River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(71)

After thirty minutes of walking, he climbed into a deer stand he’d built with his old man in a hundred-year-old maple tree. He laid the rifle across his lap, his thoughts on Beth and how much he wished she were there beside him. She used to shiver in the cold early mornings on the days she’d joined him, waiting for a deer or rabbit to happen by. He’d lay his rifle to the side, with no intention of using it unless he had to. He hadn’t killed the animals in front of Beth. She hadn’t had the stomach for it. And yet she’d never complained about digging in once the meat had been cooked and served on a plate.

When she’d been in the woods with him, they would watch the birds and squirrels and rabbits. They would listen to the sounds of the wildlife surrounding them. Sometimes, if they were real quiet and the animals had stilled, they could hear the whisper of the river. Beth would press her body against his for warmth, and in return, he’d wrap his arms around her, pulling her close. During her final days, when she’d been too weak to walk, the cancer having taken all of her strength, John had carried her, sitting her on the ground at the base of the trunk of what he would forever think of as their tree.

He closed his eyes. He could almost feel her body next to his, smell the soap on her skin, the touch of her strawberry hair brushing his cheek. What he remembered now, sitting in the deer stand alone, was the first time Beth had seen a doe pass underneath the old maple tree. She’d squeezed his arm, her breath quick and short, her eyes wide. “She’s so big,” she’d said. “And so beautiful.”

The doe had stopped and listened, hearing the whisper of Beth’s voice, picking up their scent. It had darted through the trees, graceful and swift, disappearing behind the hemlocks.

“How could you kill such a beautiful creature?” she’d asked.

He’d looked her in the eyes. “I only kill what I need to survive.”

“Does that include the club’s survival, John? Would you kill for them if they asked you to?”

“I would do whatever I have to do to protect my family,” he’d said.

She’d kissed him then softly, tenderly, whispering into his mouth as she did, “You’re a good man.”

Beth had never asked him the question again.



A large rabbit hopped from underneath a hemlock. John raised the rifle. It took two more hops before landing in a perfect spot for John to take his shot. The gun fired with a bang. The rabbit leaped into the air, took several more hops out of pure adrenaline, and dropped to its side.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder by its strap and climbed down the tree, landing with a grunt, his hips protesting the jarring motion. Kneeling next to the rabbit, he pulled a hunting knife from its sheath and began the ritual of a field dressing. It was quick work. The rabbit was large for its kind but small by comparison to a deer—Or a man, his old man’s voice said somewhere in the back of his mind. He tossed the guts to the side for the wolves. All the while he pretended his stomach wasn’t twisting and turning. He was sweating again. He swallowed the saliva in the back of his throat.

By the time he walked out of the woods, rifle slung over his shoulder, the rabbit hanging by its feet in his hand, the calm he’d felt tucked safely inside the tree had been eradicated. Sweat poured from his hairline. The front and back of his shirt were soaked, his legs unsteady as he made his way to the rusty pickup truck parked alongside the barn. The prospect was leaning against the passenger’s-side door, smoking a cigarette. Chitter stepped out of the house, picking at his teeth. He made his way across the yard when he saw John emerge from the woods.

“Dinner?” Chitter asked and followed John inside the barn.

“You’re welcome to stick around if you have a taste for it,” John said, hanging the rabbit on a hook. Not everybody liked rabbit. It had a gamey taste that took getting used to. “The prospect can stay too,” he added.

The prospect walked in behind them, made a face. “I’ll pass.”

“Do you have what I need?” John reached for the old towel to wipe his hands and face.

“It’s in the back of the truck,” Chitter said.

He followed him to the pickup.

“You don’t look so good,” Chitter said. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yup.” He opened the duffel bag and pulled out the .30-06 rifle.

“It’s clean.”

John nodded. “I’m going to need you to round up the guys and take them on a run for the night. Make it some kind of a special event with booze and girls. And make sure everyone is there. I don’t want anyone at Sweeney’s. Close the place down. Hell, call it a minivacation if you want. The prospect here is going to take my bike with him.”

“Seriously?” The prospect smiled.

“Are you sure about that, John?” Chitter asked.

“Yes. And if anyone asks, you tell them I was with you the entire trip. I was there. My bike was there. Tell everybody they saw me. Do you understand?”

“What’s going on, John?” Chitter stopped picking his teeth, stared at him.

“I’m taking care of a loose end. That’s all you need to know.”

“You talked to Hap?”

John turned to face Chitter, the rifle gripped in his hand at his side. “Are you questioning me?” He heard his father’s voice coming from his mouth. When had he started sounding so much like his old man? When had he started behaving like him?