The Searcher(78)

Trey says, “Looked everywhere.”

“Any sign of him?”

“Nah. Bits of aul’ rubbish, just.” The kid’s eyes skid away. The memory is a hard one. He went there hoping he would find either Brendan or something he’d left, a message, and afraid he would find something bad.

Cal says, “Any reason why you didn’t tell me about this place?”

Trey gives him the moron stare. “Why would I? It’s not where he went.”

“Right,” Cal says. “I’d like to take a look at it for myself. Could you tell me how to get there?”

“Up past our place maybe a mile. Then off the road, up the mountain a bit. Through some trees.”

“Uh-huh. You gonna send out a search party when I’m not back in a few days?”

“I know the way. I could bring you there.” The kid is up off his knee, halfway to a runner’s stance, like one word from Cal and he’ll shoot right off.

“I’d rather the two of us didn’t get spotted wandering around together,” Cal says. “Specially not round there.”

Trey’s face is lit up fiercely. “I’ll go on my own. No one’ll spot me. Lend me your phone, I’ll take photos, bring them back to you.”

“No,” Cal says, more sharply than he intends. “You stay away from that cottage. You hear me?”

“Why?”

“In case, is why. Did you hear me?”

“I’m not gonna get kidnapped. I’m not thick.”

“Good for you. You stay away from it anyway.”

“I wanta do something.”

“That’s what you got me into this for. To do things. So let me do them.”

The kid is opening his mouth to argue. Cal says, “You wanna do something useful, get us dinner.” He puts the rifle into Trey’s hands and nods towards the edge of the wood. The rabbits have come out to feed.

After a second of indecision, Trey drops the argument. He eases himself slowly into position, settles the rifle against his shoulder and squints down the sight. “Take your time,” Cal says. “We’re in no hurry.”

They wait and watch. The rabbits are feeling frisky; a few half-grown ones chase each other through the grass, springing high, in the long slants of gold light slipping under the cloud. P.J. is singing to his sheep as he looks them over: scraps of some plaintive old ballad, too fragmented to catch, drift across the fields.

“That big guy there,” Cal says softly. One rabbit is turned broadside on to them, working away at a clump of white-flowered weed. Trey shifts the rifle a fraction, lining up his sights. Cal hears the long whisper of his breath, and then the gun’s roar.

The rabbits whirl and streak for cover, and a high screaming starts. It sounds like a child being tortured.

Trey swings round to Cal, his mouth opening and nothing coming out.

“You got it,” Cal says, standing up and taking the gun from Trey. “We’ll have to finish it off.”

He pulls his hunting knife out of his pocket on his way across the field. Trey half-runs to keep up. His eyes are flaring with pure wild panic at the runaway momentum of what he’s set in motion. He says, “We could try to fix him.”

“It’s in bad shape, kid,” Cal says gently. “We need to stop it suffering. I’ll do it.”

“No,” Trey says. He’s white. “I shot him.”

One of the rabbit’s forelegs has been taken half off and is bleeding in fast bright-red spurts. It lies on its side, jerking, with its back arched; its eyes are white-ringed and its mouth is open, lips pulled back, showing strong teeth and a bloody foam. Its screaming fills up the air.

“You sure?” Cal says.

“Yeah,” Trey says tightly, and holds out his hand for the knife.

“Back of the neck,” Cal says. “Right here. You need to cut through the spine.”

Trey positions the knife. His mouth is set like he’s stopping himself from throwing up. He takes a breath and lets it out long, like he’s about to fire the rifle. It eases the shake in his hand. He comes down hard on the knife, with his weight behind it, and the screaming stops. The rabbit’s head lolls.

“OK,” Cal says. He digs in his pocket for the plastic bag, so he can get the rabbit out of the kid’s sight. “It’s done now. You did good.” He picks up the rabbit by the ears and maneuvers it into the bag.

Trey wipes the hunting knife on the grass and gives it back to Cal. He’s still breathing hard, but the panic has gone out of his eyes, and his face is starting to get its color back. It was the suffering he couldn’t take.

“Gimme your hands,” Cal says, finding his water bottle.

Trey looks down at his hands. They’re crisscrossed with fine lines of blood droplets, from the arterial spray.

“Come here,” Cal says. He pours water over Trey’s hands, while Trey rubs at the blood, till it’s run off into the grass. “That’ll do for now. You can scrub up good and hard once we’re done with the messy part.”

Trey dries off his hands on his jeans. He turns his face up to Cal, still a little stunned, like he needs to be told what to do next.

“Here you go,” Cal says, holding out the plastic bag. “It’s your kill.”