The great white hunter was on the prowl.
Now there is one less hunter to compete with me for the precious little ones.
Hunter held out a small scrap of paper.
Dean turned quickly and Hunter grinned.
Anyone would have known that tub of lard wasn't Byrne, Hunter fumed as he paced up and down the room.
Dean asked Hunter for the address, just in case.
Hunter took out a set of keys and unlocked the doors and trunk.
The beast wounded at Borodino was lying where the fleeing hunter had left him; but whether he was still alive, whether he was strong and merely lying low, the hunter did not know.
Hunter returned with the coffee while he was still talking and pulled over a chair with his toe.
Detective Hunter advised the Sentinel by phone that tidal conditions on the Chesapeake might make retrieving a body difficult.
Hunter had interviewed the fisherman who thought he saw a body floating in the bay.
"Glad to see y'all are still in a happy mood," Hunter said, an exaggerated smile on his face.
"The wife wants you to give her a call," Hunter said, as he started up the automobile and turned on that miraculous invention, the air conditioner.
Although Hunter had been born in North Carolina—on 16 acres of red mud, as he described it—he'd moved to Norfolk in high school and never left.
Hunter chuckled as they threaded their way around cluttered desks and scores of busy bodies.
"Okay," said Hunter as he rose.
Hunter and Dean exchanged information during the short drive to the Ocean Shore Motel.
"I'll give you a whack at 'em," Hunter said as he pulled his tan Ford into the parking lot.
Dean began to fill the suitcase and Hunter helped him by folding the suits.
Vanished, Hunter said, his voice dripping with mock melodrama.
"That's why I'm hanging on to it," Hunter answered.
"Clean as a whistle," Hunter said.
They left the seashore and, after a quick bite to eat, Hunter drove Dean back to the airport for his return plane trip to Parkside.
Your buddy Detective Norman Hunter is off fishing somewhere so you're supposed to go directly to the morgue on your own.
Detective Hunter finally sat.
The only halfway pleasant phone call came from Norm Hunter in Norfolk.
Dean told Hunter about his off-hand comment and how Baratto had jumped all over the Scranton connection.
But I see that if I were to live in a wilderness I should again be tempted to become a fisher and hunter in earnest.
I thus warmed myself by the still glowing embers which the summer, like a departed hunter, had left.
A hunter told me that he once saw a fox pursued by hounds burst out on to Walden when the ice was covered with shallow puddles, run part way across, and then return to the same shore.
It's the hunter that throws nature out of balance, selecting only the best game.
"Great white hunter," she said as she headed for the house.
"No one invited him in the first place," Dean grumbled, just as Mrs. Lincoln, the successful but bewildered hunter, returned for a second round.
According to Detective Norman Hunter of the Norfolk Police Department, Byrne's bed had not been slept in.
Plane tickets for the next day's flight to Virginia were on Dean's desk with a list of the time he was to leave his house, where he should park at the airport and a description of Detective Norman Hunter whom he was to meet in Norfolk.
Detective Norman Hunter, who met the arriving aircraft, was unperturbed by the overdue flight.
"No problem," Hunter responded to Dean's apology.
Detective Hunter pointed out the sights as they left the airport and drove toward the center city police headquarters.
Hunter' desk was on the second floor, tightly squeezed between two others where uniformed offices sat with telephones pressed to their ears.
Hunter connected him to an outside line before leaving to get them both coffee.
Even Detective Hunter down there.
Detective Hunter asked me what I wanted to do about Jeff's things.
When Dean described Jeffrey Byrne's quiet life style, Hunter nodded in agreement.
Hunter had personally interviewed the employees at the Ocean Shore Motel, but with little success.
The two detectives entered the office, and the clerk, a bored and balding retiree, looked up from a crossword puzzle and, recognizing Hunter, frowned.
Hunter opened the drape, painting Jeffrey Byrne's sparse belongings in early afternoon sunlight.
"Move anything you like," Hunter said.
Hunter stood off to one side, nodding as if to say he too had done the same thing.
Dean tossed it back on the table as Hunter said, "If this were the movies, that matchbook would be to a Hootchy-Cootchy night club where some sexy broad would come on to us both and then get her throat slit by a gangster boyfriend."
He didn't have a Texaco charge card and they don't take Visa or MasterCard," Hunter replied, and then added, "but I've driven that route.
"...make sure someone else sees you leave your room, like Leo, the waiter," Hunter finished.
After leaving the room, Hunter stopped by a green Ford with Pennsylvania license plates.
"The trunk's clean too," Hunter remarked as Dean moved around to look.
"Looks like Norfolk's finest missed something," Hunter mused as he examined the box.
According to the time-stamped dinner receipt, Byrne had dined on fish, and had two beers as Hunter had remarked.
Then Hunter added, "No credit card receipt either but there's a raft of places between the office and the motel and they could have stopped anywhere."
Hunter pointed out where Byrne's things were found but Dean learned nothing from the excursion.
According to Norm Hunter, the fisherwoman was so frightened she'd fainted dead away, while her 12-year-old son thought towing Willie two miles to port was super cool.
I rode a fiery hunter--I can feel the impatient toss of his head now and the quiver that ran through him at the first roar of the cannon.
The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary a fisherman.
But already a change is taking place, owing, not to an increased humanity, but to an increased scarcity of game, for perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.
Then the hunter came forward and stood in their midst, and the mystery was solved.
The Concord hunter told him what he knew and offered him the skin; but the other declined it and departed.
Carmen and Destiny dressed mother/daughter style in red/green/yellow plaid blouses and hunter green jeans.
Rhyn was weak but drew only what he needed to survive; he was both hunter and hunted.
Hunter nodded in agreement.
He lifted up the mat as Hunter added, The spare never touched the ground—usually doesn't nowadays.
Hunter nodded, but seemed skeptical.
Then Hunter added, They wanted to see the file on your pal Jeffrey Byrne as well.
The hunter still kept his place and listened to the hounds.
Before leaving, Hunter showed Dean the beach across the road where it was presumed Jeffrey Byrne took his last steps on land.
He was a great hunter, I have been told, and a celebrated shot.
The hunter who told me this could remember one Sam Nutting, who used to hunt bears on Fair Haven Ledges, and exchange their skins for rum in Concord village; who told him, even, that he had seen a moose there.