Seventh Enemy Read Free Page B

and Willy lugged his overnight bag. We talked about fishing and baseball and micro-breweries and girls we knew when we were in high school. We did not discuss gun control.
    We got to the Common at about nine forty-five and took the diagonal pathway that led to the State House. Hallway across, Wally stopped and said, “Oh-oh.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Look.”
    I looked. The golden dome atop the State House gleamed in the morning sunlight. On the sidewalk in front a mass of people were milling around in a slow circle. I saw that many of them were carrying placards.
    Several of them, in fact, were dressed in cartoonish animal costumes. I saw a Bambi, a couple of Smokey-the-Bears, and several person-sized rabbits.
    They were chanting. At first I couldn’t distinguish what they were saying. Then it became clearer.
    “Kinnick’s a killer.”
    That was the chant: “Kinnick’s a killer.”
    I turned to Willy with raised eyebrows.
    “Animal rights activists,” he said. “For some reason, they don’t like hunters.”
    “Ah,” I said. “The good folks who splash red paint on fur coats. Does this happen often?”
    He nodded. “Yep. Some places you expect it. Washington, of course. Denver, New York, San Francisco. Dallas, on the other hand, or Cheyenne or Billings? Never. Boston, or, best of all, Cambridge? Definitely.”
    “I love their costumes,” I said.
    Wally shrugged. “Part of their schtick. Come on. Let’s go.”
    We climbed the steps that took us from the Common up to Beacon Street. The demonstrators patrolled the sidewalk across the street. From where Wally and I stood I could read the signs they carried.
    LET’S MAKE HUNTERS THE NEXT ENDANGERED SPECIES , read one.
    A Smokey look-alike carried a placard that said, SUPPORT YOUR RIGHT TO ARM BEARS .
    HUNTERS MAIM WITH NO SHAME . A big rabbit held that one.
    PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF ANIMALS . An uncostumed pregnant woman.
    KILLERS JOIN SAFE.
    FUND FOR ANIMALS.
    STOP THE WAR ON WILDLIFE.
    HUNTING: THE SPORT OF COWARDS.
    ANIMAL LIBERATION.
    COMMITTEE TO ABOLISH SPORT HUNTING.
    OPEN SEASON ON KINNICK.
    KINNICK’S A MURDERER.
    REMEMBER BAMBI.
    There were thirty or forty demonstrators, I guessed, an equal mix of men and women, various ages, costumed and not, moving slowly hack and forth, chanting “Kinnick’s a killer” and waving their placards. A policeman stood off to the side watching them.
    “I didn’t realize you were so popular,” I said to Wally.
    He grinned. “Like it or not, I’ve become the nation’s most visible hunter.”
    “I would’ve said you were an outdoorsman, a conservationist.”
    “Sure,” he said. “Me, too. But to some people, if you hunt, that’s what you are. A hunter. None of the rest matters. You’re a murderer, and it doesn’t matter what else you do, what else you stand for.”
    “How’d they know you’d he here?”
    “Gene McNiff probably told the media that I was testifying. That’s McNiff’s main thing. Politics, lobbying, public opinion. He speaks to any group that’ll listen. Watchdogs the six New England legislatures. Prints his newsletter. Keeps gun issues alive in the media. That’s SAFE’s whole purpose. If they didn’t do these things, they believe the Second Amendment would be doomed.” He touched my arm. “Well, shall we?”
    “Lead on,” I said.
    We crossed the street and approached the milling crowd of demonstrators. “Excuse us,” said Wally. “Please let us through.”
    Some of them paused and stepped back to let us pass. We began to edge through the crowd. Then someone shouted, “That’s him! The big guy with the beard! That’s the killer!”
    Others echoed the cry. “That’s Kinnick! That’s him!”
    “Come on, folks,” said Wally. “Get a life, huh?”
    They closed in around us. The chant rose up, loud, frenzied voices. “Kinnick’s a killer. Kinnick’s a killer.” Their bodies bumped ours. They were yelling into our ears. I felt an elbow ram into my