alligators mated in springtime. But it wasn’t spring—and the canal wasn’t raging and the fish weren’t jumping and the cotton wasn’t high.
So the boy came down. His name was Travis Valentine. Nice name, smart boy. The dog’s name was Bo, short for Bodacious. Dumb name, dumb dog, but teeth down to here.
The dog came first. A black mongrel whose genealogy some Lab must have made a pass at. For Billy, the dog was an unnecessary complication—and half the reason for the getup. A third of the odors of human beings issued from the head—mouths, nostrils, eyes, facial skin. Another third from the hands. Thus, the face-plated hood and scent-lock surgical gloves. Without them Billy would have broadcast his presence the moment the dog stepped outside the trailer, setting off barking like a fire alarm. But Billy was a hunter. He knew better. Still, he didn’t like to think what that dog could do to his ankle. He was a big muscular animal with a big bouldery head and powerful jaws that could crack through bone like that.
Billy heard the door of the trailer slap against the frame. “You got ten minutes, so be back when I ring. And keep away from the water, now.” She’d summon him with a handbell.
The kid moved down the little path, the dog ranging widely, snorting after every critter scent, yarfing and whining to itself. Creatures of habit. Dinner over, and it was down by the riverside with old Bo. The same pattern Billy had observed over the past few nights.
It didn’t take Bo long to pick up the rabbit. In a matter of seconds he found the half-buried carcass Billy had laid out earlier under a bush. And
while the dog got lost in the bouquet of viscera, the little boy in the red shorts and white Kennedy Space Center T-shirt and sneakers came sauntering down the dirt lane to the shack. In his right hand was a long-handled net, a glass jar in his left. A butterfly hunt. The kid collected butterflies. And, as Billy had noted, the place was loaded with them.
In his mossy oakleaf Scent-Lok 3-D camo suit, Billy stood behind some trees just a few yards from the shack, his breath wheezing inside his mask and misting up the eye plate. He had used the outfit to hunt deer, but it was the first time on a kid.
While the boy was at some bush maybe twenty yards away, the scrub shifted behind the dog. The dog looked up, and before he could muster a growl, a muffled snick cut the air. And the dog’s head blew open.
“Bo? Here, Bo?”
The boy had heard something and looked around. Just a half-note yelp. No more. He went to the shack and looked inside, thinking the animal had passed through the small swing flap. “Bo?”
Bo. That was the last syllable the boy uttered.
Billy slapped the chloroform-soaked towel against the kid’s face from behind, raising the squirming body against his chest. He struggled with surprising vigor, whimpering into the towel, but the thick hand clamped the small face like an iron mask, forcing the pockets of his lungs to swell with the vapors. To prevent him from heeling his genitals, Billy pressed against the wall, locking his leg around the boy’s shins.
The boy struggled and whimpered for maybe half a minute. Then it was over. A final twitch, and Travis Valentine’s young-colt strength gave out. Billy lowered him to the floor as limp as a rag doll.
For a brief moment, Billy studied his prey. The kid was actually good-looking, with an oval face and short chin, small pug nose, and feathery brown eyebrows, a band of freckles across his nose, his shiny hair longer than was fashionable. His eyes were slitted open, and Billy could see the hazel irises. If he were a girl he’d be beautiful.
Enough of this , thought Billy. He had to get moving before the mother rang her bell. When the kid wouldn’t come, she’d clang some more. And when he still didn’t respond, she’d be down.
Billy unzipped a black body bag made of the same scent-free material as his suit, then took off the kid’s shoes and
So the boy came down. His name was Travis Valentine. Nice name, smart boy. The dog’s name was Bo, short for Bodacious. Dumb name, dumb dog, but teeth down to here.
The dog came first. A black mongrel whose genealogy some Lab must have made a pass at. For Billy, the dog was an unnecessary complication—and half the reason for the getup. A third of the odors of human beings issued from the head—mouths, nostrils, eyes, facial skin. Another third from the hands. Thus, the face-plated hood and scent-lock surgical gloves. Without them Billy would have broadcast his presence the moment the dog stepped outside the trailer, setting off barking like a fire alarm. But Billy was a hunter. He knew better. Still, he didn’t like to think what that dog could do to his ankle. He was a big muscular animal with a big bouldery head and powerful jaws that could crack through bone like that.
Billy heard the door of the trailer slap against the frame. “You got ten minutes, so be back when I ring. And keep away from the water, now.” She’d summon him with a handbell.
The kid moved down the little path, the dog ranging widely, snorting after every critter scent, yarfing and whining to itself. Creatures of habit. Dinner over, and it was down by the riverside with old Bo. The same pattern Billy had observed over the past few nights.
It didn’t take Bo long to pick up the rabbit. In a matter of seconds he found the half-buried carcass Billy had laid out earlier under a bush. And
while the dog got lost in the bouquet of viscera, the little boy in the red shorts and white Kennedy Space Center T-shirt and sneakers came sauntering down the dirt lane to the shack. In his right hand was a long-handled net, a glass jar in his left. A butterfly hunt. The kid collected butterflies. And, as Billy had noted, the place was loaded with them.
In his mossy oakleaf Scent-Lok 3-D camo suit, Billy stood behind some trees just a few yards from the shack, his breath wheezing inside his mask and misting up the eye plate. He had used the outfit to hunt deer, but it was the first time on a kid.
While the boy was at some bush maybe twenty yards away, the scrub shifted behind the dog. The dog looked up, and before he could muster a growl, a muffled snick cut the air. And the dog’s head blew open.
“Bo? Here, Bo?”
The boy had heard something and looked around. Just a half-note yelp. No more. He went to the shack and looked inside, thinking the animal had passed through the small swing flap. “Bo?”
Bo. That was the last syllable the boy uttered.
Billy slapped the chloroform-soaked towel against the kid’s face from behind, raising the squirming body against his chest. He struggled with surprising vigor, whimpering into the towel, but the thick hand clamped the small face like an iron mask, forcing the pockets of his lungs to swell with the vapors. To prevent him from heeling his genitals, Billy pressed against the wall, locking his leg around the boy’s shins.
The boy struggled and whimpered for maybe half a minute. Then it was over. A final twitch, and Travis Valentine’s young-colt strength gave out. Billy lowered him to the floor as limp as a rag doll.
For a brief moment, Billy studied his prey. The kid was actually good-looking, with an oval face and short chin, small pug nose, and feathery brown eyebrows, a band of freckles across his nose, his shiny hair longer than was fashionable. His eyes were slitted open, and Billy could see the hazel irises. If he were a girl he’d be beautiful.
Enough of this , thought Billy. He had to get moving before the mother rang her bell. When the kid wouldn’t come, she’d clang some more. And when he still didn’t respond, she’d be down.
Billy unzipped a black body bag made of the same scent-free material as his suit, then took off the kid’s shoes and
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