Shadows of Death

by David Sundstrand

  The brunch layout was sumptuous and exotic: elk, buffalo, ostrich, alligator, sage hen, stuffed quail, and a roasted suckling pig as the centerpiece. The pig stared accusingly at Linda with cooked eyes and a decidedly unhappy expression. Linda tried to ignore it. Frank was hungry, and the piglet was already quite dead, so he helped himself. He loved roast pork.

  On his father’s side, Frank had grown up with such delicacies as stuffed heart, liver and onions, and corned beef. On his mother’s side were fry bread, menudo (tripe stew), chicharrones (fried pork rinds), sheep’s head, mutton in many forms, and unidentified meats in various red and green chili sauces. His memories were filled with the savory smells of garlic, cumin, chili, and oregano.

  Linda found most of it repulsive, especially menudo. It remained one of Frank’s favorite hangover cures. He had a T-shirt emblazoned with MENUDO! BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS, with a particularly politically incorrect cartoon of a Mexican bandido wearing crossed ammunition belts, grinning in predatory fashion, and waving a spoon. As he filled his plate, Linda gave him a disgusted look. He ignored it. Eat their food, drink their drink, listen to their talk, and go home ahead of the game. That was the plan, and he was riding for the brand.

  On his right, Whitfield was explaining what a great place the Black Bird was when his monologue was interrupted by Duane Marshall’s introduction of the Reverend Philip William Hardy, pastor of Holy Mount Church in North Hollywood. The Reverend Hardy rose and cleared his throat. He had none of the TV preacher about him. He was dressed in spotless khakis, with a light blue ascot tucked into the collar of a tailored safari jacket, a lesson in sartorial endeavor for aspiring pastors to the stars, Frank reflected.

  Hardy’s benediction was short and reaffirmed man’s dominion over “all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air, upon every creature that moves along the ground, and upon all the fish of the sea; they are given into your hands. Everything that lives and moves will be food for you. Just as I gave you the green plants, now I give you everything.” His words were definitely shooter’s sentiments. Frank noted that he left out the part about “The fear and dread of you will fall upon all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air.” The Reverend Hardy could cherry-pick with the best of them; another apostle from the Church of Selective Scripture, Frank reflected.

  Following the brief benediction, Duane Marshall rose to address his guests, as they were contentedly tucking away peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream.

  “I am not going to speak about the wonderful facilities here at Sand Canyon Game Reserve or our efforts to provide our members with only the best.” He let his eyes pass over the audience in affirmation of his words. “During the course of your visit, I think Sand Canyon will speak for itself.”

  “Instead, I am going to introduce you to Harlan Combes, who you all know as a tireless warrior against those who would deprive Americans of their right to bear arms.” Here he was interrupted by applause. He raised his voice. “Harlan and his lovely wife, Cynthia, are our guests of honor on this special day.” There followed more enthusiastic applause as an elegantly beautiful woman in a muted camouflage shirt and khaki shorts rose two seats away from Marshall. She stood protectively beside her husband, her left hand resting on the back of his wheelchair. Harlan Combes sat slumped against the padded back, inert except for hooded eyes that seemed to take in the room at a glance.

  “Isn’t that—” Frank began

  “The former assistant secretary of the interior,” Linda finished under her breath. “Dysart and Combes Technologies.”

  “You all know Harlan Combes as one of our country’s true patriots and a great American. As a consummate sportsman, Harlan is one of the principal record holders in North America.” More applause from the guests interrupted the smiling Marshall. “Perhaps you may not all be aware that Cynthia Combes is a hunter par excellence in her own right. She has completed the Big Five and the Grand Slam, and her name is in both the Boone and Crockett and the Safari Club record books—many times.” He paused for effect, looking at his guests gathered around in the dining area, waiting until the last clink of fork and spoon on china faded into silence.

  Marshall continued in hushed tones. “I believe that most of you in this room know that Harlan suffered a tragic automobile accident in 2004, an accident that put an end to the pursuit of the sport Harlan loves most, the hunt.” He turned to the figure in the wheelchair. Harlan Combes’s eyes burned in features smooth and dead as melted wax. Marshall lifted his ruddy face to the audience. “As you see, Harlan is restricted to a wheelchair. I don’t think he’ll mind me telling you that he is a quadriplegic, unable to complete tasks you and I take for granted, much less handle a high-powered firearm. Even so, with the aid of God and a loving and devoted wife, Harlan soldiers on, steadfast, determined, and—very brave.” Murmurs of approval and admiration for Harlan Combes’s bravery swept the room like a soft breeze.

  “Now, I have something very special to share with you, something of which we can all be proud. Here at Sand Canyon we, which includes all of you who support our right to hunt, our right to bear arms, have made it possible for Harlan to rejoin our band of hunting brothers.” The brotherhood rose to their feet as one, wildly applauding Marshall’s remarks.

  As the luncheon guests came to their feet, Ewan Campbell slipped quietly from the room. Cynthia Combes stepped back, and Harlan Combes’s wheelchair glided toward a computer station at the far end of the dining hall, his back to the gathering. From where Frank and Linda sat, they could see Combes from an angle that permitted them a side view of Combes and the computer station.

  “May I call your attention to the television screen above me?” Marshall gestured to a large-screen monitor that filled with the Sand Canyon logo, a blue circle within a red circle. The white inner space contained an animation of a running deer. Crosshairs appeared dividing the smaller space neatly in quarters, centering on the running stag. The stag stopped and turned its antlered head toward the scope as a bullet emerged into view at the bottom of the screen and tracked toward the stag, striking it behind the shoulder. The stag crumpled to the ground, its image faded into the words CLEAN SHOT, CLEAN KILL. Surrounding the circular banner were the words SAND CANYON—YOUR HOME ON THE RANGE. “We’re still working on the sound track.” Marshall beamed at his audience. “And we’re open to suggestions.”

  A lens-eye view of the hunting area in front of the blinds replaced the animated logo. An ATV trailing a cage emerged into view from the left side of the screen with Ewan Campbell at the wheel. Campbell brought the ATV to a stop in the center of the picture, dismounted, and moved back to the trailer and looked into the cage.

  The guests sat in rapt attention watching the scene unfold. Frank couldn’t make out the animal. Whatever it was, it wasn’t on its feet, so it was hard to identify. Campbell thrust some sort of stick into the cage, and the animal—now Frank could see it was a mountain lion—came to its feet and slapped the stick out of Campbell’s hand. Campbell turned to the camera and gave a thumbs-up and retreated from the picture. The cage gate lifted up, and the lion cautiously advanced to the opening.

  The blatting sound of a horn coming from the ATV penetrated the hush of the gathering. The horn noise encouraged the animal to leave the cage. The large cat staggered forward and fell to the ground but managed to regain its feet.

  “What’s the matter with it?” Linda whispered.

  “It’s been tranquilized,” Frank said. His face filled with disgust and anger.

  He watched as Cynthia Combes inserted a wand into her husband’s mouth so he could operate the computer.

  “The honors of first blood go to Harlan Combes,” Marshall boomed.

  The guests watched the television screen in rapt silence, punctuated by the distant horn. The crosshairs tracked the target in spasmodic movements. They waited while Combes fumbled at the keyboard, his head bobbing up and down, sometimes missing, sometimes hitting the wrong keys. Then the crosshairs center
ed on the mountain lion’s body. Combes bent his head forward and thrust his face downward. The lion sprang into the air and landed on its side, struggled to its feet, and lunged forward trailing intestines. Its efforts to escape were checked by a restraint not visible to the observers.

  It stayed on its feet, snarling in confusion. The crosshairs made a slow and clumsy progress across the screen and momentarily rested on the animal’s hindquarters. Combes again jabbed at the computer keyboard, and for a second time the mountain lion spun about. Then it lay on its side, panting from pain and exertion. Combes’s head bobbed up and down, poking at the keyboard in an impotent effort to end the lion’s suffering. Finally a blossom of blood exploded from the side of the cat’s neck, followed by the sound of a muffled shot. Ewan Campbell had fulfilled his function.

  Cloud shadow undulated across the room in the thickening silence broken only by the muted sound of the distant horn. Then Duane Marshall began to clap. An explosion of applause filled the room with relief, drowning out the witness of their collective shame.

  “That was sickening,” Linda murmured.

  45

  •

  The sound of shots gave John Gilman an unwelcome jolt. He hadn’t finished preparing his shooting setup. The blind was ready, but the M107 .50 wasn’t in position, and he was still in a T-shirt. The padded jacket and ear protectors were in his pack. He glanced at his watch. Not yet noon. Seth had said the bird shooting wasn’t scheduled until one in the afternoon. Why had they started so early? He trained his binoculars on the far field in front of the blinds. Someone on an ATV was raising dust headed out to a cage on wheels, or on a trailer. He watched as the man dragged something dead back to the cage and lifted it up onto the platform.

  He shifted his attention to the gatehouse. There were three vehicles lined up. The driver of the first vehicle and the gate guard were arguing. He was supposed to start by blocking the exit at the gate. The driver got out of the truck and pointed back at the vehicles behind him. Gilman reasoned he would never have a better opportunity to block the road. That’s what he was supposed to do, block the road when the shooting started. The truck was barring the entrance at the gate. Obviously the guard wouldn’t let the truck in, and there was no way the driver could back up. It was a perfect setup.

  Gilman scrambled down into the blind, lifted the heavy sniper rifle from its case, and pushed the front bipod into place, wiggling the spiked feet into the dirt behind the sandbag. He picked up a full magazine, shoved it in, and settled in place. He trained the .50 caliber rifle on the hood of the truck, a late-model Chevy with an extended cab. Then, he remembered the ear protectors and the padded jacket. The damn .50 kicked like a mule, and it was loud, especially with the muzzle brake. He pulled his equipment from the pack, donned the jacket, and adjusted the Slim-Line ear protectors on his head so he could wear his cap. Then he repositioned himself.

  The guard and the driver, an old geezer, were still arguing. He set the scope for four hundred yards, centered the mil-dot reticle on the hood, and squeezed. The blast made him flinch, but not before the round went off. The guard and the driver had both crouched down and were looking back at the hillside. His watch said 12:00—high noon. He liked that. Then the driver jumped back into the truck with surprising agility. John squeezed off another round into the driver’s side of the cab, puncturing a hole midway down the door. The geezer stayed put. He fired into the engine compartment a couple more times, just to be sure. His heart pounded with excitement.

  Two sleek SUVs stacked in behind the truck had begun frantically trying to turn around, but they were too jammed up to maneuver. Unaware of what was going on, more vehicles had lined up behind them, honking their horns.

  John turned his attention to the vehicle behind the truck, slamming three rounds into the engine compartment. It stopped moving. The third vehicle, a Lincoln Navigator, had managed to get into a sideways position, blocking the exit lane. He put two rounds through the windshield, then followed with another through the grille. He changed magazines—ready to rock and roll. Seth would be pleased. Cool under fire. It didn’t occur to him that he was the only one doing the firing.

  Where the hell was Seth? Gilman scanned the grounds. Far below him, an ATV raced across the open space next to the parking area, probably someone from security heading for the gate. He looked again. It was the security chief, the one he’d been warned about. He scrambled around trying to line up the .50 on the ATV, but it was moving too fast. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone trotting toward the low hills on the left that extended back into the Inyos. The ATV disappeared under the shoulder of the hill. He lifted the binoculars for a closer look at the man on foot. It looked like Seth’s old sergeant. He wondered if Seth knew that he was here. Too bad he couldn’t take him out, but that was Seth’s personal business. Then the former sergeant disappeared into a ravine where John couldn’t see him anymore.

  He knew that Seth was waiting for him to drive the people from the ranch house. It was 12:04, only sixteen minutes left. He replaced the full magazine of armor-piercing with a new magazine of incendiaries. Burn ’em out and cut ’em down. He began shooting rounds through the ranch windows. Won’t be long now, he thought. He had never been so exhilarated and filled with such purpose in his life.

  •

  Seth Parker had watched the South African on the ATV trailing the cage make his way into the clearing in front of the blinds with professional curiosity. Thus he wasn’t taken by surprise when shots echoed up from the floor of Sand Canyon. Dealing with the unexpected was central to his combat experience and training. By the time the shooting had ceased and one of the staff had returned to retrieve the kill—he judged it to be a mountain lion—he was fully prepared, tucked under a canvas blind. He set the scope for three hundred yards. With 130-grain rounds, there would be an additional twelve-inch drop at four hundred yards, and he could compensate for that using the mil-dot reticle without having to take time to make additional adjustments.

  When Parker heard the .50 boom, he checked his watch—12:03. John had started at the gatehouse. The ATV and trailer disappeared into the barn as John crippled vehicles at the entrance to the canyon. When the first rounds smashed into the ranch house, Seth breathed deeply, emptying his mind of distractions, and waited.

  46

  •

  The guests had begun to leave their places, milling about in search of friends and conversation. Many were clustered about Cynthia and Harlan Combes to offer their congratulations and listen to Cynthia explain the intricacies of the computer shooting system that enabled her husband, like the mythic Zeus, to strike from afar.

  Frank could no longer see Harlan Combes, but he caught glimpses of the lovely Cynthia through the throng. He found it disquieting that the blond Texas beauty was such an avid trophy hunter. It was sexist, he supposed, but he didn’t like it just the same. It went against the grain. He’d have to talk to Linda about it. Get her take on a woman’s right to be violent. He was pretty sure she’d have an opinion on it.

  He nodded in Cynthia Combes’s direction. “She’s killed more animals than most of the men in this room.” He paused. “And that’s saying something.”

  “What’s it saying?” Linda curled her lip. “That she’s acquired blood lust, has balls? Perhaps she can outspit Tucker. Fart and tell coarse jokes.” She sighed. “If that were the end of it, more power to her, but killing for trophies is sick. It’s like compulsive seduction, a constant need for masculine affirmation, and that’s a sad pass for women’s rights, don’t you think?” Her smooth forehead creased slightly, giving her a feline expression. “At least, that’s how I see it.”

  Frank thought about the types of people he’d seen hanging around gun stores, full of self-aggrandizing stories of prowess and slaughter. They were mostly pathetic, dressed for some sort of costume party, like the people here at the brunch. Only these people had the money for the right costumes and equipment.

  “Yeah, maybe so,” he s
aid.

  They were the last couple still seated. The noise level in the room was such that none of the guests paid attention to the distant crack and boom of the .50 caliber, except Frank. It was a familiar voice speaking out of the past. Ewan Campbell heard it as well. He lifted his head and then moved rapidly toward the kitchen area, which had a rear exit facing the outbuildings.

  Frank rose to the sound of another shot, followed by two more in rapid succession.

  “Where are you going?” Linda asked.

  There was a shift in the conversation signaled by a sudden lowering of tone. Some of the others had noticed the sound of the shooting.

  “Parker’s back,” Frank said, keeping his voice down. “Whatever you do, don’t expose yourself. He won’t be giving anyone a free pass.” He laid his hand on Linda’s arm. “Stay here, and don’t go outside.” He turned and made his way through the throng and followed Campbell’s path into the kitchen.

  The luncheon guests crowded around the windows overlooking the shooting blinds and field and stared toward the gatehouse. Something was going on, but they couldn’t see what it was through the clouds of dust. The bleating sound of distant car horns filtered into the sudden stillness of the room.

  The first shot through the dinning room window struck Roger Whitfield in the pelvis, flinging him violently to the floor. Bright blood flooded through his pants, pooling on the carefully polished wood. Whitfield seemed confused, not yet aware of what had occurred. A few minutes later he lost consciousness; his eyes glazed, and he ceased to breathe. Few were aware he was dead.

  One of the men standing over his prostrate body watched as the blood spread in a widening pool. When it reached the tips of his shoes, he began to chant, “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!” in rising tones. People stared, but no one moved. Most of them had yet to realize what was taking place. When the second shot smashed through the window and ripped up flooring, the milling guests suddenly realized it was dangerous to be standing by the windows. They surged into the adjoining clubroom, pushing and shoving to get as far away from the dining area as possible. They wedged themselves against the far wall by the fireplace, gathering under the baleful gaze of glass eyes staring down from the dead creatures adorning the walls.