John Sandford - Secret Prey

He picked up the rifle then, resisted the temptation to work the bolt, to check that the rifle was loaded. He knew it was, and working the bolt would be noisy. He flicked the safety off, then back on.

The last few minutes crawled by. Ten minutes before the season opened, the forest was still gray to the eye; in the next few minutes, it seemed to grow miraculously brighter. Then he heard a single, distant shot: nobody here on the farm.

Another shot followed a minute later, then two or three shots over the next couple of minutes: hunters jumping the gun. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes. Nothing moving out over the swamp.

Through the scope, the target looked like an oversized pumpkin, fifteen or twenty feet up the tree. His body from the hips down was out of sight, as was his right arm. The killer could see a large part of his back, but not the face. The crosshairs of the low-power scope caressed the target’s spine, and the killer’s finger lay lightly on the trigger.

Gotta be him. Damn this light, can’t see. Turn your head. Come on, turn your head. Look at me. Have to do something, sun’s getting up, have to do something. Look at me. There we go! Keep turning, keep turning…

Thirty seconds before the season opened, the crackle of gunfire became general. Nothing too close, though, Kresge thought. Either the other guys were holding off, or nothing was moving beneath them.

What about the deer that had settled off to his left?

He turned on the bench, moving slowly, carefully, and looked that way. In the last few seconds of his life, Daniel S. Kresge first saw the blaze-orange jacket, then the face. He recognized the killer and thought, What the hell?

Then the face moved down and he realized that the dark circle below the hood was the objective end of the scope and the scope was pointed his way, so the barrel… ah, Jesus.

Jesus, went through Kresge’s mind at the same instant the bullet punched through his heart.

The chairman of the board spun off the bench-feeling no pain, feeling nothing at all-his rifle falling to the ground. He knelt for a moment at the railing, like a man taking communion; then his back buckled and he fell under the railing, after the rifle.

He saw the ground coming, in a foggy way, hit it face first, with a thump, and his neck broke. He bounced onto his back, his eyes still open: the brightening sky was gone. He never felt the hand that probed for his carotid artery, looking for a pulse.

He would lie there for a while, head downhill, would Daniel S. Kresge, a hole in his chest, with a mouth full of dirt and oak leaves. Nobody would run to see what the gunshot was about. There would be no calls to 911. No snoops. Just another day on the hunt.

A real bad day for the chairman of the board.

Looking as though he’d been dragged through hell by the ankles, a disheveled Del Capslock stumbled out of the men’s room in the basement of City Hall, fumbling with the buttons on the fly of his jeans. Footsteps echoed in the dark hallway behind him, and he turned his head to see Sloan coming through the gloom, a thin smile on his narrow face.

"Playing with yourself," Sloan said, his voice echoing in the weekend emptiness. Sloan was neatly but colorlessly dressed in khaki slacks and a tan mountain parka with a zip-in fleece liner. "I should have expected it; I knew you were a pervert. I just didn’t know you had enough to play with."

"The old lady bought me these Calvin Kleins," Dell said, hitching up the jeans. "They got buttons instead of zippers."

"The theory of buttons is very simple," Sloan began. "You take the round, flat thing…"

"Yeah, fuck you," Del said. "The thing is, Calvin makes pants for fat guys. These supposedly got a thirtyfour waist. They’re really about thirty-eight. I can’t get them buttoned, and when I do, I can’t keep the fuckin’ things up."

"Yeah?" Sloan wasn’t interested. His eyes drifted down the hall as Del continued to struggle with the buttons. "Seen Lucas?"

"No." Del got one of the buttons. "See, the advantage of buttons is, you don’t get your dick caught in a zipper."

"Okay, if you don’t get it caught in a buttonhole." Del started to laugh, which made it harder to button the pants, and he said, "Shut up. I only got one more… maybe you could give me a hand here."

"I don’t think so; it’s too nice a day to get busted for aggravated faggotry."

"You can always tell who your friends are," Del grumbled. "What’s going on with Lucas?" He got the fly buttoned finally and they started up the stairs toward Lucas’s new first-floor office.

"Fat cat got killed," Sloan said. "Dan Kresge, from over at Polaris Bank."

"Never heard of him."

"You heard of Polaris Bank?"

"Yeah. That’s the big black-glass one."

"He runs it. Or did, until somebody shot his ass up in Garfield County. The sheriff called Rose Marie, who called Lucas, and Lucas called me to ride along."

"Just friends, or overtime?"

"I’m putting in for it," Sloan said comfortably. He had a daughter in college; nothing was ever said, but Davenport had been arranging easy overtime for him. "Great day for it-though the colors are mostly gone. From the trees, I mean."

"Fuck trees. Kresge… it’s a murder?"

"Don’t know yet," Sloan said. "This is opening day of deer season. He was shot out of a tree stand."

"If I was gonna kill somebody, I might do it that way," Del said.

"Yeah. Everybody says that." Davenport’s office was empty, but unlocked. "Rose Marie’s in," Sloan said as they went inside. "Lucas said if he wasn’t here, just wait."

As Lucas stood up to leave, he asked Rose Marie Roux, the chief of police, why she didn’t do something simple, like use the Patch.

" ’Cause I’d have to put patches all over my body to get enough nicotine. I’d have to put them on the bottom of my feet."

She was on day three, and was chewing her way through a pack of nicotine gum. Lucas picked up his jacket, grinned faintly, and said, "A little speed might help. You get the buzz, but not the nicotine."

"Great idea, get me hooked on speed," Roux said. "Course, I’d probably lose weight. I’m gonna gain nine hundred pounds if I don’t do something." She leaned across her desk, a woman already too heavy, getting her taste buds back from Marlboro Country. "Listen, call me back and tell me as soon as you get there. And I want you to tell me it’s an accident. I don’t want to hear any murder bullshit."

"I’ll do what I can," Lucas said. He stepped toward the door.

"Are you all right?" Roux asked.

"No." He stopped and half turned.

"I’m worried about you. You sit around with a cloud over your head."

"I’m getting stuff done…"

"I’m not worried about that-I’m worried about you ," she said. "I’ve had the problem-you know that. I’ve been through it three times, now, and doctors help. A lot."

"I’m not sure it’s coming back," Lucas said. "I haven’t tipped over the edge yet. I can still… stop things."

"All right," Roux said, nodding skeptically. "But if you need the name of a doc, mine’s a good guy."

"Thanks." Lucas closed her office door as he left and turned down the hall, by himself, suddenly gone morose. He didn’t like to think about the depression that hovered at the edge of his consciousness. The thing was like some kind of rodent, like a rat, nibbling on his brain.

He wouldn’t go through it again. A doctor, maybe; and maybe not. But he wouldn’t go through it again.

Del sat in one of Lucas’s visitor’s chairs, one foot on Lucas’s desk, blew smoke at the ceiling and said, "So what’re you suggesting? We send him a fruitcake?"

Lucas’s office smelled of new carpet and paint, and looked out on Fourth Street; a great fall day, crisp, blue skies, young blond women with rosy cheeks and long fuzzy coats heading down the street with their boyfriends, toward the Metrodome and a University of Minnesota football game.