Of Art and Air

Prologue It was the crispness of the air that allowed the smoke from the end of the barrel to be visible as it wafted up and away. His shot was true, deadly. The man, the recipient of the bullet, had been a nuisance. With him no longer around to impede the project, they should be on schedule, the money deposited with regularity into the bank account. He slowly lowered the rifle from his shoulder, resting the polished wood of the stock under his arm. Glancing at the sky, he grunted at the fast-moving storm clouds. The weather experts predicted a late snow in the Central Rockies. Not much at this latitude. Too bad. Several inches of snow would hide his tracks and hinder the recovery of Bear’s body. Turning to retrace his steps down the hill to where he had parked the truck, his mind spun with the next step of the plan. Samantha wouldn’t be an issue, tucked away as she was on the ranch in Colorado. Shaun would conduct an investigation, as was his responsibility as the town sheriff. The only obstacle left that might keep the plan from completion was Carli, and she was somewhere in Africa, not scheduled to return to the States for another three weeks. Perhaps the one who controlled the flow of finances would be able to push the case through court in Laramie before she returned. And if they couldn’t do that, then she may have to meet with an accident. That thought was followed by a misstep, his left foot sliding forward on the loose gravel covered with dead pine needles, bringing him down on his right side as the rifle was held up in his left hand. “Goddamn it!” he cursed, looking at the scrapes on his right palm, feeling the soreness in his hip. Carefully bringing his knee under him in order to leverage himself from the ground, he peered through the branches of the trees next to the trail, and stared at the eight-point buck who had yet to shed his antlers. Liquid brown eyes gazed at him, unblinking. There was knowing, a wisdom that the human failed to possess. The strong, sleek body, partially hidden in the dappled sunlight, paused in his search for forage. Moving slowly, the man brought the stock to his shoulder, and peered through the see-through mounts of the scope at the iron sites. The buck turned his head toward the northwest and sniffed the air. The crack of a rifle spooked the deer, and it bounded off into the woods. Glancing in the direction of the sound of the report, he climbed to his feet and continued toward the trailhead and his vehicle. Perhaps the customer of Tanner’s Outdoor Adventures was more successful at bringing down a trophy than he had been. An hour later, he strode to the driver’s side of the truck, placed the rifle inside a case, and set the case behind the seat. As he bumped down the service road back toward the highway, he visualized the custom homes that would soon be built on Medicine Bow Preserve, a privately owned big game hunting area within the boundaries of the Medicine Bow National Forest. One hand held the camera, the other, the lens that protruded nearly twelve inches from her face. The only movement, besides her breath, was the slight depression of her index finger releasing the shutter. Frame after frame was taken of the black-and-white striped beasts under the Jacaranda tree. Their trek through the knee-high brown grasses had taken them to the disappearing watering hole fifty yards from the closest shade. Like clockwork, the giraffes were next, the zebras moving a short distance away as a family of African elephants brought their young to play in the water and use the mud in an attempt to protect themselves from the ever-present insects. Onyx and gazelles milled around, becoming nervous as the hungry hyenas began to show interest in the fawns. Tim lowered the binoculars and kept his gaze on the slight movement of the grass as it parted, alerting those who were watching to the approach of the lioness. “Uh, Carli … we have a visitor that will very soon disrupt your setting.” As soon as Tim announced her presence, those who were often the sustenance for the predator raised their heads and began to move quickly away from the water. She continued to document their reaction, and even caught the lioness as she darted from the cover of the foliage, her two hunting partners to her left and right, and the near miss of claws to the hindquarters of a gazelle that proved to be quicker and more agile than the huntress thought. Carli’s final shot, before lowering her camera, was of the lioness panting, her burst of energy expended, and those who escaped as they scattered into the distance. Carli sighed, then rose gracefully from her crouched position to stand next to Tim. “They should have lunch prepared by the time we return to the tents. Are you hungry?” he asked. She nodded. “But not nearly as what she is,” she said and indicated the lioness and her two partners as they wandered back towards the area their pride marked as their own. “They’ll have another opportunity at dusk,” he said as he turned to cover the short distance to the safari vehicle and their guides. Tim had been her traveling partner since Carli was awarded the position of Lead Photojournalist at International Views, a monthly magazine that featured various environments around the world and those who inhabited them. Tim Moore was assistant extraordinaire. He handled the travel plans, most of the cases that contained her equipment, was fluent in French, German, and Spanish, and knew enough of a dozen other languages to get directions to their hotel, the airport, or a decent restaurant. He was a couple of years older than Carli, attractive and fit and homosexual. She loved him like a brother, and he often threatened to marry her. They were as opposite as two people could be, with Tim’s roots in a rented apartment in Greenwich Village in New York City. While Carli spent her formative years on the wildlife Preserve her father owned outside Laramie, Wyoming, Tim had been surrounded by various artists, rich culture, and international traveling. Carli was raised mainly by her father, her mother deciding that six months a year with freezing temperatures and snow was more than she wanted, so she returned to her native California. Hiking, fishing, hunting, tracking, and wilderness survival were Carli’s curriculum before and during her formal school years. She left Wyoming to attend art school, landed a handful of jobs at various news sources and magazines, then she found her permanent home at International Views. She generally returned home between assignments, but not this time. They got the shots they needed, so after lunch they would head to the city where their next flight would take them to Venezuela, via New Zealand. Disassembling her camera and lens, and withdrawing the roll of film, she had it all packed away before they arrived at the tent. They ate a hearty meal, loaded the remainder of their gear into the largest van used to transport tourists from town to the safari, and left behind the savannah of Kenya. Passing few vehicles on their way to the city, one moved slightly off to the side of the dirt road, which was the width of a single vehicle, as the van passed. The small truck continued toward the tents and the safari company that was assisting Carli Tanner, the photographer from the big American magazine that came to document the animals. Inside the pocket of the driver from the city was a telegram for Ms. Tanner. Once the truck arrived at the tents, the driver was informed that Carli and Tim had left early, and that he had probably passed the van on his way there. The one in charge of the safari and the driver conversed in their native language, attempting to decide what they should do about the message. The driver opened the envelope and read the telegram: Come home.