Inch by inch, the afternoon sun steadily dissolves, casting an orange and pink haze over the sparsely populated landscape of rural Pennsylvania.
From the front window of a seedy boarding house, Curt Sloan peers through the unclean glass panes, then disappears back again into the lightless room. Inside, he paces the dusty hardwood floors, moving with the nervous stride of a high-strung animal sensing danger. His pacing interrupted by the occasional glance to the door, then out of the window again. At last, a little before nightfall, the door bell sounds. He rudely greets the delivery man, draws the shade, and places the mail-order package on the table beside a half-empty bottle of bourbon and an upturned glass. Completely exhausted, he sits down, lights a cigarette, leans his head back and closes his eyes, praying all the while that the liquor would finally be too much for him and he’d nod off.
Gradually the cigarette he is holding burns down to his thick fingers, rousing him from a few minutes of much-needed slumber. He thumps it out, tosses it into an ashtray and picks up the unopened parcel. The postmark reads Abercrombie & Fitch, Madison Avenue and Fifth Street, New York. He peels back the brown paper wrappings and opens the lid of the box. Eagerly he takes out a heavy, woolen garment, holding it in front of him. A wide smile grows across his face as he studies the red and black plaid coat.
“Perfect,” he says aloud, thinking of the day to come—the opening day of deer season and the countless hoards of hunters that will pepper the Northern countryside in a spectacle of crimson red and blaze orange.
Yes, he affirms his thoughts, casting his gaze across the hardwood floor, past a pair of heavy-laced boots to the Winchester Model 94 leaning upright in the corner. Just perfect—for MURDER.
Curt lights another cigarette, freshens the glass, blows himself a smoke ring and watches it curl up and then disappear. Alone, all alone in life, he thinks and chuckles. Thoughtfully, he twists the glass in his hand, staring deeply into his drink, recalling his past and the person he despises most in the world, the one he holds responsible for his misfortune—his old pal, Sean Regan.
Curt is a hard man; he came up the hard way. He was born Curtis McKay Sloan, grandson to Irish immigrants. His ginger hair came from his father; ill temper from his mother. His father was a delinquent; his mother even worse. Abandoned at an early age, it was inevitable he would eventually succumb to his breeding. The only family he had ever truly known was the Regans.
He and classmate Sean Regan were as close as brothers and thick as thieves. Rarely was one seen without the other. They picked fights, stole cigarettes, drank beer, and chased skirts. Sean was the type who could fall down the sewer and come up with bottles of perfume in both hands. Curt was not, and regularly served as the scapegoat for their mischievous endeavors. Nevertheless, Sean’s father was very fond of the rough-and-tumble Curt. Blood may be thicker than water, but there was no mistaking that Curt was Mr. Regan’s favorite.
He often took the boys hunting up in the highlands. Curt was a natural—a dead-eye with a gun—and immediately took to the ways of the woods. Sean just tagged along. Still, he and Curt roamed through those hills like Indians. They knew every track and trail in the forest. On opening day of hunting season, the three always hunted from the same timbered hillside. Both boys had bagged their first bucks from this stand and it became a place of great sentimentality after the early death of Sean’s father. Invariably, each ensuing deer opener Sean would insist the two of them pay homage to his father and hunt together from the spot which held so many tender memories. Sean usually kicked back, enjoying a reminiscent smoke while Curt would eventually wander off, hunting alone.
After graduation, they took over the Regan accounting firm under the title of Regan & Sloan.
Eventually, each began to go his own way. Sean settled down, got married, joined the church, and cleaned up his act. Curt did not. He knocked around aimlessly, rappelling even deeper into the devious. In addition to managing the firm’s clientele, he began keeping books on the ponies and the boxing matches, and it wasn’t long before he ran into trouble with the dice. Curt had thrown every cent he had to the wolves and when that was lost, he let it ride without a nickel’s worth of credit. Sean had helped bail him out on numerous occasions, but this time he would have no part in it.
Curt was in deep. He was down on his luck and it was about to get worse. His debtors were leaning hard and with no gag to avoid payoff, he turned to the office kitty. The books were soon audited and an inquest made. Curt was the prime suspect, but without a witness for the prosecution it seemed he might get off. Then Sean testified against his old friend.
The sentence sent Curt away for 20 years on racketeering and embezzlement. In his warped imagination, Curt was bound by the unshakable conviction that he’d been double-crossed and played the patsy. He could tolerate the torture of prison, but his longtime friend’s betrayal would indelibly weigh on his mind.
A six-by-eight cell can eat a man’s soul; Curt’s greatest conduit to the outside world was through his devouring hatred of Sean. With more than a mild discontent for his situation, he vowed he’d turn the tables and settle the score. Ultimately, countless hours of outlandish scheming gave way to a brilliant conception bordering on madness. It would be all too easy, he imagined, aside from the sea, the forest is the best place to kill a man, and he x-ed off the days on his calendar until his release. That time came sooner than expected when his sentence was reduced due to good behavior.
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