Excerpt from The Animals:

All I’m saying is, it seems to me things were going wrong with Tom Keller already when those two uncles of his took him out in the woods at night and had him do things a nine-year-old boy has no business doing yet. His father, Frank, couldn’t have approved either. But I don’t think Frank knew, in fact, even if he wasn’t behind bars yet, not back then.
But he was going to find out soon enough, he was going to find out what we were all going to find out: Johan and Charles took that poor kid out with them on the longest night of winter, in that stinky, rattletrap Volvo of theirs with a length of wire strung between the wheels, racing that thing like all get-out down the frozen dirt roads, and then they had that boy, their own kin, their nephew, walk back from the end of the track to scrape the decapitated rabbits off the ground.
Those two didn’t even look back. They were in a foul mood, they were; the animals were skittish that night, a storm was blowing in.
The warm funk in the Volvo had to have stunk of full-strength tobacco and sweat, and of the brace of dead hares, polecats and pheasants they’d already dressed and laid out on the rear shelf.