In the Night Season by Richard Bausch

house, never really listened to him. Hadn’t he talked about hunting? There must be a rifle or shotgun somewhere. Jason stood crying, in the dark of the upstairs, trying to decide. Finally he drew the courage to go to the windows and look out at the lawn below, the near part of which was still bathed in light. Above the far roof of his mother’s house, a full moon shone through a hole in the clouds. It limned the branches of the pines, which were like tall, watchful presences, and it shone on the fallow field that spanned the distance between. Nothing moved. He thought he saw a light go off in his mother’s house. He couldn’t be sure, couldn’t trust it.
    In the next instant, he heard movement downstairs.
    Had the floor creaked? He was standing near the doorway of the third bedroom, in the dark, looking at the light at the head of the stairs. Something changed, the light altered, or it was his own eyes. In the next room, the music played over the dreadful quiet figure on the floor in its border of blood.
    Jason moved into the room, certain that he was not alone, that Travis had followed him here. The clear part of his mind saw Travis moving carefully up the stairs, but there was nothing. Nothing came, and the music stopped, the record arm lifted and moved, dropped down on the beginning of the record. Travis would not expect him to remain with the body, would not think he would actually hide here.
    He was certain now that he had heard movement on the stairs.
    He worked his way under the love seat, next to the body. Mr. Bishop’s face was only inches away, a darker blotch in the darkness, so awfully still. The eyes looked beyond everything; they were visible, terrifyingly inanimate in the form of the face. From where he was under the love seat, and because of the upper part of Mr. Bishop’s body, he could see only the bottom part of the door frame. He watched it, hearing more sounds. Something was moving in thehouse, he was certain of it. He saw a shadow glide up from the base of the wall, and his heart jumped in its small space under the bones of his chest.
    A cat strode into the room, tail up. A big gray Tom. One of the wild litter. Mr. Bishop had talked about. It must have wandered into the open side door downstairs. The boy gasped at the sight of it, too startled to scream, then gave forth a sob of relief, and found himself having to suppress a wild laugh, like a part of his crying. The cat made a little leap onto the love seat, then leapt back down, to Mr. Bishop’s back. It moved its head to his ear, as if to whisper something to the dead man. Jason crawled out of the space, and the cat turned to stare at him. In the doorway, he looked up and down the hall. The cat mewed behind him, and the rest of the house was quiet.
    He went stealthily to the head of the stairs, taking hold inside, receiving again the sensation of thinking clearly, with a kind of icy calculation that surprised him: Travis could not afford to be patient about everything because the boy’s mother was coming home. Travis would come here. Now. And the thing to do was get out of the house, get as far down the road as possible, toward help.
    Except that there was his mother to think about.
    He must head her off. He would have to get around to the other end of the field, across the area where Travis would be approaching. He would have to make his way out to the road, where he could try to stop her. Where he could flag someone, anyone, down.
    At the bottom of the stairs, he made his way along the wall into the kitchen, keeping below the level of the windows. The only sound in the house was the insane brightness of the music, the record playing. In the kitchen he opened drawers in the counter, searching for a knife. Something to use as a weapon. The first drawer was filled with pornographic playing cards and pencils. The second had old bills and mail and a screwdriver. He gripped the screwdriver and edged to the other side of the room, hurrying,