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  “Kyle’s not in here. What the fuck are you playing at?” His father didn’t turn around.

  “He’s here.” Tim kept his voice level, masking the excitement building in his gut, flooding his groin. “He’s hiding.”

  His father’s head moved right to left, scanning the small building: no place to hide save for under the misplaced tarp and it wasn’t big enough for a boy Kyle’s size. He moved forward and pushed at it with the tow of his socked foot. Definitely something underneath, so he bent over and pulled back a corner of the blue plastic. It took almost fifteen seconds for him to fully understand what he saw. When he did, he whirled toward his older son, his face twisted with rage.

  The shovel hit him square in the face before he said a word.

  ***

  Two hours passed before Tim’s mother showed up at the back door, her slight frame silhouetted against the kitchen light.

  “Timmy? What are you doing?”

  Tim paused leaning on the handle of the spade, its tip stuck in the dirt. He would have liked the hole to be deeper, but the damn clay seemed intent on preventing him from digging an adequate grave. It would have to do.

  “Just getting rid of some garbage, Mom.”

  For a long minute, the woman didn’t say anything. Tim held his breath, waiting for her reaction. He didn’t want her to come across the yard and see, didn’t want her to have to go in the hole, too, though part of him wanted to bring her out here, show her what he’d done. What good was there in doing such fine work if he gave no one the opportunity to admire it?

  His mother stood a few seconds, arms crossed in front of her chest, protecting herself against the chilly night, then glanced over her shoulder as if someone inside had called her. She looked back at her son.

  “Well, don’t stay out too long, it’s getting cold.”

  Tim let out his breath but, as she moved away from the door, panic exploded in his chest. Once he covered the hole with dirt, no one would ever see what he did; no one would ever know what he was capable of.

  “Mom?”

  She stopped and came back to the doorway. Even from across the yard, he saw her shiver. He wondered if it was because of the cold or if she sensed something different about her older son, something dangerous and wonderful.

  “What?”

  “Can you come here for a minute? I’ve got something to show you.”

  A few seconds passed as she decided.

  “Let me get my shoes on. I’ll be right there.”

  Both hands resting on the end of the shovel’s handle, Tim set his chin on top of his hands and looked down into the hole. His father’s slack face showed through the dirt, soil clogging his ear and smeared around the ragged edge of his neck where the hack saw had taken it from his body. In the dark, Tim found it easy to imagine his flaccid visage frozen in an expression of surprise, both at what he had done and the fact he was capable of doing it. His eldest son had proven far more gifted than he’d ever thought and he would wear that expression of surprise forever. All the way to Hell.

  Tim smiled.

  ###

  About the Author:

  Bruce Blake lives in a small town on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest cafe to work on his short stories and novels.

  Actually, Chemainus, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Bruce is the father of two and trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts. He spends too much time working a traditional job and not enough time writing but hopes to change all that soon.

  Discover other titles by Bruce Blake at Smashwords.com:

  Another Man's Shoes

  Walk on Water

  Wave Songs

  Boulder

  Connect with me online:

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  www.bruceblake.net

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