Finishing School

Table of Contents

 

 

 

OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, November 2008

Copyright © 2008 ABC Studios and CBS Studios Inc.

All rights reserved

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

eISBN : 978-0-451-22547-4

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

I would like to acknowledge my assistant
on this work, co-plotter/researcher
Matthew V. Clemens.
Further acknowledgments appear
at the conclusion of this novel.

 
M.A.C.

Bemidji, Minnesota

The first rays of a November sunrise peeked over the horizon as if making sure the coast was clear before the sun gave up its cover. In his deer stand, fifteen feet up and wedged into a triangle of aspen trees, William Kwitcher looked down through the tightly bunched thicket, his breath visible.

A skinny man in his early thirties, Billy Kwitcher was covered head to toe in camouflage for the benefit of the deer that Daniel Abner, their guide, insisted would be here. One hundred yards to Billy's left, Abner occupied the next stand, and one hundred yards beyond Abner perched Billy's friend Logan Tweed. Abner, a balding man in his mid-forties, leased this land from Bassinko Industries, the lumber company that owned literally millions of acres of forest in the United States.

The guide had brought Billy and Tweed to this section of forest because gun season was now open, and Abner knew that the only gun hunters they might meet in these woods would be trespassers. Bow hunters would be in camouflage, while the gun hunters would be in orange. A camouflaged hunter moving around in a forest filled with gun hunters was just asking to be the victim of an accidental shooting.

Though he had practiced hard since last season, Billy was on only his second bow hunt. The first, last year, had proved dangerous chiefly to two pine trees Billy had plunked when he missed his meager two shots at bucks. He was better now, steadier. Working out had helped his strength, pulling the bow string, but had made no evident change to his wiry frame.

Below him, a six-point buck paused, nose in the air, sniffing carefully for signs of danger.

Holding his breath now, Billy willed the steam of his previous breath to dissipate before it reached the wary nostrils of his new target. Bow ready, arrow nocked, Billy tried to not move a single muscle as he waited for the buck to move farther toward the edge line separating the thicker growth that held his stand, and the thinner growth mere yards away.

Though the deer lived in the thicker woods, they fed in the nearby area, harvested about five years ago. In that section, the less dense trees allowed for more ground foliage for the deer to eat. That made the edge line, the border of the two areas, the place to hunt.

The edge line also made the buck more cautious than a field mouse trying to skirt around a sleeping rattlesnake. That was a sight not completely unfamiliar to Billy—once, back in the hills of his native Arkansas, he'd tossed a pebble at a rattler sunning itself on a flat rock. The snake coiled and its head popped up, its tail shaking its warning. A mouse on the nearby ground had frozen, in the vain hope that the snake would not see it. When the rodent finally made a dash for freedom, it got only two steps before the snake struck.

From then on, Billy had spent much more time studying snakes than mice.

‘‘A hunter who can stalk a predator,'' his father had told him, ‘‘is a good hunter, indeed.''

Billy Kwitcher had worked very hard at becoming a good hunter.

The buck beneath his deer stand sniffed the air again. Billy considered his options. From here, he had no shot. The only thing to do was wait. Finally, as if answering Billy's silent pleas, the buck took one step toward the edge line.

He sniffed; he stepped.

He sniffed; he stepped.

The tension was agonizing as Billy waited for the buck to give him an open shot. The passing seconds seemed interminable as the buck did its best to protect itself.

Finally, just as the buck edged into the harvested forest to feed, Billy drew back the stiff string of the bow, his muscles burning. He aimed, and just as the animal lowered his head to feed, Billy loosed the arrow.

He could barely make out the shaft's flight in the shadowy woods, but he heard the satisfying thunk as arrow met buck and passed through the creature before the deer even realized it had been hit.

As the arrow sailed off, the buck shuddered and stumbled, head popping up, eyes locking with Billy's for a split second before it turned away and sprinted off through the new woods, a red blossom visible just behind its shoulder.

When he saw that, Billy knew he'd made his shot. The arrow had pierced both lungs. The buck wouldn't die instantly, but the wound would be mortal.

That did not mean the carcass wouldn't end up half a mile or more away. Billy quelled the urge to climb down and take off in chase of the deer. One turn back this way by the buck could lead Billy right into the firing line of his two companions. That was assuming no other bow or gun hunters were in these woods. They weren't
supposed
to be, but Billy knew that phrase could end up being his epitaph. . . .

He checked his watch. The LED numbers read just after seven a.m. He was scheduled to meet the others at eight at the base of his stand. As the minutes crawled by, Billy checked his watch regularly, trying to will time to move faster.

Billy imagined different scenarios ranging from never finding the buck to poachers gutting his kill and leaving only the rendered carcass for him to find. None of his daydreams ended with him simply tracking down the buck, cleaning it, and hauling home all that meat. Such simply wasn't how Billy Kwitcher's life had worked out up till now.

Even the littlest success for Billy had to be tempered by some sort of serious setback. The unfairness of Billy's lot in life always seemed worse when Billy had time to think about it, and right now he had plenty of time to do just that.

At five until the hour, unable to hold off any longer, Billy sent a text message to his two companions. Right on schedule, Tweed and Abner appeared at the base of Billy's tree just as he got to the ground.

The three men stripped off their camouflage masks and all stretched to relieve the stiffness from being in the stands all morning. Under his mask, Abner—with a fire-hydrant frame and heavier than the others—had a scraggly gray beard, wire-frame glasses and stubbly patches of gray where his skull wasn't bald.

Still, it was Abner who moved easily through the woods. This was a point of contention with Billy, who wanted to be stealthy but usually had to settle for not clumsy.

Tweed had a hawkish nose, green eyes, and stood half a head taller than Billy. Around the same age as Billy, Tweed had an unruly mop of brown hair and a tiny soul patch that looked like dirt he'd missed when washing his face.

Tweed gave Billy a clap on the back. ‘‘Way to go! You got one, buddy.''

Abner, the guide, gave him a thumbs-up. ‘‘Told you we'd bag a deer on this trip.''

Tweed asked, ‘‘Was it a good shot?''

‘‘Punched both damn lungs,'' Billy said, pulling himself up a little straighter.

‘‘Cool,'' Tweed said. ‘‘Means he probably didn't get far.''

But Abner was shaking his head. ‘‘You'd be surprised how far a wounded buck can get. Suckers're fast, and it takes a while for 'em to figure out they're dead.''

Billy led them to the spot in the edge line where he'd nailed the buck.

Looking back toward Billy's stand, Tweed said, ‘‘Damn good shot, Billy boy.''

Nodding, Abner said, ‘‘Not bad. Not bad at all, Billy.'' Kneeling, the guide looked at the blood spot on the ground. ‘‘Frothy.''

‘‘Frothy?'' Tweed asked.

Abner nodded. ‘‘Lung blood.''

Billy wanted to stay cool, but his cheeks burned pink with pride.

They all looked down at the scarlet puddle mixed into the dead weeds and thin layer of snow. Last night's flurries had left an accumulation of less than half an inch. November in Minnesota meant always straddling the possibilities of Indian summer or blizzard conditions.

Abner asked, ‘‘Which way did it take off?''

Billy pointed southeast, back toward the road they had come in on, where they'd left Abner's SUV. The vehicle was a good mile or so away. Still, seemed more likely the buck had veered into the heavier woods and away from the road.

‘‘All right,'' Abner said. ‘‘Let's spread out and find the blood trail.''

Tweed said, ‘‘Quite a bit of blood here. . . .''

‘‘Some,'' Abner allowed. ‘‘But the drops will be smaller and harder to see with the buck in flight. Stay sharp.''