A Hunting Place

by J.T. Macek

          Picketers outside couldn’t be heard inside, but Keenawa County’s single courtroom filled with the out-of-town pro and anti-demonstrators made plenty of noise.

“It’s my right!”

“Killer!”

 “Gotta feed my family!”

 “Psycho!”

          William sat silent, straightjacketed in his poly Walmart suit, hands folded in his lap, head down in a repentant pose at the defense table as he’d been instructed. Let the lawyers battle this.  

          Guy Radicki, a former high school chum, down from the capital and trying to make his name before running as a law-and-order governor, faced sour men and women squirming in their not-so-new responsibility of life and death. This time, however, the decision involved a human, not a whitetail or racoon or rabbit.

          “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve known William for many years.” Guy walked to the jury box, looked at each plaid shirted, scruffy-haired, double-chinned citizen, then rubbed his hands together. Nervous sweaty palms?

          “William loaded his gun, took aim, fired, killed poor Ann Marie Billingsley.” Guy pointed to the wrinkled and grayed husband Joshua Billingsley sitting head down, slump-shouldered between two anti’s, then returned to the jury of middle aged clerks, linemen, farmers, average moms and dads.

           “William could have double-checked his target, double-checked his sight.” Guy paused like in a dramatic Hollywood movie. “We are all responsible for where our bullets go. That’s the law. William must take responsibility for shooting Ann Marie. This is, at the least, manslaughter. We have the bullet, William’s gun, and her dead body. William shot Ann Marie and that’s a fact.”

          No one liked Ann Marie Billingsley. That’s a fact. Old spinster Herring left her great-niece a great chunk of ready-for-farming flat land surrounded by acres of thick trees loaded with deer. William had once spied a bull moose meandering through the old spinster’s grove. Ann Marie wasted her windfall by growing a postage stamp patch of organic beets and lettuce and ignored William’s posted no-trespass signs trying to rescue skinny stray dogs.

          “Ax-id-dent!”       Someone in the back row audience began the chant. William smiled. Good to have buds. Judge Clyde Hawkins banged his gavel until the sheriff and a deputy hauled the guys outside because none of them shut up. Pine Top’s a hunting town, and no prosecutor from the capital could change that.

          Averill Stephenson had that short-man syndrome of overpowering and over blustering. Good to have in a defense lawyer. Averill pounded his fist on the table. Belting out each syllable. “Ax-id-dent!”

          Did Averill prompt William’s buddies? Or take their cue? No matter. William, head down, rolled his eyes up to look at the jury’s faces. He won already. Restaurants, bars, hotels, cabins, hardware stores. Money rolled into Pine Top like a high tide ocean wave at the first red leaf drop each fall season.

          “Ladies and gentlemen.” Pause. Averill watched Hollywood movies, too. “There’s a reason some things are called ax-id-dents. Because they’re accidents! We don’t intend for them to happen!”

          Averill walked to the jury box, put his hand on the rail, stared straight-on at juror number three who William recognized as the cashier at Tractor Supply. “A glass of milk slipped out of my hand yesterday, fell to the kitchen floor. I got milk all over the place. Did I intend to break the glass and make my wife mad? No! That was an accident!” Averill repeated the face-to-face scenario with a fender-bender and bounced check. Everyone in town had done one of these at least once in their lives. An accident.

          “Remember that it was cold and foggy that morning. The sun just started to poke through the trees. And William has lots of trees on his clearly posted no-trespassing property. Remember that. William had signs on trees that bordered his property and the Billingsley’s. William said he’d been watching a deer, a big buck, a six-pointer he said, that had been on his property a few days. William was ready for the big whitetail to show. And it did! A big white tail against the dark brown of a tree trunk on his own property. He got it! Clean with one shot!”

          Yes, Averill pounded that point to the jury. William’s land. He owned the forty acres just as Ed owned his ten, Jewel and Max their thirty, and everyone else in town.

          Averill hung his head. “Only the white tail wasn’t a deer. The white was one of Ann Marie’s mittens. A mitten, a tail. About the same size, right? A mistake, an accident. Not murder, not manslaughter.” His lawyer held up his small hand. Everyone in the jury looked at theirs.  

          Judge Clyde Hawkins wasted his hot air in telling the jury about the rules, the charges, the options. The jury room could’ve had a revolving door, because as fast as they shuffled in, they shuffled out.

Jury foreman Shelly, owner of Pine Top Bar and Grill, announced the verdict. “Not guilty on all counts.” No second-degree, no manslaughter, no discharging a firearm, no public endangerment, none of the ten charges Guy wanted to lock William up for. Guess, Guy won’t be running for governor after all. In the courtroom, only Guy, Joshua Billingsley, and the small group of anti’s didn’t smile.

William smiled. People slapped him on the back, shook his hand, wanted his autograph on Outdoor Life. William obliged. Outside the courthouse, in the sunshine, cheering drowned out booing. People talked to William but he didn’t know what they said. He didn’t care. His head floated in the stratosphere while his shoes climbed into the passenger side of his F-150 pick-up. His wife Ruthie drove home.

#

Sunshine crisped through the kitchen curtains, lighting the Formica countertops. Ruthie smiled.

“A bunch of people want to come over.” She popped the cap off a longneck, handed the Budweiser to William. “I defrosted that case of brats last night. We got enough buns and mustard. I’ll tell everyone to bring a dish and we’ll have a party.” Ruthie put her arms around William’s waist, her cheek against his chest. “I knew everything would be okay. I just knew it.” She smiled up at him. “You okay to barbeque?”

“Sure. I just want to check something downstairs.” William sipped his beer. Ruthie would make her calls, put out paper plates and napkins, unpack cases of soda pop and dunk them into ice buckets.

William stood in his basement. Happy, satisfied, relieved. His trophies lined four walls. Budding antlers from his first deer, stuffed coyote, porcupine, others. Montana bear head, Arizona bighorn sheep, more. All legal with the required state permits.

William took a key ring from his pocket, unlocked a steel door, stepped inside his private man-cave, latched the door closed. Ruthie never entered, and only a few of his close buddies sat in the tiger skin chairs, or admired his Mauser M98 and .375 H&H Mag. William’s personal favorites splayed these walls. Spreading seven feet from wingtip to wingtip protected and illegal to kill American Bald Eagle, stuffed Florida panther which brought the living number down to 129, and more.

He sat down, opened a drawer in the gun case, removed a white mitten spotted with maroon dried blood. He caressed the soft knit to his cheek. William had tracked and double-checked his target, double-checked his sight, pulled the trigger. A clean shot.

Pine Top’s a hunting town. No one questioned why William couldn’t distinguish Ann Marie’s red jacket from soft tan deer hide, or why the bullet trajectory pierced straight-on through her heart which meant that Ann Marie had to be facing him, had to see William aim his Ruger American .308 at her. William now possessed his best trophy. A human.

Ruthie’s knock on the steel door annoyed him. William swung open the heavy door, slipped out not allowing Ruthie or Billingsley, who stood behind her, to peer inside.

“Joshua Billingsley’s here. I told him to leave but he wants to talk to you. Want me to call the sheriff?”

“I got this, Ruthie. You go on upstairs and get that barbeque together.” William smiled at her. A good wife, she did as told, but also warned William with her stare at Billingsley’s jacket pockets. Was Joshua Billingsley keeping his hands warm or did that bulge hide a gun? William wasn’t scared and they both watched Ruthie climb the stairs. When the basement door closed, William spoke. “Well?”

Joshua looked down and moved his head from side to side. “I didn’t think it would go as far as a trial. Those wacko anti-gun and anti-hunting people hijacked the whole thing. I’m sorry about that William. Real sorry.”

William shrugged, slid into one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the plasma big screen, then pointed to the other chair. Joshua pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket as he sat down. He full denture smiled, then stretched the slip out to William.

“Saying thanks doesn’t seem good enough, does it? That’s the bank information there. I called the realtor after court today, and we’re setting to close next week. I’ll deposit your $50,000 as soon as I get my check.” Joshua relaxed deeper into the cushy leather. “What a bitch. And stupid. When someone offers to buy your land for a half million dollars ‘cause they want to build a fancy hunting and fishing resort, you don’t say no.”

William chuckled. “Ann Marie did.” No one liked Ann Marie Billingsley, not even her husband. William knew Joshua Billingsley was a stand-up guy when they first met under William’s no-trespassing sign. Joshua wouldn’t shut up complaining about his wife, the bitch.

“Can’t thank you enough, William. What you did was worth every penny you cost. You got her outta my hair and outta yours. Like killing two birds with one stone.” Joshua’s smile couldn’t have shined brighter if lit by headlights. His shoulders squared, chin pulled up, 20 years of face wrinkles smoothed out. A richer, happier, and younger-looking widower smiled at William.

“Better get going before your wife does what she said she would and call the sheriff.” Joshua hoisted himself out of the chair.

“I’ll tell Ruthie you wanted to apologize. She’ll get it. Everyone else in town will too. They’ll all be glad you moved out after this debacle.” Protesters, petitions, news cameras. Pine Top didn’t need that bad publicity. Good riddance to the Billingsley’s.

The two men shook hands at the bottom of the stairs. William’s cool firm grip and Joshua’s cold thin-fingered clench.

Each wooden step creaked under Joshua’s weight. Halfway up, he stopped, turned around. “You’re okay with a big fancy resort next door, right? Not gonna hurt your hunting, is it?”

William shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, waved him off. “The place’ll be good for local businesses. And they’re bringing in game, right? It’s good.” Concerned about William’s hunting. Nice guy. Stupid, but nice.

William waited for the door to close before he reached for his iPhone. He ignored the two dozen voicemails and texts and dialed Wilderness Properties and Management.

“Mr. Mattis? Yeah . . . it was a rough trial but it’s over now and I won, so  . . . right, the lawyer did great for me. But, I want to say thanks for keeping quiet and for holding off on filing the sale paperwork.  . . . Sure, we can seal the deal whenever you want.”

William clicked off. Him living next to a carnival like that? Probably build a splash pool and water slide. Hell, no. William made his own big resort land deal, got his own half million dollars. Ann Marie would’ve filed lawsuit after lawsuit trying to preserve nature. Screw her, and screw the skinny stray dogs he used for target practice. He got rid of that tree hugger. She’s gone, her husband’s happy, and William’s got his own half a million. Joshua Billingsley’s cake icing payoff money will make a nice down payment on his own Big Sky log cabin. Open country full of potential trophies.

J.T. Macek is a writer, professor, and pal to 5 dogs. Previous publications were included in Zodiac Review, Books N Pieces, Terror House Magazine, and Mysterical-E.