The Season of Killing by Leigh Mayberry (reading books for 4 year olds .txt) 📗

“Who are you?” Meghan called.

“Help me” was the response.

“Matthew Anuun? Norman Fisher? We’re not coming near you until you tell us where the other one is,” Meghan shouted. Even with her helmet on, she heard her voice carried away for miles.

There was a distant groan as if someone straining. “I can’t move my legs.”

“Are you armed?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Tell me now! Are you armed?”

“I have my rifle.”

It made her feel the cold sweat on her back. Vulnerable to the elements, dead in the sights of a gun, Lester and Meghan were unarmed, and both afraid it was their last night on earth.

“You need to put down the gun.”

It took a long time before he answered. It felt too long like there was a conspiracy on the other side of the field.

“It’s gone. I threw it. Please, help me.”

“Who are you?” Meghan asked.

“Norman Fisher.”

“I don’t think we can walk over there,” Lester said, his voice barely a whisper. Sound traveled. “This area is too uneven. I don’t know how deep this snow is or what’s under us. We have to take the sled over there.”

Meghan understood. It was her call. For the moment, they knew one gave away his location, but where was Matthew?

“Listen, Norman. You understand why we’re not comfortable believing you, right?”

They heard him sobbing from a distance. It was a low mournful sound that was hard to fake, but not impossible.

“I know,” he cried. “I’m sorry, please, help me.”

“Your call,” Lester said.

“We’re coming, Norman. I swear, if you do something, we will run you over.”

Lester tried starting the engine. It took four times before it fired up. It sounded hesitation, as if the engine gargled water. Meghan smelled the acrid stench of carbon monoxide as the muffler spit harsh gray smoke.

She mounted the snowmobile and leaned over as Lester lay across the gas tank while riding toward the black shape in the white patch.

The snowmobile had caught a patch of protruded rock. The right ski broke off. Somehow, the machine landed on Norman’s lower half. He’d worked to free himself, dug out the snow that encapsulated the machine and his body. He dug down to the sludge and ice, the boggy marsh in summer months was a slab of cold, thick death, sunk up to his hips with the heavy machine lying on its side over him.

Meghan grabbed the gun as soon as she slipped off the snowmobile. It lay a few feet from Norman tangled in the frozen grass. She tossed it toward Eric’s sled.

“You got yourself stuck good,” Lester said.

“I can’t feel my leg.” Norman’s bloody face grimaced as he used his hand and trembling arms, trying to pull himself free of the mud and machine.

Her boots sunk in deep beyond the tops. Below the layer of snow, a soft ground, insulated from the cold air after the heavy snowfall. Lester grabbed Norman under his arms, dug in behind him, and pulled.

Norman didn’t move. He screamed in agony.

“We need to dig under him,” Meghan said. She shone the light under his thighs where the mud met legs. She started scooping the muck from under him with her gloves. Lester moved to the other side and did the same.

Norman lay back on the wet ground.

“Why did you do it?” Meghan asked.

Since they had him at a disadvantage, he wasn’t going anywhere. He had to answer the questions. Or if he chose to remain quiet, perhaps they might take longer, or try a little harder pulling out the top half of Norman.

“I didn’t do it,” he whispered.

Meghan waited. She wanted Norman to feel the weight of the snowmobile, as well as the implications of killing his grandmother.

“Which part?” she asked.

“I didn’t kill Gram.”

“Who killed your grandmother, Norman?” she asked and continued to dig.

Meghan ignored the icy cold that soaked through her snow pants and gloves. Her fingers hurt from the cold. Each scoop of heavy wet earth felt like raw chunks of ice in her bare hands. Lester continued to dig. He listened and continued to scan the horizon in case Matthew loitered nearby.

“I didn’t know,” he sobbed. Norman beat his fists against the mud. Then he pressed his gloves to his face. “I didn’t know he did it.”

She needed a name. This pronoun business got old. Meghan wasn’t interested in feeding the man a name. He needed to volunteer it; he had to name his grandmother’s killer in order for her to move forward.

“Tell us what happened. Tell us what he did,” she said.

“Matthew helped me when I put on Gram’s roof,” Norman said.

Meghan was up to her shoulder, scooping out mud from under Norman’s leg. Little by little, the machine sunk deeper into the mud. Norman’s snow pants soaked up the bog water. Meghan’s arms and hands were wet and muddy.

“He didn’t tell me about the money until after,” Norman said.

Before he continued, the snowmobile shifted over him. It rocked toward him. Meghan stopped it with her shoulders. Norman screamed in pain as it bit into his leg. Lester moved back behind him, crawling in the mud. He hooked Norman’s armpit and pulled.

Norman cried out. Meghan moved back, pulling on his left arm. He screamed again. Then his torso moved. The more he slid out from under the machine, the more he screamed. Eventually, his legs pulled out from under enough for Meghan to dig in her heels and lift on the running board. Lester pulled Norman free of the machine.

He continued to scream. It was difficult to see details in the flashlight beam. Meghan’s hands made a quick pad down of Norman’s legs. His left leg felt normal. His right leg had a protrusion below the knee. A slick lump under the snow pants that made Meghan understand