“So?” Gilpin stuck his chin out defiantly. “They got more money than God.”
Nason turned onto River Road and drove toward the Potter place. “Wasn’t it Mary Lou who loaned your old man the money to build that barn? Did she ever ask for a penny back?”
Gilpins never offer to repay.
“So what? We still can’t afford a barn like Potter’s got.”
Useless.
Nason drove the short distance and turned up the cobblestone drive toward the Potter house and barn. “Didn’t Kidro pay you five hundred dollars for Stoner, on top of that Angus calf?”
“So? What’s your point?”
Nason parked in front of the house and turned in his seat, facing Gilpin. “The point is this: I’ve never seen any sign of gratitude, not from any of you Gilpins.”
“Gratitude for what?” Gilpin still held his defiance. “What business is that of yours?”
“So, you think the Potters owed you because they had more than you?”
“Sure. Why not? We’ve always been good neighbors, ain’t we?”
That’s it.
“Get out.”
Gilpin sat there with his fat belly slumped over his legs.
“That’s it!”
Nason jumped out without his hat and rushed around his truck. He threw open the passenger door and reached inside.
Gilpin sprawled across the center consol, hiding behind his out-stretched hands. “What for? I don’t want to see that greedy old piece of . . .”
Nason slapped Gilpin’s hands aside, grabbed him by his collar and yanked him from the truck. Keeping Gilpin in front of him, Nason shoved hard.
Gilpin crabbed up the stepps backward onto the porch.
Scared now, Gilpin backed against the stone wall near the entry, waving his hands defensively. “Do I have to go in there? Can’t he come out?”
You stupid, whining . . .
“NO!” Nason spun Gilpin and shoved him past the shattered door into Kidro’s entry. The stench of putrefaction and feces forced him to hold his breath, the stench now worse than earlier, getting hot outside. He didn’t want to go inside either.
Finish this.
Gilpin’s feet dragged across every carefully fitted stone, being half carried down into the living room.
Gilpin saw the dead carcass of Scooter lying in a heap on the floor against the far wall and pushed back toward the entry.
“Quit it.” Nason pushed Gilpin toward the center of the room.
Gilpin’s hands flew to his mouth.
Nason viewed the room in flashes, like snapshots from a coroner’s report.
Kidro’s twisted body lay on the wood floor near the couch, chest torn wide open, heart and head both missing.
Gilpin choked back vomit at the sight of it.
Large green flies swarmed in Kidro’s open chest cavity, thick as a shag carpet, buzzing louder than any swarm of bees.
Sucking foul air, Nason turned toward the fireplace where Kidro’s severed head sat atop the stone mantle between a glass tumbler and a near empty bottle of whiskey. His half open, glassy eyes stared back at them, barely visible through swarming, bright green flies.
“Mmpff.” Gilpin tore away from Nason and lunged toward the entry.
Green flies swarmed over him, diving at his ears, nose and eyes.
Gilpin swatted flies and spewed vomit on his way out the door.
Nason followed him out.
Gilpin turned back from the front porch, looking at Nason like he was asking for help.
Flies quickly covered his face, crawling into his mouth and ears, climbing into his eyes.
Gilpin shrieked and threw his hands over his mouth. Vomit spurted through his fat fingers. Blinded by flies, he spun, slipped and sat down hard in his own vomit. He scrambled to his feet and his jeans dropped around his ankles.
Large green flies swarmed over his dirty underwear and into the hairy, fat crack of his ass.
He gasped air and scrambled down the front steps sideways on all fours, hopelessly swatting at flies as he went. He reached the bottom quickly and collapsed onto the cobbled driveway, chucking vomit where he lay.
Nason stood on the high front porch, choosing a safe path down.
Flies swarmed thick over Gilpin, buzzing loudly in their frenzy.
Bizarre.
Not a single fly bother Nason.
Gilpin gasped, jumped to his feet, jerked up his pants and scurried past Nason’s truck. He glanced back once and scuttled up the driveway to the top of the rise, still swatting at flies, finally disappearing over the top.
“What a pud.” Nason could only hope the moron might have learned something.
Probably not.
Nason would surely have trouble taking that calf to the upper meadow tonight. Hopefully, that thing wouldn’t come again and Gilpin would get his calf back.
Damn.
The ritual was only a small consideration now. Kidro would never have set up a trust for the valley in case something happened to him. Not Kidro. Without Potter support for the clinic, the church and school, the bank, the hydroelectric plant, what would happen to the rest of the people up here?
Damn you, Gilpin.
Chapter Four
Tom Kirby’s two staff editors had been nagging him all week and most of today to make a decision on which stories to use in the next editions of their two children’s magazines. After a fifth memo, losing patience late in the day, not really caring anyway, Kirby called them both into his office, sat them down and asked, “What the hell is your problem?”
Bob Hendricks, the moron he'd hired to replace John Potter, said, “We’ve got a stack of good stuff. We’d like a little input from our publisher.”
That was a shot right between Kirby’s eyes. He didn’t like it. “Your job is to make these decisions.” He looked from Hendricks to Tim Thornby, the company’s longtime copy editor, really just a proofreader.
Thornby’s dead eyes stared back, asleep with his eyes open.
Kirby looked at Hendricks. “Should I find somebody else?” Kirby never should have asked that question, and he knew it.
Hendricks said, “That’s up to you, Mr. Kirby. You’re the publisher.” Hendricks could go wherever he wanted. He was a top content editor, just afraid to make that final decision.
“Look, John Potter had no problem making these decisions. I told you when I hired you, that’s your job now.”
“The first two times I did that, you told me
