The Trophy Hunter (6 page)

The oversized master bath had
his
and
hers
basins. A shower for
him.
A sunken tub for
her,
with shelves for bath oils, perfumes and pretty
wildlife figurines. Diana’s eyes hovered over an empty bottle of
L’Air du Temps that she’d kept because of the pair of white doves
on top.

Diana glanced tentatively at her image in the
long oval mirror. The angry redness of her scar waited under her
clothing although she continued to harbor the hope that some
miracle independent of time might erase it. Tired of being revolted
by her own image, she entered the shower after removing only her
outer clothing.
Irrational. So what? I’ve got the right.
She
pitched her bra and panties over the shower door, turned on the
water and let the pulsing warmth wash away the icky feeling.

As the warmth lulled her, Diana began to
unwind. Then something she couldn’t identify heightened her senses.
Some sound outside the room. Vague, but enough to command her
awareness.

Diana turned off the shower and stood
listening, trying to identify what had interrupted the moment of
relaxation. She remained motionless, dripping water, hearing
nothing but the plop-plop of drops and the gurgle of water down the
drain. Tendrils of wet hair clung to her neck like fingers.

What had she heard? Slowly, Diana opened the
shower door, grabbing a fluffy towel, drying herself as she stepped
out into the steamy room. She’d purposely not turned on the ceiling
fan, so that the steam would hide her reflection when she exited
the shower.

Leaving the shower door open, Diana stepped
soundlessly across the turquoise-colored rug, grabbed her favorite
dark green velour robe from its wall hook, and wrapped herself in
it before slowly turning the handle of the door to the hall.

There it was again. A creak, a tap, as if
someone was moving around downstairs. Repairing the security system
had seemed a low priority item.
Mistake!

Diana inched open the bathroom door and
peered out into the hallway. Then she remembered the nearest
phone─if she needed one─was in the bedroom, through the
other
door from the bathroom.

As she quietly closed and locked the bathroom
door, she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Diana dove
for the door to the master bedroom. The sickening sound of that
bedroom door being opened from the hall stopped her, jamming her
heart up into her throat.

Gathering courage, she inched open the door
to the bedroom. A man in a tan overcoat was opening the closet door
on the far side of the room. His back was to her, but instant
recognition turned terror into rage─partly pent-up from the day’s
events, but mostly built-up from the days that went before.

“What the hell are you doing here, Greg?”

“I have a draft of our property settlement
for you to go over,” replied Greg, turning toward her.

No intimacy surfaced in the looks that passed
between them. They could have been strangers caught up in an
inconvenience, thought Diana.

“You could’ve mailed it,” she snapped.

“I left some things in the closet.”

Diana clutched the green robe more tightly
around her, as if its folds could insulate her from this unwanted
exchange. “You’ll find the rest of your things in boxes in the
garage,” she said, glaring at him. “I’d like the keys, please. Do I
really need to change the locks?”

Greg backed toward the door to the hall,
looking as if their meeting was just as distasteful to him as it
was to her. “I’ll leave them on the table downstairs
after
I
get my boxes,” he said, dripping sarcasm.

Diana noted that he’d also dripped slushy
residue from his overshoes all across the off-white carpet.

“For your information,” he continued into her
angry silence, “I did ring the doorbell. When you didn’t answer, I
was going to use my key, but I didn’t need to. The door was
unlocked.” He turned curtly and hurried out of the room.

Liar! Diana’s memory of locking the front
door was fresh. Maybe it had been Greg at the office, snooping
around, leaving the door unlocked. But then she remembered she’d
had
that
lock changed.

Chapter 9

When he plays the disc, the Hunter expects
his reward: a full-body view of the luscious redhead getting out of
her shower. Sure, he anticipated some imperfections due to her
recent pregnancy. But those would soon be firmed up. She’s a
work-out freak. Now his mood goes dark, in contrast with the bright
lights of his studio.
Damn bitch must’ve forgotten to turn on
the ceiling fan.

All he gets on the video screen is a whorl of
steam, a glimpse of her killer legs below a green robe. He breathes
deeply, trying to imagine her breasts, her thighs gripping him.
Next time. She won’t forget the fan.

He shuts her off like a faucet, pulls on
latex gloves, and turns to the project awaiting him. A ring-necked
pheasant lies on the metal work table under a suspended fluorescent
work light. He carefully slits the bird down the center of its
breast and removes its innards.

The tools of his trade surround him in the
converted double garage. A vat of formalin and a freezer line the
north wall, along with a thirty-gallon tumbler for the birds and
small animals. Several stainless steel tables containing diverse
species of game animals in various stages of processing for display
fill out the room’s contents. Sharp knives hang on a rack next to a
pile of plastic forms that will soon take the place of skeletal
structures under animal hides.

“How long have you been home?” Her petulant
voice wrenches his attention away from his work.

As he looks up at the tall blond girl who has
entered through a door from the house, he masks his annoyance with
an indulgent smile. “A while.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” She taps a bare
foot impatiently on the cement floor and plays with the sash of her
powder blue robe. Her lower lip pouts seductively, as his eyes
probe her body like fingers. She looks like a Viking goddess, he
observes, until she opens her mouth.

“You need your sleep,” he finally replies,
nodding toward her bulging belly. “Both of you.”

Then she smiles, clasping her arms around her
advanced pregnancy. “You do want this baby?” she asks softly.

“You know I do.” His tone slides across her
reassuringly. Little bitch didn’t tell him until it was too late
for an abortion. She hid the kid in that long, lank, slinky body of
hers. Didn’t show a bulge until she was six months along. Oh, well.
It’s done. Plans just have to wait a while.

At least he now has a use for the kid. Young
women love babies. And dogs. How he loves decoys. Dogs, not so
much. The kid will do just fine. Hopefully it’ll come soon. And
stretch marks won’t mar the girl’s perfect body.

He lays down the dissecting knife and lets
his eyes make a visual meal of the girl. From her blue-eyed, fair
Nordic face to the tips of her pink-lacquered toenails.

She writhes under his glance. “You know how
it makes me feel … when you look at me like that.” Slowly, she
opens the blue robe, showing him her nakedness, her bulging breasts
and belly, the skin stretched and shiny.

As he places the pheasant on an adjacent
shelf, he tethers the girl with his smile. Then his face darkens as
he sweeps the table clear of remaining work tools, and removes his
surgical gloves. She gasps and draws the robe closed as the
dissecting knife clatters to the floor. As if she could ever close
herself to him. But it’s a game they play. He indulges her
childishness. It’s become a turn-on for him, too. “Don’t start what
you don’t aim to finish,” he says. He tosses the used gloves into a
trash container and lunges toward her.

“Come and get me,” she teases. But she
doesn’t run far. Or fast. And he knows it’s not just her bulk
slowing her down.

When he gets her on the table. Makes her moan
and call his name. Buries himself in her as the lamp vibrates.
Casting wild shadows around the room. Infusing life into dead
animal carcasses. Making them seem to move. As he moves inside the
girl.

He feels her climax and then grow tense,
uncomfortable as he thrusts ever harder. But this isn’t about her.
He slows, reveling in his power over her and the life within her,
making it last. Until he can no longer stop himself.

* * * * *

Later, when he’s put her to bed and returned
to his work, he notices with amusement that the blue robe has ended
up across the room on the rack of a bull elk. As he revisits the
feel of her under him, the spasmodic movements of their bodies,
he’s aware of his own body’s visceral response. When he empties
himself again, another thought fills him with anticipation of
another sort. Like with the other animals, in order to preserve her
beauty, the girl will have to die.

Chapter 10

Seating in the lecture hall at University of
Denver School of Law was tiered in a semi-circle around a stage
where a tall, muscular black man in a beige turtle-neck and
charcoal slacks dominated the podium.

Diana, dressed in a dramatic black-and-white
suit, stood near the lower level entrance, scanning the bank of
seats for an opening. She was late, and the place was packed to
near capacity. As her eyes swept upward, she spied a couple of
seats near the top of the hall. Before starting her ascent, she
glanced into the eyes of the man at the podium. Winston Bell
smiled, giving her a thumbs-up. Diana smiled back, then started up
the stairs, continuing until she found a row with an unoccupied
space.

As she climbed over ten sets of attorneys’
feet and legs, she thought how good Winston looked. Not handsome in
the conventional sense, the man exuded an aura of male vitality.
Now that men’s bare heads were in vogue, he’d shaved his few
remaining hairs. On him, bald was beautiful. He wore his fifty
years with dignity befitting his academic stature, thought Diana.
He’d obviously won whatever bout he’d once had with alcohol. She
took a seat and carefully swung the hinged desk top over her
lap.

Winston seemed well into his portion of the
program, delivered in a resonant baritone, his enunciation clipped
and flawless. “In the final analysis, when you tread the fine line
between human feelings and ethical considerations, you must examine
your actions in the cold light of the law as it stands, untempered
by any personal code or cause.”

Diana realized with embarrassment that
Winston was concluding his address. The delay at Dr. Hovac’s office
had been longer than she’d realized.

As Winston continued, Diana saw his eyes fix
on a front row seat where one of the attendees had nodded off. “You
can pick up your attendance certificates in the foyer.” Amusement
dueled with sarcasm as Winston added, “Thank you for your
rapt
attention.”

Diana hid a smile as she watched one of the
dozing man’s neighbors nudge him awake. A soft ripple of laughter
erupted around the awakening attorney, who glanced furtively around
in the vain hope that no one had noticed his nap.

Polite applause followed as Winston descended
the stairs from the lecture stage.

Diana navigated the sea of drably-dressed
attorneys as she hurried to catch up with Winston. The thought of
being conspicuous in an attractive way gave her morale a boost.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she
could see the back of his head and the top of his turtleneck
towering above the crowd. “Winston,” she called. He turned and
stepped aside as the tide flowed out into the foyer where coffee
and donuts were waiting.

Diana caught up with him by the decaf urn,
too out-of-breath to do anything but succumb to his bear hug. She
hugged him back.

“How’s my favorite student?” asked Winston,
his grin a flash of even white teeth against brown skin.

Diana indulged in the luxury of a laugh. It
felt good. She hardly noticed the stitches. “Thirteen years after
the bar and I’m still your student?”

“Of course,” replied Winston. “My favorite
student.”

They filled Styrofoam cups with coffee and
walked outside into the crisp December air where sunlight spilled
an illusion of warmth over the campus.

Diana pointed out a picnic table under an
evergreen. They proceeded across a lawn pocked with melting snow
patches, then took opposite seats.

Winston shook his head, mock-serious, as he
complained, “If there’s anything I hate, it’s trying to stimulate a
captive audience.”

“I’d say you had a good ninety percent of
us,” replied Diana.

“You don’t count. You were only there five
minutes,” he chided gently.

“Sorry,” she said. “Bad planning. When I
realized I was two hours short with my CLE for this year, I thought
I’d better get my act together. I didn’t plan on spending an extra
hour at the doctor’s office.”

Winston put a hand on her arm. “You look
great. But how are you really?”

“Jess told you?” she asked, hoping she
wouldn’t have to. Then she remembered that one of the bouquets of
flowers delivered to her office had been from him.

Winston nodded. “Is there anything I can
do?”

She smiled. “Like handling my divorce?”

“Well, I ….”

“Just kidding,” she quickly added. “Can I ask
you a personal question?”

His face went serious, as if he’d read her
mind. But he nodded before downing the rest of his coffee.

“What’s with you and Jess?”

“What did she tell you?”

“Just enough for me to be concerned. You two
are now my closest ….” Her voice caught in her throat, and she felt
tears welling up. Must be hormones again. Or lack thereof.

If Winston noticed her surfacing emotions, he
didn’t let on. “She moved back to her place. At first I thought it
was the age difference, after ruling out my sobriety.”