The McAllister Series Book 2: The McAllister Farm

By L. V. Gaudet

Step back in time to learn the secret behind the bodies in Where the Bodies Are in this disturbing look at the boy who will grow up to create the killer.

1981

Meet David McAllister, the boy who will grow up to create the killer.

In 1981 there was a man who lived on a farm. William McAllister was a private and reclusive man who, above all else, did not like to have attention drawn on his family.

He wanted only to be left to mind his own business and family and for the world to do the same. But that very reclusiveness fosters contempt and suspicion in the people of the small farming community his family has called home for generations.

William McAllister has a son, Jason McAllister. Jason is a troubled boy. Growing up under his father’s strict rules and isolated from the normal childhood relationships, he is left to explore his darker inclinations. Seeing the darker side of Jason, William tries to rein his son in by bringing him into the family business.

Just then a serial killer starts preying on local young women. The McAllisters quickly find themselves drawn into the spotlight when the town decides William McAllister is the killer. As the town’s search for the killer focuses on the McAllister farm and the woods behind it, the threat to the McAllister secret grows.

The McAllister family history is as dark as the secret hiding in the woods. The attention is a threat to both William McAllister's profession and his family. He has no choice but to find the killer himself. He might not like what he learns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. V. Gaudet
• Release date: Aug 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463246566

L. V. Gaudet

L.V. Gaudet is a Canadian author of dark fiction.

Book preview

Part 1

Zeke

1 Digging in the Dirt

The shovel makes a sly shuh-king noise as its blade bites into the hard earth that likely has never been touched by the tools of men.

William McAllister struggles against the un-giving ground, putting his foot on the top edge of the shovel blade beside the handle protruding from it and using his weight and muscles to force the blade deeper.

He grunts with the effort.

The night creatures watch silently from the safety of their hideaways in the woods.

His breath turns to fog in the cool night air, coming heavier from the exertion.

Satisfied he has pierced the ground deep enough; he works the shovel back and forth before leaning on it, scraping out a pile of hard dirt. He dumps it next to where he is digging and thrusts the blade into the earth again.

It is spring and still chilly at night. The ground is still thawing from its winter freeze, making the job harder.

The trees stand sentry above, dark figures against the moonlit sky blocking out some of the stars. The lower brush surrounding him grows where the trees thin to let more light reach lower, allowing it to thrive and grow taller and thicker, giving the spot a more secluded feeling.

The wind picks up, hissing through the leaves of the treetops.

He ignores the whispering trees, continuing to dig until the hole is big and deep enough.

At last he pauses, wiping away the sweat dripping into his eyes from his forehead.

He drops the shovel on the ground and picks up a sheet-wrapped object lying on the ground behind him. It is perhaps the size of a small child of about four or five years old.

The sheet looks ghostly pale in the darkness, seeming to hover on its own in the barely visible arms of the dark-clothed man against the background of the dark woods surrounding him.

Kneeling, William gently lays it in the hole.

He picks up the shovel, standing over the hole staring down into it for a pause that lasts only a few heartbeats but feels longer.

Without a word, he starts shovelling the pile of disturbed earth back into the hole. With each thud of dirt hitting the sheet-wrapped object its startling brightness against the dark of the dirt and night grows smaller. He keeps at it, methodically tossing in shovel full after shovel full until the displaced dirt has all been replaced and the wrapped object completely buried. The rounded mound of dirt is dark against the rotting leaves and brown pine needles covering the ground all around.

With a powerful swing, he brings the flat bottom of the shovel blade down on the mound. It hits with a dull thud, leaving an indentation in the disturbed earth. He pounds it again and again, compacting the loose chunks of dirt, but it isn’t enough. He wants the mound to be level with the ground around it.

Scattering leaves, twigs, and fallen pine needles over it, he starts stomping the mound with his boots, stomping and stomping, clouds of vapour puffing out of his mouth in the chill air with the effort. He scrapes the surface with the sharp shovel blade, smoothing it.

Scattering more debris on the spot, he presses it in with the flat of the shovel and then sets the shovel down to scatter more loose debris on top.

Finished, he studies his handiwork and nods, satisfied.

There is no visible sign the ground has ever been disturbed unless you know to look. The next good rain will wash away even those faint traces.

Picking up the shovel, William moves off through the woods, eventually arriving at a farmyard.

In one direction across the farmyard is an old barn that has not been used to house animals for decades. Straw still litters the floor in places around the edges and in old stalls. The rest is swept clean. The moonlight coming in through the cracks between boards and in the windows glints dully off the rounded metal frames of old tractors huddled in the darkened interior. Like the farm itself, the tractors were passed down to him from his father.

The old barn is feeling its age and will probably need to be rebuilt in another ten years.

Close to him near the edge of the trees is a shed used for storage for anything small enough to pile on its shelves and in corners.

Centered between them across the yard is a small old farmhouse.

It is the kind of farmhouse built before building codes, when a handshake was enough to suffice and a farmer built his own house with a hammer and nails and his own sweat. The house is small but well built with two small bedrooms and a mud-floored cellar for cold storage and the only access to the cellar a trap door with a ladder that goes straight down. The walls are made of flat boards grouted between them to seal the cracks.

The house was built by an earlier generation of McAllisters when they first settled here and the farm handed down in the family.

The livestock on the farm consists of a small flock of free roaming chickens that provide them with fresh eggs, a single aging nanny goat they use for milk, and a small herd of feral cattle that live mostly unbothered in the field. An old barn without doors beyond the trees surrounding the farmyard provides the cattle shelter when they need it.

William walks across the yard and puts the shovel in the barn, hanging it on the wall, then heads for the farmhouse.

The light shining on a pole in the farmyard reveals the lines at the corners of his eyes; lines drawn by hours spent working outside under the burning sun and against the ravages of the wind and weather. He looks forty, although he is younger.

Marjory greets him at the door, wringing her hands and looking anxious.

Did you take care of them? Marjory asks.

He nods. They won’t be found where I buried them.

Good, she says. Now we have to break it to them. Marjory is upset and wishes they did not have to do this.

Today had been as any other until the racoon came.

Earlier today:

Marjory is making breakfast while Sophie, who at seven is too young for the harder jobs around the farm, is searching the yard for chicken eggs.

Their clothes and hairstyles are typical for the time, Marjory wearing a dress with small pale flowers patterning the soft olive green fabric, skirt hem covering half her calves, and a long apron tied on that covers the front of her dress.

Marjory grew up in an old-fashioned household and still clings out of habit to dresses for women and girls being normal, even though pants are becoming more common.

Sophie flounces around the yard in her flared skirt and durable boots. She knows the chickens’ favourite places to hide their eggs and, although they are not painted, it is something like going on an Easter egg hunt every morning. Only, Easter egg hunts quickly lose their fun when it is a chore you have to do every morning and the birds have a tendency to chase and peck you in retaliation for stealing their un-hatched babies.

Sophie kneels to search in a low bush, reaching in when she finds two eggs.

Henrietta, you stop that, Sophie chastises a brown hen, looking at her reproachfully as she snatches her hand away from the bird’s sharp beak. You know I have to collect the eggs.

Henrietta clucks at her in response.

Jason, who at twelve-going-on-thirteen thinks of himself as almost a man despite his scrawny child body, has the job of cornering and milking the goat. She is a moody creature who seems to enjoy making him chase her, trying to surprise him and knock him down, and who despises cold hands.

She is behaving no differently today.

Come on, you old goat, Jason mutters in irritation, working to corner her in her pen.

He takes two steps forward and she darts left, dodging him with a noise he is sure is laughter.

By the time the kids are done collecting fresh milk and eggs before breakfast, the meal is cooked.

They come pounding into the house, hungry, and plop the milk and eggs on the table in the tiny kitchen before scooting back out of the room.

Go wash your hands, Marjory calls after them although they have already retreated to do so. And call your father in. She turns to the table, taking the milk and eggs off and moving them to the counter.

William is already on his way to the farmhouse, coming from the barn housing the tractors and wiping his hands on a greasy rag.

He is washing his hands by the time the kids are sitting down to breakfast.

After school we’ll be moving the herd to the other field, William says.

Across the table, Jason tries to hide his unhappy look.

I know you don’t like moving the cows, but it’s got to be done.

Why do we even have cows? Jason complains. We don’t even have a proper herd. And they’re half wild. They just chase me and don’t listen to no one but you.

We have them so we have meat in winter.

Why can’t we just buy meat?

Zeke likes chasing the cows, Sophie says.

Zeke is going to get stomped by that old Bessie cow, Jason says.

She glowers at him.

That’s enough, William says. If a man can’t manage his own cows, then he can’t manage his own affairs. You will learn how to manage a few cows or you will never become a man.

They continue eating in silence.

As soon as the kids finish wolfing down their breakfast, they are grabbing their books and lunches and running for their bikes. Tossing their stuff in the wire baskets on the front of the bikes, they race down the long driveway, more a road than a driveway, Zeke chasing and barking after them until they are far enough away that he thinks better of it and turns around to trot back to the farmyard.

The school bus does not come right to the farm. It would pick them up in the farmyard, but their father will not let even the school bus come on their property.

They ride their bikes up the road to where they meet the bus, getting there just as the bus comes clattering up the road, its rounded body looking like a squat bug scuttling up the road.

It is an old bus with an old rounded body style that went out of fashion long before it was purchased by the local school to transport its kids.

William finishes his breakfast, nodding approval.

Thank you Marjory. That was a fine breakfast.

He gets up and heads back to the barn, leaving Marjory to clean up from breakfast.

The tractor lubricated and ready to go, he climbs up into the seat, puts his hat on, and drives it slowly out of the barn.

Hearing the tractor, Zeke comes running, circling it and barking.

Zeke is not a large dog as dogs go, a mutt in every sense of the word. It is anybody’s guess what dogs got together in wanton amorous behaviour to eventually produce him. You can see the shepherd in him, as well as some Border collie, and perhaps some golden retriever, but he is smaller than these breeds typically are.

Like many farm dogs, he lives outside. Zeke roams at will, surviving by hunting rabbits and other small animals, and sticking around for the table scraps and children’s affection.

He is not a pet; he is a working dog. His main job is to chase off any unwanted vermin that are invariably drawn from the surrounding fields and woods to the farm; rats, raccoons, skunks, bears, and abandoned cats all looking for an easy meal.

He also warns them of the presence of other, more dangerous, vermin that are not so easily chased off, including coyotes and unwanted visitors.

In addition to guarding the farm and chasing off unwanted pests, the dog’s job is to help move the cattle from one field to another when it is time to give the field a rest.

William drives out the long driveway to the dirt road running past the farm, the dog following.

Zeke gives up when the tractor leaves the yard, trained to not follow the tractor out of the yard.

William bounces in the seat as the tractor rattles and bounces up the rough road. Today he will be tilling one of the dormant fields, getting it ready to be planted when the ground gets a little warmer. He does not plant more than a few fields at a time, rotating through them from one year to the next. The cultivator waits in the field to be hitched to the back of the tractor.

The spread of the McAllister farm reaches further than anyone but William and Marjory know, much of their land a mix of untouched forest and wild grassland beyond the farm.

He only needs to grow enough crops to make a token show of it and to provide winter feed to his own small livestock herd. Nobody comes out this way and so no one is likely to notice that he does not plant as much ground as the other farmers do. When it comes to selling he always has the same story, that his family has a long-standing contract that dates back before his time to sell the bulk of his crops to a middleman who is not in this area, and it is a contract he is honour bound to uphold.

After spending the morning baking pies and kneading bread, Marjory collects the laundry to spend the afternoon washing it.

Basket in hand, she goes to the old washing machine in a small room. The room has the washer with its roughed in pipe, and a free standing cabinet for storage. In the middle of the floor is the trap door to the root cellar below with its ladder for access.

Filling the machine, she turns it on, leaving it to its chore while she checks the rising bread.

The loud chugging and banging of the washing machine startles her. Outside, even Zeke is barking at the offending noise.

With a horrendous banging and chugging, the washer is vibrating across to bang into the cabinet, threatening to knock the wobbling items off the shelves. The floor pulses with the violent motions of the machine. Rushing to the washing machine, Marjory grabs it, trying to wrestle it into behaving and pushing it away from the cabinet.

Every time I do the wash, Marjory grunts through gritted teeth, this monster makes strange loud noises and vibrates across the floor. I can’t imagine what possessed William to buy it or where he could have found this antique.

With the washer back in its corner and looking like it might stay there for now, Marjory repositions the off-balance load inside it and goes outside to start weeding the vegetable garden.

After enough time for the wash to finish, Marjory returns to the house, washing her hands before going to retrieve the laundry.

She steps into the small room, eying the machine suspiciously where it ended its wash after vibrating across the floor inches from where it should be. She pulls the load out into a basket, carrying it outside.

Marjory starts hanging the clothes on the line to dry. After hanging a few items she looks up to see a dark shape across the yard.

She pays it no attention, thinking it is one of the barn cats stalking some rodent, continuing with her job of hanging the laundry.

When Marjory looks up again to hang another item, the animal is closer. She hangs another shirt and it is closer again.

Looking past the shirt, she sees the telltale rounded body, striped tail, and masked eyes.

Marjory stands watching it.

The raccoon moves slowly, sluggish and staggering, its head drooping and its nose almost dragging on the ground. It stumbles along, uncoordinated.

It looks drunk. She dismisses the idea immediately. I’ve seen raccoons get drunk eating berries fermenting on the ground, but it won’t find any this time of year. That animal is not drunk.

As it comes closer, she sees that its hair is dull and it is too skinny.

The animal looks up, spotting her.

She holds her breath. It will scurry off, she thinks.

The moment stretches out before it reacts to her presence. The raccoon hisses and starts bumbling towards her. It trips over its own feet, tumbling over on the ground.

Marjory is frozen, unable to move. She watches the approaching animal in horror.

It stumbles to its feet, coming at her again.

Now she can see the dull sick looking eyes and flecks of foam at its mouth and she knows.

Rabies!

She glances quickly at the door to the house.

I have nowhere to go. I have to get past it to get to the house.

Marjory looks at the basket. It is too far.

The raccoon is on her and she dances back with a yelp, waving the shirt in her hands at it, the only thing she has to defend herself with.

Grabbing the shirt in its teeth and front paws, the raccoon tears it, yanking it from her hands with a sickly growling sound.

The shirt falls to cover the raccoon and the confused animal bumbles its way free.

Marjory turns her head at the sound of a bark.

Zeke comes sprinting across the yard from the other side of the house, his whole body flexing with the effort. He barely slows when he reaches the sick raccoon, trampling it in a fury of fur and limbs, sinking his teeth into it with a deep growl that rumbles in his chest.

The raccoon turns, its front legs out stiff, stunned and barely able to react with the brain-wasting illness that is slowly killing it. It hisses at the dog, teeth bared, while the dog continues to gnaw on it, picking it up and shaking it. The raccoon would have been the size of a large fat cat if it were not wasting away to skin and bones from disease.

It breaks free from its addled mind into enough awareness to focus on the dog and comes at him when he drops it on the ground, its sharp teeth sinking into the dog’s leg. Zeke yelps and it comes again, this time sinking its teeth into the dog’s face.

Zeke yelps again and jumps away, shaking off the pain. With a growl, he lunges at the raccoon, wrestling with it, chewing it and shaking it until the animal finally dies.

Zeke bites and snarls at it for a while, shaking the carcass furiously before he realizes it is no longer fighting back.

Dropping the dead raccoon, he sniffs at it and then turns to Marjory. He skulks to her, lowered tail wagging slowly as if unsure whether he will be rewarded or punished.

Marjory cringes, backing away from the dog, his fur wet with blood and foamy saliva.

G-good dog, she manages.

Zeke scurries closer, wagging his tail harder. She is afraid he might touch her.

Marjory snatches up a pair of pants, holding them between her and the dog as if it might ward him off.

Go! she yells. Get!

He lays his ears back at the high nervous pitch of her voice, looking at her, unsure what he is in trouble for.

Marjory quickly retreats to the house, looking out now and then to see if the dog is still out there while she waits for her husband to come home from the field.

The kids come home first.

Marjory spots them riding up on their bikes, home from school.

Seeing them, Zeke runs to greet them with his tail wagging happily.

Marjory rushes out, waving a towel at Zeke and yelling at him.

Get away, get! she yells, flapping the towel at the confused dog.

His people do not normally act like this. He lowers his head in dejection and slinks off, wondering what he did wrong.

Get in the house, Marjory urges the kids, anxious to get them in before they can see the racoon or have any contact with the dog.

Why are you mad at Zeke? Sophie asks, looking after the retreating dog in regret that her mother stopped his usual happy greeting.

He got into something. He’s dirty and smells bad, Marjory lies. Now inside both of you and get cleaned up. You have supper and homework.

Sophie goes in without question, but Jason pauses.

Jason eyes her warily. He knows something is wrong. He can see the tension in her eyes, hear the strain in her voice, and he saw the blood on the dog.

I have chores, Jason says. It is almost defiant.

Chores are a good reason to stay outside. They are always supposed to come first before eating and definitely before homework, he thinks. Dad will be angry if the chores aren’t done. Mom is lying to me like she still sees me as just a kid like Sophie. Whatever is wrong, she isn’t telling me and I want to know what it is.

I’m not just a kid, he thinks sullenly. Jason resents being treated like a kid.

Inside, Marjory says, the chores will wait this time.

He goes in reluctantly.

Marjory watches warily for the dog she knows is lurking around close by. She spots him once watching her, his head poking out from behind the chicken coop where he retreated for safety.

The kids are inside doing their homework when William comes bouncing up the long driveway on the tractor.

Zeke is not in sight.

The mauled raccoon still lays broken and bloodied where he left it after killing it.

Marjory is at the door watching William drive past the house to park the tractor in the barn. He waves at her as he goes by.

She steps outside to wait for him.

William looks up as he approaches the house, seeing the strained look on Marjory’s face.

What’s wrong? he asks.

Marjory points at the chewed up raccoon lying on the ground by her abandoned laundry.

Zeke killed a sick raccoon. I was hanging the laundry when it came at me. It looked drunk and was salivating.

Rabies, he says, walking around the edge of the house and looking until he spots the corpse. It’s been more active this year.

Marjory follows him, warily watching for the dog.

I’m worried just having contact with the saliva from the dog fighting the raccoon could infect someone, she says.

Zeke appears, coming out of the woods. He heard the tractor and is coming happily to greet William.

Marjory stiffens. Zeke.

William glances at her and looks for the dog, spotting him quickly.

Getting the scent of the abandoned raccoon when he gets close, Zeke changes course, going for it.

Marjory watches anxiously.

Zeke, get away from there, she says, trying to call him away from the dead animal.

William watches without a word as the dog goes after the carcass.

Picking up the raccoon, Zeke tosses it around a little, playing with it, before trotting over to them carrying it happily, tail wagging.

Dropping his prize, he sits down, tilts his head, and chuffs at them as if to say, Look what a good dog I am.

William and Marjory exchange looks, his emotionless, hers distraught.

William walks over and pets the dog, giving him a quick look over.

He got bit, he says.

Marjory nods. A few times.

The dog is likely infected, William says.

The kids will be upset, but I know what I have to do.

I’ll clean it up.

William whistles to the dog.

Zeke jumps to follow, but he waves him off, pointing at the dead raccoon.

Get it Zeke, he says, get it.

Zeke happily turns and retrieves the carcass, proudly carrying his prize while following his master.

He follows William to the barn.

Inside the dim interior, William stops and turns to Zeke.

Zeke stands staring up at him expectantly.

Zeke, drop it, he commands. Sit.

Zeke obediently does as ordered, looking up at him with trusting eyes.

Best not to use the gun. The kids will hear.

William casually moves to the wall where a shovel hangs. Taking it down, he approaches the dog.

Waiting patiently, Zeke sniffs around at the air, not paying attention to his master.

William walks around the dog, moving behind him and suddenly swinging the shovel in what is intended to be a fatal blow.

Zeke’s ears perk up at the sound of the displaced wind from the swinging shovel blade. Turning his head and seeing the shovel coming, he tries to leap aside at the last moment in an attempt to dodge the blow.

Instead of a solid killing blow, the shovel glances off the dog’s head. He yelps in startled pain.

Zeke staggers; dazed.

Blood trickling from a gash in his head, Zeke looks at William, injured, with sad hurt eyes as if asking, Why are you doing this? I thought we were buddies.

He lets out a low weak owowwoww, a sound of abject misery and confusion.

William swings the shovel again. He finishes off the whimpering animal with two more blows.

He lays out an old sheet he keeps in the barn and lifts the dog and gently places him on the sheet, giving him a gentle rub on the scruff after he lays him down.

Scooping up the raccoon with the shovel blade, he tosses it on the sheet with the dog. The animals are dark against the pale sheet before he covers them. He wraps them up together, tying the corners and wrapping it with strong twine to secure the bundle.

William sits down tiredly, feeling a weariness he does not usually feel wash over him. He rubs his face roughly with his hand then runs it through his hair. He just sits there for a long time staring at the wrapped bundle.

The light outside is starting to wane when he finally moves again.

William picks up the bundle and slings it over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, picks up the shovel, and carries them away to bury the carcasses in the woods.

Inside the farmhouse, Jason looks sullenly out the window.

What’s going on with Zeke? he asks.

You just never mind, Marjory says. Your father will discuss it when he comes back.

Sophie looks at her with worried eyes.

That never means anything good, she says with a quiet voice.

Jason looks at Marjory defiantly.

I saw blood on Zeke.

Sophie’s eyes widen.

You just keep your words to yourself until your father is home, Marjory says angrily. You are upsetting your sister.

What’s wrong with Zeke, Mommy? Sophie asks, tears brimming her eyes.

Marjory looks at them, her heart breaking.

I have to tell them.

I guess you have to know. There’s no point in not telling you. You will find out when your father gets home anyway. A raccoon came at me while I was hanging the laundry this afternoon.

Sophie hurries to her, putting her arms around her waist.

Are you okay, Mommy? Did you get bit?

No honey. I didn’t get bit.

Jason steps closer, his face fearful defiance.

Marjory looks at him and then focuses on Sophie.

Zeke set upon the raccoon. He killed it.

So everything is okay then, Jason says.

Marjory shakes her head. She can’t hide it. Her expression says it’s not okay.

The raccoon was sick. Zeke got bit.

Jason stiffens, staring at her in shock and pain.

Sophie looks at them confused.

But, Zeke is okay, right?

Marjory fights back her own tears. Tears for the pain and fear in her daughter’s eyes and the pain she knows her son feels despite his petulant defiance to cover his pain.

The raccoon had rabies. We’ve talked about rabies before. You know what happens.

Sophie’s face twists into deeper confusion and fear.

Jason stares at Marjory with anger as if it’s her fault.

Go to bed, kids. It’s getting late and your father isn’t back yet.

But, what about Zeke? Sophie whimpers.

You said Dad would talk to us when he gets back, Jason says defiantly.

He’s taking longer than I thought. Go to bed. He’ll talk to you in the morning.

I can’t sleep without Zeke, Sophie says quietly.

Marjory looks at her.

You never sleep with the dog. You’ll sleep just fine.

He’s not even allowed in the house, Jason says, turning angrily on his sister.

That’s enough Jason. Leave her alone.

Jason stomps off to their room.

Come, I’ll tuck you into bed. Marjory takes Sophie’s hand, leading her to the bedroom.

Jason falls on his bed sullenly staring at the wall, refusing to look at them when they come in.

Marjory tucks Sophie into the other bed, then Jason on the other side of the small room.

I’m too old for tuck-ins, Jason complains.

Sophie looks at her imploringly.

I can’t sleep until Daddy gets home with Zeke.

Just do your best, Marjory says, turning off the light and leaving the room. She closes the door softly behind her.

Sophie blinks at the darkness.

Jason, what do you think Daddy will do about Zeke? she asks quietly.

At first only Jason’s breathing answers and she wonders if he already fell asleep.

He finally answers, his voice choking with the tears he is fighting.

He got bit, Sophie. That old raccoon had rabies. Dad is going to kill him. He has to.

But, what if he didn’t get bit so bad? Sophie pleads. What if it wasn’t Zeke’s blood? What if it was just the raccoons?

Then maybe it won’t be so bad, Jason says hopefully. Maybe he won’t have to kill him.

Maybe.

They both stare into the darkness in silence after that, unable to sleep.

Marjory checks on them after a while, opening the door quietly to peek in. She sees both their eyes staring back at her.

She closes the door, retreating to the living room to wait for William to return.

Arriving at the farmyard through the woods in the dark, William walks across the yard and puts the shovel in the barn, hanging it on the wall, then heads for the farmhouse.

The light shining on a pole in the farmyard reveals the lines at the corners of his eyes; lines drawn by hours spent working outside under the burning sun and against the ravages of the wind and weather.

Marjory greets him at the door, wringing her hands and looking anxious.

Did you take care of them? Marjory asks.

He nods. They won’t be found where I buried them.

Good, she says. Now we have to break it to them. Marjory is upset and wishes they did not have to do this.

The kids are waiting up, she says.

It’s well past bedtime. William frowns at the cuckoo clock on the wall of the small living room.

Marjory wrings her hands harder.

They know something is wrong, she says. Jason saw blood on the dog before I could get them in the house away from him. They wouldn’t go to sleep.

William nods. He is not surprised.

You didn’t tell them about the raccoon? he asks.

Marjory swallows the lump in her throat.

I told them about the raccoon, about the rabies. She shakes her head unhappily. Their faces, you should have seen their faces. I couldn’t bring myself to tell . . ..

William puts a comforting hand on her arm.

I’ll tell them, he says.

Marjory looks up into his face, trying to see in his eyes what he is feeling, what he is thinking.

She is bothered by the whole situation.

The kids will be so upset, she thinks. They already know, but until William tells them the dog is dead, they will still hold onto that small piece of hope.

She liked the dog too and it tugs at her heartstrings.

You do not get emotionally attached to farm animals, Marjory reminds herself. She wraps her arms around herself, clutching her arms in a self-comforting embrace.

William walks past her, expressionless.

He never shows emotion except anger, Marjory thinks, and then only when anger is due. He never reacts to emotional events. I never know what he feels or is thinking, except in those moments when he is angry. Sometimes I wish he could show emotions like other men, although I know it’s a good thing he doesn’t.

Had to be done, William says, pausing in the doorway of the hall where the bedrooms are. Dog went after a rabid raccoon. He got chewed on. He could have infected the livestock, maybe even the kids.

I know, Marjory says unhappily.

Kids, come out," William calls, turning and returning to the living room.

The kids’ door opens and they come out quietly into the living room. They are afraid to look at their dad, as if that simple act will make it true. They stand together mutely waiting.

Zeke, William starts, he was a good dog. He did right by us. And he did right by your mother, protecting her from the raccoon. It’s not right that things had to go this way, but that’s what happened.

Sophie and Jason are staring at him with cold dread at what they know he is going to say.

He got bit, a few times. His wounds were full of blood and saliva. There was no way he wouldn’t get sick. I had to put him down.

Sophie stares at him in stunned shock and confusion, her mind refusing to accept understanding.

Jason glares resentfully at his father.

Put him down where? Sophie asks numbly.

He’s gone, Sophie. He was going to get really sick, maybe in a few days. I had to put him out of his misery before he suffered . . . before he was not safe.

Sophie’s face crumples into devastation.

He wasn’t sick yet. You couldn’t wait?

She runs out of the room to their shared bedroom, crying her heart out, burying her face in her pillow to muffle the sobs and hugging her cloth doll desperately in an attempt to dull the pain.

I couldn’t take the risk, William says quietly after her.

Jason reacts to his heartbreak with anger. His face and ears turn red with it and he stalks out of the house, slamming the door behind him, the loud bang reverberating through the small house.

William and Marjory stare after him wordlessly.

Jason walks around the house, leaning on its side in the darkness, and sinks to the ground. He sits there sulking outside for a while. There is not much he can do out there in the dark. His nervousness being outside alone in the