Cupid
The blaring buzz of the alarm clock woke Mallory Bickford from a sound slumber. A part of her brain still not fully awake hoped her husband would turn it off. Then as the annoying sound continued to penetrate her sluggish mind, she remembered that she was divorced and that there had been no one sleeping on the other side of the queen bed for more than three years. Yawning, she leaned across the emptiness and hit the OFF button.
It's cold in here, she thought when she threw off her blankets and placed her bare feet on the wood floor.
She supposed she ought to turn the heat up, but she spent so little time in her apartment that doing so would be a waste of both money and fuel. After wrapping her shivering body in a heavy fleece robe and stepping into a pair of fuzzy slippers, Mallory walked out to the kitchen and turned on the coffeepot. The caffeine, coupled with the hot shower, helped her face the day ahead. She went to her closet and took out a white, tailored blouse, navy blue blazer and matching pants—her unofficial uniform. The remainder of her morning routine took less than ten minutes: brush her hair and teeth and make her bed. Unlike most women, the homicide detective did not bother with makeup, not even lipstick or mascara.
When Mallory pulled into the station house parking lot, her partner, Scott Keogh, was waiting for her on the front steps, the keys to their unmarked police car in his hand.
"Going somewhere?" she asked.
"We've got a body over on Fifty-Fourth Street."
The detective reluctantly got into the passenger seat of the specially equipped Chevy Tahoe and immediately buckled her seatbelt as Scott gunned the engine.
"Who taught you how to drive, Mario Andretti?" she asked as he raced along the city streets with a detachable flashing light on the roof of the car.
In what seemed like record time, they arrived at the apartment building where the victim lived.
"You can open your eyes now," Scott said, after turning off the engine.
"Oh, good! We've landed."
"Go ahead and make fun of my driving, but I'm one of the few people on the force who never had an accident."
A uniformed officer stood at the door of Apartment 7B, making sure only authorized personnel entered. He nodded respectfully and stepped aside to let the two detectives pass by him. The police photographer had just finished taking pictures of the crime scene, and a forensic team was already collecting carpet and hair fibers, examining blood spatter patterns and dusting for fingerprints.
"Cause of death seems fairly evident," Mallory announced once she saw the victim lying on the living room floor with the shaft of an arrow protruding through her chest.
"Who do you think did it?" Scott joked with his partner. "William Tell or Robin Hood?"
"Neither," she replied, noticing a gold foil cherub mounted on a red flocked heart placed on the carpet beside the body. "I'd say it was Cupid."
"Isn't it a little late for Valentine's Day? It's May, not February."
"Haven't you two got anything better to do than stand around here making lame jokes?"
The detectives turned at the sound of a familiar voice. It belonged to Raina Lauter, the medical examiner.
"This is an easy one for your, Doc. No need for either an autopsy or a tox screen," Scott suggested.
"You don't mind if I do my job, do you, Detective?"
"Go ahead and knock yourself out."
"Oh, and by the way," Raina said, giving them one of her quirky smiles. "Since I was born on December 12, my money is on Sagittarius the Archer being the killer."
* * *
Detective Scott Keogh had little interest in Dr. Lauter's autopsy report when it was placed on his desk. The exact size of the entry wound and the precise details of the damage the arrow did to the victim's heart would not help him catch the killer. In his opinion, such information was just medical mumbo jumbo designed to impress a jury when the district attorney or one of his assistants brought a murder case to trial. Mallory Bickford, on the other hand, was eager to read it.
"Why bother with that?" Scott asked, preferring to read the report from the forensics lab. "It was an arrow through the heart that killed her. I'm more interested in knowing the details about the arrow itself. What brand is it? Who manufactures them? Where are they sold? How easy are they to obtain?"
His partner ignored him as she read Raina's conclusions.
"Aha!" she exclaimed when she made it halfway down the typed page. "The murder weapon wasn't a bow and arrow at all, Lt. Smartass."
"Oh, no? Then that was the damnedest looking knife I ever saw sticking out of her chest."
"It wasn't a knife either. The killer used a crossbow."
"Is there much of a difference between a crossbow and a bow and arrow?"
"Apparently, a crossbow uses a quarrel or bolt rather than a traditional arrow that archers use with a bow. Quarrels not only have more square-shaped heads, but they are also typically shorter than regular arrows."
"A crossbow, huh? Maybe we ought to forget about both William Tell and Robin Hood and put out an APB for Daryl Dixon."
"I would agree with you if our victim were a zombie."
Scott took the medical examiner's report from his partner and returned it to his inbox.
"Where to?" he asked as they prepared to start a new day of investigation.
"I'd like to talk to the victim's friends and coworkers and see if she had any enemies or a jilted boyfriend," Mallory replied. "Maybe we'll be lucky and find one who's a Walking Dead fanatic."
"I don't think your jilted boyfriend scenario holds any water in this case. An inventory of the contents of her wallet indicates she was a card-carrying member of the local LGBT rights group."
"So, she was a lesbian. Maybe she had a jilted girlfriend."
"Okay," Scott said, taking his car keys out of his pocket. "We'll go question some of her known associates, but first I'd like to stop at Dick's Sporting Goods store and see if they have a list of customers who might have purchased crossbows."
* * *
A month into the investigation the two detectives had not found a single person of interest yet alone a bona fide suspect when they received news of a second murder, followed two weeks later by a third. All three homicides had the same MO. Not only were the victims all shot with a crossbow, but in each case the quarrels were of the same make. Although not identical to the one found at the first crime scene, there were also paper cupids and valentine hearts found at the other two. Furthermore—and of more importance as far as the detectives were concerned—all three women belonged to the Sappho Sisters LGBT rights organization."
Since the group was the common denominator linking the three victims, Bickford and Keogh focused their investigation on the other members. Many of the women felt uncomfortable speaking about personal subjects to a man, so Scott followed up on other leads while his partner conducted the interviews.
"Any luck?" he asked when the two met up for lunch later that afternoon.
"No. Other than the fact that the three women all belonged to the same organization, there's nothing else that they appear to have in common. One was a criminal defense lawyer, one a college student and one a secretary for a tax accountant. There's nothing that even leads me to believe they socialized with each other."
"What about their love life?"
"The secretary was the only one in a serious relationship. The other two were both too busy to date much."
Before biting into his half-pound cheeseburger, Scott suggested, "Maybe we're not dealing with a crime of passion here. It could be the paper cupids left at the scene of each murder were meant to deliberately throw us off track."
Mallory chewed a forkful of her mixed greens salad as she considered her partner's suggestion.
"Nothing was missing from any of the crime scenes, so we can rule out robbery," she said, thinking aloud. "None of the women were sexually assaulted. If we rule out jealousy and revenge, the most common reasons for a crime of passion, that leaves us with ... what?"
"A hate crime."
"You're suggesting these three women were murdered just because of their sexual orientation?"
"I'm no expert on such matters, but I have heard of instances where straight men murdered homosexual men. I imagine it's the same with gay women."
"You think a straight woman shot our three victims with a crossbow?"
"I'm just saying it's possible."
After leaving the diner, the two detectives returned to the police station. While they were there, a call came in reporting a fourth murder. It was no surprise that the victim had been shot through the heart with a crossbow bolt. It was even less of a surprise that she belonged to the Sappho Sisters.
* * *
Late one Friday afternoon, Scott and his partner were called into the chief of detectives' office. With four unsolved murders hanging over their heads, Mallory assumed they were about to face the chief's wrath.
"The FBI is sending one of their agents from the Behavioral Science Unit to take a look into this Cupid case," he informed them. "This is no reflection on the two of you. I know how hard you've both been working. In fact, I'm giving each of you a day off. Keogh, you stay home tomorrow. Bickford, you take Sunday off."
Mallory was going to argue that she did not need the time off, but having worked long hours on the recent killings, she often got as little as three hours of sleep at night. While she was a dedicated law officer, she was no martyr.
With nothing to watch on television on a Sunday afternoon except sporting events and old movies, the detective decided to leave the confines of her apartment and spend the day outdoors. The clear blue sky and seventy-degree temperature provided all the encouragement she needed. Her intention was to drive to Washington Park where she would rent a bicycle, but on the way there she passed a sign advertising a renaissance faire being held at the nearby state college campus.
Why not? she asked herself on the spur of the moment. I've never been to one before. I might have a good time.
After Mallory paid her admission fee and entered the fairgrounds, she immediately felt out of place. Nearly all the attendees were wearing period outfits, even though many looked more like Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones-inspired Halloween costumes than authentic renaissance garments.
Despite her twenty-first-century apparel, Mallory enjoyed the Old English atmosphere of the marketplace where she sampled lavender honey, watched a blacksmith demonstrate forging techniques, devoured a turkey leg that she ate with her bare hands and purchased a Celtic knot necklace for her teenage niece. She then followed the sound of pipe music to the royal courtyard where visitors could meet the king and queen. As she was waiting in line to be introduced to their majesties, she looked across the "shire" where an exhibition on medieval weaponry was being held. It was an event more to her liking than meeting an actor pretending to be one of England's long-dead Henrys or Edwards.
Mallory took a seat on the wooden bleachers and watched a tall, muscular, fair-haired young man with piercing blue eyes give a show-and-tell presentation featuring an assortment of swords, daggers, axes and maces. After putting an English halberd back on the rack, he picked up a five-foot-tall bow and a quiver of arrows.
"This longbow," he announced, "is the weapon that helped Edward III cripple the French at the Battle of Crécy. It also played a large part in Henry V's victory at Agincourt."
As he described the construction of the bowstave, he placed the knock of an arrow on the string and, after taking aim, released it. A moment later the projectile hit its mark: the yellow bull's-eye in the center of his target. The detective winced when she heard the force with which the arrow struck. While not as commonly used as a bullet, in the proper hands, it could be just as lethal.
When the demonstration came to an end, Mallory made her way through the exiting crowd to the exhibition area where the archer was retrieving his arrow.
"You're pretty good with that thing," she called to him.
"I ought to be," he replied, making no pretense of modesty. "I took home the gold at the 2004 Olympics in Athens. Hell, I was practically born with a bow in my hand. Are you interested in archery?"
"I am at the moment," she answered as she took her badge out of her pocket and held it up where he could see.
"Police, huh? I suppose this has something to do with the women who were killed."
"Detective Mallory Bickford, homicide. Do you have a few moments to speak with me?"
"Sure. My next demonstration isn't for another two hours. Why don't we go over to the refreshment stand and get a mug of beer or a glass of lemonade?"
"Why don't we begin by you telling me your name?" Mallory said after taking a sip of unsweetened iced tea.
"Hadrian Purefoy."
"Adrian?"
"No. Hadrian with an 'H.'"
"As in Hadrian's Wall?"
"Yes. Like me, my mother was a history professor. She was somewhat obsessed with the Roman Empire, so she named my brother and me after emperors: Hadrian and Trajan. I suppose it could have been worse," he said with a smile that caused the detective's pulse to race. "She could have chosen Romulus and Remus."
"Or Nero and Caligula."
"True. Now, what did you want to ask me, Detective?"
"During your demonstration, you said it was difficult to master a longbow, that it took years of training and practice for medieval archers to be combat-ready. How easy is it to kill with a crossbow?"
"About as easy as it is to shoot a person with a gun. I, myself, hate them with a passion. In the medieval world archers earned the respect of society with their skill. The bow was a far more elegant weapon, and it was a matter of pride to shoot an arrow."
After an hour of hearing the professor's impromptu lecture on the merits of the longbow versus those of the crossbow, Mallory learned nothing that would help her find the Cupid Killer. However, she did realize that despite his arrogance, she was developing a major crush on Hadrian Purefoy. When they parted company just prior to his next medieval weapons demonstration, they agreed to meet for dinner the following week.
* * *
"You're seeing that cop again tonight, aren't you?"
Trajan was being difficult again, as he had been ever since his brother began dating Detective Mallory Bickford.
"I like her," Hadrian pithily explained.
"You never learn; do you?" his brother taunted.
"She's different. She's not like her at all."
Neither one mentioned Laura Hammett by name. They never did. Like Lord Voldemort, she was one who must not be named.
"Really? You'd better hope not. You know what a disaster that was!"
"Not all women are like her," the history professor argued. "Mallory Bickford is quite possibly the most wonderful woman I've ever met."
"You said that about her, too," Trajan cruelly reminded him.
"I don't want to hear any more about her. That relationship is over and done with. I've moved on. In fact, I never even think about her anymore. You're the one who keeps bringing her up."
"You forget, brother, I was the one who had to help pick up the pieces after she left. I don't want to see you get destroyed again."
"I won't be. When you meet Mallory, you'll see how wonderful she is. In fact, she may be 'the one.'"
"I hope so, for your sake," Trajan said, trying to keep the doubt he felt out of his voice.
* * *
Another murder—the fifth victim of the Cupid Killer. As the body count continued to rise, Detectives Bickford and Keogh, along with the plainclothes policemen and uniformed officers assigned to the task force, were subjected to increased pressure from superiors and the public alike.
"I say we go back and re-interview the members of the Sappho Sisters," Scott suggested during the weekly progress meeting.
"While there are still some left alive," Mallory added, resorting to black humor as she often did when feeling the strain of her job.
Her partner reached for his cup of coffee, the third in under an hour, and stared at her over the rim of the cardboard cup. The normally attractive detective looked exhausted to the point of being haggard.
"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?" he inquired.
"My freshman year in high school."
"Very funny. Maybe you should pursue a career in stand-up comedy."
"I'm too tired to stand up. Do they have such a thing as sit-down comedy?"
"The Sappho Sisters," Scott said, becoming serious again. "Do you want to question them together or should we split up and cover more ground that way?"
"Together. That way if one of them gets too nervous talking to a man, you can excuse yourself and let me handle it."
The detective took his keys out of his pocket and tossed his empty cup in the trashcan.
"Just give me a minute," Mallory announced. "I want to check my email first. I'm expecting to hear back from the last victim's employer."
"Okay. I'll wait for you in the car."
As Mallory watched the barrage of emails being downloaded, one name immediately caught her attention. She clicked on the link and opened it. The message was a short and cryptic one: Ask my brother about Laura Hammett. T. Purefoy. Why had Trajan sent her an email? She had never even met him. And who was Laura Hammett?
I don't have time for this now, she thought with annoyance directed at her boyfriend's brother. If he has something to say, why not simply come out and tell me?
With no sign of the email she had been expecting, she closed the program and went to join her partner. As she sat white-knuckled in the speeding, unmarked car, praying no other vehicles or pedestrians crossed the path of her heavy-footed partner, her mind briefly wandered to her personal life. With the murder investigation monopolizing most of her time, Mallory had little opportunity to see Hadrian. For the most part, his calls and text messages went unanswered. It was not that her feelings for him had changed; she merely did not have the time for romantic entanglements with a serial killer at large.
Is that why Trajan sent me that email? she wondered. Is that his subtle way of reminding me that I'm in a serious relationship and need to pay more attention to Hadrian?
Normally, Mallory would think it odd, that a brother would involve himself in his sibling's love life. However, Hadrian told her that he and Trajan were extremely close. Since childhood, Trajan had assumed the role of his brother's protector, and despite their now being in their thirties, he had yet to relinquish that responsibility.
If we do get married someday, she thought, it's not a meddlesome mother-in-law I'll have to contend with but a bothersome brother-in-law.
* * *
"So, she finally called you back, did she?" Trajan asked with a sneer.
Hadrian closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
"Don't start again. She's been overwhelmed with this investigation."
"Too overwhelmed to send a text? A simple emoji would do."
"I don't want to get into this with you. All right? So back off."
Trajan smiled and became less bellicose.
"Your forget. I'm on your side. I just want you to be happy."
"And I am," Hadrian insisted.
"Are you?"
"For your information, once this killer is caught, I'm going to ask Mallory to marry me. For now ...."
"What?" Trajan asked.
"I think I'll suggest we move in together. At least that way I'd get to see her more often."
"And if she says no?"
"I'll understand. She's not like me. I work a nine-to-four job teaching British history to college students who would rather be back at their dorms getting wasted. She wants to catch this psycho so that no more innocent women have to die."
"Yeah, I get that. Miss Bickford is a selfless public servant who wants to serve and protect the people of the city. Good for her, but not so good for you—or for me since I'll have to be the one to pick up the pieces when she drops you."
* * *
As usual, Mallory was ready when Hadrian arrived at her apartment. Her unfailing punctuality was just one of the many things he admired about her.
"Where are we going?" she inquired as he opened the car door for her.
That was another thing he liked about here: she did not mind if he occasionally played the old-fashioned gentleman.
"I thought I'd surprise you," he said.
When he took the entrance ramp to the interstate, she knew he was heading out of the city. She kicked her shoes off, leaned back on the seat and relaxed, content to let him take the lead. As though by tacit agreement, neither of them spoke about the case Mallory was working on, nor did the subject of archery or medieval history come up.
"Do you realize that in all the times I've been in your car you've never once had the music playing?" she asked.
"I turn the stereo off when I pick you up," he explained. "I enjoy our conversations, and I don't want the music to spoil them."
"Music doesn't spoil anything," she laughed. "I've always got my radio on in the background. It helps relieve the stress of the job."
"All right. I'll put on some music if it will make you feel better," he said as he leaned over and turned on the stereo.
"I've got to warn you, though, that I'm the kind of person who sings along with the songs even if I don't know the words."
The oldie "Ferry Cross the Mersey" by Gerry and the Pacemakers began playing.
"I haven't heard this song in ages!" Mallory exclaimed. "What station is this?"
"It's not the radio; it's a mix I made. I'm a fan of the golden oldies. I guess it comes from my lifelong love of history."
As Hadrian drove toward the mountains where he planned on a romantic candlelight dinner for two at a secluded country inn, they were entertained by the music of the Four Seasons, the Beatles, the Temptations, Elvis Presley, the Shirelles and other great artists from the past.
* * *
Scott Keogh spent his day off with his wife, Maggie. After going out to brunch, they returned home and sat in the living room, to watch instant Netflix. While he preferred a good action movie—something with Dwayne Johnson or Vin Diesel—his wife was more a Nicholas Sparks-inspired movie fan. They compromised and opted to put on a comedy, although neither of them found it funny.
Halfway through the movie, Maggie began thumbing through a magazine. Meanwhile, Scott opened his laptop.
"Checking your email?" Maggie asked.
"Actually, I wanted to print something out for work. The printer at the station was down again."
It never bothered his wife when he occasionally brought the job home with him. Being married to a cop, she was just thankful that he came home alive.
"What's that?" she asked, looking over his shoulder.
"It's a list of members of the National Field Archery Association."
"You think the Cupid Killer belongs to it?"
"Who knows? But it's worth ...."
Scott's hands momentarily froze on the keyboard.
"I'll be damned!" he cried.
* * *
Hadrian had planned on asking Mallory to move in with him during dinner that evening, but he could not wait any longer. They were still a mile from the inn when he pulled into a clearing in the woods.
"Why are we stopping here?" Mallory asked. "Are we going to have a picnic?"
"No. There's something I've been meaning to ask you," he began.
Everything went as planned. He told her he loved her, he kissed her and he asked the question in a way he was sure she could not refuse.
"I love you, too," she replied.
Then his carefully plotted script was forgotten. It suddenly became open mic night at the Improv.
"Who is Laura Hammett?" Mallory asked, taking Hadrian by complete surprise.
"Where did you hear that name?" he uttered, his voice quivering with emotion.
"I received an email from your brother the other day, suggesting I ask you about her."
"Damn it, Trajan!" Hadrian swore under his breath.
"Well, who is she?"
"I don't want to talk about her."
"Why not? If we're going to take this relationship to the next level, I expect you to be open and honest with me."
"It's all in the past. Why should it matter to you? Do I ask you about your ex-husband?"
Warning bells went off. Mallory had never seen Hadrian get angry before, and she did not like what she saw.
"Maybe it's too soon in our relationship to talk about moving in together," she suggested. "Besides, I'm right in the middle of this case and ...."
Not bothering to listen to the rest of what she had to say, Hadrian got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. She saw him walk away from the car and assumed he wanted time to cool off. After all, where would he go? They were in the middle of nowhere.
Even if he decides to hitchhike back to the city, she reasoned, at least he left the keys in the car.
Mallory leaned over and turned the key in the ignition to the accessories position. Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman" was just coming to an end when she heard the trunk open behind her.
"What's he doing?" she wondered.
After a brief interval of silence, the next song began. She recognized it at once. There was a time when the smooth, soulful voice of Sam Cooke would have brought an immediate smile to her face. Perhaps if it had been another song, it still might have. However, the lyrics triggered unpleasant associations.
"Cupid, draw back your bow and let your arrow go straight to my lover's heart for me, for me."
The trunk slammed shut, and Mallory saw Hadrian's face in the side view mirror. The look in his piercing blue eyes was chilling. It was one she had seen before in the eyes of several men she and Scott had arrested for murder.
"Cupid, please hear my cry and let your arrow fly straight to my lover's heart for me."
"What's that he's ...?"
When she realized the answer to her unfinished question, her detective's instincts kicked in. Stretching over the center console, she hit the button on the driver's armrest to lock all the doors. Unable to get inside the car, Hadrian walked to the front of the vehicle, raised his arms and pointed the crossbow at Mallory. The quarrel he shot sent a massive web of cracks along the windshield, but it did not penetrate it. The detective's reprieve was short lived, though. The killer removed another bolt from his quiver, and there was little doubt the second one would obliterate the cracked windshield and pierce her heart.
"Why are you doing this?" she cried out.
"Because you're just like her," Hadrian replied in a voice that was much deeper than usual. "I told him that when he first began dating you, but he wouldn't listen."
"Like who? Laura Hammett?"
"That bitch! She pretended to be in love with him. He wanted to marry her, just like he wants to marry you. When she became pregnant, Hadrian was overjoyed. He was going to surprise her with an engagement ring—on Valentine's Day, of all times!"
Mallory knew her best chance of survival was to keep him talking.
"What went wrong?"
"He came home with the ring, only to find she'd left him and taken everything she owned with her. She used him! He was nothing to her but a sperm donor. She didn't love him; she wasn't capable of loving any man."
"So Laura Hammett was a lesbian," Mallory concluded.
The final, crucial pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Hadrian was not the Cupid Killer; Trajan was.
"When Laura left him, my brother fell to pieces. He tried to win her back, but she claimed he was stalking her. She even took out a restraining order against him. I convinced him to sue for custody of the child, but she and her girlfriend moved to France and took my niece with them."
"And the other women ... you didn't even know them, did you?"
"I knew they were all like her."
"Let me guess; Laura belonged to the Sappho Sisters."
"My brother was so shattered by her betrayal that he tried to commit suicide. I had to step in and pick up the pieces. And now you've gone and broken his heart."
As Trajan raised the crossbow, Mallory knew death was inevitable. She did not have sufficient time to climb over the console and start the car.
Suddenly, a shot rang out, and a hole appeared in Hadrian's forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. As he fell back, his finger pressed the trigger mechanism of the crossbow. The arrow harmlessly shot up in a vertical direction.
Mallory turned to see Scott Keogh approaching the car with his service revolver in hand. She was never so happy to see anyone in her life.
"I shot an arrow into the air," her partner recited as he lowered the gun. "It fell to earth, I knew not where, etc., etc."
"Poetry?" she asked, relief flooding over her.
"Yeah. Mario Andretti taught it to me after he taught me how to drive."
"Don't take this question the wrong way," Mallory said after Scott contacted the local police on his cell phone. "But what the hell are you doing here?"
"I was printing out a copy of the list of the members of the National Field Archery Association, and whose name do you think popped out at me?"
"Was it really so surprising to see Hadrian's name on the list? We know he was an expert archer."
"The name on the NFAA records was Hadrian Trajan Purefoy. When I realized the two brothers were actually one and the same man, I knew you were in trouble."
"But how did you find us? This place is far off the beaten track."
"Your professor asked me to suggest the perfect place for a romantic dinner. I not only told him about the inn, but I also gave him directions how to get there. As I was heading up here, I spotted his car in front of me. I've been following you both at a discreet distance for close to ten miles."
The local police arrived, and Mallory and Scott were happy to let them take control of the crime scene and see to the removal of the body. After promising to give them a statement the following day, Detective Keogh offered his partner a ride home.
She buckled her seatbelt and braced herself for his rapid acceleration. Unexpectedly, he never exceeded the speed limit by more than five miles an hour.
"Why are you driving so slowly?"
"I figured you had enough excitement for one evening."
"Thanks, Scott," she said, happy to be alive. "But not even your driving can compare with the terror of being in the crosshairs of a sociopath with a crossbow."
"Cupid" music and lyrics by Sam Cooke, released 1961 by RCA.
"The Arrow and the Song" poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Salem thought if he hunted mice with a bow and arrow, he could save time making one of his favorite snacks: mouse kabobs.
