Heartwood
an excerpt

It wasn't a raccoon. It had a wizened old baby's face, the blue eyes open and staring. He didn't want to drop it, but he didn't want to touch it either. It lay at an angle, half out of the bucket balanced on the edge of the barrel. It had pointed raccoon ears and thick, matted fur. It was round and bulky like a raccoon, and Frank was sure he'd picked it up by the tail last night.

But that face. It was small, not much bigger than his fist. It was dark, like an Indian's face, and it had a mask that looked painted on. He started to reach out to touch it, but stopped. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Those eyes, blue as a newborn baby's.

And then he remembered the first raccoon he'd caught, when he was 10 years old. His dogs had treed a whole nest of them, and one of them, younger and more foolish than the rest, had run for it. It had squalled and shrieked horribly, like someone torturing a baby, as the dogs ripped it apart. He'd run home crying to his mother, but his father had made him retrieve the tangled mess the dogs had left and skin it himself. See now, his father had said, it's just a dirty animal. It had been dirty, mud and blood matted in the fur. The rags that were left were no good to sell. He'd buried it out behind the shed that night.

He shook himself a little. This wasn't a raccoon. Or if it was, it was some bizarre mutant. Immediately, he thought of David. His son was a biologist at the university in the city an hour away. He'd make a trip up to see David tomorrow and take him this speciman. Frank felt a lot better. There had to be an explanation of such a bizarre thing. David would know.

Quickly, touching the thing as little as possible, he tipped it back in the bucket and took it back to the garage. He started to wash his hands at the outside spigot, but thought better of it and went in the house to use soap.