The Killer in the Woods

by Rick Van Etten

  His black hair was cut short in a military fade and his eyes were almost as black as his hair and his clothing. Looking him in the eye always made me feel a little uneasy, like I was staring into a pair of gun barrels. I doubted there was another person on earth who could match him in a thousand-yard stare.

  He dropped the magazine on the countertop, and I was pleased to see it was one of those published by TriMedia. I’m always happy to see my colleagues’ work appreciated, and I hoped they felt the same about my rag. He leaned both fists on the counter and said, with the slightest trace of a smile, “So?”

  For A.C., this was almost verbose. He usually waited for me to speak first and state my needs, and he seldom used words if a nod would suffice. I guessed he must be feeling good today and I wondered if that meant he’d gotten laid last night. I didn’t ask.

  I also knew his “So?” was short for “So what can I help you with?” and that he wasn’t interested in any chitchat. I came right to the point.

  “The usual if you have it,” I said, smiling, and he nodded.

  “A snake six OK or do you need something smaller?”

  “A snake six will be fine,” I said.

  “Come back tonight at seven.”

  “Could we make it 6:45?” I asked. He raised his eyebrows—my request was a little unprecedented—and I added, “I have a dinner date and it’s someone I don’t want to keep waiting.”

  Again the slight smile and another nod. “Six-forty-five,” he said. “And…five.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I said. “Thanks.” I turned and left.

  For five hundred dollars I’d just bought an ice-cold .357 magnum Colt Python with a six-inch barrel. It was a gun I’d used several times before, and I was sure it was more than enough to intimidate the bejesus out of Charlie Flanagan—and/or kill him deader than the proverbial doornail, if it came to that—no matter how much of a badass he turned to be.

  After meeting with A.C. I swung by my bank and withdrew five hundred dollars from the LLC account. When I got home I let Preacher out into the back yard and then settled in at the computer and spent a couple hours working on magazine copy. At a little after 5:00 I saved the last story I’d just finished editing, logged off and headed for the shower.

  I dressed in black jeans, a gray t-shirt and a darker gray crew neck sweater. I clipped my black-faced Seiko wristwatch with the stainless steel band onto my wrist and glanced at myself in the bedroom mirror. I wasn’t quite as monochromatic as A.C. had appeared earlier, but I was close. I thought about changing sweaters but decided to hell with it…Daryl would either like what she saw, or she wouldn’t.

  I fed Preacher and a few minutes later—it never takes her long to finish a meal—I let her back outside. I still had a little time to kill before heading back to the pawnshop so I sat down at the kitchen table and glanced over the notes I’d jotted down yesterday on the yellow legal pad. I picked up a pen and added a few lines about my upcoming hunt at Hidden Hollow and doing this raised another question.

  I’d told Amy Halvorsen I wanted to hunt quail and chukar rather than pheasants. That suggested I should take a different gun than the Ruger—namely, one a little better suited for the smaller birds. I had a sweet Remington Premier over/under in 20 gauge that would be ideal. Like the Ruger, it fit me well and I shot it well. And because it was a smaller, lighter gun, it was a dream to carry.

  It didn’t have—ahem—quite the romantic history that my Ruger did, but I’d bought it a few years earlier after using it on a Georgia plantation quail hunt where it had performed almost magically. I had it on loan from Remington at the time and when I returned from the hunt I contacted them and asked if they’d sell it to me. They were happy to do so.

  So the Remington earned a slot in my gun vault next to the Ruger, and I shot it often enough on early-season pheasants and other smaller gamebirds to keep in practice. Because of its lighter weight it was actually faster to mount and swing than the Ruger, even if it lacked some of the latter’s knockdown power.

  With the Remington and the Colt I was soon going to pick up from A.C., I was confident I had the armament matter covered for my upcoming trip to Illinois.

  Now all I needed was some background information on Charlie Flanagan that would confirm he deserved what either firearm could deliver.

  Chapter 15

  Dinner with Daryl Nelson was an absolute hoot.

  She was already at Skip’s when I arrived. Remember, I’d had to make a stop and conduct a transaction on the way. We both laughed a little self-consciously when we first saw each other—she was wearing a thick-ribbed black turtleneck with charcoal slacks and tall black boots. We couldn’t have been more color-coordinated if we’d tried, and I immediately noticed how nicely the black turtleneck complemented her dark hair and eyes.

  She looked lovely, and I told her so, although I used the word “great.” She laughed and said thanks, giving my forearm a quick squeeze. As native Midwesterners we did not do the silly air-cheek-kissing thing that coastals practice, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy with the arm squeeze.

  Any standoffishness I’d thought I detected previously on her part had completely vanished by the time we’d finished our first round of drinks—a margarita for her, a Seven-and-Seven for me—and a half-order of onion rings. By the time our dinners arrived we were both laughing at each other’s jokes with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from discovering you actually do have a few things in common and the other person is as bright and articulate as you’d hoped.

  Of course, having somewhat similar jobs—day jobs, that is—helped. We traded war stories and I was delighted to learn Daryl was no more enamored with the push toward digital than I was. She also shared my opinion that putting a publication’s editorial content on a website where anyone could read it for free—now standard practice throughout the magazine and newspaper industry—constituted cannibalism and was a sure way to hurt print copy sales.

  She was no more convinced than I was—which is to say, not at all—that this was an effective way to generate reader interest and thereby boost sales or subscriber numbers. In fact, we agreed that it had the opposite effect—why would anyone bother buying or subscribing to a publication when they knew they could go online and read the contents at no charge?

  We both mock-growled at this realization but didn’t let it sour an otherwise promising evening. It’s hard not to fall into a romantic mood—or at least a convivial one—at Skip’s. The restaurant is located at the southwest corner of Fleur Drive and Watrous Avenue and is actually an old converted two-story family home, white on the outside and paneled in dark wood on the inside. You enter through a porch on the north side of the house and come into a room with a three-sided bar and a few tables and booths. Adjoining small rooms—you could almost call them alcoves—provide additional seating. If you had to pick a single word to describe the ambience, that word would most likely be “cozy.”

  And the food is to die for.

  Daryl ordered seared ahi tuna and I had a ribeye steak, medium rare. She’d taken no more than four or five bites of her fish before she offered me a taste, which I accepted. Maybe I read too much into these gestures, but it’s my theory that when a woman offers you a bite of her food, especially when it happens early in a relationship, it’s almost an act of intimacy. Or at the very least, an indication that she’s willing to share something of herself and is not an insufferable germophobe.

  Those are very good signs.

  I reciprocated by cutting off a good-sized bite of my steak and depositing it on the edge of her plate. She immediately cut the piece in half and popped one of the pieces into her mouth. She did this without a bit of hesitation and no complaints about the steak being too rare…another very good sign.

  “Mmm, that’s good!” she said, and I nodded.

  “So is yours,” I replied. I’d just swallowed the bite of tuna. “I might have to order that myself sometime.”

  “I don’t think you’d
be disappointed.”

  “No, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

  “So tell me,” she said, changing the subject. “Isn’t this hunting season?”

  “Yes, it is. In fact, I was out just a few days ago.”

  “What were you out for?”

  “Pheasants.”

  “Did you get any?”

  “Yes, it was a good afternoon. We got two nice roosters.”

  “Cool,” she said, smiling, and I didn’t detect any sarcasm. At one of our earlier lunches she’d told me that although neither she nor anyone in her family hunted, she wasn’t opposed to the idea, especially since I wasn’t just trophy hunting and I brought the game home and prepared it for the table.

  That’s a reasonably common attitude among non-hunters (as opposed to anti-hunters) and one with which I could get along quite nicely. I smiled and said, “Maybe I should invite you over for a pheasant dinner.”

  “Maybe you should,” she said, smiling again.

  “Consider it done,” I said. “I’m going out of town next weekend but let’s plan on it after I get back.”

  “OK,” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “Over to Illinois for a hunt at a lodge we’re thinking of featuring in the magazine.” As I said this my guard came up slightly, not so much because of the other matter associated with this hunt—my real reason for going—but because some non-hunters do have a problem with shooting released birds…i.e., birds that are pen-raised and put out shortly before the hunters take to the field. It was a subject that, for the moment at least, I preferred to sidestep.

  “Oh, so kind of a busman’s holiday?” she asked.

  “I guess you could call it that. Hunting is part of my job description, after all.”

  “Must be rough!” she said, and I had to laugh.

  “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta do it,” I said, smiling. “The bad news is, if the place checks out, I’ll have to write the feature when I get back…you know, pound the keyboard, do some actual work.”

  “Awww, poor baby.”

  Our server, a tall blonde named Keri, arrived at that moment to ask how we were doing and if we needed anything else. I made an open-palms gesture toward Daryl and she said, “I’m going to need a box to take the rest of mine home…Ivy won’t forgive me if I don’t bring her a couple bites.”

  “I’d better have a box also,” I said. I still had a few bites of ribeye left that I knew Preacher would enjoy.

  “Are either of you thinking of dessert?” Keri asked.

  We decided to share a piece of key lime pie. One plate, two forks. And another round of drinks.

  As Keri left our table I asked, “I’m guessing Ivy is your cat?”

  “Good guess. Whenever I mention Ivy, a lot of people think I’m referring to my grandmother because it’s kind of an old-fashioned name. But yes, she’s my kitty. I named her Ivy because when I got her as a kitten she loved to hide in a big ivy plant I had on my patio and ambush me when I’d walk by.”

  “Not poison ivy, I hope.”

  Daryl laughed. “No, although I call her that sometimes when she’s naughty. She’s twelve years old and definitely rules the household.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t be a cat if she didn’t,” I said, falling back on the hoary cats-reign-over-all-they-see cliché. “What kind is she?” Although I considered my knowledge of sporting dog breeds to be almost encyclopedic, I couldn’t pretend to say the same of cats. I could maybe identify a Siamese if I got lucky.

  “She’s a golden tabby,” Daryl said. She dug into her large black leather handbag and pulled out her phone. (Another plus, she hadn’t kept the phone on the table or checked it during dinner.) “Here, I’ll show you.”

  I laughed. “Time to share pictures of our kids?” I said.

  “Sure, why not!”

  I dug out my own phone and turned it on. After a quick scroll, Daryl handed hers across to me. I took it and checked out the photo. Ivy was a beautiful cat, striped gray and russet, with striking white cheek patches and large gold-green eyes.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said. “I like those white patches on her face.”

  “Thanks,” Daryl replied. “She’s my baby.” I did a quick scroll on my own phone and found a picture of Preacher I especially liked. It wasn’t a field shot—I didn’t know if Daryl could appreciate one of Preacher locked up on point—but one where she was sitting with her head cocked, wearing a quizzical expression. I handed the phone to Daryl. “This is my roommate.”

  Daryl laughed. “She’s adorable! I mean…is she a she?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Her name’s Preacher.”

  “Preacher? And she’s a girl?”

  “She’s named for a Clint Eastwood character. If you ever saw the movie Pale Rider, Clint wore a beard that was about the same color as hers, the mix of gray and brown. When I got her as an eight-week-old pup that was the first thing that popped into my head.”

  “I like it,” Daryl said. “What kind is she?”

  “German wirehaired pointer.”

  “So…you must hunt with her?”

  “Yes. She’s a heckuva pheasant dog.” I hoped that didn’t sound too boastful.

  “Will she be going with you next week?”

  “Yes. She’s kinda like my American Express card…I never leave home without her. At least, not for a hunting trip.”

  Daryl smiled. “How old is she?”

  “Six.”

  “She’s a cutie.”

  “Thanks.”

  Keri returned with our drinks and the key lime pie. We both dug in.

  Chapter 16

  Daryl offered to split the dinner check with me but I refused on the grounds that I’d invited her. I said she could pick up the tab next time. She agreed and that left me feeling good about the way things were playing out. She’d already accepted my invitation to come over to my place for a pheasant dinner and this further confirmed that there would, in fact, be a next time or times. The evening was ending on a promising note.

  Or at least, that was my read on it.

  I put down enough cash to cover the bill and a healthy tip for Keri, then helped Daryl into her coat, a long, dark gray wool number that hit her about mid-calf. I shrugged into my own hip-length black leather jacket and we headed out to the parking lot.

  I walked her to her car, a medium blue Toyota Corolla that was several years old. “Yeah, I know, the unsexiest car on the road,” she said as we arrived at the driver’s door. “I really need to trade it but as long as still gets me around…”

  “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with sticking with something reliable,” I said in an attempt to be chivalrous. We’d arrived at that awkward moment of do-we-kiss-goodnight-or-don’t-we and I decided to go for it. I pulled her into a hug and she came willingly, face upturned and wearing a half-smile.

  I kissed her, holding it for a couple seconds but not wanting to overplay things. She reciprocated and when we broke, she laughed and said, “This was a great evening. Let’s do this again soon.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “And I’m going to hold you to that pheasant dinner you promised. I want to meet Preacher.”

  Did this woman know the right buttons to push, or what?

  When I got home Preacher lazily hauled her big wiry body off the sofa, did the fore-and-aft stretch thing, then trotted to the kitchen door. I let her outside and headed into the office, carrying the plain brown box I had picked up from A.C. en route to my dinner date with Daryl.

  The burner I had been using to communicate with James Collins was lying on the table I use as a desk, next to my personal computer. I set the box down, picked up the phone and turned it on, waited a few seconds for it to power up, and saw I had a text. It read: “Got some info on CF and CW. Call me. – JC”

  CF and CW. Charlie Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson. The message I’d been waiting for.

  I glanced at my watch. 9:30. Not too late to call, I decided. I dialed James Collins’ number.
/>
  It rang four times before going to his voice mail. “Hi, this is James. You know the drill. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”

  Well, crap. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was, after all, Friday night and James was probably doing what millions of young singles do in Chicago at the end of a work week. He was out for the evening and apparently engaged in something he didn’t want to interrupt. Having just returned from a very pleasant dinner date of my own, I couldn’t begrudge him.

  But I also couldn’t help feeling some impatience. I wanted to keep things moving and get a plan in place, and any information James and his hacker buddies could provide about Charlie Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson would facilitate the process. Or so I hoped.

  I disconnected without leaving a message. When James checked his phone he would see that he’d missed a call, and I knew he would recognize the number of my burner. He’d get back to me, I was sure. Or, if I hadn’t heard from him by, say, midday tomorrow, I’d try him again.

  Out in the backyard Preacher barked sharply a couple times. Raccoons and possums weren’t uncommon in our neighborhood, to say nothing of wandering housecats, but I tried to keep Preacher’s barking to a minimum to as to not upset the neighbors.

  Carrying the burner, I walked back through the kitchen and stepped onto the deck to shush her. Preacher trotted up through the darkness, whining softly. Something had disturbed her but the fact that she’d stopped barking suggested it had moved on.

  The burner in my hand rang.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” James Collins replied. “You got my message.”

  “Yes, I did. You’ve got something on those guys in Rushville?”

  “I do. But it’s pretty standard stuff so I don’t know how helpful it’s going to be.”

  “Anything is more than I have right now, so I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

  “OK. But I’m, uh, kind of in the middle of something right now—out for the evening with some friends, actually—and I don’t have it right in front of me. Could we maybe postpone this until tomorrow sometime? I know you’re anxious to get something going but I could either give you a call in the morning or even text or email it to you. Like I said, it’s pretty basic. We’re not talking novel-length bios here.”