A Killing at Pine Needle Farm

Chapters 3 & 4

Chapter 3

"What have I done?" The words escaped Jake's throat in a whisper, his voice barely recognizable in the blood-soaked kitchen. The question hung in the copper-scented air, demanding an answer he couldn't give.

His hands shook uncontrollably as he stared at Paul's body. The sight made his stomach lurch violently, bile rising in his throat. This couldn't be real. This couldn't have happened. But the evidence was everywhere - splattered across his walls, pooling on his floors, dried under his fingernails.

Jake pressed his palms against his temples, trying to squeeze some memory from the void where last night should be. The Ambien and vodka had stolen eight hours from his life, leaving only this nightmare as proof of what he must have done.

A fragment surfaced- Paul stepping out of the shadows, nothing like his profile photos. Older, heavier, completely different. Jake remembered the surge of anger.

Could he really have done this? Could months of suppressed fury have turned him into a killer over fake photos?

The thought made him double over, retching violently onto the blood-stained floor. His whole body convulsed with revulsion—at the scene, at himself, at what he might be capable of.

He had to call the police. This was insane. He couldn't handle this alone. Jake stumbled toward the wall phone, his feet slipping in the blood, nearly falling. His finger trembled over the 9.

But what would he tell them? That he'd blacked out and woken up next to a corpse? That he thought he might have murdered someone because they lied about their appearance? After everything with Sam—how the system had failed him when he'd had truth on his side—who would believe him now?

Another memory fragment hit him: Paul's face somehow becoming Sam's in his drugged state, that same predatory smile. The sound of his own voice screaming about lies and betrayal. The sickening crack of impact.

Jake's hand fell away from the phone as horror washed over him. He really had done this. Somehow, in his blackout rage, he'd killed a man.

The realization sent him to his knees in the blood. He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking violently. This wasn't him. This wasn't who he was supposed to be. He was meant to protect lives, he didn't take them. But the evidence surrounding him told a different story.

Two parts of his mind warred against each other—one screaming in horror at what he'd become, the other coldly calculating what needed to happen next. His training, his scientific background, began automatically cataloging the evidence even as his human soul recoiled from it all.

DNA everywhere. Blood patterns on every surface. Skin cells, hair, saliva, fingerprints. The forensic evidence would tell the story of violence even if his memory couldn't.

Jake forced himself to search Paul's pockets, fighting nausea with every movement. No wallet. No phone. Nothing to identify who this man really was.

Outside, a silver Nissan Altima sat in his driveway. Jake opened it with trembling, blood-stained hands. The rental agreement was in the glove compartment, but nothing else of significance.

He found his phone by the pool, hands shaking as he opened Grindr. Paul's profile had been offline for twelve hours. Jake stared at their conversation, trying to piece together what had led to this horror. With numb fingers, he deleted everything—the messages, the account, the app itself. The digital trail had to disappear.

His mind went to next steps. He knew what he was about to do was wrong. Very wrong. It felt like another betrayal of who he used to be. But what choice did he have? Even if he could claim self-defense, the evidence wouldn't support it. And his claim of a blackout would only make him look more guilty.

Jake walked to the old barn like a man in a trance. The hay hook hung from the rafters, its iron curve designed for lifting bales. Now it would serve a purpose that made him sick to contemplate.

His movements became mechanical, driven by pure survival instinct. Every action felt like a violation of his former self, but stopping meant prison, meant his life ending in a cage. He retrieved plastic camping tarp, a clothesline and his father's hunting knife, tools that had once served innocent purposes.

When he got back to kitchen the clinical part of his mind took over as he spread the tarp beside Paul's body. Rolling the corpse was harder than expected—dead weight that flopped awkwardly, limbs splaying in unnatural positions. Jake had to stop twice to vomit, his body rejecting what his mind was forcing him to do.

He wrapped the body in the tarp with shaking hands, trying not to look at the ruined face. When he secured the rope around the ankles, muscle memory from childhood hunting trips guided his fingers even as his soul screamed in protest.

Jake walked back to the barn and climbed into the Gator, his legs barely able to support him. The utility vehicle started with its familiar diesel rumble, but even that ordinary sound felt wrong now - corrupted by what he was about to use it for. He drove across the lawn to the kitchen door, the short distance feeling like miles.

Standing next to the wrapped body, Jake attached the winch hook he had pulled from the front of the Gator to the rope around Paul's ankles. His hands were so slick with sweat and blood that he nearly dropped the metal clasp twice. The electric winch whined as it took up the slack, lifting the feet slightly off the ground.

Jake climbed back into the Gator and continued taking in the winch cable. The body slid across the kitchen floor with a wet scraping sound that made his stomach clench. Blood smeared in wide streaks across the hardwood as the plastic-wrapped corpse was dragged toward the door. He started the Gator, the loud diesel engine drowning out the horrible noise.

Getting the body over the threshold was the worst part. The door frame caught the shoulders, and Jake had to stop the Gator and manually adjust the position, his hands touching the wrapped form through the plastic. The weight was dead and shifting, and he could feel the outline of Paul's body beneath the tarp. When the corpse finally cleared the doorway, it dropped the two inches to the stone step with a sickening thud.

Jake continued backing the Gator across the lawn, the body bouncing and sliding behind him. The trek across the lawn felt endless. Every window in his house seemed like an eye watching his descent into monstrosity. The body left a faint trail in the dew-soaked grass, and Jake realized with growing panic that even this might be evidence—DNA, fibers, traces that could connect this moment to this place.

When he finally reached the barn, Jake stopped the Gator and sat shaking in the driver's seat for several minutes. Behind him, Paul's body lay twisted in the plastic, one arm having worked free and now extending at an unnatural angle. Jake forced himself to look away, focusing on the familiar barn doors ahead of him, trying to pretend this was just another day of property maintenance.

Inside the barn, he positioned everything beneath the hay hook with precision he once used in the lab, even as every instinct told him to run, to call the police, to confess everything. But it was too late for that now. Too late for the man he used to be.

The pulley system lifted Paul's body with medieval efficiency. Jake unwrapped his father's knife—this blade had gutted deer cleanly. Now it would be part of something monstrous.

One cut across the throat opened the carotid artery. Blood poured onto the tarp below in a crimson waterfall. Jake staggered backward, retching again, his whole body shaking with revulsion. The smell of blood filled the barn, sweet and metallic and wrong.

He let gravity do its work while he fought waves of nausea and self-loathing. This wasn't who he was. This wasn't who he was supposed to be. But somehow, in one night of rage and chemicals, he'd become this thing—this killer disposing of evidence.

The clothing came off piece by piece—jeans, shirt, underwear, shoes. Each item had been worn by a living person just hours ago. Someone with a life, with people who cared about him. The thought made Jake's chest tight with guilt and terror.

The chainsaw roared to life, its mechanical scream echoing his internal anguish. He'd used this tool for years to clear storm damage, honest work that helped his property. Now it served the darkest possible purpose.

The blade cut through flesh and bone with horrific efficiency. Blood and tissue sprayed in fine mists that coated his face and clothes. Jake worked through tears, his shoulders burning from the effort, his mind fracturing under the weight of what he was doing. Each cut felt like another piece of his soul dying. This wasn't justice or self-defense—this was desecration, and he was the monster performing it.

The organs went into paint buckets with clinical precision that his medical training provided even as his humanity recoiled. When the dismemberment was complete, Jake stood surrounded by the components of what had once been Paul, his whole body wracked with sobs.

He loaded everything into the Gator with mechanical movements, his mind shutting down to protect itself from the full horror of his actions. The burn barrel had disposed of yard waste for years. Today it would consume evidence of murder.

Jake built the fire with seasoned wood and kerosene, his hands steady despite the tremors wracking his body. Paul's head, hands, and feet went into the flames—the parts that could identify him, that could lead back to this place of horror.

The fire ignited with a whoosh that singed his eyebrows. The smell was indescribable and wrong, burning meat mixed with smoke and accelerant. Jake stumbled away, vomiting again until his stomach was empty and his ribs ached.

He got back into the gator and drove down the hill towards the deepest part of the property, where no one ever went. It was too overgrown for the fox hunt folks and too isolated for hikers. He drove the gator as far as he could past the tree line. He’d have to carry the rest of Paul – piece by piece into the woods.

Deep in the woods, he scattered the organs with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Wildlife would eat the evidence within days, erasing the last traces of Paul's existence. The thought should have brought relief, but only deepened his self-loathing.

He brought the torso and limbs even deeper into the woods. He tied the toro an oak tree with the clothesline. Within days, scavengers would reduce everything to scattered bones that would never be connected to this place, but he couldn’t let them drag a body – they’d have to chew it apart.

After he tied the final knot, he looked away and walked out of the woods. He felt a strange sense of relief. Then he felt guilt.

He got into the gator and started out of the woods. He was halfway up the big hill when it sputtered and stopped. Jake looked at the gas gauge – the red needle was pushed past the E.

“FUCK” he screamed. He got out of the gator and walked up the hill.

Back at the house, Jake fed Paul's clothes and the bloody tarp to the flames, then stripped naked and added his own contaminated garments. Standing nude in the early afternoon air, streaked with blood and gore, he felt like something prehistoric and savage. He started to cry.

The pool water closed around him like absolution he didn't deserve. Pink clouds drifted away from his body as he scrubbed frantically, trying to wash away more than just blood. The chlorine stung cuts he didn't remember receiving, battle scars from a fight erased by chemicals and rage.

The kitchen cleanup took hours of scrubbing on raw knees. Every surface, every microscopic trace had to be eliminated. He vomited twice more, his body rejecting what he'd done and what he was covering up.

Bleach wasn't enough—he needed multiple cleaning agents, different chemicals to break down different evidence. The methodology felt like a betrayal of his scientific training.

The cleaning rags joined the fire. The barrel would burn for hours, reducing everything to ash.

Jake showered until the hot water ran cold, then dressed in clean clothes with hands that still trembled. Jean shorts, an old t-shirt, tennis shoes—normal clothes for a normal person, which he no longer was.

Jake stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and didn't recognize the hollow-eyed stranger looking back. In the span of one night, he had crossed a line that changed everything. There was no going back to who he used to be, no returning to the life he'd known.

The coverup was still incomplete, the silver Altima remained in his driveway like an accusation.

Someone would come looking for Paul eventually.

Someone always did.

Chapter 4

Jake went out to the rental car again and checked once more for a cell phone, his hands still trembling despite the shower and clean clothes.

The silver Nissan Altima sat innocently in his driveway, the morning sun glinting off its windshield like an accusation. He opened the car and searched the glove box again. Still empty except for the rental paperwork. The Hertz keychain caught his attention—the tag attached said it could be "Dropped off Anywhere."

Odd, he thought, who doesn't carry a phone to a random hookup? The question should have been reassuring, but instead it made his skin crawl. What kind of person travels without a phone? Go what if he was some married closet case and didn’t use a phone when he tricked? Jake thought about a hysterical wife calling the cops when her husband didn’t come home.

Jake studied the tag more carefully. It wasn't the standard Hertz tag he was familiar with, but part of their car-sharing service—a relatively new program that allowed more flexible returns. A stroke of luck he desperately needed.

Back inside the house, the smell of bleach still hung in the air despite his efforts to ventilate. Jake pulled on dark clothes—a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a heavy sweatshirt over his t-shirt despite the oppressive summer heat. The weight of the extra clothing felt like armor against the watching world.

Standing before the mirror in his hallway, Jake barely recognized himself. The cap pulled low over his bloodshot eyes, the dark glasses hiding the hollow stare of a man who'd crossed an unthinkable line. The baggy clothes altered his silhouette, making him look softer, less defined. Less like someone capable of caving in a skull with kitchen marble.

His reflection reminded him of the security videos he'd seen on crime shows—grainy figures in hoodies, faces obscured, walking away from scenes of violence. Now he was that figure.

Jake sat in the driver's seat, his gloved hands gripping the steering wheel. The leather still held Paul's scent—woodsy cologne with hints of citrus, now mixed with the metallic undertone of dried blood that seemed to follow Jake everywhere. The smell made his stomach lurch, but he forced himself to breathe through his mouth and focus.

He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers and researched the drop-off service. The car could be returned to designated Hertz locations without staff interaction, checked in electronically using a key code. Albany International Airport was forty-five minutes away—far enough to create distance, busy enough to provide cover.

But airports meant cameras. Hundreds of them. Jake's medical background had taught him about evidence, about the microscopic traces that could destroy lives. Every surface he touched, every breath he took in this car, was potential evidence linking him to Paul's disappearance.

The engine started with disturbing normalcy, a sound that belonged to the ordinary world he'd left behind in his kitchen. Three-quarters tank of gas—more than enough for what he needed to do. His watch read 9:38 AM. Sunday morning. Church bells would be ringing across the county while he disposed of evidence.

The irony wasn't lost on him. While decent people sought absolution in prayer, he was committing new sins to cover the worst one.

As he backed the Nissan out of his driveway, Jake felt that same disconnection from the night before—as if he were watching someone else make these decisions. The same feeling he'd had standing over Paul's body, watching his own hands work with clinical precision to dismember what had once been human.

He stopped at his property gate, the old farm barrier creaking on rusty hinges as he opened it. The sound seemed obscenely loud in the morning quiet. From now on, this gate would stay locked. Another barrier between him and the world, another defense against discovery.

The county road was mercifully empty. Jake had driven these routes for years, but now every familiar landmark felt foreign, contaminated by what he'd become. The old Methodist church where he'd attended services as a child looked like a judge. The farmhouse where Mrs. Henderson used to sell vegetables seemed to watch him pass with knowing eyes.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, faint traces of bleach still embedded in the creases despite his scrubbing. Evidence of his night's work that he couldn't entirely erase.

Each oncoming car made his heart race. A pickup truck with local plates, a family heading to church, a teenager on a bicycle—all potential witnesses who might remember the nervous man in the rental car. Did his guilt show? Could they sense what he'd done just hours before?

Dark clouds were building in the western sky, heavy with the promise of afternoon rain. Jake found himself hoping it would pour—rain to wash away any footprints near the barn, to dilute any blood droplets he might have missed in his frantic cleanup. Nature helping to erase his crimes.

The fifteen-minute drive to I-90 felt endless. When he finally merged with highway traffic, Jake felt marginally safer. Anonymity in numbers. Just another vehicle among hundreds, another traveler with innocent destinations.

The return trip would require careful planning—an Uber would leave digital records, but a taxi paid in cash might be untraceable. Every decision had to be calculated now, every choice weighed against the possibility of exposure.

As Albany grew closer, Jake rehearsed his movements. Park in the return lot. Wipe down surfaces. Drop the keys. Walk calmly away. Simple actions that would sever his connection to Paul forever—if he was lucky.

But Paul's face kept intruding on his concentration. That look of shock frozen in death, mouth open in surprise. The way his skull had given way against the marble with that wet, terrible crack. The sound he imagined would haunt him forever.

A memory fragments surfaced—Paul's dismissive laugh when Jake confronted him about the fake photos. That same arrogant tone, the casual cruelty of someone who thought they could take whatever they wanted. The catalyst for rage. Jake didn’t even know if they were real.

For a wild moment, passing the exit for the state police barracks, Jake considered stopping. Walking in and confessing everything. The weight of his secret already felt unbearable, and it had only been hours. How would he carry this for years?

His foot lifted toward the brake before survival instinct kicked in. No. Confession meant life in prison, meant dying as a killer. He couldn't trust the system to understand what had really happened. Shit, he didn’t know what happened.

Besides, had it really been murder? Maybe it had been self-defense. Maybe Paul had threatened him. Maybe he was one of the gay-bashing guys who preyed on men. He read something about this. Didn’t he?

The exit for Albany Airport appeared ahead. Once he abandoned this car, he could return home and figure out his next move. Maybe Paul had been a drifter, someone whose disappearance wouldn't be noticed for weeks. Maybe Jake would get lucky with a victim who had no family, no friends, no one to file reports. His mind kept going to places that gave him time and an excuses.

So many maybes built on hope and desperation. But one certainty: he had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. Jacob McCann was now a killer.

The Hertz return area was nearly deserted—a few scattered vehicles and no attendants visible. Perfect. Jake parked in a designated spot, his eyes constantly scanning for security cameras. He kept his face angled downward, the cap's brim shielding his features as he methodically wiped down every surface his gloves had touched.

The key drop was a moment of finality. Once that metal hit the bottom of the box, his last physical connection to Paul would be severed. Jake held the keys for a heartbeat, feeling their weight, then let them fall.

Walking toward the terminal felt like crossing a minefield. Every security guard seemed to study him; every traveler appeared suspicious of his heavy clothes in the summer heat. Sweat soaked through his layers, making the fabric cling uncomfortably to his skin. A TSA agent's gaze lingered—or did it? Paranoia was becoming his new reality.

He waved down a taxi. It smelled of stale cigarettes and fake pine air freshener, a combination that made Jake's still-queasy stomach lurch. The driver, a heavyset man with bloodshot eyes, glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Jake avoided eye contact, keeping his face angled toward the window.

"Where to?" The voice was gravelly, worn down by years of smoke and late-night fares.

"Rensselaer train station," Jake replied, his voice steadier than he felt. The station would be another connection point, another layer of separation between him and the airport. Multiple stops, multiple forms of transportation, harder to track.

During the ride, Jake calculated timing. It was 10:42 AM—he'd need to move quickly to catch a Hudson-bound train. Every minute in public was another opportunity for recognition, another chance for cameras to record his face.

At the station, Jake walked across the bridge spanning the tracks, then casually tossed his hat and sunglasses over the railing. The items tumbled down toward the rails below, where they'd be destroyed by the next freight train or simply lost among the industrial debris.

A public trash can near the bridge's end received his sweatshirt. The fabric disappeared among coffee cups and newspapers, just more urban refuse. Across the street, under the highway overpass, a small basketball court provided perfect cover. Jake sat on a weathered bench and stripped off his sweatpants, rolling them into a tight ball.

To any observer, he was just another guy preparing for a pickup game on a Sunday morning. The transformation was remarkable—in minutes, he'd gone from suspicious figure in heavy clothes to casual traveler in jeans and a t-shirt.

The nearby Dunkin' Donuts was busy with after-church traffic. Jake ordered black coffee with cash, his hands steady now that he was becoming anonymous again. The caffeine was bitter and hot, grounding him in the moment.

Back at the station, he bought a copy of Time magazine and found a bench with a view of the tracks. The familiar ritual of waiting for public transportation felt surreal after the morning's activities. Around him, other passengers checked phones, read books, lived their normal lives.

If they only knew what he'd done hours before, how he'd spent his night dismembering a human being like a deer carcass. The thought made him dizzy with horror and disbelief.

At 12:50 PM, the train arrived with mechanical precision. Jake walked aboard, finding a window seat where he could watch the countryside roll past. The conductor's approach was routine—a tired man checking tickets on another Sunday run.

"Late for the train," Jake explained, forcing normalcy into his voice. "Need to pay on board. Just going to Hudson."

"Nineteen dollars."

Jake handed him a twenty-dollar bill, the transaction as ordinary as buying groceries. The conductor moved on without a second glance, leaving Jake alone with his reflection in the window and the growing weight of what he'd become.

Outside, the Hudson Valley landscape passed in a blur of green fields and old barns. Beautiful country that had always given him peace. Now it looked different—not sanctuary, but potential hiding places for evidence, for secrets, for the scattered remains of Paul.

The train carried him toward home, toward the property where blood still stained his memory and Paul's bones lay hidden in the forest. Each mile marker brought him closer to his new reality as a man who had killed and would have to live with that knowledge forever.

The coffee had gone cold in his hands, but Jake held onto the cup anyway, needing something solid and real to anchor him as his old life disappeared behind him like the countryside outside his window.

To be continued.