Chapter 23 - Dax
DAX
If Reed Thompson thinks he can out-hunt me, he’s got another think coming.
I didn’t even agree to his bet, yet I’m determined to win it.
Even though I already feel like a winner, my prize being all those sweet words Reed said to me. I grab my backpack. Somehow, the load is lighter and the work ahead of me seems less daunting, knowing now that Reed has feelings for me. That the connection I sensed between us isn’t one-sided.
What if he said all those things as a trick? the villain in my head asks.
I choose to ignore that nuisance. The universe put Reed Thompson back into my path for a reason. Whether he’s my salvation or my destruction, well, I’ll have to take a chance to find out.
In the hallway, Reed’s sneakers have left identifiable footprints. A hunter would usually follow tracks, but I venture in the opposite direction to cover more ground. I’m prepared to pry up every goddamn floorboard until the whole house is dismantled if I have to.
Head down, I search for anomalies in the wood pattern where a safe may have been installed. The first lesson my father taught me about elk hunting was to keep careful watch of the ground. Don’t step too hard or too fast. You might miss something.
Elk hunting was at its best around the rut, which is what elk mating season is called. During this time, elk bulls leave behind clues as to where they’ve been and where they’re going so they can herd their harem of cows.
At twelve, I broke the rules by walking too quickly and not looking closely enough. I nearly stepped in a patch of nut-sized brownish pellets steaming in the middle of our path. My father told me to pick them up.
“Dad, that’s gross,” I said, crinkling my nose.
One look of disappointment from him had me correcting course. Disgusted but not wanting a fight, I scooped up the poop.
“It’s from a female. Squish it,” he said.
I hesitated, both because I wondered how he’d learned all this—my grandfather had never seemed like the hunting type—and because I was afraid he was pulling my leg.
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I quickly remembered he had no real sense of humor.
“The rain can make it look fresh when it’s not. Squish it.”
When I did, the pellets flattened into greenish pancakes and the overwhelming scent of elk filled the air. My father’s nostrils dilated and his eyes went wide. That meant the elk were close, and he was ready to take one down.
But we had to be careful.
Ahead of and during the rut, elk bulls—raging with testosterone—could make a threat out of a runaway tree leaf. It would attack a human right away if it thought its harem was at risk. They had the need to breed, and it made them anxious and unwieldy.
At the time, I understood this feeling. Puberty was tearing down the walls of my childhood. Zits cropping up on my chin. Hair sprouting on my crotch. Agitation burned constantly in my fingertips.
I didn’t know what to do about any of it. Who to ask if this was normal. I was all alone in my pimply, petulant state. My only outlet: the hunt. I summon that youthful energy again now.
The house is big enough that I comb the floors in every wing, entryway, and room, and don’t pass Reed. Remnants of his own search are evident from the misaligned furniture he leaves in his wake, but for the most part, he seems to be about as unsuccessful as I’ve been.
In the second-floor sitting area, my gut instinct is to remove the portrait over the mantel.
It’s the kind of egotistical move a guy like Wendell Blitz would pull.
But before I move the coffee table to stand on it, I consider the fireplace beneath.
There’s ash in it, which can only mean this is a usable fireplace with a flue.
No chance of housing a large safe in there because it would block air flow.
More interesting than the portrait, however, are the two elk heads stuffed and mounted beside it.
Above my head is an elk-horn chandelier.
Plenty of Wyoming residents use hunting trophies as home décor, even if they don’t hunt themselves, but like that wall of accolades Wendell has downstairs, it’s clear that Wendell likes to showcase his accomplishments. These must be his own kills.
I remember another lesson my father taught me about elk hunting. Rubs.
On game trails, I kept my head down as I was told, until one day my father pointed to a crinkly patch of brown bark scraped off a nearby tree.
About six feet off the ground, violent marks marred the trunk.
Elk hair—long and wiry—clung to the grooves.
A testy male had been sharpening his majestic, violent horns to attract mates.
A close-by curdling bugle of a bull broke the quiet of the trail and alerted us to the presence of our prey.
I backtrack, eyes raking over the walls for telltale marks this time, but then it occurs to me that would be too obvious. Wall safes are too common. A guy like Wendell Blitz shirks the ordinary.
If I were a billionaire and somebody broke into my house, where would I want my valuables to be?
One of the places my father and I searched for elusive elk was in elk beds.
They’d rest mountainside in spots where directional winds swirled, which would scatter scent and confuse predators.
There’s one guest bedroom on the first floor at the center of both wings.
I suppose if you were to spend your nights in there, it would be a good middle point from which to surveil any potential intruders.
But I hunt through the closet and move the bedside tables with no luck.
There are no seams in the walls, no panels to push and enter a hidden passageway.
I rush back to the main bedroom. I crawl under the bed, open and close the bench in the reading nook, and check for covert hinges on the bookshelves to see if they swing out, but they don’t.
I catch my reflection in the mirror over the double-sink vanity. I appear crazed. The hard set of my brow is rumpled with determination.
I check my analog watch. Only two-and-a-half hours left before sunrise, and I’ve made no progress.
In the shower room, I run my fingers along the tile. Maybe one of them presses in like a button and out shoots the safe.
My eyes snag on the shiny drain in the floor. My life feels like it’s circling that orifice. I’m seconds away from slipping down into the sewers where I belong. To live among the filth and the wastewater.
Another childhood memory strikes me.
Beds were places where elk felt safe, thinking predators wouldn’t come.
A bedroom is a natural place to keep a safe with valuables because one would want to protect them.
Nothing about the Wendell Blitz we spoke to on the phone came across as natural.
It seemed he’d do almost anything to go against the grain.
One of the showerheads drips, and water makes me think of how bull elk wallow—a tactic where they piss in muddy holes and then roll around in it to spread their scent.
An advertisement for the cows and a warning to other bulls.
We only saw this once or twice on our hunting trips, but it stayed fresh in my mind because of how playful and undeserving of death elk bulls seemed, acting like big children, rolling around in their own mess.
It occurs to me, as I pass the wall of photos of Wendell Blitz and his many accomplishments again, that his company is called Arrow Mart. I have its logo branded in my mind after years of work at the warehouse. An archery arrow embedded in the O of the word arrow.
If Wendell were an archery elk hunter, then he, too, would be familiar with wallowing.
Wendell Blitz sees himself as an aggressive bull who will charge antlers-first at anyone who threatens his position.
That is evident from the way he treated Reed.
Just like Wendell, elk bulls don’t stick around after the rut to nurture or raise their young.
Smart elk bulls don’t play into the tricks of their predators either.
It stands to reason that Wendell wouldn’t hide his safe, but rather put it in an obvious spot that all can see, pass by, step on, or wade in.
I take off like a shot out the back door and onto the deck toward the spa that I watched Reed soak in.
The water burbles and the lights change from yellow to green to pink.
I strip down to my underwear and drop into the perfect one-hundred-degree water.
It would be relaxing if I weren’t frantically searching and sweat wasn’t coating every inch of my body.
There’s no time to search for goggles, and I can’t open my eyes underwater for fear of chemicals getting in them, so I use my foot to feel around.
Floor. Filter. My toe snags on a small imperfection in the tub. Two jagged lines nobody would ever notice unless they were really looking. I trace the lines of the marking. Is it a cross?
I retrace it.
Once, and then again.
No.
It’s an X.
Wendell Blitz, like some modern-day pirate, buried his treasure and marked the spot.