Chapter 73
THE SHELLS WERE not in the sideboard drawer where they were usually kept. Ryman pulled the other drawers open, rummaged through them, came up empty. Where did he leave the box of .30-30 shells? Kitchen cupboard? Bedroom dresser? Pantry shelf? He checked, rechecked, even triple checked every place in the cottage where they could possibly be. No box of shells. A sleepless night and heavy drinking blurred his memory for details—never strong on a good day—into an opaque haze.
He sat on the couch, head in hands, and tried to recall where he’d seen them last. His fingers spread apart and his eyes opened wide. The Cabin! He’d gone up there with Crispie and Thumper for some target shooting one summer afternoon. They stacked up hay bales in the paddock and plinked away at cans and pape
