Only then did she notice Iola, on the floor next to the pile of wood. She lay
flat on her back, limbs splayed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Flies buzzed around her, but there was no gory mess. Olivia knew she must be dead, but with
no visible injury felt compelled to nudge Iola’s ankle with the toe of her boot.
Not until she bent closer did she see the thin trickle of blood forming a line out
of the side of Iola’s mouth and the long white maggots crawling out of her
nostrils. Olivia gasped, straightened up, and backed away a few steps. While she stood there staring, a brown and white barn sparrow alighted on Iola’s nose and
began pecking, piercing her open eye with its beak. Olivia doubled over and
vomited.
She remained bent over, hands on her knees, until the nausea passed. Then
she went to the water barrel to clean out her nose and mouth. She rolled the door
farther open and set a chair outside, far from the smell. She had to think. They
must have already been dead when she was here yesterday. Who could have
done this? Mourning was first to come to mind, but why would he? He had been
gone for a week. Why on earth would he come back on just the day they let her
go? Maybe it was robbers? Or someone else they had done some awful thing to.
Maybe she wasn’t the first girl they’d tied up in their barn. There might be droves of people who wanted them dead.
She rose, went back inside, and stood over Filmore, studying the floor around
him. Then she paced back and forth across the barn. There was nothing. No
scraps of paper or cloth. Nothing but Filmore’s rifle, which lay near Iola.
Whoever had battered the Stubblefields to death had done so without leaving
anything of his own behind. And had not been much of a thief or he wouldn’t have left the rifle. Olivia bent to pick it up. She stared at Iola for a long while,
wishing her the worst hell had to offer, not a drop of forgiveness or pity in her
heart. She raised the rifle and took aim at Iola’s head. After a long moment she
lowered it and spat into the odious face. It wasn’t enough that she and her husband were dead. They were supposed to have died knowing who killed them.
Olivia went back outside to sit on the chair, both her shotgun and Filmore’s
rifle resting across her knees. Last night she had fantasized about burning the whole place down, watching flames devour that barn, but nothing would bring
folks running quicker than a fire. Besides, with no ball or buck shot in them, it
would be best to let the bodies lie as they were. The wolves would pick them clean. She was surprised they hadn’t done so yet, but then remembered that the
barn door had been closed.
No one would ever know for sure what had happened, but she didn’t think the
Law would be in any rush to search for a human killer if they could blame the
deaths on wild animals and be done with it. And they would, unless they found
that bloody piece of lumber. She went back into the barn, picked up the
incriminating weapon, and carried it into the woods. Then she stood in the yard,
wondering what folks would make of that pile of lumber in the barn and all the
farm implements piled outside. She wished she could eavesdrop at the trappers’
camp fires and hear the yarns they would spin, never coming within a million miles of the truth.
The wind came up again and the cabin door banged, causing Olivia to jump.
She left the rifle on the chair, took cautious steps, and nudged the door open with
the barrel of the shotgun. As far as she could see, everything was in place. She
