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As Callie clung to the tree branch, she took a moment to glance at her watch. Three minutes before ten. Amanda should be getting up from her seat in the lounge and moving toward the door, ready to begin the hunt. Callie thought back to their meeting in the lodge. Callie had emerged from the quarry's dressing room expecting to find Amanda waiting for her by the reception desk and was disappointed to not to see her. She had wanted to make a grand entrance, looking her most enticing and delicious in her deerskin top and camouflage-patterned running shorts. She also wore a belt with a waterskin, a knife, and a pack containing a couple high-energy food bars. Greta was not good at hiding her feelings, though she managed to remain professional. She had been hoping that Colonel Stoneridge would have been able to talk some sense into this young woman and persuaded her to call off the hunt, but that apparently had not been the case. Over the years, the receptionist had seen so many young women meet and greet Amanda before a hunt and then take off for their runs, never to return under their own power. Of course, more than a few got away from the deadly huntress - not even Amanda had a perfect record - but Greta could not understand why any woman with common sense and any measurable level of a desire for self-preservation would risk her life in this manner. Callie had seemed to have both qualities, and, yet, her she was, seemingly eager to offer her life up as one more prize for the killer. Greta knew that it was not her job to try to dissuade quarry from running and, if Colonel Stoneridge had failed, any exercise of her powers of persuasion would be fruitless. "Hmm. I guess I must be early. Or did Amanda send word that she couldn't make it?" Callie had asked, a tremble of disappointment in her voice. "No such luck," Greta had responded. "The bloody-minded bitch is in the lounge waiting and she seems especially eager. You know, you can still back out of this if you want. Nothing is final until you go out that door." "Not a chance." Callie turned to look at the door to the lounge just in time to see something that took her breath away. At first sight, except for a belt with a few items hanging from it. Amanda appeared to be naked and covered with body paint, similar to what she had worn in the documentary/snuff flick that had launched her career in the entertainment industry. After Callie focused just a little better, she saw that Amanda was wearing a skin-tight cat suit with a tiger-stripe pattern, which seemed designed to emphasize every undulation of her rippling muscles as she moved toward her quarry with grace and power. There was no doubt that Amanda's was a body that required a lot of fuel to maintain it. Amanda was the very image of the predator incarnate. "Ah, there's my tasty little rabbit." Smiling, bearing teeth, the vision spoke. Callie had to make a deliberate effort not to gape open-mouthed. This was like encountering a force of nature. "G-g-good morning," she managed to stammer. Knowing exactly what effect she was having, Amanda asked, "Do you like my outfit?" "Yes. It suits you well." Lame praise, Callie realized. In addition to making Amanda appear even more sexy and even more intimidating, the cat suit had some very practical advantages. The brown and dark yellow pattern would be at least as hard to detect in the woods as her own clothing and the tightness of the fit made it... "Much more aerodynamic than my usual hunting rig, don't you agree, Greta?" Without waiting for a response, Amanda explained, "I believe that speed is going to be a key element in today's contest and I can't let myself be held back by a bunch of billowing fabric, if I hope to capture this lovely prize, can I? Hmm? After all, when she was in high school, she was the fastest girl in her home state for, pardon the expression, several years running. Except for when it came to hurdles - there, she only came in second. Did rather well in college, too." Callie's heart sank just a bit, but she tried not to let it show. If her speed had been any sort of "secret weapon," the secret was out. Amanda had done some research. Eying Callie intently, Amanda raised a stick of beef jerky to her mouth. "Just a light snack. I want to save my appetite for later." Savagely, she bit off a piece of jerky, chewed it, savoring its taste and texture. "Very nice, but not, I'm sure, anything like the quality that you have to offer." Callie shivered. "Oh, forgive my manners," Amanda said with feigned embarrassment. "Eating in front of you without offering you something. Would you like a bite, Callie?" She did not lower the meat, but did extend it slightly in Callie's direction. "Sure." Callie reached out to accept the offer. Quick as a flash, Amanda leaned forward and snapped her teeth inches from Callie's hand. "Be careful what you ask for, my dear," Amanda said with a knowing but not benign smile. "Amanda, really! This is a bit over the top. You don't need to frighten the poor woman," Greta scolded. "Oh, don't get your knickers in a bunch, Gret. Can't I have a little fun? She did, after all, say she wanted a bite." Semi-seriously, Amanda addressed Callie. "You didn't mind, really, did you?" Callie was proud of the fact that she didn't completely lose her cool and glad to have a chance to demonstrate it. "No. I'm always in the mood for a nice play on words, even if it was used by Gracie Allen in 1923. 'The poor man said he hadn't had a bite in three days, so I bit him.' I love the classics." "Oh! And I thought it was original with me!" Amanda did a mock sulk. "All of my best lines seem to have been used by somebody else. Oh, well." Callie had decided that, perhaps, Amanda's tiger stripes wouldn't make her all that hard to spot after all. Especially at this time of year, there was nothing in the woods of a color that even came close to that of Amanda's hair. If the hunt were taking place in autumn, when the leaves turned, that might be different, but at present, her hair should be easy to see. "Oh, my ensemble isn't quite complete." Amanda reached down and pulled from a belt a cowl of the same tiger-stripe pattern as her cat suit, which she stretched and placed over her head, carefully tucking her hair beneath it. "Can't have my lovely tresses getting caught in a branch as I dash through the woods, can I?" "Very practical," commented Greta, "but I don't see what purpose the little cat ears on the top serve. Won't they interfere just a bit with the aerodynamics that you were talking about a moment ago?" "Oh, I think I can compensate. After all, I didn't buy this in a hunter's tack shop. I could have had this altered, but I might wear it out for Beggar's Night. What do you think, Callie?" Amanda struck a pose, holding her hands in imitation of a begging puppy. The pose may have been cute and childish, but the voice was deep and sultry when she said, "Trick or treat. Will you give me something nice to eat?" Amanda's eyes slowly trailed down Callie's torso. Callie swallowed and couldn't think of anything to say except, "Sorry, but you'll have to earn it." "Well, no harm asking." Amanda smiled. "I even had doubts about having them take off the tail, but I did. I didn't want it getting tangled up with this." Amanda removed from her belt a long leather strap with three shorter straps attached to it, each with a small ball on the end. "Uh, do you know what this is, Callie?" "Well, either you've decided to open a pawn shop or that's a bola." Callie tried not to give away the fact that she had half-expected this after her chat with Colonel Stoneridge. "Hope you don't mind. I did, after all, agree to your stipulation about the bow and arrows." Callie nodded. "No, I don't mind." She hoped that her plans for dealing with the weapon would work. "Haven't had much experience with one of these, but I have done some practicing in the past two weeks. I think I've got the hang of it. Of course, this will be the first time I've actually used it to bring down quarry." A very artificial pause. "I'm sorry. I mean, the first time I've used it to TRY to bring down quarry. Can't take anything for granted." "No, a hunter mustn't do that," Callie agreed. "Callie, it's almost nine o'clock. Time you were taking off," Greta reminded her. Amanda extended her hand. "Good luck, Callie. I hope to see you soon." Callie accepted the handshake firmly. "And I hope that you have a pleasant, if somewhat frustrating day." Good humored smile. Callie turned to leave, but stopped when Amanda spoke. "Oh, just one thing - she did sign the consent form, didn't she, Gret?" "Yes." This was spoken between somewhat clenched teeth. As Greta recalled, Callie had shown only the slightest hesitation as she took up the pen. "I put my 'John Hancock' on the dotted line. Oops! That's probably the wrong reference to make here in England." Smile and chuckle - she knew she hadn't really put her foot in it. "Perfectly fine," Amanda assured her. "Spirited bunch, your founding fathers. And George the Third was hardly our best monarch." Amanda stepped closer to Callie and reached out, touched the blonde's cheek, and stared deeply, almost hypnotically into her blue eyes. "I like spirit, confidence - qualities that you have and that make you all that much more desirable." Callie didn't flinch from meeting Amanda's gaze, but she did find that she could be too easily drawn into those deep, haunting eyes. Speaking over her shoulder to Greta but not breaking eye contact with Callie, Amanda said, "Thanks, Gret. I wouldn't want any, uh, complications while hunting this delightful, de-lovely, delectable, delicious young Camilla." "I thought Callie was short for Calpurnia," Greta said. "Oh, Gret," Amanda sighed. "You really should read more of the classics. If you don't have time for the Aeneid, at least read our own Alexander Pope. " 'Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain...' " Callie joined Amanda in quoting the second line of the couplet. " 'Flies o'ver the unbending corn, and skims along the main.' " Two women about to engage in a death-contest and they're starting the day with a bloody poetry hour, thought Greta. Callie was aware that her uncontrollable reaction to Amanda's touch, stare, and soothing alto voice had caused her an embarrassment. "Emm." Amanda breathed deeply. "Do try to keep your scent just like that, dear Callie. It will make you so much easier to track." With a laugh, the tiger-woman turned and sauntered back to the lounge to await her own departure time. Callie headed for the door, but did turn back to see Amanda returning to the lounge. The stripes stretched across Amanda's hips rolled like waves on a calm sea of brown and gold as the living engine of destruction receded. Callie flashed on the thought of her own flesh becoming a part of that magnificent body. Not a bad fate. In fact, a fate to take some pride in. But a fate to be avoided today, at least. Not wasting any time at all, once out in the open air, Callie took off at top clip to check if any significant changes had taken place on the grounds that would affect her plans and to make a few preparations that might come in handy. Even moving at her best cross-country speed, Callie barely had time to make it back to the tree in which she was now perched. Following their tour of the hunting grounds, Colonel Stoneridge had waited patiently while Callie practiced her ascent and decent three times, starting by climbing a short tree, then transferring to the taller tree, making her way up to the point where she could see the door of the lodge, and then retracing her movements until she was back on the ground. Her main hope for success still lay in being able to outrun Amanda, but she had added another strategy to her plan. As long as she could keep Amanda in sight, she should be able to stay away from her. Don't give the huntress a chance to get close enough to use that bola - or anything else. Callie wasn't placing much confidence in this plan, but if it worked, the whole day would be much more enjoyable because there would be the added benefit of watching Amanda and being able to sense her hunger - watching the tigress stalk her prey. Callie could not remember having felt such tension since her very first hunt for blood. Although that had been over seven years ago, the memories were still vivid.
"Are you out of your gourd? Or do you just think I'm out of mine?" Callie looked at Jodie, her teammate, friend, and sometime lover, with disbelief. "You're talking about actually risking my life for a few bucks. There isn't any frigging comparison between a bunch of horny overgrown boys shooting slow-motion paint balls at giggling, jiggling bimbos - well, and at me, too - and crazy mother-fuckers who get some kind of psychopathic charge out of really killing somebody. Shit, Jodie, I thought you liked me. Shows how wrong I can be. You can take your advice and shove it." "Look, first of all, I DO like you. You oughtta know that by now." Jodie tried not to let her indignation cause her to react to Callie's outburst in kind. "Second, this isn't a 'few bucks' - it's more like a few months' salary for a college grad's first job. Third, the risk isn't that great. Do you know how few women actually get killed in these hunts? Less than four percent." "So, in other words, it's like playing Russian roulette using a pistol with twenty-five chambers." Callie folded her arms and shook her head. "Count me out." "No, this isn't just a matter of luck," Jodie protested. "For one thing, you can check a guy's track record before you agree to let him hunt you. You can stay away from the ones that are any good. For another thing, there is skill involved in being the huntee. Callie, you're good. You only got hit once in all your times out and that was because you let yourself get hit. You're smart, you've got great instincts, and you're fast." "I may be fast, Jodie, but I'm not fast enough to outrun a real bullet fired from a real gun." "Practically none of these guys use guns that fire lead bullets." "Well, what do they shoot at the women, then? Marshmallows?" "Almost. A lot of them use the same guns as in the paint ball hunts, except that the balls are loaded with some kind of paralyzing drug." "Now, why would they do that?" Callie was actually curious. "I guess it's because they like to have some, uh, fun with a woman before they, uh, kill her. And some like to have the fun afterwards, too, I guess." Forestalling another outburst, Jodie moved on quickly. "Others use bows and arrows. Even boomerangs. Some like to use only a knife - now, those fuckers, I KNOW you could stay away from." "But some of them DO use live ammunition, right?" "Yes, but those are the ones you really want to run as game for." "Why?" "Because they are so damn lousy. And, besides, they're usually horny and it's a scientific fact that a guy can't shoot straight when he has a hard-on." "Huh?" "Well, all the blood that goes into making their dicks hard is taken away from that part of the brain that controls eye-hand coordination. It's a fact." "Jodie, where do you get this crap?" "Look, haven't you ever noticed that the more anxious a guy is to get at your tits, the harder a time he has getting your bra off?" "Not exactly the kind of solid science that I want to stake my life on. Besides, usually guys try to get my bra off without looking, so eye-hand coordination doesn't come into it much." "All I'm saying is that you ought to check into it. Talk to some women who have done it. Look, with a couple successful runs, you could take a few months off after you graduate. Maybe travel a little. At least you wouldn't have to take the first job that came along." Callie recognized that Jodie did, indeed, have her best interests at heart and she promised to at least do some preliminary research and talk to a few female "huntees." And three months later, she found herself out west in Big Sky country sitting at a picnic table outside a game warden's office on a large, private hunting ground which had been rented for the day by the man sitting across from her, the man who was going to try to kill her. "Now, I'll try and take you out with a single, nice clean shot. I don't believe in making game animals suffer." The fellow, whose name was Morton ("most folks just calls me 'Mort' "), was trying to appear to be a man of principle. He was in his early thirties, skinny, and far from meticulously groomed. He was wearing khaki pants, a plaid shirt, and mid-calf hiking boots. The knife that hung from his hip appeared disproportionately large on him - on most fellows, it would have looked normal. "Understood. Very humane." Callie didn't like Mort, but she was trying not to let it show. "This here rifle," Mort said, holding up his weapon so she could be struck with awe by it, "as you can see, don't have no special telescopic sights or laser beams or nothing. Very strictly 'cording to regulations. All I can do is look down the barrel and aim. The rules do make it tough on us hunters." "So I understand." Callie was not sympathetic. "Now, if I mess up a bit and hit you in the leg and hobble you, best thing you can do is just sit down and wait for me to come and finish the job - or you could use that knife they let you carry to end your own pain, if you get impatient." Mort was full of helpful advice. "I'll keep that in mind," Callie said, quite honestly. "The one thing you don't want to do," Mort warned, "is piss me off. If I get you down, I don't want you making things hard for me. That won't do neither of us no good. Just let me do my job and don't interfere. Got that?" "Got it. Don't put up a squawk." "Right. Just take it easy and accept whatever comes your way. No muss, no fuss. Any questions?" Callie was proud of herself for not muttering things under her breath. She did, however, have a couple of questions. "Well, yes, if you don't mind my asking." Callie tried to be polite. "Go ahead, shoot." Mort snickered at his own choice of words. "Why are you doing this? I mean, why are you paying all this money just for a chance to kill me?" "I like to kill women. Plain and simple. Just like to see a gal laying there dead and know that I did it. Know that she's over with, done, kaput." "That's it? That's the whole thing?" "Yup." Mort did an imitation of thoughtfulness. "I guess, though, there is a bit more to it. I kinda like the idea that nobody's ever gonna have a chance to, well, uh, get familiar with her." Disgusting smile. "You mean 'fuck' her, right?" "Yup." A laugh. "Well, uh, if you kill me - what do you do after that?" "I got me a camera with a timer on it. I'll take some pictures of me with your dead body. Something to show off to my friends." "And that's it?" "Oh, you're pretty enough that I'll probably cut off your head and take it home for a trophy. Put it up on a wall or something." "And the rest of me?" "Well, nature has a way of takin' care of the leftovers." Dark snicker. "Now, if you're expecting to get buried or something, I hope you made arrangements with a friend. I'm not going to weight myself toting around a shovel and I sure as shit ain't carrying you back here. I'll leave word with the warden whereabouts I left you, case anyone wants to go looking." "Thank you, but that isn't necessary." What a dork! Actually, Callie had been leery of telling anyone but Jodie what she was doing and Jodie would probably be pretty useless as a grave digger. Leaving things to nature sounded okay to Callie. "Well, they got rules that say I have to tell 'em anyway." Mort stood up. "I'm gonna go have me a beer or two while you get your head start. Just comfort yourself with what the Injuns say about it being good day to die." "I'll keep that in mind, too." Callie stood up, revealing her splendid form, clad in a bright white sports bra and matching running shorts, perfectly confident that Mort was getting his last look at her. Mort had not commented on how easy the white clothing would be to spot. His friendly advice to novices had its limits. He did, however, give his quarry a nice lookover. "It's not that the idea of getting killed excites me," Callie had told Colonel Stoneridge in response to his question as to why she had made her challenge to Amanda. "I had my basic psych courses and I'm sure that what Freud said about Eros and Thanatos applies to me as much as it does to anyone, and some of my erotic fantasies have involved danger and even death. "But I am not here because I am looking to die. Believe me, if I were anxious to get killed, I've had excellent chances to do that from the very first time I ran in a real hunt. That fellow would have been more than happy to oblige me. It would have made his day, but, believe me, I wasn't even tempted to give him his thrill." Callie ran off at an easy trot, not wanting to give Mort any clues about the speed she was capable of. As soon as she was out of sight of the game warden's office, she ducked behind a tree, whipped off her clothes, turned them inside out to reveal the camouflage pattern on the reverse side, and put them back on. She had a feeling that Mort was just dumb enough to spend his day looking for splotches of white fabric. Then Callie took off at top speed, covering at least six miles before she stopped. The hunting grounds were roughly eight miles by ten miles in area, sparsely wooded with a few dense clumps of trees. She found a vantage point beside a spruce tree atop a small hill and remained watchful throughout the day, but she never saw Mort and he never saw her. The book on Mort had said that he had hunted women twice a year for about eight years and he had only had one kill, which, curiously, had occurred on his first hunt. Beginner's luck, apparently. Callie had talked to three other women who had run for him and none of them had reported a single encounter with him during the hunt, even from a distance. Mort's motivation was a total puzzle to Callie. Why a man should spend so much money on a "hobby" at which he had so little success made no sense at all to her. But, then, why should a man simply take pleasure in killing women? There was nothing appealing, nothing sexy or arousing about being hunted by Mort. Callie had heard that some women experienced such feelings during a hunt, but none of those who had run for Mort had reported anything like that with him The hunt ran until ten o'clock at night. At that time, well-spaced sirens sounded an all-clear and a few lights appeared, indicating the location of call boxes that Callie could use to summon a member of the staff to pick her up in a land rover. Although she had begun the day in a state of vague anxiety, by the end of the hunt she was relaxed, having spent a pleasant day under vast blue skies. A few years later, she came back to the same location for another hunt. During the intervening time, she had met a wide variety of hunters, all of them nicer and with more interesting motives than Mort and the erotic thrill that could come with being hunted was now familiar to her. She had also picked up some survival skills. At this stage of her career as quarry, Callie found a successful hunt invigorating and, at the end of the day, she was energized enough to want to start her drive home. On this occasion, she felt like stopping at a roadside cafT and she found herself in conversation in with a waitress who had more than a passing interest in hunting. "I've only been in these parts once before," Callie said. "I was here for a hunt then, too. My first one, in fact. Some jerk named Mort." The waitress perked up in recognition. "Oh, yeah. The guy who killed Bertie." "I heard that he killed someone on his first time out." Callie shook her head. "Did you know her?" "We went to school together. Yeah, I knew her." Something about the waitress's tone and manner prompted Callie to offer some comfort. "I'm sorry you lost a friend," she said. "It does happen. It can happen to me. I know the risks. I'm sure Bertie did, too." "Did she?" Tilted head, skeptical look. "Well, she had to have signed a consent form. It's all spelled out there in black and white." "I know. The thing is, Bertie was dyslexic." Callie was stunned. "Do you mean that she couldn't read?" "Oh, she could read. It's just that it was really hard for her. She wasn't stupid." "I know," Callie said. "It's just sort of like being color-blind." "Right. If she had to, she could puzzle something out. Most of the time, though, she asked someone else to read it to her. Some dyslexics try to fake it, but she wasn't ashamed of her problem." "So, uh, did you read it to her?" "Fuck, no. I didn't find out about the hunt until she was dead." "Well, then, who...?" "Probably her boyfriend..." the waitress paused significantly, "...Mort." Callie didn't like what she was hearing at all. "Are you saying that maybe he lied to her about what the paper said?" "All I know is that she was really thrilled that some guy with enough money that he could get most any woman he wanted would be interested in her. She, well, loved him, I think." Callie shook her head. "I don't see how a man could do something like you're suggesting." "Look, you know how it is. Some guys think it's okay to trick a woman. Some guys think a woman who isn't so bright is fair game for anything they can pull on her. Bertie was bright enough - she just had some bad wiring. But, I figure that not being very bright or even being emotionally dependent is just another disability, so what's the difference, really?" "Not much," Callie agreed. "But why would a man do something like that to a woman who loved him?" "For the same reasons that rednecks fuck their own kids. Number one: they're handy. Number two: they're loving and trusting. And their motivation isn't erotic or even espcially sexual - it's all about power and control and nothing else. Bertie trusted Mort and the more someone trusts you, the easier it is to take advantage of them." Callie thought about it. Yes, it was possible. She thought about Mort in particular. He oozed slime. It was not only possible. It was likely. A few months later on a Saturday morning... "So, you're gonna give me another crack at you?" Mort was delighted as he fingered his gun and looked Callie over. He couldn't figure out how she had managed to stay alive for four years wearing that same white outfit for running. "Oh, yeah," said Callie. "You're going to get another crack. I guess some people just can't stay away from danger." Her fingers tapped the knife hanging from her hip. As mentioned, Callie had picked up a few survival skills since her first hunt. The following Monday... County Attorney Osgood Peabody met with Sheriff Marsha Dillon in her office to go through the reports that had accumulated over the weekend, deciding which incidents were worthy of further pursuit. "So, how about this death out on the hunting preserve? Anything there?" Peabody asked. "Hunting accident. The oaf must have dropped his gun and shot himself. No need to waste the taxpayers' money on that," Dillon stated bluntly. "But to shoot himself in the..." Peabody winced and shifted in his chair, squeezing his thighs together. "Well, that would be a pretty unusual accident, don't you think?" "Maybe he slipped on a banana peal." Wry smile from the red-headed woman with the badge. Peabody looked at the report. "This Landers woman - did you talk to her? Did you question her?" "Oh, I questioned her. I do my job." Another wry smile. "Well, what did you ask her and what did she say?" "I told her that I planned to list this as hunting accident and I asked her if she had anything she wanted to tell me. She said, no, she didn't." "And that's it?" "That's it." Peabody laughed. "Gee, Marsha, aren't you afraid that a thorough grilling like that will get you charged with police brutality?" "Drop it, Ozzie." Cold stare from green eyes. "Quarry in hunts are entitled to defend themselves. You can force this girl to fly back here, fart around building a case that is going to wind up, at the very most, being ruled a case of homicide justified by self-defense. You'll look like a horse's ass." "But maybe she tricked him somehow. Maybe she had a concealed weapon." "I saw her" Marsha smiled at the memory. "She was barely concealing her tits and pussy." Peabody seemed unconvinced. Sheriff Dillon stood up, displaying the attractive figure of a mature woman who kept herself in great shape. "Listen, Ozzie. I'm the biggest vote-getter in this county. People like my, uh, personality, I guess. Everybody else in the party rides my coattails and the load can get a little heavy if I have to carry some dead weight. Mort was an asshole, plain and simple. A few of his drinking buddies might be having an extra excuse to tip a couple back, but nobody really gives a shit. I'm not going to hassle this girl when there's nothing to gain. Mort slipped on a banana peal. Move on to the next one." After County Attorney Peabody left, a young deputy entered the room. "Sheriff, Ma'am, could I have a moment of your time?" "Sure, Chet. What's on your mind?" The sheriff liked to maintain an open door policy. "Well, I was out at the hunting preserve. I know you said that the case was pretty well wrapped up, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to have one more look-see." "So, did you look and see anything significant?" A friendly smile with a raised eyebrow. "I did stumble on a little bit of a fire, Ma'am." "I hope you stomped that sucker out. Smokey the Bear would be right proud of your footwork, Chet. Good job." "Thanks, Ma'am, but actually this fire was already out. Nothing but ashes." "So, what was so special about this fire that you want to bring it to my attention, Chet?" "Uh, first of all, it seemed kinda fresh. Wind hadn't scattered the ashes much, and it was pretty windy on Friday." "Go on, Chet." "And second, it seemed to have been made mostly of little tiny twigs, so it would burn fast and hot." "Mostly?" "Well, there was one good-sized chunk of wood." The deputy produced a plastic bag with some pieces of burned but not totally consumed wood and put it on the sheriff's desk. "I think you'll see, Ma'am, that these here pieces is pretty broke up, but when you put 'em together, they form a sort of a V-shape, with about an eight-inch span from point to point." "Do tell. What do you make of that, Chet?" "Looks to me like somebody carved it special out of a piece of hardwood. Then decided to burn it." The sheriff examined the charred wood. "I'd say you're right. Hmm. Something like this could be used as weapon. Probably pack a mean wallop, if somebody had a good throwing arm." "Yes, Ma'am. And that Morton fella, he had a gash on his head. Not enough to kill him, but...." "It could have happened when he fell and dropped his gun and shot himself," Marsha suggested. "Yes, Ma'am, or..." "This is a fine piece of police work, Chet. Real good investigating. I'm right proud of you." Marsha beamed at him. "Thank you, Ma'am, but..." "You're ambitious, Chet. That looks good on a man." "Thank you, Ma'am, but..." "You know, I'm thinking about retiring and spending more time pursuing my interest in justice as a private citizen. I think I've served the public selflessly long enough, especially since I didn't really need this job to begin with. I think I've got enough pull with the voters that I could just about name my successor." "Yes, Ma'am." Chet knew that the sheriff wasn't blowing smoke about not needing a job. She had inherited a lot of money and made even more. He had heard, in fact, that she donated her salary back to the county. Most folks figured that she ran for her office because she saw a job that wasn't being done very well and figured she could do it better. "And I sure would like to see that my office is taken over by the sort of compassionate person who knows better than to hassle a young lady who was defending herself as allowed by the rules in a contest, just in the interest of tying up loose ends that might best be left to dangle. Don't you agree that compassion is an important quality in a sheriff, Chet?" "Uh, yes, Ma'am." Marsha picked up the bag the deputy had placed on her desk and put it in a drawer. "I'll just keep this here to remind me what a nice, competent, compassionate person you are, Chet." "Thank you, Ma'am." "Anything else, Chet." "Uh, no, Ma'am." "You have a nice day, now, Chet. Be sure and leave the door open on your way out." "Yes, Ma'am." A few minutes later and about seven hundred miles to the east... "Come on, sleepy-head," Jodie said cheerfully as she opened Callie's bedroom door. "I know you had a tough hunt and a long drive home, but it's almost noon. You already missed breakfast, but at least get up and have some lunch." " 'Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today, Madam.' " Callie responded, not stirring from her bed. "Huh?" "Never mind," Callie laughed. "I'll be down in about ten minutes." "Uh, okay." Shaking her head, Jodie went away from the door. It's funny, Callie thought, how the mention of an ordinary word can bring the lyrics of an old song to mind. Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today, Miss Otis did, Callie was certain, regret that she would be unable to lunch that day or any other day. She wouldn't be able to do much of anything ever again, in fact.
But she didn't regret her actions. A man who had taken advantage of the trust of a woman had been punished. Callie didn't regret her own actions, either. While Miss Otis might have gone a bit too far, Callie felt the punishment she herself had meted out was perfectly appropriate. "Hot damn!" Mort had shouted when he saw Callie's white shorts moving through the trees. Though the target was quite a distance away, Mort raised his rifle, drew a bead, squeezed off a round, and shouted for joy when he saw the white cloth drop to the ground. His hard-on prevented him from running as fast as he would have liked to claim his prize. The "kill," however, turned out to be disappointing. A pair of shorts, but no dead chick. Mort was admiring the way the shorts had been stuffed with leaves to give them shape and then tied to a vine when he felt a sharp pain in his right temple. He awoke to find himself staring at his own gun, being held by a naked Callie, who, it turned out, had some questions for him. Mort felt obliged to answer. Yes, he had killed his girlfriend in a hunt. No, he had not "dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's" when he had explained the meaning of the consent form he persuaded her to sign. Sure, she trusted him - maybe even loved him. No, of course, she wouldn't suspect him of playing a trick on her. But, what was so awful wrong about that, Mort wanted to know. If a gal was dumb enough to trust a guy, well, it's sort of like Darwinism in action to take advantage of the situation. If a woman can't understand what a guy really wants from her, well, she should write to an advice columnist. Callie wondered aloud what did guys really want if they weren't satisfied with love and trust? Well, control, to be "in charge," of course. Bethie may have been dumb as a post, but she did have a little more backbone than Mort liked to see in a woman. And, if the Good Lord hadn't meant for men to take advantage of women, He wouldn't have made men bigger, stronger, smarter, and of superior moral character. "Superior moral character?" "Shit, yes. Women use sex and affection to get their way with men, which is a perversion of God's gifts which was meant for pleasure and procreating. Men get their way with women through the use of their natural advantages." "And those advantages," Callie wanted to clarify, "would be superiority in the areas of size, strength, intelligence, and, uh, morality. Right?" "Right. Got it?" "Got it." Callie had always heard that confession was good for the soul, and she supposed that might have been the case with Mort. However, it wasn't good for his balls, which Callie promptly shot off as soon as she had heard what she wanted to hear. In the rather long interval between Mort receiving his fatal wound and his actual expiration, Callie enlightened him with her frank opinion of men who took advantage of the love and trust and shortcomings of women to play tricks on them. She also gave her opinion of men who found the idea just a little of a turn-on. She finally got around to asking Mort what he thought about her little trick with her stuffed shorts. Did he get off on the idea that he had been tricked? Was having his balls shot off the fulfillment of a fantasy for him? Before Mort could frame an answer, he gave up the ghost. "Don't go bragging on yourself, Callie," Granny Bess had said. "Tooting your own horn isn't ladylike." "Always play to win," Uncle Jake had told her. "And always hold your cards to close to your chest." Callie had answered Sheriff Marsha Dillon's question honestly. She didn't have anything she wanted to add to the sheriff's report. Callie looked at her knife. It needed sharpening. Carving can really dull a blade.
Mort had been the only hunter who had ever had an "accident" while hunting Callie. Amanda was an impressive sight as she stepped through the door of the lodge, impressive enough to send a shudder through her watching quarry. Callie knew that Amanda wouldn't be having any accidents. She wasn't the type to slip on a banana peal. And that was just the way Callie wanted it. |