Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

They walked as the sky began to change, the light turned blue, and objects sharpened from dark blots to shapes that had definite boundaries, and then three dimensions. It was another half hour before the old, complicated oak trees began to have their deep green, and the sage and chaparral had lightened to gray and brown.

She noticed now that Parish had been looking past her to his left, not at her, and she followed his eyes to see that Mary O’Connor had reappeared. She was giving Parish some kind of arm signal again.

Parish stopped, touched Marcia’s arm, and whispered in her ear. “It’s just ahead, in a clearing by a narrow streambed. In the dry season they find small puddles to drink from. When we come into sight, it will go to your left. Lead it. You’ll take one shot only. Get ready.”

She lifted the bolt handle, pulled it back, pushed it forward and down to put a round in the chamber, pushed the safety off with her trigger finger, and moved forward slowly. She was aware that Parish was not walking beside her anymore but a few steps behind and to her right, then far enough back to be entirely out of sight and hearing, the space that mattered. He had removed himself. As long as she looked ahead, kept her ears tuned to hear the prey, she was alone.

She climbed the gradual rise, searching the landscape. She could see the tops of the first string of oak trees in a long line beyond the hill, and she knew they would grow that way along a streambed. As she reached the crest of the hill, she bent lower, then went to her belly and crawled, keeping her head from coming above the low weeds. She came forward until she could stare down the far side to see the green stripe across the brown field.

She saw the deer. It was standing perfectly still, its head up and its ears twitching, its eyes like big black marbles against its tawny fur. There was a moment of joy and gratitude at being permitted this sight, this beautiful wildness still there in front of her. But even in her first glimpse she could see it was edgy, nervous. It turned its body so it was facing left.

She formed a crook of her left elbow, propped the rifle on her left hand and stared through the notch sight, along the gleaming blue-black barrel to the bead above the muzzle. The deer’s haunches bunched up suddenly, its back legs bent, and she knew it had to happen now.

She saw and felt the smooth, beautiful chest expand, and moved the bead in the center of the notch onto the spot where she could feel the heart beating, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked hard against her shoulder and cheek, and the noise seemed to slap her ears and her stomach at the same time. She found herself standing, staring down toward the creek, but she couldn’t see the deer. She took a step, but her arm was held in a tight grip. She turned. Parish was beside her. He took the rifle from her hands.

She could see Mary O’Connor off to the left, running at full speed down the hill toward the creek. In a second, she saw Emily Lyons stand up from the middle of some chaparral on the far hill, a rifle in her hand. She was pointing.

“Hurry,” said Parish, and began to run.

Marcia launched herself forward, and the slope of the hill carried her down. She had to run a few paces, then dig in with her heels to stop herself, and then she was bounding forward across the short stretch of field. When she was at the streambed-no more than a narrow trench with a few muddy spots-she saw it. She stepped closer, but Parish gripped her arm again.

“Don’t get in front of it. They sometimes get up and run.”

“It’s… alive?” she whispered.

“Come this way,” he said. He pulled her closer. She was behind the deer and to its right. She could see the rib cage rising and falling, and hear a deep huff sound. There was blood on the animal’s muzzle and on the ground. “See the blood-how red it is, and the bubbles? You hit the lungs. Maybe got enough of the heart to make it die.”

Marcia looked up from the deer, and she could see Mary O’Connor coming closer. Marcia turned toward Parish, who nodded at Mary.

Mary O’Connor reached to her back, lifted the sweatshirt, and pulled out a pistol, then held it by the barrel, so the grips were toward Marcia. “Do you want to do it?”

Marcia turned, her eyes on Parish. “Yes,” she said. “I should be the one.”

Parish seemed unmoved, unconvinced. He didn’t nod or show her his approval, just looked at his wristwatch. For a second, she hated him. She wanted him to do it. He should do this. No, she knew, he shouldn’t. She took the pistol. She kept her eyes on it so she would not have to see the contemptuous look on O’Connor’s face. She aimed it at the deer’s head just behind the ear, and fired.

The sound of the pistol did not seem loud, and she realized that the rifle shot had made her ears feel stopped. She could see the deer give a reflexive kick, but it was dead. She reversed the pistol and handed it back to O’Connor. “Thanks,” she said, her eyes on O’Connor’s forehead.

O’Connor put the pistol away and pulled her sweatshirt over it again as Emily Lyons came up.

Parish said to Marcia, “It was a fair shot. Any time you put a deer down with the first one, and you don’t have to tramp all over creation tracking it while it bleeds to death, it’s a fair shot.”

“What do we do with it?”

“Right now, we hang it from one of these trees and gut it, then let it bleed out while we walk back to get the pickup truck and drive it home. Then we’ll butcher it, refrigerate some for dinner tonight, and freeze the rest.”

She stared down at the deer. “It looks bigger up close.”

He stared down. “It isn’t bad.” He seemed to be consciously, willfully evading what she had meant. “This is a pretty good buck for these hills.” He took the pack off his back and produced a nylon rope. “May as well get started. Where’s the best one, Mary?”

“There’s an oak with a good horizontal limb right over there,” she said, pointing.

He tied the rope around the rear hooves and dragged the carcass to the tree, then threw the rope over the limb and hoisted the deer off the ground upside down. He tied the other end of the rope around the trunk to hold it, then produced a long fixed-blade knife from his pack. He looked over his shoulder to be sure Marcia was still watching, then inserted the blade at the groin and, with a slight sawing motion, began the first long incision downward toward the center of the rib cage.

Marcia watched from beside him, because she knew that if she didn’t he would tell her to. The other two women had walked off toward the camp carrying the rifles. She said nothing to Parish, asked nothing because it was all obvious. She knew why she’d had to come out here at dawn and hunt with these three. She knew why they had wanted her to have the feel of killing. Now, as she watched Parish making a slice and then pulling the intestines out of the animal, she knew why it could not have been a rabbit or something. It had needed to be nothing less than a full-grown buck.

Marcia sat across the table from Michael Parish, drinking the bubbly water. She wanted a real drink-a strong one-but when Parish had ordered water, she’d had no choice. He had not ordered for her, and she could not remember his ever having said anything about alcohol. But she knew that what would get her through this was to do exactly as he did. Her gift for sensing what men expected and yielding to it was quicker, more reliable than her ability to figure out what was really required by the circumstances. She had to put faith in her alertness and in the subtle mimicry she had practiced all her life. They could be counted on because they were a weakness, and took no effort.