Free Hunters by Chet Williamson Page A

the
trigger.
    The man jerked once, and continued to stand
for three seconds as the blood started to pour from the hole in his
stomach. Then he sat down hard with what Chuck thought was a
satisfying whop as his buttocks smacked the dead vegetation.
Chuck held the image of the man in his sight picture for a moment,
relishing the surprised look on his face. He waited just long
enough for the expression to change to one of pain, and for the
hunter to start his first wailing cry, which sounded pathetic with
no diaphragm to support it.
    Chuck worked the bolt again, noting where the
empty shell had fallen. Then he centered the whimpering mouth in
the crosshairs, and pulled the trigger for a third time. The lower
half of the hunter's head came apart like a melon smashed by a
sledgehammer, and Chuck couldn't help but think of the last time he
had seen Gallagher at the Comedy Club.
    There was no need to work the bolt again. A
second shot was not required. The man was deader than O. J.
Simpson's movie career.
    Chuck picked up the two bullet cases,
scuttled down the side of the ravine, and made the agreed upon mark
on the corpse. Then he climbed back the way he had come and walked
to the east, away from the ravine and the two dead animals. He had
done what he had needed to do, and now it was time to get the hell
away before anybody stumbled across the scene. Besides, the man was
dead. There was no more fun to be had here.
    Tomorrow, however, he would have one helluva
time, as long as the others didn't wussie out. He wondered how they
all were doing. He was especially curious about Jean and the
warden. Had she taken the guy out yet? He didn't know if she had
the stones to do it, but thought she probably did. She'd been
pretty crazy about old Andy, and Chuck had to admit the guy had
been a looker.
    With bitches as shallow as Jean, that was all
it took sometimes. They pretended that they were looking for
something deeper—one of those "meaningful" relationships with a
"sensitive" guy—when all they were really after was a handsome mug
and a solid dick that didn't give out too soon.
    He had shown her last night that he had at
least one of the requirements, though he doubted he would take
Andrew's place in her life. In her bed, maybe. She had liked it in
spite of that act with the gun afterwards. But would Jean Catlett
ever be seen in public arm in arm with a crude and
straight-to-the-point guy like Chuck knew himself to be? Hell, not
on your life.
    It didn't matter, though. There were a whole
lot of reasons why Chuck Marriner couldn't afford to be seen by a
wide, paparazzi -served public. Too many people were looking
for him who had less than good wishes for his future health and
liberty. But he was content in his present role. He'd be happy to
keep on banging Jean Catlett, and use that bottomless pile of
Catlett money to have a lot more fun than that dry and
unimaginative sex would provide. And maybe when it was time to walk
away, Chuck could do so with a lot of that green filling out his
pockets. Hell, he thought as he made his way through the woods back
to where he'd parked the Bronco, weirder things could happen. They
might even be able to rain down this shitstorm and get away with
it.
    And Jean Catlett might even be able to whack that
boyfriend killing Boy Scout without help.
    N ed Craig thought he
had made the right decision. It was good to be out in the woods.
The alternative had been hanging around the house, and if he had
done that, he would only have thought about the still unidentified
dead man who lay in the medical center's morgue.
    Instead, he had gotten up long before Megan
had even stirred, and, for the second morning in a row, had had a
real hunter's breakfast, this time at Sally's Restaurant. It was
loaded with saturated fats and cholesterol, and he enjoyed every
greasy bite of it. A couple of hunters Ned knew asked him what
exactly had happened the day before, but all he had said about it
was, "It was bad, but it's over."