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

what she felt wasn’t a broke twig logged in his leg. Norman’s tibia broke through the skin but hadn’t torn through the material of his winter gear. Somewhere under all that material, Norman had an open fracture.

The moment her gloves grazed the area on his leg, Norman screamed, a high-pitched wail that bounced off the distant mountains. He smelled like alcohol. He was drinking and riding on the tundra. Now he had a broken leg. Meghan knew drinking alcohol thinned the blood. It made bleeders bleed faster.

Meghan looked at Lester. “We need to see if this is bleeding.”

Lester braced Norman’s upper body, lifting his back off the wet ground. His lower half, free of the crushing snowmachine, Meghan bathed in light. She held the flashlight in her teeth, ignored the taste of mud on her tongue.

She gripped the cuff of Norman’s snow pants. “This is going to hurt.”

Before he could protest, Meghan tore open his snow pants. The frayed nylon cuff allowed the clean tear that went above his knee. Underneath, Norman wore denim pants.

“Here,” Lester said.

He handed her a folding knife. It was the kind of quick-thinking tool that someone who spent a lot of time in the wilderness carried without reminding or forethought. The type of knife Meghan needed living in rural Alaska.

Meghan flipped open the knife. Carefully, she poked a hole through the material, cut through the thick hem on the pants. She handed the knife back to Lester. Rolling the end of the flashlight around in her mouth, spittle freezing on her chin, Meghan tore open the jeans.

After seeing the damaged Norman did to the leg, she used the knife to cut strips of fabric from his denim. She wrapped the pieces around his open fracture. Each feather touch sent Norman in a screaming fit of pain. Lester braced Norman against his chest, holding him tight to stop the young man from flailing.

It was the best she could do, considering what she had for materials. She’d stemmed the bleeding, but he’d still lose blood. She wrapped the nylon over the leg to keep it from the open air. As much good as it did, soaked through with icy water and mud.

Lester and Meghan pulled Norman further away from the overturned machine. Once they found a higher landmass, something out of the bog, Lester set to work starting a fire.

“Norman, what happened? Tell me what Matthew did,” she said.

Meghan ignored the pain in her finger. She tried to ignore the icy claws of water against her skin. Her snow pants absorbed mud and water, burning the flesh of her legs.

“I didn’t know about the money. I didn’t want it. I was going after him. I was close to him most of the way. Then I lost him a while back before I dumped the snowmachine.”

Norman’s face illuminated in the tiny campfire light. Lester coaxed the flames higher. It took time, tinder and kindling in the form of grass and wild blueberry bushes. The bushes were still too damp to burn without drying out more.

“I didn’t know about the money until after Matthew showed us. I didn’t know he killed Gram.”

“What happened,” Meghan asked. She felt they were wasting time while simultaneously learning relevant details of the crime.

“He helped with the roof. I think he saw Gram bringing home money from the store. She always paid for the stuff in cash.” Norman shuddered. Either cold or shock, Meghan suspected it was a matter of time before he succumbed to either. “She paid for our rent. Matt wanted more money. He said he deserved more money after the job. Gram took care of rent for three months, but that wasn’t good enough for him.”

Norman sobbed. His eyes looked beyond Meghan. He saw his grandmother, the specter of the woman watching him accusingly.

“He went to talk to her. That’s what he told me. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

“Okay,” Meghan said. She put her hand on his arm. “When did he talk to her?”

“He went to her house on Friday before she left for bingo.”

“Okay.” Meghan had it, the window. The timeframe when they suspected Hilma died.

“Matt came back to the house. He said she was square with it. He showed me Gram paid him $1000 for the work. I thought that was too much.” Norman turned his head, rolling his head on the ground, shaking his head while he talked. “I didn’t want Gram to pay that much. I wanted to talk to her. Matt said she went to bingo. He wanted to buy us booze. He made a call.”

“Okay,” Meghan said. “So, when did you find out about your grandmother?”

He swallowed. His head stopped shaking. Eyes closed, Norman answered. “I didn’t know until I saw auntie. Someone said Gram died. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t know. Matt did it. He hit her with the hammer. I didn’t know about the money until after Sunday.

“Matt promised to share all the money. Gram had so much money. So much,” he mumbled.

Meghan wanted to shake him, force him to continue with the confession.

“He said they wouldn’t know about the money after the fire. He wanted us to all promise to keep it quiet. He burned down Gram’s house. He said the cops wouldn’t know what happened. He said you wouldn’t know about the money. So much money,” he whispered. “I didn’t want the money. Christine didn’t want the money. When she threatened to tell you about it, Matt hit her. He kept hitting her. We drank a lot.

At a point when she thought he’d continue, Norman didn’t speak again, and she thought he died. Meghan took off her glove and pressed her fingers against his throat, feeling for a bounding pulse. His clammy skin yielded a weak thumping in his artery.

Lester had a small fire going. It