The forest was quiet. The sun, low to the east, warm on my skin.
I paused outside the butchering shed, enjoying the light, the stillness. The generator was off and the fridge door ajar to air the interior. A healthy smell of bleach infused the shed.
My knives were sharp. I was ready for my next kill. Peace descended, laced with satisfaction. The Howard Potters of the world would do well to drive straight on through Cann River. Pat could live without her hamburger meat.
I headed up to the shack. The only matter spoiling an otherwise perfect day was Pearl. She was losing perspective. Bringing those kids into town displayed poor judgement. Any number of passers-by could have seen her, seen them in her car, seen her with them.
I figured by nine she’d be up. No matter how much whisky she’d
