The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

  While they had no advance idea how the others would attempt to ensnare them, the man with the deep voice knew immediately what they were up to when they had attempted to use his name. It was transparent and it was no accident. But they were more than a match for the group in Georgia. With caution, skill, and experience gained from their years of successfully walking through the dangerous snares and traps littering their landscape, not to mention money, power and influence, they would control their less experienced counterparts and see the project through.

  Expressing their concerns at the methods used by the Georgia group, they knew they were tied to these men through the project. Neither liked the idea of having their futures so closely associated with amateurs. After a full and frank discussion of their concerns, they calmly agreed that they would each make other inquiries in case additional arrangements were required. They did not discuss the details of those additional arrangements. There was no need.

  By unspoken mutual agreement, the conversation turned to pleasant banter about their children and grandchildren, the weather back home, the pitching rotation on their favorite team. It was Sunday and they had concluded their work for the day.

  After lunching together in the hotel lobby restaurant, the man with the deep voice departed. His companion sat in the lobby reading a paper, awaiting the arrival of his daughter, who had been surprised, but pleased by the invitation to visit her father for the weekend.

  3. Fitness Program

  A light easterly breeze rustled the Spanish moss hanging from a live oak on the side of the road. Breathing deeply of the fresh spring air filled with the scents of growing things, the jogger plodded rhythmically along. Glancing through the trees and into the woods, he could see small ripples on the black water surrounding the cypress trees. The shallow water trailed off into a patch of swamp. Something rippled the water at the base of one of the trees, maybe a baby gator just hatched, but more likely a water moccasin on the hunt.

  He was young, not more than thirty, and although he was jogging, he was not in the greatest physical shape. That was the reason for the daily runs he had begun a couple of months earlier. He was motivated.

  Timothy Farrin, Timmy as everyone locally called the young man, was the assistant editor of the Everett Gazette, Pickham County’s only newspaper. He also ran the local radio station, reported the news, and conducted the interviews. Soon, thanks to Porter Wright, owner and editor of the Gazette, he would be the anchor, producer, and cameraman for the daily Pickham County news broadcast from the small startup cable television station that Wright had decided to bring to the rural Georgia county.

  Realizing that his on-air appearance might be enhanced by a somewhat trimmer frame, Timmy had embarked on a fitness program that included a daily jog along the country roads of Pickham County. It had been a novelty at first. Jogging was a curiosity to the locals who were mostly working people whose employment kept them in reasonably good physical shape. Those who had sedentary jobs, a small percentage of the population, were generally not as motivated as young Timmy was by his burgeoning journalistic career and upcoming appearances at seven a.m. and six p.m. on the cable news.

  Soon, the country folk driving by in their pickups and tractors had become accustomed to seeing the young man plodding along the back roads. As was their way, they never failed to raise a hand in a friendly wave as they moved their vehicles to the centerline and passed. Timmy in return would suck his belly in as much as possible and return the wave. He still looked pudgy, but the locals passing by had to admit that he was less so than before his fitness program, and they commented that while his route did not vary along the back roads, it had lengthened as his level of fitness increased.

  The sound of a car approaching from behind caused him to step off the pavement into the soft soil that lined the sides of the road. The thought of treading on a snake cooling itself in the grass on the side of the road always caused him to study the ground carefully as he trudged along. Snakes were common, and while not fearful of them, he was respectful and did not take unnecessary chances.

  Looking up as the car passed, Timmy saw, as he had expected, that Pastor Delbert was heading to the Crossroads Baptist Church to prepare for the evening meeting. Not a churchgoer himself, Timmy had become familiar with the Pastor’s passage during his jogs on Sunday and Wednesdays before prayer meeting. They exchanged a friendly wave, and the Pastor’s minivan picked up speed while Timmy put his head down focusing on the last two miles of his run.

  A few minutes later, the whine of tires on the pavement caused him to raise his eyes again. An old pickup approached from the opposite direction and slowed slightly. Lifting his hand at the waste, Timmy gave a brief, obligatory wave. It was the ‘stranger wave’, slightly different from that exchanged with the Pastor. Just a slight lift of the hand at the wrist, it sent the message, ‘I don’t recognize you, but common manners require me to show you the same courtesy I would my neighbor.’

  Squinting into the cab of the truck as it passed, he could see the thin, gaunt man driving nod and smile back at him and lift his fingers from the steering wheel in a brief ‘driver’s wave to a stranger’. Timmy could see that the thin man was tall, his head nearly touching the ceiling of the cab so that he looked slightly down and out of the dirt specked windshield.

  Timmy had become familiar with the traffic on the country roads, and on Sunday afternoon, the only vehicle he expected to see was Pastor Delbert’s van. Probably looking for some dirt road or driveway turnoff, the man in the truck was most likely some farmer’s cousin or uncle.

  The truck picked up speed again after the exchange of courtesy waves and continued on its way. Timmy slogged up the road, his eyes wandering from the horizon ahead to the woods and marsh lining the road, to the soft dirt and grass on the shoulder, ever alert for a snake or some other unpleasant critter. It occurred to him that the smiling stranger in the truck had not asked for directions. That was unusual. Maybe not in the city, but out in the country it would be common to seek friendly assistance, even from a stranger.

  A few minutes later, the sound of a vehicle approaching from the rear caught his attention and took his mind off the last mile of his run and his labored efforts to suck enough oxygen into his lungs. Reaching his hand up, he wiped the sweat off the side of his face with the sweatband around his wrist. Recognizing the sound of the old truck that had passed earlier, he knew that the thin man in the pickup was still searching. No one else would be out on this back road on Sunday afternoon. Having made his best effort to find whomever or whatever he was looking for, Timmy figured the man would probably stop and ask directions this time.

  Stepping onto the shoulder, eyes focused on the dirt and grass, Timmy waited for the pickup to pull beside him. A moment later, the truck’s engine roared and the whine of its tires changed pitch.

  Timmy just started to turn his head when the center of the old truck’s steel bumper struck him squarely in the back of his legs at seventy miles an hour, breaking them instantly. There was no time to feel the intense pain. The hood of the truck struck and broke his spine. The resulting paralysis prevented any awareness of pain.

  The only sensation he felt was a bit of nausea as the world spun in front of his eyes, his body spinning wildly through the air. The nausea and dizziness were short-lived and ended abruptly when Timmy Farrin’s head exploded against the side of a live oak growing along the road, spraying red and gray matter over the bark and the Spanish moss hanging from the tree’s branches.

  Stopping the pickup, the tall thin man stood on the side of the road for a few seconds looking closely at the mangled body against the tree. He held the truck’s tire iron in his hand. It took only a few seconds to see that it would not be necessary. The impact with the tree had been devastating and there would be no need to finish him off. Young Timmy Farrin and his journalistic dreams were ended.

  Folding his long body back into the pickup, the thin man drove several miles to a secluded back road that was no more tha
n a dirt trail into the woods. Leaving the stolen truck, he entered the SUV he had rented at the airport in Jacksonville. An hour later, he was southbound on I-95 crossing the state line into Florida.

  The shattered remains of Timmy Farrin, which would not be discovered for many hours, were already providing a Sunday afternoon feast to an assortment of wildlife. Crows, possums, raccoons, and various insects had made their way to the body, each finding something to interest them. Further off the road, in the cypress trees where the black water was deeper, a gator caught the scent of blood and snorted loudly.

  4. Warming Up

  He was a hunter, or at least he was dressed like one. Camouflage pants and jacket, matching ball cap, and rifle slung over his shoulder, he would not look out of place in the woods. In fact, even out of hunting season as this time of year was, he simply appeared to be scouting a place for his deer stand, trying to get a head start on the competition and secure a spot in a good tree before it was taken by other hunters.

  Carrying a rifle in the woods was not out of place, even out of season. It was a hunter thing, and those who live for the hunt would understand completely, as would any DNR ranger, in the extremely unlikely event that one happened by. They would have checked him out, warned him not to shoot at anything living, and then sent him on his way with a ‘good luck’ in finding a good spot near a deer trail.

  This understanding came naturally to ‘Big Bud’ Thompson. He had been roaming the woods and backcountry of Georgia all of his life. He was, in fact, an avid hunter. Today he was hunting. He had never poached, and he would have had issues with anyone who did, but there was no legal season for the game he was after today. That was of no concern to Big Bud.

  The loud crack of a large caliber rifle echoed through the woods. He crouched immediately, concealing himself in a blackberry thicket. The stickers and clinging vegetation had no effect on him. His clothing offered some protection, but Thompson had experienced far worse. The small discomfort of kneeling in the blackberries was insignificant and ignored. He was focused on the task and the game he sought.

  The rifle cracked again followed by a shout from the shooter.

  “Son of a bitch! You see that, Brett? Son of a bitch.”

  “I saw it. Stop your damned shouting. Everybody in two miles will be hearing your big mouth.”

  “Like they can’t hear the gun?”

  “Shootin’s one thing. Shoutin’ about splattering a beer can is something else. Daddy be whuppin’ our ass if he finds out about the beer.”

  The voices were young, just boys out target shooting. Thompson moved slowly, silently in the direction of the firing. Making his way to a clearing, he peered through the vines, unslinging his rifle and laying it at the ready across his knees as he squatted.

  “Bet you can’t do that twice in a row.” The oldest of the three set a beer can up at one end of the clearing and then stepped well out of the line of fire.

  “Watch.” The boy that seemed to be next in age sighted through the scope of a rifle that appeared to be nearly as long as he was tall.

  Bud knew without having to see the weapon closely that it was a Remington 700, .30-06 caliber. An excellent rifle, he thought. Perfect.

  A moment later, the rifle cracked again and the beer can exploded. As it turned out, the boys had used a full can as a target. Wasteful, Bud thought, but fun to watch as the bullet’s impact sent the contents of the can spewing ten feet in the air.

  The smallest of the three gave an excited shout. “Damn, Bobby. That’s some damn good shootin’.”

  The oldest boy looked at the younger sharply and said in a threatening whisper, “Billy, I said quit the shouting. We can all see.”

  “Damn Brett, you sure can be a pussy some times.”

  The older boy took a threatening step towards the other. “I ain’t no pussy you little pissant. But it’s my ass that Daddy’s gonna whup first and hardest if we get caught with the beer, so shut up. I mean it.”

  The two younger boys stared back, not intimidated. Bud could see that they were brothers, the round faces and curly red hair on each making it obvious.

  Raising his rifle, he sighted through the scope letting the crosshairs rest on the back of the head of the older boy, Brett, as he bent over to set up another beer can, this one empty. Taking a breath, then relaxing and releasing the air, he paused. A kill shot, had he exerted the required three pounds of pressure on the trigger. Doing so would pull the trigger to the Minute of Angle, or M.O.A., at which point the firing pin would slam into the shell’s primer. The primer would explosively ignite the powder and send the 150-grain, copper alloy bullet down the barrel toward the boy’s head at a speed of two thousand nine hundred and twenty feet per second. Big Bud knew his weapons.

  He kept his finger off the trigger, and alternately sighted on each of the boys and on the assortment of cans littering the target area. Warming up for the game he was after, he went through the motions of target acquisition, sighting and breath control.

  Patiently, Thompson crouched out of sight in the brush, invisible. He watched with a smile as they downed a couple of beers each. Could have been him and his brother at that age, he thought.

  After a while, feeling the effect of the beers on their young bodies, the boys yawned and gathered up their rifles, leaving the beer cans and spent shell casings scattered around the clearing. Chattering and grabassing as they moved down the path leading from the opposite side of the clearing, they were not aware of the hunter’s eyes on their backs.

  5. Sunday Naps

  The old hinges and spring on the screen door gave a whining creak. The man in the porch rocker turned his head.

  “Can I get you something?” The trim graying woman in the light spring dress padded across the porch in her bare feet and sat in the chair beside her husband.

  “Nope. I’m just fine. Enjoying the afternoon is all.”

  Glancing down at the newspapers scattered across the gray painted porch boards, the woman crooked her head and turned one with her big toe.

  “New bridge going in Latheville it looks like. Page A3. Not real big news, I guess.”

  “Big enough,” the old man responded. “They’ve been working on the deal in committee for a year or so. Old news now.”

  “Oh.” She pulled another section of the paper towards her chair with her foot, arched it demurely, and turned the page around with her extended toe again so she could read. She knew he was watching appreciatively and smiled at the knowledge without looking at him. “Hmm. Lot of public projects going on. New jail in Cowston, roads, new police vehicles.”

  “Yep. Lot of public projects. Lot of public money, too.” Moving his gaze from her outstretched toe and up her bare leg, he felt the old stirrings inside, even at his age. Not too many years ago, he would have taken her upstairs right then. Now it felt good just to sit in his chair on a warm spring afternoon, look at her, and feel the stirrings inside. It was a bitch getting old, he thought.

  “And you’re concerned because…?” There was no hiding his feelings from her. She knew it, and he knew it.

  Prentiss Somerhill looked over at his wife and patted the soft hand that rested on the arm of the rocker.

  “Not concerned. Annoyed. Seems the more we do, the more they try to push through as if everything was normal. They are either extremely stupid or extremely arrogant. Either way,” he sighed, “it’s annoying.”

  Shaking his head slowly, he let out a long, low sigh. The paper on the porch moved back and forth under her bare toe as she rocked her leg girlishly, deliberately. Married almost fifty years, and she still had the ability to make his heart race. Turning his head towards her, he shared a smile, as she had intended, he knew.

  “I’m getting old now, girl. Old and tired.”

  “Too old to come upstairs?” She gave him one of her girlish smiles.

  Watching her leg move back and forth, he had to think about that for a moment. “Well, maybe not too old, but too tired. Right now at least.�
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  Lauralee Somerhill pursed her lips in a small pout, flirting with her husband. “Well, maybe later then, after the kids leave.”

  The unmistakable sounds drew their eyes focused to the same point in the distant tree line.

  “Gunshots,” she said squinting at the trees.

  “Yep. Every Sunday afternoon like normal. Old man Jackson’s boys out taking some target practice most likely. There’s a clearing a ways in the woods just there.” He pointed to a spot directly opposite the porch.

  “I know. Always makes me nervous though. Seems too close.”

  “They’re good boys,” he said, shrugging off any concerns, “and good shots. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I know. Just seems close is all.”

  “Not that close. Couple hundred yards across the pasture and then maybe a quarter mile or so into the woods to the clearing.”

  Taking his hand in hers, she stood, returning to their previous conversation and his disposition. “You stop being annoyed Prentiss. Things are changing.” She placed his hand firmly back on the arm of the rocker and smiled. “Now, are you going to sit there and be grumpy all afternoon or do you want a sandwich?”

  “Tuna on wheat,” he replied. “What time are the kids coming over?

  “PT said about six. He had a meeting with a client and then some errands. He’ll pick up Lisa and the babies and have supper with us,” she called over her shoulder as she went through the screen door.

  “Meeting with a client on Sunday? Must be a big one. PT is pretty good about keeping family time private.”