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    A Fowl Way
    A Fowl Way
    A Fowl Way
    Ebook102 pages1 hour

    A Fowl Way

    By R. Waid Dillon

    ()

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    About this ebook

    He was the last person acquitted by way of temporary insanity in the state of Indiana. He was never the same after that. Bullet was sitting next to Woody when an acquaintance asked him about the murder.

    Do you regret anything? the man asked.

    The only thing I regret, Woody replied, is that he was cremated He paused. Because that meant I could not piss on his grave. A rough life had turned Woody into a cold, troubled soul.

    The sweat began to roll down his forehead as his heart jumped even faster. The police officers took another small step. Bullet felt as if he were going to have a coronary. He was shaking tremendously. The sweat became so profuse that it burned his eyes.

    He could smell her cheap perfume, strong and soapy, as he analyzed her. The thirty something was petite and cute. They all sat and opened bottles of beer and began to chat.

    As far as everyone knew, Bullet and Woody were cold-blooded cop killers.

    * * *
    Everyone has a book in them. Whether it is what you are an expert at, passionate about or your special experience to share.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateDec 16, 2010
    ISBN9781456700256
    A Fowl Way
    Author

    R. Waid Dillon

    R. WAID DILLON is an outdoor enthusiast who wrote A Fowl Way mostly during downtime while in the elements. This story is a fictional manipulation of many real-life adventures.

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      Book preview

      A Fowl Way - R. Waid Dillon

      Contents

      INCARCERATED

      DAY TWO

      DAY THREE

      DAY FOUR

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Pow! The Northern Mallard hit a small sandbar with a thud as it fell.

      Nice shot, Woody, said Bullet.

      Splash! Cat, the muscular black Lab, hit the shallow water hard in a half run, half swim in furious pursuit of the fallen duck. He quickly found his way to the prey. The fowl hung limp in Cat’s muscular jaws as he made his sixth retrieve of the afternoon. He stopped and shook off water as he made in back into the well-camouflaged shore blind. Bullet and Woody both backed away, trying to avoid the wet spray. Although the cool temperature was dropping even further as darkness neared, it didn’t seem to affect the excited dog one bit. He dropped the duck, staring at the two hunters. His tail didn’t miss a beat.

      The sun was disappearing quickly over the horizon as the two brothers stood at the edge of their slough and then exited the blind.

      Not a bad hunt, said Michael, better known as Woody. Let’s call it a day, Bullet.

      Bullet (proper name Russell) had inherited his nickname from many instances of bullheaded actions.

      What’s up for tomorrow? Bullet asked Woody.

      I know its Saturday, Woody answered, but I’m going to do some work on my Harley in the morning and put it away for the winter.

      Hmmm, Bullet said as he thought for a moment. I think I’ll fart around in the woods with the dog in the morning. Maybe I’ll see a squirrel or something … do a little deer scouting. See ya for breakfast around 9:00 a.m.?

      Sure, said Woody.

      Wanna clean these birds and have a couple of beers?

      I’m game, Woody said with a smile. No pun intended, he continued with a chuckle.

      They headed for their farmhouse as the beautiful sunset finished resting on the western skyline in central Indiana. Cat swaggered just behind, tail wagging feverishly, as usual.

      By the time they finished the quarter-mile walk back to their house, darkness had initiated several solar lights to brighten the front of their house. The two brothers had refinished the house. The thirty-year-old Cape Cod with cathedral ceilings had been updated with stone and brown cedar panels on the outside. They entered the back door.

      Not tonight, Bullet said as he denied Cat access to the house. The dog’s tail was a deadly weapon, and Bullet was tired of picking up the slain cans and glasses.

      Killian’s? Woody offered.

      Sure.

      Woody opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. The contents of their refrigerator were typical of a man’s house: mostly beer and ketchup.

      Bullet gazed at one of the many pictures held by magnets as Woody closed the fridge door. The picture included two young men surrounded by a scenic view of pine trees and mountains.

      What do you think the kids are doing? Bullet asked. Probably chasing Wyoming pussy. They are too young to hunt constantly, like us, Woody concluded.

      Bullet smiled. Don’t women hunting count as a hunt?

      Woody nodded and raised his bottle in a toast. To the hunt. Bullet and Woody had a grown child apiece; the cousins lived together in Wyoming.

      Bullet threw a couple of logs into the fireplace, which quickly caught fire with the aid of some lighter fluid.

      Tryin’ to burn the place down? Woody said as he sat in his favorite recliner and lit his cigarette. The fireplace had also been one of their improvements; Woody was a bricklayer by trade. The inside had all been painted white. The brothers had knocked down a couple of walls for a more open concept. A good portion of the wall space had taxidermy mounts on it.

      After two beers apiece, Bullet could see that Woody would be asleep shortly. His eyes were heavy. Bullet went outside and secured Cat in his kennel, attached to the nearby garage.

      See you tomorrow, Buddy, Bullet said to Cat as the dog stared back with sad eyes.

      Woody was already asleep when Bullet returned. He had the audacity to accuse me of burning the place down, Bullet thought to himself as he removed the smoldering cigarette from Woody’s hand and put it out. He covered his brother with a nearby blanket and started toward his upstairs bed.

      As made his ascent up, he thought of all the work he and his brother had done on the place. The upstairs had been left alone for the most part. It contained both of their bedrooms, and a dormer window provided a rear view of their property. The only other room upstairs was a bedroom.

      He crawled under his covers, set his alarm, and said a small prayer. He was tired and knew sleep would be upon him soon. His prayer had included a wish for peace for him and his brother. That made him think of the journey that had brought the two middle-aged, divorced bachelors to their current secluded serenity. His eyes grew heavy.

      Crack, crack, crack! The gavel banged hard against the dark walnut desk.

      Order, order! Judge Oswender demanded. The gray-haired, balding judge almost lost his reading glasses as he half stood, trying to regain control of his court. The not guilty verdict had made the defendant’s family jubilant while the prosecutor and related victim’s family sulked.

      Michael Roger Bell , it is with great despair that I grant you freedom, Judge Oswender said intensely as he stared Woody down in front of the stand. Woody stared back. You have the coldest blue eyes I have ever seen, the judge continued.

      First, to the court, and these jurors, Woody said, thank you for setting me rightfully free. Woody looked Oswender in the eye. Second, I’d do it all again, you—

      The judge started to—

      An an an an! Bullet’s alarm rang out. It startled him a bit as he came out of a deep dream from twenty years before.

      It’s amazing how you can actually remember a dream when you are awakened suddenly, he thought to himself as he raised his head slowly. In the dream, Bullet had a young man in the courtroom at the conclusion of Woody’s murder trial.

      Bullet blinked at the bold red numbers in the dark. 5:20 a.m. Should I get up? He thought as he turned his head away from the clock and back to the pillow. He curled up a bit with the pillows. The bed felt warm and cozy.

      At least I’m not leaving a beautiful woman to face the cold morning, he thought as he reluctantly removed the covers and climbed out of bed. On many past mornings, the warm bed and female companionship had won out over a hunt.

      Bullet turned on a lamp and thus started his predawn morning. He put on a pair of long underwear and a T-shirt and headed to the bathroom. After relieving himself of the previous night’s beverages, he quickly brushed his teeth. He returned to the bedroom to add a bit more clothing, and then moved over to his gun safe. Grabbing a key from a nearby cup on his dresser, he unlocked the safe. Bullet pulled his favorite shotgun from the safe and headed over to the stairs. He tried to be quiet as not to disturb his brother’s sleep. Woody did not appear to have moved from his resting place. He was snoring like a freight train—As usual, Bullet thought. He passed his brother on his way to the kitchen door. After leaning his shotgun near the door, Bullet reached for the nearby coffee pot

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