My thoughts were on another trophy deer--like the one mounted above the mantle on the wide, rock fireplace. Everybody knew South Texas whitetails were legendary. The guys at camp would be in awe of anyone who had bagged one. I might teach these mountain boys the art of rattlin' up the muy grandes.

It turned out frightfully different.

***

The group of men that made up Cheat Mountain Surf Fishing Association had never been any closer to the surf than the laundry-detergent box of the same name. If they had anything in common at all, it was that most of them hadn't even been out of West Virginia.

The members invited me to join their hunting and fishing club. I had no illusions--I got invited because two of the guys were subordinates of mine at the plant I managed. If it was a form of ass kissing, I suppose it worked. I jumped at the chance to have a place to hunt.

I had arrived in West Virginia six months before, from the plant I managed in Texas. The transfer was a promotion I couldn't pass up--despite the reluctance of my wife Beth, and the outright protests of my son Jon. I understood how they felt. Jon was a high school sophomore, rooted in his school and his friends, and recently named captain of the golf team. Beth was really involved in the church and sang in the choir.

Jon presented his case to me one night after a particularly bad business trip. His friend Chip and their parents had offered to take him in as a boarder, so he could finish high school in Texas. If I could contribute a hundred dollars a month for the added groceries and incidentals, he could just live with them after we moved away.

On some other night the plan may have hit me differently. On this night however, the failed contract-signing by an important customer had made me explosive when I should have been calm. I said, "absolutely no way--this family stays together--thick or thin."

I could have left it at that noble statement--but I just had to launch into the rest of my canned tirade. I gave them the whole collection--about how I worked my ass off for the family, and how the company had given us such a good life. "Now when the company asks me to do something for them, I get resistance." I stopped to catch my breath.

"Where's your loyalty when I need it? Where's your little sacrifice for the good of the whole?" I walked out of the room, trailing words like "thankless," and "lack of respect," and "selfish-self-centered."

Beth told me later--as she tossed her house shoes in my direction from the bathroom-"you were a real jerk tonight. Your version of a family conference is like Ross Perot chairing the PTA."

"When will you learn," she added, "kids are people too?"

Perot? My God. I sunk my head deeper into the pillow and didn't make a sound--my eyes fixed on the faint glow of the Looney-Tunes nightlight. Her words were only background noise to my thoughts of the career change. Thank God the offer came before the Noble-Pierce contract came back to us unsigned. One day later and I might have not even been asked.

Jon and Beth would get over it, like always. The company moved us seven times, and they bitched about all of them. Besides, by Jon's age, I had been around the world three times with a father who never even talked to me at all. At least I managed to watch most of Jon's golf matches. They'll get over it--they're troopers.

I fell asleep, dreaming about the contract. It was a weird dream--Noble and Pierce signed the papers in the back seat of a red limo beside a wedding cake with lighted candles. Then we screwed up their first order and they cancelled it. I got fired the next day--in a room that looked identical to the funeral home parlor where my mother's remains had rested in an open coffin. Jon and Beth were dressed in some kind of white military uniforms. My bosses refused to sign the register when the funeral home attendant asked them. Beth brought a single rose over and stuffed it viciously into the breast pocket of my black suit, its petals crushing into a blushed wad.

I awoke in a hard jerk. My eyes were refocusing on the nightlight. I wiped the sweat from the back of my neck with the sheet, and reached over to touch Beth on her shoulder--reassuring myself that she was still there. The fog-green digital clock said 3:24 a.m.

Deer season opened the morning after next. The Cheat Mountain Surf Fishing bunch had something planned at the deer lease called "Buck Eve." It was a sacred rite held each year the night before the hunt. Buck Eve was my first chance to meet most of men who made up the club. Members could arrive anytime after noon to help celebrate the long-awaited event that came with sunrise.

It was silly, but I had in mind a grand entrance. I deliberately tried to hit every mud hole on the way in, so the Jeep would look rugged. I took the winch cover off so the winch and grill guard would be prominent as I drove up into the clearing of the camp with four-wheel drive engaged. I intentionally left the CB radio on channel 19, because of all the traffic on it. I knew everyone would notice the cracking of the radio. I jerked to a stop, and the eight-foot antenna swung violently--like on Barney Fife's cruiser.

The cabin was rugged and neglected. Rusty, one of the guys who worked for me, had not done it justice when he called it primitive. The few windows it had were just cobbled into the old barn lumber at free-form angles. They seemed to be all different sizes, and most of the panes had been filled in with plywood squares. The tin roof had been scabbed with mismatched metal so that it resembled a patchwork quilt.

In the yard were four men I didn't know. I introduced myself around. Not one of them mentioned my grand entry, the Jeep, or the winch. The code of one-upmanship goes like this: If you can't exceed, better, or improve on something someone else has or says, say nothing. I must have had the best rig there. They weren't about to say so.

Rusty came out of the cabin, followed by Hal, the other subordinate of mine. We conducted some small talk about the cabin, and Hal asked me if we got such and such order in yet. I figured I would get one bit of housekeeping out of the way right then and there.

"I make it a point to never mention work when I am relaxing."

"Me too," said Hal.

Just then, two more guys drove up in a candy-red International Scout. It looked like it had been restored--a magnificent job of it. They hauled out a medium size doe, which had been skinned and gutted.

"Rick--you came through--we got camp meat!" said Hal.

It was part of the ritual. An illegal kill--to be cooked on the big barbecue grill, and eaten with corn on the cob, and beans cooked with wild onions the men called ramps.

"Buck-Eve tradition," said Rick. "Show me to the Jack Daniels boys, Mr. Rick has a powerful hankerin'."

I thought I fitted in nicely. As Buck Eve wore on, we ate plentifully of tender venison, and drank excessively. As dusk began to settle in, the conversation turned to guns, hunting, past kills, and big buck stories. One-upmanship returned in all its glory. They were fascinated with my tales of muy grande deer and the Texas Hill Country.

Rick Stavinhoa was a car salesman from Clarksburg. He looked like a woodsman--neglecting to shave for probably the last month in preparation for this night. He was clothed top to bottom in Eddie Bauer hunting wear. A package of Red Man tobacco billowed from his breast pocket like a handkerchief on a tuxedo.

The guy they called Mutton worked for Kraft (TM) foods, which explained all the rounds of cheese in the cabin and the cabinets stuffed with dairy products. He seemed polite but a little meek, and had very little to say. Rick stayed on his case about his weight--I thought a little brutally.

"When old Bubble-Butt here hauls ass tomorrow, he'll have to make two trips." I thought it a bit trite-a really worn out joke. Nobody laughed.

I liked one of the guys right away. Harvey Stavinhoa was Rick's brother. He owned the Dairy Queen in Buckhannon. He said it was his favorite time of year, because the store closed in October and didn't reopen until April.

"We keep the same schedule as Daylight Savings. "Spring-up, Fall-back," he said.

He turned out to be the storyteller of the bunch, and perhaps had enjoyed most of the real hunting success in the group. Inside the cabin were Polaroid pictures of all the kills, and Harvey's poses outnumbered everybody else's two to one.

The guy they called 'Lyin' Ray" brought out a three-foot square of plywood covered with an aerial photo of the 1000-acre lease. Because I was the only new member of the group, Ray took time to explain its purpose. Each hunting stand on the property had a number, and a corresponding numbered pin marked its location on the map. Members chose their hunting spot, and hung a little tag with their name on it on the pin. That way, every hunter knew the location of everybody else. If someone got to camp late, he checked the log-in board before leaving out to hunt--staying clear of the posted hunters. Once back in camp, the tags were removed, thus releasing the location to other hunters. It was a simple and safe way to keep track of everybody.

The guys began tagging out in a drawn-name lottery. I drew last-a kind of pecking order penalty for new members. Then the guys gave me their recommendations as to the leftovers, all talking at once.

Harvey said, "Hey--try number 27. Cleo killed an eight point from there on opening day last year." I thought--strange that Cleo didn't pick it again this year.

Hal came over beside me and whispered, "I picked 23. I always hunt 19, but I hoped no one would choose it and would leave it available for you. It's the best spot on this side of the creek. But with that Jeep, you can cross the creek anyway. So it's up to you." He kept his finger on the 19 pin as if someone might try to crowd in.

Guys were grinning. I think they knew he was kissing ass again. I chose 14--Ray said there was no 13--bad luck. 14 was across the creek almost to the western border of the property, but appeared on the map to be thick with cover. I wanted a trophy buck, not just anything. I picked it, to Hal's obvious disappointment.

"19's hotter." He muttered under his breath.

Hal gave me detailed instructions how to find it in pre-dawn, following paint marks on the woods-road. "Use high beams," Rick said. "The stand has reflective paint on the posts."

"You'll find a camo-blind 100 yards past the stand to hide the Jeep. It's easy to spot. It's got reflective paint on it too," said Hal. "Man I wish you could have come out before season and scouted the place, I think you would've picked 19. But 14 is good too--if you like heavy cover. There are three big clearings and a pipeline right-of-way you can see from the stand too."

One by one, guys dropped off into the bunkhouse for the night. The dew began to settle in from the mountains. It was getting damp and chilly. The campfire had diminished to a few glowing coals. I found my way to my bunk and fell asleep easily--the old Jack Daniels knockout punch.

***

I climbed into the creaky plywood box stand, and with my flashlight, figured out how to prop open the slat windows on three sides. I had arrived too early. I was there for over an hour before the gray of the morning began to creep over the top of Cheat Mountain. A heavy fog draped over me about fifty feet above the ground. The sounds of nature were everywhere. I heard a gobbler come out of its roost to join the birds welcoming in the dawn.

It wasn't good light when I heard the first shot way off to my left. Sounded maybe a half-mile away. I hoped Hal or Rusty had bagged something nice.

My thoughts drifted off to Jon and Beth. I smiled as I thought about how well they had come to like West Virginia, just like I expected. Jon quickly became the ace golfer on the team, and helped win six tournaments for them with under-par rounds. The hilly golf terrain favored his long ball and the exceptional roll he always seemed to get. He played the hillsides to his advantage, because he could hook or slice on cue. Beth joined a quilting circle at the church, and found the West Virginians to be wonderfully plain and simple people. Beth didn't put on airs, and she liked people who were the same way.

As daylight came, I noticed several large rocks in the area had been flipped over. The ground beneath them had been pawed as if tilled for a crop. Black Bear had been through here--maybe last night. Something--maybe the cub--had climbed a nearby spruce tree and absolutely destroyed it, shredding its bark and stripping its limbs. I would give anything to see one in the wild.

The stand sat closer to the edge of the lease than the map indicated. I hoped I had found number 14 and not something else. I didn't recall the fence line being so close.

I heard a faint rustling in the brush, then a stick snapped prominently behind me. I turned around in the swivel seat, and opened the remaining slat window to my back. There, crossing the fence about a hundred yards north, I saw a hunter in full camo, without any blaze-orange clothing whatsoever. Harvey warned me that the lease next to ours was a day-lease, meaning people paid a per-hunt fee to gain access. A day-lease is dangerous--one never knows who is in the woods or where, and jungle rules prevail.

Now the man crossed onto our property, and started moving parallel to me. I don't think he saw my stand, and he couldn't see the Jeep in its hiding place back to the south.

I wanted to see him better--maybe it was one of our guys chasing a kill--so I broke a rule no hunter should break. I put my scope on him, with my finger outside the trigger guard.

I saw clearly that the man was a stranger and his very presence pissed me off. He ruined my chance for any trophy-that's for sure.

I lowered my gun, and began to wave my bright orange hat out the window, hoping to catch his attention. He continued to stare at the ground, as if tracking something. He moved slowly--maybe six or so steps per minute. Now and then he knelt to look at something, like he was following a blood trail, or looking for scrapes.

I raised my gun again. He showed me a full side view, and I put the cross-hairs on his right shoulder. I tried to see his face. He kept it tilted down, and didn't look my way. I thought--I could drop this bastard in his tracks--my 7mm Magnum would carve him into two pieces like a ripe cantaloupe. Looking at him through the scope gave me a strange and sudden rush, and the palms of my hands started sweating. I decided to lower my gun.

The crash and echo shook the stand like someone had jumped on its tin roof with all fours. My rifle lurched upward, striking the top of the window as the scope jammed into my nose. Instantly I felt blood running down my face. It dripped onto my blaze-orange vest--a rivulet of red.

I sat stunned and confused. My gun had fired. It couldn't have--my finger was not on the trigger. No, my finger had been caressing the trigger guard--I remembered it plainly.

I raised the gun again to check out the stranger. I bet he was scared shitless. My heart was beating wildly as I scanned the place he had last been. He was nowhere in sight. Probably hit the dirt, crawling back to the fence. I couldn't even hold the gun steady--I quivered-in the same way I did when staring at a big set of horns that filled my scope.

I saw no sign of him. I looked at my watch. 6:18.

I lowered the gun. I shook more wildly now, my legs trembling as if controlled by a puppeteer. I fought off the growing possibility…the bizarre possibility….

I left the stand, missing the last three rungs of the ladder and hitting the ground hard-- almost crumpling down in the soft, wet dirt. The barrel of my gun stuck six inches into the mud. I walked slowly toward where I last saw the man, near the three spruce trees, just to the right of a large clump of mountain laurel.

My heart dropped into my boots. His body had suddenly appeared as if tossed at me--a crushingly vivid scene-- blood strewn all around. My legs were weak, and unable to move me back. My left foot rested less than six inches away from him. I saw what must be a beard. It flowed out from under the cap that covered one side of his face.

I moved clumsily around to his other side, a better vantage to his face. His eyes were open in a glazed stare. The front of his camo jacket had a hole in it the size of a coffee can. I saw shards of bone and the gray of lungs. The mountain laurel was flocked with pieces of him.

I sat down on the ground hard. My body turned numb all over--except for the growing pain in my rear from the sharp rock I had sat on when I collapsed. My face burned. I leaned over to my side and vomited last night's celebration. The sourness of too much whiskey overpowered the fresh mountain air.

Suddenly panic seemed to lift me from my body-that puppet feeling again. I felt as if some ruthless master was controlling me. I forsook every rule, every sensibility, and every bit of honor. I had no choice. My respectability left me in an instant. There was no time to think. I acted with rote movements and no conscious plan.

Suddenly I found the camp shovel from the Jeep in my hands--but I did not place it there. I dragged the man back to the day lease and buried him and his rifle in a small ravine. I piled on rocks and three inches of dirt. Somehow I got the Jeep and winched a twelve-foot log over the grave.

At least ten times I had verbal exchanges with myself--stupid--crazy--all the harsh words that come with arguing with conscience and duty. My reasoning was dominated with thoughts of Beth, Jon, and my career. Then there was the clear realization--even if lucky--very lucky--it's all about accidental manslaughter. But I could visualize some eager jury settling all their lifelong grievances on this idiot from Texas.

I was still acting out of body. I worked furiously, cleaning up the place where he had fallen. I scooped up all the blood-soaked dirt and put it into the plastic bucket I carried for dove hunting. I cut a tree branch and swept away all my footprints and the trail the body had made when I dragged it.

Another ten times I paused to think in muddled logic. Once I even changed my mind. I thought-I'll dig him up and face the music. It was an accident. But people would ask the obvious--how could a skilled hunter put a scope on a man--ever? And there was the old over-used excuse--I thought he was a deer. Who the hell would believe that? The jury would visit the scene and find I had a clear view for more than 100 yards in every direction. In his summation, the lawyer would say the view from my stand was in CinemaScope and Technicolor, and the jury would snicker.

No. It had to be like this. I had cast my lot. I had wrestled the man and I had wrestled myself. I was soaked with sweat in the forty-degree weather.

My sweat cooled with the next thought. All of this might be moot if the hunter had come in there with some buddies--there was a real likelihood--and what if they saw the whole thing? If they saw me dispose of his body it would just add to the charges. They could see my Jeep for sure--sitting in the field where the man had lay. My eyes searched the woods line. If anyone was there they were hidden and quiet.

It took two hours to cover my trail. I want back to 14 and removed all sign of having been there. I retrieved the 7mm shell, re-secured the slat windows, and brushed the traces of mud from the ladder. I drove the Jeep back into the camo blind and sat in it for another hour, watching the day-lease for anybody who might have been hiding. I re-thought everything a hundred times. I reviewed all my efforts to make sure I hadn't missed even the slightest clue or piece of evidence. Fifty times I must have said--what the hell am I doing?

I returned to camp, the last to get back. I wanted to look normal. I felt like I needed to skin myself in order to do so. People can read faces like tea leaves. Damn--I forgot to clean the mud out of my gun barrel. I put it back in the hard case with all the mud on it. Shit--what if one of them wants to see the Weatherby?

I saw a big ten-point hanging on the deer rail, and the guys were standing around it. It must have been Harvey who shot early. He was telling the story to the eager listeners. They didn't acknowledge me walking up.

Finally, they saw me. Mutton said, "Hey I heard that cannon of yours at daylight, didn't I?"

"Not me," I said. "I didn't see anything but a couple of squirrels. Heard a gobbler just about daybreak--that's all I can show for the morning. I got lost--never found 14, had to sit under a spruce the whole time. Finally I saw the stand after daylight, but I didn't want to walk over to it and scare the deer. I missed finding it by about 200 yards. Found the place for my Jeep, though, and I hid it okay."

"Hell, if you found the hiding place, you had to drive by the stand. The old road runs right by it," said Harvey. He looked at me in puzzlement.

"Well, I missed it. Nice deer, Harvey."

I listened again and again about Harvey's kill. I heard the words, and I nodded and smiled as he talked, but my mind was going over what had happened--over and over--like a shirt tumbling in the dryer.

"Sure you didn't shoot?" Hal asked, his face plastered with a grin. They were pressing me on whether or not I shot because of a camp custom. If a hunter misses a deer, his shirttail is cut off and tacked to an oak they called the Virgin Tree.

"Wish I had," I said. "I've always hated this shirt."

I left the camp after lunch. I told them Beth was feeling bad and I better check on her. I knew that leaving camp on opening day was the worst thing a hunter could do. I could just hear them after I drove off. There would be a lot of talk and poking of fun. I imagined what they might be saying…

"Candy-ass"

"Not even making the evening hunt on opening day--who invited this fool?"

"Little bit of a wimp, ain't he Hal? Still feel like sucking up to the wimp, Hal?"

I could imagine what Harvey might say: "I know one goddam thing. The asshole shot that cannon--I can tell a 7mm from anything else in the woods. He missed a buck and lied like hell. I bet he never killed a deer in his life, let alone a muy grande or whatever the hell he calls it."

"Give him a break," Hal probably said. "He's an office-type."

I crossed my fingers tight on both hands. I hoped they wouldn't go out there and poke around, looking for an empty shell.

***

As she did a hundred times before, Beth shook me violently from my dream. She had a wet towel in her hand, swabbing my forehead and wiping my chest. My pillow was saturated and the sheet felt clammy. My eyes bulged with fear.

I could barely breathe. "You need to get a checkup. This is happening every night--wrecking my sleep too," said a hoarse-voiced Beth. "I think you eat too late. Maybe we should eat when you first get home at night."

I didn't dream of unsigned contracts anymore. I had a sequel--I knew I would never be free of it.

I walked the same ground night after night, leading three men behind me--picks and shovels in hand. My hands were cuffed, and a ten-foot log chain connected my wrists to one across my ankles. Somebody poked me from behind with a nightstick. I stumbled. I pointed to a spot, and the men began to dig. Out came rocks so familiar I could have given them names. The men wore paper masks over their mouths and noses. They were dressed alike in business suits and blue ties, but had on Eddie Bauer hunting boots and leggings. One of them was always Harvey. Another one was always the President of my company.

They fished the corpse out of its hole, dragging it up onto a black plastic sheet with zippers with red tassels tied to them. Someone placed a lighted candelabra there.

Gently they turned the corpse over, one of its ears coming off. The face glowed with terror, its hollow eyes wriggling with worms. It was me. It was always me.

^