Edmund Graves's Arc

Chapter 4 of 8

Edmund stood over the body in the front room and made himself think. The hammer was tacky in his hand. His shirt was wet down the front. The pack was still on the porch. The puppy was still in the yard, barking. Any car on the road would hear it. Any neighbor bringing eggs or a borrowed saw would find him red to the elbows before he could set the door. He had minutes. Maybe less. He worked in order. He set the hammer on a sheet of newspaper and went out and grabbed the pack off the boards and pulled the puppy in by the scruff. He shut the door and threw the bolt. He stripped his shirt and pants in the kitchen and stuffed them in a feed sack with the rag and the newspaper and the hammer. He scrubbed his arms and neck at the sink until the water ran clear. He pulled a clean shirt from the line by the stove. Then he dragged the body by the boots into the back room and shut that door too. He mopped the front room twice. He carried the sack out to the burn barrel behind the little log house and doused it with kerosene and dropped a match. The flames caught fast. He watched the shirt curl black. He watched the hammer's handle burn down to the head. He listened for engines on the road and heard none. When he turned back toward the porch, the wolf was there. It stood at the edge of the yard where the gravel met the grass, broad through the chest, yellow eyes steady on him. It had not made a sound. The puppy whined once inside the house and went quiet. Edmund did not move. The wolf looked at him, then at the barrel, then at him again. It knew what the fire was for. Edmund understood that the way a man understands weather. After a long moment the wolf turned and walked back toward the trees without hurry. Edmund stood in the yard with the kerosene can in his hand and his breath even. No neighbor had come. No car had passed. The clothes were ash. The body was behind a bolted door. He had gotten away with it. He had thirteen. And something in the woods had counted them with him.