It was the Shiffley who’d called 911. “Not sure there’s anything we can do,” the kneeling Shiffley said. “Two shots, one in the head and one in the throat. Either one could kill you, but both?” The first one shook his head. And then he began telling Debbie Ann what had happened and where we were. There were trickles of something dark on Brett’s forehead—blood, no doubt. I was glad the flashlight leached out the colors so I was seeing it in black and white. I made sure not to let the flashlight beam drift any higher than his forehead, because there was probably an exit wound that would give me nightmares. Within minutes of our call to 911, a figure appeared out of the fog from the barn side of the fence. Another Shiffley, by the long, loose-knit shape of him. Since the gate was blocked, I climbed over the fence to greet him. When he got close enough I realized it was Vern Shiffley. “Hey, Vern,” the standing Shiffley said. “We heard two shots and found him dead,” the kneeling one said.
What do You think about The Hen Of The Baskervilles?
