The Killer in the Woods

by Rick Van Etten

  “No problem,” I said. “And no need for apology. I asked the question. I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I mean, I can understand why you might be curious, after Pete and Walt filled you in on all the town gossip.”

  “Well, they did say this was pretty much the big news right now. If your fiancé is in jail on a manslaughter charge, there’s bound to be talk.” As soon as I said this I realized she hadn’t mentioned that Carlyle had been charged with manslaughter and I gave myself a mental kick in the butt for mentioning it, but she didn’t question my knowledge of this. Or maybe she just assumed I’d learned it from Pete and Walt.

  “You got that right,” she said. “Right now it’s like everybody’s favorite subject…at least at the Rushville Tap and the other bars.”

  “You said a lot of people don’t believe Carlyle confessed to Charlie.”

  “No, I said a lot us know Carlyle didn’t confess to Charlie. See, you have to understand, Carlyle is a really nice guy, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my fiancé. He’s a straight shooter…sorry, that was a bad choice of words. He’s the most honest person I know, and ironically, that’s what got him into all this trouble. He found this dead guy out in the woods and reported it, even took the sheriff back out there to show him the location. Then like two days later, he’s arrested because Charlie Flanagan says he confessed to him. Which is, pardon my French, total bullshit.”

  There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice now. She was certain her fiancé was the victim of a monstrous injustice, one perpetrated by Charlie Flanagan. From everything I’d learned, I was inclined to agree. But I also couldn’t ignore the fact that I, too, had played a key role in bringing about Carlyle Wilson’s wrongful arrest.

  “Truth is, I met Charlie Flanagan tonight myself,” I said, not wanting to risk her finding this out later from some other source and thinking I’d been playing her.

  “Oh? There at the Tap?”

  “Right. He was already there when I went in.”

  She snorted. “Of course he was. And what was your impression?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing positive. He finished his beer a few minutes after I got there and he gave me a pretty good shoulder bump on his way out. Told me to watch it.”

  “That sounds like him. What did you do?”

  “I let it pass. I wasn’t going to pick a fight with a stranger in a strange town, and I’m a little too old for barroom brawls anyway.” I hoped this answer sounded like common sense and not craven cowardice. “The bartender, Walt, told me to ignore it; said Charlie has been feeling a lot of pressure lately. That’s what led to our conversation about the trial and your fiancé.”

  “You were smart to let it pass. Charlie likes to pick on people that are…um…smaller than him,” she said, and I realized she was probably trying to let me off the hook, either for being considerably older than Charlie or for not picking up the gauntlet he’d thrown down. Maybe both.

  “Well, I can’t deny it didn’t set well with me, but I decided it wasn’t worth making an issue over.”

  “That was smart.”

  “And like I said, that’s what led to the conversation about your fiancé. Walt and Pete don’t believe he killed that deer hunter, either.”

  “Well, they’re right. I wish more people felt that way. Actually, plenty of people do feel that way, but that doesn’t change the fact that Carlyle is in jail and he’s going on trial.”

  “Does he have a good lawyer?” I asked, remembering what Pete Sawyer had said.

  “His lawyer is a guy named Prescott and yes, he seems to be pretty sharp. But I guess we won’t really know how good he is until the trial. In the meantime…” she sighed, “in the meantime, we’re just trying to think positive.”

  “I guess that’s all you can do.”

  “That, and hope Charlie Flanagan gets hit by a truck.”

  Or something, I thought.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning, to borrow Dave Larson’s line from the night before, I couldn’t have hit water if I’d capsized a canoe. At least not at first.

  I spent a restless night following my visit to the Rushville Tap, my Charlie Flanagan encounter and my conversation afterward with Allie Marshall on the porch of the lodge. Ordinarily I don’t have any trouble sleeping in a strange bed, but this time my brain was in overdrive, wrestling with various scenarios and trying to formulate a game plan for getting rid of Flanagan and thereby—I hoped—see the manslaughter charge against Carlyle Wilson dropped.

  I wasn’t any closer to a solution when I finally said to hell with it at 5:30 a.m. and got out of bed. I stumbled into the bathroom and into the shower—OK, I stopped long enough to piss first—and stood under the shower spray for a good ten minutes, trying to let the warm water clear my head. It didn’t have much effect.

  I toweled off, decided to forego shaving, and pulled on jeans, moccasins and a sweatshirt, and headed downstairs. When I’d rinsed out my coffee cup at the sink behind the bar last evening, I’d noticed a coffee maker on the counter next to the sink. That coffee maker was my immediate objective. I knew I was going to need a serious caffeine jolt to jump-start the day and get through the morning.

  Not surprisingly, none of my fellow bird hunters were up and around yet. The lounge and bar were dark except for a couple of low-intensity nightlights that enabled me to navigate over to the panel of light switches on the wall behind the bar. After a couple of tries I found the switch for the light above the bar and the sink, and I left that one on, the rest of the room dark.

  I found a plastic tub of Colombian coffee and a package of paper coffee filters in the cupboard above the sink. I got the coffee maker started—luckily it was a model similar to the one I have at home and didn’t require a graduate degree in engineering or computer science to program or operate—then I pulled a clean mug bearing the Hidden Hollow logo from the cupboard.

  The coffee maker was one of those with an “interrupt” feature that allows you to pull the carafe out and pour a cup before the brewing cycle has completed. When there was about an inch of coffee in the bottom of the carafe I pulled it off the warming plate and poured myself a cup. I added a spoonful of powdered French vanilla non-dairy creamer (talk about an oxymoron!), stirred it and carried the cup to the bar. I climbed up on a stool and sat there in the semi-dark room, sipping coffee and trying to focus my thoughts on the day ahead and not let myself keep getting sidetracked by the Charlie Flanagan dilemma.

  I was scheduled to hunt with Mitch Halvorsen and I knew he would be doing his best to show me a good time. I had booked a 12-bird package, which would consist of eight quail and four chukar partridge. These would be released prior to the hunt in cover that would closely approximate that found during an actual hunt…or at least, so I hoped.

  I didn’t want to stroll through feed plots along closely mowed paths littered with previous clients’ fired shotgun shells. The best hunting preserves are those that provide a realistic hunting experience, not a fish-in-the-barrel type shoot. Hunters and their dogs should have to work for their game, just as they would on a hunt for wild birds in natural cover.

  If Hidden Hollow lived up to its claims, that’s the kind of hunt I would experience, and I would have no problem writing a feature for the magazine recommending the preserve to readers.

  Last night after dinner Amy Halvorsen had told us breakfast was at 8:00 and we would head out to the bird fields at 9:00. I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar and saw it was 6:10. I had nearly two hours until breakfast. I sighed and took another sip of coffee.

  It was going to be a long morning.

  Breakfast was another sumptuous affair, with an egg, cheese and sausage casserole, hash browns and fresh-baked biscuits…and yes, a boat full of sausage gravy to drown the latter. I tried to show some restraint, not all that successfully. The food was just damn good.

  Amy Halvorsen handled the serving, with Allie nowhere in evidence.
I assumed she was outside preparing for the hunt she’d guide. I remembered she was taking out Dave and Mike Larson this morning.

  Conversation among the other clients primarily revolved around the morning hunt, with plenty of good-natured ribbing among the Parks brothers about who’d get the first bird, who’d shoot the most birds, whether Aaron could avoid being confused by Steven’s commands to Baron, and so on. Typical brother stuff, in other words.

  I sat at an adjoining table with the Larsons. Despite all the cups of coffee I’d consumed, I still felt like I was running on autopilot after my mostly sleepless night. Thankfully Dave and Mike were of a less raucous nature than the Parks brothers and the conversation demands were minimal. They did most of the talking and I managed to get by with mostly monosyllabic replies, hoping I wasn’t sounding antisocial.

  At one point Dave asked me if I’d found the local color I’d been looking for the night before and I gave him a highly condensed account of my visit to the Rushville Tap, characterizing it as a friendly place and omitting any mention of Charlie Flanagan and the conversation I’d had with Walt and Pete.

  That seemed to satisfy him and I allowed my mind to wander, still puzzling over how I was going to handle Flanagan. I’d driven over to Hidden Hollow with the idea—half-baked, at best—that I would locate him, get a better feel for whether he’d fabricated Carlyle Wilson’s confession, and if so, eliminate him. All within the course of a long weekend.

  I’d come equipped with a suitable cover story and plenty of firepower, but I realized now that my plan was going to require some modification. I’d identified Flanagan and confirmed that he probably had made up the story about Carlyle Wilson confessing to him but killing him while I was still here—my cover story notwithstanding—would be risky. Too many people might find it more than a little suspicious that Charlie Flanagan had died shortly before he was to testify in a criminal trial and at the same time an out-of-town sportsman had had a run-in with him (brief though it was) in a local bar.

  Whether anyone would really associate our encounter with his subsequent demise was a stretch, admittedly. But it was a chance I didn’t want to take. Nor did I want to do anything that might cast suspicion on, say, Allie Marshall. Charlie Flanagan turning up dead just before he was scheduled to testify against her fiancé would raise all kinds of questions, no doubt about it, and I didn’t want any of that suspicion to blow back on her.

  Amy Halvorsen appeared at our table with coffee pot in hand and asked if any of us needed a refill. Dave and Mike declined and I did also, realizing I’d probably already drunk enough coffee that morning to necessitate stopping my hunt every 10 or 15 minutes to take a leak. Thank goodness my guide was going to be Mitch Halvorsen and not Allie Marshall or I might have seriously embarrassed myself.

  “In that case,” Amy said, “you might want to head back to your rooms and get your gear on. We got about three inches of snow last night and the temp is just a little above freezing so wear insulated waterproof boots if you have them. Your guides will be ready to take you out in about 15 minutes.”

  We all assembled in the parking lot in front of the lodge some 15 minutes later. I’d opted to start the morning with the 20-gauge Remington Premier, figuring it was more than enough gun for quail and chukar on a preserve hunt.

  I would soon prove myself wrong and embarrass myself thoroughly in the process.

  I stood there in the group with the cased Premier and my fellow hunters did the same with their various firearms. Mitch Halvorsen greeted us and then gave us a quick rundown on safety procedures to be observed in the field. It was similar to speeches I’d heard at many other preserves over the years, and it further confirmed my positive impression of Mitch Halvorsen as a conscientious proprietor and hunt guide.

  “I know that with the exception of Rob, you all heard this same speech yesterday before we went out, but a little reminder never hurts,” he said. I glanced around and to everyone’s credit, they all appeared to be paying attention. “You’re all hunting over your own dogs and I’m sure no one wants to see their dog injured, so I’ll remind you not to shoot at any bird on the ground, even if it’s a cripple.

  “Also, don’t shoot at any bird that is below the line of the horizon. Try to make sure you see some sky, or at least the horizon line, below any bird you shoot at. That’s not always easy to do in some of our thicker cover, but low shots are the cause of accidents, and we don’t want any. If you’re not sure, pass up the shot. You’re going to see plenty of birds today so if you have to pass one up, you’ll get another chance soon enough.

  “Make sure you know where your partners are at all times…you’re all wearing some orange so that should make it easier to keep track of each other. And of course, try to remember where your guide is also, as they’re expensive to replace.” This got a few laughs.

  “Keep your guns unloaded and cased until we get to the field. Once we get started, keep the muzzle of your gun pointed up at all times when you’re not taking a shot. A low muzzle is dangerous if you’d happen to trip or stumble, so again, keep your muzzles pointed up if you’re not shooting.

  “We’ll hunt until about 11:30, then we’ll load up and return to the lodge for lunch. In the meantime, if you experience any trouble, let your guide know immediately. You all appear to be in pretty good shape but don’t hesitate to let us know if you start feeling uncomfortable for any reason. No one has to be a hero and you shouldn’t try to tough it out if you’re not feeling well.

  “I’ll be going out with Rob this morning. Dave and Mike, you’ll be going out with Allie; and you Parkses will be going out with Matt. They’re waiting for us over by the kennels, so if there aren’t any questions, let’s head over that way and you can load up your dogs.”

  We all turned toward the kennels where two large ATVs and a Chevy Suburban sat waiting. I guessed the Parks brothers would be riding to their bird field in the Suburban and the Larsons and myself would be on the ATVs, both of which had a large dog crate strapped onto the back. Allie and a tall fellow I hadn’t met, presumably the guide named Matt, were waiting for us by the rigs.

  We’d only taken a couple steps in their direction when I realized I’d left my camera bag in my room. If I was going to write a feature about my hunt at Hidden Hollow I’d need photos to illustrate it, which meant I’d have to shoot some over the course of the morning. I called ahead to Mitch, who was leading the group.

  “Hey, Mitch,” I said, “sorry to hold things up, but I need to go back to my room for a minute. Forgot my camera.”

  He turned and said, “No problem. Just grab your camera and come on over when you’re ready. I’ll get these guys on their way and then we can be off.”

  The group continued on to the kennel as I turned back to the lodge. It was no big deal, I realized, and Mitch had handled my forgetfulness politely, another mark of a good host. But I chided myself anyway, feeling like my brain was still stuck in low gear.

  Not an auspicious start to the morning.

  Chapter 31

  It only got worse once we started hunting.

  The other two groups had already departed by the time I got over to the kennel with my shotgun and my camera bag. Mitch Halvorsen was standing next to the remaining ATV, a large Yamaha four-seater side-by-side. He smiled as I approached.

  “Just put your gear on the back seat and then load up your dog and we can get going,” he said. I did as instructed and turned toward the kennel.

  Preacher was waiting at the gate of her run, whining and doing a little dance with her forepaws. Before breakfast I’d thrown on a coat and boots and walked over to see her. I’d sweet-talked her for a few minutes and promised we’d be going out for birds soon. She’d assured me she was ready.

  I unlatched the gate and she stepped out and paced beside me over to the ATV. Mitch was standing at the back of the rig with the gate open to the large dog crate strapped on the equipment rack. “Will she be OK riding back here?” he asked.

  “Yeah,
she should be fine,” I said. I tapped the doorway of the crate and said, “Hop up!” Preacher complied, sailing in and settling immediately. Most folks use the command “Kennel!” or “Kennel up!” when they want their dog to enter something, but I’m more conversational. When you live with a dog 24/7, she quickly becomes attuned to your language and your tone and it’s not necessary to bark commands like a drill sergeant.

  I latched the crate door and walked around to the passenger side of the ATV. I climbed in as Mitch was doing the same on the other side. He cranked the ignition and we headed down the lane that ran past the barn. Tire tracks in the fresh snow showed where the other two hunting parties had preceded us.

  As we came around to the backside of the barn I got my first look at the kennels housing the preserve’s dogs. Most of them were barking, no doubt hoping for a chance to be taken along on the hunt. I saw two black Labs, a Brittany, a German shorthair and two English pointers, then we were past the kennels and heading on down the lane.

  “That’s an interesting mix of dog power you have there,” I said, trying to speak loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the ATV’s engine.

  “We run a little bit of everything,” Mitch replied. “Sometimes clients have a preference and I let them choose. Guys hunting quail want to see them pointed, of course, so we run the pointers or the Brit and the shorthair. For pheasants, we use the Labs quite a bit because…” he hesitated, then continued, “you don’t always get a clean kill on pheasants and you need a dog that’s a surefire retriever to run down the cripples.”

  “The pointers and the Brit don’t retrieve?”

  “Oh, they do, but they’re not as gung-ho about it as the Labs,” he said. “Sometimes we run a mixed brace, a Lab with one or both of the pointers. The Lab stays in close while the pointers work the cover and find the birds. Then we’ll send the Lab in to flush the birds and handle most of the retrieves.”