The Healing of Luther Grove

By Barry Gornell

Freight Books

Copyright © 2012 Barry Gornell
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-908754-02-8
CHAPTER 1

Luther Grove was content with four kills. Three had taken a bullet between the eye and the ear and dropped instantly; the fourth had spun in the air, dead before landing. The final headshot had dispatched an amorous male who’d been seeking to procreate with his recently deceased mate. The instant Luther got to his feet, the lucky ones had vanished underground. When he emerged from the overgrowth that concealed him, he shouldered his .22. He strode the twenty-five yards or so into the glade, to where the bodies lay. After expressing the remaining urine from each, he gutted them in the field, before the flesh had a chance to taint, collecting the edible organs in an airtight container. His game-bag full, he turned for home, aware of the crows, biding their time on the lower boughs.

Up until now, the ache had been constant yet bearable, something he carried with him. But as Luther entered the pines, an unexpected pang robbed him of his breath and creased him over. He slumped to his knees on the dry needle floor, using his rifle for support as his grip tightened around the stock. As he stifled a groan, it struck him that lying flat and still in the pre-dawn chill probably did little to help, although he knew the pain was unrelated to the cold. It gradually eased, his breathing stabilised, his heartbeat slowed and his muscles relaxed, allowing him to stand. He used his arm to wipe the cold sweat from his face.

When he stepped out from the tree-line, lower down the mountain, the dew had evaporated and the sun warmed his back.

Luther used a cleaver to remove each foot at the joint. The separation exposed a clean, rounded knuckle of bone either side of the blade. He turned the paunched rabbit onto its back. Starting at the left side of the cavity, he separated the gut muscle from the skin in much the same way he would open the pages of a book or magazine. Inserting his hand, he worked it around the spine to the other side until he cradled the pink torso in his four fingers. Holding the stripped chest with his left hand he peeled the skin over the back legs as though taking off the animal’s socks, before working each front leg out of its fur. The effort of pulling the released skin forward and over the shoulders lifted the animal from the wooden board, exposing its neck. A neat purple hole showed where the single bullet had entered at the base of the skull: the stray shot that explained why this one had spun in the air. He was raising the cleaver to chop through the neck when he heard the growl of a diesel engine.

Through the window he could see a large red pickup coming down the track from the main road, tunnelling through the trees. It rolled with the ruts and potholes, puffing up summer dust clouds that hung in the morning glow like camouflage in the air. It stopped outside the new entrance to the Macpherson place. It wasn’t the one that had stopped outside the old entrance, just over a year ago, or returned, two or three times in the intervening months. Nevertheless, this year’s model, top of the range, shiny and over-equipped; it carried the same personalised registration plate, P4YNE.

Their arrival was imminent.

As the past year had turned, Luther had witnessed the derelict building being partially demolished and then disguised, rebuilt: twice the size with lots of glass. From inside his single story cottage, he’d watched surveyors and architects stride around the building site in the rain, falling leaves sticking to their hard hats and fluorescent vests. Heavy plant had churned the grass as it dug ex