTER'S WHISPER

by BJ Bourg

“Austin , it's beautiful!”

I killed the engine and smiled at Abigail. “Wait until you see the inside.”

“Are you sure they only want fifty thousand for this place?”

I nodded and stared in awe at the faded Victorian home; the wrap-around porch with its scrolled woodwork, large bay window out front, mahogany door with long brass handle, lattice-work choked by ivies, lush flower beds cuddling the base of the house. “It looks even better than on the Internet.”

Abigail dropped from the F-250 and walked toward the back of the house. “Something has to be wrong with this place, going for that cheap.”

I followed, trying to take in everything at once. The house was centered on two acres of manicured property and surrounded on all sides by dense forestland. A large garden stood proudly in the backyard and a water fountain nestled amidst a cluster of crape myrtles. “It's got to be haunted.”

Abigail lurched to a stop. Her eyes widened and she stood perfectly still. Only her brown hair moved as the soft, July breeze caressed her tanned face. “You think?”

I laughed. “I'm kidding.”

“But it makes sense. The house has been on the market for years. Why? There has to be a reason, especially since the man is only asking fifty thousand. Jeez, he should be able to get triple that.”

“I'm sure there's a good explanation.” I looked around and nodded. “Probably no one wants to live fifty miles from the nearest town.”

“Which is?”

“What?”

“The nearest town. What's it called?”

“Oh! I think it's Bowler, or something.”

“Well, before we sign the Purchase Agreement, I want you to find out why it's been on the market so long, and I want to know why he's selling it so cheap.”

“He did say the place was just too big for him.”

“What about his wife? Did he mention her?”

I scratched my head. “You know, I don't remember him mentioning anything about a wife.”

“Well, you need to find out. I'm not moving here until I know exactly what's been going on.”

We finished our tour of the place and I drove the four hours back to our apartment in New Orleans , Abigail sleeping most of the way. I tickled the back of her neck. “Time to rise and shine.”

She turned to sit up and suddenly grabbed her mouth with one hand while she clutched at the door handle with the other.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She managed to get the door open and hurled in the parking lot. I ran around the car. She leaned against the door, her face pale. A line of slime hung from her mouth. “Don't look,” she pleaded.

“It's okay, I'll—”

“Just go!”

Her animosity caught me by surprise. I backed away and watched as she hurled again. I felt helpless. Her face reddened and the veins in her neck bulged with each convulsion. She finally straightened and eased the door closed, clutching her stomach.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

She reached for me and I took her in my arms. I guided her toward the stairwell and up the two flights to our room on the second floor. When she was seated in the living room, I grabbed a bucket and wet towel from the bathroom and propped on my knees in front of her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I'm sorry for snapping at you. I just didn't want you to see me all gross.”

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. This used to happen a lot when I was a little girl. I'd get car sick every time we went on vacation.”

“Just relax. I'll call Mr. Boudreau and talk to him about the house.”

Mr. Boudreau picked up on the first ring.

“Hi, it's Austin Rose.”

“Howdy, young man. Did you like the house?”

“Loved it.”

“Great. Do we have ourselves a deal?”

“Well, my wife had a few questions.” I waited, but there was no response. “I mean, like, it was on the market for so long and nobody bought it. She just wondered about that.”

“What about it?”

“I guess, like, why it never sold?”

“Hell, son, if I had that answer I'd get into the real estate business. I put it up for sale and y'all are only the second couple to show interest. That's the bottom line.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly, sir. I think it's a great deal. It's just, well, you know how wives can be.”

“Yep, I do.”

“So, you're married?”

“Was.”

“ Was ? What, did you get a divorce?”

“Well, we were separated, but it was death that came between us.”

I wanted to kick myself in the groin. “Sorry for prying. It's just that Abigail saw the beautiful flowerbeds and she wanted to meet the woman who planted them.”

“Don't worry yourself about it. And tell your bride not to worry. There's nothing wrong with the place. That old house just reminded me too much of my dear Stella. I moved out a few months after she passed.”

“Did she die, uh, did she pass away in the house?”

“No. She went in her sleep at the hospital. Suffered from cancer. Fought to the bitter end, that one. Didn't want to leave this earth.”

“Do you think your children will be upset that you sold the house to us? I mean, if it's where they grew up, they—”

“We had no kids. Stella couldn't….”

After several silent moments, I mumbled an apology.

“No need for that, son. We led a good life, the missus and me.” Mr. Boudreau cleared his throat. “The house is yours if you want it. If not, it'll stay on the market until someone decides they want the best deal in southeastern Louisiana .”

“I'll get back with you, sir.”

Abigail sat at the edge of the sofa, her eyes eager. “Well, what is it?”

I sat beside her. “His wife died in the kitchen and her ghost still haunts the place. Sometimes, on a full moon, the pots and pans start to—”

Abigail hit me across the shoulder with a pillow. “Stop playing! Tell me what's going on!”

I filled her in on what had happened and watched as my words ignited a flame of excitement in her eyes.

“Then this is it, right?”

I nodded. “It sounds like we've found our dream home.”

Abigail threw herself back onto the sofa and kicked her legs in the air. “Hurray!” she screamed. “And it's just in time!”

The smile slid off my face. “What do you mean?”

Abigail blushed. “Uh…well…I'm kind of pregnant.”

“Pregnant? Did you say pregnant? ”

Abigail nodded.

“I'm going to be a dad?”

Abigail's expression turned quizzical. “Unless you want to be the mom?”

I snatched her off the sofa and squeezed her tight. A tear tried to slip through my sealed eyelids. I blinked it away so she wouldn't notice….

***

I threw the last of the empty boxes in the woodpile behind the shed and paused to stare through my frozen breath at our newly acquired piece of the planet. Mr. Boudreau had told me the hunting behind the property was excellent. He boasted an average of six deer per year and an unlimited amount of rabbits and squirrels. It's time to learn a thing or two about hunting.

I pulled my jacket zipper to my neck to keep the bitter thirty-degree wind out and returned inside. Abigail was seated on the sofa in the living room. I lay beside her, rested my head on her lap, and rubbed her tiny pooch.

“I can't believe you unloaded all those boxes in two days.”

“I didn't want to be unpacking during the Christmas Holidays,” I said in an idle tone. My eyes were focused on a speck in the ten-foot ceiling. I pointed to it. “What do you suppose that is?”

Abigail lifted her head and squinted. “It looks like a hole.”

I pulled myself up and stood on the sofa to get a better look. It definitely looked like a small hole. “I'll have to check the attic.”

“I knew there was something wrong with this place,” she wailed.

I walked to the kitchen and dragged a chair across the hardwood floor to the hallway closet. I removed the opening to the attic and climbed through. Light beamed like a laser through the hole in the ceiling. I felt in the dark for a light switch and was pleasantly surprised to find one that worked. A narrow board stretched the length of the house. In a slight crouch, I walked to where the dime-size hole was located and stuck my pinky through it. The edges were jagged and the wood splintered toward the attic end of the hole. I scanned the underside of the roof and located a hole in the side of one of the rafters. There was a pea-sized object in the hole. I pulled out my knife and chopped at the hole until the object fell into my hand. I gasped.

I hurried out of the attic and placed the object on the coffee table in front of Abigail.

“Is that a bullet?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Somebody shot a hole through the ceiling?” Her tone was incredulous.

“It appears so.”

“Will it rain in the house?”

“No. The bullet lodged in a ceiling joist, so it won't be a problem.” I scratched my head. “I just wonder how it got there.”

Abigail's eyes grew wide. “You think someone was shot here?”

I laughed. “Not unless they were crawling on the ceiling like that girl on The Grudge .”

“Call Mr. Boudreau and find out what happened.”

“Come on, Abby, I'm sure—”

“ Austin , if you don't find out what happened, I'll never be able to sleep in this house again. Please, just call the man.”

I knew it was no use arguing. I called Mr. Boudreau and we spoke for several minutes. Abigail knelt beside me on the sofa. She hung on my every word.

“I'm sorry for bothering you, sir,” I told Mr. Boudreau as I hung up.

“What? What is it?” She hopped up and down. “Is it bad?”

“No. Mr. Boudreau was cleaning his gun after a hunt one year and accidentally shot a hole in the ceiling.”

Abigail breathed a long sigh of relief. Seemingly satisfied, she abruptly changed the subject. “Are you working tomorrow?”

I grabbed my day planner from the fireplace mantle and flipped it open to December 2005. I found my vacation dates. “Yeah. I'll start my vacation Friday.”

“I'll need to go to Bowler tomorrow to get some food and stuff, because they give snow for this weekend.”

“What?” I'd only heard of it snowing twice in southern Louisiana during my lifetime.

“The Weather Channel is predicting eight inches of snow throughout the weekend.”

“How come I didn't know anything about this?”

“Oh my God! They didn't check with you first?”

***

Abigail was waiting for me on the front porch swing when I returned home from work Thursday. She was wrapped in a thick quilt and wore a knit cap that covered most of her face.

“What are you doing—?”

“He lied!” Abigail hurried down the steps.

“Be careful, Abby, you don't—”

“Mr. Boudreau lied about his wife!”

I stared down at her rosy cheeks and wild eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“The lady at the post office told me Stella Boudreau didn't die of cancer—she disappeared.”

“But…are you sure? Mr. Boudreau told me she passed away at the hospital, that she died of cancer.”

“The lady told me Stella Boudreau used to come to Bowler alone every Saturday. She had a routine. She'd do her mail, her groceries, and then she'd have coffee in the beignet shop. One Saturday, she just stop showing up—was never seen again.”

I ushered Abigail into the house to escape the biting cold. Warm air gushed from the front door and wrapped its comforting arms around us. I slammed the door shut and jerked off my coat, considering what Abigail had said. “Maybe that was the week Stella went into the hospital,” I offered. “That would explain why she was never seen again.”

She walked to the kitchen table and removed a small stack of stapled papers from her leather purse. She thrust them in my direction. “Mr. Boudreau filed a missing person report five years ago. Here's a copy.”

“Where'd you get this?”

“The sheriff's office.”

“What? You went to the sheriff's office?” I stared at the official document. It was dated July 6 th of 2000. There was a Xeroxed picture of Stella Boudreau stapled to the report, along with a handwritten statement by Mr. Whitney Boudreau. In his statement, he claimed his wife left home for Bowler early Saturday morning and never returned. Her car was found parked down a trail that intersected the desolate highway leading to the Boudreau estate. Stella was nowhere to be found. The sheriff conducted an investigation and learned that Stella Boudreau had made it to Bowler early Saturday morning and was last seen leaving the beignet shop at around 3 pm. “They just gave this to you?”

Abigail nodded, a strange look on her face.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! What makes you think I did something?”

“You're not a good liar.”

Her lower lip fell into a pout. “Okay. I kinda told the sheriff I was Stella Boudreau's daughter from a previous marriage and I wanted to find out what happened to my mom.”

I slapped my forehead. “I can't believe you lied to a cop!”

“He's a sheriff, not a cop.”

“Baby, it's the same thing. You can't go around lying to cops—or sheriffs.”

Abigail plopped in a chair by the dining room table, clutched her swollen belly. “I thought you'd be happy that I found this stuff out.”

I sat beside her and smiled my forgiveness. “It's okay. I just don't want you getting in trouble.”

“I won't.” She bounced up and down. “So, you think he did it?”

“Did what?”

“Killed his wife.”

“Baby, we don't know that anyone's been killed.”

“Why would he lie about her dying of cancer?”

“Maybe he's ashamed that she ran off and left him. I mean, if you ever left me, I wouldn't go around telling people. That'll destroy a man's ego.”

“Well, check this out. The last time Mr. Boudreau saw his wife was Saturday morning, July 1 st , 2000.” Abigail pointed to the date on the cover sheet of the report. “Why did he wait five days to report her missing?”

I scratched my head. “I don't know. I mean, you do have a point, but it's got nothing to do with this house and us. I'm sure the sheriff looked into it and if Mr. Boudreau would've done something wrong, he would've gone to jail for it.”

Abigail grunted. “This ain't CSI. In real life, the bad guys sometimes get away.”

***

For once, the weather forecasters had nailed it. There was at least eight inches of snow on the ground when Abigail and I peaked out the window Saturday morning. It continued to snow throughout the day. Sometime during the afternoon we lost power and the inside of the house was cloaked in shadows.

“What do you think happened?” Abigail asked, shoving a bright flashlight in my face.

I squinted and brushed the light away. “Probably a downed power pole. I heard that the sheer weight of the ice on the wires is enough to snap the poles.”

A concerned look spread across Abigail's face. “Do you think it could cave the ceiling in?”

I shook my head. “There's enough of a pitch on the roof. This house is 100 years old and back when they built it there were probably blizzards in this area.”

“I doubt that. I think the only reason we're getting snow is because of Global Warming.”

I scoffed. “Poor Global Warming, he gets blamed for everything. I bet he's the reason the Saints have never gone to the Super Bowl.”

“Have your fun. When what happened in The Day After Tomorrow becomes a reality, you'll see. For right now, what about you get more firewood, so we can have a romantically freezing night by the fireplace.”

I pulled on my coat and gloves and shoved aching feet into my insulated rubber boots. “I'll be back,” I called in robotic fashion, hurried out the door and trudged through the frozen snow. I made my way to the log rack behind my shed and strained to roll a two-foot section of tree trunk, which was at least twenty inches thick, off the top of the rack. It fell hard to the frozen ground and rumbled toward where my garden lay buried in snow and ice. The trunk came to rest at the edge of the garden. Instead of arguing, I just shoved it over onto its flat side. I tossed several smaller logs beside it and retrieved my axe.

Placing one of the logs on the trunk, I took careful aim and swung the axe in one looping motion. With an audible crack, the log split. Splinters shot into the air. The crack echoed through the white silence of the December evening. I paused and stared at the thick snow that floated to the ground. An occasional whisper of wind would cause the snowflakes to dance wildly in mid-descent before falling to their final resting place.

I looked to the forest. There was not a sound to be heard, except for the occasional crack of a tree branch that could no longer withstand the weight of ice and snow that piled relentlessly atop it. The world around me stood still and helpless against this white invasion. I brushed snow from my face and turned back to the task at hand.

Log after log I split. I didn't know how long we would be without power, and I didn't want to be splitting logs during the weekend. I didn't know Abigail was watching until I heard her piercing scream. She waved frantically from the porch and pointed behind and above me. I turned in time to hear a thunderous crack. A large branch fell toward me. I stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Abigail screamed. The earth shuddered as the tip of the hulking branch buried itself deep into the ground inches from my feet.

Frozen breath puffed from my mouth like a steam engine. My heart pounded. I stared wide-eyed at the branch. Abigail had run up. She dove on me and squeezed my neck. “Oh, God! Oh, God!” she wailed. “I thought it was going to get you!”

I gave Abigail a grateful embrace and helped her to the house. Tears streaked down her cheeks. I wiped her face with my gloved hand. “It's okay, I'm all right—thanks to you. You saved my butt.”

Abigail shivered and buried her face in my chest. “I thought you were gone! I saw my life without you and I was so scared!”

I guided her to the sofa and held her close. “Baby, you're stuck with me for a long time.”

***

Abigail woke me up early Monday morning. “Time to get off your butt and get that tree trunk out of my garden!”

I squinted against the sunlight that peeked through the window. “But it's Christmas—nobody works on Christmas.”

“Christmas was yesterday, or don't you remember opening your present?”

I rolled to my back and smiled at the memory of opening my new Remington Model 700 .25-06 Sendero. “I'll not soon forget that!”

“Well, the sooner you get that tree out of my garden, the sooner you can go out there and pretend to know how to hunt.”

“Pretend? Woman, I'd shoot circles around you.”

“Really?” She planted a palm on her plump hip. “And how many deer have you killed?”

My face reddened. “Just because my dad wasn't Davy Crocket don't mean I can't shoot a gun.”

“I'll take that to mean zero. I killed eight deer by the time I was—”

“Twelve. I know. You killed Bambi's grandpa when you were seven. I'm happy for you.”

Abigail walked to the bedside and kissed my forehead. “There, now, your bruising ego's all better. When you're ready, I'll teach you how to shoot your new rifle.”

Grumbling, I threw the blankets off and rushed into my warm clothes. I followed Abigail through the hallway and into the dark kitchen. We ate by kerosene light while she bragged about all the game she'd killed as a child hunter. When we were done, she joined me in the back yard. She plopped on a log and held her swelling belly. “I can't believe that just a few days ago all this was covered in snow.”

I nodded, relieved that the hunting topic was dead. “I can't believe it snowed here at all.” The large branch that had fallen into the garden stood like a long crooked finger, and pointed accusingly at the sky. I tugged on it, but it didn't budge. I leaned against it and shoved hard, but it still didn't move.

“How deep did it go?” Abigail wanted to know.

“I don't know. It's pretty heavy and it fell like a javelin right into the ground. I'll have to cut it away in pieces.” I grabbed my axe and chose a spot about four feet from the ground. I hacked away at it with the resolve of a little boy cleaning his room so he could go outside and play. After several minutes, the upper portion crashed to the ground. I dragged it out of the garden, across the yard to the tree line.

When I walked back, Abigail was surveying the piece of tree left in the ground. “How're you going to get that piece out?”

In response to her question, I squatted in front of the branch and grabbed it in a bear hug. The muscles in my legs bulged as I strained to lift it from the hole. It barely moved.

“I guess that doesn't answer my question.” A smile played at the corners of Abigail's mouth.

“Well, this will.” I leaned back and aimed a sidekick at the branch. It shook and a crunching sound emitted from the ground. This stroked my already failing ego. I kicked again and the crunch was louder.

Abigail stared down at the ground. “What's that noise?”

“I don't know.” Determination driving me, I moved to the opposite side of the branch and gave it another kick. The ground beneath me jumped slightly. I kicked again and there was the same result. “There's definitely something under here.”

I motioned for Abigail to stand clear, backed away, and took a deep breath. I broke into a run and headed straight for the branch. When I got close, I launched myself into the air and kicked the branch with both feet. It came free easier than I'd expected and I crashed toward the ground. I put my right hand out to break my fall, but sank to my elbow in the hole that had been vacated by the large branch.

Abigail clutched at her belly and laughed until tears poured from her eyes. “That was worth seeing!”

My back ached and my hand burned. I sat up and pulled my arm from the hole. Blood oozed from my glove. “What the hell?”

Abigail leaned over my shoulder. “Oh, Lord, what happened?”

“I cut my hand on something.” I clinched my fist to slow the blood and reached gingerly into the hole with my left hand. I felt along the muddy walls in the earth. Eighteen inches into the hole, I felt a jagged and splintered edge. “Holy cow!”

“What is it?”

“It feels like the branch busted through a wooden cover of some sort.” I reached deeper into the hole. There was empty space beneath the cover. I couldn't feel the bottom. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed a shovel from the shed.

“What are you doing?” Abigail asked.

“There's some sort of box under here.” I stabbed the shovel into the dirt and jumped on it to get a large scoop.

Abigail's eyes lit up. “You mean, like a buried treasure, or something?”

“Could be. You know how old people don't like to use banks. I bet he buried his money underground and forgot all about it.” Oblivious to the pain in my hand, I tossed scoop after scoop of mud aside and a large wooden crate slowly came into view. The large branch had drilled a hole through the cover of the crate and my karate kick had knocked the cover loose. I scooped the last of the dirt off the cover and bent to open the crate. Jerking the cover several times, it finally opened partially. Before I could see what was inside, a piercing scream ripped from Abigail's throat. It startled me and my hand slipped from the cover. It flung shut with a hollow thud. “What? What is it?”

Abigail's face was pale…her eyes wide and bulging. “There…there's a…a…dead body in there!”

I scrambled out of the hole and stared down at the crate. “Are you sure?”

She nodded furiously. “Oh, yeah! That's definitely a dead body!”

I grabbed the shovel and leaned forward, pried a corner of the crate open. Sunlight shot into the wooden crate. It contained the skeletal remains of some poor soul. “Long hair,” I called over my shoulder, “and there's a red shirt and blue jeans…or, what's left of a red shirt and blue jeans.”

“What kind of shoes does it have?” Abigail's voice was laced with excitement.

“Why?”

“Just tell me.”

I pried it open further with the shovel and dropped to my knees. The far end of the crate came into view. “It looks like some boots. Either dark blue or black. My guess—”

“That's Stella Boudreau!”

“How do you know?”

“That body is wearing the same clothes her husband described when he reported her missing!”

I eased the cover back down. “Call the sheriff and tell him what we found.”

Abigail waddled toward the house, one arm on her overstuffed belly and the other flailing beside her. She disappeared inside and returned moments later. “The phone is dead,” she called from the porch.

I leaned the shovel against the woodpile and shook my head. She had a bad habit of not putting the cordless phone back on the charger. “Use the wall phone.”

“That's the one I tried. I don't get a dial tone. You think the snow took out the phone lines?”

“I don't see how; they're buried underground.” I rubbed my shaking arms—didn't know if it was because of the cold air or the eeriness of finding a dead body in the garden—and walked to where Abigail stood. “Did you try the cell phones?”

She nodded. “I can't get out.”

I ushered her into the warmth of our home. “I'll drive to Bowler and get the sheriff.”

“Please hurry. I don't like being this close to a dead body.”

“Baby, she can't hurt you.”

“I know; it's just eerie.”

I kissed her forehead and snatched the keys from the counter. I jogged to the F-250 and slid onto the cold, leather seat. The engine hesitated several times before roaring to life. I turned the heater on high and sat shivering until warm air blew through the vents. When the air in the cabin had thawed considerably, I spun the truck around and began the long drive to Bowler. The road was soft and muddy in places and made for some tense moments as the rear end fishtailed and the tires spun in desperate fashion, trying to keep the truck moving in a forward direction.

***

When I pushed through the door to his office, the sheriff looked up from a comic book. “Can I help you, son?”

I nodded. “We found her in the garden. He shot her in the living room and then buried her—”

“Whoa! Slow down, boy.” The sheriff stood and pointed to a chair. “Now, take a deep breath and tell me what's going on. Tell it slow so I can hear it.”

I plopped into the wooden chair and sighed. “Stella Boudreau. Her husband shot her and then buried her in the garden. I found her in a wooden crate and I know it's her because she's wearing the same clothes she was wearing in the report—”

“Hold up. What report?”

“The missing person report Mr. Boudreau filed.”

The sheriff's eyebrows formed a V on his forehead. “How did you get your hands on this report?”

“My wife said you gave it to her.”

The sheriff's lips paled. He snatched up the phone and punched in three numbers. “ Devon , did you give out a missing person report on Stella Boudreau? Daughter?” The sheriff shook his head in disgust. “You dumb son of a bitch! Stella didn't have no daughter!” He slammed the phone down.

I swallowed hard. “I'm sorry my wife lied. I told her she shouldn't have.”

“Where do you say you found this body?”

“Behind the house, in the garden.” I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Is…is my wife in trouble?”

The sheriff sighed. “Well, I can't do nothing to your wife for lying, seeing as Devon is always telling people he's the sheriff.”

“I promise you, sir, this will never happen again.”

The sheriff pulled a ring of keys from his desk. “I'll meet you back at your place. Can I trust you not to touch anything?”

I raised my hands. “As soon as I saw that body, I backed off.”

“Good. I'll get the crime scene unit from Jefferson Parish and we'll meet you out there. Probably take a few hours.”

I followed the sheriff outside and watched him drive away in his beat-up Bronco. I turned to walk to my truck but stopped when I saw a lady bent over the blue mail bin at the post office. She struggled to pull a large plastic bag from the bin and then kicked it shut with her foot. I jogged across the street and offered to help.

“I got it,” she said with a wrinkled grin. “Been wrestling these bags for twenty-two years and I've yet to lose a match.”

I didn't doubt she was telling the truth. Her arms were at least the size of my legs. “Ma'am, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

The lady paused and leaned a beefy hand on the door to the post office. “Sure thing.”

“You know Whitney Boudreau?”

“Funny you should bring up that name.”

“Why's that?”

“Before last week, I hadn't seen or heard hide nor hair of old Whitney Boudreau. Then some gal come asking about him last week, he suddenly appears in town today, and now you asking about him.”

“Wait, what did you say?”

“Son, I ain't in the business of repeating myself. If you—”

“Mr. Whitney was here in Bowler? Today?”

The woman nodded. “He stopped to see his brother and then hurried into Pete's Hardware and was—”

“How long ago was that?”

“Earlier this morning.”

I looked around. Pete's Hardware was a block down the street. “Is he still here?”

“He left out the same way you come in, Parish Road 210.”

***

A skinny freckled face girl looked up from the counter when the door chimes announced my entry to Pete's Hardware. She smiled. “Can I help you?”

“A man, an old man, came in here this morning. What did he buy?”

The girl indicated with her head to a shelf behind her. “He got some bullets for hunting and a chainsaw.”

“He told you the bullets were for hunting?”

“Well, no, I just figured—”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

The girl shook her head.

“I need you to get in touch with the sheriff and tell him to go to the old Boudreau house right away. He can't wait for the crime scene team. Tell him to meet Austin Rose there and to bring back up!”

I rushed out the store and sprinted to my truck. As I sped through Bowler, I punched Abigail's number into my cell. It went straight to her voicemail. I tried the house phone. Still dead. “Come on, baby!”

My heart raced. The buildings that skirted Bowler turned to gray shadows in my rearview mirror. Fear smashed my foot to the accelerator and the F-250 swayed along the uneven country road. I tore my eyes from the narrow road only long enough to redial Abigail's cell number, but it was no use.

Several minutes into the drive, I neared a bend in the road. I slowed on the approach and accelerated into the curve—

“Oh, crap! ”

I smashed the brake pedal and jerked the steering wheel to the left. The tires didn't bite on the slick surface and my truck shot headlong through the barren branches and smashed violently into the solid trunk. My body bolted forward, legs folding beneath the dash. Just before I ate the steering wheel, the airbag punched me and ripped flesh from my face.

The sound of the crash reverberated violently through the forest and then everything faded to a deathly stillness. Dazed, I lifted my head and peered through the cloud that had puffed from the airbag. My throat cracked. I began to choke, pushed my door open and fell to the ground. My right hand was bleeding again. Tears poured down my face from the burning in my throat. I crawled away from the wreckage and lay panting against a log. The only sound was that of my own breathing.

The front end of my truck was smashed, the fender buried into the left tire. Where the hell did that tree come from?

I pushed to my feet and limped to the edge of the road. When the base of the tree came into view, the fists of fear squeezed my heart to a standstill. My mind flashed to Abigail, alone and defenseless at home. “If that son of—”

The roar of an engine brought my head around. The sheriff's Bronco came speeding into view. When he saw the crash site, he applied the brakes and maneuvered his vehicle off the shoulder of the road and around the obstruction. The Bronco skid to a stop and he rushed to my side. “Are you okay, son?”

Overcome with relief, I squeezed back the tears. “You got my message!”

The sheriff scowled. “Message?”

“It was Whitney Boudreau! He was in Bowler buying bullets, and a chainsaw! He cut this tree down so I couldn't make it home! He's going to kill Abigail! We need to—”

“Okay, okay, just calm down and get in the truck.” The sheriff helped me to the Bronco. When we were speeding down the road, he handed me a napkin from the glove box. “Wipe that blood off your face and hand.”

“Do you think he'll hurt my wife?”

“Not if I can help it.”

I dabbed at the abrasions on my face. “Can't you drive any faster?”

“Don't worry, son, we'll get there!”

***

When the Bronco came to rest in my driveway behind an old pickup truck I'd never seen, I bolted from the passenger's seat and stumbled toward the door. The sheriff was on me in a flash. He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me against the wall. “Don't make me cuff you.”

I stared into his piercing eyes and nodded.

“Wait out here. No matter what, don't come inside until I signal all clear.”

“All right.”

The sheriff released his hold on my shirt, dragged his revolver from the holster. He tiptoed up the steps and slinked across the porch. When he eased the door open, I heard a muffled cry. Abigail!

I broke into a blind run. The sheriff turned when he heard my boots clatter on the wooden porch, but I caught him off guard. He collapsed to the ground when my shoulder smashed into his back. I rushed by him and through the door. Upon entering the living room, I caught a glimpse of bigail, bloodied and battered, cowering in the corner. Old Whitney Boudreau stood over her with a rifle. Surprise twisted his face into a grimace when he saw me leave my feet and dive headlong into his chest.

For an old man, he felt strong. He tried to pivot away from me, but anger drove me forward. I wrapped him up with my arms and sent him crashing into the sofa. We flipped end over end and came to rest with me on top, the rifle flinging from his grasp. I brought my fists down on his face in furious aggression. A left, a right, a left, a right. “You mother —”

A bright light flashed inside my head. The room spun. I collapsed…

***

“Who else knows?”

“Nobody. I was the only one he told.”

“You sure?”

“Don't you question me. Grab his other leg.”

Someone lifted my legs and dragged me across the floor, out the door, down the rough steps. My head plopped to the frozen ground, pain stabbed into the back of my wet skull. They dragged me faster. I opened my eyes. The world around me spun like a top on speed. It sounded like I was in a barrel of concrete. Judging by the revolving sky, it had to be right about dusk. Two large human figures moved above me.

“This is good,” said the first voice. I grit my teeth. That was Whitney Boudreau.

My feet thumped to the ground.

“How's the girl?” This second voice became clearer, strangely familiar, but just out of my memory's reach.

“She's out.”

“Dead?”

“Close to it.”

“Such a shame. That was a pretty girl.”

“Well, Pretty ain't sending me to prison.” Whitney paused. When he continued, his words dragged. “Hey, you don't think they were undercover, do you? I mean, they did find that bullet, and we looked everywhere for it.”

“No, I checked them out. Besides, if they were undercover, they would know Stella didn't have no kids.” The man sighed. “How we gonna do this?”

“I say we bury them with Stella,” Whitney said. “No one'll be the wiser.”

“Just don't sell this place again.”

“I know, I screwed up. It won't happen again.”

“Damn straight it won't! I can't keep covering your ass, little brother. I'm getting too old for this shit.”

“Just get him in the box.”

One of the figures leaned over and grabbed my arms. Something on his chest flashed bright in the dim light. I squinted and my vision slowly adjusted. A gold nametag. That voice, it suddenly came to me. “You…but…you can't…”

Sheriff Tyler Boudreau straightened, startled by the sound of my voice, and quickly drew his revolver. There was blood on the tip of the barrel.

“You hit me! But…why?”

He regained his composure and slipped the revolver back into the holster. “Don't act so surprised, son.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat grated. I cursed myself for not making the connection. His name was plastered bigger than Dolly Parton's breasts across the front of the Sheriff's Office, but I never once thought they were related. The post office clerk said Mr. Whitney was visiting his— God, I'd suck as a detective!

Pulling myself to an elbow, I raised a hand in surrender. “Look, please, just let Abigail go. You can have me. She's, she's…” I closed my eyes and tears streamed down my face. “She's pregnant.”

The sheriff looked at Mr. Whitney, who slowly shook his head, then back down at me. “Sorry, boy, we can't let y'all go.”

“But you're the law! You can't do this!”

Sheriff Tyler frowned. “You got a brother?”

I shook my head.

“Then you'd never understand.” He grabbed my arm and gently dragged me to the opening in the ground. After lowering me into what was to be my final resting spot, he took the rifle from Mr. Whitney and leveled it at my head. “Nothing personal, son. Every winter there's whispers in Bowler about Stella and what might've happened. Most folks know to leave it alone. But y'all…y'all had to be nosey.”

My heart raced in my chest. I stared up at the ominous muzzle and felt warm urine seep down my pant legs. He aimed down the barrel. I closed my eyes. “Please don't—”

The rifle explosion made me jerk in my skin. It wasn't as loud as I'd anticipated. My ears rang. I sucked in air—

Wait…my ears are ringing! I'm alive!

I jerked my eyes open just in time to see Sheriff Tyler's body crumble into the hole beside me. A second shot rang out. Mr. Whitney yelped. A third shot echoed through the evening air, something dropped to the ground above me. I heard gurgling that lasted several seconds, and then everything was still.

A soft, frail voice broke the silence. I couldn't understand what it said. I pushed myself to my feet and peered over the edge of the hole. Although nighttime was falling fast, there was no mistaking Abigail sitting on the porch, my new rifle cradled in her lap.

I clawed out of the hole and rushed to her side. Her face was badly bruised and swollen. “Oh, God, Honey! I have to get you to a hospital!”

Abigail let the rifle fall from her grasp and she lifted a bloody hand to touch my face. Her lips curled into a weak smile. “It's okay, I felt the baby kick.”

My chin trembled. The dam that held back the flood of emotion threatened to burst. “You…you saved the baby.”

She nodded. “I didn't…let him get to…to my stomach.”

I bit back the tears and helped Abigail to her feet. When she was seated in the Bronco, I slid in the driver's seat and fired it up. On the drive to Bowler, she leaned her head on my shoulder and cradled her belly. Somewhere along the ride, I heard her whisper, “I bet now you're glad I had a Davy Crocket for a daddy…”