HUNTING SEASON

by

J. H. Lamb

Snow had come early, and it carpeted the road in a crusty white coating that grated audibly under the tires.  Though the sun should’ve risen hours before, the sky remained dark and overcast.

Herby nearly hooted aloud as if he were a teenage girl at a Friday night football game, but displaying emotion was uncomfortable even in his own presence.  His excitement welled internally and his arms tensed and shook on the steering wheel.

The drive to the remote New York location would take him at least seven hours with the building weather.  He took another sip of his coffee and spat it back into the cup.

“How can you drink this crap?” he said to his wife who was now miles away.

He edged his car onto the shoulder and emptied the contents of the repulsively bitter coffee, and when he lifted his head, he spied a pair of polished shoes only a few feet away.  He followed them up to a pair of blue pants with a telltale stripe up the side.  The orange overcoat hid the Police officer’s uniform, but Herby knew what it looked like all the same.

“Bad place to be pulling over,” the cop said.  “License and registration Sir.  And please turn off your engine.”

Herby watched carefully in his rearview as the cop sauntered back to his cruiser.  The intimidation that the police imposed made his stomach churn even greater than his wife’s demeaning comments had.  He clenched his arm and felt the handgun on his chest.  He mused how it would feel just to shoot the cop.  Right there in the middle of nowhere.  Pull out the pistol, and when the cop walked back, shoot him in the middle of his chest.  But what if the cop wore a vest?  Then might he get back up and shoot Herby back.  It had to be in the head--yes--he needed to shoot the cop in the head.

Herby slid his hand under his jacket and wrapped his fingers over the chilled steel of his Glock 9 millimeter.  He wondered why steel always felt cold.  Even inside his jacket, where his rapid heartbeat warmed everything else, the steel felt cold, as if it possessed a permanent connection with death.  He tucked the gun next to his thigh and gazed back at the man through his obscured rearview.

“Make my day!” Herby warned in his best Clint Eastwood imitation.

The same line had gripped his mind that morning as his wife watched him getting ready to leave.

Herby had tried to hide his elated grin as he walked back and forth past his scowling wife--but hunting season had finally arrived.  Every November, for the past eight years, Herby went hunting for two weeks.  In the beginning, he wrangled with guilt over wasting two of his four weeks vacation time for himself.  His wife had always dictated what they did on his vacations, and he flinched the first time he told her that he going off on his own for two weeks.  Hunting, however, was the only luxury he afforded himself.

It wasn’t the fact Herby went off to kill animals that his wife despised.  Nor had she felt longing for the two weeks he was gone.  Instead, the lack of control over his decision gnawed at her gut--and Herby knew it.

He tried not to look at her as he began packing.  Her eyes followed him like beacons of disdain as he stacked clothes into his modest duffel bag.  In fact, most of Herby’s belongings were humble.  Only his wife indulged herself in excess, and that had always come at Herby’s expense.  She lounged watching soap operas and chatting on the phone, only pausing for another bite of ice cream or cake, while Herby toiled in front of a computer analyzing financial data and investing other people’s money--sometimes for over twelve hours in a day.  And he did extremely well for all his clients.

“So you’re off to chase Bambi around the woods yet again?”  His wife scowled and leaned back in her rocking chair.  Then she casually sipped off a fresh cup of coffee, one she poured from a pot Herby brewed, and one she took without offering to make him a cup.

Herby thought about a response.  He learned long ago not to speak without thinking about every word.  He chose his vocabulary in such a way that not one word could be twisted or misconstrued.  He finally composed a response.

“Yes dear,” he said.  Though it may have been one word too many.

Her gaze followed his every move as a hawk might watch a mole scurry from grassy clump to grassy clump in search of insects or grubs.

“Too bad you suck at it,” she screeched.  “At least if you caught one then maybe it would be worth it.”

Just being away from you for two weeks is worth it, Herby thought.  And it’s not catching, it’s killing.  Catching is what people do when they go fishing.

“Maybe,” Herby said slowly, “I’ll have some better luck this year.”

Herby thought back to one that he missed the previous year.  She would’ve made a fine trophy, but he had lost his nerve at the last minute and he lost sight of her.  He spent nearly a full week hunting her down, but he never saw her again. 

Herby stood and looked around just as he had right before he left on each of the previous eight years.  His financial success still amazed him, and if he had seen this same house during his youth, he would’ve called it a mansion.  Today however, that mansion was simply a house where he watched television, ate dinner, and slept, dreaming about the kids he always wanted and the ones his wife never did.  The elaborate woodwork and vaulted ceilings reminded him of many museums he had seen as a boy in downtown Boston and his wife’s taste in furniture would’ve left some of those curators salivating.

The decision to live out on Cape Cod had been totally his wife’s choice.  Alice always passed verdict for both of them, even to the point of choosing how Herby would dress.  To her, life was a stage play and each day was a new act.  In some ways, her choices had helped to advance Herby to the position he now held, but none of it had aided in making Herby happy.  All he ever wanted to do was to grow up, have a family, grow old, and throw breadcrumbs to flocks of pigeons while he watched his grandkids play in the park.

Alice was a slender woman with abnormally large breasts and a face trapped in a constant grin--both the results of too many plastic surgeries.  She dressed, as she was most days, in a silk leopard-pattern camisole and an oversized silk robe.  She wore fuzzy slippers on her feet, gaudy in contrast to the diamond and gold ankle bracelet, which she had bought for her birthday three years back in revolt to Herby’s hunting trip.  Her birthday was November eleventh and Herby had missed it for the last eight years.  Had he purposely planned the timing of his trip?  She believed he did, but Herby would have had to shown malice to do something like that, and that wasn’t Herby--or was it?

Duffel bag, rifle, handgun, bagged lunch, coffee thermos, he had everything he needed; he was ready to head out.

Herby looked over to offer his farewell to his wife.  She returned a glare that equaled that of Cinderella’s evil stepmother.  She held out his cell phone and his pager, and she included a new package of batteries. 

“Forgetting something?  What if your office needed to get hold of you?  You have responsibilities.  Need I keep reminding you of that?”

Herby had wanted to tell her stuff the two imprisoning implements up her tight ass, but instead, he had taken them and stowed them in his jacket.

He had left quick peck on her cheek and had gone on his way.

Herby looked into his rearview and made up his mind to shoot this stranger, this cop.  His hunting trip would begin early.

A bit of urine warmed Herby’s thigh and he clenched his eyes in disgust.  Even he repulsed himself at times and this was one of them.  He hated that fear ruled him and an excessive number of people held dominion over him in that regard.

“You looking at me?  You looking at me?”  Herby clenched his face as he spoke.

A bang on his side window added to the urine on his thigh and Herby nearly raised the gun.  The cop banged the window again and Herby slowly lowered it.

“Mr. Parker, your registration expired at the end of October.  Were you aware of that?”

Herby hadn’t realized, that was, until the cop told him.  His hunting trip, the only time he stole for himself, was not starting out well.

“No,” Herby answered, remembering he had used one word too many with his wife.

“Will you step out of the car please,” the cop ordered.  “I’ll have to have this vehicle towed.  I’m sorry, but it’s procedure.”

Herby clenched his hand on the gun and his legs began to shake.

Can I do it? Herby wondered.  He cocked the hammer back.

The cop said again, “Sir I asked you to step out of the car.”

“I wait fifty long months to have this time to myself.  It’s all I ask, two weeks to go hunting, two weeks to myself.  I work every day and never question anyone.  Someone parks in my spot and I simply shrug.  Someone cuts the line in front of me and I swallow my words.  A waitress gets my order wrong and I simply eat what she brings.  I don’t cheat on taxes and if someone gives me the wrong change, I return it.  I once found a wallet with over fifteen hundred dollars in it and no one even thanked me when I returned it.  I simply wanted to spend two weeks in peace.”

The cop’s ears seemed to focus on the click of the gun’s hammer.

“I understand.  But you need to step out of the car and put your hands where I can see them.”

 “Two lousy goddamned weeks is all I take.”  Herby looked up at the cop.  Tears began to well in Herby’s eyes.

“I’m sorry Mr. Parker, but the law is the law.”

Herby resolved to shoot the cop.  His right hand, though trembling, tightened around the pistol’s grip and he began to lift his arm.

“Officer Halston,” issued from the cop’s radio, “do you read me?”

The wide-bodied cop reached inside his jacket, and on his left shoulder rested a handset.

“Go ahead dispatch,” he answered.

“Mrs. Parker wants to know if you found her husband’s car yet.  Tell me you have because this woman is becoming a pain in the ass.”

The cop stared down.  Herby’s trembling hand steadied.  Alice was going to get her way once again.  Somehow, she had known about the registration and had used it to ruin his trip.

The cop looked down at Herby; he stood, unaware of the fact that he was living the last few moments of his life.

Herby reached and pulled the door handle up.  The door began to swing open and Herby lifted the gun.

The door stopped short against the cop’s knee and slammed closed.

“No dispatch,” the cop said keying his handset.  “I haven’t seen his car go by yet.  Probably took another route, but I’ll keep an eye out.”  The cop winked at Herby and handed back his license, registration, and a slip of paper.  “I gave you a warning.  If you get pulled over, just show them that, and tell them you’ll be taking care of it early next week.  It should get you by.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Herby muttered.

“Your face said enough.  Now go and enjoy that hunting trip.  God knows I wish I were going with you but my wife would be about as understanding as yours.”  The cop nodded, smiled and leaned down.  “And if I were you ...”  He pointed toward Herby’s right hand.  Herby’s heart thrummed like a revved chainsaw.  “I would throw that cell phone into the trash somewhere.  At least for the next two weeks.”

Herby looked down, and where he believed a pistol rested within his clenched grasp, he merely held the cell phone his wife forced him to bring.

The cop’s taillights faded away into the wind-whipped snow.

#

By the time Herby managed to get back onto the road, he had thrown up twice, changed his wet pants, and left his soiled underwear in a trashcan.  He went into a Dunkin Donuts to wash and bought a fresh coffee for the road.  He no longer enjoyed the cheerful delight that awakened him that morning but he wasn’t going to allow Alice to ruin his trip.

The balance of his drive was uneventful, though each time he passed a police cruiser he fully expected to see the flashing lights move in behind him.

He tried to contemplate the event with the cop.  Why hadn’t he drawn the gun as his mind suggested he had?  His hand still felt the phantom frame of the gun, not the plastic of his cell phone. 

His stomach still twisted with excited knots.  Thinking about killing that cop was a rush he had never dreamed possible.  Was this emotional high the same one that serial killers thrived upon?  The palpitation of his heart, the surging adrenaline, the enticing endorphins--they all added to the experience.

#

The cabin smelled musty and unused, yet at the same time, it had an inviting scent and a homey welcoming feeling to its walls.  The cabin’s oversized fieldstone fireplace was already ablaze, and the interior warmed to slightly above comfortable.

A few elaborate antique pieces gave the cabin an air of older days and a simpler age.  And though the furniture had seen better days, Herby was certain it would outlast him.  Herby hung his rifle up over the fireplace and leaned back in a wicker rocking chair.  He picked up a faded copy of Stephen King’s, “The Stand” and began to read where he had left off the year before.

A comfortable length of time passed before a knock startled him from the page.

“Yes?” he asked with his ear to the door.

“Mr. Parker,” a man’s voice said.  “My name is Foss.  I’m here from the guide service.”

“Is everything alright?” Herby asked.  He opened the door and welcomed the middle-aged man inside.

“For what you pay us, I should be asking you that.  And yes Mr. Parker, everything is perfect.  By now you know the drill.  You’ll be using a weapon we provide.  I’ve chosen a 300 Winchester Magnum with Unertl scope.  We have arranged your three requested kills, which is no different from any other year.  The service has worked out all the details. However, you will be hunting with me this year.  I trust that will be okay with you?  I assure you, I am well trained in this regard and I know this territory.”

“What happened to Louis?” Herby asked with disappointment.  “He’s been my guide for the past eight hunts, and I trust him.  I specifically requested him, and I was assured he would be here.”

The well-built guide lowered his head and moved to warm himself by the fire.

“We lost Louis in a hunting accident last month in Montana.  I’m sorry, but sometimes these things happen.  Don’t you go worrying about that though.  We’ve taken every precaution necessary.  What happened to Louis was a freak occurrence and it can’t happen again.  However, you do know that our methods are not exactly legal and there are certain risks involved ...”

“Yes,” Herby answered immediately.  “Of course I understand the risks involved.”

The man turned and studied Herby’s face as if he needed assurance that Herby was being truthful.  After an extended silence, the man finally answered almost as if time has skipped ahead like a bad recording.

“Good.  It’s settled then.  I’ll be by to pick you up around four-thirty in the morning.  Have your--”

“Wait,” Herby interrupted.  “What is my first kill going to be?  Louis always started me out on a deer.”

“This year your first kill will be an American grey wolf.  Let’s just say it’s a consolation gift for the change in guides.  However, I believe you’ll find me every bit as proficient as Louis was.  In fact, this hunt will be everything you paid for--and more.”

Herby nodded.  The idea of killing a protected species rather thrilled him.  He would be one of the few hunters today to boast such a kill.

The service delivered a complete meal, including game-meat stew, baked potato, a fresh greens salad, a bottle of 1994 cabernet sauvignon, and an after dinner Grand Marnier.  Herby relaxed to a bit of classical music and climbed into his bunk early.  He wasn’t going to miss one second of this trip because nine was his lucky number and he thought of retiring from the hunt after this trip for other pursuits.  But his mind was still mulling it over, for he so enjoyed being on a good hunt.  Especially one designed for his success.

#

The snow had stopped falling during the night, but the covered ground helped to silence their footfalls.  Herby followed Foss into the brush after the two geared up.

The drill was always the same.  This hunt would last three days unless Herby was successful on his own on day one or two.  If not, on day three they would initiate the use of a tracking device imbedded into the animal’s hide, which would lead Herby to the kill.  The guide was there to ensure both the safety and success of the client.  The method was not morally ethical nor was it legal, but the service used their influence to have the law look the other way.

The second Herby’s foot entered the brush he felt like a different man.  Out here all his quirks, all his fears, all his insecurities, all his meek mannerisms, all his perverse groveling, all of it went away.  Out here, he stood equal to any other man or woman.  Out here, he was as dangerous as any other person in the world was.

Herby slung the rifle over his shoulder and took a deep breath of the oxygen-rich air.  The air hit his lungs and awakened him in ways much akin to the way gasoline can awake a fire.

A hawk cried a warning as the two climbed the first hill.  The proud bird flew the tree line watching them carefully.

Herby’s and his guide both wore full camouflage.  The method wasn’t safe around unseasoned hunters, but much more effective against the prey they were after.  Herby’s guide would detect other hunters from quite far away and deter them away.  Besides, all the hunters here were with the service or trespassing on the preserve.  Most of the guides from the service were ex-special forces and highly trained.

The barren trees allowed some of the hazy grey sky to shine through, illuminating the leaf-strewn snow.  Shadows mingled with the thickets and Herby watched his guide’s face more than he watched the forest.

“You want to stand-hunt or stalk?” the guide whispered to Herby.

“I prefer to stalk but if you think you can drive or call him in, I’ll take to a stand.”

The guide pointed to a tall, straight pine.  “Take that tree.  No permanent stands out here for good reason.  Use this climbing stand.  Do you know how to use it?”

Herby nodded and took the stand.  Within moments, he found himself thirty feet off the ground and able to see quite far.  The forest took on a different appearance that far off the ground and he felt much safer.  However, the tree swayed with each gusting breeze and moved quite a lot more than Herby would have thought.

The guide headed off over the ridge, presumably either to call the wolf in or to drive it toward Herby.  Either way, Herby had to be ready.  The guide did most of the work, but the kill was up to the hunter--at least on the first two days.

Herby enjoyed the chilled autumn air mingled with the pungent scent of pine pitch and far away campfires.  Some distance away a hunter came over a ridge and moved slowly through the brush.  He moved parallel to Herby, and from the vantage of the tree stand, he was able to keep perfect sight on him.

Herby raised the rifle and drew his crosshairs over the hunter’s camouflaged body.  He adjusted the power on the scope until the hunter’s body filled his circle of sight.  Herby took a quick breath and carefully slid the weapon’s bolt open, chambering a round.  The bullet snapped into position and he slipped the bolt closed.  In a single movement, Herby thumbed off the safety and re-targeted.

He drew the crosshair back up onto the hunter’s head just before the man moved behind a tree.  Herby’s finger vibrated against the trigger, and he had already applied half the force necessary to fire the weapon.

He would just blame the shot on poor judgment and chalk it up to a hunting accident.

His heart pounded like a rock and roll drummer against the inside of his ribcage.  The anticipation thrilled him and he felt heated from his groin to his forehead.  He steadied the weapon against the stand waiting for the hunter to move out from behind the tree. 

Herby inhaled as the hunter’s rifle, and then a pair of arms, cleared the tree.  Herby exhaled just as the hunter’s leg extended from behind the tree, quickly followed by the hunter’s torso.  Herby inhaled and focused his sight on his target.  The hunter was unaware of the weapon’s sight resting on his body. 

Just as Herby went to squeeze off a shot, the hunter spun and ducked in reaction to a sound off to edge of the clearing.  Herby’s shot went recklessly over the hunter--though exactly where the innocent man had been standing.  Herby saw the wolf run between himself and the hunter.  Quickly, and without any thought, he chambered another round and took the wolf. 

There would be no need to explain the errant shot.  The wolf had given him that excuse.  However, Herby wasn’t sure which of the two targets would’ve thrilled him more.

The guide rushed in minutes later having heard Herby’s shot.

“Holy shit,” the other hunter said.  “I thought for sure I was dead.  I swear if I hadn’t ducked that shot would’ve killed me.  It hit the tree right behind me.  Look at me.  I’m covered in bark and pitch.  Was just like the goddamned tree exploded.  Were you trying to kill me or something?”

Herby eyed the man and chuckled at the wet stain across the man’s groin.  It brought him a perverse satisfaction.

“I’m sure Mr. Parker wasn’t aiming at you Mr. Perez,” Foss assured the man, but he glanced at Herby with uncertainty.  “Mr. Parker is a damn fine shot and if he had been aiming at you, rest assured, he would’ve shot you ...”  The guide held a sideways glance on Herby the entire time.  “That was meant as a joke Mr. Perez.”

“He’s a nice one.”  Herby pointed with pride to the wolf that neither of the two men seemed to notice.

The guide looked to Herby and the accusing gaze turned to respect.  Herby felt his emotions elevate.

“I was headed back because I didn’t see any sign of him.  You did this one all on your own Mr. Parker.”

“I never saw him coming,” the other hunter said.  He still seemed shaken, but his demeanor toward Herby had relaxed.  “Damn, I really thought you were shooting at me.  Sorry about that bud.  I really am.”

“That’s why we have rules here Mr. Perez.  Next time stay with your guide, or maybe next time, Herby will be having your head mounted on his wall.”

Herby contemplated the guide’s words the entire trip back to his cabin.  He mused how the man’s beard may look hanging down from the mount.  How his eyeglasses would reflect the light from the gas fireplace in the corner of his living room.  He would love to see Alice’s face when she walked in to his new trophy hanging above the picture of his in-laws.

Yet she hadn’t allowed any of his mounts in their home--actually, it was her home, because Herby always felt like an intruder.  She threatened to have the trash men come in and dispose of them if Herby ever brought them home.  Therefore, every year he lied to Alice about his success.  Instead, he had bought a trophy room from the service located in Mexico.  They assured him that due to the illegal nature of some of the mounts, Mexican officials had what the service called presidential memories.  The more presidents they had in their hands the dimmer their memories became.

Herby had never seen his own trophy room, but he was going to use the next year’s trip to go there.  Kind of a tenth anniversary gift to himself.

#

“It’s four o’clock Mr. Parker,” Foss urged.  “Time for phase two of your hunt.  This one we’ve kept as a surprise just for you.  A special gift so to speak.  The service admires your dedication to them and wishes to give you an extra special thrill for you second hunt ...”

Herby’s mind drifted.  He imagined that Foss told him that the service was going to allow him to bag one of the other hunters.  Just a quick shot and nobody needed to know.  He pictured the cop’s face all of a sudden.  He remembered the excited thrill he got just thinking about shooting him.  And then, there was the hunter in his crosshairs.  He had actually pulled the trigger, and if it had not been for the wolf, he would’ve downed the hunter.  He still felt the compressions of his heart and the rush of electricity to his brain.

Foss’s voice trailed back into focus.  “... therefore we have chosen a snow leopard instead of the elk.  Mr. Parker, is that okay with you?  If you don’t mind me saying, I expected a better response.  This animal is extremely rare.”

“What?  What?” Herby said.  His mind was still on the shot he made over the hunter’s head.  “A snow leopard,” Herby said with renewed interest.  “How did you manage that?”

“It was on your dream kill sheet.  Was it not?”

“Yes, but I never expected the service to manage that one.”

Foss moved in front of Herby and produced a look, as if there were more.  He purposely built the tension as if he were a game show host.  After a minute of prodding, Foss finally said, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but your third hunt is on that dream list also.  I can’t tell you how surprised you’ll be.”

Herby tried to go back over the list in his mind, but he had filled out the forms more than eight years before.  He couldn’t remember what the dream kills had been, but he hadn’t felt that kind of anticipation since he took Sally Never-says-no to a drive-in theater when he was seventeen.  He drove in a virgin and drove out with the clap--but it was still worth every second.

“Unfortunately we needed to debit your account to cover the expense.  Unless you wish to decline--”

“Oh no,” Herby interjected.  “This will be worth whatever it costs.”

Foss handed Herby a new rifle, just as Louis had done on every morning of the hunt.  The service was clear about using service only weapons.  They forbade hunters to bring personnel firearms into the field.

The leopard hunt lasted three exhausting days and it was at dusk of the last day that Foss led Herby within range of the rare cat.

Herby paused with his crosshairs on the cat for quite sometime, but the face of the cop, the face of the hunter, they both intrigued him more.  The cat didn’t hold the thrill he thought it would.

Herby closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

A second shot rang out, indiscernible from Herby’s shot.  However, it was the actual kill shot.  Herby’s shot went wide and above the animal.  Foss’s shot dropped it within seconds.

“Nice shot Mr. Parker,” Foss said.  He casually slung his weapon onto his shoulder.

Herby gave all the signs of being a proud hunter.  He even posed for pictures with Foss.  The celebration went into the night and Herby actually joined the other hunters at the lodge, something he hadn’t done in the eight years he had been hunting with the service.  He enjoyed himself and spoke for hours with another hunter named Byron Kensington.  He soon found that the two had nearly parallel lives, up to and including a toil master at home, though instead of Alice, Byron’s wife endured the name Agnes.

“What kind of fool calls their child Agnes?” Herby asked Kensington.  He received bellows of laughter from all the hunters in response.  For once in his life, Herby felt he belonged somewhere.

#

Foss found Herby waiting patiently when he came to wake him.  A smile spread on Foss’s face and he realized Herby may have guessed the third kill.

“You know, don’t you?” Foss suggested more than asked.

“Yeah.  I believe I do.”  Herby beamed.  Foss handed Herby the new rifle, though Herby paused to examine it.  “This is my rifle.”

“Can you think of a better weapon for this hunt?”

Herby didn’t need to reply, he knew it was quite perfect.

The drive into the brush lasted only a thirty minutes, but Herby squirmed in the darkness of the vehicle like a child on a school bus.  He wanted to know if he were right about his prey.  If he wasn’t, he decided he was just going to pack and head back home to Alice.

“We’re here,” Foss said lyrically.

The sun had just risen over the tops of the eastern forest.  They had stopped at the top of a hill whose area was larger than four football fields.  Fields and grasslands spread out in every direction.

“Perfect hunting conditions,” Herby said.  He climbed out of the truck and stretched.

“Do you want to stalk or--”

“Stalk,” Herby exclaimed.

“Ok then.  Let’s head out.”

The grassland added to the ambiance of the hunt and Herby pretended he hunted the African Plains.

The first day he believed he sighted his prey, but he decided on not taking a shot.  He wanted to be certain of a clean kill shot.  Besides, driving and tiring was his goal right now.  He wanted to savor the essence of the hunt. 

Day two was more of the same.  Although, he had a chance at taking a two-hundred yard shot.  Too far for him, he wanted to be within clear sight.

The third day started out miserable, and cold rain fell incessantly.  Herby refused to allow the elements to ruin his hunt so he trudged onward. 

At about three o’clock in the afternoon, the sun poked through the clouds and the day cleared.  Soon after, Herby sighted her creeping through a stand of hemlock less than seventy yards to his left.  He motioned to Foss that he was going to circle to the right around the copse and flank her.

Herby silently moved to within forty yards and he lifted his rifle.  He first sighted the leopard pattern and then the fuzzy feet.

His crosshairs steadily rested on Alice’s chest.  He had his third kill trapped. 

He had remembered that he only put three things on his dream sheet, a snow leopard, a Komodo dragon, which the cold would have precluded, and as a joke back then, he had written Alice’s name.

Herby began to squeeze off the shot, though he knew this kill would cost him.  He wondered how her head would look mounted in his trophy room.  He would have a year of peace waiting for next year’s trip.

#

 His plane trip into Mexico City was uneventful, but anticipation kept him on the edge of his seat.  His nerves had his morning coffee going right through him, and they had to stop twice for him to use a restroom.

The Mexican afternoon sky was ablaze with a deep red that reflected off the clouds turning them nearly purple, a color of nature that even the greatest of artists failed to mimic.

Finally, they arrived at the compound.  “One of a Kind Hunting Service” the sign above the entry stated.  The logo was a hand holding up a single playing card with the letter “H” on the upper left corner.  The picture resembled one of the court cards except that the caricature wielded a rifle.

Barbed wire fence rose to well over twelve high, and it surrounded the entire building.

Foss used a swipe card and a retina scan to gain entrance, and then he motioned that even guests must do the same.

The lobby resembled an old Virginia plantation.  Elaborate woodwork, a sweeping staircase leading to a wide balcony--which displayed the obligatory confederate flag--lush wood flooring covered by equally fine Persian carpets, a genuine crystal chandelier that reflected sunlight from a stained-glass skylight above, and cherry-wood furniture fashioned with craftsmanship that had been lost with the current centuries.

“In here,” Foss said.  His voice held resonance in the large hall.  “This door leads to your private trophy room.”  Foss used a key card to open the door, and he handed it over to its owner with a smile.  “After you.”

The room was magnificently large and the mounts from the past ten years lined the walls.  He stood in awe over his accomplishments.

Foss allowed him time to reminisce over the past years accomplishments--all those hunting seasons.

“Over here,” Foss urged.  He pointed toward a far wall.  “These are the mounts from last year’s hunt.  As promised, the mated pair have been mounted together on the same board.  That was some shot. I have to admit, it impressed even me.”

“Yes,” Mr. Kensington said, “yes it was at that.  I had to get him before he got her, or she wouldn’t have counted as my kill.  But didn’t the service take a loss?  I mean, Herby was a regular client.”

“Not really.  As was the case with poor old Louis over there, Herby informed us that he intended to end his trips with us, so we made his last hunt very special.  But more importantly, we fulfilled your request.”

“As you always do my old friend.  And it’s hunting season again.  Shall we?”  Kensington motioned toward the door.

Kensington had requested that the taxidermist mount Herby’s head cheek to cheek with Alice’s head.  His mated pair--had he actually known Alice, he may have chosen differently. 

In the end, there was only one small detail the service had no control over--no matter how hard the taxidermist worked at it, he was never able to maintain a smile on Herby’s face.