One Last Hunt
Red Rocks
The red vortex swirls down the drain, washing away the last remnants of my crime. I wipe my hands clean and thank the ranger for his hospitality.
“You sure made a mess,” the ranger says.
“An unfortunate side effect of an otherwise perfect job,” I say with a grin. “All that digging in the Sedona soil, things were bound to get a little dirty.”
The ranger chortles. “You ain’t kidding. Lots of red earth. Say, you find anything good?”
Oh, did I ever.
I present my fistful of riches: a diamond ring, a gold bracelet, a jewel-encrusted brooch. The ranger’s disappointment is palpable. “I know that look. Sorry to report we’re not uncovering the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine or Billy the Kid’s hidden stash. Most treasures I find are of the recently lost variety.” Like that old woman. She’s now recently lost, buried beneath the yucca and prickly pear, her only grave marker a smattering of blood-red rock formations. My buried treasure, not to be found until I’m long gone.
“Just a bunch of tall tales,” the ranger says. “I guess I’d better get back to work.”
“Me too,” I agree. “Thanks again for letting me use the bathroom. I would have killed for a sink.” I collect my metal detector, Sofia, and escort her out the door.
Inside my car, I deposit the dearly departed’s jewelry into the glove compartment. It will fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop, but it’s far from today’s biggest acquisition. That would be a thin rectangle of perforated paper in the passenger’s seat. It’s a blank check written out to “Cash” and signed by Barbara Simmons. My lips curl into a smirk as I recall all those digits printed on her bank receipt.
Eyes shift from the drop of blood in the backseat to the ranger station. He’s watching me through the window. I depart with a timid wave, and soon my pavement-devouring Jeep has transformed the red mountains into nothing more than a memory.
Feeding Time
It’s feeding time at the Great Sonoran Reptile Park. I’ve always welcomed the sight of a predator consuming its prey. When watching nature documentaries, I cheer for the lions, crocodiles, and snakes. Ah, the satisfaction of it all. Witnessing the juicy rewards of a flawlessly executed hunt. But this is different. Where’s the challenge? These cold-blooded tacticians have been reduced to domesticated prisoners awaiting spoonfed handouts of pathetic, pre-slaughtered prey. Sprinkle a dash of crickets into a Gila monster’s jaws, toss a limp rodent into the cage of a sidewinder. It all seems too easy.
Speaking of easy prey, I spot a silver-haired woman drenched in perfume that reeks of money and sadness. A recent widow, no doubt. Her modest cleavage hints at the ghost of sexuality, a ghost I hope to resurrect. I move in. The sun hits her just right, illuminating a diamond ring valued at half the GDP of Iceland. Beside it, on her middle finger, is a vaguely familiar and largely uninspiring ring. It’s severed from my memory almost instantly. I give her a quick once-over, but I don’t say a word. I let my body speak, a well-crafted lie of muscle mass sculpted meticulously at the gym for the sole purpose of attracting lonely women. I wear shirts a size too small to accentuate my torso. She side-eyes the shit out of me, no doubt fantasizing about yours truly as her shirtless cabana boy. Little does she know I’ll be taking much more than her tips.
“Repulsive creatures,” the woman says, breaking the silence.
“That they are,” I lie. “I can’t imagine who would invest in such a grotesque endeavor.”
“Me,” the woman says. She offers a firm handshake. “Mary Wolff, owner of Great Sonoran Reptile Park.”
I laugh, feigning embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to--”
“--Quite all right. ‘Grotesque’ is an apt descriptor in this case. I never cared for the beasts. No, this little spectacle belonged to my late husband Gene. It’s all I have left of him, the dear man.”
That and a multimillion-dollar inheritance.
My hand moves imperceptibly closer. “When did he pass?”
“Last June,” Mary says with the genesis of a tear in her eye.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Fingertips gently caress her shoulder. She places her hand on mine. It’s the one with the diamond.
“Fuck it,” Mary says coldly. She catches my raised brow and grins deviously. “Nothing I can do now but move on.” Her papier-mâché fingers stroke mine.
I return the favor. “That’s very brave of you.”
“Brave’s got nothing to do with it. This was Gene’s adventure; I’m still searching for mine. But that’s enough about me. What do you do?”
“Well...” I begin.
This is almost too easy.
Title: One Last Hunt
Genre: Crime
Age range: 18+
Word count: 25,000
Author Name: Adam Wohnoutka
Hook: A young serial killer tries to give up his sordid lifestyle when he falls for a mysterious older woman.
Biography: Adam Wohnoutka's work has appeared in various literary magazines, including The Midwest Coast Review, The Aroostook Review, and Solecisms. Additionally, he won the Reedsy Weekly Writing Contest, the Prose Challenge of the Month, and the 2020 Jim Martin Mystery Story Contest.