Page 26 of The List
DAY EIGHT
H UNTING IN G EORGIA REQUIRED A LICENSE. T HERE WERE RULES. Regulations. Specific times of year when specific things could be killed.
And all with defined limits.
None of that mattered to Paul Zimmerman, who loved to roam the wetlands bordering Eagle Lake for hogs.
Several good reasons accounted for why Zimmerman loved to hunt hogs.
First, they were unregulated, so there was no need to obtain a license just for the privilege of killing one.
Second, there was no season, which meant he didn’t have to worry about the game warden every time he got the urge to hunt.
Third, and somewhat most important, the carcasses provided a bountiful supply of meat.
And with a wife and five children to feed, Zimmerman made good use of fresh pork chops, sausage, and, his personal favorite, chitlins.
Provided, of course, that hogs could be found to kill.
According to the file, though, Paul Zimmerman, Priority Number 7, knew how to find hogs.
He was skilled at spotting their tracks, scenting their droppings, and following their trails.
He was also intimately familiar with the forests of northwestern Woods County and southwestern Screven County, particularly Solomon Swamp, where boars and sows loved to congregate.
And what hog wouldn’t?
Plenty of trees, a bountiful supply of nuts and berries, and extensive wetlands fed by the nearby Ogeechee River. Paul Zimmerman spent at least a couple of days each month roaming the murky expanse.
Which Frank Barnard knew.
After returning from west Georgia and his successful rendezvous with Melvin Bennett, Barnard had checked the company personnel rosters over the weekend and learned that Tuesday was Zimmerman’s rotation day.
The twenty-four hours allocated so the body could readjust to the coming rigors of staying up all night.
Zimmerman worked shift at the mill, particularly graveyard, the hourly bonuses paid for pulling all-nighters a big help with the family bills.
He was scheduled to start back on graveyard shift tomorrow.
Another week of working 11:00 to 7:00, sleeping all day, then stretching the evenings into chores around the house and time with his kids.
Barnard had been perched in the tree stand nearly an hour waiting on Priority Number 7.
Summer engulfed the weathered boards in a wall of aromatic pine resin, the thick needles ideal cover, the stand sitting high among a cluster of tall pines in Solomon Swamp’s higher ground.
The morning air was stifling, the ground moisture only magnifying the discomfort.
Luckily, he was high enough that the mosquitoes had yet to find him, but the yellow flies were out in force.
The file on Paul Zimmerman stressed several varied places the man loved to hunt, but Barnard had taken a calculated chance that Zimmerman would use his day off to head for Solomon Swamp.
Which was exactly what Number 7 had done.
An hour ago he’d discreetly followed when Zimmerman left his house in Concord.
Fortunately, the Priority did not bring any of his dogs, as they would have added complications in processing.
Once sure of Zimmerman’s ultimate destination, he’d rushed ahead and stealthily made his way to the northern part of the swamp, hustling to take up a position in the stand.
Per procedure, yesterday he’d cleared the method of processing with De Florio.
“A hunting accident is the only viable method that will not raise suspicion,” he’d said.
“Is there no other way?”
The tone of De Florio’s question had suggested he was considering his proposal.
“The man’s healthy. No illnesses or afflictions. Anything medical would raise questions. Unfortunately, accidental is the only way, something related to hunting the most logical.”
“All right,” his boss finally said.
He felt he should add, “Frankly, Mr. De Florio, this Priority should not have been approved with the rest. Too many risks.”
“I agree,” was the only comment before the line went dead.
He caught sight of a bit of orange in the distance.
Through field glasses he watched Zimmerman push his way north through the vegetation toward the thicker swamp near the Ogeechee.
He’d fully scouted the area yesterday. The wrinkled cedars and saw palmettos that thrived in the soupy soil close to the river would have provided him little cover.
Farther east was where he’d discovered the deer stand and its convenient proximity to a defined trail.
It was a gamble as to the ultimate choice of route and, if wrong, he would have to track Zimmerman down and shoot him on the ground.
But with the Priority now in sight that risky venture wouldn’t be necessary.
He set the binoculars aside and cradled the rifle, focusing through the telescopic scope. A high-pressure sound suppressor bulged at the long barrel’s end.
What would happen afterward?
A hunting accident would be high on the list of possibilities.
The local sheriff’s department and the Georgia Department of Natural Resources would send people who would ultimately determine that the shot came from a certain direction and above.
How could they not? He’d left more than sufficient breadcrumbs for them to follow.
That was the thing about his line of work.
Make it believable and plausible and most will go where you want them to go.
Zimmerman was a hundred yards away, the orange vest winking in and out among the ground cover.
Hunters sometimes shot one another.
Seventy-five yards.
It happened all the time. Especially in dense woods like this.
He brought the rifle level and aimed through the scope. Orange filled the center of the crosshairs. He waited until Zimmerman drew closer.
Fifty yards.
He squeezed the trigger. A slight jolt, then a faint pop accompanied the round leaving the barrel. An instant later Zimmerman’s skull shattered in an explosion of blood and brains.
The body dropped to the ground.
He lowered the rifle.
Damn, he was a good shot.
7:15 A.M.
B RENT FELT A LITTLE STRANGE WITH THE TOPIC OF CONVERSATION.
“Did you spend the night?” Hank asked.
“No. But it was late when I got home.”
They filled a booth at Billy’s having breakfast. The diner was a downtown Concord landmark, a monument to glass, linoleum, and grease. Brent was working on the Split Rise Special—two eggs over easy, grits, toast, and coffee—and Hank wanted to know all about his Saturday night with Ashley.
“Aren’t you supposed to be after me with a shotgun or something, defending the honor of your daughter?”
“Little late for that, isn’t it?”
He chuckled. “You could say that.”
“What did your mother say when you got in?”
“She was asleep. But she wouldn’t have said anything.”
“You need to talk to her,” Hank said. “She might could help.”
He’d ignored that advice once before, years ago, but couldn’t resist saying, “I remember somebody else here who wouldn’t listen to anyone either.”
Hank seemed to instantly know what he meant. “You were right. I should have handled things with Loretta different. I screwed up. I admit it. And lost a wife along the way. But don’t you make the same mistake.”
He knew all about the regret Hank harbored, allowing selfishness to ruin his marriage.
The only thing that eventually grabbed his friend’s attention was when his wife told him she’d fallen in love with another man and was leaving.
No anger. No hard feelings. No nothing. Just over.
He recalled Hank coming to him dazed. Reality had hit home like the blare of an air raid siren.
A week later he drew up the divorce papers that quietly ended their long marriage.
Hank was wrong about one thing, though. He really couldn’t talk to his mother about any of this, not with what she was about to endure.
The prognosis was not good. The doctors had said her mind would gradually slip away.
It could take a few years, and medication could help, but there was little that could be done to stop it.
He hadn’t said a thing to anyone on the subject and debated telling Hank, but decided against it.
So he simply said, “Mom doesn’t need to be involved in this. ”
“You might be surprised. Give her a chance.”
He wondered about the full court press. Hank rarely did anything without a thought-through purpose.
“I should have kept my ass in Atlanta,” he said. “I knew this would happen with Ashley. It’s really hard for me to shake things.”
“You didn’t kill Paula. She killed herself.”
“I never should have said what I did.”
“But it was the truth.”
“It should have been said years before.”
Actually it had been, in a variety of ways, but Paula never listened to what she did not want to hear. Only on that last day had her ears opened.
“May God forgive me, Hank, but a part of me was relieved when she died. Ending it with her would have been hell. She would have made sure of that. I still hate myself for feeling that way.”
“Time to get real, Brent. Isn’t that what you told me once? Paula was selfish. You two were always oil and water. That marriage was based on one thing, and you know it.”
That it was.
Two weeks after they returned from the honeymoon, Paula lost the baby. He always wondered if that had been intentional or a true act of God. They resolved to try again but, thankfully, no success ever came.
They’d definitely been oil and water.