Hunted

by S W Vaughn

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  Chapter 4

  The layered greens of the forest surrounded her. An earthy scent permeated the air: sweet crumbling leaves, fragrant pines. She walked on a carpet of moss beneath songbirds and dappled sunlight. Water burbled and whispered somewhere in the distance. Ahead, the forest floor dropped into a deep natural chasm. She longed to reach the bottom where cool shadows bathed the remnants of a streambed and plump ripe blueberries grew on bushes with tiny waxed leaves.

  Grace woke from the vivid dream with a purpose. She would track down her father and learn the truth from him—one way, or another.

  Upstate New York. He lived there somewhere, alone, distanced from civilization. Like a hermit, her mother had scornfully believed. If he was anything like Grace, she didn't blame him. It was the extent of her knowledge regarding the man, and the forest made sense. She'd never been upstate. The closest she'd come was her mother's camp in the Adirondacks, and that only once.

  She would find him. How much forest could there be?

  Grace rose and showered, dressed, and retrieved her laptop. She located a New York State map and browsed the upstate region. The city of Syracuse appeared to be the rough center of the area. She would take a train there, establish a base in a hotel, and search until she found him. And if she ran out of money, there was always Atlantic City.

  Packing took all of twenty minutes. After two years on the go, she had it down to an art form. A few times she'd been forced to leave all but the most vital things behind—her laptop and whatever money she had. She'd been careful, never winning too much at one place, always hitting consecutive casinos in separate parts of the city. This time she'd just wanted to stay hidden for a while. Apparently, it was too much to ask.

  From her dwindling cash supply, she left a fifty on the desk for the maid and headed out with her backpack, duffel and laptop bag. She wasn't surprised to find the front counter deserted. Frowning, she peered through the scratched and dirty window of the office behind the counter. A lone figure sat bathed in the glow of a miniature television screen, apparently talking on the phone. Grace tapped the dulled brass bell on the counter. The figure waved or pointed, she couldn't tell which, but whoever it was didn't get up.

  Come on. She'd paid for two weeks in advance and had only stayed six nights so far. With the refund, she could buy her train ticket and not worry about cashing one of the checks until she got to Syracuse. She sighed, turned, and leaned on the counter to wait.

  The tall, narrow window in the motel's front door revealed glimpses of the occasional vehicle rolling down the street. Most of Vegas slept in, so traffic stayed light until at least noon. Something big and brown rumbled past, and Grace caught flashes of yellow lettering—a UPS delivery truck. Bringing packages to normal people who didn't have to stay in an endless succession of third-rate motels, who had permanent addresses and jobs, families, friends ... lives. Must be nice. She'd yet to think of anywhere in the world she could live without the stares and the questions, the constant need to avoid lasting relationships.

  Another vehicle came into view at a crawl and stopped in front of the motel. A white sedan, black lettering Grace couldn't make out. She leaned to one side and saw a light bar across the roof. Cops. Damn it.

  She made herself stay calm and turned back toward the office. They could be here for anything. Didn't have to be her. Probably wasn't. Cops made constant stops at motels all over Vegas. She rang the counter bell again and heard the front door open behind her just as the desk clerk, a sour-looking woman with a pan-flat face and too much makeup, emerged from the office. The clerk's dour expression lit with unpleasant surprise, and guilt lurked in eyes that refused to look directly at Grace.

  "Oh, ah ... Miss ... can I help you?” You were supposed to stay in your room. You always stay in your room all day. The clerk's gaze darted past her shoulder to the cop Grace knew stood behind her. Through the open office door, Grace saw a single crumpled sheet of paper lying on the desk next to the phone, curled up enough to reveal ‘ing’ in bold black letters at the top. Her stomach plummeted.

  She knew the rest of the words on the flyer by heart. Missing: Grace Carrington, beloved daughter of Kendra Carrington. Last seen in Palo Alto, California, on 10/28. $100,000 reward for information leading to her return. Please bring my baby back home.

  All complete, unmitigated bullshit.

  The cop tapped her on the shoulder. Grace froze for an instant. Think fast. She reached down, gripped the handle of her duffle bag, and let the shoulder strap slide off as she pivoted to face him. “Is something wrong, Officer?” she asked in her best gee-I'm-totally-clueless tone.

  "Are you Grace Carrington?"

  She heard a whisper of a thought from him: don't know why I have to drag around after punks all day, that hotel bitch gets the reward...

  "No, sir. My name's Susan. Susan Donovan.” She forced bland statements into her head. I sure am hungry. Where can I find a decent restaurant? I wonder whether there are any good shows on the strip tonight. Keep calm. Breathe easy.

  The cop glared at the clerk and favored Grace with a skeptical glance. “Can I see some identification, please?"

  "Sure thing. Just let me get it out of my bag."

  Her fake IDs, all three of them, were in various locations. Two in pants pockets, one in her laptop bag. She had no intention of showing any of them. She just needed a minute or so to shift the load. Without releasing the duffle, Grace pulled the laptop strap over her head so it crossed her body. She let the backpack drop to the floor. Hefting the duffle, she held it awkwardly at one end and fumbled for the side pocket zipper and intentionally stumbled. The bag dropped. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry. Hang on. This thing always gives me trouble."

  She'd managed to put a few feet between her and the cop. She bent to the duffle, grabbed the handle and the end of the bag, and drew a breath. Her gaze settled on the door. Without looking away, she straightened fast and flung the bag at the cop.

  The clerk shouted. The cop swore. Grace reached the door in two strides, jerked it open, and sprinted across the street with her laptop rhythmically banging her hip.

  Good thing she'd invested in a Toughbook. Otherwise, the computer would never survive her lifestyle.

  * * * *

  Lorin sent Silver ahead to make sure the hunters had left Vegas. When he returned to her, she had him shift them both to the basement of the high-rise, near the casino she'd seen the Nephil outside last night.

  "Stay here,” she told him when they arrived.

  Silver didn't even look at her. He'd been particularly docile today. She suspected he wasn't completely healed yet. She hadn't let him extract the branches from his body until she'd unchained him that morning, and he'd bled all night.

  Wounded or not, she expected acknowledgement. She slapped him. He lifted his head reluctantly.

  "Stay here until I call you. Understand?"

  He nodded and dropped his gaze.

  "You're pathetic.” Lorin turned and clomped up the rusted metal stairs leading to the first floor of the dilapidated structure. She couldn't track the beast by sense from here, since any power it might have used would have faded by now. She would start with the humans in the casino and find out what they knew.

  Ever since humans had developed law enforcement, Lorin had discovered the best way to get information from them was by flashing a badge, or whatever symbol their culture used to identify their police. If it became necessary she could employ more brutal tactics, but the badge or the shield usually sufficed. She carried several different forms. In this case, she would present them with FBI agent Jennifer Pope.

  She made her way through the mildewing and debris-cluttered building and stepped outside to a deserted street. Though there were no crowds, she knew some of the casino staff would be working now, preparing for another night. She'd start with the owner and barring that, the one in charge of security. Someone must have seen the thing. The Nephilim stood out among humans�
��they were universally attractive, perfect specimens. They turned heads. And stomachs. Few humans understood what bothered them about the Nephilim, but the instinct to avoid them almost always prevailed.

  It made the nasty little mules that much easier to find.

  This one, at least, employed a measure of intelligence. It had managed to hide its damning eyes, probably with contact lenses. The precautions it took increased Lorin's desire to find it and kill it. The Nephilim did not deserve pride. They didn't deserve life.

  Lorin reached the front doors of the casino and pushed. Locked. With a small, impatient gesture, she drew the steel tongue of the lock back and pushed again. Her entrance startled a human with a mop poised above a wheeled bucket. He thrust the mop down too hard, splashing brownish water up and over the sides.

  Lorin gave him a curt nod. “I'm looking for the owner of this establishment."

  "Er. He ... we're closed here, miss. Sorry. The bar opens at two."

  "I don't want a drink. I want the owner.” Lorin produced the FBI identification and flipped the leather bi-fold holder open. “Agent Pope, FBI. If you'd be so kind as to tell him I'm here."

  "Oh. Jeez.” The human's eyes widened. “S-sure, miss—ma'am. Agent ... er, I'll go get him. Right away.” He dropped the mop handle, and it clattered and bounced on the floor in his wake. Lorin smirked after him. He was a young one, and likely thinking just now that his boss was involved in unscrupulous activities.

  Several minutes passed before a soft-looking man entered the room and approached Lorin with forced confidence. The young one loped behind him, an awkward gaggle of limbs and bulging eyes. The soft one stopped. Sweat sheened his forehead and his clasped hands trembled. “My apologies, but Eddie here couldn't remember your name. I'm the owner, Howard Liederman. What can I do for you, ah, Agent..."

  "Pope.” Lorin showed the badge again. This man, Liederman, obviously had something to hide. If she weren't eager to track the Nephil, she would have played with him a bit, let him sweat for a while. “I'm looking for someone who may have been here last night.” She extracted a folded sheet of paper from inside the jacket she wore. The paper was blank but as she opened it, she sent an image of the mule to Liederman's mind.

  He blinked, and confusion clouded his features for an instant. “Ah, yes. She was here. Susan Donovan.” Relief filtered through his body at the realization that she wasn't after him. Eagerness entered his tone when he added, “I know where's she's staying. The Three Sailors Motel on Vine Street across town."

  Lorin nodded and tucked the blank page back. “Thank you, Mr. Liederman. We appreciate your cooperation."

  "Not that I'm surprised you're looking for her, but can I ask what she's done? I spoke with her last night and she was rather rude. I'd only called to extend an invitation—"

  "The case is classified."

  "Oh. Of course. My apologies, Agent Pope."

  "If you see her again, be sure to detain her and contact the local police. We'll take it from there.” Without waiting for his response, Lorin turned and left the casino, already Reaching for Silver.

  We're leaving. Be ready. She would find this Three Sailors Motel and exterminate the pest.

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  Chapter 5

  Once Grace had put some distance between herself and the motel, she ducked into an alley to rest and think for a few minutes. The police would be actively seeking her now. She had assaulted an officer. Now she was a runaway and a criminal.

  She had to get out of town fast. She couldn't show up at the train station without making some changes first. New clothes, a dye job. Maybe a piercing or two. Definitely different colored contacts. She'd stuck with blue this morning, so she would go with brown.

  Unless she wanted to add shoplifting to her list of reasons to avoid cops, she needed money. That meant cashing a check made out to Susan Donovan.

  With banks and stores out of the question, she'd have to go back to Comp Roberts’ place. He'd take a hefty commission—twenty-five percent, maybe more if he knew she'd tangled with the cops—but he was reliable. Comp had set up two of her three aliases and neither had been questioned once. His cover business, a chintzy Tex-Mex bar and grill on the downtown fringes, wouldn't be open for a while yet, but she'd lay odds Comp was there.

  For the moment, she had to make at least a few changes to her appearance. She fished in her bag for the wraparounds. The sun blazed overhead, a typical early summer day in Vegas, so sunglasses wouldn't stand out. She peeled off the light sweater she'd worn and wadded it tight, slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the street.

  The first trashcan she passed received the sweater. Grace walked for several blocks, headed toward downtown, sticking to the bus route. She slowed at each stop and finally spotted a white and blue Cat bus lumbering her way. The folded wad of bills she pulled from her pocket looked dishearteningly small. She peeled two singles from it, and minutes later settled into an aisle-facing seat on a half-empty bus, wondering why she didn't just rob a bank or something. It would certainly be easier than the hoops she had to jump through to scrape by.

  It would also be wrong. Casinos could afford to pay out once in a while, but she wouldn't stoop to taking money from regular folks. Even if they had shown her nothing but contempt. Damned morals. Always getting in the way of the simple life.

  Fifteen stop-and-start minutes later, she exited at the end of the line and headed for Second Street. Signs of life were limited since it was past the morning commute and not yet first call in the bars. This was the real Vegas, the part of town for serious gamblers, down-and-dirty deals, and everything that happened outside the neon cloak the city wore for tourists. Beyond the casinos lying dormant in the light of day, the buildings became shabby and dug in like nickel queens, the sidewalks dingy and desperate.

  Three or four teens lounged on the steps of a stucco apartment building, passing a pipe. Grace didn't look at them, and they paid no attention to her. Only cops and tourists interested the local bangers, and she'd worked hard to ensure she appeared neither. Still, a measure of relief settled over her when she entered the dim interior of the Happy Gringo unscathed.

  "The position's been filled. Sorry."

  Grace started. The categorically unapologetic voice came from the far end of the bar. A dark-haired, diminutive woman sat on the curve of the counter, legs swinging lazily inside the barkeep space. She held a fork in one hand, a stained cloth in the other. Piles of silverware heaped on either side of her perch.

  "I don't need a job, thanks. I need Comp. Is he around?"

  "Maybe.” The woman rubbed the cloth along the fork tines and held it up for inspection. Apparently satisfied, she dropped it on the pile to her right with a metallic jangle, and picked up a steak knife from her left. “Who wants to know?"

  "A repeat customer. Tell him I've got juice for him."

  The woman huffed. “He's not taking two-bit notes any more."

  "Well, then. Guess it's a good thing I scored higher than two.” Grace moved further into the bar. The woman held the knife in plain view but made no move to use it. “Just get Comp."

  "Why? You in a hurry?"

  "Actually, yes. I'm hungry. So unless you're planning to cook me breakfast, would you just tell him I'm here?"

  "Fine.” The woman slid down from the counter, came around the back, and flounced through the unmarked door to the right. Grace took a seat at one of the small back tables to wait. She'd no sooner slipped her sunglasses back into her bag than the brunette resurfaced and offered a slow shrug. “He says go on down."

  Grace stood and crossed to the door. Behind it lay a short hallway. A door to the right led to the kitchen. Straight ahead, stairs provided access to Comp's lair. She headed down, paused to knock on the black door at the bottom, and faced the camera mounted to the left of the door. He never let anyone in without visual confirmation.

  The intercom clicked once. “You look familiar. Have I ripped you off before?"

 
Grace smiled. “Twice."

  "Ah! Now I remember. You're the ID junkie.” The door slid open. Grace went through and it closed behind her.

  Inside, the air was cool and dry. Light came from an array of monitors, television screens, and control boards, and a single lamp standing on a table in the far left corner. The soft whir of casing fans and the hum of laser equipment mingled with the not unpleasant smell of silicon and plastic and toner. Comp, clad in lanky poet style with a black ribbed shirt and dark jeans, stood over one of his more mysterious machines, his back to her.

  "Just a sec. Hey, you don't need another one, do you? Keep it up and I'm gonna run out of dead people to resurrect.” He didn't look at her as he spoke.

  "Nope. Just straight cash this time."

  "Cash, huh?” He hit a sequence of buttons and turned with a crooked grin—one corner of his mouth raised, the other stiff and crinkled with burn scars that spread in a fan across his jaw line and widened along his neck. She'd never asked, but she knew how it happened—a dissatisfied customer had surprised him with a mini blowtorch. Comp had written it off as a business expense and later returned the favor with a jagged bottle. “What do you have for me, kitten?"

  "Cashier's check. Five grand.” She unzipped the laptop bag, pulled one out and extended it toward him. He took it and stared.

  "Golden Egg, huh? Their games are rigged. You know something I don't?"

  Grace shrugged. “I have hunches."

  The turned-up corner of his mouth descended like a drooping flag. “Is there some reason the slick I gave you won't hold up for this?"

  Damn. She hadn't wanted to go into detail. “The slick's fine. But the alias is a little hot at the moment."

  "Cops?"

  Grace nodded.

  "No big. I can change the name on this. For you, kitten, I'll even stick to the standard. Twenty-five percent. If you'll share your hunch about the Golden Egg with me."

  "Sure. The blackjack tables post a three-deck spread, but they use four, and thin things out by removing the face cards and ten-spots from the last deck."