The Trophy Hunter

by J. M. Zambrano

  As the cab eased out into Denver traffic, Diana opened the window slightly, glad it wasn’t snowing. The cool December air hit her face and tangled her shoulder length auburn hair. Christmas decorations made downtown Denver just too cheery for words. She closed her eyes and rolled the window back up, welcoming the increased speed that told her they’d gotten onto the interstate. As the cab accelerated, Diana felt memories of her life sweeping by, a kaleidoscope in which patterns of the past had been irretrievably lost.

  * * *

  The house Diana had shared with Greg was in the affluent Denver suburb of Cherry Hills, within walking distance of a small, man-made lake. They’d bought the two-story brick contemporary as newlyweds, just after it had been built. Seven years ago. It now felt like seven hundred. Who was that stranger she’d been sleeping with? Why hadn’t she seen the warning signs?

  Diana had caught Greg with his pants down. Literally. Being serviced by her secretary in the office suite she and Greg shared. She had fired Cathy, who was about ten years her junior, on the spot. “Your work sucks,” she’d told the bug-eyed little bitch. Then she’d grabbed a putter out of Greg’s golf bag and whacked him in the ass with it. Later, as she was scratching his name off the door with a razor blade, she wished she’d chosen one of the bigger clubs.

  He hadn’t come home that night. Or the next. Diana had not been surprised. Avoidance was Greg’s usual means of coping. He’d been a promising litigator when they’d met, but his inability to face a client when he lost a case soon drove him to the less demanding areas of real estate law and estate planning.

  When Greg finally surfaced, he made no effort at conversation until he’d carried the last suitcase through the door. “You won’t last a year without me.”

  Diana had actually laughed. He referred to their law practice to which he had contributed little for the past year. A couple of wills. A few real estate contracts. Maybe she exaggerated. There were probably several of each. But it had been Diana’s family practice that had sustained them. She handled custody matters and divorce settlements, helped place battered women in safe houses and nipped at the heels of district attorneys to urge prosecution of abusers. She might be considered a bitch by some, but she was good at what she did, able to take on cases that Greg wouldn’t touch because they were too emotional. She had then taken time to remind herself of her successes, since she was about to become single and was hugely pregnant.

  After Greg had left, Diana ran through a number of sarcastic jabs she could have thrown at him. Like, “Who’s handling your divorce?” He hadn’t the stomach to handle anyone else’s, so how could he handle his own? Unexpectedly, Diana had begun to cry. Hormones. Couldn’t be she still cared for him after what he did.

  During the night, pain grabbed her in the abdomen, and then subsided. False labor, she told herself. When it became repetitive, at shorter intervals, she thought, My God, this could be the real thing. As she struggled to get out of bed and saw the blood on the sheets, Diana panicked and dialed nine-one-one.

  * * *

  Funny how one week can change your whole life, thought Diana as the cab pulled up to her house. She felt a jolt of the nearest thing to joy as she recognized the car parked in her driveway. She wasn’t going to walk into an empty house after all. Jess was there.

  Jessica Edwards, Diana’s former college roommate and friend of fifteen years, didn’t deal with emotion much better than Greg did, but here she was. The door of her red Camaro opened and Jessie exited, stretching her long limbs with feline panache. Sleek, black and elegant, she walked with an athletic grace to the cab and jerked the door open while the driver was still ambling around to the passenger side.

  “Sorry I didn’t do the hospital scene. You know me and hospitals.”

  “No sweat. You didn’t miss anything.” At least she was here. For that Diana was grateful, but she never would have asked. Jess, among other peculiarities, had a thing about sick people. She waited until they got well—or didn’t—then rejoiced with the ones who did over their good health. But this wasn’t exactly sickness. More like disaster.

  Diana paid the cabbie, then handed Jess her overnight case. “Here, make yourself useful.”

  “I have been.”

  Jess grabbed the case and took Diana’s elbow as the two walked slowly toward the front door. “Who do you think has been feeding Tigger? Good thing you gave me a key last year when you and asshole went on vacation.”

  “Right. Thanks. What about his litter box? It must be really ripe.”

  Jess took her key out and opened the door. “Greg can clean his own damn box.”

  “I meant the other alley cat,” Diana said as they proceeded from the entry hall into the living room. The small amount of physical exertion left her feeling as if she’d climbed a mountain.

  “Tigger’s box?” Jess asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Diana nodded as she collapsed onto the tapestry-upholstered sofa. She sighed as the balm of familiar surroundings eased the harshness of her new reality.

  “I threw it out and got him a new one,” Jess continued, “just like I did when you went on vacation. You said ‘change the box.’ I changed the box. You never even noticed.”

  “You just scoop it. Change the liner if it’s too bad. You don’t have to throw the whole box away.” Diana came closer to a laugh than at anytime during the past week.

  “You mean you just scoop it. No way am I going to pick through cat shit.” Jess waved a manicured hand in disgust. “Here he comes now.”

  Tigger, a yellow tabby, ambled into the room and plopped his considerable bulk onto Diana’s lap. She winced in pain as she moved him to a less sensitive area.

  Jess went outside to her car and returned with takeout. Chinese. A poor choice, thought Diana as the aroma hit her nostrils. Greg had proposed in their favorite Chinese restaurant. She hadn’t thought about it in years. Until the scent triggered the unwelcome memory.

  “I’m not super-hungry right now. Maybe I’ll just have some herbal tea.” Diana got up and walked slowly toward the kitchen.

  Jess followed her. “But you love Chinese.”

  The kitchen, done in delft blue and white, was light and airy, raising Diana’s spirits. Plants hung from the vaulted ceiling.

  “Oh, I watered the plants,” Jess added, following Diana’s gaze.

  “I see,” replied Diana, as she pressed a finger into soggy soil in one of the pots and removed a yellowed leaf.

  Jess boiled water, one of her few domestic accomplishments. She steeped a tea bag for Diana before making herself a mug of strong, black instant coffee.

  “You look spacey.” Jess frowned at Diana. “Better go lie down.”

  “I’ve done enough of that this past week.” Diana settled carefully into an oak arm chair and wrapped her hands around the teacup.

  “Four days,” Jess corrected. “Cut yourself some slack.”

  Jess paced restlessly, stopping to gulp some of her coffee, appearing to burn her lips in the process.

  “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t look fine, but that’s okay. You will soon.” Jess shot Diana a morale-booster smile. “When you’re up to it, I’ve got a new client for you.” Jess was already inching toward the door, draining the coffee mug and placing it on the countertop as she passed. “No rush. Anytime within the next twenty-four hours.” She paused and gave Diana another grin. “Just kidding.”

  Diana followed her slowly. “No, I need the work. Not just the money. The distraction. I’ll call Tamara and have her start booking appointments in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You’re not that desperate.”

  “Right. I lost track. I’ll have the weekend to get up-to-speed.”

  Jess pinned her with a glance. “Girl, you just had one hell of an incision. What do you want to do, mess it up? You’re supposed to be resting. Where are your post-op instructions?”

  Diana shooed her toward the door. “Monday. Have
your client call me Monday.”

  “He’s an abrasive old fart. You may not want him.” Jess fidgeted in the doorway. “Hey, I feel bad about leaving now, but I’ve got to meet with a guy in Lodo. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”

  “Just go. You’re making me nervous.” Diana laughed; then was sorry as the effort pulled on her stitches. “Oh, would you mind picking up my prescription?”

  “Not a problem.”

  Diana got the paper from her purse and handed it to Jess. The women embraced briefly. Then Jess bounced down the steps toward her flame-red vintage sports car. Diana called after her, “How do you manage surveillance in that thing?”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Jess replied. “It’s so conspicuous that nobody’s ever guess. Who’d have the balls to tail somebody in this?”

  “When’re you going to get a grown-up car?” Diana tossed at her.

  “Neverrr! See you by dinner time, if not before.” Jess peeled out like a teenager in heat.

  Diana shook her head, bemoaning the fact that Jess had dropped out of law school to become a private investigator—a job with absolutely no security. “Thirty-five years old, going on twelve,” she mumbled as she closed the front door.

  Inside, as she assessed the present value of her own security, the silence of the house weighed down upon her. Career, marriage, and then starting a family after determining both were stable. She’d made all the sensible, adult decisions, and what had they gotten her? As she brushed something from her eye, Diana hoped Jess’s meeting wouldn’t last too long.

  A small pile of mail awaited Diana on the dining room table. She thumbed through it, noting there was nothing addressed to Greg among the pieces. Did that mean he’d already put in a change of address? It didn’t seem like it would have taken effect so quickly. Or, more disturbing, had he been back in the house?

  Diana remembered the disabled security system—victim of Greg’s frustration. A total klutz when it came to anything mechanical, Greg had accidentally set it off so many times that he’d finally jerked it out of the wall. In due time she’d get it fixed. For now, she’d just change the locks.

  In the kitchen, Diana looked for locksmiths in the Yellow Pages. A thin wail drifted toward her from somewhere upstairs. Instinct kicked in, driving her up the stairs faster than she should have gone, brought her to the door of the nursery. She was in the room before she realized the irrationality of her haste. Tigger rubbed his face along one leg of the green and white crib as he wailed another greeting at her. Multicolored butterflies danced from the ceiling for the baby who would never see them.

  Beside the crib, a rocking chair waited, its back draped with a crocheted afghan covered with zoo animal appliqués. As dizziness overtook her, Diana carefully lowered herself into the rocking chair. Wrapping the afghan around herself, she closed her eyes and rocked.

  * * *

  “I’m back.” Jess’s voice crashed through Diana’s consciousness. Her eyes felt pinched where tears had dried. For a moment she was disoriented in the dark room. Her hands felt the afghan and she remembered. It had been daylight when she’d dozed off.

  “Diana?”

  Light streamed up the stairs from the first floor. She could hear Jess’s footsteps on the tile stairway, accelerating as panic seeped into her voice. “Diana, are you okay?”

  “I’m in here.” Diana got up slowly, the pain a reminder of what sleep had blotted out. She stumbled to the doorway.

  As she eased out into the hallway, Jess grabbed her arm. “To your room and no backtalk,” she ordered.

  “No,” replied Diana as she reached back and closed the nursery door as if that act could shut out the emotional chaos. For a moment it did. “I think I could actually eat something. Is there any of that Chinese left?’

  “Left?” Jess frowned at her. “Girl, unless you’ve been pigging out while I was gone or had company, it’s all still there. Cold, but microwaveable.”

  In the kitchen, they filled plates from soggy cartons and took turns zapping them.

  “So, tell me about your client,” invited Diana.

  Jess swallowed a bite of egg roll before replying. “Just delivering some pictures I took on a surveillance. Some jerk who wants to trade his old wife in on a new…oops.”

  “You don’t have to coddle me. Anyway, I meant the guy you’re referring. The old fart?”

  “Oh, right. But I don’t want to influence you. Meet him and draw your own conclusions.”

  Diana suppressed a giggle, wincing at the effort. “Like old fart doesn’t create an image. What else should I know about him?”

  “He’s an all man.” Jess had a twinkle in her eye.

  “Okay. I’ll bite. All what? All man?”

  “All, as in O-I-L. Oklahoma crude.”

  Chapter 3

  Diana wore a deep red business suit on her first day back in the office. A Wednesday—not the Monday she’d planned. She was strong, but not that strong. Jess had indeed persuaded her to cut herself some slack. Even so, it had been only eight days since her surgery, and she’d not yet been back to Dr. Hovac for her follow-up exam.

  Red, her favorite color, inspired confidence. Conveyed confidence. At least that was what she told herself. Still on pain medication, she’d taken a cab to work. When Dr. Hovac had released her from the hospital, he’d instructed her to come back in ten days for an evaluation relative to being cleared to drive her car. She knew he had never imagined that she’d go back to work this soon. She smiled at the thought that she would fool everyone, Greg included, and sail through these rough waters without a backward glance.

  Aghh. But the pain kept grabbing her when she moved. She had to cut the painkiller dosage in half in order to have half a functioning brain. Thank goodness she’d hired Tamara before this thing happened.

  This thing. She didn’t want to name what had happened that in her eyes turned her into a neuter, anymore than she wanted to name the baby who had never taken a breath. If she let herself go there, she’d shatter completely. Right now, she was maimed but functional. She’d settle for that.

  Diana looked around and for the first time noticed a small array of flowers and plants. She’d instructed Tamara to give minimal information to clients whose appointments had to be changed and no information to her parents, who were out of state. She’d have to deal with their questions eventually. The buzzer on her desk phone sounded. Diana picked it up and heard Tamara’s crisp voice announce, “Mr. Flannigan is here.”

  Jess’s referral. “Please show him in, Tamara.”

  He moved through the doorway slowly, like a bear coming out of hibernation. A large man whose jeans and plaid flannel shirt hung loosely on him. He looked tired. Dark circles underscored his faded blue eyes. His thatch of straw-colored hair laced with gray looked in need of a barber. Diana gauged his age to be early sixties and imagined that his still-considerable bulk must have decreased since buying the clothes he wore.

  She stood and reached across the desk to shake his hand, and then felt the vise of his huge paw nearly crush her fingers. “Please have a seat, Mr. Flannigan,” she said as she sank carefully back into the soft leather of her chair.

  He nodded without smiling as his eyes took in the room with its expensive amenities. Diana could see him pause as he scanned the walls that were covered with original wildlife paintings. A Remington bronze topped the credenza behind her desk. She watched the man’s hooded eyes hover there for several seconds before he took a seat in the client chair opposite her.

  “Jess tells me you have a custody problem concerning your grandchildren,” Diana began, to break the awkward silence, glad he hadn’t mentioned the array of flowers.

  He seemed to snap back from wherever he’d gone. “Uh-huh. The wife and I have the kids now, but we’d like to make it legal,” he said in a gravelly drawl. “And permanent,” he added with emphasis on permanent.

  Diana made some notes on the legal pad before her and asked, “Where are the parents?”
>
  Flannigan passed a beefy hand across his face, as if he could erase the strong emotions that bled through. “Their mother … my daughter Brandi … she’s been missin’ since the middle of October. We think she’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Flannigan—”

  “Joe,” he interrupted. “Joe’ll do just fine. You’re Diana. Right?” His eyes crinkled at the corners, giving the hint of a smile, as if being on a first name basis would elicit more help from her. But his mouth under a sandy mustache remained impassive.

  “Joe … what makes you think your daughter is dead?”

  “She went to look for her girl, Lori. Brandi found her and called nine-one-one, but when the feds came and got Lori, they couldn’t find my daughter. There’d been a snowstorm. They found her truck … and the SOB who kidnapped the girl. But they never found my Brandi.”

  Diana shuddered inwardly. The distaste she’d felt for the man at first glance was rapidly changing to empathy in spite of his odd reference to his granddaughter as the girl. “How old are your grandchildren?” she asked.

  “Keith is ten and Lori’s thirteen.”

  “Your granddaughter’s kidnapper was apprehended? Shouldn’t they be able to get something out of him about your daughter?”

  His eyes sought out something on the carpet. “He’s dead. There is some justice.”

  “Dead?” she echoed.

  For an answer, he shrugged, then “Guess you could say it’s an open case. Homicide.” Flannigan’s lack of eye contact suggested he might have exacted his own justice. She decided to pick Jess’s brain later instead of pressing him further.

  Flannigan finally met her glance, his eyes gone shrewd as he channeled the discussion past the dead kidnapper. “The kids are pretty shook up, especially the girl.”