“We’ll switch off after lunch,” Amy continued. “We like to rotate guides so everyone gets a chance to know everyone else and enjoy a little more variety. Rob, you said you were only going to hunt for half a day, so Parkses will be with Allie in the afternoon and Larsons with Matt.” She laughed and added, “That means I have Mitch to myself for the afternoon and I’ve already warned him that he’s going to be putting up Christmas decorations.”
We all laughed. Dave Larson looked at me and said, “Only hunting half a day?”
I nodded. “I’ll probably spend the afternoon making notes for the article, shooting pictures around the lodge and the grounds, maybe drive into town to soak up some local color. You never know what might turn out to be useful for a magazine feature.” I hoped I sounded convincing.
Apparently I did because Dave nodded and said, “Makes sense.”
Amy and Allie began clearing our dinner dishes and the rest of us adjourned to the lounge.
Chapter 23
I carried my cup of coffee into the lounge with me. The Parks brothers and Michael Larson headed over to the pool table and started a game of eight ball. Michael partnered with Steven Parks and I heard Wayne Parks call them “the dog team,” presumably because Michael and Steven owned the dogs their parties were hunting over.
Dave Larson grabbed a beer from the cooler and joined me at the bar. “Never was much of a pool shooter,” he said.
“Me, neither. I can maybe make my shots on a good day, but those aren’t too plentiful,” I said.
He laughed. “That sounds like me in the bird field lately. Anymore it seems like I couldn’t hit water if I capsized a canoe.”
I had to laugh at that one. “You said you and your son had a good day today, though.”
“We did…well, Michael did, anyway. His Lab really performed well and Michael took most of the shots. I’m fine with that.” He hesitated, then continued. “I’ve pretty much reached the age where I don’t need to shoot a lot of birds to call it a good day.”
I knew the feeling. Much as I love hunting—and I do love it and always will—I too had begun to notice a certain winding down feeling in recent years. Taking a limit was no longer the necessity it had seemed to be when I was much younger, and nowadays I often found myself deliberately stopping a bird or two short. Critics might accuse me of selfishness in doing this, saying I just wanted to “save some for tomorrow,” but I knew better. It was simply a matter of knowing that enough was enough.
“I hear that,” I said. “These days I’m more interested in watching my dog work and trying to see that she has a good time rather than concentrating on shooting a bunch of birds. Of course to her way of thinking, shooting a bunch of birds for her to retrieve is a good time.”
“Yeah, that’s true, isn’t it? They live for hunting,” Larson said. “I love watching Jasper work and being out there with Michael…well, for me that’s about as good as it gets. Do you have any kids?”
“No, I don’t,” I replied, and before the conversation went any further, the front door of the lodge opened and Mitch Halvorsen—I recognized him from the photos on the preserve’s website—stepped in. He paused on the mat inside the door and carefully wiped his boots, then looked up and gave us all a smile. “Howdy,” he said.
Dave and I nodded and someone at the pool table said “Howdy!” in return. Halvorsen nodded in their direction but approached Larson and me at the bar. He was dressed in blue jeans and the same type of khaki shirt with the Hidden Hollow logo that Allie Marshall had been wearing. He stuck his hand out and said to me, “We haven’t met yet. You must be Rob Vance.”
“That’s me,” I said, shaking his hand. “Got in this afternoon.”
“Sorry I wasn’t here a little earlier to welcome you,” he said. “Birds to clean, dogs to tend, about a dozen other things to take care of to get ready for tomorrow’s hunts.”
“No problem,” I said. “Amy and Allie have been taking good care of us.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Dinner was OK?”
“Dinner was terrific,” I said, and Dave Larson added, “It sure was.”
“Glad to hear that. I’m gonna scoot back there in a sec and see if they saved me some. But in the meantime, is there anything you fellows need?”
“Nope, I’m good,” Dave Larson said.
“I am too,” I said. “Amy said that we’d be going out together in the morning.”
“That’s right,” Halvorsen said with a grin. “I want to see that big wirehair of yours in the field. Did you get her settled in the kennel OK?”
“Yes. That’s a nice facility you have over there.”
“Thanks. Just let us know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
“OK, then. If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go grab some supper.”
Halvorsen headed through the doorway at the back of the lounge and down the hallway toward the dining room and kitchen. He had that sense of urgency about him that characterized a proprietor anxious to make sure his clients were taken care of, and more importantly, having a good time. I imagined that he and Amy, and probably Allie as well, put in some very long hours to keep the Hidden Hollow operation running smoothly.
I drained my coffee cup and stood up from the bar stool. I carried the cup around to the sink behind the bar and rinsed it out. I left it in the sink next to several glasses and turned back to the bar. Dave Larson had just grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the bar. He grinned sheepishly. “My addiction,” he said.
“Less dangerous than some,” I said, and he laughed.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I think I’m gonna take a run into town,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask to come with me. “I was going to wait until tomorrow but I want to check things out, get a feel for the surroundings. It’s always nice to be able to include a little local color in a magazine article; it helps round things out.” I knew I’d said something similar a little earlier when Larson had asked me why I was only planning to hunt a half day, and I hoped this still sounded believable.
He nodded. “Rushville’s a pretty small town, but maybe you’ll get lucky and find some of that local color you’re looking for,” he said, smiling. I wondered if there was some implied double entendre
“Here’s hoping,” I said, and he laughed.
After going upstairs and grabbing my jacket, gloves and cap from my room, I went back downstairs and out to the parking lot in front of the lodge. The night sky was heavily overcast with no moon or stars visible and I wondered if we were going to get snow. I found myself hoping we would; hunting on fresh snow is one of my favorite activities, partly because it always brings back happy teenage memories of hunting rabbits with my dad, my uncle and my cousins. My cousins are still living but my dad and my uncle aren’t, so I can’t deny those memories are also somewhat bittersweet.
Of course Preacher and I would be hunting birds tomorrow, not rabbits. Still, a winter morning with the sun shining and a fresh blanket of snow on the ground from the night before is about as ideal as it gets in my book, regardless of our quarry. A snowy background might also provide some better photo opportunities than the otherwise drab December cover, and I reminded myself I’d need to carry my camera in the morning, as well as my shotgun.
I climbed into the Equinox and cranked the ignition. As I did so, I had a sudden thought. I pulled out the burner I’d been using to correspond with James Collins—a hunch had told me to bring it along on this trip, and I’d stashed it in the console—and turned it on. I sent him a quick text message: Can U get me home addresses for Flanagan and Wilson? Thx.
I waited a moment to confirm the message had been sent, then I turned off the burner and dropped it into my jacket pocket. I hoped James Collins would see the message and respond sooner rather than later, but this being Friday night, I wasn’t overly optimistic. I wished I’d thought to ask him for this information earlier.
Oh well. In the meantime, I could take another look a
t downtown Rushville, and maybe if I got lucky find out a little more about the whole Carlyle Wilson-Charlie Flanagan situation.
Local color, indeed.
Chapter 24
During the 15-minute drive from Hidden Hollow to Rushville I pondered what the hell I was hoping to accomplish.
Well, I knew the answer...sort of. I was planning to visit the Rushville Tap and, if necessary, maybe one or two other bars, where—if I got lucky—I might pick up some scuttlebutt about Carlyle Wilson and Charlie Flanagan. In a town the size of Rushville, one of its residents going on trial for manslaughter was almost certain to be a popular topic of conversation.
Then again, maybe not. The townspeople undoubtedly had their opinions as to what had transpired out there in the woods—that is, whether or not Carlyle Wilson had actually shot Frank Reynolds—but how willing they would be to share those opinions with a total stranger remained to be seen. And offhand, I couldn’t think of a good way to broach the subject without arousing suspicion, especially since, as an outsider, I theoretically wouldn’t know anything about it.
I was just going to have to keep my eyes and ears open and hope for a break, an opening that would allow me to ask a question or two without betraying too much interest.
Little did I know that Charlie Flanagan himself would soon provide me with the break I needed.
I drove halfway around the town square and parked in front of the Rushville Tap. I turned off the engine and sat for a moment, still wondering how to play things. I finally decided just to go inside and order a beer and let myself be known as a client at Hidden Hollow. Maybe a conversation about hunting, if I could get one started, might lead somewhere.
I pushed through the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The Rushville Tap resembled thousands of other small town watering holes—a bar that ran most of the length of the wall opposite the door, with a dozen or so tables taking up the floor space in between and booths along the front wall and at one end of the room. At the other end stood the requisite pool table, behind which were doors to restrooms. Wall decorations consisted of lighted beer signs, posters for the Chicago Cubs, Chicago Bears and St. Louis Cardinals, and two medium-sized whitetail head mounts.
A couple of large screen TVs were mounted high on the wall at either end of the bar and both were tuned to cable channels showing sports talk shows, one football and one basketball, but the volume was muted on both. Captions at the bottom of the screens made up for the lack of sound, in case anyone was interested in what the hosts were saying.
Three of the tables in the middle of the room were occupied, as were about half of the twenty or so bar stools. About three-fourths of the patrons were men, but there were several couples as well. A typical Friday night crowd, I supposed. I walked up to the bar, pulled out a stool and shrugged out of my jacket. I hung it over the back of the stool and sat down.
Most of the stools to my right were empty. To my left, with two empty stools between us, sat a large guy wearing an insulated camouflage vest over a heavy flannel shirt. He had dark hair cut short and a dark mustache. A draft beer and a shot glass sat in front of him. He glanced my way, frowned slightly, then picked up the shot glass and drained it at a gulp. He followed it with a long pull on his beer.
The bartender approached. He smiled and said, “Evening.”
“Evening,” I said in return. I nodded toward the taps. “Winter Lager,” I said. I was a little surprised it was one of the choices—I would have guessed most of the patrons preferred Anheuser Busch products—but I don’t question good fortune when I find it.
The bartender nodded. He drew my beer and set it in front of me on a cardboard coaster with a picture of a full beer mug and the words, “Two wrongs don’t make a right. But two beers just might.” I took a sip. The lager was very cold and I nodded in appreciation. “Thanks,” I said.
“Do you want to run a tab or pay as you go?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll run a tab,” I said. I smiled. “I may stay for more than one.” Mr. Friendly, trying to break the ice.
“You’re welcome to do that,” the bartender said. He turned toward the fellow on my left. “How about you, Charlie? Ready for another?”
Charlie. Could I be that lucky?
“Sure,” Charlie said.
The bartender moved away and drew another draft beer—Charlie was drinking regular Bud—and set it in front of him. “Another bump also?” he asked.
“Sure,” Charlie said again. Mr. Eloquent.
The bartender filled Charlie’s shot glass with Jack Daniels and nudged it toward him. Like before, Charlie downed it a single gulp. He made a slight lip-smacking noise, then picked up his beer glass.
I did my best not to watch too closely.
I didn’t know this was Charlie Flanagan—I’d never seen a photo of him, and quite possibly there was more than one Charlie in Rushville—but I didn’t want to be caught checking him out, regardless. I studied the beer glass in front of me and rotated it between my fingers, watching the tiny bubbles rise to the foam head. As I did this I reviewed what I did know about Flanagan.
He’d played tackle on his high school football team and that probably meant somebody larger than average. Check. He was 32 years old, and the fellow to my left looked to be about that age. Check. His short hair was cut in a style that suggested the military or maybe law enforcement…or by extension, prison guard. Check. And, he was drinking in the same bar where Charlie Flanagan claimed he’d heard Carlyle Wilson confess to killing Frank Reynolds.
No, I didn’t know this was Charlie Flanagan. But until I found out otherwise, I thought it was a pretty good bet. And that meant I needed to be careful.
The bartender was standing in front of me again. “New in town?” he asked.
I nodded. “Staying out at Hidden Hollow, the hunting preserve. I’m here to hunt a couple days, maybe write a story for my magazine.” I figured this was as good a chance to get the conversational ball rolling as I was likely to get, my earlier idea for keeping a low profile notwithstanding.
“Really!” said the bartender. “What magazine?”
“American Wingshot,” I said. “I’m the editor. Rob Vance.”
“No kidding! And you say you’re here to write a story?”
“Well, I’m here to check the place out, anyway. We like to feature preserves that our readers might want to try out for themselves. Getting a firsthand look is about the best way I know to make sure we’re not sending them off to some shoddy operation.”
“That makes sense,” the bartender said. “I’ve not been out there myself but I hear it’s a nice place. I know Mitch Halvorsen and his wife Amy worked mighty hard to get it up and running.”
I thought I heard my neighbor Charlie make a snorting sound but I didn’t turn toward him. Neither did the bartender.
“It is a nice place,” I said. “At least, what I’ve seen of it so far. I haven’t hunted yet, but the lodge is very nice. I checked in this afternoon. Had a good meal and then decided to come on into town to look around. Always like to get a feel for the surroundings.” I stopped short of using the “local color” phrase again.
The bartender laughed. “I’m not sure you’re going to find much to write about in Rushville…we’re a pretty quiet little town. But you’re certainly welcome to check things out, see the sights, such as they are.”
I was about to say, “That’s my plan” when a fellow back by the pool table hollered, “Hey, Flanagan, c’mon back and shoot a game with us.”
The three of us—my neighbor Charlie, the bartender and myself—turned toward the pool table, as did several of the other patrons throughout the room. Two men holding cue sticks stood by the table while a third racked the balls. They obviously needed a fourth to play partners.
Charlie Flanagan—I now had my confirmation—shook his head and said, “Not tonight.”
“Aw, c’mon!” said the first man. “We need a fourth guy.”
“I said, not tonight,” Flanaga
n repeated, then added in a lower voice, almost a growl, “goddamn it.”
I made a point of not looking at him. I stared at the bartender and he returned my look, his eyebrows twitching upward just slightly. A warning?
I smiled and said, “That’s my plan, anyway. Look around, maybe include a few details about the town in the story. We always try to give readers a complete picture.”
The bartender nodded. “Well, good luck. I hope you enjoy your stay out at Hidden Hollow. I know Mitch and Amy will appreciate any business you can steer their way.” He moved away toward the other end of the bar to check on refills.
Beside me I heard Charlie Flanagan slam his beer glass down on the bar. I glanced his way and saw him standing up from his stool. He squared his shoulders and turned toward me. I gave him a slight smile.
He was a big guy, all right. I guessed him at about six-two or –three and maybe 225 pounds. He had some belly overhanging his belt but not a lot and I guessed it was probably hard, not flabby. He looked like he might lift weights or had at one time. I had no problem envisioning him as a prison guard, and a mean-ass one at that.
He didn’t return my smile but fixed me with his best thousand-yard stare. He took a step toward me and I couldn’t help tensing up. I hoped it wasn’t obvious.
He took another step in my direction and then turned toward the door. But as he did so he leaned back slightly and gave me a shoulder bump. Hard.
I couldn’t keep from recoiling. He sneered slightly and said, “Watch it, old man.”
Then he turned and stalked out the door and into the night.
Chapter 25
An old woman walks into a town in the desert Southwest and ties her pack mule to the hitching post. As she stands there brushing some of the dust from her clothes, a young gunslinger steps out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.
The Killer in the Woods Page 13