The Man Who Killed Read Online Free PDF Page A

buttoned coat but ready. Ready.
    From the corner of the shack I spied on an old man with wedge and axe working away at a chunk of maple. Behind him a truck: my ticket out. No wires strung away from the shack and that meant no telephone, no chance for anyone to alert authorities. Play it easy with this rustic. Just a ride to the nearest town. As I watched the old man he took out a rag and wiped his leathery face. Gently and so as not to startle him I came out into the open and spoke: “Hey there.”
    He turned to look at me but said nothing.
    â€œBonjour,” I said.
    Naught. He balled the rag up and stuffed it in his overall pouch.
    â€œJe cherche la route à la ville. Looking for the road to town. Savvy?”
    He moved with his axe but only to lean it against the chopping block.
    â€œLost,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right. You mind pointing out the road to town?”
    From the sole word he probably wasn’t French. A Yankee perhaps, or an Indian. There was a slight slur in his speech. For myself, I’d be damned nonplussed to see a stranger in a ruined suit walk out of the bush. This ancient in front of me was pretty nonchalant. It gave me a notion. If he was inured to wanderers in these woods it was because he’d seen them before. Ours wasn’t the first convoy that’d headed south on this route. The Chevrolet parked out back looked new and the man hadn’t paid for it splitting timber. Motioning towards the truck I said: “Maybe you give me a lift, eh? And something to eat. Go on in. I’ll chop that wood. Got any grub?”
    â€œFlapjacks.”
    â€œGood deal. I finish here, we go for a ride.”
    And with that I casually unbuttoned my coat, revealing the weapon. He kept his eyes on mine and I saw a faint flicker. The oldtimer knew. This was an act of will on my part. Had no mind to hurt or kill him, but would do what was needed in order to get out of here, even if it meant manual labour. At last he broke away and moved to the screen door. I followed to verify that he had no shotgun; I didn’t care for the prospect of buckshot in my back. He shuffled through the door to a potbellied stove and started mixing flour, buttermilk, and an egg while I watched. As the man poured out circles of batter on the skillet I went and made short work of the wood and came back with an armful for the grate. The geezer flipped the cakes. I sat at an oilcloth-covered table. He brought me a plate and a cup of coffee and sat down.
    â€œYou hear any fireworks last night?” I asked.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAyah. You have any syrup?”
    The old man reached for a can of molasses and I almost laughed. Here we were in the heart of sugar maple country and all he had was black glue from Jamaica. As I chewed, my backcountry chef sat mute, his black eyes downcast, a beat-down broken figure. I was thoroughly exhausted and didn’t like him nearby while I ate. Strange sensation, cowing someone, making them fear you. Prerogative of the whiteman. This fellow looked at least part Mohawk, last of the braves mayhap.
    â€œWhy don’t you wind up that buggy of yours and I’ll get out of your hair. How’s that sound, grandpa?” I asked.
    With nary a word nor glance he pushed away to put on a blue Mackinaw jacket and a flat cap. I turned the fork around the plate and swilled coffee, yenning for tobacco. Nothing doing until I’d left this wigwam far behind. From outside came the sound of an engine starting. I hurried out to see the codger behind the wheel and climbed in beside him. My devil’s luck. Out of a disaster some advantage. Try not to get shot out here. Let them kill you in town, if they must.
    We turned around and drove along a cracked path, then out onto a gravel road. The country was flat and grey now, treeless farmland of blank fields bordered by long wire fences. Were I alone and walking these parts I’d stand out powerfully. End up dead in a