Byron Starr - Doppelgänger

She thinks it’s all my fault. Everyone thinks it’s all my fault. Maybe they’re right.

It was well before daylight when the faded blue pickup made its way through town. The little truck had seen better days. Its left front fender was caved in from a ‘fender-bender’ over a year ago that had resulted in a DWI for its driver. The accident had also disabled the left headlight and turn signal. The pickup’s tailgate had fallen off almost five years ago and had never been replaced; the driver’s side window had been busted out and replaced with clear plastic; and, as if this wasn’t enough, the inspection sticker read 1996 — four years ago.

Johnny Paul Watkins, the battered pickup’s driver and owner, had lived in Newton County up until three years ago, when he’d moved to Jasper. Now, with five warrants for his arrest in Newton County, there was but one thing that would bring Johnny Paul back to Newton — deer season.

Some people are avid hunters. Johnny Paul was an avid poacher. His criminal record was a mile long, with various misdemeanors such as disorderly conduct, theft of habitation, public intoxication, drinking and driving, and possession of a controlled substance. But well over half of the petty crimes he had committed over the years were hunting related: trespassing, hunting without a license, hunting out of season, and so on.

When Johnny Paul’s pickup passed the county line and entered into Newton County, its driver was still about half drunk and three quarters stoned from earlier that night. This, plus the five warrants out for his arrest, would surely put him under the Newton County Hilton should he get caught. However, he managed to make it through town without being spotted by any of Sheriff Oates' law dogs. On the other side of town, Johnny Paul turned onto Kline’s Ferry Road, then, a couple miles further on, he turned the old pickup onto Lee’s Mill Road. After slowing for the turn, he forgot to shift to first gear. The old truck spasmed and died with a shudder.

“Shit!”

Still drifting along at less than ten miles per hour, Johnny Paul put the truck in neutral and turned the key. A grinding noise came from the engine, and the lone headlight dimmed as the old engine turned over, but didn’t start. He tried again. Still, no go. Finally, just as the pickup was drifting to a complete stop, the engine fired. Johnny Paul put his foot down on the accelerator, trying to prevent the engine from going dead. The pickup shuddered as the engine blared to life, then, saluting itself with a sharp backfire, the rusty blue pickup was back underway.

Today was Friday, November the fifth, the day before deer season opened. Last week Johnny Paul had been at a small party at a friend’s house in Jasper, enjoying a few beers and a joint or two, when he overheard one of his friend’s friends, Tom something-or-other, bragging about this deer stand he’d set up. Tom, who happened to be from Newton, went on and on about the huge deer tracks in the area where he’d thrown his corn out. He said he’d watched the deer from his stand; he claimed it was enormous: A fourteen-point; two-sixty to two-seventy pounds; at least two-hundred pounds field-dressed.

At first Johnny Paul hadn’t been able to get him to cough up the location of his deer stand — Tom had been warned about Johnny Paul Watkins — but after a few more beers and another joint had loosened his tongue, Tom told Johnny Paul exactly where it was. After a few more inquiries, Johnny Paul found out Tom was working for a logging company near Kirbyville, and on weekdays he left early for work without checking his stand.

Perfect.

About two miles after Lee’s Mill Road went from paved to dirt, Johnny Paul saw a small Rebel Flag handkerchief tied to a sapling to the left of the road. Unable to see clearly through the plastic over his side window, Johnny Paul stopped the pickup and got out. It was the place all right, just like big-mouth-Tom had described.

Johnny Paul then looked for a place to hide his truck. He didn’t want it to be in plain sight, just in case some of the County Mounties happened by or Tom drove by on his way to work. Finding a suitable place, Johnny Paul got back in the battered old pickup and drove through the ditch and into the woods. He got out and rearranged the underbrush behind the pickup so it would be hard to spot from the road.

After making sure the pickup was well camouflaged, he went back to the cab and got out his rifle, a Winchester 30–30 without a scope — Johnny Paul’s father had always said scopes were for pussies. Suitably armed, he started down the path that was barely visible in the moonless night.

Not fifty yards into the woods, he found what he was looking for. It was a simple makeshift stand overlooking a small clearing in the woods. A wooden platform had been constructed out of treated wood, then painted black. It was positioned in an old oak tree, balanced precariously between two limbs about six feet from the ground. Four one-by-fours, also painted black, had been nailed to the trunk of the tree to provide a simple ladder to the stand.

Johnny Paul reached up and placed his rifle on the platform, then climbed the makeshift ladder and tried to situate himself in the stand. The stand was very unstable, a real piece of crap. Not a single nail held the platform to the tree. Johnny Paul found that if he leaned to one side or the other, the platform would shift in the tree. He had to remain perfectly still, not only to keep from scaring away any deer that may be approaching, but also to keep from falling out of the stand. The stand certainly didn’t give Johnny Paul much faith in Tom as a hunter. He began to suspect Tom’s huge deer was just the wishful thinking of an amateur.

Johnny Paul checked his watch: 3:32 a.m..

He was much earlier than he’d planned. He tried to adjust his position so he could get comfortable. He’d hate to fall asleep and miss the deer, but it was going to be a long time until dawn. Johnny Paul soon found that making himself comfortable in the tiny stand was easier said than done. Only after quite a bit of shifting around did he finally manage to prop his back up against the tree and relax. Johnny Paul had been out drinking and smoking pot all night. He was tired. It wasn’t long until his eyelids started getting heavy. He tried to fight it, but each time he blinked his eyelids became heavier and it took him longer and longer to open his eyes. Then his head began to nod with every long drawn out wink. After sitting in the tree for less than fifteen minutes, his head sagged to his chest and didn’t rise. Johnny Paul was asleep.

Even when he was as drunk and stoned as he was tonight, Johnny Paul was a light sleeper (unless he passed out, that is; then he slept like a rock). He was asleep for about ten minutes when he awoke to the sound of movement in the bushes. It was still dark; he couldn’t see a thing, but he could definitely hear the rustle of pinestraw. Only it wasn’t coming from the small clearing in front of the stand; it was coming from behind him. At first Johnny Paul thought he was caught. It had to be either Tom or a game warden who had spied his truck from the road and decided to take a look. But the more he listened, the more he was convinced it had to be the deer. It didn’t plunge clumsily through the brush like a human; instead, it stealthily moved a short distance, then stopped. Then, not much later, he would hear it move again. Not only that, but whatever it was, it wasn’t on the trail. The trail to the deer stand was behind him and to the right. This movement was coming from behind him and to the left.

He got his gun ready but couldn’t move into a position where he could see in the direction the sound was coming from. It really didn’t matter though. It was so dark the deer would almost have to climb into the stand and introduce itself before he’d see it.