Sinclair wedged the claw hammer beneath the frame of the orgy painting, but the nails embedded in the wall studs refused to give way.   He finally wrenched the six-inch nails free of the wall as the doorbell rang with a shattering gong.  That doorbell would have to go, Sinclair thought as he tromped down the stairs.  He grabbed a cardigan off the coat rack by the door and pulled it on to cover the tattoos winding down his bare arms.

A woman stood at the door, her arms crossed and shoulders forming a bony wall separating Sinclair from the overgrown yard.  She wore a deputy’s uniform and broad-brimmed hat that cast her piercing eyes in shadow.

“Vitale?” She demanded.

Sinclair quickly tried to smooth his unstyled hair back.  “Yes ma’am?”

The woman extended her hand to him.  “Deputy Erin Gaye, it’s a pleasure sheriff.”

Sinclair shook her hand, his fingers crushed in her grip.  “A pleasure, deputy,” he smiled through the pain, “You the welcoming party?  I’m not expected for a couple days.”

She pursed her lips.  “Sheriff, I’m afraid we’re gonna need you earlier than expected.”

“What?”  Sinclair tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, “You got an emergency?  Someone die?”

“Not a question of whether or not I can handle it on my own, sheriff,” the deputy’s tone took on a seething quality, “it’s a matter of keeping you in the loop for an ongoing situation.”

“Ongoing,” Sinclair repeated, running a hand through his hair, “you need me now?”

“Yep.” She leaned on the door jam

Sinclair looked over his shoulder at the plastic-draped living room furniture.  “Come in.  I gotta get dressed, be down in a minute.”

She passed the threshold and made a face like she’d stepped in dog poop.  She said nothing to Sinclair, and sat down on the couch in the living room.  The plastic crinkled underneath her as she shifted to pick up a Playboy magazine off the coffee table.  

Sinclair’s face burned with embarrassment when he saw what she was reading.  “Sorry about the state of the place, deputy.  Haven’t had a chance to clear out uncle Mattie’s stuff yet.”

Deputy Gaye shrugged, flipping through the magazine.  Sinclair watched her study the centerfold in bashful silence until she spoke again.  “Go get dressed, Sheriff.”

Sinclair fled upstairs at her reprimand.  He dug through his bags for a clean shirt and donned yesterday’s suit hanging on the back of the bathroom door.  Once he was dressed, he slipped into the bathroom to slick his hair down, then checked himself from all angles.  Satisfied, he went back downstairs to get his shoes and hit a wall of annoyance radiating from Deputy Gaye.

“Let’s go, sheriff.”  She didn’t wait for him to follow, just left the house with the door ajar.  

Sinclair heard the driver’s side door of the patrol car slam when he turned to lock the front door behind him.  The car roared to life and Sinclair jogged toward it.  As soon as he sat in the passenger seat, the deputy swung the car around and veered down the dirt road.  Sinclair struggled to keep himself upright, groping for the seatbelt behind him and strapping himself in as Deputy Gaye took the dirt road at an irresponsible speed.

A few miles of state highway and an unsettlingly fast and bumpy drive on forest service roads later, Sinclair stumbled back onto solid ground at the edge of a meadow.  Deputy Gaye led the way off the road to where a rancher and another man in an officer’s uniform stood around looking at something on the ground.  Sinclair’s stomach knotted up, expecting a corpse. He followed Deputy Gaye’s determined march and tried his best to look dignified.  The cop waved them over, and Sinclair noticed how young the man looked.  By his stance and bearing, he could almost feel the alpha energy radiating off of him.  

The young man extended his hand to Sinclair as he approached and shook it firmly.  “Sheriff Vitale, fresh off homicide from Chicago,” he nodded at the rancher across from him who had taken his hat off to scratch the back of his balding head, “Walter Strong, this is his animal.  Third one this week.”

“And you are?” Sinclair asked, stomach easing.

“Tanner Morin,” the young man said.  Now that Sinclair was closer he could tell the kid couldn’t be more than 20.  

Sinclair crouched down to examine the corpse of a cow sat in the grass, fresh enough that it smelled more of a butcher shop than carrion.  A smooth incision ran the length of its trunk from just below its jaw down to its loins, clean of blood.  It had no organs to speak of, removed cleanly at the anus and mouth.  Eyeless sockets stared up at the unforgiving sky and its open mouth lacked a tongue or teeth.  Overall, the cleanest kill Sinclair had seen.

“Ain’t in the city anymore, eh sheriff?” Tanner joked.  He leaned back on his heels.

Sinclair ignored him and addressed Walter Strong directly.  “Deputy said this was the third one?”

Walter nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking away from the butchered cow.  “Third this year.  Usually only get one of these.”

“This happened before?” Sinclair asked, stepping back from the carcass as though it might start walking.

Walter fanned himself with his hat.  “Yeah, sometimes.  Not every year.  Happens to other folks too, just UFO freaks.”

Sinclair breathed out, glancing up at the cloudless sky.  He wondered how the grass didn’t scorch beneath the heat of the sun.  Mode of death aside, the thought that this was a hoax comforted him.  He considered scenarios.  Someone leads a cow away from the herd, bleeds it, butchers it, tosses the bloodless carcass in the trunk and puts it somewhere it shouldn’t be.  No blood, no organs, clean cuts.  Do it right, and they’d remove evidence of killing the animal.  It was even dropped close to a forest service road.  Made sense.

“Sheriff?” Walter asked.

Sinclair looked up, emerging from his thoughts.  “Where did you find the other two?” He produced a notepad and pen from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

Walter chewed on the inside of his cheek and glanced over at the ridge that rose at the edge of the meadow, gesturing vaguely with his hand.  “Both of ‘em were over the ridge of the far pasture.  Not this one, far from the roads.”

Sinclair nodded.  The animal was moved, killed in the first location to disguise any struggle or damage.  On the right track.  “Who found them?”

“Farmhand for the first two, one of those alien folks for the third,” Walter said.

Sinclair caught Tanner reaching to prod the corpse with his foot.  “Don’t touch that,” he warned, “I’d like to take a look around before we move anything.”

Tanner stepped back.  “Sorry sheriff.  Want me to grab the crime scene tape?”

Sinclair shook his head.  “Nah, don’t think we need all that fuss for beef, unless you wanna tape off the local butcher while we’re at it?”

Tanner chuckled.  Alpha or not, Tanner didn’t have the big-city ego Sinclair was accustomed to.  He stepped into his element, turning to Walter.  “Any roads going to the far pasture?”

“No sir,” Walter said, looking uncomfortable.

Sinclair chewed on his lip.  “How close is the nearest road to the far pasture?”

“I dunno, maybe two or three miles?” Walter said.

“Deputy, do you know who called it in?” Sinclair asked.

“Local crazy,” Deputy Gaye told him, “came and told Eden himself once he got down the mountain this morning.”

“Did you get a name?” He prepared to write it down on the notepad.

“Jericho.  You can read his report, he’s not a suspect.” Deputy Gaye lit a cigarette.  

The smell made Sinclair ache for the Lucky Strikes in his pocket.  In fact, that would help him think.  He pulled out his pack and lit one up, the smoke filling his lungs.  The blood rushed into his fingers.

“Was anyone with the cows when it happened?” Sinclair directed his questions at Walter again, who looked down sadly at the dead steer.

Walter shook his head slowly.  “No, none of my farmhands.  This ain’t even one of my grazing plots, those are mostly over the ridge.”

Sinclair nodded and bit his lip.  “Does the far pasture have a fence?”

“No, but the herd doesn’t go over the ridge.  Never has, not in ten years.” Walter said.

“You said this happened before?” Sinclair felt a thought nagging at his mind, but couldn’t grab it.

“Yeah, well --” Walter spat into the grass, “not like this.  Usually one a year, but it’s a young one.  A calf, a yearling, something like that.  Usually sick, had an inkling wouldn’t make it.  Never a bigun.”

Sinclair chewed on Walter’s words for a minute.  “Deputy, do you have a camera?”

“Yeah.  Tanner, go get the camera,” she commanded, “I’ll go take a look over the ridge.  You’re staying here to take a closer look at the cow?”

Sinclair nodded in the affirmative and turned back to Walter.  “Can I get the names of your farmhands?  I’d like to talk to them later, see if they noticed anything strange.”

Walter took his notepad from him with a mumbled thanks and wrote down four names for Sinclair.  “ Two are out to pasture to check on the rest, but the other two are around.  Names’ Arnold Carter and Jose Gonzalez.  They live up in the boarding house on my property.  Y’can come visit and talk to ‘em all at once, or I’ll send ‘em into town.”

“I’d like to take a look around your ranch if you don’t mind, so I can just catch them there.  You can send the other two down when they get back.” Sinclair made a note of the names.

“What for?” Walter asked, “they won’t know nothin’ the other two don’t.”

Sinclair made another note about the injuries on the dead cow and glanced at Tanner jogging back down the hill with the camera.  “I don’t expect much, just want to make sure all’s good at the barn.  If someone is targeting you, I wouldn’t want them going after your ranch.  Just making sure none of them have seen anything weird.”

“I doubt it’s a ‘somebody’ sheriff, but you’re welcome to take a look around if it makes you feel better.” Walter turned and began walking towards the ridge.

Sinclair looked up from the notepad.  “What do you mean by that?”

Walter didn’t answer him and kept walking towards the forest that crept up the ridge.  Tanner rejoined him and handed him the camera.

“Thank you, Tanner,” he turned the camera on and took off the lens cap, “go help the deputy scout the field over the ridge.  I’ve got it from here.”

“Sure thing, sheriff,” Tanner said.  At least the kid took orders without issue.  He jogged in Walter’s direction and joined him in his walk up the ridge and over.

Sinclair knelt down and began the process of photographing the carcass.  He thanked his lucky stars it didn’t stink yet, and wondered if Walter would leave it to rot.  A lot of good meat on the animal.  He snapped a photo of the inside of the beast’s mutilated mouth.  By the time he flipped the corpse over to look at the other side, the camera was almost out of film.  He took the last couple of photos of the impression it left in the grass, then made for the ridge to join Deputy Gaye, Tanner, and Walter.