THE TROPHY HUNTER
By
J.M.Zambrano
Kindle Edition
Published by J.M.Zambrano on Kindle
The Trophy Hunter
Copyright 2010 by Jean Marie Zambrano
Cover Design by Julie Ortolon
Cover Photo Copyright 2009 George Mayer at Big Stock.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
Prologue
Chain O’Lakes State Park
Spring Grove, Illinois
The chill November wind carried dampness from the lake beneath the flaps of Diana’s khaki hunting cap. Her ears ached from the intrusion. She and Daddy had been trudging through the early morning cold for what seemed like hours. Her teeth chattered. He was far ahead of her now. Good. He couldn’t chew her out for making noise.
Where was the sun? That pale piece of cold light must’ve dropped into the lake and drowned. Why did Mother let him take me? Her other self, the wise-beyond-her-years one, already knew the answer. He took what he wanted.
She trudged onward through the damp, scruffy brush, wishing for a brother to take her place. Knowing at age eleven that this was unlikely. Her best friend had an older sister who’d clued them in to the facts of life the year before. She knew where babies came from and that parents who slept in separate rooms weren’t likely to get any. Babies, that is. She knew what her dad got. But now that she was older, he was more careful about what he did in front of her.
Ahead of her, Daddy abruptly held up a large hand that signaled her to halt in her tracks. The rifle weighted heavily in its case, slung across her shoulders. Then he beckoned impatiently. She could imagine a frown lurking beneath the bill on his cap. She doubted that he had a clue about the revulsion that crouched in the corner of her heart. But she didn’t have the guts to tell him outright. Some fragment of wanting to please him still remained with her.
I so don’t want to be here. Why can’t he just see that?
When she reached his side, propelled by reluctant feet, he snatched the rifle case from her shoulders, dislodging her cap in the process. No apology followed. She hadn’t expected one. His look bespoke total disgust.
Slow, awkward. She read his mind. Of course. I hate this. You think I won’t put it off as long as I can?
Now that she’d grown so tall, similar adjectives got appended to her at school. She towered over all the girls in her sixth grade class. Forget the boys. They were dorks. But it would be nice to have a dad who thought she was cool as a girl. It would have been …
“Open the breech,” he whispered, shoving the rifle at her.
Even through gloves, the barrel’s cold metal increased her shivering. “No, Daddy. I don’t want to.” She summoned the courage to push the weapon back at him.
“Open the goddamn breech and load your weapon.” He spit the words at her, still whispering, but she pushed the gun away, would have no part of it.
Then she saw why he whispered. A small herd of white-tailed does had entered a clearing some yards ahead of them. One larger doe paused and sniffed the air. As she felt the wind on her face, Diana suspected that the animals were unaware of their intrusion.
Daddy put aside his own rifle and started loading hers. One cartridge. One shot. One kill. His mantra. A drowning sensation enveloped her, more than could be blamed on the mist from the lake that froze in droplets on bare twigs and evergreens.
Oh, please, no.
He forced the weapon back into her shaking hands. She took it this time, not to please him, but to keep the deer alive for one more moment.
“Get your goddamn finger out of the trigger guard,” he hissed.
She quickly obeyed. It had been a slip. If he hadn’t shoved it at her so rudely, she’d have remembered.
“That one.” He moved his eyes in the direction of the unsuspecting herd. She knew he meant the biggest of the lot. The one she’d tagged in her mind as the wise old doe.
Stall for time. She sighted through the scope, deliberately spotting a tree to the left of the big doe. The deer were maybe fifty yards away. Easy to miss and scatter them to safety. So she jerked off a shot, still aiming for the tree. Crack! Pain stabbed her right shoulder. The rifle kick would leave a bruise, even through the padding. The pain was nothing. Her heart did joyous flip-flops as she watched the does’ little white tails bobbing as they leapt to safety beyond the clearing.
Daddy was fuming like a freight train. She wanted to laugh but didn’t dare. He sure didn’t need to whisper now, did he?
“Squeeze, goddamn it! You don’t jerk. How many times do I have to tell you?”
Cap in hand, she hung her head, letting her long hair hide her smile at his expense. Still holding the rifle, she had the fleeting urge to turn it on him and squeeze. Bye-bye, Daddy.
“Don’t be a crybaby,” he admonished, misreading her scrunched-up face. “There’ll be other chances.” His tone softened. How could he not know her at all?
Much to her relief, he seemed to accept her miss as unintended. Or was that only wishful thinking on her part? Maybe if she could convince him that she was unteachable, he’d give up on her. At one point, he put a hand on her should and said in an almost fatherly tone, “Your problem is that you failed to identify your target. Before you go near the trigger, you must unequivocally identify your target.”
Two whole sentences and no cussing.
“Yes, Daddy.”
The rest of the day ahead of them weighed heavily on Diana. The strap from the rifle case rubbed against her bruised shoulder. How many times could she miss a shot before he got wise? And what if he did? He couldn’t make her shoot something warm and living, could he?
Chapter 1
Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Colorado
Twenty-five Years Later
An October dawn cut a swath of vermilion across the eastern horizon. Reflected off the western
peaks, it gave the valley an eerie glow.
The Hunter watched a shivering sun inch upward, stingy with its warmth. He glassed the surrounding area, sweeping 180 degrees to the west where roiling clouds oozed between the peaks. The prospect of another storm pleased him. The elements were his allies.
From his rocky aerie he could see her approach the cabin in the tan pickup. He watched her park and get out. Through the scope on his .17 HMR he caught her neck in the crosshairs. The bullet would leave one small hole in the V where her collarbones met, with only a minimal exit wound.
He chuckled softly at her stupid attempt to hide the vehicle under a few branches. She thought she could hide from him. He salivated in anticipation of the look in her eye when she realized her mistake.
* * *
Outside the cabin, Brandi Rogart’s hands bled through insulated gloves from the effort of tearing boards off the window. In her haste to get started, she’d come ill prepared. What had begun as a half-hour drive had turned into an overnight watch, then a two-hour drive into the mountains. The cabin door, padlocked from the outside, stubbornly resisted her attacks with the tools from her truck. She simply didn’t have the strength. But the little window in back that she reached by standing on a discarded sawhorse finally yielded to her.
Panic rose in her throat like vomit as she peered back through the pines brown from beetle kill. She had no idea when he would return. Maybe he’d already found the truck where she’d left it covered with pine boughs in a little clearing off the road.
Another thought sent the hairs up on the nape of her neck where they weren’t caught up in her long, dusky braid. What if he knew she’d followed him? Planned it even?
She brushed off the fear along with the rest of the icky, webby things that festooned the window; then hoisted herself up onto the sill. As she dropped to the floor inside, her eyes searched the semidarkness for her daughter, Lori.
“Why are you here?” asked a female voice unlike her child’s.
Lori materialized as Brandi’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. But the voice seemed to come out of a stranger. The girl’s blond hair—matted—probably filthy from the look of the surroundings—was tied back with a thin strip of leather.
“We’re getting out of here. Hurry, sweetie. He may be back soon.” The place reeked of stale urine. It was worse than an animal’s cage. Brandi looked at the front door, the only door, and remembered the padlock on the outside. They’d have to leave by the window.
“I won’t leave him.”
Brandi shook her head to clear out Lori’s words. He must’ve brainwashed her. Or drugged her. She looked into her daughter’s eyes and saw that the child was gone. Rage at the man filled her. She wished she’d brought a gun even though she’d always hated firearms.
Like trapped birds, her eyes crashed around the miserable room, looking for some kind of amenities. How could even a drugged person consider staying here? No toilet, no sink. No visible plumbing of any description. A couple of plastic buckets. A five gallon jug of bottled water sat atop a dispenser. No electricity. A propane heater did a passable job of taking the chill out of the room. She’s not in her right mind.
“How did you find us anyway?” Lori asked in an annoyed voice.
It had been the phone call Brandi had overheard. She’d picked up the extension, thinking it might be news of her daughter. It had been, but not from the authorities. “How is she?” he’d asked. “Sweet,” was the response. Brandi had choked on her anger as she’d carefully replaced the instrument. Then she knew where to look, who to follow.
And it hadn’t been a total surprise. Brandi had seen how he’d looked at Lori on the rare occasions when the families had gotten together. When her dad and husband had come back without her daughter, she knew the story didn’t make sense. A hunter’s daughter knew better than to wander off into the woods alone.
“Did his wife find out and call you?” asked Lori.
“No.” Brandi focused on planning their escape. They’d have to stand on something to get out the window. She assessed the furniture. A bed—she didn’t want to think about what went on there. A desk and chair. An ancient armoire. A vinyl-covered table and two sort-of matching chairs. All scarred flea market rejects. But they could stand on the table to reach the window.
“Help me carry the table over there.” Brandi indicated the window.
“No.”
“Sweetie, it’s okay now. I’m here to take you home.” She reached out, hating the repugnance she felt toward her daughter’s unwashed body that reeked of the man’s scent.
The girl—she could hardly think of her as Lori—shrank away from her touch. “He loves me. Leave us alone.”
“You’re thirteen years old. You know I can’t do that.” Brandi weighed her choices. There was no way she could drag Lori through the window against her will. She tried reason. “He’s got you locked up. If he loved you, would he do that?”
“You’ve got it wrong. He’s got you locked out.”
“You know he’s married.”
“He’s gonna divorce her.”
“He’s way too old for you.”
“You should talk.”
Brandi ground her anger down to a fine powder. Held back the slap that was itching her palm. But the sights and smells were dulling her edge. He could return at any minute. If he came through the woods from behind the cabin, he’d see the broken window. She had no choice but to leave and come back with the sheriff.
Scratch that. With her luck, he’d be another hunting buddy. Paranoia crippled her reasoning powers. Maybe they were all in on it.
Okay, she’d drive to where her cell got reception, and then call the feds. Now that she had proof, they’d have to listen to her. Brandi struggled to move the table by herself, climbed up and looked back at her daughter. “I won’t be long.”
Lori’s voice drifted toward her as Brandi lowered herself to the ground outside. “We won’t be here.”
Where would he move her? Not to his house.
Brandi looked up as she felt moisture on her face and saw that the puny sun had drowned in a mass of angry clouds. Panic seized her chest like a too-tight bra. She tripped on a dislodged hunk of granite as she hurried toward her truck. She regained her balance and lengthened her stride, breathing hard, the cold air searing her lungs. Without help she might lose her daughter forever. A stony ridge cut up the skyline to her left. Maybe if she climbed it she could get cell reception.
* * *
He watched her struggle through the cabin window, glassed her as she climbed the talus ridge and tried to use her cell phone. He could have dropped her then, as she stood outlined against a sky now turned iron-gray, but he let her get almost to the truck before deliberately cracking a branch. When she jumped and turned in his direction, the rush was exquisite. But it was her eyes meeting his, knowing what was coming just before he squeezed off one shot—ah, that was ecstasy.
Chapter 2
Denver, December, Present Day
Diana Martin lay in a hospital bed at Presbyterian/St. Luke’s, mortally wounded in spirit. Dr. Hovac, her ob/gyn, sat in a chair beside her bed, his voice droning on, unwelcome, half-heard.
“Diana, are you listening to me?”
The slight increase in volume and urgency pulled her back to him. She nodded.
“I can release you tomorrow. Will there be someone at home?”
She was aware that Dr. Hovac knew that she and Greg had separated. What could be more obvious than his absence at this time? Diana nodded again to appease the doctor. It was a lie. There would be nobody at home.
“Is there anything you want to ask me? Anything you’d like to talk about?”
Diana shook her head. What was left to discuss? She’d come out from under the anesthesia with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Then through the haze of disconnected thought, the memory of labor pains not due for another three months, he’d said it all. No baby now—or ever. Of course the doctor had not bee
n that blunt. He’d explained about the emergency hysterectomy to save her life.
“I think you would benefit from counseling, involvement in a support group,” the doctor continued. “I’ll be glad to give you some names.”
Three days ago she’d have recognized intended comfort. Now, his words just made the bad dream real.
“Diana, I am so sorry.”
His eyes looked unusually shiny. Or was she seeing him through her own tears? A shudder passed through her body as she realized her anger at Greg had spilled over. “I’ll do better tomorrow.” She squeezed out what she thought was a weak smile. The best she could do for now.
* * *
Tomorrow came, but the empty feeling was worse than the pain. Diana, dressed in loose designer sweats, stared at cream-colored walls as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed. Beside her lay a down jacket that her new secretary, Tamara, had delivered the night before. When her paperwork arrived, she signed without reading it, something that she always warned clients never to do.
A nurse wheeled her to the hospital entrance where a cab waited for her. Raising her five-nine body out of the wheelchair, and then bending again to get into the cab, hurt like hell. But that was pain she had a prescription for. She reminded herself to call the pharmacy as soon as she got home.
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