The Gripper

Wally Jones

Tim did not have any special love of nature, yet when he needed to think he always came to this spot in the forest. At exactly noon, he gently

slid his carefully crafted canoe into the glass-clear stream. He situated himself, inhaled a full breath and let it out slowly. The air was fresh,

which was why Tim always came here to think. The forest acted as a filter and the stream as a natural bath, cleaning away all the impurities of

the forest. Yet, in the midst of his tranquil feelings, he subconsciously watched his back. He had to, no matter where he went. Nature

conducted an orchestra for him. Small bugs sang with the birds, the wind in the trees acted as the percussion. The music was topped off by the

quiet trickling of the water. A helicopter created the only unnatural sound; it was several miles off. He had been listening intently to the distant

sound. The last time he had heard a helicopter, he had been chased by the police. He was always cautious, very thorough and always had a fall

back plan. He had built several cabins over the five years that he had lived in the forest. If one was taken, he would have a few options. That

thought made him feel more comfortable and he allowed let the helicopter slip back into his subconscious. The craft's oak smell had long since

disappeared as the years of use added themselves to the hull's wear. Smooth green and brown stones covering the stream's floor echoed

themselves as smooth ripples on the surface. The craft flowed with the water and didn't even add to the small splashes on the river bank. The

canoe had simply added itself to the rest of the water body. His brown eyes, along with the silver fish, twinkled in the sun's light. The sun was

bright, but the green leaves managed to block at least half of the sunlight from harming Tim. The shadows that the leaves created could be seen

at the floor of the stream, along with silver minnows, darting to and fro, as if trying to avoid the dancing shadows. Tim had made this canoe

four years ago. Like the rest of his work, he put his full effort into the project until it was completed. The yellow-brown floor was smooth and

when propelled, the craft ran over the water like a dream. It was perfectly weighted and had a metal lining to guard it from damage if it ran into

another object. Eventually, his boat drifted to his favorite site. The sun made a spotlight for a small tree. The tree was short compared to the rest

of it's older brothers. It was about seven feet tall and leaned ever so slightly in order to grasp as much of the sunlight as it possibly could. Only

at the top of the tree did any branches or leaves sprout. The tree had a series of knots which were like intersections, places for the tree to decide

which way to grow. Several times, it tried to alter its course, but it always straightened out in the end. Tim reflected, as he always did, on the

similarities the tree had with his life. That's why he grew so attached to the object. No matter how many times it altered its course, it always

returned back to the same safe, steady growth. Everything was quiet other that the babbling of the stream. Far in the distance, he heard a

squirrel running like something had startled it. Leaves and fallen sticks rustled. Most of the time, squirrels only ran when he walked by them.

One time, he had accidentally walked by a tree and a squirrel sitting in between roots felt cornered and chirped loudly. It attacked him leaving a

large well of blood on his ankle. He couldn't go to the hospital for fear of being discovered. He risked the rabies and other infectious diseases

and nursed his wound the best he could. Since after several weeks he was still in perfect condition, he decided that the squirrel did not

transferred any life threatening diseases. A squirrel had just scampered up a tree. It was chirping loudly. It sounded as if a walnut was being

tossed around in a glass jar. Squirrels didn't usually run up trees that fast, or bark so loudly for no reason. Tim had been sitting quietly, but

somehow made himself even quieter. His blood seemed to stop flowing. Not even his eyes moved as he listened intently. The chirping

continued and the squirrel jumped from one tree to the next. Maybe a small predator had chased it. There weren't any bears out here. He was

pretty sure of that. Maybe a rodent had accidentally gotten too close. Tim continued to float where the water would take him. Eventually, the

creek would circle around and end up at the base of a hill. From there a path led up to his cabin. He was about two hundred feet from his

favorite tree when a bird which had been sitting in it, sprang off, squawking loudly. This caught his attention. He pivoted his head and heard

underbrush breaking as if somebody was walking. As he analyzed it, he decided that several animals must have been moving at the same time

because they were making so much noise. The source of the noise was far off, near the tree, but still sounded crisp. He asked himself what it

could be. Probably a hunter. Law enforcement was another possibility. He had forced himself to be paranoid about law enforcement in order to

better avoid them. He always convinced himself that any random noise was a police officer; but how would an officer find him all the way out

here? It was the deer hunting season, so that theory stuck. "Don't talk when you are hunting," he said as if he were giving advice. "Deer will

run off if they so much hear a twig drop of a tree." Several options went through his head. He reached for a low branch, grabbed it and

propelled his craft behind the base of a tree. The boat moved as if on a frictionless surface. At least now, he would have some cover if the

hunters decided to go trigger happy. There were several cases a year when people were injured by other hunters' gun shots. The reason always

provided was "I thought it was a deer!" The hunters might mistake his head as a raccoon because he hadn't combed his hair in several weeks.

That thought offended him so he dipped his head in the water then brought it back out, whipped his hair backwards. He blinked out the water

while producing a small gun. The gun had cost what would be equal to a good sized TV. That was okay, he had over two million dollars in the

bank under a fake name. The revolver that he now held was fully loaded with the safety off. He had sawed off the main barrel so that he could

hide it easier. The handle was larger than the actual firing mechanism. He thought to himself and then, after minutes of pondering, quietly

stepped out of the boat into the cool water. The floor was only two feet below him. Feeling the smooth rocks under his feet was like a massage.

This pleasant sensation drifted into his subconscious as he watched for the hunters to come into a visual. The far off noises of people walking

around continued. He peered over the top of the large roots that he hid behind. Two men in dark blue uniforms were not a hundred yards away.

They had both spotted Tim in his boat, and were now running down the creekside path; one had a dog. He smiled. "FBI. How about that!" His

expression turned dead serious, when he realized what was happening. He understood why helicopters were in the area. He probably didn't

have a house to go back to. The man with a dog saw his head behind the roots. "Freeze!" he yelled. The person pointed for his companion to

see. Tim turned back to his boat, reached in, and yanked out a half-inch cork. A jet of water arced into the boat through the small hole. He had

put this feature in just for this situation, but he had found himself using it to drain the boat after it had rained. The boat would eventually sink

and any body oil or identifiable hair would disappear down the stream. The officer was struggling to keep up with the dog, so he let the animal

go. It was one of those dogs that was trained to never let go once it grabbed onto its target. All of them were running towards him; the dog

would get there in under a minute. "Fuck!" he said in a quick, high pitched burst. As he backed out of the creek and onto a dry deer trail, he

repeated the expletive over and over again. Deer always take the same trails to drinking holes so eventually, they wear paths. Tim always used

these as his roads so he knew his way around. He left his boat sinking. He was used to ditching things in order to save what was more

valuable. Five years ago, the police raided his house; but he had one of those porch lights that light up when it detects motion. He had connected

it with his door bell and was alerted when agents were standing on his front porch. That's when he had heard the helicopter; it had chased him

for twenty minutes before he had made his final disappearance. He was gone and nobody saw him since. That is to say, nobody recognized him

since. He bought the best makeup money could buy, including latex and contact-lenses. During his free time, he practiced changing his

nationality. When he was still active, the FBI questioned several sightings of him at his crime scenes. The information they received, gave them

the following leads. He was 5'9" to 6'4", 150 to 200 pounds, 29 to 45 years old. He was a Caucasian, and obviously so, but when they

questioned a lady with whom he had had a relationship. She said that he was a Frenchman and spoke the language perfectly. Tim had read all of

this in various newspaper articles and magazine journals. One journalist had called him "The Gripper" because she said that he "seized

opportunities"; so the name "The Gripper" stuck. It was a French word, but the newscasters pronounced it using the American pronunciation.

Once, when he had gone to town for supplies, he noticed a "Most Wanted" picture of himself at a bus stop. In the picture, he was depicted as a

frail Asian guy in his forties. He collected literature about himself so he took the picture off the wall and kept it. One time, after he straightened

himself out, he worked as a cook for a fast food place. His co-worker said he was Hispanic. The Gripper had a criminal record as long a child's

holiday wish list . He had plenty of money from all of his wrong doings. The only way he could think of making up for all of the immoral he

did was to invest in charity. He helped his city's Childrens' Foundation almost double in size. If he received a point for every good thing that he

did, and lost a point for every bad thing that he did, he would come out positive. The hardest part of volunteer work for him was that he could

never give out his real name to the happy children. He pumped almost a million dollars into this organization and nearly two hundred hours of

volunteer work. The Childrens' Foundation was, at the time, his current project, so of course, he put his full effort into it. Tim slapped the

forest floor with his deer skin moccasins. He wore a pair of brown shorts and a similar collar shirt which pounded against chest as he ran. He

ducked under a branch and then hopped over a fallen tree. Sun rays tried to grab him as he ran through the tunnel of wood. His aggressors

opened fire. Surrounding branches altered the course of bullets, which smashed or flung up the underbrush around him. If the officers weren't

fast enough to catch him, the bullets were, and the dog was catching up as well. Tim's gun was not worthy of combat. It wouldn't be able to get

the distance, power or accuracy as his hunters' guns, so he covered his head and kept running. He wasn't sure what the officers' orders were,

but "shoot him on sight" seemed a reasonable guess. Normally, if worse came to worse, he could surrender then escape later, but somebody

must have learned and decided that the only way to catch him was if he were dead. Surrender didn't seem to be an option now. The forest was a

few miles away from a small town, so supplies were not to hard to get. He had enough money to support himself indefinitely. Right now, he

was living off the interest of his bank account. The creek was well behind him now, he couldn't even smell the fresh, moist air that it created.

He was deep in the forest; the town was in the other direction. He turned his head to see if he could see anybody following him. The

surrounding brush was too thick to see the people, but he did see the dog. The path turned, and the dog disappeared, but a few seconds later,

the dog came around the corner, like a homing missile. Fear echoed itself as adrenaline and he ran faster. The FBI with the orders to kill is a

scary combination and he didn't want to verify his shoot-to-kill theory. The deer path emptied out into a questionable clearing. Over a small hill,

he saw the roof of one of his cabins. It was a possibility that the FBI had already occupied this house. If he didn't move, a dog would rip the

arms out of his socket, and then the FBI would be there and kill him on sight. So with the gun held out with both hands and panting for air, he

sprinted over the hill. The house was reasonably camouflaged, so it probably wasn't taken, but Tim was always cautious. He was tired but

other things were more important. A carnivorous dog was five seconds behind him and two officers were close behind. He saw that nobody

was there, so he entered his small fall-back house, and threw the door shut. He hoped that the dog was there at that moment, so that the door

would knock the dog unconscious. But he had gotten into he house before the dog came over the hill, so he had several extra seconds. The door

slammed so hard that it bounced back open several inches. A cabinet, a desk, and a bed were the only furniture in the house. The building had

no space for anything else. Papers and electronics needed for survival were stored away else where. Several explosives where under the floor

boards. He lifted the mattress up. A large, automatic rifle was taped to the bottom of the mattress. He ripped the gun off and stripped it of its

tape. He jumped to the desk and pulled out the top drawer, spilling several pieces of paper and a book. He flipped the drawer onto his desk.

Several clips for his gun were taped to the underside of the drawer. After choosing a clip, he shoved it into the gun. This would provide him

with thirty rounds of stun ammo. His intent was not to kill. If he could avoid it, he wouldn't shoot the weapon. He took the other clips with

him, just in case. Those were the scarier rounds. He pulled the hammer back on his rifle, then a noise turned him around. He almost didn't have

time to register the police dog running at him, so he instinctively put his leg out to kick it. The torpedo of muscle and teeth altered its course and

clamped onto Tim's foot. He had to repress a scream to prevent the FBI men from hearing him. The moccasins were tough, but it couldn't

prevent Tim's foot bones from feeling the extreme pressure. He whacked the dog with the butt of his gun. It seemed like the dog couldn't care

less and simply shrugged it off. He pointed his gun at the dog, hoping it would cower in fear. Instead of the desired reaction, the dog tried to

swallow his foot. He pulled the trigger and the gun spit a bullet at the target. The dog jumped back five feet, about-faced, and exited before the

windows finished rattling from the blast. The copper shell hit the dusty floor making a sound similar to a dropped nickel. His foot was crushed,

but hopefully nothing was broken. He cringed when he stepped, but the pain would have to wait. If they were just going to catch him, he

wouldn't be too worried. He would escape. There was a make-up kit in one of the drawers, but he didn't have time to fool with that. He

stepped out of the cabin into the bright clearing. He saw the dog outside licking its wound. The desired noise level had already been broken, so

Tim didn't worry about firing the gun anymore. He pulled the trigger several times. The bullets kicked up dirt. Tim continued to fire until the

dog left, which didn't take long. A trail of overturned dirt showed where the bullets had chased the dog away. Tim moved onto the next

problem. To increase his odds for escape, he issued a threat. Putting his right foot back for support he held the gun out, clenched his fist and

sent dozens of bullets screaming out of the barrel. He pivoted his body so that the firing arc would increase. As the bullets sliced through the

plants, a sound similar to thunder echoed through the treetops. That was the only warning he would give. He backed up, making sure that

nobody was following him. He licked a drop of salty sweat from his upper lip, turned, and sprinted off into the woods. He disappeared and

nobody has seen him since. That is to say, nobody has recognized him since.