Mercy

CHAPTER ONE He couldn’t say that he hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d hoped he would. He’d prayed he would do more than wound him; he didn’t want him to run. He prayed the arrow would find its mark on that wooded trail to Chancellor’s Point. Like all roads in the Mississippi Delta, the footpath to Chancellor's Point was flat, straight and narrow. Just east of the Panther Slough National Wildlife Refuge, the Greek Revival mansion sat overlooking the Hushi River, less than three miles from where it joined forces with the Tallahatchie. A future scallywag had built her before the War of Northern Aggression. When the traitor died in 1880, he did so with no will and no heirs, and the state of Mississippi wasted little time in seizing the property for its own use. Starting in 1883 when Bedford State was founded, Chancellor’s Point earned its name by serving as the chancellor’s home for nearly 70 years. When the college became a university, the state appropriated funds for a new home near the center of campus. As the old mansion fell into disrepair, it later served as an open-air barn to a small herd of Angus. Later an out-of-town gospel musician purchased and renovated it in post-modern 1970’s gewgaw for a wedding and reception. It stood in that garish state still, decades later, a testament to all that was wrong with the Seventies. Following footpaths through the woods was nothing new for Davis Sanford. He had come from a long line of outdoorsmen, and he’d spent most of his summers working on a big game preserve in the hills of Mississippi. But it wasn’t summer, and this was the delta. Today Davis made the walk one of pleasure. For the beginning of October it was surprisingly pleasant in Bedford. The weatherman had predicted unseasonably temperate conditions for the entire week. Not one day in the five-day forecast was expected to top 75 degrees, and lows were expected in the 40’s. An early-morning delivery had started Davis on his journey into the woods. He stumbled to his front door at half-past eight when an abrupt pounding awakened him. Throwing on a pair of blue jeans he found on the bedroom floor, he buttoned and zipped them on the way to see who had come to call. He turned off the alarm and unlocked the deadbolt to the front door of his combination office and home, catching only a glimpse of a brown delivery truck pulling back out onto the highway. At his feet lay a package: return address, Mercy, Mississippi. It was not surprising to receive something from his hometown, but this time the parcel was not from his cousin Annie. He hastily unwrapped it and found a Matthews single-cam bow inside, followed by a short note from his father. Bobby Jack Sanford would never apologize for the six years he’d gone without speaking to his only son. The note was as close as Davis could ever hope for. There were only four words: Practice, then come. Dad Davis seized the opportunity to accept his father’s invitation. He owned a small, hometown security company that he’d started with seed money from family. Once just an alarm system guy, his business had grown to include home theater and automation, and whole-house audio and video. He was his own boss, and as he had no installations pending for the day, he obtained a hunting license at the brand new Wal-Mart just east of the state college. He then cut across campus and parked his old baby blue Nissan pickup truck at the edge of the wildlife refuge that formed a wedge between the land grant institution, the river, and downtown Bedford, Mississippi. Although he was long out of his hunting routine, he still retained the accoutrements of the pastime: a climbing tree stand, a set of binoculars, and a camouflage outfit to round out the fashion statement. Panther Slough National Wildlife Refuge was aptly named for its terrain. More than 35,000 acres of bottomland forest, it was not much more than a bog in the winter and spring, although it did dry out enough in the hot months to allow passage for those who knew the territory. Panthers had long since been eradicated from the delta, but folklore still told of bone-chilling screams emanating from giant cats that mysteriously skulked the area. Davis believed none of the panther fables, but did don his snake chaps before diving into the leafy-green underbrush of public land on the opening day of archery season. His plan was to take the quarter-mile boondoggle from the edge of campus to a clearing just shy of the old mansion. A small soybean field, part of the state agriculture experiment station, lazed behind Chancellor’s Point. Empty and hollow, she posted guard against any naval assault from the west. It would be the perfect spot to hang a stand, and if nothing more, enjoy a delta sunset. Davis was in the best physical shape of his life: 23 years old, a reformed alcoholic and drug abuser, he was a lean form, just shy of six feet and 150 pounds. He walked quickly and determinedly across the slough toward his goal. Dodging poison ivy and wild blackberry vines, he made it across, found a good tree 20 yards from the edge of the field and began to climb. Positioned just east of a small draw, there was enough sign to indicate that deer would use it as a path to browse the beans as daylight waned. Davis adjusted his gear in the stand, and then hoisted his new bow, by a rope and an s-hook, into his perch where he planned to settle in for a carefree afternoon with nature. Chancellor’s Point was a hundred yards to the south-southwest of his position, and the Hushi River chirped along its southbound path, coming up from behind him and along down beside. The river sang a warbling song as it prattled along in its bed that diagonally bisected the national wildlife refuge. The solitude and silence, pierced only by the intermittent sounds of wildlife, were the perfect lullaby, and in the gathering darkness Davis jerked awake from a warm and dozing nap, 30 feet from the ground. A rush of adrenaline caused his heart to race when he realized he’d been sleeping. He’d heard too many tales of paraplegic proportions to feel good about falling asleep in a tree stand even with his safety harness. Regaining his composure, he checked all his gear and shamefacedly wiped his palms over his thinning hair. Then he heard it again — the noise that first had awakened him. Voices came up from the river, from the northeast behind him. His first instinct was that hunters were conversing over a kill. He sat motionless, angry at the disrespect being shown to him and other tree-dwellers. By his estimation there was still another hour of daylight by legal hunting standards, albeit, no one except the slumbering or rabid huntsman would still be out at this hour of the evening. Davis stood up in his stand and turned around to see if he could spot the offenders. Instead of seeing what he expected, Davis found himself looking at a five-year-old, nine-point, drop-tine buck, not 15 feet from his stand. The buck was frozen, his nose to the air, his head and ears turned and alert to the noises behind him. Adrenaline, in both hunter and prey, surged. Davis raised his bow, drew back silently and marked the spot directly behind the buck’s shoulder. He held his draw for only a moment as he tried to slow his breathing. Finally, he released. The sound of arrow parting air deafened both the huntsman and quarry. Instinctively, the deer crouched and spun away, and all Davis saw of the escape was a bounding white tail crashing and retreating into the encroaching darkness. Davis audibly cursed his quarry’s natural reflexes and began scanning the ground for his arrow. There it lay, impotent, five yards past its mark. He sighed and resigned himself to returning home without a trophy, turning to thoughts of spending a late Thursday evening with Jennifer. Tomorrow would mark their 400th day together. He wrestled with the fact that he actually knew the number of days, thinking himself somewhat less of a man for acknowledging — much less ce