Smoke and Mirrors

“A deer has a name?” Rush asked. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s at the food plot,” Faith Ann said. “I came back to get the pull-cart thingie to bring Rudolph back here to be skinned out.”

“How’d you get the blood on your face?” Sean asked her.

“Your husband did it,” Faith Ann said, now exasperated. “First blood. It’s this thing you do.”

“When you kill your first buck you have to get his blood put on you,” Rush explained. “It’s a hunting ritual. Sometimes, depending on local customs, you might even have to take a bite of the heart and swallow it.”

“Euuuuuwww! I most certainly will not eat any deer heart!” Faith Ann exclaimed.

“I should hope not,” Sean said.

“You really killed a deer?” Rush said. “I bet you freaked when you did it.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Faith Ann said. “A clean kill isn’t gross. They get hit by cars, brought down by wild dogs, starve, all kinds of ways to die that are worse.”

“I know all that. I can’t believe you really killed a deer,” Rush said, smiling. “Was it cool?”

“It was totally necessary,” Faith Ann said. “You see, Rudolph was attacking a smaller deer to take his does away from him after he found them. Rudolph hurt the little deer’s leg and was fixing to kill him. You could just tell. So I just did what had to be done.”

“You killed a deer in deer-defense?” Rush said, laughing. “That’s got to be the most ridiculous reason for killing a deer in history.”

“You didn’t see it,” Faith Ann said defensively. “He was really big and mean as a snake. The littler deer was brave, but he was going to lose, and they fight to the death, you know,” she said importantly.

“Deer don’t fight to the death. Only people do that. Are you sure my daddy didn’t shoot it?” Rush said. “I bet he did.”

“Of course I shot it. He dropped where he stood like he was poleaxed.”

“I bet you don’t even know what a poleax is,” Rush said.

“Duh, it’s an axe on a pole,” Faith Ann said.

Sean said, “You need me to help you take the cart back?”

“Go back inside. I’ll help her,” Rush said. “Olivia’s awake. I’d rather eat a deer’s heart than deal with her.”

Faith Ann went to the skinning shed and opened the doors to the storage room. Inside, among the organized clutter, was a two-wheeled cart. She wrestled it out and righted it, opening it to lower the wheels.

Rush lay down in the sling, facing the sky. “Wake me up when we get there,” he said.

Laughing, Faith Ann began pulling Rush toward the plot. Nemo ran ten feet ahead of the kids, the ridge of hair on his back standing like a Mohawk.

5

Faith Ann’s deer hung by his spread back legs in the open-air shed beside the RV. After Winter had skinned the animal, put the meat in the chiller, and placed the caped head on the concrete floor, Rush suddenly turned. “Somebody’s coming,” he said. “They took the chain off the gate.”

The north gate to the property was seventy-five yards away down a gravel road that curved through the woods. After a few seconds Winter heard a vehicle approaching. He reflexively touched the handgun at his side. Since the front gate was kept locked, whoever was coming in either had a key or knew where the spare key to the padlock was hidden. Billy Lyons had said he wasn’t coming down, nor were they expecting any of the other men that sometimes hunted on the four hundred acres. He put the wide-bladed skinning knife down and peeled off the surgical gloves he wore to keep his hands blood-free.

The truck was a silver-gray extended cab Toyota Tundra with large tires and a five-pointed star on the front license plate. The driver cut the motor and climbed out of the cab. There was something familiar about the tall man who walked over to the shed. He wore a short coat that broke above his sidearm, a Colt Python. The letters TCS were emblazoned on the brown baseball cap he wore.

“Hello,” the man called out as he approached the shed.

An alert Nemo growled and looked up at Winter.

“It’s okay, Nemo,” Winter said.

“Hello, Winter,” the stranger said. “You must be Rush and Faith Ann.”

“Who are you?” Faith Ann asked as the tall man came into the shed.

“I’m Brad Barnett,” he said. “I’m the sheriff in Tunica County.”

“Brad Barnett,” Winter said, shaking the sheriff’s proffered hand. “Billy’s buddy from Ole Miss. I thought you looked familiar. Been a long time.” Barnett was six one or so, forty pounds heavier than he had been the last time Winter had seen him, but he looked as fit and quick as he had years before. He had a pleasant, boyish face and an easy smile, his brown eyes radiated intelligence.

“Twenty years, give or take,” Brad said. “Who killed the monster?” he asked, bending down and turning the heavy antlers on the animal’s head for a better look.

“I killed him,” Faith Ann said proudly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a nicer buck taken in these parts,” Brad said.

“It was her first one too,” Rush said, smiling. “She killed it in deer-defense.”

“Deer-defense?” Brad asked.

“He was beating up this other buck,” the boy said. “Faith Ann decided the fight wasn’t fair, so she rang the bell.”

“You wanting to hunt?” Massey said.

“I wish I had time.”

Nemo sniffed at Brad’s leg, wagging his tail. The sheriff reached down, let the dog sniff the back of his hand, then rubbed the animal behind his ears.

“You smell my dog, Ruger? Last time I saw you, Winter, was homecoming weekend my junior year,” Brad said. “You stayed with Billy. He set you up with a blind date he ended up marrying.”

“Yeah.” Winter smiled. “And Ole Miss lost that game.”

“I believe so.”

Winter saw Brad’s eyes go to his handgun, a custom-made stainless.45 automatic with stag grips.

“Nice-looking piece,” Brad said. “Wilson or Kimber?”

“Neither.” Massey took out the.45, ejected the loaded magazine into his hand, pocketed it, ejected the shell from its chamber, let the hammer down gently, and handed the weapon over to Brad. “Custom gun maker named Kase Reeder made it.”

“Beauty,” Brad said, turning the gun to read what was inscribed on the weapon. “Flagstaff, Arizona. I’m not familiar with his work.”

“It was a gift from my wife, Sean,” Winter said. “Faith Ann’s great uncle read about it in a handgun magazine. When Sean asked him what she could get me for my last birthday, he called Reeder and he made it for me. First.45 I’ve ever carried, but it’s the most accurate gun I’ve ever owned.”

Brad whistled and handed the Reeder Rekon Kommander back to Massey, who reloaded it and slipped it back into its holster, snapping the thumb brake closed.

“Billy told me you were the sheriff in Tunica now,” Winter said.

“He told me you’re off the job,” Brad said. “Something about working for a big security company.”

“I’m just a consultant on protection programs for their corporate clients.”

“Who’s mounting the head for you?” Brad asked.

“Calvin Patton,” Winter said. “He’s at his shop now. That’s why I’m hurrying.”

“Patton’s about the best there is around here,” Brad said. He looked at Faith Ann. “You know what kind of mount you want?”

“A left-hand sneak mount,” she said. “I’m going to put it over our fireplace.”

“Good choice,” Brad said.

“Faith Ann always knows what she wants,” Winter said.