a ten-point buck. The heavyset redhead drew his knife, preparing to gut the deer.
“Howdy, fellas, looks like you just beat us to him. We’ve spent all morning tracking that big boy for a few—”
The salt block on the ground melted Larry’s smile, and Jacky recalled the lecture about luring deer into the open. His shivers came not from the October winds blowing in off the nearby river, but in the startling transformation in front of him. His six-foot dad seemed like a giant as he stared down the two young hunters who were of equal size, just not equal heart.
“You two are gutless,” Larry said. He then leaned back and talked over his shoulder to explain to his son, though his eyes never le ft the men. “Deer love salt, real hunters hate it. Little punks like these give real hunters a bad name. Baiting a field may be legal, but it ain’t sportin’ . . . it’s just killin’.”
The uncertain younger hunter on the left glanced at his friend as Larry Stone took three methodical steps to his right so that the sun blinded the youths. A savage grin came across Larry’s face as he glared.
“And anybody can kill, can’t they, fellas?”
The hunter still gripping the knife took a slight step forward as he started to say something, but Larry cut him off, elevating his rifle enough to let them know he meant business. Eye contact broke as the hunter looked down to realize the barrel pointed at his belt buc kle. Maybe an inch or two lower.
“Way I see it, you’ve got two bad choices, kid,” Larry said. “Use that blade or try for your rifle.” He paused and sneered. “I’m feeling generous, and I’m giving you a third, one-time-only offer. Get out of here. Scram! ”
It produced the same effect on one as if he’d shouted “boo!” Jacky stifled a laugh as the younger of the two hunters fled for the surrounding brush.
Then Jacky stiffened, realizing the knife-wielder stood his ground. Unlocking eyes with Larry, the scruffy hunter leaned to his right and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. He dropped the knife point-first, and it stuck.
“You’re pretty tough with that rifle, old man. You’re not taking our deer.”
Larry’s sneer turned into a threatening grin.
“Jacky.” The boy didn’t move, and his father spoke again, harsher. “Jacky!”
“Yes sir?”
“Take this,” he said, handing over his rifle.
“Yes sir.”
Larry Stone then began removing his hunting jacket, speaking calmly yet chillingly to his son. “Jacky, take this and go stand over by the trees. This won’t take long.”
“Yes sir.” Jacky’s adrenaline surged as he graspe d the camouflage jacket and stepped back while his father stepped forward. That decided the young hunter. He didn’t want the deer—or his knife—and cut into the woods in the same direction as his friend.
“I’m calling the cops. You’re crazy, mister,” the fleeing hunter shouted as he scrambled out of sight.
“That’s right,” Larry Stone yelled back. “Run! And don’t come back!”
Larry turned and winked to Jacky, then picked up the knife. “C’ mon, son, let’s get to work. We’ve got maybe an hour. The food bank is going to love us.”
Thirty-five years later, Jackson still remembered how easy those two guys had lured their prey with a baited field. What bait might lure Angela’s killer into the open? What bait would be impossible for the murderer to ignore? The answer came in a burst of clarity, he’d mapped out his plans based on it, and he had just voiced it to all of Nashville.
Himself.
He’d put the target squarely on his back.
7
Almost before any of us journalists reacted, Patrick Stone’s car sped around the back of the building, went through the opened gate, turned left, and emerged on the far side of the precinct beside the adjoining railroad tracks. Jackson took a right, drove under the train trestles, and disappeared. The car switch baffled the media. When we learned of the ruse much
Aziz Ansari, Eric Klinenberg