town called him El behind his back. Everyone except for Dawn's mother.
She heard her mother say hi and, to Dawn's dismay, El replied. He wasn't continuing down the trail. He was stopping to talk.
Great.
Dawn slumped against the logs of the cabin, twisting the wet handkerchief in her hands. The rough bark jabbed her back and she scrunched around, getting comfortable.
“Going to the store?” asked Terry.
“Mmm,” said El. Dawn could hear his boots, closer now, crunching in the gravel outside the cabin door.
“Nice day for it,” said Terry.
“Mmm,” said El. That was another one of the things that drove Dawn crazy, the way he talked. You had to drag words out of him. That and those stupid sunglasses he wore all the time. He looked like a janitor trying to look like a movie star. He was skinny and tall and his shirts were always pulling out of the back of his pants.
Dawn knew without sneaking a peek that he had that big.44 magnum pistol on his hip. The gun looked like it would weigh him down enough to flip him over. He always walked with his hand on it as though he was ready to do a quick draw.
Dawn had overheard Stan Herbst and Marty Kiley making fun of El one day down at Cabels’ Store. But her motherhad shaken her head and pulled her away from the conversation.
“He's a nice man,” Terry had said. “But I wish he wouldn't carry that gun. It makes me nervous.”
“All guns make you nervous,” Dawn replied.
“You're right,” said Terry. “But I guess people need them here. Not like in the city.”
But Dawn didn't think El carried the gun for protection. She figured he carried it for show. She'd seen him down at the store, watching himself in the window when he didn't know anyone else was looking.
“Could I have a cup of coffee?”
El's question shook Dawn out of her reverie.
Coffee?
El had never been in their house before. Never been invited.
Now he's inviting himself in?
Terry took a minute answering.
“Sure, Eldred,” she said. “You all right?”
“Mmm,” said El.
Dawn peeked around the corner. Her mother peered at El curiously but he just stared through her with those stupid mirror glasses. Terry headed into the house. El glanced around and almost spotted Dawn, but she jerked back.
“Where's your daughter?” he said.
Terry's answer was muffled by the thick, bark-sided logs. A pot clanged on the stove. There was another stretch of silence and then the bang of another pot hitting the floor.
What the hell?
Terry's scream sliced the air like scissors slashing thick cloth. At the sound, Dawn raced around the corner of the house toward the door. It was darker inside and the figures seemed more silhouettes than real people.
Her mother screamed again.
Another pot hit the floor. Then another.
But they weren't falling from the cabinets.
They were being ripped out of them.
A terrible clamor erupted as Terry clawed the last of the pots and dishware out of the cupboards. She wasn't screaming now. The noise that made its way out of her mouth was a throaty gurgle that terrified Dawn.
Terry must have turned to get the coffee from the canister and El had pulled the big hunting knife that he wore in the sheath on his boot.
As Dawn watched, paralyzed, El brought the knife up again, and then again, plunging it down so deep between Terry's shoulder blades the hilt hit her bloody shirt. Each time he had to lean his elbow against her back to lever it out of her flesh.
Terry's head sagged forward and she slumped over the counter as he continued to stab her limp body, following it down until he was on his knees above her. The blood pooled so wide and thick on the floor that Dawn thought it would never stop. That it would run in a river past her feet and turn the Fork itself crimson.
Terry's face was twisted toward the door. Dawn was riveted by her mother's eyes and her strangely calm expression. Dawn had anticipated surprise. Something like this was surely the last thing her mother expected
She heard her mother say hi and, to Dawn's dismay, El replied. He wasn't continuing down the trail. He was stopping to talk.
Great.
Dawn slumped against the logs of the cabin, twisting the wet handkerchief in her hands. The rough bark jabbed her back and she scrunched around, getting comfortable.
“Going to the store?” asked Terry.
“Mmm,” said El. Dawn could hear his boots, closer now, crunching in the gravel outside the cabin door.
“Nice day for it,” said Terry.
“Mmm,” said El. That was another one of the things that drove Dawn crazy, the way he talked. You had to drag words out of him. That and those stupid sunglasses he wore all the time. He looked like a janitor trying to look like a movie star. He was skinny and tall and his shirts were always pulling out of the back of his pants.
Dawn knew without sneaking a peek that he had that big.44 magnum pistol on his hip. The gun looked like it would weigh him down enough to flip him over. He always walked with his hand on it as though he was ready to do a quick draw.
Dawn had overheard Stan Herbst and Marty Kiley making fun of El one day down at Cabels’ Store. But her motherhad shaken her head and pulled her away from the conversation.
“He's a nice man,” Terry had said. “But I wish he wouldn't carry that gun. It makes me nervous.”
“All guns make you nervous,” Dawn replied.
“You're right,” said Terry. “But I guess people need them here. Not like in the city.”
But Dawn didn't think El carried the gun for protection. She figured he carried it for show. She'd seen him down at the store, watching himself in the window when he didn't know anyone else was looking.
“Could I have a cup of coffee?”
El's question shook Dawn out of her reverie.
Coffee?
El had never been in their house before. Never been invited.
Now he's inviting himself in?
Terry took a minute answering.
“Sure, Eldred,” she said. “You all right?”
“Mmm,” said El.
Dawn peeked around the corner. Her mother peered at El curiously but he just stared through her with those stupid mirror glasses. Terry headed into the house. El glanced around and almost spotted Dawn, but she jerked back.
“Where's your daughter?” he said.
Terry's answer was muffled by the thick, bark-sided logs. A pot clanged on the stove. There was another stretch of silence and then the bang of another pot hitting the floor.
What the hell?
Terry's scream sliced the air like scissors slashing thick cloth. At the sound, Dawn raced around the corner of the house toward the door. It was darker inside and the figures seemed more silhouettes than real people.
Her mother screamed again.
Another pot hit the floor. Then another.
But they weren't falling from the cabinets.
They were being ripped out of them.
A terrible clamor erupted as Terry clawed the last of the pots and dishware out of the cupboards. She wasn't screaming now. The noise that made its way out of her mouth was a throaty gurgle that terrified Dawn.
Terry must have turned to get the coffee from the canister and El had pulled the big hunting knife that he wore in the sheath on his boot.
As Dawn watched, paralyzed, El brought the knife up again, and then again, plunging it down so deep between Terry's shoulder blades the hilt hit her bloody shirt. Each time he had to lean his elbow against her back to lever it out of her flesh.
Terry's head sagged forward and she slumped over the counter as he continued to stab her limp body, following it down until he was on his knees above her. The blood pooled so wide and thick on the floor that Dawn thought it would never stop. That it would run in a river past her feet and turn the Fork itself crimson.
Terry's face was twisted toward the door. Dawn was riveted by her mother's eyes and her strangely calm expression. Dawn had anticipated surprise. Something like this was surely the last thing her mother expected
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