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dead!”
    Stan hit Gus again, but this time the sound of bat hitting body was different. Instead of a dull thud it was the wet squish of blood, which splattered all over Stan’s stunned face.
    Stan dropped the stick, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he hit the ground hard.
    From the kitchen window, Tommy, with another cupcake in hand, saw the cop in their backyard frantically running back and forth between Mrs. Stitch and Stan. He really didn’t care why the cop was slapping and shaking them both. Tommy just hoped, with all his heart, that the cop kept doing it for as long as possible.
    In the living room, Dale sat on the couch with perfect posture, a huge forced smile on his face, and every muscle in his body tightly clenched.
    Truax eyed Dale’s neck veins, which looked ready to burst.
    “Sir, you need to relax.”
    “Who says I’m not relaxed?”
    Dale looked around the room to see if there was anyone in the room saying he wasn’t relaxed. He even looked behind him, even though there was nothing but a wall there.
    “Do I not look relaxed? Because I feel relaxed. I feel grrrrrreat!”
    Ainsworth looked over at Truax, who just shrugged.
    Andie poked her head in.
    “Do you officers need anything? Coffee? Cupcake? Turkey leg?”
    “Um, no, we’re fine, thank you.”
    “Suit yourselves. Dale, honey, should I call the office and let them know you’ll be late?”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Dale said. But when he looked over at Ainsworth and Truax he saw them looking at Andie and nodding their heads emphatically.
    “On second thought,” Dale reconsidered, “maybe you should call.”
    “Alrighty then,” Andie said as she popped her head back in the kitchen.
    “Where do you work, Dale?” Ainsworth asked.
    “Ferdue Poultry. I work in the marketing department.”
    “Would you describe yourself as a chicken man, Dale?” Truax asked.
    “Um, well, we sell turkey products too.”
    “Oh I know you do. You Ferdue folks sell a mighty fine gobbler. I’ve eaten them many, many times. But you yourself prefer the chickens, right? Turkeys are more like second-class citizens to you chicken men. I know how it is. Turkeys are sort of the retarded younger brother of the poultry industry. Isn’t that right, Dale?”
    “I don’t get it. What the hell are you talking about?”
    Ainsworth sniffed. “The man says he doesn’t get it, Truax. Maybe you need to paint a better picture for him.”
    “Certainly.”
    Truax reached into his pocket and pulled out his custom-made turkey mouth call. Handmade by local legend Steve “Strut Buster” O’Leary, the call was widely considered one of the best ever made. It was even featured on the cover of Shooting Times magazine a number of years ago. Truax never went anywhere without it.
    Having no experience hunting turkeys, Dale saw Truax pull out what he thought was a mouth guard, the kind that boxers wear. His suspicion was confirmed when Truax put the thing in his mouth.
    Dale grabbed a pillow and held it out like a shield. “Police brutality! Police brutality!”
    “Calm down, Alden. No one’s going to touch you. Go ahead, Truax.”
    Truax started out with a few crisp, almost musical yelps that would tell Dale—if he were a young, male, virile turkey—that there was a fine-looking’ hen nearby and she was, you know, just takin’ it easy.
    Ainsworth nodded his head in appreciation. He closed his eyes and could practically smell the fresh, clean aroma of the early morning woods. He even took in a big sniff of living room air.
    Dale looked back and forth between these two men. One was playing some kind of weird musical instrument, and the other was sucking air up his nose like some kind of nutcase. These guys are going to kill me and eat my brains .
    Truax abruptly changed the tone of his call, abandoning the yelps and going for raspy clucks and cackles. The sounds of a turkey in great distress, engaged in an epic struggle for her life. Truax built the