Last Man Standing (42 page)

Web again noted Billy’s limp. “You have an accident?” he asked, pointing to the man’s leg.

“Yeah, a one-ton draft horse decided to take a roll while I was on the sumbitch.”

The floor in the lower level was flagstone, the exposed walls stone and twelve-by-twelve beams had the task of holding up
the ceiling. There were large leather couches and chairs placed precisely, probably to encourage several conversation groups,
or perhaps even conspiratorial factions, for this definitely looked like that sort of place to Web, though the Canfields didn’t
seem the type. If they didn’t like you, they probably weren’t bashful about showing it, especially Billy. The walls were festooned
with the racks of yet more English stags along with numerous mounted heads of deer, a cheetah, a lion, a rhino, a moose and
mounted full bodies of a large variety of birds and fish. Mounted on another wall was a very large walleyed pike. There was
also a full-sized grizzly in a charging pose and an enormous swordfish in perpetual soar. On one display table was a coiled
diamondback rattler and a king cobra, with eyes seemingly ablaze and fangs showing and ready to do some serious damage. Web
gave both stuffed reptiles a wide berth. He had never cared much for snakes after almost being bitten by an enraged water
moccasin on a mission in Alabama.

There was a well-stocked gun cabinet against one wall. Web and Romano enviously checked out the array of Churchill, Rizzini
and Piotti firearms, weapons that would easily set you back five figures. You really couldn’t be a member of HRT and not be
an aficionado of showpieces like these, though most FBI agents lacked the financial wherewithal to do more than press their
noses to the glass. Web wondered if the weapons were for show only or whether anybody here ever actually used them. Billy
looked like he would be comfortable around guns, maybe even Gwen too. If the man had killed all these animals, he would damn
well have to be handy with firearms.

A full bar of dark cherry sat against another wall. It looked like it had been yanked straight from a London pub. Web’s strong
impression when he had first seen this room was that it had the feel of an English club spiked with a bit of the Wild West.

Gwen was sitting on a couch that looked substantial enough to sail in across the Atlantic. She rose when they entered the
room. She was wearing a beige sundress that went down to her ankles and that had a scooped neckline showing a good portion
of cleavage. A bit of her white bra strap showed from under the sundress’s thin shoulder straps. Her bare arms were browned
by the sun and were tight and firm. Probably from horse-reining, Web assumed, since his arms were aching a little from doing
just that for three hours. Black leather flats were on her feet. Still, she was only a couple inches shorter than Romano.
As she sat back down and crossed her legs, the sundress slipped back an inch or so and Web was a little surprised to see that
she wore a gold ankle chain, because it seemed a bit out of sync with her refined bearing. Her face was nicely tanned too
and the contrast of the blond hair was striking. Billy Canfield was indeed a fortunate man, thought Web, though he wondered
how much of the life in their marriage had died with their son.

Web was surprised to see Nemo Strait sitting in one of the chairs. The farm manager had cleaned up and was wearing a Polo
shirt that showed off his muscular physique, with chino pants and loafers. He was a striking man, Web had to admit.

Strait raised his glass to Web and Romano.

“Welcome to Casa Canfield,” he said with a big grin.

Web looked at the numerous animal trophies. “They come with the house?” he asked Billy.

“Hell, no,” said the man. “About four years ago I had me a calling, I guess you’d say, to go off and shoot things. Became
a big-game hunter and a deep-sea fisherman. Was even on TV a few times on some sporting shows. Went round the world bagging
stuff like that.” He pointed to the tusked head of a wild boar on one wall and then over at the grizzly, which stood at least
nine feet tall on a specially built display unit, its fangs bared and its long claws looking ready to shred somebody.

He went over and rubbed the thick neck of the enormous bear. “Now, this thing did its best to kill me, twice. Second time
it almost did, but I got it.” He pointed over at the rhino. “Those damn things look slow and heavy-footed. That is, they do
until they’re coming at you about thirty miles an hour with nothing between you and your Maker but your nerves, good aim and
a steady trigger finger. You aim for the brain. Now, if you miss and hit the rhino’s horn, you’re a dead man.”

“Poor animals,” said Gwen.

“Hell, the damn things cost me a fortune,” replied her husband dryly. He looked at one of the stags and then nodded at Web.
“You know, the stag is the old symbol of virility, wisdom and life. And there it is hanging on my wall, dead as a doornail.
I kind of like the irony in that. Now, I do all my own stuffing. Got to be a pretty damn good taxidermist, if I do say so
myself.”

Web was wondering about the timing of Billy’s desire to kill. It must have occurred soon after the trial had ended in Ernest
Free’s plea bargain that had most certainly let him live.

Billy continued, “Here, let me show you. You want to come, Nemo?”

“No way. I’ve already seen your little operation and I ain’t had my dinner yet.”

Billy led them down a hallway and unlocked a door there. Gwen did not accompany them either. They went inside and Web looked
around. The place was large and crammed with worktables and shelves and on these surfaces were cans of liquids and pastes
and sharp knives and scalpels, dozens of other tools, large vises, ropes and complicated pulley systems hanging from the ceiling.
In one corner was the skin of an elk partially stretched over a form, and in another corner stood a wild turkey in all its
dead glory. In other corners were stuffed birds and fish and some large and small animals Web couldn’t even recognize. Web
had smelled rotted corpses and it wasn’t that bad in here, but, all the same, Web wouldn’t want to breathe it every day.

“You killed all these?” asked Romano.

“Every one,” said Billy with delight. “I only stuff what I kill. I don’t do nobody any favors on that score.” He picked up
a rag and squirted some liquid on it and started rubbing on one of the tools. “Other folks golf for relaxation, I kill and
stuff.”

“I guess it’s all relative,” opined Web.

“It’s therapeutic, I’ve found. But Gwen don’t see it that way. She’s never come in here and I suspect she never will. Now,
taxidermy has come a long way. You don’t have to build your forms anymore, you can buy real good ones made out of compressed
cork, laminated paper and such, and then fit it to what you’re mounting. It’s still quite a process, a lot of planning and
measuring and you got to have a bit of both the butcher and the artist in you. The basic steps are you gut the body and then
prep the skin. A lot of folks use borax, but the purists like myself still poison the skin with arsenic. You get your best
longevity there. And I even do some of my own tanning.”

“You keep arsenic around here?” asked Romano.

“Tons of it.” Billy eyed the man. “Don’t worry, I always wash my hands after working down here, and I don’t do none of the
cooking.” He laughed and Romano joined him, albeit a little nervously.

“Then you prep the skull, assemble your wires and such and then do your filling and final assembling.”

Web eyed the room’s equipment. It seemed one bare step removed from a slaughterhouse. “Lots of stuff in here.”

“Well, you need a lot of stuff to do the job right.” He pointed out various pieces. “Like I said, you got your anatomically
correct urethane forms for the animals, but I still make some of my own using plaster of paris, modeling clay, cord-wrapped
excelsior and the like. Ain’t got to have everything handed to you, right?”

“Right,” said Romano.

“Then you got your chemicals, poisons and salt, lots of salt to preserve the skin. Then you need your measurite and calipers
for linear measurements and achieving symmetry. Scalpels for the obvious reason; I use what’s called a perfect knife, German-made,
those damn Germans know how to make the knives. It’s for skinning and caping—you know, severing the neck from the body hide,
for example—the detail work around the eyes and mouth and the like. You got your skinning knives, paring knives, bone saw,
shavers, skifes for leather, even a fleshing machine. Now, that is a damn fine invention.”

Under his breath Web said, “Lucky, lucky world.”

“Got me Kevlar fleshing gloves so I don’t chop off one of my fingers. Scissors, hide pullers, lip tuckers, nippers, forceps,
probes and surgical needles. Sounds like a cross between a mortician and a plastic surgeon, don’t it?” He pointed to mixing
bowls, paintbrushes, an air compressor and a number of tins.

“That’s the artistic part of the business. The finishing touches to do justice to the animal.”

“Funny thing,” said Web, “thinking about doing justice to something you’ve killed.”

“I guess that separates folks like me from sons of bitches that kill and keep on walking,” Billy shot back.

“I guess so,” said Web.

Billy walked over to a deerskin that was drying on a large table. “You know what’s the first thing you cut off when you’re
gutting a deer?” he asked looking directly at Web.

“What’s that?”

“Its penis.”

“Good to know,” said Web dryly.

“Deer die like people,” continued Billy. “With their eyes open. Glazing takes place almost immediately. If the eyes are closed
or blinking, you better shoot ’em again.” He looked at Web again. “I suppose you run across that a lot in your line of work.”

“Sometimes that’s not an option with human beings.”

“I guess not, though I’d take any one of the animals I got on display here over the human scum you got to deal with.” He took
a sip of his drink. “I think that’s one of the reasons I like this place so much,” said Billy. “Damn contradictions, since
I seem to be a living breathing one myself. Born dirt poor, barely finished ninth grade, made a lot of money in the unglamorous
business of hauling cigarettes and other junk up and down the highways of this fine country and married me a beautiful, intelligent
young woman with a college degree. And now here I am, the master of an estate smack in the middle of fancy-ass Virginia hunt
country stuffing animals. One lucky man. Makes me want to get drunk, so let’s go do something about that.”

He led them back and they rejoined Gwen. She gave Web a weak smile as if to say,
I know and I’m sorry.

Bill went behind the bar and pointed at his wife. “Scotch, honey?” She nodded. “I’ll join you in another,” he said. “Boys?
And don’t hand me that bullshit that you’re on duty. If you don’t drink with me, I’m throwing your butts out of here.”

“Beer, if you have it.”

“We have everything here, Web.”

Web made a mental note that the man said it like he damn well meant it.

“Same for me,” said Romano.

“I’ll have one too, Billy,” said Strait. He walked over and took a bottle of beer from his boss and then joined Web and Romano.

“I’m a lot more used to beer than I am fancy mixed drinks.”

“Country boy?” asked Romano.

“Yes, sir, I grew up at the foothills of the Blue Ridge on a horse farm,” said Strait. “But I wanted to see the world.” He
rolled up his sleeve and showed them his Marine Corps insignia. “Well, I did, on Uncle Sam’s dime. Actually, I only saw a
little slice of it called Southeast Asia, and it’s hard to enjoy something like that when people are shooting at you.”

“You don’t look old enough to have been in Vietnam,” commented Web.

Strait smiled broadly. “All my clean living, I guess.” He added, “Truth is, I got drafted right near the end, only eighteen
years old and change. First year in the jungle, I just kept my head down and tried my best to keep it on my shoulders. Then
I got my ass caught and spent three months as a POW. Damn Viet Cong were into some sick stuff, messing with your mind, trying
to turn you traitor.”

“I didn’t know that about you, Strait,” said Billy.

“Well, it’s not something I put on my résumé.” He laughed. “But I finally escaped and an Army shrink helped me to straighten
out myself. That and a lot of booze and other stuff I can’t mention,” he added, grinning. “Got discharged, came back to the
States and pulled a little duty as a guard at a juvenile detention center. Now, let me tell you, some of the kids I was guarding,
they’d make the damn Viet Cong look like a bunch of wimps. Then I got married, but my ex didn’t like my pay scale of six bucks
an hour, so I got me a desk job for a while, but that just wasn’t me. Like I said, I grew up in the outdoors, around horses
all my life. It’s in your blood.” He looked over at Billy. “It better be, because it ain’t in your bank account.”

They all laughed at that one, except Gwen. She looked annoyed that the cowpoke was even in her home, thought Web, who was
watching her closely.

“So anyway,” Strait continued, “I went back to horses and my wife walked out on me and took my boy and girl.”

“You see them much?” asked Web.

“Used to, not anymore.” He grinned. “Thought my son would follow in his old man’s footsteps and be either a military grunt
or maybe even get into the horses.” He slapped his thigh. “Hell, you know what?”

“What’s that?” asked Romano.

“Found out he was allergic to the damn things. Life sure is funny sometimes.”

As Web studied the man, it didn’t seem to him that Strait thought life was humorous at all. He had initially pegged Strait
as a slow-witted fellow who did what he was told. He was going to have to re-think that.

“Then Billy come along, and now I’m helping him”—he glanced at Gwen—“and Ms. Canfield build their little empire right here.”

Billy raised his beer to the man. “And doing a fine job of it, Strait.”

On that, Web noted, Gwen looked away, and despite Billy’s words of praise it seemed that he was not all that enamored of his
foreman. Web decided to change the flow of conversation.