Page 62 of Lie for a Million

In less than an hour, the client would arrive. Hubert Greenway was a retired Texas businessman who’d hunted here before. For the thrill of gunning down an elephant, he’d put down $20,000, which was less than half of what a bare-bones African hunt would cost. Others had bid higher, but Hubert had experience with shooting big game. He also had the cash to pay up front.

Charlie couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong. When the old female wasn’t riled, she was as docile as a milk cow. But an elephant was an elephant, powerful enough to kill a man with a stomp of one foot. Her size alone was imposing enough to strike terror into a hunter’s heart. Faced with a five-ton animal, even experienced marksmen had been known to freeze, too thunderstruck to shoot.

When Hubert stalked his elephant, Charlie would be standing backup with his 577 Nitro Express, a gun with the power to kill anything on four legs. Charlie had never shot an elephant, but he trusted the weapon, which was the favorite of the world’s most celebrated big game hunters.

The elephant—which Charlie still called Jasmine—was tethered behind the big mesquite clump by an ankle chain, with a flake of hay to keep her quiet. When the hunt started, she’d be turned loose and herded out by Charlie’s workers dressed as bearers. They would make a racket and prod her in the right direction. Charlie hoped she’d be mad enough to put on a good show.

A bonfire had been laid in the front yard and would be lit to welcome the client when he arrived. To add to the ambience, a recording of African night sounds would play on a speaker from inside the house.

Charlie was about to pour himself another finger of Scotch when he noticed something out of place in the carefully raked yard. It was a pile of reeking pig dung, left behind like a gesture of contempt. The blasted feral hogs had been hanging around most of the day. He’d shot a couple of them for cat meat and driven the rest off. But now they’d come by again, as if to leave him a calling card.

Using the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, he called an employee to bury the mess and make sure the hogs were gone. The workman had come with a shovel and was just digging the hole when Charlie saw headlights moving through the main gate.

Had his client arrived early? Swearing, Charlie put down his Scotch, switched on the speaker with the African night sounds, turned off the porch light, and hurried down the steps to ignite the bonfire. The kerosene-soaked wood had begun to blaze before he realized his mistake.

The driver of the approaching black SUV wasn’t Hubert Greenway. It was that God-cursed, trouble-making FBI man, Sam Rafferty.

* * *

Wearing the Glock under his jacket, Sam pulled onto the gravel strip alongside the house and stepped out of his vehicle. From where he stood, he could see the dancing flames in the front yard and hear what sounded like the track from an old Tarzan movie. In the yard, a man dressed like someone’s idea of an African native was shoveling dirt into a hole.

As Sam rounded the corner of the house, the porch light came on. The sound effects abruptly ceased. Dressed head to toe in big game hunter regalia, Charlie strode across the veranda toward him. Only then did Sam realize what must be happening. The elephant hunt was set for tonight, complete with costumes and sound effects. The star of the production—the old lady elephant—would be somewhere out of sight, awaiting the arrival of the client who’d paid big money to kill her.

Sam felt vaguely sick. He should have come here sooner. As it was, he might be too late to stop the travesty.

“This isn’t a good time, Agent,” Charlie said. “If you have anything to say to me, you’ll need to come back later.”

“You don’t seem too busy now, Charlie,” Sam said. “I can tell you’re waiting for somebody. Is it your client? Is that why you turned the light on when you realized it was me? Are you about to stage your elephant hunt?”

Charlie’s small eyes gleamed with hatred. “I told you, what I’m doing here is perfectly legal. I have a licensed business on my own property. And I have a bill of sale for the animal. Killing it is no more illegal than slaughtering a steer or a hog.”

“It may not be illegal, but it’s inhumane,” Sam said. “That poor elephant belongs in a sanctuary.”

“Now you’re talking like your bleeding-heart girlfriend.” Charlie glanced past him, looking toward the gate as if expecting to see headlights.

“Maybe so,” Sam said. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve learned some things about your property and how you got your hands on it.” Sam was bluffing now. He’d learned nothing that could be proven. He could only hope that Charlie might slip and give him more.

“What are you talking about?” Charlie sputtered. “I inherited this land from my grandmother. It was in her will.”

“Your grandmother, Ethel Grishman, was a healthy woman who sickened and died under suspicious circumstances. You didn’t even take her to a doctor or let her friend visit her before she died. When she was gone, you buried her here on the ranch, without an autopsy or even a service. But the last friend who saw her described bruising and weakness consistent with an overdose of blood thinners, possibly warfarin.”

“You’re out of your mind!” Charlie had gone rigid. “Even if that was true, which it isn’t, you wouldn’t have a chance in hell of proving it.” He glanced uneasily toward the gate, where a pair of headlights could be seen, coming closer. “I didn’t kill my grandma. And I didn’t kill that sonofabitch Frank. Now get out of here and let me get back to work.”

Using a remote device, Charlie turned off the porch light and switched on the jungle sound effects. As the headlights cleared the gate, Sam remained where he was. He’d been ordered to leave, but Charlie wouldn’t create a scene in front of an important client—especially a confrontation with a federal agent.

Sam had no power to stop the hunt and no grounds for arresting Charlie. But at least he could witness the sad event and sneak a few shots with his phone camera to share on social media. Jasmine would be glad to help with that. Maybe the photos would stir up enough outrage to get something done about Charlie.

The worker with the shovel had vanished. As the vehicle parked and the driver turned off the engine, Sam moved back into the shadow of the overhanging roof to watch and listen. Charlie swaggered down the steps to meet the newcomer, a scarecrow figure of a man in his late sixties, dressed in khakis and carrying an outsized gun case. He walked with an awkward limp.

The two shook hands. “You’re right on time, Hubert,” Charlie said. “Are you ready for some action?”

“Ready to go.” The man spoke with a Texas drawl. “With my bad knees, I’d never survive an African hunt. But I’ve vowed to shoot an elephant before I die. This will be my last chance.”

“You told me you had a rifle that would do the job.” Charlie glanced at the heavy carrying case.

The man looked old, his youthful vigor long faded. If this was to be his last hunt, he clearly meant to go out in a blaze of glory. “I brought my new Heym Express bolt action,” he said, setting down the case. “I hope it’ll do the job.”

“It should,” Charlie said. “I’ve never shot that model, but I’ve read some good reviews. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be behind you with my 577 Nitro.”

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