the hunter

by Laura Brann

The Hunter

The shadow of a saguaro drapes over my quarry like an armored blanket. But that armor can only offer protection from a sun that scorches the earth without remorse. There is no protection from me. Motionless, I bide my time as the gritty earth radiates heat beneath my belly. I ignore the salty bead of sweat rolling over my lip, just like I ignored the rattlesnake that slithered by with a shaking tail moments ago. I have a job to do. Patience and precision are everything. I only ever take one shot because suffering is unnecessary. It is always only death. I steel my breath and squeeze the trigger, my shoulder absorbing the kick.

No extra bullets to unload, I leave the spent casing on the dusty ground and hike back to my truck, my Sako and the stench of sweat my only companions. The road in sight, I tip my canteen and cold water spills down my throat, the cool relief circulating throughout my body. 

Pulling onto the deserted highway, hazy shimmers of heat dance above the pavement. There is no need to look back. My quarry lies prone on the desert floor, and I know that climate or coyote will take care of the remains. I learned that from my father. 

I hate my father.

Max

I pull into the crumbling lot of Rusty’s Tavern and Inn. The wood siding is cracked with dry rot, and the building is as run-down as every other structure still standing in the area. Sitting on the side of the highway, Rusty’s is one of the only businesses left in the blink-or-you’ll-miss-it, half-abandoned, desert mining town. The closest town of size is Quartzsite, and it isn’t close. 

Stepping through the doorway, my boots clunk on the wooden floor, and I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to the drab lighting. There are fewer people every time I come here, and the area is dying a slow, painful death. The talking heads on TV have been saying for years that wells in Arizona are in danger of drying up. Several nearby have, and I know that Rusty is worried. His business is all he knows, and I’d hate to see it dry up like the rest of the town.

“Max!” Rusty greets me with a crooked smile. “The usual?”

I sit at the bar, a comfortable distance from the other patrons, and drain the ice-cold beer Rusty has waiting for me. Its crisp, bready flavor wraps around my taste buds as condensation dampens my fingers. The place smells like bar food and lawlessness. It was once the Wild West, after all.

“Business gotcha on the road again?” Rusty asks.

“Always.” I hear the unintentional gruffness in my voice, but it matches my disposition, so I don’t correct it. “I assume you have a room for me?”

“Of course,” Rusty says, tossing me the key to room number one. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll put it on your tab.”

I’ve been coming to Rusty’s for the better part of a decade, and I pass through town several times a year. Rusty only has five rooms. All upstairs, all crappy, and never full. 

“What’s new, Rusty?” I ask, knowing nothing is ever new here.

“Much the same, just fewer people.”

There’s not much I can do to help Rusty, but I can give him my patronage, and I suppose that’s something. I glance around the room. Only a few other men are in it – all men I recognize, and I wonder if any of them ever work. I nod in their direction, but I don’t smile.

“Hey, Max,” Cowboy says. His name isn’t Cowboy, but he always wears a cowboy hat, and I’ve never been interested enough to learn his name. “Been a while. Have you heard the latest?”

“About what?” I grunt, resting my forearms on the bar.

“The Hunter, of course,” Red says. His name isn’t Red, but again, I’m not interested enough.

More of the same. These guys rarely have anything better to talk about. “The Hunter is an urban legend,” I tell them, just like I always tell them. “He doesn’t exist.”

“I’d bet good money he does.” A familiar sweet, sultry voice cuts through the stale air, fusing with the heat climbing up the back of my neck. I knew it was her before she spoke. The sensual mix of exotic white flowers and vanilla in her perfume always gives her away. Analise. I’m definitely interested enough to remember her.

I spin on my cracked leather barstool and drink her in; Analise’s long coal-black hair frames the face of an angel, though her body says she is anything but. I nod once. “You would, huh? How much?”

“A year’s salary.” Hoots come from the men in the bar, and Analise takes a seat, but not next to me.

“Well, darlin’, I don’t know how much you make, so that doesn’t say much.” My response is chilly, but I turn back to the bar, allowing her scent to wrap around me like a warm blanket.

“The Hunter does exist!” Red hollers from his barstool. A line of empty bottles stands in front of him, an explanation to his boisterous insistence. “And it’s always the same. One shot and one spent .308 casing left behind. And his kill, of course.”

I roll my eyes. These boys always think they need to catch me up, even on things that happened months ago. Whether I’m interested or not. “Then where is he?”

“In the wind,” Rusty answers, leaning against the bar with one hip. “Anyway, he was outside Tucson last month. Some guy was tired of a mountain lion gettin’ his chickens and hired The Hunter. One shot. One casing. One dead mountain lion.”

“Don’t make sense to leave evidence behind,” I say, even though I’m sure, at some point, I’ve mentioned this before. 

Red scoffs. “The .308 is his calling card.”

“Wait, his number is on the casing? I wondered how people found him.” Cowboy says.

I shake my head. Cowboy is too tipsy to realize how stupid he sounds, but I’m not about to point it out. Won’t do any good anyway.

Rusty grabs a bar towel as he barks out a laugh. “No. You gotta know someone who knows someone – that kinda thing. The .308 is like his signature. His MO.”

“Oh, I get it!” Cowboy says from a wobbly nearby table, gulping what looks like cheap whiskey. “Well, six months ago, he was in Yuma. Some guy was sick of his neighbor’s dog barking at all hours. He wanted The Hunter to take out the neighbor, but you know what The Hunter said? He said it wasn’t a good enough reason to kill a man.”

“What is a good enough reason to kill a man?” Analise pierces me with her deep brown eyes, but her question is directed at Cowboy.

“Dunno. But The Hunter took out the dog,” Cowboy replies, draining the rest of the amber liquid in his glass. 

My eye muscles are getting a workout with how much this conversation is making them roll. “You guys need better stories. Real ones.”

“He hunts deer and elk. Gives the meat to poor families, is what I hear,” Rusty says, wiping down the bar while ignoring my suggestion.

Scarface speaks up from a dark corner. The only thing I know about Scarface is that he is always brooding. “The Hunter will only kill a man who really deserves it…if the price is right. And the dog in question was dangerous. It bit some kids. The Hunter hates it when kids are hurt.”

“Is that an opinion?” I ask, scootching my beer bottle in circles. I shouldn’t encourage any of this. But Scarface rarely speaks, so I’m intrigued.

“It’s a fact,” Scarface says, looking directly at me, and I flinch. Not enough for anyone to see it, but I feel it.

“What makes you think The Hunter is a he?” Analise offers. The room goes silent, and every man in it looks at Analise. But she just downs her scotch and winks.

****

I’m sitting against the old, creaky metal headboard of room number one, my arm around Analise as she runs her slender fingers through the dark hair covering most of my chest. “This town is dead, darlin’,” I tell her. “Why are you still here?”

“You know why. I have to take care of my mama. But I can’t do it on my own anymore. I almost have enough money to put her in an assisted living home in California. A nice one.”

“Would you move there, too?”

Analise sits up, reaching for her clothes, and I notice the faint shimmer of sweat on her back as my eyes trace every line and curve. “Arizona is a beach with no water,” she says. “I want the water.”

My skin is cool without her next to me, and I realize I’m not sure how I feel about her leaving town. I don’t care about anyone, not really. But something about the finality of not seeing Analise when I roll through town bothers me. I try to ignore the discomfort and scratch at my stubbled chin. “How do you have enough money for California on your salary?”

Analise laughs as she pulls on her boots, then crawls across the squeaky bed. She presses her lips to mine and pats my cheek. “You don’t know what I make, remember? You care as much about what I do for a living as you do about any man in that bar downstairs.”

“I like Rusty,” I say. 

“Who else?” 

She has me there. I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of the other men in that tavern. And I rarely ask Analise anything about herself. I only know about her mama because she brought it up a few years back. I brush it off and grab Analise, pinning her beneath me, and kiss her pink, pouty lips. “What I do know is, if you need money for your mama, you shouldn’t be betting a year’s salary on a myth. Now, how are you going to get the money to help your mama?”

“Don’t you worry about me, Max. I’ve got it covered.”

Part of me wants to give her money for her mama, but I decide she’s right. I don’t worry about her, and instead, I slide my hands along the smooth skin under her shirt as pin pricks skate across her stomach beneath my touch.

The Hunter

The large rock is scarred with bumps and crevices, and it digs into my arms as the sweet aroma of desert pine drifts through the air. The deer in my sights is beautiful, and it will feed a family well. Coming from a long line of Hunters, I grew up on deer and other animals. The skill and the trade have been passed down from father to son for more generations than I can count. It’s the only life I know, and I learned a long time ago that the only escape is in death. But my line will end with me. I will never damn a kid to this life. 

Hunters have to be tough, my father said as he snapped his belt. Hunters have to be precise, my father said as I learned the gentle sweet spot of a trigger when I was five. Hunters have to survive. When I was ten, my father dropped me in the desert with a rifle, canteen, and compass. I’d been hungry, but instead of food, I’d gotten the belt for drinking all of my water before making it out of the desert. Hunters can never get caught. My father always said that was the most important lesson. When I was fifteen, I learned why Hunters can never get caught. A lesson that was guaranteed to buy my silence.

My father had told me that there were other Hunters out there, beyond the ones we knew. Families who passed the trade down to the next generation. We all kept our distance because it was too big a risk. Because above all else, Hunters can never get caught.

I steel my breath and squeeze. The pungent metallic odor of the shot assaults my senses, and the deer goes down – no needless suffering. I won’t leave this kill behind. This kill isn’t for pay. The meat will be left with a family that doesn’t always know where their next meal is coming from. I don’t know them, but I’ve watched them long enough to know that the kids are hungry. It’s part of my routine. For every job I take, I seek out someone in need. I take on the good while taking out the bad. The Yin and Yang. The good is the only thing that ever makes me feel human, and I cling to it…to the only shred of humanity left in me.

Max

I lock the door to room number one and take the stairs down, giving a curt nod to a rough-looking man who is taking the stairs up, two at a time. Rounding the corner, I let my eyes adjust to the dark tavern. Rusty always closes the shades when the sun is blinding, but the sun is always blinding here, and since Rusty never remembers to raise them, the tavern is always dark. I’m tired from a long day of business travel, and I take my usual seat at the bar and look around. All the regulars. Except Analise. She left my room late last night, to look after her mama, I suppose; it didn’t occur to me to ask.

After a cursory look at the menu, I order a burger and beer while preparing myself for the usual conversation. No one here ever talks about anything of substance. Sometimes they ask Rusty about his well or complain about whatever political figure they’re angry with, but it’s usually just small talk or gossip.

“Who’s the new guy?” I ask, jerking my head toward the stairs.

“Dunno. Just passing through, I guess. He didn’t say hardly a word,” Rusty says, setting a bottle of beer in front of me. “How are sales?”

I shrug, acknowledging the small talk. “It’s life insurance, what can I say?”

“Ya know, for a salesman, you don’t talk much,” Rusty laughs. He’s filling ketchup bottles and sets one in front of me.

“I’m talked out by day’s end.”

“Maybe I should get some life insurance,” Rusty says, acknowledging Red’s empty beer bottle and handing him another. “In case I end up in The Hunter’s crosshairs. Hell, any one of us could end up on the wrong side of The Hunter’s barrel.”

I consider his words before dismissing them, and take a long pull from the bottle, the cool, familiar condensation sliding down my hand as I drink. “I doubt you need to worry–”

“The Hunter’s back,” Red interrupts from his place at the bar.

“Been a while since he’s been this close,” Cowboy says. His gaze falls somewhere between curious and suspicious while tracking the man from the stairs as the newcomer rounds the corner and takes a seat at the bar.

I sigh at the shift to gossip and dump the ketchup on the overcooked burger Rusty has plopped in front of me. “What makes you think he’s back? This man who doesn’t exist?”

The tantalizing scent of exotic white flowers and vanilla seeps through the air, and I know she’s behind me before she speaks. I don’t turn around.

“You fools keep saying The Hunter is a man. What makes you so sure?” Analise’s smooth, sweet-as-honey voice floats through the air, tempting the strongest of men.

“It’s true, he’s back,” Rusty offers, sliding a beer to the man from the stairs and pouring Analise her scotch. “A man’s body was found next to a saguaro in the desert not far from here. Single shot and a spent .308.”

I shove the charred burger in my mouth, my gaze following Analize to her usual spot on the other side of the bar. If any of the men suspect me and Analise are a sometimes thing, they keep quiet. Out of respect or indifference, I don’t know.

Red drains his drink and lowers his voice, “I heard it was some guy out of Reno. And the wife wasn’t too sorry to hear her husband was dead.”

“Reno? Shoot, probably some gambler who owes money to the mob,” Cowboy laughs, drunk already and nearly falling out of his chair.

“No.” Scarface sits in his usual dark corner, his hand hugging a glass of bourbon. “The dead man abused his kids. The Hunter hates that.”

Rusty scoffs, “And how do you know this, Brett?”

I guess Scarface’s name is Brett.

“It’s not hard to figure out if you listen more than you drink,” Scarface grumbles.

“Pot, kettle, Brett,” Red says in a happy, drunk sing-song voice.

I roll my eyes and get up from the barstool, my gaze taking a stroll up and down Analise, registering the heat in her eyes. “Always the same. I’m going to bed.”

****

“Do you believe in The Hunter?” Analise’s voice is as enticing as the long bare legs she’s resting on the small table in my crappy room.

Even lying in bed, I can make out the voices of Rusty, Red, and Cowboy as their drunken bravado and conspiracy theories penetrate the floor. But I don’t hear Scarface; he never talks just for the sake of talking.

“You make him sound like Santa Claus,” I mutter.

Analise blows smoke out the grimy, partially open sliding door, leading to the grimier, structurally questionable balcony.

“Those things will kill you,” I say, jerking my chin toward her cigarette.

She studies the white stick in her hand. “Like you care,” she says.

“I care.”

Analise smiles. “What’s Scarface’s name, Max?” 

“Touché. How’s your mama?”

Analise runs her fingers through her long, raven locks. An act that turns me on and guts me every time she does it. “I need 100K, and we’re out of here. Got a line on something though.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, ignoring the way her waves drape over her shoulders as well as the prickling sensation in my gut. “Should I ask?”

“No.”

I ponder her response. Quick. Decisive. Private. I don’t really know anything about Analise. Nothing of substance anyway. But asking questions after all these years just seems…fake.

“Well?”

My head snaps up, having forgotten where we are in the conversation. “Well, what?”

Analise narrows her eyes. “Do you think he’s real?” 

“He? Don’t you think The Hunter is a woman?”

Analise crushes out her cigarette and smiles. “Maybe.”

The Hunter

Lying on the cracked, rocky ground, the scratching sounds of a nearby desert rat break the silence. I have been waiting for an hour, but I know my quarry will return. It does every day, mostly at dusk, according to the rancher who hired me. It’s illegal to kill a wolf in Arizona, and the penalties are steep. But I am a Hunter, and Hunters never get caught. I have nothing against wolves, but the rancher is losing his bread and butter to this particular one, and he has a family to feed. What if the wolf gets one of my kids? The rancher asked in his post, and that was all I needed to take the job.

Not all Hunters care or have scruples about what or who they hunt. My father didn’t. My great-grandfather didn’t either. But all good Hunters hunt cleanly. Because all Hunters are trained the same. My father always said that no quarry should suffer, but I suffered at the hands of my father. 

I hate my father.

I asked my father once how many Hunters were left.  Not many, but some. It was the most cryptic bullshit answer my father had ever given me, and my father always knew more than he ever said.

I wonder now how much my father never told me. Hunting has always been handed down from father to son. No exceptions. If a Hunter only has daughters, the line simply dies with the father. I suppose a daughter could be trained in secrecy, something I’ve never considered. Is there a female Hunter out there? Is she right?

I can’t ask my father – he’s been gone a while now. My father is the only time I have ever broken the code against suffering. 

A red-tailed hawk spears the desert rat with its talons as the doomed rodent lets out its final cry. I squeeze the trigger, feel the kick, and ignore the metallic aroma of the shot. I leave the spent casing and the wolf and walk away with a smile. I never smile. But I’m picturing my father. Suffering.

Max

“I heard he got a wolf.” The bar is quiet, and only one drink in, Red sounds more coherent than usual.

“That guy sure gets around,” Cowboy adds.

“I can’t decide if I should admire him or fear him,” Rusty says.

“Wolf was a danger to kids. He’s a Hunter with a heart,” Scarface growls.

Scarface is scowling more than usual tonight, but that’s not what has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Scarface is giving me a look of warning, and my gut is echoing my father’s words. Hunters can never get caught. I need to leave. Now. 

****

I toss my clothes and toiletries into my battered suitcase, then crouch, reaching under the bed. I pull the locked case that holds my Sako, scope, and ammo across the gritty wooden floor of room number one.

“Going somewhere, Max?”

Realization claws its way up my spine, and I straighten. I always know when Analise is in a room before seeing her. But not tonight. She isn’t wearing perfume. 

“I thought the door was locked,” I say.

“It was. I’m disappointed with the view from the balcony. I hope Rusty didn’t charge you extra for that.” Analise’s voice is different tonight. It’s not as sweet.

I don’t turn around. I don’t need to see what I already know. “You’re a Hunter,” I say. “It’s against the code, so I assume no brothers.”

“Oh, I have a brother. But Papa always knew he was weak.”

I turn on my heel. Analise is bathed in the fiery glow of a desert sunset, but I’m not surprised to see the silencer-equipped 9mm in her hand. Her slender finger on the trigger. “Scarface,” I say. It’s not a question.

“Brett,” Analise counters. “You never did care enough about names, Max.”

“Where is he?”

Analise takes a casual step forward, but jerks her gun up just a hair. “He left.”

I hold my hands up in response. “Do you even have a mama to take care of?”

“Of course. I told you. I need 100k, and then I’m out of this dry, dusty hellhole. She’ll have the best care, and I’ll have the beach.”

“With water.”

Analise smiles.

“And Brett?” I don’t care about Scarface. Not really.

“He doesn’t want anything to do with the trade. Or me and Mama. But he won’t stop me from continuing the trade and passing it down to my future children. He’s angry about this job, by the way,” Analise laughs coldly. “I guess he has scruples.”

“So, all this time, you never cared–” 

“Did you?”

She has me there. “Who hired you?” I ask.

“Your papa. Before you killed him.”

I should be surprised, but I’m not. My father wasn’t either when I finally caught up with him. 

I hate my father.

“He knew you too well. Knew how much you hated him. For forcing you into this life. For a lot of things. He knew that you would eventually find him. Though he did want me to confirm that it was, in fact, you who took him out, before I paid you in kind. Then another Hunter will wire me the money.

I drop my hands. I’m not armed; there’s no point keeping them up. I know I’m not biding time, but I ask anyway. “I was meticulous. How did you figure out it was me?”

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while. But in the end, you told me. Just now.”

I flinch. Not enough for Analise to see it. But I feel it.

“If only you’d denied it, Max. But don’t worry, I follow the code,” Analise smiles.

“Then I know I won’t suffer.” 

****

Motionless on my belly, my blood seeps into the dusty floor as my last breath drains out of me. I didn’t fight it. Fight Analise. She followed the code. Single shot, no pain. It was my fate. I had been caught. 

And Hunters can never get caught. 

Photo of Laura Brann

BIO: Born and raised in Iowa, Laura Brann is a writer and former high school teacher. She earned her Bachelor’s degree from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, and after living in multiple states over the years, she once again calls Iowa home. When she is not writing, she can be found spending time with her family and pets, substitute teaching, attending book and writing clubs, and questioning her life choices every time an Iowa winter reaches negative twenty degrees.