It bothered him, the tone in her voice. The dead switch armed itself. So, she wanted to tell horror stories?
“They had a contest once,” he said, leaning forward into the candlelight, “at Dinner Bell, with the steers. The air hammer went on the blink, and the night shift had to process two hundred beeves before they clocked out. So they went ahead and hooked the steers onto the overhead trolley without using the stunner. Which basically means they’re hanging upside down, totally alive and scared to death, instead of brain-dead like they’re supposed to be. And they had a contest to see how far they could process a beef before it died. They had one steer come down the line that had been skinned and had its, you know, its organs gutted and had gone through one steam-spray, and when it got to the guy who was supposed to cut off the flank steaks, it twisted and went, ‘Moooo!’ right in his face. I mean, it wasn’t even a cow anymore, it was just a meat thing, and it goes ‘moo’ like that. The guy quit.”
He peeked around the candle to see if Jodi was shocked. She was staring into her lap.
The dead switch snapped off. Better judgment flooded in. Aw, man…
“Listen,” he said, “it wasn’t really a contest. The floor works like an assembly line—”
Jodi winced at the sound of his voice. He shut up.
They ate their dinner.
Milo found himself making lists in his head.
Things to talk about: Craziest things you ever did. Shoot cars on the highway.
No! cried his old souls. He kept silence.
Dinner forks. A picture on the wall. Picture that might be an eye or some water going down a drain. Hard to tell.
—
Milo drove out to his tree on Route 41.
Why had he told Jodi that awful story?
People sabotaged themselves all the time, Milo thought. For example, why was he driving out to the same tree, the same spot where he’d already shot at two cars? Wouldn’t they start watching this area? If the Route 41 BB Sniper were smart, he wouldn’t snipe on Route 41 anymore.
He hiked back to his car.
He drove to the edge of Troy, out past the old covered bridge and past Experiment Farm Road, until he found a hill overlooking I-75 itself.
He left his truck parked on a gravel turnout, a mile or so from the interstate. Carrying both guns—the air rifle and the rifle rifle—he picked his way over a barbed-wire fence and sat down beside a tree, four hundred yards away. Out of headlight range.
The highway roared and whined. The headlights approached like starships, transforming into streaks, then taillights. It would be a challenge to try to hit them just as they passed. He’d have to lead them by…twenty feet? Part of it would depend on whether he used the air rifle or the real thing.
He went with the air rifle, although it grated at him. BB Sniper, my ass. The rifle bullet in his pocket seemed to announce itself, to clear its throat, to grow hot against his leg. He ignored it and screwed the scope on. Took his time calibrating, firing four shots into a pop can down in the ditch.
Patience, the dead switch whispered at him.
He was patient. Couldn’t have said what form of Perfection he was waiting for. Didn’t the headlights all look the same? And the longer he sat there, the more chance some cop would get curious about his truck, parked for no reason back there, with the empty gun rack in the rear window.
He wound up choosing a truck. A Peterbilt tanker that got his attention by pulling its Jake brake a mile upstream.
Milo let the Peterbilt fill his scope. Let the reticle hover off-center. He wasn’t trying to hit the driver. Moved his shoulders and arms and hands together, swiveling just slightly, letting the reticle pull out ahead of the truck, like a sprinter making his move.
Timing his breath, exhaling.
His lungs emptied. The oxygen in his blood hit maximum, leaving his eyes at their sharpest. He squeezed the trigger between breaths, when his body and mind were at their most still.
His ears, hyperalert, heard the crack of the shot and the distant crack of the pellet on the windshield. An adrenaline bomb went off inside him. He had a moment of Perfection that even his ancient soul enjoyed.
Then a universe of noise and confusion as the truck locked up its brakes and skidded to a stop—incredible!—less than a hundred yards down the shoulder. The stink of scorched rubber filled the night. Cars swerved and scrambled to give the truck room. A horn blared.
Milo’s body tightened up, and he almost bolted. Then the dead switch kicked in.
He exhaled. He sat like a stone.
The driver appeared, walking fast. Not your usual trucker type but a skinny guy in nice pants, with his shirt tucked in.
Flashlight.
The beam played up and down the ditch. Then up the hill, way to Milo’s right.
Milo reasoned with himself. He felt as if he stood out like a bonfire in the night, but that was just mind panic. He imagined what it looked like to the trucker, down there on the shoulder. He made a list of things the trucker saw.
Shapes. Shadows. One big rock and some fast-food trash.
Needle. Haystack.
The beam jabbed in his direction. Milo covered his scope with his hand, so the lens wouldn’t reflect.
The light passed over him without pausing.
In the dark that followed, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and focused in on the driver. The guy started walking again, back toward his cab. Milo zeroed the reticle on the back of his head. Followed.
Breathe, whispered the dead switch. Squeeze.
He didn’t. The adrenaline bomb in his chest fizzed and subsided.
The driver had hopped back up in his cab, but the truck didn’t go anywhere. He’s radioing the highway patrol, Milo thought. He won’t leave until they come.
He backed away through the weeds, uphill, crouching. Down the fenceline the way he’d come.
Dead grass. Duck under branches. Racing heart. Grunt. Gasp. Dodge a gopher hole.
Sirens. Fuck! If they had any brains, they’d send somebody down Experiment Farm Road, too. Goddammit. Even if he got to his truck and got on the road, a cop might pull him over, if he passed one.
Shit. He unslung the air rifle, wiped it down with his sleeve as he ran. When he judged it was print-free, he cast it aside, to the left, into a strip of woods.
Jogged through the tall roadside grass until he drew even with his truck, and thirty seconds later was on the road, fiddling with the radio. Rifle in its place, up on the gun rack.
He drove casually into Troy and out of danger, and the main thing on his mind was that he still wished he hadn’t told Jodi that slaughterhouse story.
Let a little time pass, he thought. Be patient, just like with firing the rifle. Make it perfect, and she’d let him in again.
Radio. Washer-and-dryer sale. Slow song. Static.
—
One day when school had been going about three weeks, Jodi stopped the school bus at the Kosmal driveway, out on Tick Ridge Road, to pick up little Rachel and Skye, and there was Milo Wood, in a brand-new Cincinnati Reds ball cap. There was his truck, parked just down the road.
“Milo!” gasped Jodi as he climbed aboard the bus.