The doe was lined up perfectly. Grazing, away from the rest of the herd, which was usual in this cold weather. Just walking in the woods, coming in and out of the trees, head down looking for food. Then a few quick upward jerks, around, left, right, then, satisfied she was alone, back to foraging.
Quint had spent most of the morning waiting. He had built a blind for himself out of ferns, twigs and branches. Now he sat inside, unmoving, barely breathing. Wearing his weather-resistant camo gear. Just watching. Waiting. Like he had been trained to do.
Looking down the Schmidt and Bender scope atop his Tikka TX3 Hunter. Perfect in low light, which was all there was in this winter forest, even in the middle of the day. It had a range of nearly half a kilometre and he was well practised in its use. Nothing escaped him when he was hunting.
He looked at the deer once more. Lined her up in his sights. That thin black cross, its apex coming to rest on her neck, then moved up ever so slightly, gently, to rest on her head, just behind the ear . . . a clean shot – only one – and it would be over for her. The sound would ring out around the forest, scare away birds, other deer, but it would echo away to nothing. Fading as quickly as the deer’s life. Just one shot.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Just one shot . . .
He took his finger away. Breathed in deeply. Not today. She was lucky. She would live. Go back to the herd, her children, oblivious to how close she had come to the end of her life.
Quint still watched her. Observed her movements. A hunter could learn more about their prey by watching them than by killing them. It made the conclusion of the hunt more satisfying, more complete. A single bullet wasn’t always the correct way to do things. Each hunt was individual, it called for an individual kill. Some called for involvement, some for distance. Some led to that incomparable feeling of emotional nourishment, others, unfortunately, not. Most of them didn’t, if he was honest. But that didn’t stop him hunting. It just made that rarefied high all the more intense when he finally experienced it. And that was what drove him on.
Sometimes, like today, it wasn’t necessary to kill. It was enough just to know that he could, that the power of life and death was within him, to use when he wanted to.
A gust of cold wind blew through the forest, moving debris on the forest floor, the branches in the trees. The doe looked round, suddenly skittish. As if sensing her own vulnerability she turned, moved quickly back to the rest of the herd. Quint took his eye away from the sight. Looked up. Rain was on the wind, slanting in towards him, hitting him side on.
He stood up. There was nothing else to be gained from sitting here now. He had proven his point to himself, and anyway, the moment was broken. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he walked back to his tent.
He completed his security tests to ensure no one had tampered with anything. He examined his motorbike. No one had touched it. He walked all round the tent, checking that the patterns of branches and twigs he had arranged hadn’t been disturbed. They were still intact. Then finally he opened the tent. Inside was everything he needed to survive in the wild. The large metal box was still locked. He took the key from around his neck, opened it, inspected its contents. Two handguns. One assault rifle. Ammunition. It was all there. And a manila folder on top. He took the folder out, lay the contents on the bed. Two photographs with names attached. He placed them side by side, studied them.
Pearl Ellacott.
Lila Killgannon.
He nodded to himself, gathered up the written information that went along with them. Read it once more, familiarising himself with it. Then, once he was sure it had sunk in, he picked everything up, put it back in the file, placed the file back in the box and locked it.
The rain hit the outside of the tent like hard pellets fired from an air rifle. Quint was hungry. Thirsty. He took out the camping stove, went about making himself something to eat and drink.
Once more way of measuring out time’s passing.