Shortcuts

A Northern Story

Constable Darren noticed the ravens first. Sometimes it was turkey vultures, other times crows. And sometimes it was just a feeling—a stillness.

He pulled right up to the body. The scavengers scattered but lurked nearby. The beast, all hulk and hide, laid out to rest on the pale quartz gravel. Antlers unnaturally twisted away, he rested his hand on the white chest, just to be sure.

It wasn't what Darren thought he'd be doing when he joined the academy a couple of years ago. He always imagined himself patrolling and protecting some damp, gritty city, fighting baddies and trolling thugs—maybe making detective one day. But you have to go where there's work, and being a country cop wasn't so bad anyway. There was a solitary, autonomy that came with this job—cruising the small towns of Wilkes County. Most days, it was just him and the Impala, making the rounds, and opening it up on the back roads any chance they could—one of the underrated perks of being the law. He knew everyone did it.

Sure, there were a couple of other unofficial benefits, like free coffee, and sour apple pie at the Scand Diner or an open invitation to all of the fishing, hunting, and snowmobiling clubs around. But, the latest bonus was a scheme he cooked up with his hockey buddy, Arvo. 

Every fall, dozens of dumb whitetails would stare into a pair of headlights for the last time. Their tawny bodies strewn from Whitehooks to Cole Bay, it was Constable Darren, with the least seniority, on roadkill duty, an essential but particularly gruesome and physically challenging task. Getting the carcasses off the road was the main thing. After that, the circle of life would take care of itself. 

The idea struck Darren one day while he was dragging a young buck off RR21. What a waste, he thought to himself, imagining the lean purple meat under the skin. This was good venison—mostly unbruised. The head and shoulder were damaged, but everything else looked in good shape. The animal was fresh as far as roadkill goes. He thought about trying to stuff it into the trunk, but there was no room for that. It was too messy anyway. He pulled it off the road by its legs and marked it with a shrine of fallen branches and dried grass. He'd call Arvo and ask if he'd come get it with his station wagon.

Constable Darren noted the odometer as he pulled onto Highway 77. He stopped at the Shell station and called Arvo from the phone booth.
"Hey man, what do ya say to some fresh venison steaks?" he said, knowing this was a good strategy to get Arvo on board.

"Hell yeah, bring 'em over," said Arvo, always eager to eat just about anything.

"So, here's the thing eh, I found a young buck, marked it out on 21 about nine klicks off 77. Fresh kill, looks like he took it in the head. Meet me there in an hour with your wagon, and we'll grab him."

"Roadkill?" said Arvo, questioning and confirming. 

"Ya bud, it's cool. Better than sitting in a deer stand freezing your ass off all day," said Darren.

"Okay, okay, I'll meet you there," Arvo complied, already thinking about all the steaks and sausages coming his way.

This was how it started. They joked and called their side hustle, Shortcuts. It was easily the most convenient and efficient way to procure game meat. They turned Arvo's garage into a butchery, first gutting and hanging the deer, draining the blood, then chopping it up on the band saw. The choice steaks were set aside, and most of the rest went into the sausage maker. A lot of the roadkill Darren found was too mangled for Shortcuts discerning standards, but there were enough clean kills to keep the chest freezers full. So full, that Arvo started to package it up, and take it down to the city to sell at the farmers market.

 It was a booming enterprise by late November. But they had to be careful not to say much about it up in Wilkes County. They knew Arvo wasn't out hunting every weekend and Constable Darren had to make sure he distanced himself from even a whiff of the black market venison operation or he'd get suspended without pay at the least. Fortunately, the city was hours away, and nobody there knew any better. To them, Arvo was just another backcountry huntsman, making honest money the old-fashioned way.

Around mid-December, when it got dark early and the holiday spirit lit up every tavern across the county, it was like stumbling moths to a lightbulb and Constable Darren got busy. Bar fights, drunk drivers, and domestic troubles escalated like a community possessed. It was like this every year. 

Some nights it looked like the walking dead out there, climbing from their tombs, shuffling through the slush, zombie walking the dark roads to the local for a good yule time.

This time of year also meant that they could wind down Shortcuts for the winter. Arvo had stockpiled the surplus venison on a skid in the garage. It was cold enough to keep frozen now. They'd wait it out till Spring when the markets opened back up. It was a bit of a relief for both of them. 

One evening, around six, Arvo's phone rang. It was Darren.

"Hey, you gotta help me. Now!" he said.

"What? Where? What happened?" asked Arvo. Darren sounded off.

"Come quick, Lester Street and 77," he said and hung up.

When Arvo got there, the patrol car was nowhere around. It was snowing, and the salt trucks hadn't come by. He parked on the shoulder just north of the intersection by the old truck dealership. 

"Over here," said a voice from the overgrown ditch.

It was Darren, crouching low over top of something.

"You okay?' Arvo said, "Where's your car?"

"It's up the street, around the corner at the payphone—look, don't say anything—just help me get this in the back of your car," he said, using what was left of his cop voice. 

Arvo did as instructed and they pulled the bloody mass out of the ditch and heaved it in the back of the wagon. Both exchanged uncomfortably cold quick glances as they shut back door.

"I'll meet you at your place in twenty," said Darren, pretending nothing happened, now in civilian dialect.

Arvo never really remembered the drive home that night or the events that followed in the next twenty-four hours. It was like trying to remember a movie you weren't really paying attention to. 

He backed in the driveway, when he got home, opened the garage door and reversed into the garage. Pulling the garage door down, sealing the deal, he thought about what might have to happen next.

When Darren showed up, he found Arvo in the garage, huddled around the heater staring blankly into the corner of the room.

"What are we going to do with it?" said Arvo still staring into the corner.

"I dunno, this was the first thing I could think of," said Darren, "I can't let anyone find out about this now, it's too late, we've moved it." He paused and looked at Arvo wringing his hands in front of the rad then walked to the back of the station wagon and looked inside, cupping his hands and sticking his face to the window.

"At least tell me what happened," said Arvo, breaking the silence.

Darren backed away from the car. His eyes refocused, and saw himself in the grimy reflection of the glass—surprised he was still in uniform. He looked away quickly and started pacing.

In clumps of broken speech and incomplete thoughts, Darren tried to explain, "I didn't see—until it was too late. So slippery—I was moving too fast. Something was there for a sec, and then—must've slipped—I pumped the brakes—skidded over top. So fucked up, jeez—could hear crunches and a popping sound."

Arvo did nothing for a minute, then shook his head, "Damn dude—wish you didn't drag me into this, but here we are. C'mon, let's take care of it."

"Thanks, man," said Darren feeling guilty but relieved he wasn't dealing with this alone, "What do you think we should—"

Arvo jumped up and cut him off, "—first things first, let's get this mess out of here and hang it up." His eyes motioned up to the rafters, then back down to the band saw; his cold hands on the meat grinder.