Chapter 13 Dax
DAX
My primal hunting instincts flip to full throttle as I track through the house in search of Reed.
As a kid, my father took me out hunting.
He was a quiet man who never taught me how to shave, drive a car, or about the birds and the bees.
That man only ever did one thing for me.
At twelve, he took me out to the greater Yellowstone wilderness, put a nine-pound rifle in my hand, and had me aim for elk almost three times my size.
My parents were the type of lower-middle-class people who desperately wanted to be seen as richer and better than they were. They pretended to be popular and to know about things like art and fine dining. By extension, I was expected to do the same.
When I was ten, my dad landed a big job and moved us out of the sticks and into Jackson, Wyoming—consider this job a homecoming—which meant more businesses, more people, and more things to do.
But it also meant we were a family of renters in a community where all my classmates lived in houses that cost upward of a million dollars.
Too embarrassed to invite anyone over, I didn’t attract a ton of friends, so my stoic dad—clearly taking pity on me—dragged me along on his frequent weekend trips.
He never told my mom where he went, and she never asked, a marital dance of frequent disapproval that culminated in Sunday night exchanges of “How was your weekend?” always followed up with an obligatory “Fine.”
The first time my dad took me along, I kept my mouth shut and learned by example.
When I was starting to hunt, we’d call the cow herd in using a latex diaphragm that resulted in these horrid kazoo-like sounds emerging from our mouths that made me shudder.
But elk are smart. They often recognize a fake, and when they don’t, they chase the wind in search of musky human scent before retreating so they can be sure to stay out of shooting range.
That was fine by me. I didn’t want to shoot the majestic animals. I didn’t want to clean, skin, quarter, and cook them back at the leaky, bad-smelling cabin my dad rented. I never liked the gamy taste, no matter how well it was prepared.
During the week, it was like my dad could wear a suit and tie, smile, shake hands, and close deals, but on the weekends, he had this alter ego that was too primitive to run errands or play golf like his coworkers.
All he wanted was dirt under his nails, blood on his boots, and freshly killed meat in his belly.
I hated it, but I couldn’t back out of the trips without telling my mom why I didn’t want to go.
It was implied that telling Mom what we got up to would be a big mistake.
I sucked it up, and while the trauma of my first kill still rots me from the inside out, those trips did teach me a lesson that would become valuable in my later line of work.
Specifically, the spot-and-stalk method.
You shut up, stay still, and wait for the prey to cross your path.
That’s the tactic I deploy now with Reed.
Frisky, feisty, thinks-he’s-going-to-outsmart-me Reed.
I’ve got my night vision goggles on, which is probably cheating by Reed’s standards, but I never said I would play fair.
The quicker he succumbs to my power, the quicker this will all be over.
I’ll get what I came for, drag him to safety, and skip the country.
I’m headed somewhere warm and untraceable.
I plan to live the good life while I can.
I packed away the hunting knife. As far as I’m willing to go to pillage this place, I couldn’t hurt Reed beyond a love bite, a nick, or a bruise.
If he comes at me with the hammer, I’ll disarm and overpower him.
I’ve done it before, though it does seem he’s built up more muscle since the last time we were together.
Is this all punishment for ghosting him? Is the universe setting him in my path now as karmic retribution?
I take the steps one at a time, careful to temper my tread so as not to give myself away.
At the base of the stairs, I have an optimal view down the hallway into both wings of the house.
Quieting my breath, I back into the alcove under the stairs beside the modern fainting couch next to a gallery wall.
Most of the house is bedecked in artwork.
This wall, however, is littered with personal touches.
I keep my ears perked up for signs of Reed as I inspect the rows of photos hung there.
Young Wendell Blitz, smiling at a desktop computer in what looks like a garage.
Wendell and his wife on what might’ve been their honeymoon in leis and floral shirts.
Wendell, accepting some award from another bald white man.
It’s a mini museum of his ascent. The thing that grinds my gears the most is a framed magazine cover with the headline Arrow Mart Makes Business Personal: How Wendell Blitz Made an e-commerce Giant Through Community Building.
Just goes to show, no matter how honest your roots, you can still grow rotten fruit.
My nose catches a whiff of peony. While my underwear sniff may have been a nasty trick to throw Reed off his balance, it was also practical. My sense of smell has always been keen, which earned approval from my dad on our hunting trips, though it often overwhelmed me and made my stomach churn.
The body cream I watched Reed slather himself in earlier is fragrant to his detriment. A cloud of it blooms fresh through the hall as the air system kicks in again. It’s like he planted a whole garden in his wake, leading me straight to him.
I stick close to the walls, blending in as best I can.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I call just to tease him.
My words are wasted. He’s not in any of the alcoves or closets in the laundry room.
I continue with slow, methodical steps.
I wiped my boots before exiting the entryway to ensure I didn’t leave footprints behind, though it wouldn’t matter if I did.
I purchased a pair of the exact same boots I’d seen many of the construction workers wearing in the security camera footage in a size too big for my feet.
I’ve got several layers of socks on, and the laces tied as tight as they can go so they don’t slip off.
After sweeping the media room, I turn the TV on to cover the unhelpful squeak of my shoes.
Instead of resuming the Nova Ranger movie, I open a music streaming app.
I crank up Johnny Cash’s greatest hits through the whole-house speaker system.
A pump up for me and a little psychological warfare for Reed.
Cash croons about watching out for his heart and walking the line. His bass-baritone voice creeps like thick fog through the hallways. The driving beat and instrumentation in the song spur me forward. Every good villain needs their own theme song.
In the last room in this wing, I come upon two closet doors across from one another. I can almost hear a game show host asking, “Would you like to see what’s behind Door Number One or Door Number Two?”
Reed is right-handed, and if I remember correctly, people often veer to the side of the body they favor.
Plus, this one is slightly ajar.
I slide open the pocket doors.
“Found you!” I shout into an empty closet.
The next thing I know, Johnny sings about a ring of fire, and the steel head of a hammer collides with my ankle. I shout in unholy pain.
The dark mass of Reed uncurls from the closet behind me. He knocks me onto my ass and makes a run for it.
Every nerve in my body responds to the impact.
Pain fuzzes up my vision like static on an old television set.
Through the floaters, I catch a glimpse of Reed fumbling to get the security system disarmed.
It’s clear he didn’t commit the code to memory, which gives me enough time to push through the hurt.
I take a few hobbling steps forward. Bolts of agony fly up my leg. Reed’s blue eyes flare when he spots me over his shoulder. I must look like a malfunctioning cyborg with my tight black outfit, wobbly gait, and my thick heatwave goggles trained on him.
Click.
The door unlocking might as well be a gunshot at the start of a track and field event. Reed barrels out into the night. Powering through the pain, I sprint after him.
The outdoor lights are still on, giving me better visibility of my moving target. If he were a spooked elk and I had the .308 my dad had gifted me as a kid, I’d stop, plant, and have a perfect shot. But Reed is a much better trophy alive than dead.
Reed scans the deck boards, clearly looking for the phone he dropped from the bathroom window. His frenzied scramble earns me a few seconds to gain on him. He abandons the task and keeps running. I, however, see the phone right away, make a beeline for it, and snag it without losing sight of Reed.
Bold of him to think he’d make it all the way to a neighbor or to town for help. He’s fit, but he’s no long-distance runner. My stride triples his. When I’m not injured, at least.
Nearing the trees, he slows to a halt.
Good boy. Give in, the villain in my head murmurs.
I knew he had good sense in that pretty head of his somewhere.
If he comes willingly inside with me, I won’t have to hurt him.
Though I realize quickly that’s not what worries him.
Out of the inky Wyoming night appear two iridescent yellow specks. One could mistake them for fireflies from the way they flicker on and off. Too bad there aren’t any fireflies out here. And the dots snuff out and reignite in perfect sync.
The snotty snout of a wolf breaches the pool of light emanating from the house.
I slow down and assess the situation. Wolves aren’t naturally aggressive, and they only attack if you encroach on their food or their cubs.
But it’s obvious Reed doesn’t know any of that from the way he freezes, terror radiating off him in almost palpable waves.
I don’t even see his shoulders rising and falling, so he must be holding his breath.
This wolf might be exactly the teammate I need to lure Reed back inside, and he’s not even going to want a cut of the profits when I finish the job.