If you don't shoot that monster by midnight, Arthur, I'll clear out your pension and fire you on the spot, my boss, Richard Callahan, barked across the estate desk.
The first hint of sunrise barely touched the northern timber yard. The air still held the chill of pre-dawn, but I was already there, kneeling beside the crippled harvester.
Copper, my bloodhound, nudged my hand, his soft whimper a stark contrast to the destruction before us. The heavy machinery, usually a symbol of Callahan Estate’s industry, now looked like a mangled beast itself.
I focused on the severed hydraulic lines. Richard’s story was “vicious beast attack.” I expected jagged rips, something animalistic.
What I found was unsettlingly precise.
The edges were clean, almost surgical. Not torn, but *cut*. Like heavy shears had been applied with immense force.
A thick, viscous blue fluid seeped from the lines, pooling on the soil. Not blood, not water. This was industrial hydraulic fluid, its metallic tang sharp in the morning air.
Tiny, shimmering flecks of metal shavings glinted in the nascent light, clinging to the cut ends. A wolf, or any animal, couldn’t do this.
I carefully dabbed a cloth into the blue fluid, preserving a sample. My gut twisted. This wasn’t an accident. This was deliberate.
I headed straight for the main house, the sample clutched in my hand. Richard Callahan was already at his oversized mahogany desk, scrolling through stock reports on his tablet, a silver coffee pot steaming beside him.
He looked up as I entered, a frown already etched into his face.
“Arthur. You’re early. Where is it?” he demanded, not bothering with pleasantries. His eyes scanned my empty hands.
I placed the fluid-soaked cloth on the corner of his desk, careful not to stain his pristine wood.
“Richard, this wasn’t an animal attack. These lines were cut. Cleanly. With heavy tools.”
His gaze flicked from my face to the blue stain on the cloth. A flicker of something—annoyance? fear?—crossed his features, then vanished.
He pushed the cloth away with a manicured finger. “More of your senile ramblings, Arthur?” he scoffed, his voice dripping with condescension.
“That’s industrial hydraulic fluid. And metal shavings. Barnaby couldn’t have done this. No animal could.”
Richard leaned back, a humorless smile playing on his lips. “You spend too much time with those mangy strays, Arthur. Getting sentimental in your old age.”
He pointed a dismissive finger towards the door. “I want that wolf dead by evening. Or you can pack your bags and kiss your twenty-eight years of pension goodbye. You understand?”
He picked up his tablet, already dismissing me.
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