“Then why do you stay?”
“He’s my brother,” she said simply. “When I was a girl, we lived in a lovely home on State Street. Three stories with winding spiral staircases. But after Chan was born, the stairs were too difficult for a wheelchair, so we moved here. One level, easier for him to get around. No one asked me whether I wanted to move. It was all for Chan. And when my father died, he left everything to Chan because he knew damned well if I had two nickels of my own I’d be gone. This is my home as much as his, but I’m just a housekeeper here.”
“Sis!” the intercom crackled to life. “Come here, please. My colostomy bag’s almost full.”
“I have to go. But you’d better watch yourself, Professor. Chan’s mean. When he warned you about your house, he wasn’t kidding. He’ll get even somehow.”
As I backed out of Sinclair’s driveway, I noticed a patrol car parked in the turnout at the end of the block. Couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, maybe Jerry Landry, maybe someone else. But it wasn’t just sitting there, it was idling.
As I drove off, the prowl car pulled out, tailed me half a block, then made a U-turn and drove back to the Sinclairs'. And stopped.
It could have been a coincidence, but I didn’t think so. It felt more like a message. That in this town, the Sinclairs had their own private police force. Bought and paid for.
“We’re flunking the Hitler test,” Janie murmured. “The law failed us when they left that psycho running loose. We’ll have to deal with him ourselves.” I was sitting by her bedside at the hospice. It was noon, but the shades were drawn and the lights dimmed to avoid any strain on her eyes. Her equilibrium was very fragile now. Teetering on the edge of the abyss.
“How do you mean that?” I asked.
“You’re the political scientist; how do governments manage a problem like this?”
“Well, if a nation is attacked or its citizens are injured, it can counter with a measured, equivalent response sufficient to deter future aggression. The police actions in Korea and Desert Storm, for example. Or it can act on a massive scale to remove the threat. As in World War II and the second Gulf War. I think we can skip the nuclear option.”
“Do any of those apply?” Janie asked. “I can’t think.”
“I don’t think so, honey. Even if we found a way to strike back, would retaliation help the situation or make it worse? I’m not sure the man’s playing with a full deck. And he’s wealthy enough to cause serious trouble for us.”
“More than I have now, do you think? Too bad it didn’t happen a few months ago, when I could still hobble around. If I could move, I’d do something about this maniac. God knows I’ve got little enough to lose.”
I caught the savage edge in her tone, and realized her anger was a stimulant, pumping her adrenaline, keeping her mind off the pain. But her judgment was as shaky as her condition.
“Janie, we can’t respond with anything illegal. If I get caught, the kids will have no one. The law isn’t perfect but it’s all we have. We should leave it to them.”
She didn’t speak for a very long while. I thought she might have fallen asleep.
“Arnie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but... you’re a teacher. You love to discuss things, talk them out. So leaving Sinclair to the law is a... convenient option for you. Because it means you don’t have to do anything at all. But it’s also very dangerous. Because if that lunatic harms one of our children, it'll be too late for talk. And if that happens, I don’t think you could forgive yourself. Nor could I. I’m sorry I can’t think clearly enough to help you, so you’ll have to decide. But if we’re truly dealing with a Hitler situation here, you have to do the right thing, Arnie. Whether it’s legal or not. You have to.”
“I will, my love,” I said softly. “Trust me.” But I don’t think she heard. Her breathing had gone shallow as the sedation took hold, carrying her far away.
A giant splotch of red greeted me when I pulled into our driveway. At first I thought someone had struck a deer in the road, then I realized the whole house had been splattered with red explosions. Paintballs, the bloody mess drooling off the roof, streaks of crimson down the siding like blood, as though our home had been butchered.
Skidding my Toyota to a halt in front of the Algoma sheriff's department, I stalked inside, slamming the door open so hard that the officer behind the counter jumped, startled. Deputy Jerry Landry. One look at my face was enough.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t want to put you in the middle of this, Jerry, I need to see your boss.”
He started to argue, thought better of it. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”
I trailed him down the narrow corridor to an office at the end. He rapped once, showed me in.
If anything, the office was more Spartan than the squad room. Institutional green concrete, tiled floors, a metal desk. A heavyset cop behind it, squared off and gray as a concrete block. His nametag read Wolinski.
“Sorry to bother you, Stan,” Landry said. “This is Professor Dylan, teaches at the college. He has a problem.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Wolinski said. “What seems to be the trouble, Professor?”
I told him about Sparky’s death, my run-in with Chandler Sinclair, and the vandalism at my home. When I finished, Wolinski arched an eyebrow at Landry, and Jerry confirmed that I’d reported it.
“Did you write it up, Landry?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. And the prof here isn’t the only one. We’ve had a number of reports about pets being killed in that area.”
“Reports?” Wolinski echoed. “Has anyone actually filed a complaint against Chan?”
“No, sir, no official complaints.”
“Can’t say I blame ’em,” Wolinski sighed. “Can I ask you something, Professor? If you don’t hunt, why should you care what Chan Sinclair does in those woods?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t if he hadn’t killed my dog.”
“I understand that, and killing a dog is serious business. It’s also a dangerous charge to make without proof. Do you have any evidence that Chan did it? Did you see him, or did he admit to it?”
“I was told that he killed the dog by someone who would know.”
“Does that someone have a name?”
“I promised not to involve them. My dog was killed with a crossbow bolt. Does anyone else in the area hunt with a crossbow?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but the fact that the man owns a crossbow is hardly conclusive. Mr. Sinclair owns a lot of things.”
“He also dusts his tracking string with blue chalk, which I understand is quite unusual. There were blue chalk marks around my dog’s wound.”
“Several of the other reports mentioned blue chalk too,” Landry offered.
“Even so, with all due respect, Professor, from where I sit, this comes down to a disagreement between neighbors. This part of the state, we’re a little more casual about property lines than folks are down in Detroit, or wherever it is you come from. Up here, a fella hunts another fella’s land, no one thinks much of it. If a dispute arises, grown men should be able to work it out.”
“This is a lot more than a dispute!”
“So I gather. And I want you to know we take your concerns seriously. I’ll have Deputy Landry here talk to Chan about the paintballs, but if he denies it, and I expect he will, our hands are tied. Every kid in town owns a paintball gun these days. And I’d advise you against taking any further action against Mr. Sinclair on your own, Professor. Don’t tear down any more blinds. There are laws against hunter harassment in this state.”
Landry walked me out. In the corridor, he glanced around to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard.