The Silent Places

The author wishes to extend his gratitude to his editor, Matt Martz. Also to Lieutenant Darrell Hatfield, Oklahoma City PD (Ret.), and Lieutenant Mike Denton, Owasso PD.

On the third day of his hunting trip, Hastings found the scrape of the whitetail buck. It was in a field near a patch of hardwood forest in the Ozark Mountains. Three hours’ drive from St. Louis and about an hour to Branson, if Branson was to your liking.

The scrape on the ground was the buck’s mark, an attempt to draw out the does during the mating season, the rut. The whitetail buck would paw the ground or thrash saplings or overhanging branches with his antlers, leaving his scent from the glands on the top of his head. Letting the does know he was in town. Hastings had hunted most of his life and he knew that the buck would return and check his scrapes regularly for females attracted by the scent and the possibility of a match.

But the whitetails are smart. They possess an amazing ability to elude the hunter. They can smell the hunter hundreds of yards away, if the hunter’s dumb enough or inexperienced enough to be upwind. They know how to hide and they know their range better than any man. Contrary to popular belief, they do not run blindly in panic when sensing the hunter. They may travel just a few steps and stand perfectly still in grassy or bushy cover, their coats blending in, while the hunter walks right by, unaware. They’re sneaky, the whitetails, especially the bucks.

Hastings knew the odds of bagging one were slim. It usually took fifty hours to spot a buck, and that was for an experienced hunter. Hastings had seen plenty of signs of deer: tracks and droppings, the day and night trails, et cetera. But the scrape told him there was a buck around.

He moved away from the scrape. He walked slowly and quietly and avoided unnecessary motion, such as swinging his arms or turning his head—movements animals associate with humans.

He sort of smelled like an animal, too. For a deer can detect a freshly soaped man a mile away. Hastings had not gone so far as to use a masking scent like fox urine, but he had not bathed since arriving at the cabin three days earlier.

It was a good day to hunt. Overnight, there had been a light rain, which softened the ground, decreasing the possibility of crackling twigs or leaves underfoot. It was late November, and Hastings had feared that there would be a frost overnight and that would make the ground crusty and loud and the deer would hear him coming. The wind can carry sound as well as scent. But there had been no frost and the ground was soft.

Early morning now and the sky was gray and cloudy.

Hastings walked and scanned and soon he came to a field of tall crops stretching out for a hundred or so yards before coming to an end at a forest. The crops were brown and gray, similar to the color of a whitetail buck at this time of year. Hastings surveyed the field with his binoculars. Panned left to right, saw something near the left periphery, and stopped.

And there it was.

Oh, he was a handsome fella. Probably around 180 pounds, his antlers having maybe five points a side, which made him an older buck. His white tail was not erect, which meant he did not feel threatened. And that meant he probably was not aware of the hunter nearby.

Hastings estimated the distance between them to be about eighty yards. A humane shot would be one that killed the deer very quickly, if not instantly. The bullet would have to hit the deer’s heart or lungs or central nervous system.

Hastings was armed with a bolt-action rifle. He believed that nothing quite matched the accuracy of a bolt-action rifle. His was a Winchester model 52. It had been built in 1977, the line having then been discontinued in 1979. He had found it at an estate sale twelve years earlier and paid seven hundred dollars for it, which was a bargain. He could sell it for three times that now, but he wouldn’t.

Now he stood and watched the animal. He wanted to see if the buck would remain where he was long enough for Hastings to stalk him. He could probably shoot him now, but at this distance and with the crops in the way, the odds of a clean kill shot were slim. Besides, almost anyone could point a gun and shoot it. The expert could creep within a few feet without being detected. Hastings remained still and tried to determine if the animal was nervous or about to move.

The animal seemed unaware and not apprehensive. Hastings looked around to plot a course. He would need to remain downwind of the animal and out of sight. The crops in the field were about shoulder-high. If he crouched or went to the ground, he could get closer.

Hastings started forward, and that was when the clouds parted, just, and the sun came through and reflected off the scope of his rifle.

A glint of light. That was all it took.

The buck lifted his head and turned and saw him. A moment passed between them, Hastings remaining dead still, in the hope that he would not be noticed, but it didn’t work and the buck took off.

Hastings ran after him, going at an angle as the deer cut right across, not going for the cover of the woods, but elsewhere, and Hastings thought it was dumb, running like this after an animal that could move at thirty to forty miles an hour, but he ran anyway, keeping his rifle at his side, and then the buck went down an incline and disappeared from sight, and Hastings almost laughed at his own foolishness, but he kept going, as much out of curiosity as anything.

Hastings ran and jogged and then he reached the edge of the field and looked down the hill.

The buck was in a small lake, swimming across.

The whitetail deer is a strong swimmer. Some have been observed crossing lakes a mile wide. This buck was strong, moving through the water steadily. Hastings had no doubt he would make it to the other side. Walk out, shake the water off, and trot off to find himself a seasoning doe. After the loving, maybe tell her about the dumbass hunter who’d given himself away.

Hastings looked about. There was no tree to lean against. He could sit down, steady the rifle on his knee. Or he could lie on his stomach, shift his leg forward to steady himself, and get the shot that way. Either position would work. The deer’s movement was restrained and the kill shot would be assured.

But Hastings sighed and lowered the weapon. He knew he couldn’t do it. Not with the animal in the water, moving through it strong and sure. Not like this.

Hastings took another look at the brownish gray beast swimming away. Three days of cold and loneliness, work and rank smell for nothing.

“Maybe next year,” Hastings said. As if the buck could hear him.

They pulled Reese out of his cell at 2:12
A.M.
Three prison guards, one of them holding a riot gun on him, another gripping a nightstick, the third one with his hands on his hips, showing the others he wasn’t afraid of the prisoner.

John Reese was fifty years old. He had been in prison for twelve years now and he had never taken a swing at a guard. He was a slim man, almost of slight build, and not overly tall. But there was a coiled-up air to him. His eyes were alert and penetrating. He had kept his body strong, his wind up. Once, in the yard, an inmate had made the mistake of presuming Reese could be dominated. Reese casually snapped the man’s pinkie like a twig, kicked his leg out, then drove the palm of his hand into the man’s nose, smashing it to pulp. Reese was left alone after that.

In prison, time is an enemy—a thing to be feared and respected. You do the time, but you cannot let the time do you, even when you’re facing a life sentence.

Reese allowed himself to look at the lead guard’s watch.

Two-twelve, coming up on 2:13. The middle of the night. The time when Soviets liked to grab enemies of the state. The dreaded knock on the door in the middle of the night. Take them when they’re cold and tired and their defenses are down.

Reese thought, What more can they do to me?

He said, “What do you want?”

The lead guard said, “Warden wants to see you.”

Bullshit, Reese thought.

But he kept it to himself. Odds were, the guards themselves had not been told the whole story. He could ask them how much they knew, but he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of looking vulnerable, yet alone scared.

Soon he was out of his orange jumpsuit and back in civilian clothes they had brought him. Loose-fitting dungarees and a gray sweatshirt and a cheap windbreaker. Kmart clothes. Maybe wanting him to feel comfortable, maybe wanting him not to look like he’d broken out of prison. Looking like shit, but what the hell. He was out.

He was in the cell twenty-three hours a day as it was, behind a double steel door and with no window. Put in solitary so he couldn’t tell anyone what he was doing there. Sealed in a coffin, only breathing. If it were an hour or so less of coffin time, he would not complain. Again, he thought, What more can they do to me?

About two hours later, he began to have an idea.

He sat between two very large men in the backseat of a Chevy Suburban. The windows were tinted. Reese had looked in the backseat to see if there was anyone there. There wasn’t. If they had put him in the front seat, it would have made him nervous. A setup, possibly, for an old gangland-style execution. Get the speed up to about seventy, the tired man relaxes and leans back in his seat. Then someone behind would put the barrel of a .22 to the back of his head and put two bullets in it. The Israeli commando way, though they usually didn’t put their victims in cars.