Twice Bitten, Once Shy: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #5

Chapter 20

Maple Syrup

"About time for what?" Zandra says in the direction of a thick maple tree with perfectly square branches that ladder up its side.

That's because it is a ladder, not branches. Right angles are easy to spot in the woods if you know to look for them. And I did.

The ladder leads to a small, grated platform with a seat chained around the trunk of the maple tree. On the seat is a burly man dressed head to toe in camouflage. As any Wisconsinite worth their salt knows, this is a ladder stand, commonly used for whitetail deer hunting.

Blended into the leaves and branches is the barrel of a scoped rifle. Like the man, the firearm is wrapped in camo tape to help conceal it.

"I'm out of cigarettes," the man says in a voice familiar to Zandra. "Can I have one?"

What? Does he really think I jumped off the Curd Queen, swam like a brick to shore, and took a walk for a smoke break?

He must know I know, right? Or do I have the wrong person?

Zandra gauges how high up the man is in the ladder stand. It must be 12 feet.

That's higher than I can throw at pack of cigarettes, especially since I'm 30 feet from the tree.

Also, they're my cigarettes. Fuck you.

"You going to come down here to get them?" Zandra says.

"No," the man says.

Then why'd he ask?

Zandra waits a solid five seconds. It's enough silence in the cadence of a normal conversation for the man to ask whether Zandra heard him say, "no." He doesn't, though.

"You know who I am," Zandra says.

"Yeah," the man says.

"And you didn't shoot me."

"Should I have? I wanted to."

"But you didn't," Zandra says.

"Well, no shit," the man says.

"And I'll bet it's not because I'm not a deer. It's not deer season."

"It isn't? Huh. Funny. I thought it was," the man says.

Ah, now I remember that voice.

Zandra squints. "Is that you, Glenn?"

A throaty laugh barks down the tree. "We meet again."

A camo balaclava covers the scars on Glenn's face, but Zandra can still match his outline to her memory.

I ought to know. I spent enough time with him in that basement.

The late Gene Carey tapped Glenn for his dirty work. Glenn's old employer may be gone, but work as hired muscle, apparently, continues.

Zandra pulls out the lawnmower knife and says, "Do you want to talk about why you shot Aaron Farve?"

She watches the rifle barrel wiggle as Glenn shifts in the seat.

"Was it a good shot?" Glenn says.

"You blew his face off," Zandra says. "I'm not a ballistics expert, but I'd say that's a good shot."

Zandra doesn't need to be a ballistics expert, though, to know that Cherry Peach's .22-caliber Beretta Bobcat isn't enough to do that kind of damage.

It's not complicated. It's grade-school physics.