The Hunter

The Hunter

         The footprints were the closest he’d come in his years of... searching. Sure, he’d found many sets over time, he knew his target’s favorite brand of shoes, his foot size and even the tendency he had to take his left stride the slightest bit further than his right. Upon closer examination, he found that they were indeed size elevens, and that they were much wider than the average shoe. 
         But these were a new breed of footprints.
         The others had been aged mud caked on pavement, or impressions in soil. Sand had held these same depressions, and the snow retained it better yet. It was a traveling man he sought.
         These footprints were water alone, on the sidewalk. They were only just visible, but he could see that the owner of the shoes had passed mere hours before. It was rare that he found signs that were of assistance, but he had never been closer than three days behind him. His target left a trail because of how hard he tried not to. He knew he was being chased. He knew he’d be caught. What he was never sure of was how far behind Allen was.
         Allen was a professional, but it appeared his quarry was a professional at running. Those who had sent him egged him on with growing impatience, and he fingered one of the other beings that’s growing anxiety became harder to hold back with each passing hour. It was in a concealed pocket within his coat, heavy, yet comfortable after it’s unchanging weight had impressed upon his chest for such a long time.
         Standing in a brisk movement, he took long strides following the footprints. A particularly perfect vestige of the sole that had passed over it earlier that day caused Allen to pull the camera from his pocket and snap a picture. It was a very high grade resolution, the highest that one could purchase in the year of 2000, and it had cost many a-pretty penny. He viewed it and compared it to the other footprints stored on the camera, and the third mental checkmark was added to the list.
         Never did he step on one of his clues, but he moved quickly. Sunset approached, and it would come at 8:13, giving only another seventy-seven minutes before darkness impeded upon his search. Regardless of the walk comparable to the average person’s jog, Allen took in every detail of his surroundings.
         A short sigh escaped his lips; the footprints had ended at the bus stop. Allen could see the one he pursued’s face, a smug grin hidden beneath a large brimmed baseball cap that would be discarded at the end of the night. Just like the rest of his clothing. The status of his facial hair varied from week to week, as did the length of his hair and it’s color. The man owned a great many pairs of contact lenses, from bright blue to black. He would almost always pay in cash, but on rare occasion he would use a credit card that would be charged with the exact amount needed for a hotel room, or his food. Whatever the case, the coward could run.
         The problem was, the coward could hide also.
         He took note of the bus stop’s name, and ran up the route on his blackberry. This consumed almost nine minutes, a terrible waste of the invaluable time remaining in the day. He desperately hoped that there were no bars along the bus’s direction. For a terrible year, his prey had 'become’ a homeless alcoholic, lingering in one town, but usually city, for longer than usual. He would sleep outside of bars covered in newspaper, or on park benches. Allen was certain he sometimes slept in a box. The trail had run cold, and the man who’s days were numbered had continued working his devilry with no dire need to escape. But -Allen always picked up the trail, his obsession had no boundaries, and this was one of the main qualities (besides his resources) that those who had sent him had come to him for -a well-meaning 'friend,’ whether boozed up or not, had given Allen the coward’s location. Like the dog he was, he had smelt trouble and was in a new town by the time Allen got to the park. Six men stood in the park, five with hands clasped. None were his quarry.
         They all had the wrong sized shoes.
         In the beginning, when his prey had been wet behind the ears, he had a car that changed color and license plate often. This was much easier to follow, for he didn’t change the tires often enough. His vehicle’s shoes had given him up, and Allen came into Leroy’s Motor Inn only three days after the man he hunted had left. A glint in a farmers field caused him to stop on the road one day, and Allen looked to see the car that had eluded him for so long empty. There were not even finger prints in the vehicle, but there were footprints leading away. They were the first pair he had found, and this was only six months after the purchase of his camera. Six months and one day after his journey had begun.
         Daylight was beginning to dim, and Allen knew that a man would live for one day more. He entered the hotel that he assumed was the most likely out of the other three and the two bars on the bus’s path. In reality, there was little chance the man of many names was even still on the route.
         Allen didn’t know it, but his voice was gruff.
         “Hello, ma’am, I was wondering if my friend checked in not long ago. He was five nine, wore size eleven shoes and has short hair.”
         If he did know, he would likely smooth it over.
         “I am sorry sir, I just got on shift. Would you like a room or are you just looking for your friend?”
         He saw that the ‘woman’ was blond, five seven, green eyed and likely wore size eight shoes, her age between nineteen and twenty-four, still too young to need the excessive make-up covering all skin on her face.
         “Do you have 329?”
         Outside he had checked to make certain that it was the one he wanted; the highest floor with a view of the street and most of the alleys in the surrounding area.  The sun had set twenty-seven minutes before.
         The woman rapidly typed on the computer, but she used only her two index fingers.
         “I do indeed. In fact, the man staying there checked out this morning.”
         “Thank you. Do you accept cash?”
         “Of course,” she answered, with a strange look on her face. She supposed he may have been refused cash at some point.
         After the transaction was completed, and the room key given to the massive man, the lady in charge of the till allowed all of her pent up breath to rush from her lungs. It felt as though she shrunk to half of her size. The man with the rasping voice was one she would never like to run into, dark alley or not.
         Allen did not enjoy waiting, so he climbed the stairs. He reach room 329 in one minute and sixteen seconds. He slid the key into the electronic lock, and the flash of green gave him access. He quickly set up a couple items from his black SUV -it had sturdy, all purpose tires, perfect for snow and off-road travel. A Macbook stood on his bedside table, fully operational, plugged in and on multiple programs. He had his camera out, and plugged in with it’s adaptors to the television. The final item was a simple rack to hold his coat, and for this he had moved the bedside table away.
         Finally, he brought out the slippers.
         They were a dark brown, size ten, and the swirls of synthetic wool on the inside were extremely soft. A happy sigh flowed out over his lips. He reverently inserted each foot -in the correct order, left to right -and got to work. On the Mac book he brought up sites or locations for each bar and hotel in a full two kilometer radius. Allen doubted it was enough.
         Before he poured over the sites, he would go over the pictures on his camera. The first was simple: four inch deep foot holes where his target had undoubtedly waded back towards the road, clear as day. This was when Allen learned the shoe size, how wide the man’s foot was and how each left step was longer than the right. He studied it for a few moments. It was dated June 15th, 2000.
         The second was more difficult, skidoo tracks obliterating boot prints faded by wind in the snow, that were much the same make as the shoes in the previous picture. The third picture showed the skidoo, upturned near a cluster of trees. These were dated November 28th, 2000.
         The fourth picture was of a hotel his prey had stayed in. As were the fifth, sixth and seventh. They were each completely different, and Allen could still find no pattern in the man’s movements. They were dated February 3rd and 12th 2001, August 2001 and December 2001. That final one had been on Christmas eve, only a week after the man with his future pre-decided had fled.
         The next picture was of a park bench, in October 2002, with ruffled newspaper at the bottom of a garbage can filling the one directly consecutive to that. These pictures angered him, for it had taken him so long to find  him during his homeless ploy, and then he was back to being an average Joe. Except even Joe has a name, and the man does not.
         Fifteen pictures followed, all of different footprints and hotels, none exciting. Allen loved the next one. The wet sand closest to the water holds the image of his target’s foot, carefully preserved sans elements, just for Allen. Almost six days before, Alan judged the man had come through, and the sand was still beautiful.
         In 2008 there are pictures of campsites and fire pits, of sunflower seed shells and burnt marshmallow residue. It was the only time his quarry had had the gall to meet with others, but Allen did not yet have time to hunt down the others, though those that sent him suggested after he completes his current project, that he might endeavor to eradicate this species of inhuman malice from the earth itself.
         In 2009, nothing had happened, save for the increasing speed to the west that the trail took him. It made little sense, but there were pictures of discarded clothes, showing him shirt size, pants size and little else. A few more hotels and footprints followed.
         In 2010, in January, he found himself close to Vancouver. And then, in February, he was in Vancouver, and there were many pictures of the Olympic events he guessed that his man had attended. Maybe he was even at the same event, but he could not find him among the multitude of others. These were, obviously, the least exciting of his ten years of searching. They held almost no evidence for him.
         A set of water stains on cement followed, dated March 12th 2010. He studied them for a full three minutes before nodding. 
         He turned to the Mac book and found out all he could about the bars and hotels, as well as the bus routes. He would find a pattern.
         I will find a pattern. I will find him.
         He slept.
         He woke.
         I will find him today.
         He dressed, he gathered his stuff, he ate. He pulled on his boots and tied them slowly. The night before, on the Mac book, he had determined that it was extremely likely that he was truly in the same hotel as his quarry. He asked if anyone had left before him, as he was at the desk at five in the morning.
         “A man left at 3:30 or so...” the man rubbed bleary eyes, glancing at the clock. Only two hours remained before his shift ended. He hated night shifts.
         “Do you have an exact time?” Allen’s head rushed with blood and he felt faint for a moment. To be so close was like nothing he had ever felt before. He thought it would be one of the ultimate times in his life. Second only to the one which had not yet occurred.
         “Do I- no. Are you signing out, or just checking for the man?” The desk boy wondered why he alway got the strange ones. Nothing came to mind, but he took the man’s key card and saw him out. In fact, he was quite happy to see him out.
         Allen jogged to his vehicle, not even taking the time to examen the scrawny ‘man,’ though it was very likely he was merely size six. He carefully put his gear in the back of the SUV, and then saw something new. In the remnants of the snow, there were footprints. He ran through his checklist and photographed them. He then saw more ephemeral traces and photographed them as well.
         His right hand was now going to the hidden pocket with more frequency. It was as though he felt the man’s presence. Allen ran, and he saw from the stride length that the alias man had walked.
         He entered the residential area, almost sprinting, as the tracks became more clear. Barely looking up from them, he lost track of all but the sidewalk. When the sidewalk faded into asphalt road, he ran along the road. In the eighty-ninth minute of running, far past the town’s boundaries, he saw a sign saying Kelowna, 74km.
         After making a sharp turn, ever tireless, he saw the soles of shoes. They were composed mostly of triangles, and were wide footed. They were size eleven. The nine millimeter was out of his hidden coat pocket, and it felt right in his hand. It trained on the man’s back. It was always loaded. Finger tightening on the trigger, the sound of the punctured sound barrier filled the air. A spark ignited the gun powder, blowing the sharp-tipped piece of metal through the air. Between the man’s shoulder blades it acted as a gimlet, separating his spine.
         As he fell, the ‘t’ on the necklace he wore glinted in the early morning light.
         The man’s bowels let go. There was no dignity in death.  His hands clasped before the face became passive. The face then became less then passive; it collapsed on itself, and whatever life remained left in a rush.
         Allen smiled.
         Those who sent him cheered, and it echoed in his mind.
         Allen laughed.
         Those who sent him filled his head with laughter.