The Hunt

CHAPTER 8

The birds stopped singing.

A sudden stillness settled in the crevices and trees of the canyon, the silence heightening his instincts. He counted. One. Two. Three.

There, southwest of his camp, the peregrine falcon soared into view like a fighter jet, sleek and elegant, a solitary trace of life across the vivid blue sky.

He drew in a silent breath, and with it the tangible, pungent aroma of pinion and junipers. Home. He wished he could remain here forever, in this canyon, with his raptors.

Theron rode the air current, deep wing beats interspersed with glides. He curved around and landed on the ledge of the sheer cliff where his nest was hidden in a natural recess of the red sedimentary rock.

Seeing Theron three weeks ago had been a welcome homecoming, and he stayed longer than he should have to watch his bird.

Male peregrines defend their territory and engage in breathtaking aerial acrobatics to entice a female to mate. Lay a trap, so to speak. Once a male convinced the female that he was the finest peregrine she’d ever meet, she would remain on the cliff ledge, day in, day out, leaving only once a day to hunt for food.

Theron had a mate. They would be together until she died. A beautiful specimen, he had named her Aglaia. Splendor. There was nothing as magnificent as a female falcon sitting high on the cliff, chest out. She wanted to be there, embraced her prison. Theron defended the cliff; Aglaia came willingly, to be protected.

Peregrines were the fastest birds in the world. He never tired of watching them soar, had sat from dawn to dusk waiting to observe one of the majestic birds hunting. Head straight, the raptor watched its prey with one eye, then folded in its wings and dove. Just before he reached his prey, the peregrine would pull out of the dive and hit it with sharp claws. Wham! Dead on impact.

They could also pluck a bird from the sky, on a level flight path. All birds were fair game. No one could outmaneuver the raptor.

Kaaaaaak-kak-kak. Kaaaaaak-kak-kak.

Theron was truly free. Something he, himself, would never be. Trapped and alone, his need to possess the unattainable, to hunt the imposters, was far greater than his quest for liberty.

Still, he had a lot in common with the peregrine falcon. When he first began studying the peregrine sixteen years ago, they were all but extinct. Defeated, but not destroyed. Then they came back in their glory, and he was there every step of the way to chronicle their victory.

It always bothered him that few of his colleagues wanted to document the falcons’ lives. They put in their time, one required semester, so they could run off and work for some big corporation, or nonprofit environmental organization, or government agency. So they could say they tracked falcons, that they cared, but they really didn’t.

Words were cheap.

He shook his head, his anger building. Focus.

He trained his binoculars on the ledge where Theron and Aglaia had made their home. When he’d left them ten days ago, they had finished the mating game, but he didn’t know if there were eggs.

So he watched. For hours. The sun spread its rays across the landscape, turning the dark morning woods into a glorious array of color. It became warm, and he removed his coat and ate his tasteless sandwich out of habit more than hunger.

As the sun dipped on the other side of noon, Aglaia peeked her head out. Theron followed and they stood on the edge of the cliff, the king and his queen, surveying their kingdom.

Kaaaaak-kak-kak. Caw caw.

Kaaaaak-kak-kak. Kaaaaaa-kak-kak.

His heart swelled as he listened to the raptors communicating. If Aglaia left, there were eggs. He waited and watched, patient, perfectly still among the trees and brush.

With her mighty wings, Aglaia burst from the ledge and swooped down, down into the river rock canyon below, before curving up and around and over the cliff. Silence fell again. The hunt was on.

Theron watched his mate disappear, then went back into the crevice. Incubation exchange. Theron was protecting the eggs while his bride hunted.

Nothing could have pleased him more. He longed to scale the cliff and see Theron up close. He’d done it many times before-the physically demanding job of tracking, documenting, and logging peregrines culminated when he took their eggs for captive breeding.

But he hadn’t spent all night trekking through the cold river bottom, fighting overgrowth, stomping through the red clay that coated northwest Colorado, in order to bring eggs back to the University for incubation. He’d come back to watch and log and resist the urge to hunt again.

Fifteen years ago he had only wanted to find his own mate, find the perfect woman for him.

But there were no perfect women.

They all lied, they all manipulated. Even sweet, sweet Penny… Why had she told him she wasn’t seeing the jock? Why had she told him she didn’t even like the guy?

He knew. When he saw her lip-locked with him…

Penny was a liar like all the other women in the world. They said one thing and did something completely different. They told you they loved you, promised they wouldn’t hurt you, but they didn’t love anyone and always hurt.

Like his mother.

His mother, with words of honey that stung like a wasp. The way she touched him, made him do things to her.

Touch me there. No, no, no, there. Yes. Don’t stop.

If he didn’t do what she wanted, the punishment was far worse.

Sweetheart, it’s for your own good. You have to learn.

She’d clamp his penis until he cried. He’d beg to be let free; he would do anything she wanted, just to stop the hurt.

Then his sister, constantly riding him, telling him she would help. And she did, for a while. She helped him until he trusted her, then the hurting started all over again…

It started when he was six. When his father left without a word. He used to think his mother had killed him, but the truth was even worse.

His own father hadn’t wanted him.

Didn’t his father know how his mother hurt him? Didn’t he see the truth? Didn’t he care?

His fists clenched around his falcon journal, a sob of bitter anger escaped his throat. What did it matter?

He leaned against the pinion closest to his post and closed his eyes, breathing in the rich pine fragrance, the sticky bittersweet sap, the undercurrent of moist earth, rotting leaves, decaying plants.

He relived the hunt.

His prey was good, but he was better. She ran, but he never lost sight of her.

He watched her fall, heard the snap of her leg through the pounding rain, and decided at the last minute to use the knife.

It was no fun to shoot fallen prey. What was the sport in that?

It had been dark, near midnight, but her blue-white skin stood out against the blackness.

He pulled back her wet hair with his left hand and brought the knife down without hesitation across her white throat. The warmth of her blood surprised him; he tasted it on his lips.

He dropped her where she’d fallen and stood.

The hunt was over, but the urge to find other prey clawed at him. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing throughout his body, as he remembered. The intoxicating power when he had her to himself. The feeling of victory that unfortunately diminished with each passing day until there was no choice but to hunt again. The thrill of the hunt was a brief high, and already he missed it. Longed for the power in his hands.

But he had an important job to do. Here, with Theron and Aglaia and their eggs. Watching, waiting, writing.

His birds needed him.

Resist the urge.