Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Before I’d managed to climb down from my stool, someone tugged at my sleeve. It was Racine’s elderly cook. She actually curtsied before handing me an envelope. It contained a note written in a faint wavy hand:

“To whom it may concern: The painting ‘A City Rose’ was done by me in New York in the spring of 1925. It was presented as a token of affection to my good friend Mabel Tuohy, who kept it until her death.”

The handwriting firmed up for the signature: “Gladys Glenn Racine, Agujero, New Mexico, February 1950.”

The Hunters by J. F. Freedman

J. F. Freedman is the author of five very successful novels published by Viking, Dutton, and NAL, but he has never before had a short story published in a national magazine. This short fiction debut comes at around the time the paperback of his most recent novel, Above the Law, is due to appear in bookstores. EQMM extends a warm welcome to a writer we hope will devote more time to short stories in coming years.

1

They got up. It was dark out. They went down to the kitchen in their sock-covered feet, carrying their boots so they wouldn’t make any noise. In the kitchen they made themselves breakfast. Bacon, fried eggs, toast, coffee. It was going to be a long day and it would be cold out. Then they made their lunch, thick roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwiches on rye bread. They wrapped the sandwiches in wax paper and stuck them in a paper bag. They put in some Snickers and Hershey bars, too. They filled their thermoses with hot coffee and screwed the lids on tight. The older one had a hip flask that had been their father’s. He filled it with whiskey and stuck it in his back pocket. A nip to ward off the cold, not enough to fog their aim.

The official hunting season was short this year. Too much game had been taken over the past few years and the Forestry Service wanted to maintain sizeable herds, so they’d cut the schedule in half. In two more days, there would be no more legal hunting until the following year. Which meant hardly anyone would be venturing deep into the hills until summer, when the area would be an attraction for hardy hikers.

The short deer season didn’t matter to them. They weren’t hunting for meat. The hunter’s freezer was already stocked. He’d taken two does earlier in the season; he had plenty of venison. This was a predator hunt, which required a special license that cost several hundred dollars. For that fee, the hunter was allowed to take a single predator from the cull list. The list this year included mountain lion, bobcat, wolverine, and for the first time in seventy years, wolf. Wolf packs had been reintroduced into the area a decade ago, and the relocation had been so successful that a very limited hunt had been approved this year.

Thirty licenses had been sold statewide. They had bought one of them.

The predator season was one week long. If a licensee didn’t bag an animal, he lost his money. It was an expensive crapshoot for experienced and determined hunters.

They had cleaned their rifles the night before. The rifles were old and reliable. They had hunted with them many times over the years, but this would be their first and last hunt of the season together.

They had less than a dozen bullets for the day, whatever was left over in the box from last year. More than enough ammunition for the prize they were going after. They didn’t know for sure if they’d find the trophy they were seeking, but if they did, one shot should be enough. They were both good marksmen. When they got a target in their sights, they didn’t miss. Their scopes had been calibrated at the beginning of the season. They were dead-center perfect.

They finished getting dressed. Heavy wool pants over poly longjohns, wool shirts, bulky-knit sweaters. Fleece-lined canvas jackets that came down to their thighs for warmth, and to cut the wet wind or rain, if it came to that. It wasn’t supposed to rain. They would be uncomfortable enough, waiting out there, without having to get rained on. But if it did rain, they would stick it out. They were intent on bagging a trophy, and if you had to get wet or cold, that was the price you paid.

It wasn’t that far to where they were going hunting, less than sixty miles. They would get there at daybreak, giving them time to set up and get comfortable (as comfortable as they could get considering it was winter and there was snow and ice on the ground and the temperature would be around freezing all day).