by James Hunt
But every strike, slap, cut, and bruise that formed over Dennis’s body molded him into the man he was today. A predator at the top of the food chain.
Dennis glanced toward Rick, who was tied up to a separate tree, hunched forward in the same unconscious state. He wondered if Rick hit his son. Probably not.
Dennis walked away, leaving the father and son until it was time for the big reunion. He closed his eyes, his feet finding the familiar paths he walked with his own father when he was a child, when he first learned to hunt.
Arnold Pullman was a talented hunter. It was the only reason that Dennis hadn’t starved when he was a kid.
And one of the most important traits that a hunter could possess was tracking. It was a subtle art and required attention to the tiniest detail.
“You have to look for the patterns, Dennis.” His father would point to a patch on the ground. “Nature is chaotic, random. It’s the living things that inhabit nature that bring any order to it. The gait of a deer is always the same. Bears, wolves, any animal. There is rhythm to their movements. Even you have a pattern.”
Dennis traversed the rocky trails carefully. Ten years inside a cell with nothing but flat earth beneath him had stolen some of his agility. But the longer he trudged those beaten paths, the faster it returned. He pranced along the jagged rocks of the trails with such surefootedness, it was as though he had never left these woods.
Breathless from his trek up the steep incline, Dennis paused and drank some water from the canteen on his pack. He tilted it back, the water icy cold, burning his throat and causing his stomach to tingle.
Dennis wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and puffed more labored breaths, which transformed into little clouds that evaporated into thin air. Just like him. He was invisible in these woods. He knew them like the back of his hand. He pressed his gloved hand into the carving on the tree, glad that the burned mark was still in its place. “Just a little farther.”
Reinvigorated by the sight of the tree, Dennis jogged the rest of the path and then heaved himself over the rock formations that crowned the top of the hill. He swung his legs over the ledge and put himself upright, smiling at the sight of the pile of rocks concealed beneath the shade of the tree.
“Hello, Father.” A cold breeze blasted Dennis’s face, and he knelt at the foot of the pile of rocks, knowing that his father was now nothing but bones beneath the earth. He was glad the grave was still undisturbed. It was at least one body the police would never find. Not unless it was by dumb luck.
Arnold Pullman was Dennis’s first human kill. It was a ritual of sorts, a rite of passage, slaying the father to take his rightful place as the head of his family. Old Oedipus Rex would have been proud.
For a long time, Dennis thought that maybe his father was like him. After all, this urge and desire to kill had to come from somewhere. So, one night, Dennis told his father everything. It had been a mistake.
Dennis touched his ribs, the pain suddenly returning as if he were still lying on the hard, cold tile of their kitchen, shivering as his father beat him.
Violence and destruction were the cornerstones of humanity. They were the pillars that so many people in power stood upon to control those beneath. They were crude weapons, but they were effective, standing the test of time.
Dennis glanced down to the rifle in his hands and smiled. The hunted and the prey. Life was that simple. Once the world had narrowed into the view of the scope, Dennis felt at home. It was through this lens that Dennis watched the final moments of his victims. Surprise, pain, shock, helplessness. Those last breaths were the single, most important moment in a person’s life. Because they finally looked past all their misgivings, their problems, their wants and desires that went unfulfilled. They were forced to face the truth. And the truth was always cold and unforgiving. “You were wrong about me, Father.” The rocks remained silent, but a gust of wind whistled by. “I am special. And today I’ll prove it.”
Forest lined each side of the narrow two-lane road. They hadn’t seen a single person on the road for the past hour. But when Grant saw the van parked at the end of the paved road where a dirt path began, he frowned.
“How the fuck did they get here?” Mocks asked.
Grant parked next to the news van, and Mocks was the first one out.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve to be out here!” Mocks pinned the reporter against the van while the cameraman stood off to the side.
“Mocks!” Grant slammed his car door shut and peeled her off the reporter.
Lacey White adjusted her blouse and brushed her hair out of her face. “You’re lucky the cameras weren’t rolling for that!” But despite the bluster, she kept her distance.
Grant maneuvered himself between the reporter and Mocks. “What are you doing here?”
With Mocks’s sudden explosion of anger, Lacey hadn’t realized who he was, but staring at Grant now, she finally recognized him. “Oh my God. You’re him. You’re Chase Grant.” She looked to the man with a lazy eye. “Get the camera.”
“It’s not safe for you to be here,” Grant said.
“Let her stay, Grant,” Mocks said, standing by the car. “Maybe Dennis will hunt her too.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Lacey asked, her intrigue growing. “Did he tell you to come here?” She glanced to the woods and the dirt path beyond.
The camera man shouldered his rig, but Grant aimed the lens down, shaking his head. “If you know who I am, then you know what I’ve done.” He fixed both with a look, and for the first time, the reporter showed fear, but it didn’t last long.
“You’re going after him?” Lacey asked, then glanced to Mocks. “Just the two of you?”
“Unless you’d like to tag along as bait,” Mocks said, opening the trunk of the car and removing the bag with the rifle.
“Hey,” Grant said, pulling Lacey’s attention back to him. “You don’t want to follow us.” He glanced to the cameraman, making sure he looked in the good eye. “Not if you want to live.”
Mocks handed Grant the rifle, then unholstered her own pistol, staring at the reporter as she did. “Yeah. I’d hate for you to get caught up in the crossfire.” She lingered before finally departing toward the dirt path.
Grant loaded a magazine into the rifle, and then flicked the safety off. “Go home.” And as Grant turned, he wasn’t sure if the pair of reporters would listen, but the longer they walked along the path and they didn’t see the reporters following, the better Grant felt.
“You should have let me hit her,” Mocks said.
“It wouldn’t have solved anything,” Grant said.
“No. But it would have made me feel better.”
“Hey.” Grant stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “We’re going to find them.”
“Just promise me one thing,” Mocks said. “When we find him. I get to kill him.”
Grant frowned. “We need to bring him in, Mocks.”
“Not if he’s—” Mocks choked up and then adjusted her stance, flexing her fingers over the pistol. “If they’re dead. Then I kill him.”
Pain and anger boiled the tears in Mocks’s eyes, and while Grant didn’t doubt her conviction, he knew she wouldn’t be able to handle what came after. She was strong, but people had their limits.
“Okay, Mocks.” Grant stepped forward first, rifle gripped in his hands, his palms growing slick against the composite and the metal of the weapon.
Wind blasted his face, the air suddenly cold as the first signs of winter blew. It was a trumpet signaling the unofficial end of summer. And if Seattle winters had taught Grant one thing, it was that they tended to claim lives that were far too young to die.
The deeper they traveled into the woods, the more ominous the threat of Dennis’s prowess became. He could be anywhere. And since they were on his turf, Grant knew they were at a terrible disadvantage.
Mocks kept her head on a swivel, gun up and aimed, with her finger on the trigger. He’d ne
ver seen her so tense, and he didn’t want her to make a decision that she’d regret.
Grant remained surefooted even on the rocky trail and the ups and downs of the random inclines and sudden drop-offs of the uncertain path. The trees, brush, and rock formations provided more than enough spaces for a good game of hide and seek.
And the denser the forest grew, and the longer they walked without seeing any sign of Rick or Chase, the faster Mocks started to unravel. “There’s nothing here.” She drew in quick and exasperated breaths that heaved her chest up and down, and then all that fear and grief that had been bottled up inside of her since she walked into her house and found her family gone exploded into the air. “RICK! CHASE!” Her voice cracked from the sudden exertion of so much force on her throat and she sobbed, unable to stem the flow of tears. “I can’t lose them, Grant.” She dropped to her knees and buried her face into her open palm.
The wind gusted and swirled a cluster of dead leaves past Mocks’s feet. It was Grant’s fault that she was there, that her family was in this predicament. This was just more collateral damage, more lives ruined by the fact that Grant couldn’t protect the ones that were closest to him.
And just before Grant walked over to Mocks, he saw the red dot on her shoulder, and before he could react, the gunshot shattered the dead silence of the woods.
“NO!” Grant lunged forward, catching Mocks in his arms as she fell backward, her eyes wide like they had been during their conversation in the car, her mouth shaped in a small oval from the sudden shock and surprise of pain that flooded through her body.
Blood spread from around the hole in her jacket over her shoulder, the stain so dark it was almost black. But the coloring lightened against Grant’s hand as he pressed down over the wound to stop the blood loss.
Grant adjusted Mocks in his arms. “You’re all right.” He lifted his gaze from Mocks’s pallid complexion to the woods that surrounded them, searching for any sign that Dennis was close. He waited for another shot, but when the death blow never came, Grant realized that Dennis wanted him to continue his journey alone. He could have killed Mocks if he’d wanted, but he’d kept her alive. And that was its own kind of torture.
“Grant.” Mocks struggled to get the words out, her gun buried in the cluster of dead leaves and grass that engulfed them. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re fine, Mocks.” Grant kept pressure on the wound. “But I need to get you back to the car.” He ripped a piece of his shirt off and wrapped it tightly around the wound, hoping it was enough to replace the pressure from his hand.
After everything that he’d been through and all the trials and tribulations, Grant told himself that he never wanted to be involved with something like this again. He never wanted to be the reason that someone needed saving. Because while he had been able to pull people out before, the past two days had been nothing but a path of death and carnage. After all the years of success, Grant was finally tasting the bitter salt of failure. His good fortune had finally run out.
Grant lifted Mocks in his arms, thankful she was light, and hurried back toward the car. Along the way, the sky darkened from the sun dipping lower into the horizon.
Twice Lacey started for the path, but then quickly returned to the van. Because while she didn’t believe that Chase Grant would kill her, Dennis might. Or that woman. She must have been his partner, the lieutenant.
Gary sat in the van, legs dangling out of the door with the camera in his lap. “We need to call the police.” He gestured to the woods. “That psycho could be out there looking at us right now! This isn’t safe.”
“If he wanted to kill us, then he would have done it already.” At least that’s how Lacey convinced herself that this wasn’t a suicide mission. But that hadn’t kept her eyes from searching every square inch of the surrounding forest.
Gary set the camera down and pushed himself from the van. “Lacey, none of this is worth the risk. Listen, I’m heading back. Whatever is happening in these woods is more than I’m willing to risk—”
The crunch of leaves and heavy breaths brought both of their attention back to the forest. And when Lacey saw Grant sprinting toward her, carrying that woman in his arms, she thought that she’d finally reached the end of the line. That the man running at her, screaming, was going to kill her, adding another notch to his belt, consumed with rage by the death of his partner. But he didn’t kill her.
Grant dropped Mocks into the news van and then swiftly moved to the trunk of his own car, grabbing a bag, which he brought over to his injured friend.
Lacey found herself staring at the blood, frozen by the gruesome sight. It was different seeing it in person. Much different than the pictures. In the pictures, she couldn’t see the people moving, gasping for breath, struggling to be coherent.
“Grant… You… Chase…” Mocks rocked her head back and forth, drifting in and out of consciousness, her eyelids fluttering and her breathing becoming shallow.
Grant ripped open a bag of clotting powder and then replaced the makeshift bandage with that, knowing that the powder would hold better and for longer. “I know, Mocks, I’ll get him.” He popped a syringe and then plunged it into her arm. When he finished, Grant turned to Gary, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You need to get her to a hospital. I’ve stopped the bleeding and given her something for the pain, but she’s in shock and she’s lost a lot of blood. Can you drive?”
Gary stuttered, and Grant firmly shook him, getting a straight answer. “Yes.”
“Good.” Grant walked back to Mocks, holding onto her face, though Lacey wasn’t sure she could comprehend what he said. “I’ll bring them back. No matter what. I give you my word, Susan.” Grant gently laid Mock’s hand back onto her chest and then headed back for the path, covered in blood. “You need to leave. Go, now!”
Lacey stood there, watching Grant until he vanished amongst the trees. The van door slid shut behind her, and Gary called her name, but it wasn’t until the third try that she finally turned around.
“What are you doing, c’mon!” Gary waved her to the van as he stepped around to the driver’s side door.
Lacey dug her phone out of her pocket and checked the battery. She had enough juice to last her. She pocketed the device and then backtracked toward the path. “Take her, and then come back for me.”
Gary froze, one foot in the van. “What?”
“I’m not leaving without this story.” Lacey turned, jogging after Grant along the dirt road in her flats. Gary screamed for her to come back, but she was too far down the rabbit hole. Because while that first story today put her on the map, this next one would cement her status as the greatest reporter of her generation.
The sky was bruised with dark purples and blues, as if it had been punched by the sun on its way down in a last defiant stand. Only the remnants of sunlight remained as Grant pushed deeper into the woods in search of Rick and Chase.
Grant shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around his body. The rain from the morning had caused the temperatures to plummet, and he suspected that it was only going to get colder as the night went on.
The path grew more treacherous, and Grant slipped twice on loose rocks. Once the dying twilight finally ended, Grant could barely see more than a few feet in front of his face. He had hoped the stars would be out to guide him, but clouds blocked whatever natural light that could have helped him.
Unsure of where Dennis would be hiding, Grant stuck to the faded path as much as possible, though it became more difficult after nightfall.
Slowly, his vision adjusted and the figures in the forest became more clearly defined. Trees, rocks, bushes, branches. The wind brought life into the stillness of the silhouettes that surrounded Grant as he drifted through the darkness.
Grant sped through the woods, stomping over brush and dirt and rocks in a frantic pace. He tucked the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, panicking the farther he went into the forest without finding a body. A body that he hoped was not a corpse.
Muscles burning and his breath short and quick, Grant’s heart pounded like a jackhammer against his chest. He knew that Dennis was out there, waiting, watching. It was only a matter of time before—
A light flickered to the east, and Grant dropped to one knee, aiming the rifle in the direction of the flash. It was Dennis. He waited for a second flash, having lost the exact location of the first one.
When the light beaconed Grant again, he darted forward, the brightness momentarily blinding him as he stumbled through the woods. Rifle up, he followed each of the flashes, which grew brighter and stronger the closer he moved.
Body tensed, Grant used the end of the rifle’s sight to scan the horizon, his senses heightened from the adrenaline as he tightened his grip on the rifle.
The time between flashes shortened the closer he moved, becoming so quick that it nearly transformed into a spotlight. And just when Grant thought he was about to close in, the flashes stopped.
Breathless, Grant slowed, seeking cover behind a nearby tree. He shut his eyes, black spots peppering his vision from the constant flashes. He waited until his vision adjusted to the darkness once more, then slowly crept from around the tree.
Grant moved slowly, quietly, taking care with every footstep. Silent breaths passed through his nose, and despite the breakneck pace of his pulse, he was calm. He had always been that way when the stakes were raised. When the pressure was on, Grant responded with accuracy and efficiency. It was the way he was wired. The way he was built.
“Help…”
He froze, turning toward the raspy whisper, aiming the gun in the same motion. He saw nothing but darkness. He pressed onward. “Rick?” Had it just been his imagination? It wasn’t until Grant was less than a foot away that he saw the man who had spoken. But it wasn’t Rick.
An old man was tied to the base of a tree, his hands behind his back, head slumped forward onto his chest. Crusted and dried blood on his forehead marked the location of a recent injury, and the scent of human waste told Grant that the man had been here for at least a day.
