actually use it. The stars helped give me a good view of big oak barrels with hoses running from them into a large central metal canister.
I’d found Frank’s still.
Not only that, I was about to identify his partner, who at the moment had his back to me and was peeing into the creek. That’s one of my pet peeves--men urinating into bodies of water. Why are they so obsessed with polluting every single river and lake they get their hands on? Or in this case their extremities on? Marking their territory like a dog, that’s what. They ought to have to drink out that water after they’re done with it.
Anyway, this guy had a full bladder, judging by how long he was taking.
Frank was sitting next to the brew, looking off into the trees. I didn’t know how he stood the smell night after night, but figure he must have gotten used to it by now.
Another observation from this investigator - they must have been sampling their own toxic firewater, because the guy at the stream was swaying in place, taking a step back, then abruptly righting himself before swaying again.
When he turned around while zippering up I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Gus Aho.
Dead Harry Aho’s son.
Making moonshine with a Hanson?
Something wasn’t quite right about this scenario. I could feel it in my bones. And suddenly I didn’t feel all alone in the woods.
Then a shot rang out, loud enough to shake the ground under my feet. Way too close for comfort.
Worse, it came from right in front of me.
And a split second later, Frank Hanson keeled over.
*
I hit the ground faster than the speeding bullet. My heart was pumping blood so fast I could hear it rushing through my body. I should have ordered a night vision man-killer weapon instead of a pansy beanbag gun, which I had been dumb enough to leave in the truck anyway. So, of course, it was totally useless to me the minute I really needed it.
I flattened out, hoping the shooter hadn’t spotted me. Which would have been tough since everything about me was black – black pants, dark jacket, matching knit hat, charcoaled face. And I wasn’t wearing the blonde ponytail. At least I’d done something right.
I stayed where I was, trying to listen for sound over the drumming of my overzealous heart. If I was next on the hit list, as long as I stayed flat on the ground the shooter would have to get up and come for me.
When I heard rustling up ahead, I gulped and raised my head, surveying the scene. Frank had pitched over one of the barrels, taking it down with him. He wasn’t moving.
Gus Aho was nowhere in sight.
Then an enormous pile of leaves directly in front of me rose up from the ground like a volcanic eruption. It started moving off to my left. For a few seconds I thought I was losing my mind. Or the dark was playing tricks on me.
Then I thought, Tornado! Only the wind blew lightly and the air didn’t smell like storm weather.
The leaves kept moving away fast. I sprung up, not sure what to do. A fatal shot had come from that pile of debris, and I didn’t have matching fire power to protect myself. If I made any noise and the thing turned around, I was a dead woman.
Next, it broke into a run, heading away from me. Since I was still alive, I deduced that my presence had gone undetected. I didn’t want to change that precious fact.
I followed a little while, because that’s what investigators are supposed to do, but I was relieved when I realized I was alone in the woods. I’d lost the trail.
Earlier, when I’d decided to use the classic investigator’s process of eliminating suspects one by one, I hadn’t meant removing each of them individually from the earth. But apparently somebody else thought that was a sound method.
At the moment, the score for both sides was one and one. One Aho down. One Hanson down. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That thought came much later after I got up the courage to make my way back to Frank’s house and place the emergency call
I’d found Frank’s still.
Not only that, I was about to identify his partner, who at the moment had his back to me and was peeing into the creek. That’s one of my pet peeves--men urinating into bodies of water. Why are they so obsessed with polluting every single river and lake they get their hands on? Or in this case their extremities on? Marking their territory like a dog, that’s what. They ought to have to drink out that water after they’re done with it.
Anyway, this guy had a full bladder, judging by how long he was taking.
Frank was sitting next to the brew, looking off into the trees. I didn’t know how he stood the smell night after night, but figure he must have gotten used to it by now.
Another observation from this investigator - they must have been sampling their own toxic firewater, because the guy at the stream was swaying in place, taking a step back, then abruptly righting himself before swaying again.
When he turned around while zippering up I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Gus Aho.
Dead Harry Aho’s son.
Making moonshine with a Hanson?
Something wasn’t quite right about this scenario. I could feel it in my bones. And suddenly I didn’t feel all alone in the woods.
Then a shot rang out, loud enough to shake the ground under my feet. Way too close for comfort.
Worse, it came from right in front of me.
And a split second later, Frank Hanson keeled over.
*
I hit the ground faster than the speeding bullet. My heart was pumping blood so fast I could hear it rushing through my body. I should have ordered a night vision man-killer weapon instead of a pansy beanbag gun, which I had been dumb enough to leave in the truck anyway. So, of course, it was totally useless to me the minute I really needed it.
I flattened out, hoping the shooter hadn’t spotted me. Which would have been tough since everything about me was black – black pants, dark jacket, matching knit hat, charcoaled face. And I wasn’t wearing the blonde ponytail. At least I’d done something right.
I stayed where I was, trying to listen for sound over the drumming of my overzealous heart. If I was next on the hit list, as long as I stayed flat on the ground the shooter would have to get up and come for me.
When I heard rustling up ahead, I gulped and raised my head, surveying the scene. Frank had pitched over one of the barrels, taking it down with him. He wasn’t moving.
Gus Aho was nowhere in sight.
Then an enormous pile of leaves directly in front of me rose up from the ground like a volcanic eruption. It started moving off to my left. For a few seconds I thought I was losing my mind. Or the dark was playing tricks on me.
Then I thought, Tornado! Only the wind blew lightly and the air didn’t smell like storm weather.
The leaves kept moving away fast. I sprung up, not sure what to do. A fatal shot had come from that pile of debris, and I didn’t have matching fire power to protect myself. If I made any noise and the thing turned around, I was a dead woman.
Next, it broke into a run, heading away from me. Since I was still alive, I deduced that my presence had gone undetected. I didn’t want to change that precious fact.
I followed a little while, because that’s what investigators are supposed to do, but I was relieved when I realized I was alone in the woods. I’d lost the trail.
Earlier, when I’d decided to use the classic investigator’s process of eliminating suspects one by one, I hadn’t meant removing each of them individually from the earth. But apparently somebody else thought that was a sound method.
At the moment, the score for both sides was one and one. One Aho down. One Hanson down. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That thought came much later after I got up the courage to make my way back to Frank’s house and place the emergency call
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