The Trophy Hunter

by J. M. Zambrano

  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, t
hen 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.”

  They made a show of forced laughter. Diana shuffled her tears out of sight as she replied, “With Jess, her interest seems to wane when anything approaches stability.”

  “That’s part of what makes her Jess.” Winston gazed across the expanse of tree-studded lawn where the sun was sending rivulets of water from the snow piles.

  When he looked back at her, his expression was all business. “I understand you’ve taken on Joe Flannigan’s cause.”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Because he’s an alcoholic?”

  “Of course not,” she replied a bit more vehemently than she’d intended. “How well do you know this man?”

  Winston paused as he looked in the direction of the building, where attendees were now filing back inside, signaling the end of break time. “I’ve known Joe about four years. You already know where we met. He’s been in the program over ten years.”

  Diana finished her coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into a green metal garbage can. “What do you know about his character?”

  They got up and started back toward the building. Winston took her arm, guiding her around slick spots of melting snow. “Joe’s a bit rough around the edges. But if I didn’t believe there was some moral fiber there, I never would’ve referred him.” He paused, as if stumbling over his next thought. “Actually, it may turn out to be one of the worst mistakes of my life,” he continued in a husky voice. “Referring him to Jess, I mean.”

  Diana felt Winston’s hand tighten on her arm as they paused in front of the door that led back inside the hall. “That referral led to Jessie’s meeting Darren Rogart.” He paused again before asking, “Did she tell you?”

  Diana shook her head. Not exactly.

  “Jess is seeing the guy. That’s why we split up.”

  “She’s a damn fool.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

  Winston shifted uncomfortably, then looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. And you still have another speech to endure.”

  He held the door for her, but she couldn’t make herself walk through it. “Winston, I’m so sorry. She’ll come to her senses.”

  “It may be too late by that time.”

  She shook her head, words failing her.

  “Better hurry.” He nodded toward the open door. “I’ll be in touch. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you.” She could tell he was trying to lighten up the tone of things.

  “I’m counting on it,” said Diana. She remained in the doorway a couple of seconds longer, watching his retreating form.

  Something in the azure sky caught her attention: the flash of wing as a red-tailed hawk cruised overhead. Then another wave of attendee-attorneys swept her up in their midst, and she let herself go with the flow back inside the lecture hall.

  Chapter 11

  Something about her brief conversation with Winston spurred Diana’s resolve to take a better look at Jess’s file on the Flannigan/Rogart matter.

  She drove straight home from the lecture hall, kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen for a Tigger hug, exhausted after the long wait for her doctor’s appointment followed by the grueling session of continuing legal education.

  God, I hope when I’m fifty I’m not still rushing home to hug a cat! Sorry, Tig.

  “Mau.”

  Cat fed and cuddled, and a fresh mug of peppermint herbal tea steeping on the kitchen island, Diana retrieved the file from the dining room table.

  Three separate but related incidents were documented: the kidnapping and recovery of Lori Rogart, the disappearance of Brandi Rogart, mother of Lori, and the murder of Larry Strickland. Some of the documents were copies of reports from the Custer County Sheriff’s Department. In these, the victim’s names had been redacted out. As Diana read on, she saw that the suspects’ and witnesses’ names had also been redacted in some places but not in others. Most jurisdictions just removed the names of minors and victims of sex crimes. Apparently Custer County wanted to be on the safe side and did a bunch of editing. Without Jess’s notes, the reports would have been virtually meaningless.

  Jess had also taken notes when she interviewed the FBI special agent initially assigned to Lori Rogart’s kidnapping. Most of them were hand-written and nearly impossible for anyone but Jess to decipher. Having been her college roommate gave Diana a decided advantage.

  An elk hunt the first week in October in the mountains above Westcliffe had included Joseph Flannigan, resident of Greenwood Village, Colorado, whose DOB made him fifty-six.

  Hmm, I figured him for older.

  Darren Rogart, resident of Franktown, Colorado. Date of birth put him at forty-five.

  That’s a surprise. I thought he was much younger—my age.

  Rogart’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Lori; George Payne, fifty-three, resident of Sedalia; Shane Cutler, twenty-eight, step-son of Payne, also resident of Sedalia, completed the surviving members of the group. Here Jess had noted that Cutler had been charged ten years earlier with sexual assault on a minor. She further noted that the minor was a fifteen-year-old girl who claimed the sex was consensual.

  Then there was Larry Strickland. Jess’s notes dubbed him Frozen Dead Guy found behind the cabin. Jess’s notes went on to muse about Westcliffe initiating a Frozen Dead Guy Day, to compete with Nederland’s. Big difference was Nederland’s dead guy died of natural causes and was frozen by his family to preserve him.

  Jessie, you’re too much.

  Back to the particulars on Strickland, Diana noted he was forty-seven, had been married to his wife, Penelope, age forty-five, for twenty-two years. The couple had one child, Patricia, age seventeen. Patricia was reported as a runaway one week after Strickland’s death.

  Persons of interest in Strickland’s murder, according to Jess, were Brandi Rogart, Darren Rogart, Joseph Flannigan, Penelope Strickland and Patricia Strickland.

  Shuddering, Diana skimmed over the Custer County report detailing the fatal wound and probable weapon. She picked up another page of Jess’s notes.

  Flannigan, Strickland, and Payne have been doing this annual hunt thing for at least twenty years, Jess wrote. Cutler joined them after Payne married Cutler’s mom. Rogart joined the pack last. Somehow he and Flannigan hooked up, he joined the group, then married Brandi Flannigan. Or maybe it was the other way around. The feeble FEEBs and the Custer County cowboys don’t seem to have a handle on that one, Jess’s notes co
ncluded.

  The account of Lori’s disappearance was puzzling. The hunters agreed that they returned to camp at dusk. Camp was a motel in Westcliffe—an accommodation to Lori. Except for Strickland, who lived in Westcliffe and went home for the night.

  The other hunters reported that Lori went into town—just two blocks away—for something unknown. When she didn’t return, they all set out in separate directions. When they found no trace of her, Flannigan had called in the sheriff. After a day-long search of the surrounding woods and crags, the feds had been called in. After a week, the search was called off. There was no mention in the material of anyone suggesting that the girl was a runaway.

  Flannigan lied. Or did Jess leave that part out? And since these were copies of reports Jess must have given Flannigan, he must have known that his son-in-law was a person of interest. Did he deflect that discussion because his own name was on that list?

  Diana glanced back to make sure she hadn’t misread. She double-checked the Custer County reports. These were Flannigan’s buddies, according to the reports. He’d lied about that, too. And tomorrow she had an appointment scheduled at his house.

  As Diana bundled up the files for return to Jess, after scanning significant portions into her computer, it occurred to her that an essential element was missing. Where was Jess’s file on Darren Rogart? Hadn’t he been the subject of her retention by Joe Flannigan? She perused the paper work again. Nothing. She made a mental note to ask Jess about that when next they talked.

  Chapter 12

  A pheasant erupted from the bushes as Diana parked her white BMW in the driveway of the Flannigans’ Greenwood Village residence, located a short drive south of Denver. The house, a rambling ranch with attached garage, was unpretentious. A silver, meticulously-kept Dodge Ram with a retro ram hood ornament sat in the driveway. She noted the vanity license plate: HUNTER 1.