Page 88 of The Killing Plains

“Let’s put away the toys, Satchel.”

Satchel clutched an action figure against his chest. “Iron Man doesn’t want to go in the suitcase. He hates the dark.”

“Would he rather go home with you for tonight?” Brenda asked.

Satchel nodded.

On the drive home, Colly tried to engage him in conversation, but Satchel was in an odd mood, distracted and remote. Back at the farmhouse, however, he seemed to return to normal. He sat at the kitchen table and chatted about his day as Colly made grilled cheese sandwiches and heated a can of tomato soup.

It wasn’t until later, when she had helped him into pajamas and was reading him a bedtime story, that Satchel abruptly asked, “Do you ever dream about bears, Grandma?”

He spoke the words quickly, and his voice sounded strange—simultaneously nonchalant and tentative.

Colly laid down the book. “Not very often. Do you?”

Satchel nodded. He was propped against the pillows, balancing his ant farm on his chest and staring intently at it. The Iron Man toy lay beside him on the comforter.

“Scary bears? Or nice ones?” Colly asked.

“Mostly scary.”

“What do the bears do in your dreams?”

Satchel shrugged and appeared suddenly to lose interest in the subject. He set the ant farm on the nightstand and picked up Iron Man.

Colly hesitated. “Satchel, do you remember the day Mommy and Grandpa Randy—the day they got hurt?”

He seemed not to hear her; he was absorbed in making Iron Man combat-crawl over the quilt.

Colly tried again. “Did you like playing with the toys at Aunt Brenda’s office?”

“I guess.” Satchel made an explosion sound. Iron Man flipped in the air and dove for cover beneath a fold of blanket.

“Would you like to play there again?”

“Okay.” Suddenly, Satchel turned and extended the action figure’s arm towards Colly, aiming it like a gun. “Pew, pew, pew!”

“Why is Iron Man shooting me?”

Satchel giggled. He shoved the toy closer to Colly’s face. “Pew, pew, pew!” There was a manic edge to his voice.

Colly started to move his hand aside, but he shrieked and jerked it away, hurling the toy at her head. It bounced off her cheekbone and onto the floor.

“Ow—that was too hard, Satchel.” She stooped to pick up the figurine. Satchel lunged for it, but Colly stuffed it in her pocket. “I think you’re overtired. Time for lights-out.”

Satchel immediately burst into hysterics, sobbing and flailing. Colly tried for a while to calm him, but her efforts only made him more upset, so she turned off the lights and left the room. Shepaced the hallway, listening to him cry until, after half an hour, he wore himself out and fell asleep, still sniffling and hiccupping fretfully into the pillows.

Exhausted, Colly went downstairs and collapsed on the sofa. She took out her phone and held it uncertainly for a minute. Finally, she dialed. Brenda answered on the first ring, and Colly gave her a summary of the evening.

“I don’t know what got into him, Bren. Maybe some therapy sessions aren’t a bad idea.”

Brenda seemed pleased to help. She had an online conference the next day, she said, so she wouldn’t be at school for her usual morning hours; but she thought she’d be done by the time school was out. With Colly’s permission, she would pick up Satchel and take him to the clinic. “I cleared my schedule tomorrow because of the conference, so we’ll have as much time as we need. I can get a friend to take my kids for a couple hours.”

Colly hung up, relieved, and checked her watch. Nine o’clock. She was beyond tired but too keyed up for bed. Maybe she’d take a closer look at the case files. But first, she needed a stiff drink. Was there any liquor in the pantry? She was heading for the kitchen when a loud knock on the front door shattered the quiet.

She grabbed her pistol. “Who’s there?” she shouted.

“It’s me.”

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