Sinclair sat down at his desk, the photocopy of Jericho’s map atop a bulging folder of supplementary material including everything from polaroids of previous cattle mutilations on the Strong ranch to newspaper clippings of incidents as far west as California and east as Missouri.  Each photograph bore the date, location, and context on the back in chicken-scratch scrawl.  The same scrawl in red pen marked the map, recent mutilations circled for clarity.  Jericho even numbered the dots and connected them to photos included in the collection in a legend on the back.  Sinclair admired his attention to detail as he copied the notes from the map into his notes on the case.  Jericho’s phone number was written in the margin as an afterthought followed by a “call w ?”.  He compared photos of carcasses from across the country to his own photos of the dead steer.  The MO remained the same, with minor variations from case to case.  Carcasses from previous years showed signs of decay and staggered cuts where the knife caught bone.  In some photos, Sinclair recognized insect activity and canine scavenging.  When he found a photo that matched the steer on the Strong ranch, he set it aside.

“Still on the cows?” Deputy Gaye leaned in the doorway, “Leave ‘em for a bit.  I got a domestic outside town.  Shots fired, no one’s hurt.”

Sinclair noticed the bags under her eyes and caught the whiff of nicotine clinging to her uniform.  He left the stack of photographs on his desk and followed deputy Gaye out to her cruiser without protest and climbed obediently into the passenger seat.  The road crackled beneath the tires as she began to drive.

“So,” Sinclair finally said, “where are we headed?”

“Going to see some problem folks.  I figured I should get you introduced.  We get at least two calls from them every month,” Gaye explained.  She rolled down the window and struggled to light a cigarette with one hand.

Sinclair pulled out his pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter, offering the flame to Deputy Gaye and then lighting up himself.  The wind whipped through the car as they both smoked.  His mind went to the domestic disturbance file left on Foreman’s desk.  “Alice and Brian Decker?”

Gaye nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line.  “That’s them.”  She hung her hand out the window, letting the cigarette smoke flow behind the cruiser.

“No kids I saw, can we get the girl out of there?” Sinclair asked, knowing the answer.

She shook her head.  “Talks her into coming back.  Don’t think she’s got any family.”

“Damn shame.”  Sinclair looked out the window at the passing trees.  He took a drag.

“Been three years, we’re keeping an eye on her,” Deputy Gaye assured him, her voice softer, “Brian knows what’s coming to him if she ain’t seen.”

Sinclair hummed, mind slowly turning over the case file.  “You intend to do something about it.”

Deputy Gaye grunted through a drag that killed her cigarette and smashed the butt into the ashtray on the center console.  Sinclair finished his and stubbed it out the same, the lingering nicotine smoke clinging to the car seats despite the hot wind rushing in through the windows.

They pulled up to the little house, wreathed in trees with the nearest neighbor barely visible between the trunks.  A plump woman holding a hunting rifle met them in the driveway.  She walked up to the driver’s side window and tapped on it, muzzle of the gun turned to the ground.  Sinclair tensed up, hand hovering over the handle of the door.

Gaye rolled the window down.  “How’s it, Tiff?”

“I got her in my living room.  Don’t know where that bastard went,” Tiff scoffed, “hope he fell down a mineshaft.  Ran into the woods shootin’ at nothing.”

Gaye jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at Sinclair.  “This is Sinclair Vitale, new sheriff.”

“Damn shame they didn’t promote you, Erin,” Tiff said, “I’d rather have someone I know as sheriff, rather than an outsider--no offense, Vitale.”

“He’s Mattie’s nephew,” Gaye turned to him, raising an eyebrow, “that right?”

Sinclair nodded, taking his hand off the door.  “That’s right, and no offense taken.  Seems like Deputy Gaye is going to run things whether I like it or not.”

Tiff assessed him, her brows creased heavily as she looked him over.  “You ain’t as much fun as Mattie,” she huffed, “Come on, Erin, she’s waitin’ for you.”

Neither waited for Sinclair as they entered Tiff’s cabin.  Inside the house, a wiry blonde woman with sunken eyes curled into a leather chair.  She cradled a mug of coffee in her large hands and stared blankly into the cold hearth.  Sinclair lingered by the door while deputy Gaye approached her.

Gaye gently placed her hand on Alice’s arm and crouched down in front of the chair.  She spoke low and gentle, too quiet for Sinclair to hear.  Alice answered in tiny nods and shakes of her head.  She stared at the ground while Deputy Gaye talked to her, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Can I get you some coffee, Sheriff?” Tiff asked.

Sinclair jumped.  He kept his voice low.  “Oh, no thanks.  Step outside with me?  I get the feeling you can fill me in on the details.”

Tiff frowned, but left the house when Sinclair opened the door for her.

“I don’t want to upset her,” Sinclair explained, “she seems distraught enough.”

“Get to it, then,” Tiff demanded.

Sinclair cleared his throat and took out his notepad. “I read the file Foreman compiled on these two.  Been going on since they moved in?”

Tiff pulled a silver cigarette box out of her pocket.  She offered one to Sinclair when she noticed his hungry gaze, but he refused them and produced his own from his inside coat pocket instead.  Tiff lit them both.

“I been here for ten years,” Tiff said, her voice rough through the nicotine, “Brian started up ‘bout… a month after they moved in.  First showed up at their door with blue ‘round the two month mark, and he quieted down for a while.  I think he gets antsy in the summer, I gotta walk my ass over there at least once a week in July it seems.”

“Do you know how many firearms are in the residence?” Sinclair asked.

“‘Residence’,” Tiff rolled her eyes, “got three I’ve seen.  Some kinda big hand gun, hunting rifle, and some antique pirate thing.  Blunderbuss.  Don’t think it fires.”

“Which one was he using this time?” Sinclair asked.

“Handgun,” Tiff grunted.

Sinclair nodded.  “When did you hear the shots today?”

“An hour back,” Tiff said, “I heard the screaming first, then the shots.”

“Who was screaming?”  Sinclair asked.

“Brian.  Screaming like an animal, then he fired -- oh, I dunno, eight shots -- then stopped.  To reload.  Emptied the whole damn clip into his rafters.  Heard Alice screaming bloody murder and I ran over with blue, figured I’d kill the bastard and take the time.”  Tiff grit her teeth.

Sinclair chewed the inside of his cheek.  “I didn’t hear that.  What else?”

Tiff guffawed, sharp and short, then her face went serious again.  “I saw him run off into the woods, talking gibberish at the top of his lungs.  He shot off three more, then nothing except screaming.  Howling, more like.  Kinda like a coyote, or a dog tryna talk.  Could hear him back there for a good twenty minutes going hoarse.”

“And Alice?” Sinclair nodded toward the door, speaking around the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I went in and got her as soon as he ran off,” Tiff sighed and stubbed her half cigarette out in an ashtray.  Sinclair watched her, “Trying to quit,” she explained, “now, Sheriff, I know Erin already told me there’s not much you can do for the poor thing, but do you think you’d be able to keep her out of trouble?  I can’t stand the fights.  Her house is like an old speakeasy for all the bullet holes.  Maybe Mattie’s cabin got an extra room she could crash in for a bit?  I doubt Brian’s stupid enough to storm the sheriff’s house.”

“Listen, Tiff, if Brian doesn’t come back by tonight I’m going to mark the house as a crime scene.  In the meantime, I’m going to set Alice up in protective custody -- now, that’s either at the station or in a motel.  I’ll keep an eye on her myself if I have to,” Sinclair gave her a smile, “as for Mattie’s cabin, I don’t think his guest room decor is going to do much for her mental state.”

“Sure, Sheriff.  I’m holding you to it,” Tiff elbowed him as she opened the front door, “if Alice ends up back in that house, I’ll be taking her in myself.”

Sinclair dropped the friendly face.  “I understand.  Let Deputy Gaye know I’m going to look for Brian.”

Tiff pointed back into the woods.  “He went in that direction.  Make yourself useful, Sheriff, and don’t get lost.  Nothing but ponderosa and pinyon for miles.”

Tiff closed the door behind her.  He stashed his notepad in his jacket and dropped the butt of his spent cigarette into the ashtray.  He looked towards the old forest that stretched out behind the houses along the road.  The hill behind the row of widely-spaced mountain getaways rose on a shallow slope, cutting off any view of the top of the hill.  The forest appeared endless.  He retraced his steps through the pines back to the Decker house.

Sinclair took the staircase up to the wrap-around porch where the front door stood ajar, the screen door yanked from its hinges.  He let himself in, making note of the dusty footprints on the welcome mat.  The shoe looked like a woman’s size 8 or 9, Tiff’s footprints.  The house greeted him with an unholy mess.  A flame sputtered on the gas stove and the pot of noodles boiled over onto the linoleum floor.  He picked his way around the mess and shut off the stove.

He tiptoed around broken glass and ceramic.  A signed baseball sat on the floor amongst the shards of its case.  Eight bullet holes pockmarked the ceiling and walls.  A glassful of dark soda stained the living room carpet, the cup laying on its side on the coffee table and dripping down its oaken leg.  

Instead of checking the rest of the house, Sinclair followed Brian’s flight into the woods.  He left enough of a trail -- broken sticks, spots of blood in the duff after he hit his head on a low-hanging branch.  Sinclair found a handgun discarded in a patch of grass thirty feet into the trees.  No birds or cicadas sang in his company.  Every so often, he stopped and listened for movement.

“Vitale!” Deputy Gaye’s voice carried through the forest and drew Sinclair back to the road.  He stumbled out to meet her standing in the yard, her arms crossed across her chest.

Sinclair checked his hair and adjusted his jacket.  “Hey, deputy, what did Alice say?”

Gaye sighed.  “She’s shaken up.  I asked her if she needed a ride down to the hospital, but she turned me down.  She’ll be staying with Tiff tonight.  Any sign of Brian?”

Sinclair showed her the gun, handled carefully with a plastic bag so he didn’t mar any fingerprints.  “I found this in the grass back in the forest, some blood, looks like he hurt himself on his way into the brush.  What’s back there?”

“Nothing for miles.”

“We oughta get a search party going for him, then.  Should we get the county or state patrol on the line?  Not sure if we can do it with just three officers.” Sinclair glanced at the ground, then back at Deputy Gaye.

Deputy Gaye shifted.  “Your call, not mine.”

Sinclair blew out a breath.  “Okay.  I’ll call the state patrol and… the forest service?  I guess they’d help out, being so close to federal land.”

Deputy Gaye offered him nothing.

“Let’s get back to the station.  You got Alice’s statement?”

She nodded.

Sinclair got into the passenger side of the patrol car with Deputy Gaye.  Sinclair felt himself craving a cigarette.  He wondered if he might be able to sneak in a smoke before making any calls.