Cross Country Murder Song Read Online Free PDF

forecast was becoming increasingly gloomy.
    When he turned fourteen his father got him a job at a high-end resort upstate, just over the Canadian border. Weekend Warriors (as he and his friends called them, barely suppressing their smiles) would fly in to the private airstrip and work on their golf swing or swim in the lake. Some would take off into the woods with a guide to hunt deer. They’d come back at night and he’d see them at the bar as he was collecting glasses and clearing ashtrays, they’d be drunk and fiercely loud as if they’d conquered the wilderness single-handedly. They’d order drinks for everyone and recount how they’d stalked the doe into the undergrowth, while their guide sat behind them rolling his eyes theatrically; he’d seen the same scenario a dozen times.
    It’s out there, the hunter would say, with a wave of his flabby arm, his garish bracelet rattling, indicating where the carcass was hanging. I felt alive, you know, he’d tell anyone who was listening. It was odd, he thought, how they always felt so alive amongst death. They’d usually talk themselves into a stupor and would have to be helped to their cabin at the end of the night. Come on, killer, he’d say to them as he pulled their arm over his shoulder and walked them out. He’d see them out on the golf course the next morning, absurdly dressed in checks like a cartoon approximation of a golfer and they’d wave to him as he brought towels and drinks to the teeing green, and mime drinking and the terrible hangover they were dealing with. They’d tell him he was a good guy, one of the best, and then they’d leave a generous tip on his tray and wave him away as they turned to size up their shot that would almost always veer off into the woods either side of the fairway. You’d sometimes see deer there, but not when any of those guys were playing. They knew to stay away then.
    He spent three happy summers in this elite backwoods and whenever he returned after the break there would always be stories of late-season hunters lost out in the woods or of the police raiding the dope farmers who dotted the heavily wooded hills; everyone knew they were out there, but they were so deep in the firs that the authorities rarely bothered them. Occasionally, some inexperienced campers (the ones who thought the great outdoors was their friend) were attacked by bears, but mostly the bears wanted to be left alone unless they were hungry, though that was only in the winter and it was best to be off the mountain then anyway .
    The traffic up ahead was slowing down, the third time it had bottlenecked that day. He turned his radio off with a stab of his finger and lowered his window, the traffic looked like it was backed up for miles. He slowed to a halt and put his head out, craning his neck, but all he could see was taillights and the backs of other heads, dozens of people unified in their stupidity, looking for something when there was nothing to see. He took a can of beer from under the seat next to him and drank heavily from it. His one concession was to keep the label hidden with his gloved hand. The kid in the car in front turned to look at him and he held the kid’s gaze evenly until the boy pretended to notice something crawling on his forearm and quickly turned his attention there. Up ahead someone started leaning on their horn and then more and more motorists joined in until the air was a tangled, cacophonous mess.
    Great, he muttered to himself, then leant heavily on his horn too, gulping at his beer as the noise built and built.

Song 2: Deer
    Bears, he said, lifting the peak of his cap with his thumb and tipping it back on his head, need your respect.
    This time of year, he indicated the banks of muddy snow bordering the road with a wave of the petrol pump he was holding, they’re foraging for food, they get – he paused – quite restless. He placed the fuel pump back into