A Killing Season

by Jessica Speart

  He flicked open my Speideco knife, exposing its jagged blade.

  “Yeah. We’re called the Women Past Thirty Unite club. Our goal is to dissuade lecherous old men from having their way with young college students.”

  Hal shot me a dirty look that clearly read, Who’s old? And I’ll damn well do as I please. Then he started to hack away at the twig, using the knife like a machete.

  “There! That ought to do it!” he triumphantly exclaimed.

  Hal would have done better leaving the wooden perch in place; his beard looked as if it had lost the battle.

  I drove past Babb and headed down toward St. Mary. Off to my left swam an ocean of prairie. Picture-perfect mountains loomed to my right, and I caught sight of a mountain goat peering down from his snow-covered perch.

  The scent of mint began to fill the Ford, and I turned my head in time to see Hal spray another blast of Binaca into his mouth. This woman was obviously someone special.

  He soon began to fidget as nervously as a twelve-year-old boy. Hauling out a scrap of paper, Hal studied his rough map and written instructions.

  “Slow down. I think you make a left on the dirt road coming up.”

  We turned and drove less than a mile before the trail forked.

  I hit the brakes. “Okay. Now what?”

  Hal turned the paper upside down, as if that might help. All the while a herd of deer stood and stared, as motionless as statues. My guess was they were wondering what two palefaces were doing out here. I was thinking along those same lines when Hal puffed out his cheeks, loudly exhaled, and made his pronouncement.

  “We head to the left.”

  Hal’s choice was a bumpy lane littered with rocks. That, along with firsthand knowledge of his misguided sense of direction, made me swing the Ford to the right. Ornish begrudgingly grinned in acknowledgment that I’d probably made the correct decision.

  We’d driven only a short distance when the trees drew closer, as if unsure whether to let us pass. Gnarled roots grabbed at the Ford’s tires, slowing us to a crawl. I was certain I could hear the evergreens whisper among themselves, secretly conspiring against us. Their murmurs echoed in a coniferous corridor, whose cathedral ceiling grew increasingly dark and lush. I forged on, afraid to break the silence.

  My breath caught in my throat as I glimpsed the road up ahead. Rows of slender cottonwoods lined the path, their graceful limbs decorated with strips of brightly colored cloth. A giddy breeze stirred and the fabric gaily waved to us in welcome.

  Leaving the tunnel, we entered a field dotted with metal sculptures of bears in playful positions. A sturdy red barn stood beyond, as well as a large cabin of thick cedar logs. A column of smoke rose from its chimney. As we approached, the door opened and a tall, elegant woman appeared.

  She was dressed in a rich angora sweater whose collar curled up beneath her chin. Pants gracefully swayed against the woman’s legs in a generous swirl of fabric, and soft leather boots covered her feet in a shade as sinfully delicious as deep, dark, bittersweet chocolate.

  Luxurious snow-white hair was pulled softly away from her face and sat piled atop her head in Gibson girl fashion. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stylish figure that she cut. It was easy to see why Hal was smitten with the woman; I only hoped I’d look half as good at her age. But Hal’s former squeeze was no more a Native American than I was Annie Oakley. Why was a Caucasian woman living on the Blackfeet reservation?

  She raised her hand and shielded her eyes from the sun to look in our direction. Her gaze settled on Hal and remained there as the Ford came to a stop.

  “Jesus, you got old!” she snapped at him by way of greeting.

  There was a sprightly spring to Hal’s step as he rushed forward and gave her an awkward hug.

  “And you look as beautiful as ever.” He beamed, reluctantly releasing her from his embrace.

  The very air seemed to shimmer around her, though she hadn’t so much as cracked a smile.

  “Of course I do; I don’t eat crap and sit with my rear end planted in front of a TV all night. Nor do I consider sprinting after coeds an Olympic sport,” she tartly responded.

  I grinned. The woman obviously had Hal’s number. In fact, I was beginning to suspect that their relationship might not have had the happiest of endings. Then she focused her laser-sharp peepers on me.

  “And who have we here?” she asked, with the slightest hint of disdain.

  Oh brother. It wasn’t hard to imagine what she was thinking.

  “Just tell me you’re not one of his former students that he finally managed to catch.” Her warning extended itself all the way to her handshake, which gave my own a rock-solid squeeze.

  If I had been involved with Hal, I might have considered jumping back in the Ford and heading out on the double.

  “No, I’m simply a friend and his current tenant. My name is Rachel Porter, and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

  That appeared to catch her off-guard; the woman’s eyes flickered with a shade of apprehension. It was just enough to draw my attention before she quickly recovered.

  “And this is Sally Starlight,” Hal reverently introduced her.

  “You forget, that was my name when I was single,” she crisply corrected. “Now it’s Sally Crossbow.”

  That helped explain what a white woman was doing here. She was obviously married to a Blackfeet Indian.

  “How long has Frank been dead, anyway?” Hal lecherously questioned, beginning to stroke his mangled beard.

  “Not long enough for me to be interested in anyone else. So don’t go getting any funny ideas,” she responded, promptly putting Ornish in his place.

  Hal shook his head in amusement and chortled, as if he were just warming up for the game. “Damn, but you haven’t changed the slightest bit.”

  Only then did the whisper of a smile cross Sally’s lips. It quickly disappeared as a high-pitched cry pierced the air.

  I glanced around, but there was no bird in sight that might have issued the call. The cry sounded once more, this time ending in a distinct kee-kee-kee. I nailed Sally as she nervously shifted her weight from hip to hip in a silent admission of guilt. She reluctantly met my gaze, and her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

  “That’s Mountain Chief. He’s my latest addition,” she revealed.

  That was exactly what I hadn’t wanted to hear—obtaining and keeping wild birds in cages is strictly against the law.

  “What kind of bird is it?”

  “A golden eagle. Would you like to see him?”

  Sally didn’t wait for me to answer, but strode toward the barn. I followed with Hal trudging close behind, anxiously tugging at my jacket as I did my best to ignore him.

  Sally skirted the building and headed around the rear, where a large wire pen stood next to a grove of willows. The bird screeched again and angrily eyed us as we approached.

  “Apparently Mountain Chief wants his food now, rather than waiting till dinner,” Sally said, trying to make light of the situation.

  The eagle wasn’t alone. Two other birds of prey were inside the cage with him.

  A rough-legged hawk sat gazing off in the distance, its attitude as imperious as an ancient Roman senator’s. It softly whistled to itself, the notes descending in scale. At the opposite end of the cage stood a northern harrier, whose russet feathers and disk-shaped face artfully blended in with the background. All three were juveniles, and each was missing a wing.

  Sally threw chunks of carrion inside the cage and the trio of raptors went into attack mode.

  “You’re looking at Montana’s version of drive-by shootings. A bunch of idiots has been running around taking potshots at birds of prey. I guess they’re more challenging than plinking at road signs,” she said in disgust. “Then you’ve also got your local yahoos who are shooting eagles and hawks for their feathers.”

  I suspected their plumage was being used for more than just religious ceremonies. I’d spot
ted numerous raptor feathers dangling from vehicles’ rearview mirrors and fashioned into jewelry. If that weren’t bad enough, eagle’s talons were being hacked off and sold as decorative roach clips.

  “I end up having to amputate a wing here and there to save some of the raptors. But you needn’t worry; I’m a licensed wildlife rehabilitator.”

  That may have been true. But then, why had she acted so nervous and guilty earlier?

  “By the look of things, I’d say these birds don’t appear to be very good candidates for rehabilitation.”

  Sally zoomed in on me as intently as an eagle scrutinizing its prey. “I keep the ones that can’t be placed back into the wild. Or would you rather I just destroy them and write it off as doing my part for conservation?”

  “Hey, I’m not the enemy here,” I reminded her, as we mentally circled one another. By now, two guys might have started to duke it out. As women, we accomplished the same thing without batting an eye.

  Hal was smart enough to quietly stand aside until we’d finished sizing each other up.

  Sally finally blinked. “Sorry. That’s what happens when you live alone out here for so long. It becomes increasingly difficult to trust people.”

  I suspected it wouldn’t have made any difference where she lived. From what I could tell, her instincts were dead on.

  The birds continued to rip away at the strips of raw meat as I began to look around. A denser patch of woods stood beyond the willows, composed of windblown quaking aspen. Looming in the opposite direction were the jagged peaks and cliffs of Glacier National Park. It was off these snow-covered mountains that the wind barreled down, stunting every tree in its path.

  As we began to walk back toward Sally’s house, the bear sculptures once more came into view.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “My husband created them. Bears were his totem animal. Maybe that’s why there are so many of them around here.”

  “You’re talking about grizzlies?” I asked in surprise.

  “Both grizzlies and black bears.” She pointed toward Glacier National Park. “You’ve got a bear factory up in those mountains and a conduit that comes down along here, so it’s to be expected. I believe in letting the critters pass through my land if they want.”

  “Let’s get the hell inside.” Hal nervously hurried toward the cabin.

  Sally pushed the door open and we entered a large room, where a melange of aromas rushed to embrace us. There was the sweetly comforting smell of leather and deerskin, followed by the scent of rawhide. The pungent odor of burning wood mingled with the bouquet emanating from a pot of coffee brewing on the stove, while whatever was cooking in the oven smelled good enough to make my mouth water.

  I was further seduced by the cabin’s decor. Beautiful handmade furniture filled the kitchen as well as the living room. Ralph Lauren would have died and gone to heaven at the sight of so many gorgeous hand-loomed blankets casually flung over the backs of the plush leather couch and chairs.

  But even more impressive was the artwork on the walls. Every inch of space was covered with a different large poster, all touting the same stunning young woman. The femme fatale’s costume consisted of nothing more than cut-out silver stars. All exclaimed, Let Sally Starlight Transport You Out of This World in an Evening of Song and Dance! Each ad boasted a different date and location—Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! Tulsa, Oklahoma! Paris, France!

  I turned and looked at the woman standing behind me. Sally Crossbow was proving to be more interesting than I could have imagined.

  “You were a performer?”

  A ringlet had escaped from the powder puff atop her head, its tresses having been carefully arranged into a look of oh-so-casual perfection. The lock of hair slid beguilingly down her neck, reminiscent of a stripper removing an article of clothing. Sally lifted the rebellious curl and flirtatiously began to twist it around her finger.

  “That’s ancient history.”

  But she clearly reveled in the attention. The ringlet slipped from her grasp, as if naughtily misbehaving.

  “Don’t be so modest, Sally! Not only were you the toast of the town, but also the best exotic dancer that this state—hell, the whole world—has ever seen!” Hal said with unabashed admiration.

  A throaty laugh bubbled from Sally’s lips. “I was pretty good, wasn’t I? I guess you could say I was the poor man’s Gypsy Rose Lee.”

  Hal expertly picked up his cue.

  “I deign to disagree. I believe it happened to be the other way around.”

  “Well, Rose was past her prime by the time I hit the road. But one has to give the woman her due: she was certainly a class act. At least we had style back in those days. Exotic dancing was an art form. Not like now, when any girl with enough silicone in her chest gets paid to bump and grind on top of a bar. That’s what helped kill vaudeville.”

  “Sally Starlight was your stage name, then?”

  “My, but you are the sharp one, aren’t you? No wonder you were made a special agent.”

  I gritted my teeth, thinking about helping Sally see a few more stars of her own, when she winced.

  “Oh dear, I can be such a bitch! Please forgive me. My natural defense system kicks in whenever I’m around a pretty young girl these days.”

  “Flattery works every time. You’re forgiven.” I grinned and meant it. Truth be told, there were a few Victoria’s Secret models that I wouldn’t mind slugging myself.

  “I’m afraid that I’ve just turned into an ornery old woman.”

  Hal nearly knocked me out of the way as he jumped to her defense.

  “That’s total nonsense! First of all, you’re nowhere near old. You can’t be. Hell, that would make me old, too!”

  Sally’s eyelashes fluttered demurely.

  “If anything, you’re more alluring than ever. You’ve ripened into a pretty hot tomato.”

  I was beginning to wonder if I should quietly slip away.

  “You just tend to speak your mind, is all. And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Hal added.

  Sally’s lips relaxed into a smile. “You’re an absolute scoundrel, Hal Ornish. This is how you won me over the first time! I think what we could all use is a martini.”

  Sally expertly whipped up three cocktails James Bond style—shaken, not stirred. She took a sip of her drink and then turned to me.

  “I invented the name Sally Starlight, just the way Marilyn Monroe and Greta Garbo and Tina Turner created their identities. I was in the business of dreams, which automatically gave me the right to make myself into whoever I chose to be.”

  Sally dipped two fingers into her martini, plucked out an olive, and popped it into her mouth. “It just so happens that I was the Madonna of my day. In fact, I heard she found some old footage of one of my dance numbers and has ripped off all my moves to use in her next video.”

  Ooookay.

  “By the way, I hope you’re planning to stay for dinner, because I’ve already got a roast in the oven.”

  “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” I answered.

  “And I’ve got the wine.” Hal produced two bottles from his knapsack. “It’s a nice Beaujolais.”

  Why, the sneaky old coot! I took a sip of my martini, secretly pleased with the way things had worked out. Hal and Sally continued to reminisce in the kitchen as I sank into a large leather chair, my senses surrendering to the tantalizing scents. Lulled by the buzz of gin and vermouth, I tried to decide whom I’d rather be stranded with—a young Clint Eastwood, or Harrison Ford. Harrison was edging his way toward victory when a low rumble interrupted my thoughts.

  Oh, please. Don’t let that be my stomach making a nuisance of itself!

  My wish was granted as the sound morphed into the sputter of an arthritic engine.

  “That must be Matt,” Sally said while checking the roast. “He has a tendency to just drop by.”

  She closed the oven and quickly stepped outside. Curiosity dictated that I follow.


  An old blue pickup slowly approached us, wheezing and groaning as if relieved to come to a halt. A dog flew out of the driver’s side door as it swung open. The critter appeared to be part chow and part coyote, with a coat the same golden color as the late afternoon sun. It dashed past me in a mad frenzy to greet Sally as a man emerged from the truck.

  And what a man—his jet-black hair was so dark that it had a bluish sheen. Perfectly straight, it was neatly pulled back in a long ponytail. Dammit; that was the hair I’d always wanted for myself. I could almost feel my out-of-control curls grow even wilder with unbridled envy.

  The fact that he had high cheekbones and a perfectly chiseled nose didn’t make me feel any better. I was ready to write the guy off as someone who couldn’t possibly have any depth, until I caught sight of his eyes and an involuntary shiver raced through me.

  Almond in shape, they were darkly opaque with glints of yellow shimmering in each iris. His gaze met mine and I unexpectedly found myself having to look away. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was in Blackfeet territory, but I suddenly felt like an intruder.

  He closed the pickup’s door and approached the porch, eyeing Hal and me. His walk held the fluid sleekness of a cat on the prowl. It was as if he had invisible wings on his back, and soles of velvet attached to the bottom of his shoes. He’d barely taken his first step before he was up on the porch and standing beside me. My radar kicked in, aware there was something distinctly predatory about the man.

  “This is Matthew Running,” Sally said.

  Running studied us intently, as if calculating whether we might be potential foes.

  “Matt, meet a dear old friend of mine, Hal Ornish.”

  That seemed to get Hal off the hook. The muscles in Running’s face relaxed as he held out his hand. “Hal Ornish, huh? I’ve heard about you.”

  Low in timbre, his voice bore a smoky quality, as if concealing a multitude of secrets buried beneath deep, dark layers. Its resonance worked like a transmitter, and my body its receiver. A buzz vibrated throughout my limbs, causing every cell to begin to thrum.

  “And this is Rachel Porter. She’s renting a room in Hal’s house. Rachel’s with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and is the special agent for this region.”