Hens and Chickens (32 page)

No, it was best to go it alone. Hobart made one quick side trip, however. He stopped at his cabin and picked up his hunting knife, as well as the long-forsaken high-powered hunting rifle and ammunition given to him by his father on his 18th birthday. Hobart quickly resumed his mission.

At the Sovereign end of the Jewell Road, Hobart pulled off onto a muddy, rutted logging road from which the town had harvested wood the previous season. He switched on his truck’s 4-wheel-drive and careened along the soft road, tires spitting clods of wet dirt in his wake. He drove much faster than usual about a mile back into the deep woods. The road ended in a circular open space where lumber was yarded out of the woods, and Hobart threw his truck into park next to a pile of weathered gray timber remnants. According to his calculations, Gray was about 300 yards into the woods to the north. He heard thunder rumble ominously in the distance and knew he didn’t have much time before the storm broke—and it would be much more difficult to find the teenager.

As he exited the pickup into the sticky warm air, Hobart felt a few fat raindrops on his bare forearms. He tied the knife’s leather sheath to his belt, expertly loaded shells into the rifle and slung the gun over his shoulder by the strap. He attempted to call Gray on the cell phone once again, but this time there was no reception.

Hobart surveyed the thick woods and quickly selected a course through the area in his mind. He strode valiantly into the thicket, eyes and ears on a hunter’s high alert. “GRAY!” he called. “Can you hear me? G-R-A-Y!” His heart pounded, and adrenalin pumped through his body. Every now and again, he stopped his forward motion in order to listen.

At first, all Hobart heard was the eerie
howl
of the wind whipping through the tall pines. The woods was unnaturally still except for the wind. The birds had already taken cover in preparation for the storm and the normally plentiful squirrels and chipmunks seemed to be in hiding. After a few moments of listening, however, Hobart was rewarded. The buffeting breeze teased him with a faint human voice: “Here … I … here … am!”

“Stay put, buddy!” he yelled, in the direction of the voice. “I’m coming!”

Hobart picked up his pace, crashing through low-hanging dead pine limbs with his shoulder and thigh. In an effortless move, he swung the high-powered rifle down from across his back and hoisted it up to his waist into a hunting position. He didn’t know where Tinkerbell was, but if Gray had followed the wounded deer into the woods, it was a good bet that the deer was lying – maybe dying – nearby.

Hobart spotted a flutter of movement through the trees the distance of a football field ahead. He narrowed his eyes and distinguished Gray jumping-jack waving at him in a small clearing near a mixture of fir and hardwood trees. Out of the corner of his eye he also spotted a corresponding movement – a white blotch rose up from a thicket five yards to the right of the teenager. Hobart raised his gun to his shoulder, saw the flailing white deer in his rifle’s scope, and pulled the trigger. Tinkerbell dropped and Gray uttered a startled, high-pitched cry.

“Stay away from him!” Hobart yelled. “He might not be dead!”

Hobart dashed through the snapping underbrush the remaining yards to where the famous white deer of Sovereign, Maine lay, motionless. He pulled the knife from its sheath, but there was no need for it. Tinkerbell was dead. Only then did Hobart feel regret at destroying the beautiful animal.  

His first concern, however, was for Gray. The youth was gazing at the dead deer with a look of horror on his face. He was glued to the spot as though in shock. Hobart dropped the knife and reached for the teenager, clasping the boy to his sweaty, muscular chest. “Gray, thank God you’re alright!”

Gray burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to shoot Tinkerbell – it was an accident!”

Hobart comforted the sobbing youth. “I know, buddy. Hey, it’s gonna be OK!”

“I was just tryin’ to scare the fox! I shot over her head, into the woods, and the next thing I know I heard a cry and … and it was Tinkerbell! I tried to track him but I got confused and tired. That’s when I called ya.”

Hobart pushed the teenager’s skinny frame out so that he could address the youth face to face, man to man. “You did the right thing, Gray! But now we have to keep on doing the right thing—we need to tell your grandparents. And the game warden.”

Gray groaned. He pulled away from Hobart and wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his red flannel shirt. “Grandpa’s gonna kill me! And what’ll Miss Hastings say? I shot Tinkerbell!”

“If I know Miss Hastings, she’ll be much more concerned about
you
than she will about Tinkerbell.  Someday there’ll be another Tinkerbell in Sovereign—but Miss Hastings knows that they’ll never be another you.”

The teenager cheered up at Hobart’s words. “Ya really think there’ll be another white deer someday?”

Hobart smiled at the youth. “I can almost guarantee it,” he said, reassuringly. “Listen, the game warden’s a buddy of mine—maybe he’ll let us bury Tinkerbell in the Pet Cemetery?”

“That’d be cool. I’ll do the diggin’,” Gray offered, seriously. “Grandpa says I need to take responsibility for my actions.”

“Good man. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

By the time Hobart and Gray reached Gilpin’s General Store a half an hour later, however, Gray’s resolution was flagging. “Can I just sit out here?” he begged. “I don’t think I can face my Grandpa now.”

“You can’t put it off for long,” Hobart pointed out. “You’ll have to go home for supper!”

Gray grimaced. “I know, I know. But at least Grandma will be there, then!”

Hobart calculated that it was probably best for him to deliver the news to Ralph Gilpin by himself. That would give the old shopkeeper time to cool off after hearing Hobart’s account of what happened. Plus Hobart was aware that if Gray wasn’t present, he would have more of an opportunity to direct what could otherwise be an emotional scene between grandfather and grandson.

“OK, buddy,” he said, opening the truck door. “Wait for me here.”

Fortunately, no one was in the store when Hobart walked in. Ralph greeted him with chipper enthusiasm per usual, until the carpenter opened his budget of news. Then, the skinny shopkeeper grasped onto a nearby shelf and made a strange articulation. However, Ralph made no further comment until Hobart was done with his tale.

“He ain’t hurt?” Ralph asked anxiously, when Hobart finished speaking.

“Nope; just a little ashamed and embarrassed. But he did the right thing, calling me and staying put. And he’s gonna help me bury the deer.”

“Make him dig the goddamm hole himself!”

But Hobart had seen the tears in the old shopkeepers eyes and recognized that Ralph’s anger was an attempt to cover other, stronger emotions. “Yep,” he replied, smiling. “He’ll have to do the digging. I’ve only got one spade.”

“You’re a good man, Mike,” said Ralph, releasing his grip on the shelf in order to give Hobart an affectionate slap on the back.

“And Gray’s a good kid, Ralph. But maybe he better take that hunter’s safety course sooner rather than later!”

Gilpin grimaced. “Kid’s gonna be the death of his grandmother!”

At Ralph’s insistence, Hobart used Gilpin’s landline in the store’s back office to contact the game warden. The warden, after hearing the tale, allowed that Hobart and Gray could bury the white deer in the town’s Pet Cemetery. “I’d like to get a blood sample to look at those genetic abnormalities,” said the game warden; “but the state doesn’t have money for that. So just go ahead and put the deer in the ground.”

Hobart was about to exit the store, when Tom Kidd popped through the double glass doors. Hobart nodded at his former Unity College classmate but attempted to push past him without speaking.
Of all times to run into the Organic Kidd!

“Hey, hey Hobart—whaddaya say?” Kidd said, reaching out and catching the carpenter by the arm.

“I’m in a hurry, Tom,” Hobart replied, necessarily stopping. He shook off Kidd’s grip and put his hand on the glass door to exit.

“Oh, yeah; I bet you are! Too bad about that white deer,” Kidd said, lewdly.

Hobart felt his heart stagger. “
What
did you say?!”

Kidd gestured with his head toward the parking lot. “I saw Gilpin’s grandson sniveling out there in your truck and asked the kid why he was crying. He told me he shot your precious
Tinkerbell
.” Kidd pronounced the deer’s nickname with a sneer.

Hobart groaned in his spirit.
Poor Gray felt badly enough as it was about killing Tinkerbell, without having Tom Kidd going around telling tales!

Hobart selected his course of action in a split second. “
I
killed Tinkerbell,” he said, forcefully.

“Aw, you know I don’t believe THAT, Hobart. You’re too lily livered to kill anything these days.”

“I don’t lie. You know
that
from firsthand experience, don’t you, Tom?”

Kidd winced. Hobart’s words had struck a nerve. His right hand absently fingered his fawn-colored goatee. “What proof ya got?”

Hobart repressed his anger. “Follow me,” he said, tight lipped. He led the Organic Kidd out to his truck, stopping next to the bed. He flicked back the ground cloth that was covering the stiff white carcass of Tinkerbell, taking care to expose only the deer’s head and upper shoulder, and not the bloody gash in the hind quarter from Gray’s shotgun shell. The deer’s brown eyes stared glassily into space. A slight smear of bright red blood was clearly visible against the milk-colored fur at the deer’s neck where Hobart’s rifle shot had entered. Hobart pointed to the clean round hole that only a high-powered rifle could have made. “Do you need a ballistics test or will you take my word for it now?”

Kidd stepped away from the truck as though the pickup contained hazardous waste. “Jesus! Hobart—why’d ya shoot it?!”

Hobart flipped the tarp back over the dead deer. “I’ve got nothing else to say, Tom.”

Kidd shook his head. “You’re fucked, buddy! You’re
fucked
!”

Without a further word to his former college classmate, Hobart hopped into the cab of his truck, where Gray sat watching and listening in bewilderment. He backed up and sped off, leaving Tom Kidd standing in Gilpin’s parking lot, eyes agog and mouth open so wide that he almost netted a passing carpenter bumblebee, racing home before the thunderstorm broke.

Chapter 30

The Devil Tries for a Toehold

Lightning streaked across the darkening sky as Tom Kidd idled his charcoal-colored pickup in the parking lot at Gilpin’s General Store. He took a deep swig of beer from the pop-top can resting on his leg, reflecting upon what he had just witnessed—the dead white deer in the back of Mike Hobart’s truck. As he sat and drank the bitter brew, Kidd thoughtfully parsed every word of his prior conversation with Mike Hobart.

“I killed Tinkerbell.”

“Aw, you know I don’t believe THAT, Hobart. You’re too lily livered to kill anything these days.”

“I don’t lie. You know that from firsthand experience, don’t you, Tom?”

It was this last statement by his former college classmate – a question, actually – that was like wormwood to Kidd:
You know that from firsthand experience, don’t you Tom?

“Fucking Hobart; rubbing it in my face!” Kidd swore aloud. He rubbed the fainéant goatee on his chin. His brown eyes narrowed and a sadistic grin came over his sallow face. “Well, buddy, ya just gave me the opportunity to knock ya off your white horse once and for all! I’ve been waiting a LONG time for this. Payback’s a bitch,” he added.

Thunder crackled overhead. A hostile breeze whipped a dead branch into the windshield of Kidd’s truck. The Organic Kidd put the truck into gear and tore out of the parking lot at a high rate of speed, sending the branch flying to the pavement.

Kidd sped north on Route 9/202, stomping on his brakes at the last moment when he reached the turn-off to the Russell Hill Road. A heavy rain finally began to fall and pelted the windshield and roof of his vehicle. Kidd automatically switched on his windshield wipers, and the
splish-splash
of the blades increased the tempo of his already racing heartbeat. He chuckled fiendishly.

For those of you who have
not
already untangled the mystery behind the Organic Kid’s mission to knock our hero from his white horse, let me share with you the fact that Tom Kidd was none other than the Unity College classmate, the beginning hunter, with whom Hobart experienced his “Aldo Leopold” moment. It was Kidd who fell victim to buck fever; Kidd who thoughtlessly pulled the trigger again and again; Kidd who wounded the young deer but could not kill it; Kidd who turned and ran when he discovered the bloody mess that his sick behavior had caused.

On the other hand, our hero was the one to clean up Kidd’s mess; Hobart put the deer out of its misery; he ignored Kidd’s pleas to keep the incident a secret; and reported the hunting infraction (shooting the skipper without a proper permit) to the authorities. Both men had been fined $500 for the infraction, and had lost their hunting licenses for a period of one year.

We know the effect the incident had on our hero: Mike Hobart never killed or hunted again, until today. However, the incident had an entirely different effect on the Organic Kidd, who had waited nearly 12 years for his revenge.

But it wasn’t just revenge alone that drove Tom Kidd. For years, he had been disgusted by the integrity and graciousness of Mike Hobart, who had never even alluded to the hunting incident with Kidd—until today. Misery loves company, and Kidd – a miserable, selfish, worn-out soul, more depleted than a hundred year old Maine cornfield – had been longing to bring Hobart down to his own base level for more than a decade. Finally, Kidd thought he saw an opening. And he wasn’t going to waste it.

“Hey, hey,
buddy
,” Kidd said sarcastically, accelerating up the road toward the old Russell Homestead; “whaddaya think your little BABE will say when
she
hears the news?!”