by Jacqueline Seewald

"Wow, that was some rhino," I said. "I never saw a pure white one before. And that horn, really something."

"Ma'am, you're mistaken," B.J. said in a tone generally reserved for retarded children. "First off, there wasn't any rhino around just now, and even if there was one, white rhinos aren't really white; they call them that because they wallow in mud. When it dries, it give them a gray-white appearance. And another thing, white rhinos have two horns not just one."

"Okay, but I know what I saw. You have a lot of unusual animals around here, don't you?"

"You got any other questions, little lady, you best take them up with Mr. Wainright." He eyed me askance.

B.J. saw that I got settled into a room in the elegant country lodge where the hunters stayed. It was certainly no ordinary bunkhouse. Then again, the magazine was paying good money for me to stay there. As soon as I got unpacked and went back outside, there was B.J. again. He was sniffing after me like a bloodhound on the scent and I could only think he'd been assigned to follow me. I finally got fed up when my shadow nearly bumped into me. It was just too much.

"Look, I don't need a tour guide. You can take off."

I suppose I hurt his feelings because I didn't see him again until dinnertime, which was when I got to meet the big Bwanna himself. Chad Wainright was a tall, rangy man. He'd starred in countless Westerns in both the movies and on TV. He was surrounded by an entourage of admirers, all of them male. Except for me, everyone sitting at his table had paid major bucks for the particular honor of sucking up to him.

I confess to feeling odd being the only woman present. With my usual perverse nature, I'd dressed in a Pepto-Bismal-colored pantsuit. It was hard to properly accessorize pink, but I think it made the right statement anyway. This hunting for trophies was obviously a guy thing -- most women wouldn't waste time or money on anything as stupidly destructive as killing for sport.

I studied Chad as he gave me a firm handshake. The aging actor looked pretty much the way he did on the silver screen. There were character lines around his eyes and mouth, deep wrinkles etched on the craggy, Mt. Rushmore face. He'd obviously chosen not to have himself enhanced by the plastic surgeon's knife. Clearly, that was meant to make a statement about him, just like the tanned, weather-beaten skin and lean, hard body.

During the dinner that consisted of barbecue, slabs of roast beef, ribs, venison and just about any other kind of meat known to man, served with sides orders of beans, corn and fries, I tried to interview Chad. I already knew the basics, such as the fact that he'd been divorced four times and had at least six kids scattered around the country.

We talked about his book, which I'd examined on the plane. It was evident he wanted some good publicity and so he proceeded to hand me his usual propaganda. I hadn't expected anything else. I didn't bother to share my conviction with him that politicians are whores who'll prostitute themselves for very little. Somehow I didn't think he'd appreciate it.

One of the men at the table was an overweight sales manager from Dallas by the name of Rick Lowell. He took in my pretty-in-pink exterior and gave me a flirty smile. "I've got three heads mounted and stuffed in my den. Bagged a grizzly bear last time. I'm looking after something really special next." His face was the same color as the rare piece of roast beef he forked into his mouth with gusto. I had the sudden thought that his head might not look too shabby mounted on someone's paneled wall.

"Animal rights advocates call what you do here 'canned hunting' and say it's more slaughter than hunting because the property is fenced and the animals have no chance for escape. Since they're fed on a regular basis, bred and raised in captivity, they're accustomed to people, have no fear of them and have lost their instinct for survival." I kept my voice even and non-accusing.

But Wainright wasn't fooled. His eyes screwed into bullets that he shot in my direction. "Ma'am, ranch hunting is a longstanding tradition in this part of the country. Our animals are treated humanely. There's no cruelty intended."

"Fine, then can I come along on tomorrow's hunt and see for myself?"

Everyone at the table stared at me as if I'd just formed a giant zit on my nose.

Wainright cleared his throat. "We don't normally allow women."

"Why not?" I challenged.

"Females tend to be squeamish."

"I'm not like that," I persisted.

"Are you an undercover investigator for the Humane Society?"

"No, just an interested observer."

"I don't think it would be a good idea," Chad said with an air of finality. "Why don't we meet tomorrow afternoon for a final interview. It'll give you a chance to finish reading my book in the morning. After that, I'll be too busy to talk to you again." He was clearly blowing me off.

The room we were in was decorated in what could only be described as Contemporary Roadkill. A collection of dead animals was mounted on every wall, their glassy eyes staring down on us. Mounted above the mantle of a stone fireplace, I noticed a huge horn.

"That's a rhino horn. Biggest one I ever saw," Rick Lowell said, observing my focus. "Where did you bag that one?" he asked, turning to Chad who looked strangely uneasy.

"I shot an albino in South Africa."

"Wow, and you didn't take the head?"

"Long story," he said tersely.

"Sounds like an interesting one," I prodded.

Chad shrugged. "No big deal. I sent the natives out to decapitate the thing and they got all crazy on me. They claimed the rhino was a spirit creature and that killing it brought bad luck. Bottom line, they wouldn't touch it. When I went back myself, all I found was the horn."

The fat man's eyes widened. "What happened to the rest of the rhino?"

"Can't say."

Beef breath Lowell shook his head. "Doesn't make any sense, unless it really was a ghost."

Chad laughed scornfully. "More likely I only thought I killed it but only wounded the beast. There's always a logical explanation."

"Yeah," B.J. agreed, "Ain't no such things as spooks. Only ignorant, superstitious folks believe in them."

Lowell looked up at the horn again. "Man, that thing must be worth a small fortune. You know Orientals grind up those rhino horns into powder and sell it as an aphrodisiac. They think it has mystical power."

"How interesting," I said.

Chad downed a whiskey. Something was making him nervous. I had every intention of finding out what it was.