The Trophy Hunter

by J. M. Zambrano

  I’ll bet he will. The idea of Herb—now he had a name—keeping an eye on anything didn’t give her warm fuzzies.

  “I think I’ll follow you instead.” The words were sudden and unplanned, but now made perfect sense.

  He looked disappointed. “I thought I’d have the chance to hold your hand on the way,” he said boyishly. A grin pulled at his lips, but his eyes were now unreadable behind sunglasses.

  The lumpy ball of apprehension in her middle lurched. “Have you checked out the cabin yet?” she asked. “Do we know what we’re heading into?”

  He squeezed her arm. “I was waiting for you,” he said as he opened the passenger door.

  She backed off. “That’s damned considerate of you. Suppose we meet up with Flannigan?”

  He nodded toward the rifle case in back of the seat. She could just see the edge of it. “I can protect you.”

  Shit! That does it!

  Diana backed away from memories she couldn’t quite reach without burning herself. “I’ll follow you,” she said with resolve. “In my own car.”

  Rogart raised both hands, conceding to her. “Okay. I’ll drive slow.” His mouth smiled again. This time she was sure his eyes didn’t.

  Just get the hell out of here ranted an inner voice. But her curiosity and concern for the errant teen-mother wouldn’t let her go safely and quietly home. She started her car while Rogart sat in his truck, engine idling.

  Safe in her own vehicle as she followed him from the taxidermy shop, Diana felt that debilitating ambivalence churning around again. If you scratched the fact that he hunted and stuffed animals, he was physically everything she desired. Relationships are not perfect. Greg was a golf nut—well, maybe not anymore—and that had nearly bored her out of her skull.

  That’s right, go for the packaging again instead of the man inside. See what it gets you.

  Maybe just a quick sample?

  Easy to imagine from the safety of her car. But why was Rogart’s hunting such a turn-off? She knew that every good man wasn’t necessarily an animal rights activist. Why indeed? She didn’t need Eleanor’s psychiatrist to figure that one out.

  Chapter 50

  When Jess finally got around to Googling Arlette Cruz-Ramos, the net disgorged volumes. The Texas-born artist earned kudos for her portraits of noted celebrities. Then, there was Arlette’s marriage to Argentine-born financier Anthony Ramos that had left her with a fortune on her hands when Anthony had died in a small, private plane crash. Died. That was the assumption. No body had been recovered.

  Jess’s brain stuck on financier, private plane and no body; then she drew her own conclusions.

  The list of hits was daunting. And, after a while, boring. Jess started to pull up only the ones that looked interesting. Pretty soon she was scrolling down the list with glazed eyes. None of the snippets of paragraphs contained reference to Rogart.

  Then one lit up the screen: Arlette Cruz-Ramos done up like Evita? Anthony Ramos plans…

  Jess quickly brought up the full article that predated Anthony’s death.

  Jesus Christ! This is way sick!

  Jess knew of Juan Peron, former dictator of Argentina in the fifties, and his wife Eva only because of the musical and later movie version of Evita. She knew Eva Peron had died young, of cancer, but the rest of it? That hadn’t been in the movie. The creep had his wife stuffed and mounted!

  But, no. That wasn’t exactly it. Jess read on and learned that Peron had reportedly paid a Spanish doctor $100,000.00 to perform what read like an elaborate embalming procedure on Eva that left her lifelike after nearly fifty years. Anthony Ramos was looking for someone with similar skills to preserve Arlette, but unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on whose viewpoint one considered), Arlette wasn’t near death at the time the article was written.

  Jess zipped down the rest of the hits on Arlette, giving them only cursory glances. Then she Googled the name of the doctor that had done the work for Peron. She was just getting started on this when her cell jangled.

  “Edwards and Associates.”

  “Hey Jessie, it’s Troy.”

  Who? She could hear whoever breathing into the awkward silence.

  “Troy Flack, Custer County Sheriff’s office? You said it was okay to call.”

  Oh, Flack the plick. “Troy. Sure. What’s happenin’ my man?”

  She heard the kid clearing his throat. Then, “I’ll be in Denver next Friday. I was hopin’ we could get together…a drink or…”

  Was he even old enough to drink? She guessed so. He was a sheriff. She eyed the incoming number. It was not a Custer County area code. “I’ll have to check my schedule, Troy. Okay if I get back to you?”

  “I’ve got somethin’ you might be interested in.”

  I seriously doubt that. “Uh, Troy—”

  “The Strickland murder and the Lori Rogart rape?”

  This got her attention. “Yeah? Fill me in.”

  “The Feds’ve been leanin’ hard on Mrs. Strickland and she come back just as hard with a name that didn’t make the short list.”

  “Well, don’t just leave me hinging. Spit it out already.”

  “Shane Cutler,” said Troy. “The widow Strickland thinks he was the one in the cabin with the Rogart girl, that her husband come along and caught ‘em at it and Shane killed Larry. Then Mrs. Rogart must o’ come along and maybe he did her, too.”

  Did her? As in killed or fucked? Jess could hear her office phone ringing in the next room. She let it go to voice mail. “I thought Brandi Rogart was the prime suspect in Strickland, her prints and DNA being all over Strickland’s truck,” said Jess. “Now they think she’s dead?”

  “Maybe,” said Troy.

  “What kind of answer is that?” She was a hair away from hanging up on the kid.

  “I might do better if you tell me why an ADA in Denver is interested in Patty Strickland,” said Troy.

  “No idea,” Jess lied. “Come on, Troy. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “Could give you all the details next week. Over dinner.”

  “Sounds really…nice…but…”

  Jess’s call-waiting signaled. Winston’s number. “I’ll have to get back to you, Troy. What’s your private number? It doesn’t show up here.”

  He gave her his number slowly, in a kind-of surly voice. By the time he finished, Winston had hung up without leaving a message. She pushed her favorite connection to Winston and he answered before a single ring had completed.

  “Jessie, I just got a disturbing call from Rena Flannigan,” began Winston.

  “Fine, thank you, and you?” Now Jess wished she’d mined Troy a tad more. Rena Flannigan wasn’t high on her priority list.

  “I’ve had it with your sarcasm,” Winston snapped. Now she was afraid he’d hang up.

  “Sorry.”

  “The story of our relationship. I’m sorry, too. This isn’t about us. The FBI came to Rena’s door looking for Joe. She doesn’t have a lawyer, so she called Diana’s office, but Diana wouldn’t take the call.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Diana.” Then Jess remembered. “She’s off on some wild goose chase with Rogart. They’re checking out a cabin Joe owns in Evergreen.”

  “Joe doesn’t have a cabin in Evergreen.”

  Like you’d really know if it’s where he stashes teenage girls. “Maybe near Evergreen?”

  “The Feds are looking for Joe in connection with a homicide.”

  “I’m not totally surprised. I knew he was a suspect in the Strickland thing.”

  “Not that homicide. One of the other hunting buddies. A Shane Cutler.”

  Jesus! “Did they take him in?”

  “Jessie, he’s dead.”

  “I mean Flannigan.”

  “They don’t know where he is.” She could hear Winston’s snort of frustration. “Joe couldn’t have done this, given the time line.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know where Joe is. Where he’s been fo
r the past month.”

  Chapter 51

  “The Feds think Joe’s become some sort of vigilante,” continued Winston. “First, Strickland because he thinks the guy raped his granddaughter. Then when he discovers his mistake, he goes after the man who did the deed.”

  “Makes sense to me,” replied Jess.

  “Except for the fact that he was in an alcohol rehab facility in Estes Park when Cutler was murdered. Joe fell off the wagon. That’s why he wasn’t showing up for meetings.”

  Jess’s stomach did a nose-dive. “Who does that leave among the usual suspects?”

  “Who do you think? Can you get hold of Diana?”

  “I can try.”

  * * *

  When Jess got off the call with Winston, she punched in Diana’s cell number. It went to voice mail. Shit!

  Then she called Diana’s office and spoke with Tamara, who had the same information she already had: Diana was meeting Darren Rogart in Morrison. From there, they were scheduled to check out a cabin in Evergreen where Flannigan might have stashed Patty-Trisha Strickland.

  “Wait a minute,” said Tamara after Jess’s third “Are you sure she didn’t say anything else?”

  “I’m in her office as we speak. She has ‘Darren Rogart’ written on her calendar and under it ‘Gorman’s Taxidermy.’ That’s not a client. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No, but it soon will. I’ll keep you posted. You do the same. You’ve got my cell?”

  “Have it,” replied Tamara.

  Before Jess headed out of her office, she remembered the call she’d heard coming in when she’d been on the phone with Troy. She quickly retrieved the message and heard Diana’s voice: “Call me ASAP.”

  But she’d already called Diana within the last half hour. Jess pushed Diana’s cell number again. For the second time, it went to voice mail. “Diana, I’m calling you back—again. For Chrissake, call me!”

  * * *

  Jess made the drive to Morrison in under a half hour, found Gorman’s Taxidermy with her GPS. A row of conifers hid it from sight until she was right on it. The small parking lot in front of the shop held only one vehicle, a Toyota van that was lettered in gold on its side with the name of the shop.

  A quick check in back of the building revealed no other vehicles. Just a bird’s-eye view of the freeway. Jess walked back around, made a face and clawing motion at the stationary sentry on duty in front. You’re no Smoky the Bear. She entered the front door and called out, “Hey, anybody minding the store?”

  “May I help you?”

  Jess spun toward the voice. The man’s arms were full as he carried a moose head from someplace in the back of the shop. The dark moose hide made him look even whiter in contrast.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” said Jess.

  “I’m not he. Haha.” The forced laughter could have come from a mechanical device.

  What rock did you crawl out from under? “A tall redhead. She was meeting a guy here. I’m pretty sure…”

  “Ah, Darren’s friend.” He said friend in a way that made it sound like a dirty word.

  Jess nodded. “Yeah, Darren’s friend. I take it they were here.”

  Moose-man set his burden down on a table. “They were here. Haha.”

  Somehow, What’s funny? didn’t seem appropriate. Jess attempted to duplicate the sound: “Haha?”

  “I think Darren’s date…didn’t turn out like he expected.”

  Jess peered at the doughy little man through narrowed eyes. “You think that because…?”

  “Darren asked if the lady could leave her car here for a while. No problem for me. Parking’s not an issue. Don’t get many walk-ins. Haha.”

  Eew. Go back under your rock. “I don’t see her car. It’s a white BMW.”

  “Yes, it was. They talked for a while, then left. In separate vehicles.”

  Jess frowned. “Did they go in separate directions?”

  “Couldn’t tell.” Moose-man walked to the front of the shop, gestured through the window. “As you can see, the road curves. You can’t see beyond the row of pines. They could have gotten on the freeway, or continued up Morrison Road. Or each gone in a separate direction.”

  “Haha,” said Jess as she headed out of the shop.

  Glancing over her shoulder, more to see if the guy was picking up a phone—he wasn’t—she saw a puzzled look on his face. “Is that supposed to be some kind of black humor?” he asked.

  Chapter 52

  Diana trailed Rogart through the town of Evergreen. He slowed down just long enough to observe the posted speed limit. At the edge of town, he turned left and proceeded into a wooded stretch of narrow highway that wound upward through Bear Creek Valley. Among the trees that flanked the road, she could see occasional mansions dotting the hillsides. Then, they seemed to leave civilization as the houses became less frequent and the road more convoluted.

  Although it was still early afternoon, Diana observed a darkening around her not fully explained by the thickening pine forest. She looked up through her sun roof and noticed an impending storm through a break in the trees. The flimsy gray clouds she’d observed when she left Denver had ripened in an angry sky.

  She pulled to the side of the road and parked, relieved to see Rogart’s truck continuing around a curve ahead of her. The road followed the base of a large formation of jagged granite dotted with pines that seemed to protrude from solid rock.

  A chill ran through her bones. She pulled an overcoat out of the back seat, then slipped into it, but the inner cold was still with her. Why hadn’t Jess called her back? She reached into her suit jacket pocket, felt around. No cell. Then she checked the overcoat, thinking maybe she’d put it in there before getting out of the car in Morrison. Not likely, but…where was it?

  She was bent down, checking the floor of the car and around the console when she heard a tapping on her window. Diana didn’t immediately recognize the face that peered at her from under the hood of a yellow rain slicker. Big, wet snowflakes zigged and zagged in front of her vision. The spring storm had commenced in earnest before she’d been fully aware of its imminence.

  “Diana, roll down the window.” Rogart’s voice? He looked different somehow with his head of beautiful silver hair covered by the rain slicker. Yellow wasn’t his color, she thought. But it wasn’t that. It was something in his eyes, now bare of sunglasses. It jolted her to remember that the sun hadn’t been bright when he was wearing them an hour or so ago. She hadn’t noticed. She’d once again been blinded by him.

  His lips were smiling at her through the thickening veil of spring snow. He held up something in his hand and dangled it in her face.

  A cell phone. Hers?

  Then she looked beyond the phone, beyond Rogart to a spot just behind and to the left of her car, where snowflakes fell and melted on the hood of an idling silver Dodge Ram.

  Chapter 53

  Diana’s ambivalence toward Rogart vanished like a highway centerline in a blizzard. She didn’t need a second look at the Ram truck to know the license was HUNTER something. Depending on what connection Shane Cutler had with Rogart. If Rogart had Cutler with him, she was doubly in peril.

  She watched the smug grin vanish from Rogart’s face as she threw the BMW into gear and wrenched it onto the highway, nearly knocking him down. She took satisfaction in seeing him scramble, the hood of his slicker falling away.

  The BMW skidded, and in the moments it took her to complete a U-turn, Rogart had positioned himself in the road in front of her. She checked that all her doors and windows were locked, then tried to steer around him. He blocked her path and waved his arms for her to stop. He’d managed to put a smile back on his face. Then he shook his head and pointed toward the Ram truck. Was he trying to convey that he needed help? Ridiculous. She could see exhaust coming from the truck. It was still idling. But she couldn’t see whether anyone was inside.

  Then she saw Rogart inching backward toward the parked truck, still smil
ing. The tires of her car spun uselessly in the sludgy snow and mud. He now stood abreast of the Ram. Both man and truck blocked her path, should she get her car in motion.

  Throwing the car into reverse, then first, Diana rocked it several times. She imagined a look of amusement on Rogart’s face, hidden again under the yellow slicker hood. The snow had stopped. Fickle Colorado weather! As her car lurched forward, Rogart mocked her with applause she couldn’t hear through closed windows. His lips moved. Was he saying Bravo?

  Diana floor-boarded the BMW. The car leapt forward. Rogart or the truck? She’d have to hit one to get by. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell her which. He dove for a ditch on the far side of the road. Through her rear-view, she could see him climbing out of the slush. One glimpse. Worth a thousand words.

  Her plan was to backtrack to Evergreen, find a police station if the town had one, or at least some public place where she could phone for help. She’d been driving only a couple of minutes when she noted an obscure side road to her left that appeared to skirt the north side of the mini-mountain. No time or inclination to explore it, but at least it offered an explanation of how Rogart had been in front of her in a tan Ford, then ended up behind her in a silver Ram. The road must circle the mountain. Somewhere along the route another vehicle had awaited him.

  At least the snow had subsided, but a deepening gray sky hovered over the area, choking off light. The storm was just taking a breather.

  She opened the window, then drove faster than she knew was safe. The forest air smelled of wet pine needles, but somehow that odor had lost its freshness.

  As she took curves and ruts at sixty miles an hour, Diana reasoned that she might as well die in a crash as to let Rogart catch her. She had her hands too full to analyze her fears, but one thing stood out. The kiss and the quick feel that didn’t really go anywhere. It went somewhere all right. Into her jacket pocket. Back at Gorman’s Taxidermy, Rogart had lifted her cell phone.