Hunters

by Chet Williamson

  He took a final deep breath. There. He was all right now, ready to do what had to be done.

  He propped his Ruger against the tree that held the stand, put on both gloves, and knelt by the side of the dead man. He unsnapped the man's jacket, grasped his neck, hauled him to a sitting position, and removed the sodden mass of cotton shell and goose down. The hole in the man's back was greater than Andrew had imagined.

  He let the body flop back onto the bloody leaves, and saw that some blood on the man's small moustache had frozen. It looked as though he had cut his lip shaving.

  Andrew took a horn-handled knife with a five inch blade from its sheath, and tried not to think of this man shaving, talking, laughing, tried to forget that what lay before him was a human being, tried to think of it only as a slaughtered animal, as the other hunters would think of the deer they had shot.

  He cut open the dead man's sweater, shirt, and thermal undershirt, exposing the pallid flesh and the entrance wound to the freezing air. He yanked the upper clothing off the body, then removed the boots, socks, and belt, and sliced through the waistband of the trousers, tugging them off, along with the long underwear, until the corpse lay naked on the frozen bed of leaves.

  Andrew had watched, helpless and astounded, as the father and son had done their field dressing, and now he would try and recreate the procedure. Then they would see, and realize, and tell the tale, so that everyone would know there were avengers in the forest.

  He hurried at his grisly task, more to be done with the unpleasantness quickly than out of fear of discovery. Though he knew the statistics of how many thousands of hunters were in Pennsylvania's woods that day, to a man who had never lived outside the L.A. city limits, he felt as isolated as Daniel Day-Lewis in that Michael Mann Indian film.

  After ten minutes he was almost finished, and had just picked up his knife again to sever a stubborn piece of bowel, when he heard a crunch of leaves behind him, and a voice. Andrew turned his head and saw, twenty feet away, a man dressed in blaze orange and forest green, wearing a name plate and a badge.

  Ned Craig had heard the single shot from the south and gauged that the hunter would be around a quarter hour's walk away. Ned would make sure that a buck had been taken, if it was a clean hit. If it was a miss, he had been heading south anyway.

  When Ned saw the man bent over his kill, he nearly called out a greeting. But something looked wrong. What lay on the ground was not a deer. It was something red and white. Ned walked more quietly, stepping on exposed rocks and patches of pine needles that offered no crisp, betraying resistance.

  When he saw what it was, he could not believe it, and said, "God," and stepped on dry leaves. The kneeling man turned then, and looked at him over his right shoulder, and Ned could see his red and glistening hands and forearms.

  "What—" Ned began to say, and the man twisted the other way, to his left, toward the tree against which his rifle leaned, stretched, his left hand sliding on the ground as he tried to grasp the rifle's grip with his wet, slippery right hand. He came around toward Ned, one knee on the ground, left leg extended, the barrel bobbing in his efforts to grasp the gun securely.

  Jesus, Ned thought, he's going to shoot me. But before the dark eye of the barrel could look at Ned, he had yanked his .357 from its holster, cocked it, and fired before the rifle stopped its motion. The sound of the shot hammered his unprotected ears, and he pressed his eyes shut, waiting to feel the man's bullet tear into him.

  The answering shot assaulted his deafened ears, but he felt no pain, and when he opened his eyes he saw the man lying on the ground, still gripping his rifle, blood streaming from a hole in his torn neck like a parasitic serpent escaping its host.

  Slowly Ned lowered his pistol and looked at the two dead men. He felt as though he were watching a movie, as though what had happened here could not possibly have happened. He stood for a long time, unable to fathom what the man he had killed had been doing to the naked corpse. The sight was obscene, a man butchered and gutted like a deer, but with none of the care that a hunter would expend on his kill's carcass.

  Ned's bacon and eggs churned in his stomach, and he turned away from the sight and vomited. After he had coughed up the last sour bits, he turned back to the dead men and made himself think about what to do next. The first thing he had to do was get some help, someone to watch the bodies while he walked the many miles back to his Blazer to call in. So he fired his pistol three times into the air. Someone would be near enough to hear.

  Then he picked up the mutilated man's bloody jacket and draped it over his torn body, and put the other pieces of clothing over the piles of flesh that had been removed from the body. He knew about the importance of not disturbing a crime scene, but common decency told him that no one other than a doctor or a policeman should view this man's body. He tried to read the man's name from the license on the back of his jacket, but an exit wound from the bullet that had killed him had ripped it apart.

  Ned did not touch the body of the man he had shot other than to feel for a pulse to ascertain that he was dead. The killer was lying on his back, so Ned could not see the name on his hunting license, and he had no desire to burrow into the man's pockets for identification. He did not want the man he killed to have a name.

  In another ten minutes, Ned loaded his revolver and fired three more shots. A moment of panic went through him when he thought that the man who had done this might have friends in the forest with him, but then he told himself that there surely could not be two people capable of such a thing here today.

  Finally a hunter came trudging through the trees. Ned didn't know the man, and his hand moved gingerly toward his pistol. But when the stranger's eyes grew wide at the sight of the man Ned had shot, and his legs started to tremble, Ned guessed that he had no connection to the murderer. "Jesus Christ," said the stranger, "what happened?"

  "This man," Ned said, nodding toward the killer, "killed the man under the coat there, then tried to kill me. I shot him."

  The stranger walked over to the butchered man, and looked from the covered corpse to the stained shirts and trousers covering the smaller piles. "What are...?"

  "He...took him apart," Ned said. "Like an animal."

  "Oh my God...oh my God...who is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "My friend Pete was hunting here. Right here," the stranger said dully.

  "Look at his face if you want."

  The man didn't say anything for a moment. "That's his coat," he said, looking down at the sodden body. "Aw Jeez, I know that's his coat."

  "I'm sorry," Ned said. "I'm sorry for your friend. Listen now, I need you to stay here while I go radio this in, get the police here. Can you do that?" The man nodded shortly. "What's your name?"

  "Bob." He sniffed. "Bob Allen."

  "All right, Bob. It might be an hour or two you'll be alone out here. If anybody comes by, try to keep them with you. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  It took Ned an hour of walking to get to his Blazer at the end of the rutted earth lane that led into the forest. Larry Moxon, the Law Enforcement Supervisor of Pennsylvania's north central region, was at his St. Mary's home when Ned called in. Ned told Larry that there had been a murder, and that he had been forced to shoot the killer. Ned didn't give Larry any chance to respond, but went on with his location and a request to call the police.

  When Ned finally stopped talking, Larry was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Ned, are you okay?"

  "I haven't been harmed."

  "I mean okay-okay. You sound...funny."

  "Larry, I just killed a guy. I shot him in the neck. He's dead. No, I'm not okay, I feel like shit, this is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. There. Happy?"

  "I'm sorry, buddy. I'm calling now. I'll come with them, I know where you mean. You want me to call Megan?"

  "No."

  Ned waited another forty-five minutes until the police and the medics came in two off-road vehicles. Ned recognized Bill Fisher and Mark White, tw
o St. Mary's cops, in the front seat of the police car. Larry Moxon and Ben Sloan, a doctor at St. Mary's Medical Center and the local M.E., were in the back. They picked up Ned and he told them what had happened as they drove as far as they could down the rutted lane until a fallen fir made it impassable. Then the two medics in the second vehicle took one stretcher and the officers took the other, and they walked deeper into the woods, following Ned.

  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."

  At 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 suppos
ed 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.