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.
