It was called tribal knifemaking; the art of turning old scraps of steel like lawnmower blades, support cables, and car springs into magnificent hand-crafted knives using only the most basic of tools and a homemade forge. Sam Conwell had studied the works of the masters, the men like Tai Goo and Tim Lively who sat in their backyards wrestling beautiful edged weapons from the metal with hammer, chisel and stone. He’d bought books. He’d watched videos. He’d practiced. And practiced, and practiced.

Sam Conwell had a desire that burned like the core of his washtub forge, and all the time in the world. Now.

He stood, enjoying the feel of the evening breeze as it dried the sweat from his face, and lit a cigarette. He felt no anticipation, just the sweet placidity of a man nearing a point of total peace in his life. Sam had sensed it after supper, as he returned to his primitive smithy, and knew in his bones that tonight would be the night. He hadn’t hesitated in setting his special blank into the coals, the one piece of steel he’d been saving until he was ready.

A lot of the books suggested coil springs from Japanese imports if you were going to use car parts in knifemaking; Sam’s was from the front of a Chevy Caprice. He’d removed it from the junked car months ago, pounded it straight, and then set it aside. It hadn’t been touched since.

He flipped his cigarette butt into the darkness, holding in the last drag until his lungs ached. He knew that once started, there would be no stopping until it was done.

Gloves, hammer, tongs. With one fluid movement he drew the glowing bar from the forge and laid it on his anvil. Up went the hammer. Down. Sparks flew as steel kissed steel. Sweat pouring from his forehead as he worked over the bar rained onto the metal with a hiss that was lost in the steady metronome beat of the hammer.

Pound it. Reheat it. Pound it some more. A gentle flip of the wrist to set it edgewise against the anvil as he shaped the beveled edge of the blade. Short, solid down-strokes to mold the tang that would eventually be wrapped as the handle. Light taps as he finished, smoothing the emerging knife and removing detritus.

Sam had learned through long and sometimes mistake-riddled practice exactly what color the steel should be for each step of the finishing processes, but on this night he was running on pure instinct. He could have done it blindfolded. He normalized, ground, annealed and quenched the metal with confidence, not bothering to pause for inspection or to double-check his work. It felt right, and he knew without looking that it was right.

Filing and sanding left him with a ten inch knife that wasn’t the prettiest thing he had ever crafted, but which shaved the hair from his arm and drew blood when he ran a fingertip across the edge. Perfect. Limping, he carried it into the house like a holy relic and set it on the table.

Ages ago he had cut the strips of cloth, braiding them in preparation for this moment. He slathered the tang with epoxy, and then wrapped the green and blue plaid in tight coils from hilt to blade. Like everything in the creation of this knife had been, it wasn’t perfect.

But it was right.

Leaving it to set, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and went back outside for his first cigarette in hours.

The braces were long gone, but Sam’s knee was still a deformed lump that made driving a car difficult and painful in the extreme. Painful… but not impossible. He pulled to a stop in front of Casey’s house just as the morning sun was cresting the trees and staggered from the car in agony, stretching for a minute before taking the knife from the passenger seat. Grimacing, he shuffled to the door and knocked.

“What do you want this goddamned early?” asked Casey, when at last he opened the door. His eyes widened as he realized who it was.

“Morning Casey,” said Sam. “I’ve got a present for you.” He grabbed Casey’s dirty t-shirt in one hand, bringing the knife around with his other in a smooth arc that tore through half of Casey’s throat.

In a hot spray of blood they collapsed backwards into the hallway.

“Oh my christ, what a mess,” said Detective Barnett, fighting back his gag reflex as they surveyed the ruined body that had once been a man. “What the hell happened here?”

His partner, Detective Pangborne, consulted his notes. “Well the victim, name of Barry Casey, just got released from prison two days ago. He was up on a jolt for D.U.I. and vehicular manslaughter. Seems he got drunk and rammed a family on their way home from the movies, killed the mother and the little girl. Father was in critical condition, but pulled through.”

“Let me guess,” said Barnett. “The guy we pulled out of here in a straight-jacket?”

“Got it in one; Sam Conwell. We sent some guys over to his house and they found the car from the accident still in his backyard, next to a whole amateur blacksmithing setup. That explains the homemade murder weapon. Looks like he made it himself from part of his wife’s car.”

Barnett held up the evidence bag containing the knife and whistled. “Wicked looking thing,” he said.

“See the handle on that?” Pangborne pointed. “They found the little girl’s carseat in Conwell’s closet, had strips of the seat cover cut out. Around her dried blood no less. Same green-and-blue pattern. He made it out of that.”

“Damn, talk about making a point.”

“You almost have to feel bad for Casey,” said Pangborne. “To do all that time only to come home…”

He looked at the knife.

“…and find out you got killed in that car wreck after all.”