William Joseph Thackery, III happened across James Robert Thornton in the Eden's Gate Delicatessan on Monday, two weeks before the opening of deer season. The two were casual acquaintances, having met at a couple of professional gatherings. William was an attorney, specializing in accident claims. James was busy making his fortune as an investment counselor. On occasion, William had referred a client to Robert, having gleaned some sizable sum from an insurance company. One, after all, mustn't squander such hard earned money.
"So," said William, after all the amenities were gotten out of the way. "I hear you took quite a beating on the Rasmussen Securities deal."
"It wasn't pretty."
"You lose much yourself?"
"Didn't have any of my own money tied up in it."
"I see. Lose many clients? Or shouldn't I ask?"
"Oh, I don't mind. I lost a couple. No big ones, though. I guess I'd have to say I came out okay, considering."
"Word has it you lost one of them to a heart attack."
"You mean the Cromley lady. She was a walking corpse, anyway. Had no business investing money she couldn't afford to lose. This is a risky business we're in."
"Ain't that the truth?"
"That'll be seven eighty six, please." The cashier had James Roberts' spanokopita rung up and bagged. She was waiting less than patiently for her money. James hastily paid her and was on his way out when William Joseph spoke up. "James, what say we get together for lunch some time next week. I've got a couple of clients that might be needed your assistance pretty soon."
"Sounds good. Call my secretary. She'll set it up."
* * *
That lunch occurred Tuesday, the week following. It took no time at all to get business out of the way. Since the American Express bill could now be written off as an expense, they got down to the serious business of eating and drinking. Mostly drinking.
"You know," William said. "Deer season is just around the corner. You got your tag, yet."
"I don't hunt."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's just not my thing. Some people hunt, some people fish. I sit at home on weekends, watching football and letting my wife bring me a fresh beer once in a while. It makes me happy."
"You don't know what you're missing, man. Fresh air, steaks fried over an open fire, the smell of the woods at dawn . . . There just isn't anything like it in the world."
"A six-pack of Coors, some popcorn, the Denver Broncos. Now that's a relaxing weekend. Why don't you come on over on Sunday. I'll buy the beer and you can root for Dallas."
"Make you a deal. I'll come over to your place this weekend and watch football, if you'll come hunting with me next weekend. I've got a great deer camp up in the mountains. The view alone will be worth it. I'll even spring for your deer tag."
"I don't think so. It just isn't me."
"Come on! Whadaya got to lose? A couple of extra pounds of flab? Whadaya say? It'll be just you and me. A couple of women if you want, but, well, you know how it is. This is a man's thing."
"Well . . ." James was beginning to flex. Something about it seemed exciting. Something like an adventure.
"You'll have a great time!" William jumped on the other man's hesitation like a right tackle. "Back to nature. Man against the elements. Only this time, man'll have something on his side."
"What's that?"
"Jim Beam. You don't go into the woods without your comforter."
"I'll think about it."
"Great! I'll call you."
* * *
William called the next day. James' secretary, Anita, answered.
"Thornton Brokerage. How may I help you?"
"James Thornton, please."
"May I tell him who's calling?"
"William Thackery."
"And what is it in reference to?"
"Our hunting trip. I'm a Sagittarius. I bank with First National, and I wear a size thirteen jock strap. Is there anything else you need to know before I can speak with Mr. Thornton?"
"Well!" She poked the hold button with the intent of impaling William Thackery's ear. Over the intercom, she informed her employer of the call.
James Thornton picked up the telephone. "You don't give up easy, do you, Mr. Thackery?"
"Call me Bill. I got your deer tag. What kind of steak do you want, porterhouse or sirloin?"
"What's wrong with venison?"
"I don't know about you, but I have no intention of butchering my own deer. The locker plant can do that."
"You're coming over for football on Sunday?"
"A deal's a deal."
"All right. I give up. What am I going to need for this little expedition of ours?"
They spent the next twenty minutes putting together a shopping list for the investment counselor. When they were done, James hung up and leaned back in his swivel chair, laughing. He looked up to see his secretary looking at him, a distasteful expression on her face.
"You're going hunting, sir?"
"Sure. What's wrong with that?"
"You just don't seem like the hunting type."
"Just what is the hunting type?"
"It's always seemed to me that when a man bought a deer tag, about fifteen IQ points were shaved right off the top of his head. Another ten disappears as soon as he picks up the rifle. But the day he has the tag in one hand and the rifle in the other, his toes open up and his brains drain right out."
James stared at his secretary in amazement. "Anita! That's a rather harsh assessment of those who practice the world's oldest, and perhaps noblest sport."
"Slaughter is a sport? Hanging naked, gutted carcasses in front of your garage is noble. Excuse me. I must have my definitions crossed."
"I never realized my secretary was such a bigoted old lady."
"That's where I'm a better judge of character than you. I knew all along you were a crazed, blood-thirsty killer."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You have to be, to be an investment counselor. It's just that today's social mores don't allow you to hack people to pieces with a hatchet. Strangling them by the checkbook is more socially acceptable than stringing them up by the short hairs. They piss you off, you murder them. Financially."
James chuckled and nodded. "You got a point there."
"So why don't you just stay at home and watch football, like all those other," she cleared her throat meaningfully, preparing for the next word, "men."
"We're going to do that this weekend. Next weekend, we're going out into the woods and shoot up small animals."
"At least have the decency to root for the Cowboys." She turned away and started typing. For the life of him, James couldn't remember giving her anything to type.
* * *
William and James left town right after lunch on the Friday before opening day. They wanted to be in camp by dark. And dark came early in their neck of the woods. It was a long drive, but they barely spoke. William was driving, whistling the tunes to country and western tunes. James sat in the passenger seat of the Ford F-150 and wondered why he'd never seen the lawyer in a pickup.
He didn't realize how much he'd been looking forward to the day. In fact, until the moment the last of the gear was stowed in the bed of the truck, he honestly believed what he had been feeling was dread. After all, what the hell was a college educated yuppie broker doing gallivanting around in the wilderness. A guy could get killed that way.
Once they were on the road, however, his mood changed. A kind of excitement he hadn't felt since he was a kid took over. Here it was, man against nature. The hunt. He would pit his intellect against the instinct of the beast. May the better beast win.
William was dressed in khaki. The only splash of color at all was an orange headband that was supposed to distinguish him from a deer. James had on an orange and brown plaid jacket and green fatigue pants. The trousers were the only thing left of his Air Force days. He'd been incredibly relieved that they still made it around his waist. Barely.
William drove them through a maze of backwoods roads, until the Ford could make it no more. There, he pulled it into a space between two oaks and killed the engine.
"We walk it from here, old buddy."
"Excuse me, William. But do you mind telling me where we are?"
"Call me Billy Joe."
"Billy Joe?"
"That's what my old man called me when I was a kid. He used to take me hunting here."
"I see." James thought about that for a while, considering his own name. "I guess that makes me Jim Bob, doesn't it?"
The other man laughed out loud. "Now you're gettin' the hang of it. Come on, let's get this shit unloaded. We got a long hike ahead of us before we make camp."
The sun was already hanging low on the horizon. James thought it was crazy to leave the truck this close to dark. He said so.
"Don't be such a pussy," Billy Joe answered back. "I know these woods like the back of my hand." He stared intently at the back of his hand, as if memorizing the lines, pores and hairs. "Maybe even better," he continued. "Let's go."
For the first half mile or so, the path was open and clear. Then, it began to close in. Darkness was settling in, and the only light was what was filtering in through the canopy of leaves from an ever darkening sky. James was tiring.
"We got much farther to go, William?"
"Billy Joe," answered the other man. "It's just ahead."
They walked another half an hour. Somewhere along the line, they had to break out the flashlights. More and more often, Billy Joe was closely examining the path - what little there was of it - and the trees.
Finally, he dropped his pack and announced, "Here we are. Set up the tent, and I'll light a fire."
Billy Joe had the fire blazing before James even had the tent unrolled. He watched his hunting companion with open amusement for several minutes before offering a hand. Between the two of them, they finally got the tent up.
Billy Joe shaved down some green branches and thrust them through the steaks. In no time, they were suspended over the fire, juices beginning to drip.
"Now," he said. "Hand me that extra pack you been carrying."
James tossed it over. Billy Joe untied the leather straps and pulled out the contents. There was a six-pack of Bud and three bottles of Canadian Club.
"Go easy on the beer. It's all we got. So its shots of beer with whiskey chasers." He laughed like it was the greatest joke he ever heard.
Before long, they were chewing on bloody steaks off the sticks and swigging whiskey out of the bottles. It was the best time, Jim Bob ever had.
* * *
Until morning, that is. The sky was still velvet black and Billy Joe was jabbing him in the ribs with the toe of his boot.
"Up and at 'em, slick. "Them deer ain't gonna come to us?"
Jim Bob pulled himself out of his sleeping bag and clutched at his throbbing head. "Holy shit," he muttered. He flinched at the touch of a hot mug of coffee being pressed against his hand. Gratefully, he accepted it.
He took a swig and said, "You got any cream and sugar?"
"Sure," was the reply. "It's in the fridge. Help yourself."
Jim Bob forced the coffee down, praying to whatever god might still listen that it would do something for his hangover.
It didn't.
Ten minutes later, they were creeping through the forest on tip toes, doing their best Hiawatha imitation. Billy Joe kept holding his hand up for silence. After a while, they came to a large oak tree overhanging a clearing. Billy Joe motioned for them to stop.
In a barely audible whisper, he said into Jim Bob's ear, "Climb it."
"You kidding! I can't climb a tree." Billy Joe clamped one hand over Jim Bob's mouth and held the index finger of the other over his own. The two men were nose to nose.
"Climb it!" It wasn't a request. "I'll try and run a deer your way. You see one come into the clearing, blow it away." He helped Jim Bob as far as the first branch, and then disappeared into the woods.
Jim Bob struggled into the first position he could find that gave him a clear view of the clearing without extreme discomfort. Then he waited. And waited. And waited.
The longer he sat, the colder he got. The colder he got the more he shivered. The more he shivered, the longer it seemed like he'd sat there. After it felt like he'd had time to succumb from several terminal illnesses, he heard a noise off to his left. Something heavy was running through the woods.
Quickly, he worked himself into a position from which he could shoot. He shouldered the rifle and waited. In a few moments, a big buck broke through the trees. It stalled momentarily in the clearing, as though deciding which way to run. Jim Bob sighted in on the animal, and froze. He could see its eyes. Even in the dim light of the breaking dawn, the texture of the fur was clearly visible in the scope. He tried to pull the trigger.
Then, he thought of what he would put up with from Billy Joe if he didn't shoot. He didn't know which scared him worse. Deciding that indecision was the best decision, he blew off three shots into the forest canopy. A fourth echoed through the trees before the deer was across the clearing, and it dropped in its tracks.
Two minutes later, Billy Joe stepped out of the trees. "You missed," he said flatly. "Why didn't you shoot sooner?"
"Well damn it, Billy Joe. My gun jammed." Jim Bob tried to put as much hillbilly into it as he could. Billy Joe actually smiled.
"Help me get this carcass back to camp."
* * *
It took them four hours to lug the dead animal back to their campsite. Another hour passed before they had it suspended high enough off the ground to keep the coyotes off of it. By then, afternoon was creeping up on them. They cracked out another bottle of Canadian Club. Over half of it was gone when Billy Joe said, "What exactly did happen with the Rasmussen Securities, anyway."
"Hey, man. I thought we were here to have a good time. Let's just leave the shit at the office behind, okay."
"That's cool. I was just curious. I didn't know you were so defensive about it."
"I'm not defensive."
"So tell me what happened."
There was a long pause. Jim Bob stared into the bottle as if he expected an answer to pop out for him. He took another long swig.
"I got a good tip on a major real estate development. It was supposed to turn at least a double-decker."
"So why'd you involve the Cromley lady?"
"What the hell is your obsession with that old lady? She wanted to turn a fast buck, like everybody else. She just got burned a little worse, is all."
There was a long pause while they both stared into the fire. They passed the bottle back and forth, and it didn't seem to have any effect.
Finally, Billy Joe spoke.
"Let's get back out there. It's my turn."
"Now wait a minute, Billy Joe. It's my turn. You shot that deer this morning."
"I only finished off what you started. That was your deer. Now lets go get mine."
"Where we goin'?"
"Same place."
The walk back to the oak tree was a lot easier on half a bottle of whiskey.
* * *
"I been wonderin', Billy Joe. Isn't a tree stand illegal in this state?"
"Who care? It works. Now I'm gonna sit up there in that tree and wait. You walk around in a circle and head back toward the clearing. And don't get yourself lost, you hear. I don't want to have to come lookin' for you."
Billy Joe slung his rifle over his shoulder and hoisted himself up into the tree. He didn't need any help. Jim Bob started his hike through the woods.
Billy Joe sat on the tree limb, patiently waiting for his target to appear. His guts tingled with the thrill of the hunt; the knowledge that he was far superior to his prey. The culmination of another season was at hand. His wait was a meditation. He contemplated the rites of the kill. The rights of the victim. But mostly, he considered the justice of nature.
The trampling of heavy footsteps sounded through the trees, and he readied his rifle. Closer, they came.A majestic whitetail, topping at least eleven points burst into the clearing and reared up on its hind legs. It was something out of a staged National Geographic film.
He watched the regal animal find its direction and bolt for freedom. In a few moments, Jim Bob appeared. Billy Joe centered the crosshairs of the scope on the other man's forehead. Confident he had a clean shot, he called out, "Hey Jim Bob!”
James Robert Thornton looked up into the trees. He couldn't pick out his camouflaged partner against the bare limbs and the sky.
"Remember the Cromley lady?" Billy Joe shouted. "Well, she was my aunt." He pulled the trigger.
* * *
The proceedings were short and sweet. William Joseph Thackery, III was cleared of any wrongdoing. It was an obvious, although tragic hunting accident. He should, perhaps, consider another sport in the future.
