Ripped
from the Headlines
1st September 2006 – Terry and Diana's Farm, The Hawthorne
This
work of adult
fiction, loosely based on characters portrayed by Russell Crowe,
includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned. No
copyright infringement on the original work is intended. No offense to any person,
living or dead, is intended.
Copyright
Reagan Kavanagh
& Diana Walker 2006.
Pop. Pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop, pop,
pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop.
Diana reaches up to scratch Rabbit's
poll and smooth his forelock. “Sorry, Big Guy. You have to stay
in until ten; it's only a few hours. The barn will give you more
protection until they quit for the day. Fall has officially
started.”
Pop, pop, pop.
She throws each of her charges another
flake of hay to keep them entertained until it is safer for them to
leave the barn. She partially closes the north barn doors and lets
herself out the south end, closing it tightly behind her.
Terry bursts from the bedroom door into
the dog yard, dressed in cammo carrying his most trusted, deadly
rifle, waving Diana down and back into the barn as he heads southeast
towards the big corn field between them and the lake. Diana picks up
her pace and shouts to him. “Terry, wait!”
Pop. Pop.
She angles her line so the house can
provide some cover as she makes her way to where Terry has returned
to take up a crouched, defensive posture on the porch, waiting for
her, as he continues to quickly check the direction where the shots
originate. The smile that doesn't reach his battle ready eyes as he
watches her wend her way to him shows his approval of her defensive
action.
Diana sits on the porch with her back
against the brick; Terry crouches beside her, his body between hers
and the southeast. “You can stand down, Boomer. White wing season
started today.”
Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
He stares at her blankly. “That
sounds like automatic fire.”
“It's not. What you hear is the
sound of a crowd of city guys with their shiny, new rifles shooting
doves. It will stop in 30 minutes or less.”
He unslings his own rifle, places it
carefully on the porch, and sinks down beside her, their shoulders
and arms touching down to where he intertwines their fingers and
lifts their hands to allow their thighs to meld together. “Doves,
those pretty little brown birds who've been hanging out here the last
week? They don't look like they would have enough meat on them to be
worth hunting.”
“They don't. The hunt marks the
season change.” She sighs. “I'd forgotten about it. Are you
OK?”
“Other than feeling foolish for
trying to stop an invasion single handedly, I'm fine.”
She lifts his heavy hand to her lips
and kisses his knuckles one at a time. “We need to get the coffee
going and get some bandaging supplies out. We're the closest house
to the killing field. Invariably, one or two of the mighty hunters
gets hurt, and Nancy and I have the honors on first aid.”
“This year you have one more hand for
triage. We can sit here a few more minutes.” His indignant smile
made her laugh. “Let the knobs live with the pain of a blister
from new boots or a bois d'arc scratch for a bit. They may not
disrupt us next year.”
*
Officer Jeremy Borchardt was shot in
the leg in the early morning hours rescuing a woman who was being
beaten. His squad did everything by the book; the bullet came
through the wall. He didn't think about the ceremony to be
held later that day where he would be promoted to Senior Corporal
with his wife and children looking on; he is a Dallas Police Officer.
He was doing his duty. He did think about them as the blood gushed
from his femoral artery; it helped him hold on.
Terry can't stop thinking about Officer
Borchardt and the similarity between their wounds. “There but for
the grace of God ….”
Officer Borchardt wouldn't be able to
return to limited duty for six months. All of the medical bills
would be covered, but the family's wages would be severely
diminished.
Terry doesn't bother firing up the
computer to do any research nor does he ask Diana about approximate
pay. The Dallas police salaries have been in the news so much lately
all the citizens of the Metroplex have a general idea of how much
Officer Borchardt makes.
He also doesn't need computing power to
calculate what the figure on the check should read; he rounds to the
nearest thousand, and his 'make whole' figure is based on the whole
year it will take Senior Corporal Borchardt to be completely back to
normal. He'd visit the bank on the way in to the office and drop the
cashier's check in the mail from the downtown post office at lunch.
Those steps should maintain his anonymity.
Diana reads his eyes and furrowed brow
when the morning news reports the stand-off and the officer's injury.
She gives him the few minutes he needs to make his plans.
“Hmm? What did you say, Diana?”
“I'm glad he was close to Parkland
and had a good supply of blood. Every time I think about it, I see
your leg.” Her eyes shine, and he can almost see the lump in her
throat he knew was there.
“Perhaps you could send her the
schedule for when she'll want to kill him.”
He wipes the wetness that leaks from
the outer corner of her eye. He would pull her closer, but she is
already glued to him. He doesn't think his rib cage could expand
enough to fit both of them in there.
“I'd have to do it anonymously to
match you.”
*
Terry hears the unmistakable sound of
shotguns the next morning. He snuggles in closer behind Diana.
“How long is dove season?”
