Hunter and the Hunted: Part II

Hunter and the Hunted: Part II

I rip my mask off as I walk down the steps to the Den, my base of operations located in the basement of my home.  “What this about, babe?  It’s after five, I just now get home after being out there kicking butt and building up an appetite like you wouldn’t believe, and you haven’t even started dinner yet?”  I say, in what I hope she will identify as my joking voice.

She pivots in her chair, her lips were in a straight line and she gives me a dry look.

“It…it was a joke.”  I say quickly.

“Mmm, hmm.”  She groans before spinning her chair back towards her screen.  “To answer your earlier question, I’ve spent the entire afternoon combing Jim East’s record.”

“And.”

“And I’m still not done.  This so called ‘conservationist’ has more strikes than a bowling alley.  I just can’t figure out why Non-Human-Network would still keep someone like this on the air.  He’s done everything from poaching animals out of season to guiding hunting trips inside nature preserves.”

“Well he’s obviously got the right people in his pocket.  The law has had plenty of opportunity to get him out of the woods and behind bars, now it’s up to me.”

My wife sighs.

Deeply.

Angrily.  The way she used to when we were newlyweds and she was tired and I wanted the thing that newlywed husbands want. 

“What is it?”  I ask her, already knowing the answer.

“I understand your wanting to help, I do.  My passion for animals is what first drew me to joining the D.N.R. and it’s what drew you to me.  You know my commitment—it’s what’s allowed me to sit home while you play dress up and risk your life out in the woods every night.  But you have to understand where I’m coming from.  You’ve gone from kicking hunters off our own land to shutting down Madison College’s animal testing facility to taking a leisurely submarine ride to Canada to stop the seal hunt.”

“Well I’d hardly say that was a “leisurely’ ride, Dear.”  I interject, trying to lighten the mood.  “that whale I nearly ran into tossed the sub around pretty good.”

“Not the time!”  She responds to my remark before moving on.  “Every mission you send yourself on gets more and more dangerous. Every crisis you stick your nose into increases my chance of becoming a widow.  I’ve been understanding—but I will never understand why you think it has to be you out there.”

Despite her claim to have always been understanding, we’d had this discussion before.

Frequently.

And recently, I might add.

I do what I always do and wrap my arm around her, an arm littered with scars and bruises—evidence supporting the very type of danger my wife is talking about.  I press her close against me and tell her the same thing I always do.  “…because, I’m the only one who can—I’m the only one willing to do something.  Maybe someday I won’t have to—Lawson Hunter is rising through the ranks fast at our office.  His beliefs mirror my own and leadership suits him—maybe someday it’ll be him and his values running things, but for now…”  I pause for a moment while she cries.  Then I say the next thing that comes to mind, “…and you know this guy will just keep killing and getting away with it if I don’t put myself in danger to stop him.”

“I know.”  She whispers softly, I’m just tired of always wondering if I’m going to get that call—the one that tells me I now longer have a husband and ‘oh by the way, you’re under arrest for aiding and abetting a vigilante.’  Or worse—see it on the evening news…the whole world watching while you lay dead on some mercy mission in some other part of the world.”

I hold her for another moment, pressing her hard against me until the pressure pushes on the memory card in my utility belt and something she said hits me.

“That’s it!”  I wail, moving her back and sitting down in her chair.  I started typing in the website address from memory.

“What’s it?”  She asks, startled.

“I know how to get his attention and I don’t even have to leave the state.  The scum I took out in the woods were recording their kills—it’s for a contest sponsored by Mr. East.”

“So what are you doing?”

The website loads and I reach into my utility belt and take out the confiscated memory card and show her.  “I’m submitting my contest entry.”  I say as I plug the memory card into the computer.

“Oh Fritz…”  My wife sighs disapprovingly as she figures out what I’m about to do.  She folds her arms, turns, and soundlessly makes her way up the stairs as a silent replay of my fight with the poachers flashes across the screen as it uploads to the website. 

I type a single-line message in the comments section of the entry form:

COME AND GET ME.

And then I enter for my chance to win.