Prelude to a Predator: Part III

He’s down there, I know he is, I just don’t know where.  But I also know that he won’t come out unless I’m gone.  So I play it normal, I make my passes and when I get to my last one I flip on the camouflage cameras and the Sky Fox disappears into the sky.

And then I wait.

I wait until the driver of the old red beater thinks it’s safe to come out and play.

It doesn’t take long.  And suddenly I’m tailing him again and he’s leading me to his hideout.

I just have to wait, and pray I’m not too late to save his prisoner from death…or the madness bred by human cruelty, seething from the madman behind the wheel of the truck which is turning into JimBob’s Wildwood.

 

I tell the Sky Fox to land behind a nearby row of tall, shielding jack pines then I exit the craft, leaping to the tallest of the pines to survey the old roadside zoo, founded by naturalist partners James “Jim” Wilde and Robert “Bob” Wood.  JimBob’s Wildwood was a popular tourist trap just a year ago and as far as roadside animal attractions went, it was a well maintained, clean and respectable one.  But as the push for animal rights came to shove, more and more tourists who normally would’ve stopped to feed the bears, just kept driving and eventually, JimBob’s closed.  The animals were relocated, some were even reintroduced into the wild, or so I’d heard, and the humans who’d cared for them were out of a job.  Shortly after the business failed, Bob Wood croaked from the pressure and left everything to Jim—including the debt.  That was the last I’d heard about any of it. 

I’d nearly overlooked Jim as a suspect, I just couldn’t grasp the possibility that he had become this man I was stalking.  I’d been going to JimBob’s since I was a child…I’d planned to bring my son here when he was a little older and could remember.  I’d even met Jim and Bob a time or two—they both seemed like good people, but as I was learning, apparently madness could envelope even the best of us.  And though it’s possible that this whole thing is just a coincidence, it’s also possible that the man I knew as James Wilde snapped long ago with the dissolution of his business and the death of his business partner.

Pine pitch clumps the synthetic fur of my mane as I tap the temple of my mask, switching the lenses of my cowl to eagle vision and I peer down at the landscape below but I don’t see isn’t what I expect.  As I gaze down at the abandoned complex surrounded by fencing, I finally see the truth of what this place is, or was, for the first time.  It’s long kept secrets spill out to me—this place was a prison.  From the overgrown courtyard that was once home to overweight birds and mammals who’d flock to greet new arrivals who’d feed them corn and seed because that was all they had in their lives, to the main building that held a gift shop that peddled cheap plastic toy animals with smiles painted on their faces that held little resemblance to the animals imprisoned there, and then there was the “education center” that taught nothing but lies about conservation and environmentalism, encouraging kids to come back again and support other prisons just like it; to the empty, rusted cages that once held larger attractions—jungle cats and wolves who had no business being behind bars while their human captors, the animals who really deserve to be behind bars, profited off their misery.  And suddenly I realize how wrong I was to ever pay money to visit this place—to have supported the isolation and misrepresentation of environmentalism these types of places promote.  And I’m thankful my son will never have to see an animal so neglected and tortured, separated from others of their kind for the glorification of some greedy human’s pocket book.

Money really is the root of all evil.  And as the dominant species on the planet, we humans don’t understand that just because we buy something doesn’t necessarily make it ours.

Because those lives we buy shouldn’t even be for sale in the first place.

A loud, metallic clanging fills my ears and draws my eyes to the rear of the main building, to the loading bay.  And that’s where I see it parked, backed into one of the loading docks.

Jim’s old red beater of a truck. 

Though I can’t see what he’s taking out of it I figure it’s the cub.

I have to work fast, so I switch my lenses back to normal, push off the tree and float down towards the large dome skylight that will serve as my access point.

 

I peer down inside the main building through the skylight, it’s dark and what little light there is inside is obscured by floating dust particles.  I switch my lenses to snake vision to try and pick up Jim’s heat signature but to no avail.  I try to tell myself that it’s safe to enter because I don’t see Jim but a much bigger part of me seems to whisper that just because I can’t see him, doesn’t mean he’s not there.  But time is short so I decide to go in anyway. 

I flick my wrist just right to make my claw extensions detract from my fingertips and place the blades against the glass and apply a little pressure, then I soundlessly etch out a square large enough to send me through.  A barely audible, dull THUD echoes down the dismal corridors as my feet hits the tile.  Now that I’m in complete darkness I switch to owl vision, hoping that will reveal something I’ve otherwise missed.

And it does.

But for the second time today, what I see is not what I expect.

I’m face to face with the head of a bison, easily bigger than the area from the top of my head to my hips.  I brace for impact and when it doesn’t come I carefully open my eyes and realize the Great Plains walker isn’t trampling me because it is not alive.

Not anymore.  Its eyelids have been removed and gashes litter the stuffed face.  Right next to it is a smaller bison, most likely the other one’s child, it’s equally mutilated.  It’s face forever frozen in time with fear.  Slowly I look away at the other walls that surround me like a crypt and all I can see are faces.  All hollow and vacant, emotionless and still.

Dead.

Bears and deer and raccoons and rabbits and wolves and geese and moose and cats and dogs and…the list just goes on.  Maybe it’s the darkness, the vacant halls or all the death that surrounds me but I swear I can hear the ghosts of these animals echoing the calls they made in life down the dismal passage.  I keep walking but Jim’s collection just goes on and on and on, it follows me like death follows all of us. 

And the question plagues me—how long has he been at this?  How have I not noticed?  And then I reach a new area of the tomb, one that answers all my questions.  The other area held native animals, this new area was exotic creatures.  Polar bears and penguins…something only JimBob’s Wildwood would have.  And suddenly I realize what actually happened to the animal residents who used to call this prison home.

The animals Jim owned.

The animals Jim was supposed to care for and relocate after the place closed.

He killed them.

He killed them all, then he strung them up on display like a serial killer would the necklace of his victim so he could enjoy it whenever the feeling moved him.

I feel my legs shaking, my knees buckling and I ease myself to the floor right before the final exhibit down this hallway.  It’s obviously the jewel of Jim’s sadism.

His name was Twinkles.

He was my favorite resident to visit when I used to come here.

He was a Tortoise, Galapagos specifically.  His huge, 120 year old shell had held so much history—how much had this old boy seen?  I used to ask myself.

Now the shell only held dust and knife scars.  But that wasn’t the worst part. 

Twinkles’ shell was empty and the tortoise that used to bring me so much joy now lay next to it, curled up in a twisted and permanent sculpture of pain.

A piece inside of me snapped and I slumped to the floor, too paralyzed by shame to move.

 

Jim Wilde led the Bear cub into the building through the back entrance with his animal control pole, needlessly tightening the noose around the cub’s neck, just for the fun of it.  This was the part, right before the kill, where the killers in Jim’s horror movies would usually reminisce about his other kills and his life—all the moments that had ultimately led him here to this moment when he’d take another life.

But he didn’t.

But none of that really mattered anyway.

Because in any case, this bear was going to die and no amount of revisiting the past on a mental psychiatrist’s couch was going to save either one of them.  In fact, when Jim caught one of his horror idols doing such a thing he’d always seen it as a weakness and felt that was what distinguished him from the rest.   It’s what had convinced him to first go hunting—he wanted to see what it made him feel.  He wanted to know if he’d have that moment of hesitation, of contemplation before the end.

That was how he knew what he was doing was right.

He felt no remorse for it.

In fact, he felt nothing, after what they had done to his business, his life.  He felt nothing.  For him it was as simple as popping the cap off a pen.

And now it was time to write, so with a slight change of angle and a sharp tug, he increased the tightness of the cord around the cub’s neck.  Soon he’d gasp for air and turn on him and try to fight, but with every movement the cord would tighten and bring the cub closer to eternal hibernation and Jim would be there through all of it.  And when it was over and the little bear went cold, Jim would add him to his collection in the hall. 

He tugged again at the pole and waited for it to happen.

But the bear was young and not quite yet ready to die.

 

Feeling the noose tighten, the cub bides his time, he has a few more tugs before his lungs run out of air and he needs the collar to be tighter for his plan to work.  The control pole the human was using to guide him was made for an animal much smaller or much weaker than him, a wolf perhaps?  It didn’t matter, the only thing that did was that the cub could feel it stretching to its breaking point, and if he struggled just a little bit the human would tighten it once more, just enough to…the cub halfheartedly tries to spin around on his captor and when he does, the human tightens the noose as far as it goes.  Inside the bear smiles then he flexes his neck muscles and the noose cutting off his air supply snaps.

Now he wholeheartedly spins around on his captor whose face is paler than the cub’s tongue on a day without water.  The human stares at the broken harness in his hands, bewildered.  The cub grumbles a low growl—the human has no other weapon, nothing more to threaten or torture him with.

The cub knows this is his chance.

The cub knows he must take it.

And as the cub pounces on the human who’d forced him to watch his mother’s murder, a terrified cry breaks the stunned silence of the complex.

 

I jump up from the cold, dusty tile floor of the main building, a bloodcurdling scream forces me back to the here and now. 

I’m too late…but for whom?  The scream came from a human.  I dash down the hall I’d first heard the echoing horror come from and pass a sign that says: “Loading Bay”.  I kick the door open and burst through the threshold, ready for anything expect for what I find.

The cub is at the end of the hall, trying to figure out how to escape through the door and Jim is lying on the floor in a pool of blood.  I rush to his side and he moans weakly. 

“Don’t worry.”  The Jargon interprets the cub’s growls from down the corridor.  “He’ll live.”  He says as he roams closer.

“His hands.”  I say, mortified.  “You bit off his hands!” 

 “And he’s lucky that’s all I took after what he did to me.” The cub says with a nod. 

I return the gesture, “I know, I found your mother and I’m surprised you stopped at the hands.”

“Death is too good for this one.”  The cub tells me.  “I just wanted to know that he’ll never be able to do this to another living creature.”

I admire the cub’s restraint—I’ve wanted to do worse to people who’ve cut me off in traffic. 

Revenge is truly a human invention and we wield it like a light switch because it’s easier than feeling our way around through the darkness to get to the light.

“So what happens now?”  The cub asks.  “Shouldn’t I be euthanized now that I’ve tasted human blood?”

I shake my head.  “Now that you’ve tasted it, I can’t imagine you’d ever want it again.  Humans are the only creatures hypocritical enough to deem cannibalism a crime then revel in its own bloodlust.”

The bear cub’s ears perk up as the sound of encroaching sirens fills our heads.  “I should be going.”  The cub says and turns to leave. 

I rise from the floor and Jim reaches for me with his gruesome nubs.  I ignore his feeble plea and approach the cub.  “Before you go I have something for you.”  I say, slowly reaching into my utility belt.  I withdraw a head band big enough to accommodate the cub’s, even now, at so young, massive head.

“Do you really think it’s wise to give me something that’s make me stick out?”  The cub asks.  “I’ll soon be a fugitive, remember?”

“I do.”  I tell him.  “But this is a biodegradable bandage, it’ll fall off in a day or so.  It’s been soaked in a special, all natural solution I’ve invented for rapid healing and regeneration.  You should have eyelids again by tomorrow evening, considering the nerve endings are not too badly damaged and you keep this on until then.”  I explain.  When the cub nods I move in to wrap his forehead in it.

“Thank you.”  The cub wuffles. 

“I wish I could’ve done more.”  I say, remembering the cub’s mother and the countless other victim’s I met in the hall.  I finish the knot and stand back up.

“You did all you could.”  The bear explains as I open the door for him.  He looks back at me and smiles the odd smile of a bear as the evening light spreads across his back like a warm embrace.  “…if more humans did that, the world wouldn’t need you.”

“Then I’ll pray for that day to come, my friend.”  And with that, the cub nods then strolls out of the building that would’ve been his tomb.  The door shuts and I’m alone with Jim who’s glaring at me from the floor with a look that could’ve soured milk, “ah c’mon there Jimbo.  I taunt, taking a page from his book and rubbing salt to the wound, “all my work and a happy ending to boot and I don’t even get a round of applause from you?  Not even one clap of your hands?  Oh wait,” I say, getting right down into his face, motioning at his bloody stubs with a polite tilt of my head.  “That’s right, I forgot.”

 

This is a work of fiction but animal cruelty is very real.  99% percent of serial killers first experimented on animals before acting out the same fantasies on human beings.  If you know of anyone who has or is torturing or killing an animal please let someone know immediately.

It is not a phase.

It is not “boys being boys.”

It could be the start of something much worse.

Thank you for reading this post.

 

Prelude to a Predator Part II

The Sky Fox soars above the trees as I struggle to keep the old beater pickup truck in sight as it speeds over the weathered road below.  The authorities were less than concerned with my claim of a serial killer in training prowling the woods—and they were even less interested in working with some overzealous vigilante who, according to them, had presented little more than some evidence of poaching.

As though that’s not serious enough…poaching’s the reason the Sumatran rhino and Amur leopard went extinct two years ago—not to mention the thousands of other species humanity has wiped out with its greed.  It’s funny how man can butcher an entire species of animal and no one blinks an eye.

Nobody cares.

But if an animal kills one man the world is sent into a panic—everything becomes, “oh his poor family”, or “the animal must be destroyed now that it has a taste for blood…”  Mankind’s taste for blood drives us to do a lot more than just take the life one thing that in all likelihood probably provoked us in the first place.

In fact, we’re seldom satisfied with only one victim.

Our taste for blood is insatiable, yet we are not the animals in our own minds and I can’t help but wonder what the natural world must think of us: we, the spreaders of disease, famine, greed poverty, rage, rape, hate, death and extinction—perhaps, maybe one day our own.  These thoughts leave me as I realize I’ve lost track of the truck. 

After the cops gave me the cold shoulder, I disregarded their direct order not to get involved and followed the drag marks the bear’s killer had left back to his initial kill site.  From there I located a path of crushed undergrowth.  It was too narrow to have been the way the bears had come and since there was no other evidence of any other witnesses I decided the path had been made by the killer himself and I followed it to an old hunting cabin buried deep in the forest.  The cabin was old and held no obvious clues to the owners or the killer’s identity but a quick search of land records told me whose family it belonged to.  I checked those names against legal and occupational records and came up with a handful of suspects—the most promising of which I’m currently tracking—or at least was tracking until I lost him.  The Sky Fox comes to a halt in mid-air and I scan the roads for my suspect’s 1990 Chevy P.O.S.  But the only movement below is the wind rustling through the tops of the trees.

I check my scanners… 

Nothing.

Radar…

Nothing.

And just like that—the trail went cold.

 

From beneath the cover of a rock ledge just off the wayside below, the man in the old red beater smiled as he watched the clueless vigilante who’d been tailing him fire up the engines of his craft and blaze off and continue his search.  The driver knew he had a few minutes before the vigilante made the second and third passes he knew he’d make before giving up on finding him in this area completely.  Absently he pushed in the vehicle’s cigarette lighter and waited for it to pop back up, his patients cooled the air as he tapped his fingertips along the windowsill in anticipation for the lighter’s coils to heat up.  A thumping coming from the covered bed of his truck broke the silence and the driver slide open a tiny, steel bar-enforced partition that separated him and the cub he’d taken from the woods after forcing him to watch his own mother’s murder.  “Hey, pipe down back there!”

The tinted windows of the truck topper had blocked out most of the sunlight and it stung his eyes now.  The cub tried to squint—tried to close his eyes but the driver’s mutilation of him prevented that.

And the wounds were already becoming infected. 

The cub’s face-sized paw shot out of pitch black bed and he managed to claw the driver’s cheek as he swiped aimlessly.

“Now, now…”  The human said, reaching down to grab the cigarette lighter then he ground the glowing coils of the lighter into the bear’s swinging forearm.  The scent of burning hair, flesh and tobacco filled both of their nostrils as the human then lit his self-rolled cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke back into the bed as the bear whimpered and licked his arm.  “That flying freak up there is looking for you…you’d rather he find you alive, don’t you?  Keep this up my fat, furry friend, and you won’t be found at all…”

 

The bear cub licked his wound as his human captor started up the engine, which backfired with a loud BANG as it sped off, the force of the sudden acceleration caused him to slide slid across the rusted metal floor of the truck bed to the far back corner.  His mouth was dry and he wet his paw with his tongue to lubricate his eyes.  He would’ve flinched from the pain but he’d gotten used to the stinging.  What he couldn’t get used to was the pain he felt inside him—but this wasn’t hunger.  He’d watched his mother be butchered right before his eyes and he hadn’t been able to do anything…not even close his eyes the way he had when a hunter took his father the previous fall.

He hadn’t even seen all of his death and it still stuck with him—the sounds of the unseen gun, the THUMP as his father hit the ground, his mother frantic to get them away from there, and his imagination filled in the rest...  He couldn’t imagine carrying with him the full, unbridled images of what this human had done to the little bit that had remained of his family until that light too had been extinguished. 

He’d never again feel her warmth as she slept beside him.  He’d never learn how she fished or how she stalked her prey or even which berries were safe to eat without making a few mistakes of his own.  And he began to wonder what it was about mankind that drove them to do what they do.  Creatures like him—the so-called “animals” of the world only killed when hungry, as he understood it, humans had something called “grocery stores” where endless supplies of food could loomed over you—creating pathways for you to follow as you hunt for what you want to eat.  He’d also seem first-hand something humans called “farms” where their food is raised to be eaten and he couldn’t figure out why if there was an option that didn’t cause pain why humans always chose the option that did.  He’d overheard hunters talking once about why they liked to hunt.  One of them said they just liked to be outside—that it was “so quiet and beautiful” in the woods.

Why then, he wondered, did humans want to disrupt that silence with the sound of a gunshot?

Why do humans see beauty and want to destroy it—why can’t mankind just look at something pretty and appreciate it for being just that?  An image fought its way up from his memory—proof that nothing was or could ever be beautiful when it was covered in its own gore.

Nothing. 

Not even mothers.

 

To Be Continued…

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Prelude to a Predator Part I

Moonlight flowed over shiny black fur like rain pouring down as the mother bear and her cub stalked the forest for the first time in seven months.  They’d emerged from their river-side cave after a long winter’s nap only a day earlier.  The younger of the two was not yet even a year old and had never felt this level of hunger.  It was a hollow, penetrating feeling that dictated everything—how much you should move, how far you could travel, how long you would sleep before the hunger woke you up again. 

The older one looked down to her cub beside her with motherly pride—and worry.  She recognized his sluggishness, he was weak, and it killed her to see him this desperate for food.  Berry season was still months off—so was trout season, and it was still too cold for any humans to be out with their cloth shelters and frozen foods stored in those flimsy plastic boxes that were so easy for bears to break open.  If they were going to eat tonight, they were going to have to hunt.  But she was weak herself, she wouldn’t be able to chase her prey very far or fast and she’d have to choose it wisely.  She’d also have to choose something slow, which diminished her options greatly.  They couldn’t risk eating anything sick—not this early in the waking season.  The meat of something older would be tougher for her cub to chew and admittedly she didn’t look forward to the taste of eight year old rabbit gristle—but it would have to do until her strength returned to her.

She heard a rustling in the undergrowth, it could’ve been a gust of cool spring wind but she couldn’t take that chance and she lifted a paw in front of her cub’s path to stop him—on some reluctant level hoping it was that rabbit she’d been thinking about.  But then something else tickled one of her senses—a smell.  It was wet and bloody like fresh kill.  The noise she’d heard could have been the animal who’d made the kill but the old bear couldn’t smell any other creature nearby.

The woods were silent—unusual for this time of year when animals were waking up and combing the woods for new mates.  Something was wrong but the rumbling in her stomach convinced her to take the chance.  Cautiously the mother poked her snout through the wall of snow-crusted bushes, then the rest of her head.  And laying there in the snow, the blood still warm, was a deer carcass.  Normally bears preferred not to scavenge—unless you count pillaging campsites as scavenging—but who doesn’t like Little Debbies? 

But desperate times call for desperate measures.  So, knowing she should have checked the area more thoroughly, she coaxed her young out from the bushes with a soft wuffle and they approached the deer together. 

No sooner did they press their tongues to the cold, exposed flesh than a medieval-like stock made from metal exploded up from the bloated guts of the deer and snapped into place around the mother-bear’s neck.  She roared at her cub to run which he did, but only too late—a net of steel sprang up from beneath the snow, encasing and suspending him in mid-air.  The net spun around as the mother bear raged and thrashed about in the stock, desperate to get out, desperate to get her cub to safety.  But it was no use—whoever laid the trap had been expecting something larger to spring it—the stock was made of some kind of reinforced metal.

And then came a human voice—ragged and terrifying, like hollow trees rubbing against each other in the winds of fall.  The voice was followed by the silhouette of a scrawny male human who smelled of blood and gun powder.  “Two of you!”  He hissed, playfully nudging the cub’s net just enough to get it swinging again.  “Well that’s just perfect.”  He concluded as he squatted down beside the mother bear and stroked the fur in between her massive shoulders.  He glared provokingly back into her cub’s terrified eyes.  “Now I have an audience.”

 

“I count twenty-plus superficial cuts.”  I say to my wife over my radio as I inspect the bear corpse.  It’s such a shame, she was a magnificent animal—a good 600 pounds.  And cut down only hours after coming out of hibernation.

“And according to the scanners they’re all at slightly different levels of decomposition and bacterial infection.” 

“Which means he took his time.”  I relay, using my fingers to probe a patch of worn fur in back of her head.  “She’s got ligature marks around her neck where a device would have held her—just like the others…”

“So you think it’s the same guy?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind.”  I say sternly, my fist involuntarily clenching.

“How can you be sure?”  She asks.

“This is his fifteenth victim, Fauna—that means I’ve combed over fifteen different crime scenes in a month.  Believe me—I know this is the same guy.”  There was silence for a moment and then the fact I’d been trying to ignore—the fear I’d been trying to suppress came careening back to the forefront of my mind and I had to say something.  “He’s taunting me, Fauna.  He’s moved her from the actual kill site to this area—one he knows is in sight of a hive cam—again, just like the others.”

At first she didn’t say anything, then her voice came back a bit snarkier than before—like the time I’d left her debit card at the pharmacy.  “And how long have you suspected this?”

“I thought it was weird right from the start but I thought—or was hoping it was mere coincidence.  But this hive cam is the only one in the area—it would’ve taken a lot of effort for him to move her to the top of this hill.  It’s no coincidence.”  I say, shaking my head.  “And I fear he’s escalating.  When he first showed up on our radar his victims were primarily smaller wildlife, since then he’s gone from rabbits to foxes to deer and now bears…”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, I know all life is important.  But is it wrong that I’m glad he’s only killed animals—I don’t know if I could take helping you on this case if his victims were human.”

I take a moment to consider the implications of what I’m about to say.  There’s no easy way to say it so I just talk, “that’s just it Hon, I don’t know how long it’s going to stay that way.”

“What do you mean?”  She gasps.”

“Animal cruelty is usually a good indicator of serial crime and he’s obviously moving his way up the food chain as his confidence grows with each unsolved case.  The restraints say he’s organized and the torture points to sadism.  It’s not long before he makes the jump over the species barrier.”  I say as I expand my search to the rest of the area, searching for any other clues at all that might be hidden amongst the underbrush.

Fauna remains silent, praying that what I’m suggesting isn’t true.  “Are you sure?”  She questions, hoping I’ll reverse my position, “I mean I know it looks like torture but a bear is a very different animal compared to his other victims—thicker, more muscle…maybe the killer isn’t a sadist, maybe he just didn’t know where to stab?”

I say nothing in reply.

I can’t.

I’m completely and utterly speechless.  Her theory is sound and I would’ve considered it had I not just uncovered evidence that confirms my own.

Completely and undeniably.

“Badger what’s wrong?”  She asks for what has to be the third time. 

“We’ve got a problem, he’s devolving—straying from his usual script.”

“Why, did you find something?”

I nod my head, “a net.”  I quiver as I lift the steel mesh stained with bear blood from the foliage.  A twinge of disgust courses through me as I accept the words I’m about to say next.  “…and eye lids.”  I finally spit out just as my scanners finish their approximation and feed me age of the bear who’d left them.

“The victim had a cub, Fauna.  And her killer made her child watch while he tortured his mother.”

“Dear God.”  Is all she can get out before she mutes her microphone to gag.

“Contact the police, Hon.  I think it’s safe to say that a future serial killer is on the prowl.”     

      

To Be Continued…

In the Land of Ice & Blood Part II

I crank on the steering mechanism, the tail end of the Crayfish flicks and the craft rounds the bulky underside of an iceberg.  I re-watch the latest Club recording once more and find what I’m looking for.  I flip on my radio again and hail my wife back in Wisconsin. 

“What?”  She asks in that tone that means she’s trying to curl her hair for work, which is a different tone than the one she has for straightening her hair...  I know what you’re thinking: we spend way too much time together.  We even both work at the same place—the D.N.R. office.  Currently I’m sick…or at least that’s what she told Lawson Hunter, our boss, to explain my absence.

“You mean you’re going to work while I’m at home sick?”  I joke. 

“Well one of us has to earn a paycheck, and since you’re off on a Canadian Cruise...”  She returns, not at all amused.  “Now what do you need?  I still have to get Brock to the sitter’s.

She’s not going to like me adding another task to her morning routine but she can yell at me once the Minister is safely away from his under-siege home and I’m back to my home—a little less safe.  “I noticed something before when you sent me that recording, I checked it again to make sure I really saw what I saw.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going crazy.  I’ve isolated the image and took a screenshot of the frame—it should be in your e-mail by now.”

“Ok?”  She said with a muffled voice, which by this time in her morning routine could only mean she had a wad of hair in her mouth while she used her iron on the rest.  “What’d you find?”

“A mistake.”  I reply.  “The Club’s, not mine.  When the leader fired his weapon, the muzzle flash illuminated his face.  It was only for a second but I got a clear image of it and from the sounds of things it’s the only one anyone has of him.  I need you to scan the mug shot into D.A.D. and see if he can find us a name to go along with it.  If we can I.D. him we’re bound to find something in his profile we can use as leverage.”

“So now on top of everything else you expect me try to figure out how to turn that unfinished, oversized microwave in the basement you call a computer on? “

I shrug, I’m thousands of miles away—she can’t hurt me.  “That’s the short, long and narrow of it.”

She grumbles madly, “alright, but you owe me.  I mean you haven’t even installed a power switch on the blooming thing yet, one of these days I’m gonna get zapped!”

“Shocking.”  I chuckle back at her.  “You’ll figure it out.”  Then I switch off the comm. link and turn my attention back to the frigid ocean just in time to dodge beneath an enormous grey whale but I’m too close and the Crayfish gets caught in the currant the massive creature leaves in his wake.  The craft spirals into an underwater tailspin as I fight to keep it from bashing into the belly of the whale as I pass underneath the behemoth.  In these cold, green-tinted waters he is king but he poses no threat to me—some animals don’t need to push their weight around to prove dominance.  For some their majestic size and grace is proof enough.

I skim past the tail and peer out my rear viewport just as the whale is swallowed up by the murk as though traveling through a portal to another realm and I am once again alone.  The ocean in front of me is clear of any other traffic so I increase my speed, set the auto pilot to follow the coordinates and pray that my wife finds the information I need before I arrive.

 

Five minutes later the base of the seaside cliff that the Minister’s fortress sits on comes into view.  I steer the Crayfish directly beneath, allow just the tip of the exit hatch to clear the water and ice and set the anchor.  The entrance hatch pops open and I’m just about to get up from my chair when my wife hails me over our comm. link.  “So’d you get zapped, Mamma?”

“Yes.”  She replies with a sour tone that reminds me of her reaction to when my mother asked her what in God’s name she put in the lasagna.  “And I expect you to stop off and get me some aloe when you eventually decide to come along home.  “Damn thing singed me.”

I smile.  “For you I’ll even spring for the big bottle.  So you get anything other than burned?  I love our time together but a man’s life is hanging in the balance here.”

“Of course.”  She says, “The man in the video is Victor Reed.  He’s a lifelong sealer but he’s not the head of the group as we originally thought.  He’s a lower middle-class man from Cape Breton Island, average yearly income is under $50,000…”

“Anything we can use?”  I ask impatiently, checking the time. 

“Now I expect chocolates to go along with my aloe.”  She snips back.  “I was just telling you his situation so you could maybe go into this thing understanding your enemy and any possible motives he might have for getting involved in all this in the first place.  If you can sympathize with him maybe you can resolve the situation without anyone getting hurt.”

Of course she’s right—the yin to my yang.  “I slump my shoulders, “yes ma’am.”  I concede in a sheepish tone I’ve not used since the last time my third grade teacher caught me eating paste during class.

…yes, that’s right—THIRD GRADE.  So sue me.  But the next few words are no joke.  And they smack me back to the realities of human frailty, even my own, all too quickly as my wife speaks the words, “looks like Victor’s wife has some form of cancer…she’s dying.”

There’s nothing I can say.  I was hoping for leverage that would make him think about the future but not that…I’ll almost feel guilty for using that, but it’s all I’ve got.  “Thanks, hun.  I’ll make contact when I’m done.  Okay?”

“Okay—and…”

“Yeah?”  I ask, about to turn away and get to work.

“Do be careful.”

A short, timid smile etches across my face, “I will.”  I tell her then I lift off the steel grating of the sub and shoot up through the open hatch.

I follow the curve of the cliff higher and higher.  It begins to snow and the wind picks up, yellow sunlight reflects off the frozen precipitation and I’m blinded by the glimmering white out.  But finally I reach the edge of the cliff.  I misjudge my trajectory and I have to correct myself by reaching out with my hands and flipping off the roof of the edge a second before impact.  Then I get my first glimpse of Harb’s fortress.

It’s a massive compound.  The house itself sits on five acres.  Huge windows open to luxurious balconies that look out over the frozen bay.  Elaborate white stone pillars pop against the red brick of the mansion and I find myself officially feeling just a tad jealous.  But I’ll be jealous of a dead man unless I find him in the next two minutes…the only problem in that there must be at least fifty rooms in this house and twice as many windows.  I know Harb is being held in a room with a window—I saw it on the recording…but which one?  There’s no way to tell and it’s going to take a lot longer than two minutes to check all of them. 

Then a gust of wind knocks me around, tossing me about, flipping me end over end in the air.  Then the turbulence subsides, I look down to check myself over and find a glowing red dot on my chest.

I’ve flown right into the path of a sniper’s laser sight.  I duck out of the way and use the zoom lenses in my cowl to follow the laser beam to its intended target: a window covered with red velvet drapes on the fourth floor.  Now I don’t know the layout of the mansion and like I said, I haven’t a clue as to which room the terrorists are holding Harb in…but the one a sniper has his sights set on is a good enough place to start for me. 

I rise higher into the sky and when I figure I’m high enough, I dive bomb the window.  I gain speed as I dart down towards the glass.  I shield my face with my forearms, brace for impact and crash through the glass.  I roll on the plush, purple carpet, the drapes blow in the breeze in back of me as the three thugs scramble around the room trying to figure out what just happened.  Victor hides behind Harb who’s strapped to a rickety wooden chair, he’s got his bat pressed firmly against the minister’s throat.  One of his henchmen brings his bat down at me like an axe, I let it hit the ground then I roll over the top of it.  He lets go and the handle slaps down on the top of his foot.  He jumps around holding it like a cartoon character while the other guy takes a swing at me head.  I jump back and he takes another shot at my gut, I kick the bat but he manages to hangs on.  Then he takes the weapon in both hands, close to his side and brings it back, then he pushes it towards my stomach like a battering ram.  I turn and catch the bat, lift up on the end of it and strike him in the forehead.  He staggers backwards and bumps into his jumping buddy.  In a flash I rip one of the drapes off the rod and wrap them up tighter than Minister Harb, then I clunk their heads together like the Three Stooges.  They thump to the floor, unconscious and I turn towards Mr. Reed.

“It’s over Victor.  Now put the bat down—you don’t want to do this!”

He reacts to my knowing his name but only for a moment. Then he pushes desperately, trying to bide his time.  “How would you know?  You don’t know anything about me!”

“That’s not true…I know your name…and I know where you live—though I’m not going to prove it with an address—not in front of the Minister.”  Harb glares at me and I wave my hand at him as though to let him know that it’s all part of the plan but I don’t think that makes him feel any better.  Now here comes the hard part—the part I don’t want to do…“I also know that your wife is dying and that you’ll soon be a single parent.”  He pauses for a moment then lowers the bat.  I struck a nerve with that one so I keep on him.  “And I know that the only reason you’re doing this is because you’re worried you won’t have enough money to support your little girl without the income from the seal hunt.”

“You don’t understand!”  He shouts at me, lowering his weapon even more.  His arm is shaking now that I have him thinking about his family.  “Not really anyway.  My father was a sealer—my grandfather…it’s all I know how to do!  It’s my livelihood!”

I look to the Minister, his eyes are filled with tears and fear and I can’t help but wonder if the intensity of this whole thing, along with all his other responsibilities, will be the cause of some sort of heart condition for him.  I take a chance with a hesitant step forward.  “I do understand, Victor.  I come from a place where old habits are dying hard—where the fight for animal rights is slowly winning.  As laws are passed and animals become more and more protected, people are being charged with things that weren’t illegal even a month ago.  I’ve seen the effect it’s had on my friends and neighbors as they struggle to adapt.  But it’s worth it Victor.  It’s worth it because nobody’s livelihood should cost another their life.  “I pause for a moment to let that sink in then, “I’m sure your daughter would agree.  You really don’t want to do this.  Your daughter is about to lose one parent—don’t make her lose both.  Neither you nor your wife have anyone who can take care of your daughter if you’re both out of the picture which means she’ll become a ward of the state.  Now for someone who hates their own government as much as you claim to, you’re sure trusting them with a lot.  Or have you even thought about that?”

He shakes his head and his shoulders slouch.  “I guess I hadn’t.” 

I’ve beaten him.

“Drop the bat and I can get you out of here.  The police have followed your demands and have kept their distance.  You can make it to your escape boat and be miles away before they even get close.  You haven’t killed anyone yet—sure they’ll look for you, but eventually the heat will be off…you can still walk away from this, but only if you stop now.”

The bat is about to fall from his hand, “why are you doing this?”  He asks me, painfully—like he’s about to sob.  I think he got so desperate that all he saw was the reward—not what he’d have to do to get it.  I don’t think he realized how far deep he was in until he realized he didn’t want to go any further.  By then it was too late.

“I’m doing this because I’d rather see a father be there for his daughter when she needs him the most than behind bars or dead on the floor of this very room.”

He flexes his muscles, ready to bring the bat up again, taking what I said as a threat.  “And were you gonna be the one to kill me if I refused?”

“No.”  I tell him.  The sniper is…he was just setting up on the glacier a mile off when I arrived.  I’ve been blocking you from his laser sight since I got here.  But I’m not with them—and if you don’t end this soon it’s entirely probably he’ll take the both of us out before your time table is up.”

Victor peeks over my shoulder, just enough to clear my mane, he can’t see anyone but the sniper sees him and fires a round that whizzes past my shoulder, barely missing us both.  “You’ve left me little choice.”  He says as his club clatters loudly to the floor.

Beneath my mask I smile, just a little.  “You always have a choice.”  I reply, slowly taking out a fox star filled with a gaseous chemical that once mixed with air will produce a dense fog.  “Today you just made the right one.” 

Then the fox star cracks against the wood flooring.

The room fills with a cloud of fog.

And the mastermind behind the club, who turned out to be just another pawn, and I escape.

 

By the time I return to Wisconsin the summit has already adjourned.

And the seal hunt remains. 

Apparently while The Club was threatening to kill Minister Harb they were also bribing other members of the summit and they voted to keep the slaughter going for the very people threatening to kill one of their own.

It’s not the ending I’d hoped for but at least I saved that one seal and the Minister…and a father.  And fortunately today was the last day of the season and the seals are now safe until next year.  Still, for all my efforts, for Harb’s brush with death, for things to have ended this way because someone was bought is disgusting.  But this was always a possibility—a vote this loaded is always prone to corruption. 

But now I have a whole year to figure out which sleazy government fat cat accepted the money—a whole year to expose them for the underhanded, amoral, pathetic excuse for humanity who would allow something as sick and twisted as the seal slaughter to continue.

I have a year to root out the degenerate who would accept a few dollars in exchange for the lives of thousands.

And when I do… 

 

 

The End