Hunting SEASON by P. T. Deutermann
This book is dedicated to the fond hope that, one fine day, the U.S. Department of Justice will once again represent the epitome of public integrity within the government of the United States.
ACKNOWLEDGEMEMTS
I would like to express my appreciation to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, whose Web sites and public information agencies were most helpful in writing this book. Thanks as well to my editor, George Witte, and my agent, Nick Ellison, for their usual fine professional help.
HUNTING
SEASON
1
Rip and Tommy hit the leg traps at the same time. Rip yelled and pitched headfirst into the small stream. Tommy grunted, lurched sideways, and then he, too, slipped over the bank. Lynn, a few steps behind them, stopped in her tracks, her arms windmilling to recover her balance. The grass along the stream was high enough that she couldn’t see what was holding the two boys’ legs at such an odd angle while they flopped in the shallow water. Whatever it was, it was hurting them a lot.
Rip was on his back in the water, groaning and sobbing as he tried to sit up. Tommy was white-faced and tight-lipped, his right leg pointing diagonally up as he struggled against the weight of his backpack.
“My God!” Lynn exclaimed.
“What happened?”
“Something’s got my leg,” Tommy said between clenched teeth.
“I
think it’s a trap of some kind. Help me.”
Lynn shrugged out of her backpack, knelt down, and pushed aside the grass. What she found made her swallow hard.
“Stop moving,” she said.
“Let me see how bad this is.”
Rip had stopped crying. As Lynn looked over at him, his eyes were rolling backward as he subsided into the brook. Lynn swore and jumped over Tommy’s trapped leg to get to Rip. She splashed through the stream and snatched Rip’s face up out of the water. He began to choke and splutter, then yelled in pain. She heaved and pulled until his back was partially supported by the opposite bank. Then she eased him out of his backpack straps, tugged the sodden bundle off his back, and threw it up on the bank. A vicious metallic-snapping sound cracked in the grass. She froze.
Oh Jesus, she thought. She stood up very slowly, then tramped back through the icy water to Tommy, being very careful about where she put her feet.
“I can’t feel my foot,” Tommy whispered.
Lynn knelt down.
“That’s probably a good thing, Tommy,” she said, trying to keep up a good front. She was supposed to be the strong one, but her throat was dry and her hands were shaking. She picked up a small stick and pushed aside the wet grass to expose the trap. It was two feet wide and gunmetal gray. It consisted of a heavy base that had been chained to some kind of heavy ground screw. The two snapping arms were solid steel bars, and they had Tommy’s leg just above the ankle.
There was some bleeding on both sides of his leg, and the fabric of his jeans was indented at least an inch into his flesh. The skin below the jaws of the trap was already purple. She swallowed again as he groaned. She tried not to avert her eyes.
“Can you get it off?” he asked. His voice was cracking and beads of sweat stood on his forehead. Lynn reached gingerly for the two solid bars and tried to pry them apart, but it was like pulling on the edge of a building:
The only thing that moved was Tommy’s leg, and he shouted in pain.
Rip was still blubbering behind them, and suddenly Lynn wanted to yell at him, to make him shut up. It had been Rip’s idea to sneak onto the abandoned base. She was very scared.
“I can’t move it,” she said. Just then, there was a thump and rumble of thunder to the west; the afternoon storm clouds that had made them hurry down toward the creek, away from the tall trees, were still coming.
Tommy closed his eyes, sighed, and lay back on his pack.
“Let me see if I can find something to pry it open,” she said. She stood up and looked around. They were in a small clearing. The streambed ran down an east-west gully that wound between two broad hills covered in dense forest. Across the stream and up the other side of the gully was another stand of trees, through which she thought she could see a smokestack and the top of some kind of building. The sky above the hills behind them was darkening fast, and a flicker of lightning gleamed wickedly at her from within coiling clouds. Tommy tried again to get out of the stream but couldn’t manage it. She helped him get his pack all the way off, and then she repositioned his upper body against the opposite bank, the pack under his neck. There was a chunky stick a few feet downstream, which she lifted and then used to beat down all the grass on either side of the creek between the two boys. She found no more traps, although she went no farther than Tommy’s backpack. Then the stick broke.
She told them not to move and then retraced her steps up the side of the gully to the edge of the forest, which was about thirty feet back from the creek. Another crack of thunder boomed along the face of the low hills to the west, and the sky seemed to darken again. The forest
ahead of her stirred uneasily, as if the trees knew what was coming. She began working a two-inch-thick limb off a pine tree, when she saw a curtain of gray rain sweep down the gully, pursued by another clap of thunder. Her rain gear was rolled up on top of her pack, but she kept working the branch, twisting it back and forth, swearing at it under her breath as it became slippery and her hands grew sticky with pine pitch. Finally, she got it off and then ran back to where Tommy was sitting awkwardly on the side of the stream, one hand under him. The pain in his eyes nearly broke her heart. Rip appeared to have fainted again. His chin was down on his chest, but at least he was well out of the water.
She took out her camping knife and whittled frantically on the blunt end of the branch, trying to form a wedge point. The rain came down hard and cold, but at least there was no more lightning. And then a single brilliant blue-white bolt punched out an ear-clenching blast that made her scream and drop the knife and the branch. Her ball cap fell off into the stream. The bolt vaporized the top of a nearby tree, showering the gully with naming embers and enveloping them in a pungent fog of crackling ozone. A bolus of fire flared briefly at the top of the tree, then disappeared in a new roar of rain. She scrambled around, trying to find her knife. Finally, she saw it in the creek, retrieved it, and went back to hacking at the end of the branch. She glanced over at Tommy, but his eyes were closed and the rain was running into his partially opened lips. The rain was so heavy, she almost couldn’t see Rip.
When she had the base of the limb cleaned off and shaped into a wedge, she knelt back down by Tommy’s leg. She cut the fabric back away from his ankle. She was appalled at the swollen purple mess that had been his lower leg. She didn’t know how she would be able to wedge the limb into the space between the snapping arms without hurting him. She looked up at Tommy’s face. His eyes were open now.
“Just do it,” he said, his voice barely audible above the noise of the rain.
“Get it off me.”
She nodded and pushed the wedge end of the six-foot-long branch between the two steel jaws as close to the hinge joint as she could get.
Then she stood up and planted her right foot in the stream, which she noticed was deeper now, coming up to the tops of her boots. She put her left foot on the base plate and then leaned slowly against the branch.
Tommy groaned as the trap moved, but the arms did not budge. Not one inch. She relaxed and then tried again, positioning her hands for maximum leverage. She thought she saw the arms move fractionally, but