Hunters (6 page)

Bob Allen was still by the bodies. His
relief at the sight of the police and the medics was so great that
Ned thought he might cry, but he held back the tears and simply
told them that he was glad to see them, and that no one else had
come along since he had been there.

An hour passed while the two cops and Ben
Sloan examined the bodies and took photographs. No one chided Ned
for covering the corpse of Pete Diffenderfer.

"Who was he?" asked Ned after they had
turned over the body of the killer and looked at his license.

"The license says Harry Lime," Ben Sloan
answered. "But it's a phony. He probably used white-out on another
license, then xeroxed it and typed in the name. No reason to
believe it's his."

Ned shook his head. "It isn't. Harry Lime is
the name of the guy in
The Third Man
. It's a movie."

"He looks familiar," Larry Moxon said. "You
ever see him around?"

The question was addressed to them all, and
only Bill Fisher said he thought he had seen the man before. "But I
can't remember where."

"I know," Larry said. "I keep trying to
picture him at the counter at Sally's, but I don't see him there.
Hell."

"Let's see if he's got a wallet." Ben Sloan
knelt and felt through the man's pockets, but except for a
sandwich, an apple, and a box of ammo, they were empty. "He isn't
from around here, at any rate," said Sloan. "Look at that tan. Goes
down into his chest. Nobody around here goes shirtless this time of
year. We're all pale as polar bears."

"We'll send out his photo and prints," Bill
Fisher said. "Somebody'll know him."

Then the two policemen and the medics put
the bodies on litters and started back to the vehicles. They drove
back to St. Mary's, and Ned followed with Larry in his Blazer. At
the police station, Ned gave his statement, and as they walked out
Larry told him to take the rest of the day off.

"You want more time," he said, "that's okay
too. We can get one of the deputies to take 25."

Ned shook his head. "No. I'd like to keep
busy. If I'm not doing anything, I'll just think about it."

Larry nodded. "This...ever happen before? I
mean, you were over in Nam, you ever have to kill anybody over
there?"

"No. Not personally. What I was doing, you
don't see the ones that die." In answer to Larry's puzzled look,
Ned explained. "I was in explosives. Setting booby traps, blowing
up tunnels, taking out Cong supply routes, bridges, that kind of
thing. I'm sure my work killed people, but I just never saw
it."

"Jesus, all the years I've known you, and I
never knew you did that stuff."

"Not something I especially like to talk
about."

Ned said goodbye to Larry and walked over to
the offices of the
St. Mary's Banner
, the weekly newspaper
for which Megan wrote. She was in, and looked up surprised when he
entered the large room where the staff of four had their desks. The
others, who knew him, said hello, and he waved back, trying to look
casual and unconcerned. Megan gave him a hug, and he took her into
the small waiting area at the front of the building, where he told
her briefly what had happened. When he finished, she took his hands
in hers.

"Have you had lunch?" she asked him.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw
that it was 1:30. It was the first he had been aware of the time
since he had shot the man. "No."

"Come on," she said. She put on her ski
jacket and led him out the door and across the street to Sally's,
where they took a booth in the back, and he ordered a bowl of soup
and coffee. Megan had already eaten.

They didn't talk much, and when they did it
wasn't about what had happened that morning. But finally Ned said,
"You know what bothers me most about it?"

"Just...killing someone?"

"No, it wasn't that. When I saw what he'd
done, I knew the world was better off without him. But if I
would've been able to stop him without killing him, I would've." He
took a sip of coffee. "What really bothered me was that it was so
easy."

"Easy?"

"I didn't hesitate a moment, not a split
second. I didn't even have time to
think
about it. I just
pulled out my pistol and I fired and I was lucky enough to shoot
first. But the way I did it, just...automatically...it makes you
wonder about yourself."

"Anyone would have done the same thing. If
you hadn't, you'd be dead." The thought made a shudder run through
her, and she grabbed his hand and held it tight. "You're a good
man, Ned. You did the right thing. I could tell you not to think
about it, but you will." Suddenly her eyes were far away, and he
knew she was thinking about her husband. "You'll never forget it,"
she said. "But you don't have to let it...dominate your life." She
eased the pressure on his hand, smiled and shrugged. "Living
proof."

"You're right," he said. "I know you're
right."

"You're going back tomorrow?" He nodded. "Well, just
be glad there aren't any more maniacs out there."

A
t 4:30 that
afternoon Chuck Marriner pulled his rental Ford Bronco off the road
where it met the Quehanna Trail through Moshannon State Forest. Sam
Rogers was standing there waiting for him. "Howdya make out?" Chuck
said.

Sam climbed into the Bronco and frowned.
"Didn't find shit. Oh, there was a bunch of camps, but they was all
lined up along this creek like a goddam buncha condos or
something."

"Well, man, I found the jackpot. Sweetest
little place you've ever seen, over at the very eastern end of the
county. There's this little log cabin painted white, like a
one-roomer? Right by a creek, little pavilion they store wood in,
big old pipe they use for hangin' up the deer, crapper up the hill,
real primitive, like something out of a 1930's
Outdoor Life
.
Coupla miles from anywhere, and down in a hollow so the shots won't
be as loud."

"How many?"

"Six in the camp."

"How you know all this?"

"'Cause I met one of the guys who's there,
just about an hour ago, and he said that
none
of 'em have
bagged their deer yet. Oh yeah?' I say, 'Stayin' long enough to get
one?' 'Hell yeah,' he says, they're there for the whole fartin'
week, all of 'em, even if they get their deer. Then they'll just
sit around and drink beer and plink tin cans the rest of the time,
or try and get one for their buddy."

"Hey," said Sam, "ain't that illegal?"

"You might be right. I think maybe those
dudes oughta be punished, how about you?" Chuck laughed, and then
his mood changed abruptly. "Man, I saw something else today that
made me hot."

"What?"

"One of those fire towers. You know, where
they watch for forest fires and shit? Big mother, like a hundred
feet tall?"

"So what's so great about it?"

"Thinking about it going
down
,
man...I wanta take one of those bastards out before we get outta
here—blow out two sides and va-
doom
, down she comes. Whoa,
that'd be a sight..."

It was dark when they got back to the
Whitetail Motel. They went directly to Jean and Andrew's room and
banged on the door. There was no answer, but Timothy Weems and
Michael Brewster came out of the room they shared.

"She's not back yet," said Weems.

"What?" Chuck said, "Little Miss Be-On-Time?
What's keeping her?"

As if in answer to his question, they all
heard the dull roar of Jean's jeep engine as it pulled into the lot
and the space in front of her room. Chuck saw panic on her face as
she stepped into the yellow pool of light made by the feeble bulb.
"Is Andrew here?" she asked.

"No," Michael said. "He's not with you?"

"If he was, would I be asking if he were
here?" She shook her head angrily. "Damn it...god damn it..." She
fumbled in her pocket for her room key, and unlocked her door.
"Come on, inside."

The others followed her in. "He didn't show
up," she said, "where I dropped him off. He was supposed to be
right there at 4:30, but he didn't come. I waited an hour, but he
didn't come. Where the hell
is
he?"

"Maybe he got lost," Timothy said. "He
wasn't particularly good at orienteering."

"Yeah, like any of you are," Chuck said.
"Look, there are only a couple of possibilities—he's lost, he's
dead, or he's in jail. Anybody think of any others?"

No one spoke, though Jean opened her mouth
to say something, then snapped it shut again.

"Okay then," Chuck went on. "If he's lost,
there's not a damn thing we can do about it. We gonna go out there
with flashlights, split up, and start calling his name? That might
get us a little too much attention, huh? So then if he did
something stupid and got arrested, or if he did something stupider
and got killed, why the hell don't we turn on the news and see if
it's been reported?"

"It's six," Michael said in his frosty
voice, and flicked on the set. "Local news should be on." He
flipped the dial until he found the DuBois station's Action News.
It was the second story read by the announcer, a middle aged man
who looked as though his hair had been inflated with a hand
pump.

"On this first day of deer season, an
unidentified assailant shot and killed a hunter in state game lands
near St. Mary's. The shooting was apparently
not
accidental,
as the killer then turned on a state game warden who came across
him as he was mutilating the body of the man he had killed."

"Oh Christ..." Jean whispered.

"The game warden was able to draw his own
gun—"

"Oh Christ Jesus, no..."

"—and kill the assailant."

She broke into a wordless, keening howl, not
at all loud, as though she feared to be heard outside. It gave
Chuck Marriner the creeps. He thought it sounded like a wolf a mile
away.

The announcer's words kept coming. "Wildlife
Conservation Officer Ned Craig of St. Mary's said that the man
simply aimed his rifle at Craig, and that he had no choice but to
shoot him. No motive is known, and the identity of the murdered
hunter has not been revealed pending notification of relatives. The
killer, who carried only a false hunting license, is described as
being a white male in his late twenties, six feet tall, weighing
170 pounds. If anyone has any knowledge of this man's identity,
they are asked to notify the St. Mary's police.

"There were two other shootings in
Pennsylvania's woods today, one of which left a Potter County youth
dead—"

Michael punched the knob and the TV went
off, leaving them in a silence broken only by Jean's seemingly
endless and breathless moaning. She sat on the edge of a bed, her
head hanging down so that it nearly touched her knees. Though her
hair hid her face, the others could see that the knuckles of her
clenched fists were gray-white. "That's it then," Michael said
softly.

"What's it?" Chuck asked.

"
That's
it. The plan. It's over."

"Hell it is." He snorted and looked around
at the others. "We gonna pussy out like that? Just 'cause one of us
goes down? Shit, no." Chuck sat on the bed next to Jean and put a
big hand on her shoulder. She didn't respond at all. "You want
that? Hey, Jeannie? You want us to just forget it now, go on home,
just forget about Andrew? Make it mean nothin'?"

She took a shuddering breath and let it out
slowly. He knew he had broken through, and he worked on her.

"We got more than just the animals to get
payback for now, Jeannie. We got Andrew too. He jumped the gun on
us, but hey, that was Andy, always right out there, you know?
Probably saw some guy shoot a deer and that was all it
took—bang—the guy's history, and then Andy starts doin' what we all
planned, cuttin' him up, and along comes the Man." He spat out the
name. "Ned Craig. Goddam redneck warden pig. And he takes our Andy
down, the sonuvabitch. I bet he didn't even give him a chance to go
for his gun, just popped him where he stood..."

She sat up now. Her eyes were red, and her
cheeks were wet. She snuffled, and Sam grabbed a handful of tissues
from the bedside box and handed them to her.

"We're not going," said Jean in a harsh
voice, then cleared her throat and said it again. "We're not
going."

"We gonna stay and get the job done?" Chuck
said.

She nodded jerkily. "Yes. We're going to
start tomorrow."

"Jean—" Michael started to say, but she
stopped him with a look.

"We're doing it, Michael."

"Attagirl, Jeannie," said Chuck. "I found
just the place, the perfect camp."

"No," she said. "Not the camp, not yet." She
looked at Chuck in a way she had never looked at him before. "We
stick to our original plan. Tomorrow we split up. And we do what
Andrew did. One at a time. All over the place, so they don't know
where we came from or where we're going to hit next. And
then
, the
next
day, we do the camp."

Chuck slowly felt a smile twist its way over
his face. "I like that," he said heavily. "That is very, very
nice." He looked around and saw Sam grinning lopsidedly, saw
Timothy Weems nod, his thin lips pursed in appreciation, saw
Michael's weary frown. "You still got a problem, Mikey?"

"Don't call me Mikey, and yes, I have a
problem. Andrew tipped our hand, people will be wary now, looking
for us."

"Hell they will," Sam said. "The maniac's
dead, get it? The forests are safe for the assholes again. Sure, a
few wussies might bag it, but ninety-nine percent'll stay. That's
how they prove they're real men.
You're
a real man, aren't
you, Mikey? You'll stay, won'tcha?"

"Don't you push me, you—"

"That's enough," said Jean. "We're all
staying. There was always a risk, but it's not any greater now than
it was before. Andrew has no fingerprints on file, and by the time
they find out who he is, we'll be long gone."