THE
KILLER
IN THE WOODS
A ROBERT VANCE NOVEL
RICK VAN ETTEN
Des Moines, Iowa
The Killer in the Woods
Copyright 2020 by Rick R. Van Etten
ISBN: 978-1-7348269-0-6
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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 person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Proud Point Press
Des Moines, IA
Cover Design by Eric Labacz
www.labaczdesign.com
For JJB, RWC, SDC, RAC, LGG & SAG, JDL, KRM, DAM, LJM, KDN & RAN, FSP, JES, NRS, RRS, TRS, MJT and TJW.
You all knew I’d have to come clean eventually.
Table of Contents
Vance’s Rules for Contract Killings
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 2
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Part 3
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
VANCE’S RULES
FOR CONTRACT KILLINGS
No personal involvement…i.e., there must be no personal feelings whatsoever attached, as this would cloud judgment.
No collateral damage. Absolutely unacceptable; must remain true to purpose—righting a wrong, stopping a bully, etc. Eliminating bystanders/witnesses not permitted. Ditto letting an innocent person take the fall.
Never keep a handgun after it’s been used.
No politicians (regardless of how much they might deserve it); too well protected; too much public scrutiny and investigation.
No organized crime members. Flat-out too dangerous, and too much risk of touching off a gangland war that might result in innocents being killed.
PROLOGUE
The whitetail buck was a magnificent animal, a five-year-old in full prime with a symmetrical 12-point rack, the main beams nearly as thick as a man’s wrist. He weighed 270 pounds and his splayed hoofprints measured five inches in length. He was tawny gray with a snowy flag and throat patch, antlers polished to gleaming ivory, and a glistening black muzzle sensitive enough to pick up the scent of man from more than a mile distant if the wind was in the right direction.
He moved cautiously along a trail on a hardwood ridge in west-central Illinois, that part of the state known as “the land between the rivers,” those being the Illinois and the Mississippi. Good genetics, mineral-rich soil and an abundant food source from the surrounding croplands had all contributed to the buck’s superior size and rack, as had a higher-than-average intelligence that had kept him alive throughout the hunting seasons of the previous four years. The buck had already bred six does within his range and had driven off several smaller rivals this autumn, ensuring not only the perpetuation of his genes but also the continued vigor of the entire species.
It was just before dawn on the second day of the state’s annual first firearm deer season (the second would be held three weeks later) and the buck had survived the previous day’s frenzy with relative ease. Orange-clad hunters had arrived before daylight, parking along the blacktop highways and gravel country roads, slamming the doors of their pickups and SUVs and noisily (to the buck’s ultra-acute sense of hearing) hurrying through the woods to their stands, elevated platforms erected some 10 to 20 feet up against trees near the edges of fields, along trails or overlooking the creek bottom.
It had been a simple matter for the buck to retreat ahead of the hunters as he heard them entering the woods. Keeping downwind of them as much as possible and relying on his hearing and sense of smell to warn him of any danger that might lie ahead, he had quietly slipped into a dense thicket of multiflora on the creek bottom and had lain there motionless throughout the daylight hours. This strategy had served him well in the past and it did so again.
He heard numerous gunshots over the course of the day, especially during the first two hours as younger deer were killed on their way from nighttime feeding areas to daytime bedding locations in the woods. By noon the gunfire had tapered off to the occasional lone report, and the buck shifted slightly in his bed. But he was too wise to risk venturing forth until after dark; he knew from experience that with the coming of sundown the woods would empty of hunters and only then would it be safe to move.
Now, on the second morning of the season, the buck was hurrying to return to his lair in the multiflora thicket. He had fed during the night in a cornfield at the top of the ridge and he paused briefly at the creek, drinking deeply, before continuing along the trail that ran parallel to the creek. Another minute of quiet walking would see him safely hidden within the multiflora.
He didn’t know he was being watched.
A full two hours earlier a man had entered the woods and quietly climbed into a tree stand he had erected several weeks before. The stand was just 40 yards from the trail on which the buck was now walking, and the man had selected its location based on the abundance of tracks he’d seen along the trail during his pre-season scouting.
The man, whose name was Frank Reynolds, was dressed in the requisite orange cap and vest and he carried a 12-gauge Remington 870 pump shotgun fitted with a rifled slug barrel. It was the same gun he had used for more than 20 years—Illinois did not permit the use of high-powered rifles for deer—and it bore the marks of those years of service. The bluing on much of the receiver was worn to a silvery sheen and the stock carried numerous scratches. Though he easily could have afforded a newer and more expensive firearm, Frank Reynolds preferred the well-worn Remington. He called it his Buckstopper.
He had loaded the gun as soon as he had settled himself on the tree stand’s seat, 12 feet above the ground, and buckled his safety harness. At that time the buck was still a half mile away feeding in a field of standing corn and hadn’t heard the distinctive sound of the pump gun being racked to bring the first shell into its chamber.
Now, with legal shooting time only two minutes away and pre-dawn light just beginning to penetrate the dark w
oods, the man quietly sucked in a breath as he studied the buck below him. The wind was in his favor and the buck hadn’t scented him. The man tried to count the buck’s antler tines but there was not yet enough light for him to do so. Still, the man could tell from the size of the buck’s rack showing whitely in the faint light, and his enormous body, that this was definitely a trophy animal.
He could scarcely believe his good fortune. Though he was an accomplished hunter who had taken many fine bucks on this same land over the years, he had missed hunting the previous morning as he had spent it driving downstate from his home in Evanston, one of Chicago’s wealthier suburbs. A business commitment had kept him late the prior evening, and while he had hated missing the opening day of deer season, the meeting had taken precedence.
He had arrived in Macomb, county seat of McDonough County and home of Western Illinois University, shortly before noon yesterday and had eaten lunch at a restaurant near the university campus. He had graduated from WIU twenty-four years earlier so the trip was something of a homecoming for him; he hunted deer every year in neighboring Schuyler County on land owned by a farmer whose acquaintance he had first made when he was still an undergraduate.
After lunch he had driven around the town square and then out East Jackson to the Farm King store, where he stopped and bought two boxes of Winchester Supreme Elite XP3 sabot shotgun slugs. He’d laughed to himself as he made the purchase; the slugs came five to a box and he had brought four full boxes with him from home. That made a total of thirty slugs and he knew he would be unlikely to fire more than two or three at most. He was a superb marksman and usually killed his deer with one shot, only rarely needing a follow-up.
Still, he had felt good about transacting a little business in the community. Just boosting the local economy, he’d told himself.
When he left Farm King he returned to his vehicle, crossed East Jackson to the Hampton Inn and checked in. He used one of the wheeled carts from the lobby to move his luggage and gear to his room on the second floor. His shotgun, broken down and cased, he left in the trunk space of his SUV, a midnight blue Cadillac Escalade equipped with an extra alarm and security system.
He had spent the rest of the afternoon reading and napping. He briefly considered donning his hunting clothes and driving out to the farm to get in at least a couple of hours of hunting before sundown but he decided against it. He was tired from his five-hour drive and he preferred to make a fresh start in the morning. He also wanted to avoid contaminating the area with his scent as much as possible and didn’t want to risk spooking any deer that might be feeding near his tree stand in the late afternoon.
Deer hunting was, after all, at least partially a battle of wits, and he wanted to give himself every advantage. He was an attorney—he had taken his law degree from Northwestern—and besides golf, deer hunting every fall was his only passion.
That, and rough sex.
The latter was something he indulged with extreme care. His corporate law practice was highly successful—he would be considered wealthy by most people’s standards—and he prided himself on iron self-control. He thought those politicians and other public figures who got themselves embroiled in scandals because of their sexual escapades were the ultimate fools; the notion of posting anything intimate online, for example, or exchanging emails or texts with a sexual partner was beyond ridiculous, he believed, and those who did so deserved the crashing downfall and humiliation they so often suffered.
He had always been exceptionally discreet in these matters, partly because he was by nature a highly private person who always played things close to the vest and partly because he simply had the good sense to realize any revelations concerning his sexual practices could have long-reaching and destructive repercussions. Plus, he had already had one extremely close call.
He was married to an attractive woman three years older than himself. Denise was a tall, slim blonde, a graduate of Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism who wrote freelance articles for travel magazines. They were childless—Denise was unable to conceive and neither she nor Frank were interested in adopting—and when work permitted he accompanied her on her research-gathering trips, both at home and abroad. They traveled well together.
Denise was an enthusiastic sexual partner but somewhat unimaginative and rather traditional in her lovemaking. Frank, on the other hand, considered himself more “adventurous” and open to experimentation. In the past few years he’d become increasingly more dominant in the bedroom and when he sensed Denise was growing a bit uncomfortable with his forcefulness, he had begun seeking other partners.
They had proven almost surprisingly easy to come by. At forty-six Frank still had a full head of dark hair, just beginning to gray at the temples, and he kept himself fit with golf, regular trips to an athletic club and careful attention to his diet. His law practice brought him into contact with a variety of attractive professional women, some married, some not; and many of whom were not averse to an affair with a married man.
His practice also provided him with the standard “working late” excuse that, if not overused, seemed to satisfy Denise. If she suspected anything, she never said so. At forty-nine, she was acutely aware of their age difference and the fact that she would soon turn fifty. She was not inclined to rock the boat.
The one rule Frank steadfastly adhered to was avoiding any liaisons with co-workers. That, he knew, could be a fast track to disaster, and no matter how vivacious a female colleague might be, he never succumbed to the temptation.
Until Mandi Collins began clerking at the firm.
Mandi was twenty-four years old with short-cropped auburn hair, green eyes and a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore a tiny diamond stud in one nostril and had a palm tree tattoo on her nape, and a mature, witty confidence that made her fun to talk to. After she’d worked at the firm only a few weeks—and she and Frank had had a few chance encounters around the office and exchanged several bantering remarks—Frank found himself going out of his way to bump into her.
He knew even as he was doing this that he was on very dangerous ground. As a senior partner in the firm he had little reason to interact with one of the clerks but there was something about Mandi that he found irresistible. That she should captivate him to this degree he found both disturbing and wryly amusing. He also began to suspect that Mandi was playing him, projecting an unspoken challenge and almost daring him to make a move.
When he did, she first responded with a humorous remark about being pretty sure it was not a good idea to date the boss. Frank immediately felt foolish for having suggested they meet for a drink but before he could stammer an apology she had laughed and agreed to his offer. They met at a bar two blocks from the office after work that evening and that was the beginning of what, for Frank, was some of the most exciting sex he’d ever had in his life.
Mandi proved to be every bit as creative and confident in bed as she was in the office, and her energy level was so high she frequently left Frank gasping for breath. They met for their first few rendezvous at one of the downtown hotels but soon began going to her apartment instead, believing it afforded them more privacy and less chance of running into any coworkers or other acquaintances.
Frank was relieved to discover that Mandi fully appreciated the need for discretion—again, a mark of maturity beyond her years—and he had no trouble convincing her of the need to practice absolute restraint in the office, even going out of their way to keep any contact to a minimum.
Then after several months the accident happened.
It was an accident, Frank had managed to convince himself. They’d been experimenting with erotic asphyxiation—Mandi had been a willing participant, although initially she’d needed quite a bit of persuading—and had been using the belt from a white terrycloth bathrobe they’d liberated during one of their hotel trysts. It wasn’t the first time they’d tried asphyxiophilia but this time Frank had tightened the belt a little too much and kept it tigh
t a little too long.
It was a misjudgment and an accident, nothing more, Frank told himself.
That had been eighteen months ago. The matter had been resolved fairly quickly, thank God, with Mandi’s death ruled a suicide by the ME. And while Frank knew there had been a few suspicious looks cast his way in the office for several weeks after her death—apparently their attempts to keep things under wraps hadn’t been quite as successful as he’d thought—he’d kept his chin up and concentrated on conducting business as usual. Eventually the unease had dissipated among his co-workers—not that any of them had any real evidence of wrongdoing anyway—and things had returned to normal.
Denise had never questioned the official version of the story.
Now a year and a half had passed since Mandi’s death and he was more than 200 miles away, deep in the woods with a trophy buck standing nearly broadside in the trail beneath his tree stand. I’ve earned this, he told himself, the same mantra he always invoked when he was about to take a deer. Let his more politically correct colleagues in the Windy City scoff at his annual hunting excursions; this was something he knew he had to do.
He eased off the shotgun’s well-lubricated safety and quietly lifted the gun to his shoulder. He was above the buck’s line of sight and the deer didn’t detect the motion. He settled the shotgun’s sights on a spot just behind the buck’s right shoulder and midway between the buck’s spine and the line of its belly. It was growing lighter and Frank was sure it was now legal shooting time. He tightened his finger on the trigger and again congratulated himself on his good fortune.
With his cheek pressed firmly against the worn stock of the Remington, he concentrated on the spot just behind the buck’s right shoulder. He exhaled slightly and continued squeezing the trigger.
At the report the buck instinctively flinched then sprang straight away toward the creek, covering nearly 20 feet in his first bound. His next leap took him across the creek and he crashed through the multiflora thicket toward which he had been heading but he did not slow despite the thick, tangled branches and wicked thorns. Clearing the thicket, he raced up the opposite timbered ridge, snorting loudly and carrying his flag high and flared, an unmistakable danger signal to any other deer in the area. He had not been hit.
The Killer in the Woods Page 1