Dead Aim (17 page)

“Mary will be your scout.”

This one was, if anything, a bit scarier to Marcia, because Mary O’Connor was attractive in the same way that Marcia was. She was tall, thin, and athletic looking, with long red hair that had gone to strawberry in highlights from the sun. Marcia forced herself to stop thinking about her and listen to Parish.

“But it all starts with the tracker. The tracker finds your target and immediately signals the main party. While the main group comes up, the tracker stays with the target. She’s prepared to move with him, to note exactly where he’s going. He remains her responsibility all the way through. If he smells trouble and bolts, she stays on his trail. If the client takes a shot but only wounds him and he keeps running, she stays after him and follows him to ground. She never loses sight of him, if she can avoid it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Marcia.

“Good. Now, the main party comes up. Its purpose is to bring the
hunter—that’s you—into close proximity to the target so you can get a clear, unimpeded shot that will result in a clean kill.”

“The main party? How many?”

“Usually it’s just a scout and a professional hunter. The scout on this hunt is Mary. She stays a bit apart to watch and handle any external factor on the scene that might interfere with the hunt. If the target seems to be in a good place for a shot—say, alone in the middle of a field—but then a group of picnickers comes along and gets in the way, she would have to handle that. The easiest way to think about it is that the tracker’s responsibility is the target, and the scout’s responsibility is the place: seeing and averting external problems. She’s a lookout.”

“What about the professional hunter?”

“This time that’s me,” said Parish. “My sole responsibility is the client, the amateur hunter. I stay with you at all times. I help you move into the best possible position. I provide you with the proper weapon, check all conditions with the tracker and the scout, get the all clear, and give you the go-ahead to fire.”

“I get it,” Marcia assured him. “The tracker shows up first, spots the target, then calls in the rest of us. The scout comes up separately, checks out the area, and the two of us come ahead together.”

“That’s right,” said Parish. “It takes a little patience. We give the tracker and the scout as long as it takes to find the target, assess the conditions, and signal us. Only when everything is right do we commit ourselves.”

She looked at him closely. “You’re not really just there to say go, are you?”

Parish returned her gaze for a moment. “No. The professional’s responsibility is the client, the person whose hunt this is. Sometimes the client will commit himself, then freeze. Sometimes the game doesn’t simply take the shot and die. Sometimes he runs, or even charges. The person any mammal will attack is the one he recognizes as a threat. It will not be the tracker or the scout, whom he’s already seen and discounted as innocuous. The client will not be used to that sort of thing,
and may hesitate. At that point, the professional hunter must try to bring him down before he harms the client.” Parish smiled. “None of those things are what usually happens. But the system allows the hunting party the flexibility to handle all the likely problems—not the least, worrying about them—and it leaves the client free to concentrate all of her senses on the pure enjoyment of the experience.”

“It sounds very … effective,” said Marcia. She didn’t know whether that was the right thing to say, but it was all she could think of. She wanted him to know that she was smart enough to have understood, and that she would not be one of the ones who collapsed, who stepped out of cover and did not have the guts to fire, or did not have a steady enough hand to hit anything.

Parish went on. “That’s the basic hunting party. Under difficult conditions we might add people. Usually it would be extra scouts, but if there is a need for special equipment, we might lay on a bearer or two. The essentials are the same. The method has been widely used over a two-hundred-and-fifty-year period of big-game hunting in India and Africa, and has worked on a hundred species, with surprisingly minor variations. What that indicates, at least to me, is that it takes advantage of fundamental aspects of the nature of all consciousness that has been developed on this planet. It works both on the vulnerability of the prey to an attack that comes from multiple hunters, and a peculiar ability in predators—lionesses, wolves, humans—to hunt cooperatively. The prey is confused and disoriented, but the hunters are each made bolder, quicker, and steadier.”

Parish leaned back in his chair and the intensity left him. His body acquired the studied quiescence and ease that Marcia had noticed in the rest periods during the first month she had spent at the camp. At some periods of her life, she would have found his looks and his ways of moving and carrying himself intriguing. She knew that the relationship he had with the two women, Emily Lyons and Mary O’Connor, was, among other things, sexual. She did not have the patience to begin examining exactly why she knew that, and since she never intended
to tell anyone, she did not bother to assemble proofs. She just knew it. At one time she would have vied to be the third. But not now. She had watched him all this time, thinking not that she wanted to be with him but that she wanted to be like him.

A second later she realized that this was exactly how the other two women had gotten here. They carried themselves in imitation of him, but a special kind, as a dancer is a mirror imitation of her partner: he steps back, she steps forward; he turns, she turns. The two women looked not at all like each other, but in motion they looked like his sisters. She did not feel jealous, and she did not want him. She wanted only to be the hunter he was for a time.

She gave in to an impulse. “When can we go? I’d like to do it as soon as possible.”

“I know. That’s the kind of spirit we like.” He glanced at Emily and Mary. Both nodded at him and smiled knowingly, their eyes on him. They never looked at her. She suspected that they felt contempt for her, the sort of contempt that a woman feels for a potential rival, built of the competition rather than any real quality of hers. She did not care, and she did not detest them in return. She merely noted that they would do their jobs flawlessly, if they could. They would do anything rather than forfeit his confidence.

Parish said, “We’ll go hunting tomorrow, for practice.”

She awoke in her cabin before dawn, dimly aware that something had occurred, and that she needed to know what it was. She sat up quickly, and in the still-darkened corner of the room she saw a tall, silent figure standing. Marcia gasped and her muscles locked, while her heart seemed to skip, then pound. “What?” she rasped.

Mary O’Connor moved closer. Her red hair was tied back tightly. “It’s time. Get up and get dressed. We’re waiting outside.” Then she turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the dark.

Marcia got up. She had seen in the dim light from the window that
Mary O’Connor had been wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts, and a sweatshirt, so she hurriedly put on a tank top, a sweatshirt, shorts, and her hiking boots. Then she stepped outside.

Mary O’Connor and Michael Parish were standing very close inside the shadow of the cabin—closer than two people intent on business would be—whispering. Marcia coughed just loudly enough to be sure they were aware of her. Mary’s shadow separated from Parish’s and floated quietly off up the dry hillside behind the cabin. Parish came close.

Marcia said, “What’s happening now?”

“This works the way I described last night,” he said. “Emily has gone out ahead of us to some likely places, tracking. When she finds the deer, she’ll signal Mary to start up and bring us.”

Marcia could see Mary O’Connor’s tall, thin body kneeling near the top of the hill, one arm across her stomach with the other elbow propped on it to hold the small radio to her ear.

“Here.” Parish picked up a rifle she had not seen leaning against the cabin wall and handed it to her. When she ran her hands along its stock and trigger guard, her fingers recognized it as one of the Remington Model 710 .30-06 bolt-action rifles she had used at the practice range. There was no scope on it today. He seemed to be watching her hands. “Use the factory sight. Put the bead in the notch, and the shot will be true.”

Marcia saw Mary pop up suddenly. Her long arm waved once, and she turned and disappeared over the crest of the hill.

“Let’s go,” said Parish. “She found it.”

They walked in silence for a minute or two, achieving the top of the hill without stepping on sticks or dislodging stones. Parish broke the silence, whispering. “Now we get ready to kill. Part of it is seeing. Part is feeling the shot in your own body as you take it. Big mammals are all pretty similar. You aim for the parts that you feel in yourself are vital: the head, heart, lungs. Here to here.” Marcia felt his hand tap her
on the side of the head, then again on the ribs, his hand just brushing the bottom of her right breast.

They walked on for a time. Marcia held the rifle diagonally in front of her, the left hand on the foregrip, and the right clutching the polymer stock just behind the receiver. Now and then she let her right index finger slide ahead of the trigger guard to touch the safety, or moved the hand forward to grasp the bolt for a second. She was rehearsing, trying to be sure she would get it right in the darkness, to be sure she would not fumble or hesitate.

They walked as the sky began to change, the light turned blue, and objects sharpened from dark blots to shapes that had definite boundaries, and then three dimensions. It was another half hour before the old, complicated oak trees began to have their deep green, and the sage and chaparral had lightened to gray and brown.

She noticed now that Parish had been looking past her to his left, not at her, and she followed his eyes to see that Mary O’Connor had reappeared. She was giving Parish some kind of arm signal again.

Parish stopped, touched Marcia’s arm, and whispered in her ear. “It’s just ahead, in a clearing by a narrow streambed. In the dry season they find small puddles to drink from. When we come into sight, it will go to your left. Lead it. You’ll take one shot only. Get ready.”

She lifted the bolt handle, pulled it back, pushed it forward and down to put a round in the chamber, pushed the safety off with her trigger finger, and moved forward slowly. She was aware that Parish was not walking beside her anymore but a few steps behind and to her right, then far enough back to be entirely out of sight and hearing, the space that mattered. He had removed himself. As long as she looked ahead, kept her ears tuned to hear the prey, she was alone.

She climbed the gradual rise, searching the landscape. She could see the tops of the first string of oak trees in a long line beyond the hill, and she knew they would grow that way along a streambed. As she reached the crest of the hill, she bent lower, then went to her belly
and crawled, keeping her head from coming above the low weeds. She came forward until she could stare down the far side to see the green stripe across the brown field.

She saw the deer. It was standing perfectly still, its head up and its ears twitching, its eyes like big black marbles against its tawny fur. There was a moment of joy and gratitude at being permitted this sight, this beautiful wildness still there in front of her. But even in her first glimpse she could see it was edgy, nervous. It turned its body so it was facing left.

She formed a crook of her left elbow, propped the rifle on her left hand and stared through the notch sight, along the gleaming blue-black barrel to the bead above the muzzle. The deer’s haunches bunched up suddenly, its back legs bent, and she knew it had to happen now.

She saw and felt the smooth, beautiful chest expand, and moved the bead in the center of the notch onto the spot where she could feel the heart beating, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked hard against her shoulder and cheek, and the noise seemed to slap her ears and her stomach at the same time. She found herself standing, staring down toward the creek, but she couldn’t see the deer. She took a step, but her arm was held in a tight grip. She turned. Parish was beside her. He took the rifle from her hands.

She could see Mary O’Connor off to the left, running at full speed down the hill toward the creek. In a second, she saw Emily Lyons stand up from the middle of some chaparral on the far hill, a rifle in her hand. She was pointing.

“Hurry,” said Parish, and began to run.

Marcia launched herself forward, and the slope of the hill carried her down. She had to run a few paces, then dig in with her heels to stop herself, and then she was bounding forward across the short stretch of field. When she was at the streambed—no more than a narrow trench with a few muddy spots—she saw it. She stepped closer, but Parish gripped her arm again.

“Don’t get in front of it. They sometimes get up and run.”

“It’s … alive?” she whispered.

“Come this way,” he said. He pulled her closer. She was behind the deer and to its right. She could see the rib cage rising and falling, and hear a deep
huff
sound. There was blood on the animal’s muzzle and on the ground. “See the blood—how red it is, and the bubbles? You hit the lungs. Maybe got enough of the heart to make it die.”