Page 3 of High Velocity

She shrugs. “That was Janey’s suggestion. She offered JD’s trailer which, she assured me, was sitting empty anyway. She was right, this place is peaceful and quiet. At least it was until this morning.”

The last is said in a somewhat accusatory tone. It’s a challenge I chose to ignore.

“Why did you shoot him?”

“Spring hunt opened last week and this guy was getting a little too comfortable around the more populated areas. Two birds with one stone.”

Her eyes are still fixed on the bear’s carcass, giving me a chance to take in her appearance in the pale light of dawn. She looks haggard—almost gaunt—with dark circles under her eyes, and I wonder if maybe she’s ill. The messy bun, worn sweats, and ridiculous pink Crocs she’s wearing are a far cry from the pony-tailed, buttoned-up, suit-wearing agent I know.

Something more is definitely going on and I am determined to find out what.

Two

Stephanie

“I’m so sorry.”

I wave off Janey’s repeat apology.

I’d finally braved the grocery store in town, only to bump into her in the produce section. After this morning’s encounter with Jackson at the creek, it suddenly seemed moot to try and keep my presence in town a secret. It wasn’t going to last forever anyway.

I could sense he was curious and to avoid the close scrutiny from those somber brown eyes, I left him to deal with his bear and retreated inside. There, like the coward I am, I watched him from the safety of the small bathroom window.

Jackson is a bit of an enigma. He seems moody, a bit sharp-edged at times, but then there are these odd moments when he suddenly looks inexplicably fragile. Yet, there is nothing vulnerable about his tall, powerful body, despite his artificial limb.

Yes, I did my research when I was here last year. In part because I do my due diligence in every case I work, but I also looked into Jackson in particular because there was something intriguing about him. He seemed a bit uncomfortable in his skin, and looked almost out of place in small-town Montana. What I uncovered about him gave me some insight.

Twelve years in the armed forces with an honorable, medical discharge after he lost his right leg in what was described as a roadside incident. No further details or location, which is why I figured he was likely special ops. It fits.

All of this happened two years ago, so it’s not a surprise he’s still adjusting. Both to civilian life, and living with part of him missing. Although, you’d hardly be able to tell from the way he moves. His body is strong and his strides are long and almost graceful, despite the slight hesitation when he plants his right foot.

Still, for all his physical power and grit, there is something brittle about him. I saw it again this morning.

“It’s fine,” I tell Janey, while examining an avocado for ripeness. “I’m sure he had more reason to be shocked to see me there than the other way around.”

The avocado passes muster and is placed in my cart with the rest of my groceries. I’m loading up for at least another week or two.

“I plumb forgot about the start of hunting season,” Janey comments as she makes her way around the produce bins. “JD didn’t mention anything either. It’s a good hunting spot. Last fall, the two of them took down an elk on that stretch of land just east of the creek. We still have some meat left in the freezer, if you’d like some.”

Growing up, I can’t remember ever eating game meat, although my father supposedly went out on regular hunting trips. I only discovered later he was hunting animals of the two-legged variety. I’ve tried it since and enjoy a good elk steak or venison strap, but I’ve never actually cooked the meat myself.

“I love it, but to be honest, I wouldn’t know how to prepare it.”

Janey follows me as I circle around to the fruit and toss a few Honeycrisp apples in a bag.

“JD could tell you. He usually does the meat on the grill or in the smoker, and I think I have a good recipe somewhere for a nice stew I can dig up.”

I glance at her, suddenly curious.

“Hunting doesn’t bother you? I mean, being a vet and all?”

She grins and shakes her head.

“Not in the least, as long as it’s for food. I’d rather eat that than those impersonal packaged pieces of meat you find in the cooler. It’s too easy to forget that was an animal once, raised and kept under generally poor conditions for the sole purpose of ending up on a Styrofoam tray in a grocery store. At least the animals hunted for food had a fair chance and a free life.”

I glance over at the meat section where all the packages are neatly lined up, unrecognizable as having once been a living, breathing creature, and I at once feel guilty for all the years I’ve thoughtlessly grabbed an anonymous protein for my dinner.

Janey’s rationale definitely puts the bloody tableau I finally turned my back on this morning—as Jackson processed the bear on the other side of the creek—in a different perspective. What may have looked like a lot of messy work for some meat, suddenly seems the more fair and humane approach.

---