The Hunters

By Clark Howard

A hunting trip turns into a manhunt in this chilling predator-versus-prey thriller from an Edgar Award–winning author.
 
Four guys from the suburbs are about to set out on a hunting trip. Wes is an architectural draftsman with a secret. Leo has a high-level advertising job, but is miserable with ulcers. Milt sells pharmaceuticals but is disdained by his wife—who happens to be the object of passionate desire for Lamar, who works in insurance.
 
But one of these men is also a killer—and not only of deer. When an LAPD detective is taken out with a sniper rifle, what started out as a friendly outing suddenly turns very dark . . .
 
“A superlative storyteller.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: May 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504060721

Clark Howard

Howard Clark was a coordinator for War Resisters' International and embedded in civil peace initiatives in Kosovo throughout the 1990s. He is a founder of the Balkan Peace Team, and the author of People Power (Pluto, 2009).

Book preview

Chapter 1

Wes Tarnak, naked, was in the bedroom going through his wife’s lingerie drawer, trying to decide which pair of panties she would be least likely to miss if she happened to look in the drawer while he was gone. He took his time about the selection; there was no hurry; he could hear his wife talking on the downstairs phone.

The lingerie drawer, like everything in Candice’s closet, was neat and orderly. Even the folded panties seemed to be stacked according to a preplanned color scheme: white nylon merging into yellow nylon, merging into light green, then dark green, then blue, and finally black. Behind them were the prints and the novelty panties: Candy and a red heart on one black pair; Pussy and a stitched kitten on another; the days of the week on a set of seven skimpy bikinis.

Wes selected a blue-green floral-patterned pair, taking care not to disturb the stack when he removed them. He closed the drawer and hurried back into the bathroom. With the door locked behind him, he put on his wife’s panties and looked at himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. They were tight enough to be slightly uncomfortable, but they looked good: the waistband curved down into his pubic hair, and at the crotch he bulged out almost obscenely. Suddenly feeling very warm, he quickly finished dressing and left the bathroom.

Candice was just hanging up the phone when he got downstairs. Who was that? he asked.

One of the girls I play tennis with, she said.

I’ll bet. Wes thought.

They walked into the living room together, looking very much like the ideal married couple. Wes, at thirty-three, was trim and handsome; Candy, three years younger, shapely and beautiful. Looking at them, people—both men and women—often imagined the heights of ecstasy they probably reached together on the sexy circular bed upstairs. But people imagined wrong. For all the built-in mirrors and fur bed coverings and handy vibrators and creams, Wes and Candy Tarnak simply could not make it together any longer. Or rather, Wes could not make it any longer; Candy still could, though not with Wes. She had found that out because she had felt compelled to prove that it was Wes, not her, that something was wrong with. And she had been right. A very nice policeman who played tennis at the Sun Club had helped her prove it several times recently when Wes was at work. It was definitely Wes who couldn’t cut it anymore, not Candy.

Will you be late tonight? Candy asked.

Probably, Wes said. "You know how Milt is the night before a hunting trip. It’s like we were going on a commando raid. We sit around his game table and go over every single little detail of the plan: where we’ll stop to eat, where we’ll stop for gas, who’ll drive first and how far, who’ll drive next, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. We do everything but synchronize our watches. Lamar and Leo and I keep expecting that any time."

Candice feigned a yawn. I don’t think I’ll wait up for you then. I think I’ll just crawl into bed and watch TV until I fall asleep. That way, she thought, she’d be well-rested for tennis and sex with her policeman tomorrow. She smiled inwardly. Wasn’t that peculiar that she was already beginning to think of him as her policeman?

After Wes left, Candice went upstairs and opened her lingerie drawer. She counted the panties in each stack. So, she thought, he took a flowered print tonight. She shook her head in renewed amazement. Freaky, she told herself. Too far-out and freaky.

She sprawled her excellent body across the circular bed and looked around the room. It was a nice bedroom. In fact, it was a nice house. Very nice.

Idly, she wondered how much money a policeman made.

Down the street and around the corner, in the same Woodland Hills tract but in an entirely different Califomia-style custom home, Leo Fritz dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets into a glass of ice water; Dana, his wife, was clearing off the breakfast nook where they had just eaten a light supper. From the den came sounds of their two daughters, ages five and four, playing.

Not settling? she asked sympathetically.

Leo shook his head. Even the bland food doesn’t settle anymore, he said bitterly. He was only thirty; he did not feel that it was fair for him to be as physically miserable as he was all the time. Stomach aches, headaches, backaches—you name the ache, he had probably had it that day.

Dana came over to the counter where he was standing and put her arm around his shoulders. It’s probably your ulcer again, honey. Shouldn’t you be taking the medicine the doctor gave you, instead of Alka-Seltzer?

This works faster, he said, especially with ice water. Besides, I’m out of the other.

Dana’s face was glum with worry. She was young and healthy and knew little of bodily pain. She had never had menstrual discomfort, had delivered her two daughters without difficulty, and was now happily and healthily pregnant with their third child. Honey, why don’t you forget the hunting trip and go in to see the doctor tomorrow? she suggested.

Leo shook his head and looked impatiently at the fizzing liquid on the counter. The colder the water, the slower the dissolution of the tablets. No, the trip will probably do me more good than anything. Help me to unwind. He looked at his wife with an almost tortured expression. All I need is a few days away from that goddamned rat race down at the agency.

The agency was Holmes and Harper Advertising, a Beverly Hills shop specializing in corporate image and public service campaigns. Leo had worked there for eight years, since graduating from UCLA with a major in creative communications and a minor in art. He had come to Holmes and Harper as a bright young advertising hopeful and had quickly become an agency superstar. Within a year he was copy chief; within two, creative director. The ad packages he had put together were legend: the compact car that tripled its sales, the camera that he managed to get one of the world’s leading actors to promote, the cigarette that he turned into an international sex symbol, and others, many others, ads seen in newspapers and magazines, spots heard on radio, commercials seen on TV. Leo Fritz was the Robert Redford of his field: a smash.

The only thing was, Leo had not done it himself. Mostly, he had used other people—other people’s ideas, other people’s talent—to get where he was. Leo was a creative parasite, and it was beginning to catch up with him. The people whose work he had plundered and taken credit for, were now avoiding him, refusing to talk around him, leaving him stranded. Just when he had been given a big campaign to develop, a Get Involved public service campaign to encourage citizens to help their local police, and he not only knew that he was incapable of doing it, but he also knew that no one was going to help him do it. He had met twice with the three-man panel of police executives assigned to work with him, and they had not liked his ideas either time. Now the agency principals at Holmes and Harper were beginning to look at him with pursed lips. That was what was tearing his stomach up.

And it was all the fault of that stupid police panel. They were clods, all three of them. What they needed was something else to think about, something to get them off his back.

The effervescent tablets finally disappeared in the foaming water and Leo gratefully raised the glass to his lips and drained it in several quick swallows. Relief, however temporary, was immediate. But now his head was hurting. He took one of his migraine pills.

Do those kids have to make so much noise? he asked.

I’ll go quiet them, honey, Dana said at once.

Never mind, Leo said. It’s time for me to go over to Milt’s anyway.

Leaving the house, rubbing his stomach, Leo cursed the agency and his occupation. Sometimes he wished he had a nothing job like Lamar York. How uninvolved an insurance underwriter’s life must be.

On the next street over, Lamar York was having a second cup of dinner coffee in the den while he watched a syndicated rerun of The FBI. This particular episode involved two young men who kidnapped a young woman and held her for ransom in a cabin in the woods. York’s wife Tish came in and joined him just as Inspector Erskine and Special Agent Colby were arriving to rescue the victim.

Haven’t you already seen all of those shows? Tish asked after a moment. When they were shown the first time?

Lamar nodded and sipped at his coffee.

Honestly, you and those cop shows, Lamar. his wife said with more exasperation than necessary. I don’t see how you can watch them as much as you do.

Lamar smiled tolerantly at his wife. I enjoy them. And, incidentally, it isn’t polite to call them cops. You really should use the term policemen.

"Oh, pardon me," Tish said elaborately.

Lamar shook his head resignedly. It was impossible to tell her anything; he didn’t know why he ever tried anymore. He had once thought she had been so much like his mother; now he could not imagine how he had ever, seen even a trace of resemblance. His mother had been a saint compared with this stale, narrow woman. She had been understanding, loyal, sensitive to his needs—everything a woman ought to be. While Tish had turned out to be a shallow puddle of a female.

Lamar grunted inwardly, inaudibly, as he imagined how his stepfather would have bristled at Tish’s use of the word cop. Tough old Horace Baine, Captain Horace Baine, had been a rigid stickler when it came to proper respect being shown to policemen. Officers of the law, he had called them, and he forbade the use of the term cop in his presence. It was one of the first things Lamar had learned from his stepfather. Tish, of course, didn’t know that. She didn’t know anything about Lamar’s stepfather. He had never told her about him.

Lamar put down his coffee cup and looked over at his wife. Was there something you wanted to watch? I can go upstairs and see the rest of this on the portable in the bedroom.

"Why, I wouldn’t think of depriving you of The FBI on a big twenty-four-inch screen, Tish said, pretending to be aghast. That would be like taking the Saturday morning cartoons away from a kindergartner."

Lamar sighed within himself, sat very still for a moment, then rose and turned off the television. Happy now? he asked quietly.

Tish shook her head in subdued pity. You always go back to acting like a child, don’t you, Lamar? No adult reasoning, no maturity. Just suddenly become a juvenile again and that’s your whole defense.

My defense against what? Lamar asked. He waited a moment for her to answer, and when she did not he spread his hands helplessly and smiled patronizingly. I don’t really know what you want of me, Tish. Honestly, I don’t.

No, you don’t, do you? she said, her voice still sounding as if she felt sorry for him. "You think it’s perfectly all right to bury yourself every night in Adam-12 and Police Story and The Rookies and all that other subintelligent nonsense, instead of occasionally utilizing your time in something more constructive. You could be doing something to better yourself, Lamar. You’re almost forty, you know."

Lamar nodded. Understanding came to his expression. Tish, is this leading up to another discussion of your having to work to maintain the standard of living we keep?

What if it is? she said defensively. Do you think I enjoy being the only working wife among our friends? Having the others coyly refer to me as Miss Executive Secretary? Don’t you think it’s a little embarrassing to have everyone know that I have the least successful husband in the group?

Lamar shrugged. You knew what I was when you married me. You knew you weren’t getting Howard Hughes. He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window. He was a lean, quiet man who seemed to make no noise in whatever he did. His hair, which he unpretentiously combed straight back, was thinning, and his nose was slightly too long even for the rest of his aquiline features; but aside from that he was quite an ordinary-appearing person. In that respect, he very much matched his wife, who was also lean and had a rather severe face. Especially severe at the moment.

There’s nothing wrong with what you are, Lamar, Tish said firmly, "as long as you don’t just settle into the job like you’ve done. You know yourself, Lamar, that you could advance up the ladder if you really wanted to. You could get ahead if you wanted to, and then it wouldn’t be necessary for me to work to maintain our standard of living—"

Just a minute, Lamar said, an edge of authority coming into his voice for the first time. "It’s not our standard of living, Tish. It’s your standard of living. You’re the one who wanted this neighborhood, this house, this furniture. You’re the one who led the way to getting us mortgaged up to our throats. I was perfectly happy back in the old apartment."

Tish grunted loudly. You’d be happy in a converted boxcar as long as the TV reception was good.

The point is, you knew when we were getting into all this debt that you’d have to keep working.

For a while, sure, Tish admitted. "But not forever."

Lamar stared at her for a long moment, then looked at his watch and said, I’ve got to get over to Milt’s house. The meeting.

"Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss a rerun of Dragnet or something? Tish asked. What in the world do you do for entertainment when you’re way off up in the mountains on one of your hunting trips?"

I kill things, Lamar said unsmilingly.

Across the street, Milt Newman was at the bar in his den, carefully pouring cheap gin into a Beefeater’s bottle. On the shelf behind him was a Chivas Regal bottle into which he had just poured most of a fifth of Gem brand Scotch. From a chair by the fireplace, his wife Gloria watched him in amusement. When Milt saw her watching, he smiled smugly.

Those jerks, he said confidently. They’ll never know the difference.

Why do it then? Gloria asked.

For show, sweetie, for show.

Always the salesman, aren’t you, Milt? Gloria observed. Even in your own home.

So? he said unchallengingly. Anything wrong with a guy making himself look good? I’ve got to keep up my image, you know. Lamar and Wes and Leo: those jokers look up to me. They expect certain things from me. I don’t want to let them down. He put the top on the Beefeater bottle and placed it back on the shelf. At the same time, I don’t want to waste the good booze on them.

The front door chimes sounded. I’ll get it, said Gloria. Then I’ll be in the kitchen making sandwiches and coffee for all the mighty hunters. Holler when you’re ready for it.

She went out to the foyer, a shapely, loose-figured woman of forty-two, not pretty but not plain; a woman who had a sensuous mouth and knew it, who had a good body and knew it, and who, with her years of experience before she met Milt Newman, had learned to read men with the same ease that she read perfume labels. She opened the front door and found Wes Tarnak standing there with his arm draped buddy-buddy fashion around Leo Fritz’s shoulders.

You two make a lovely couple, Gloria said. Have you set the date yet?

Very funny, Glor, said Leo solemnly.

Such a wit, said Wes. And all this time I thought Milt married her for her body.

You’ll find General Newman in the War Room, gentlemen, she told them. She looked out the front door to see if Lamar York was coming, did not see him, and closed the door.

In the kitchen, Gloria put the coffee on to heat and removed two serving trays from the cabinet. The men, she knew, would all have one drink, then settle down to discussing the final details of their hunting trip. They would not be ready for refreshments for an hour or more, but if she got everything ready now, she could put it in the refrigerator and relax for a while. She put canapé dishes on the trays and got out paper napkins. Then, thinking of Milt and his image, she put the paper napkins back and got out four cloth ones.

Thank Christ he was going away for a few days, she thought absently. Now if only Crown Princess Lorraine would get the hell out of her hair for a while too, maybe she could gather her wits about her enough to decide once and for all about Lamar York.

Lorraine came into the kitchen while Gloria was thinking about her. Do you have everything ready for Daddy’s meeting? she asked.

Don’t I always? Gloria replied.

"Yes, of course. You are so efficient, Gloria. I’m sure that was one of the reasons Daddy was so attracted to you."

One of many, dear, Gloria said dryly.

Lorraine was nineteen, in her second year at UCLA. She was majoring, as far as Gloria was concerned, in bitchiness. In her father’s presence, Lorraine was as sweet to Gloria as she could be. Just like your own daughter, Milt had said more than once. So he could not understand why Gloria did not care for the girl any more than she did.

Lorraine opened the refrigerator and peered inside. "You know, Gloria, I used to do all this for Daddy before he married you. After Mother died, I mean. Whenever he was getting ready to go on hunting trips, our housekeeper, Mrs. Chella, would let me fix all the refreshments for the night before."

How nice, Gloria said disinterestedly. She had heard it all before.

Yes, Lorraine said thoughtfully, she was nice. Very much so. Of course, she added with an artificial smile, it’s nice with you here, too. At least you’re around to help all the time. Mrs. Chella had Wednesdays and Saturdays off.

The girl took a cold Coke from the refrigerator and went back up to her room. Gloria grunted softly. Just keep it up, you little bitch, she thought. One of these days she was going to slap the Princess, as Milt nauseatingly called her, up one side of the room and down the other. And if Milt didn’t like it, well, that would just be tough titty for him.

When everything was ready except the actual food, Gloria poured herself a cup of coffee and lighted a cigarette. She felt a sudden annoying itch in her pubic area, so she scratched vigorously through the stretch pants she wore. Then she sat down at the breakfast table. No sooner had she leaned back in the chair than there was a soft knock on the back door. She pulled back the curtain and looked out. It was Lamar York. With a knowing look on her face, she let him in.

Hi, he said in a boyish, engaging manner that he seemed to reserve for her.

Hi, she said back, wondering if he had watched her through the kitchen window before knocking, and if he had seen her scratch herself.

The others here yet? Lamar asked innocently, leaning casually against the counter.

As if you didn’t know. Gloria sat back down. She looked up at Lamar, finding him as always not unattractive. She had always liked him best of Milt’s friends. And liked his wife least. And she had known for a long time that he was attracted to her. That’s why, two weeks earlier when he had asked her to run away with him, she had not been shocked. Surprised, but not shocked.

Have you thought anymore about it? Lamar asked now.

Gloria looked down at her cup, experiencing a suggestion of excitement somewhere deep inside her. Yes, I have, she answered.

And?

Gloria did not answer.

Lamar waited, then said, I’m not trying to rush you. I just want to keep reminding you that I’m serious.

I know you’re serious, Lamar, Gloria said soberly.

Will you think about it some more while I’m away on the hunting trip?

Of course I will.

Good. Lamar grinned. Hey, do you like to watch police shows on TV?

Sure. Sometimes.

I do too, he confided. I watch them all. He paused a beat. Maybe soon we can watch TV together. In bed. Naked.

Lamar, you’d better go on in with the others, Gloria said. She felt warm.

Okay. As he started out, Lamar bent quickly and kissed Gloria Newman on the mouth. It was a brief, delicate, almost passing kiss, the barest brushing of their lips.

After he was gone, Gloria thought about him. He was so quiet, so gentle. What a pleasant change someone like that would be for her. After all the nights of being manhandled by King Kong Newman, the hairy heavyweight champion of the bedroom.

Gloria decided to think seriously about Lamar York.

When Lamar entered the den, Milt Newman looked over at him irritably. Where the hell have you been? You’re late. And how’d you get in? I didn’t hear you ring.

Gloria saw me coming, Lamar lied. Sorry I didn’t get here on time. I had another argument with Tish. I want her to quit work and stay home, but she insists on keeping that damn job of hers.

Wes Tarnak and Leo Fritz exchanged quick, knowing looks. They knew, because their wives had told them, that Tish York wanted very badly to quit work but could not because Lamar did not make enough money alone to support a Woodland Hills lifestyle. Wes and Leo both held in very low esteem Lamar’s job as an insurance underwriter. Since they were both employed in creative capacities—Leo with the advertising agency and Wes as a very successful architectural draftsman—they tended to look upon Lamar’s job as little more than routine clerical work. They viewed Milt, who was a pharmaceuticals salesman and had to use wit and persuasion in his occupation, far above Lamar but still well below themselves in professional status. This despite the fact that Milt Newman obviously made considerably more money than any of them.

Come on, fix yourself a drink and sit down, Milt said to Lamar. Let’s get this show on the road.

What an original saying, Lamar thought. I’ll have to remember that one. Yes, sir. I’ll skip the drink, thanks, he said, sitting down at the circular table on which Milt had a California-Nevada road map spread open.

Okay, now all of you listen up, Milt instructed. I’ve got a new route planned for us this year and I want to see what you think of it. He leaned over the map, a squat, muscular man of forty-four, beginning to go to fat around the middle, but still impressive-looking in a business suit and under his salesman’s facade. Now, however, in a sport shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked like a bartender in a waterfront saloon. I was calling on a new medical center over in the valley last week, he told his hunting partners, and I noticed that Route 14 has been widened and fixed up. I thought instead of going the way we did last year, we could drive over to San Fernando and take 14 up through Mojave to China Lake— As he talked, Milt traced the route on the map with one blunt, hairy finger. From there we can pick up 395 to Lone Pine and Bigpine. Bigpine is two hundred and twenty-seven miles; I figure we’d stop there to gas up and eat. Milt looked cautiously over at the closed den door and lowered his voice. A good thing about this route, he explained quietly, is that from Bigpine we’ll have a choice of two whorehouses.

How do you figure that, Milt? Wes asked. He was acutely aware of Candy’s panties pulling pleasantly at his crotch.

Well, look here, Milt said. From Bigpine we can take Route 3 east across the Nevada line into Esmeralda County. It’s about sixty miles to Lida Junction, right here— he tapped the map, —and that’s where the Cottontail Ranch is located. It’s one of the best whorehouses in Nevada.

What’s the alternative route? Leo asked.

Milt moved his finger back to Bigpine. Stay in California and drive up to Bishop, then pick up Route 6 and enter Nevada here, about forty-five miles north. That would take us into Mineral County. About three miles across the state line is a place called Janie’s. I’ve never been there myself, but a baby products salesman I know has Nevada as part of his territory, and he highly recommends Janie’s.

I don’t know, Milt, Lamar said in mock seriousness, I’ve never got laid before on the recommendation of a baby products salesman. You sure he’s not some kind of pervert?

Knock it off, Lamar, that’s not funny, Milt said firmly.

Lamar smiled a deliberately weak smile. Sorry, Milt.

Milt looked at’Wes and Leo. Well, what do you say? How does it sound?

Okay by me, Milt, said Leo.

Yeah, sounds good, Milt, said Wes.

Sure, fine. Great route, Milt.

Lamar?

Milt stuck his chest out an extra inch. Glad you all agree. Now let’s see— he drew a pad and pencil in front of him. Total miles by this route figures out to five hundred and fifty-six. That breaks down to a hundred and thirty-nine miles apiece. What I thought we’d do is each take two shifts of sixty-nine-and-a-half miles— he leaned back and smiled lewdly, —and I don’t want the number sixty-nine giving you guys any funny ideas when we get to the whorehouse. Remember, it’s the girl who does the eating!

Wes and Leo laughed raucously. Milt beamed with satisfaction at his joke. Lamar laughed along with them, though not as loud, because he was thinking of Gloria Newman.

Anyway, Milt said when they were quiet again, I figure we’ll leave here at five A.M., allow two half-hour stops to gas up and eat, and another two hours at the whorehouse—

Just to eat, not to gas up, Leo said. The others chuckled tolerantly at his secondhand humor. It seemed that Leo was always doing that. Lamar