Surprisingly, the little guy knew how to throw a punch, and Trent could definitely feel it. But Trent shrugged off the blow like he hadn’t felt it at all.
That was enough to send the man into a full-on attack frenzy as he went for Trent’s head. Trent stepped back as the crowd behind him dispersed like a wave of flesh receding with the tide. He evaded Bob’s first couple of punches easily, until a couple of the man’s friends caught Trent from behind and held him tightly.
Zana moved in to help, but a couple of other men grabbed her and held her back while Trent’s pounding began in earnest.
Through it all, Trent remained calm, paying more attention to Zana than to his own situation. He realized that she and everyone else probably thought he was crazy for picking a fight the way he had, but he knew what he was doing. Any second now, either the dark spirit inside him was going to awaken and help him protect himself or he was going to continue to be very sore in the morning.
Unfortunately, the pain continued to mount, and the spirit refused to come to his assistance. The dark spirit had given Trent the strength and speed of an animal in the tunnels under Vegas, but as he took another punch from Bob, Trent realized that for whatever reason, the spirit was not planning on helping him tonight.
Luckily, it only took a minute for the bartender to get around the bar with a large wooden bat in his hand.
As soon as Matt was on the scene, Trent’s attackers fled, and Trent crumpled to the floor, smiling.
“Why the hell are you smiling?” Zana said as she knelt next to him.
“Maybe the spirit’s gone?”
“Sorry, babe. I can still see it. It’s agitated, but it’s still there.”
Trent blacked out for what he thought must have been a short amount of time. When he opened his eyes, Zana and the bartender were helping him to his feet.
“You all right, mister? That was really dumb of you to egg Bob on like that. Him and his boys are gone for now. Told him I’d call the police if I saw him again tonight, but I’m afraid I gotta ask you and your lady to leave, too.”
Trent tested his legs and found that he was able to stand. Barely. He looked at the bartender and shook his hand.
“I need to settle up first,” he said with a bloody smile.
Matt laughed quietly and shook his head in disbelief.
“Drinks on me, boss. Just this once. Now go on and get some sleep. And if I were you, I’d make sure I was gone in the morning nice and early, before Bob and his buddies wake up.”
Zana and the bartender put their arms around Trent and helped him to his feet.
“Thanks for your help, Matt,” she said.
After making sure that Trent could stand on his own, she looked back at the two men who had held her back while Trent was being beaten. She stepped over to them and put her face within inches of theirs.
“You two ever touch me again, and I’m going to break something on each one of you, and you won’t like what it is.”
The two men looked like they were more in shock than fear, but neither moved or said a thing.
Trent simply watched her and smiled.
Zana slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to the rent-a-car, holding it in her fist so that it protruded from her closed hand like a metal spike. Then she turned around and went back to help Trent outside.
As soon as they stepped into the night air, the cold temperatures washed over them. It felt wonderful compared to the hot, stale air inside the bar. Trent was hurt, but in the time it took them to walk across the street to the motel, the pain was already beginning to lessen, and he was standing and walking straighter.
Trent looked down into Zana’s eyes, but she didn’t look back. She kept her lips pursed as she opened the door to their room.
Once inside, she locked the door behind them, then turned on Trent.
“What the hell was that all about?” she said.
Trent walked into the bathroom and took off his shirt. No real bruising. Just some yellowing that was usually the sign of a bruise that was almost done healing.
He ran his hand across his chin and felt his jaw.
“I’m pretty sure this was broken.”
Zana joined him in the bathroom.
“What are you talking about?”
He turned to look down at her—his face stern and serious.
“Do you still see it on me?”
She nodded.
“Are you going to ask me that every day, Trent? Yes, I still see it. And it’s still in the same place. Attached to where that bite mark is.”
He turned back to looking at himself in the mirror.
“You know when you take a car out on the road right after it snows—how you gun it a little to make sure you know how it’s going to handle?”
Zana didn’t answer him.
“That’s all I was doing. I wanted to see if whatever this spirit that’s hitched a ride on me would come out if I needed it to. I think I’ve established the answer to that question is a resounding, no.”
Zana let out a long breath and put her hand on Trent’s bite wound.
“It’s not a full moon, you know. What made you think the spirit would take over without a full moon?”
“I had to find out for myself,” he said.
“And there also wasn’t any reason for vengeance in there,” she said. “Maybe the spirit probably doesn’t take over unless there’s a wrong to be righted.
Trent laughed.
“I’d say I was pretty wronged tonight. Maybe the next time we run into Bob and his friends, the spirit will pitch in and help a little bit.”
“I don’t think making fun of it is going to help anything,” she said.
Trent started taking his clothes off, even as he continued examining himself for wounds and other indicators of damage. He looked down, and even the yellow bruise marks were gone.
He reached in and started up the shower, then turned to Zana, completely naked.
“Thanks for putting up with me,” he said.
He leaned over and kissed her on the neck.
“Next time you do something stupid like that, let me in on the plan ahead of time, please.”
“If I’d told you earlier, they might have smelled a scam. You’re much more convincing when you don’t know what’s about to happen.”
Zana sighed.
“What am I going to do with you, Trent?”
Trent grinned.
“How about you start by coming in here and washing my back? And then I promise I’ll return the favor.”
Chapter 8
THE HUNTER did not like flower shops.
The smells of the outdoors concentrated in such a small space seemed out of place to him. Unnatural.
He’d already had to endure the strong smell of wildflowers in the psychic’s store. By the time he finished disposing of the woman’s body and cleaning the kill site, the intense odors from the flowers had given him a headache that he was still trying to ignore.
After learning nothing useful from the psychic, he’d decided to focus on following the girl’s trail instead. He knew more about Zana and her habits anyway, including the name and address of the flower shop where she worked.
He parked his truck on Riviera Street and walked up to a small shop with a large display window that read, Desert Blooms.
He hoped that the owner of the institution would give up the information he required without much of a fight—not because he would mind doing what had to be done, but because he had already lost half the day with the psychic.
The Hunter opened the door, and chimes once again heralded his entrance.
He decided that he hated chimes as much as he hated flower shops.
When he looked to the back of the store, he saw a lithe woman standing behind a large, flat table. She was busying herself with arranging flowers in an elongated vase made of green-tinted glass.
She doesn’t look as tough as the last one.
“Shut up,” he said, u
nder his breath, as he touched the brim of his Stetson and walked toward the woman.
As he got closer, he was surprised to find that he was attracted to her. She reminded him a little of his mom, although this woman was much thinner than his mother had ever been. Unlike his mother, she also had a smile that appeared genuine and kind.
Keep your mind on the hunt, boy.
The woman watched him approach with gentle eyes as he made his way past various displays of roses and more arrangements of those damned wildflowers.
As he stood directly across the table from her, she didn’t try to hide the fact that she was examining his distorted face. Instead of showing revulsion, however, her countenance seemed to soften even more.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
The Hunter hesitated for a second before answering, suddenly self-conscious of his garbled voice.
“Did Zana show up for work today?” he said, tentatively.
The woman put her scissors down and dried her hands on her apron.
“I thought you might be one of her friends,” she said.
The Hunter’s face must have shown surprise at her statement.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that,” she said. “It’s just that…Zana was such a sweet girl, and a hard worker…She didn’t talk much about it, but I know that she lived in the tunnels. I was always afraid for her safety, but she told me once that she had friends down there and that I shouldn’t worry.”
He quickly realized that she thought that he was one of Zana’s homeless friends. She was mistaken, of course, but both his father and life itself had taught him to always press any advantage he was given.
“Do you know where she is?” he said. “We haven’t seen her in the tunnels for a couple of days, and we’re getting worried.”
The woman smiled and moved her way around her work table until she stood right next to the Hunter. She took his arm and walked him to the front of the store.
“I wish I could tell you exactly where she went, but the truth is, I don’t know. All I do know is that she and that fellow she seemed to be dating—a nice but odd man from what I could tell—well, they left town just a few days ago, heading north. Said they were going to visit some small town up in Alaska. I can’t remember the name of it, though…”
She put a knuckle to her mouth and bit on it absently.
“It was a funny name,” she said.
The son of a bitch is going back to where he got me killed.
The Hunter looked down at the lovely woman who was now selecting a flower from one of her displays up front.
“Was it Whittier?” he asked.
The woman looked up, her eyes wide as she touched him on his shoulder.
“That was the name all right,” she said with a laugh. “I remember it now, because I thought that it was odd for a town to have a name that was also an adjective.”
She might not look tough, but she’s pretty and smart. Too bad she won’t be around much longer.
The Hunter could picture his father’s evil smirk, and he wanted nothing more than for the old man to stop talking and to give him some peace and quiet in his own head.
Besides, now that he knew where Walker and Zana were going, there was no reason to kill her. His swollen face was enough of a disguise that she wouldn’t be able to identify him once the swelling finally went down. Plus he was dressed in his most casual clothing—black tactical pants and a short sleeve polo shirt. Once he was in one of his regular suits with his face back to normal, he wouldn’t look like the same man.
As a matter of fact, he was half thinking about looking her up when this whole thing was over. He’d have to make up a good reason for having lied to her about living in the tunnels, but he was adept at falsehoods and wasn’t worried about coming up with something that would be sufficiently believable.
“You’ve been very helpful,” he said, trying to force his swollen face to smile without looking even more hideous than it already did.
The woman outstretched her arm and offered him a single, yellow lily.
“Take this with you, for good luck. And don’t worry too much about Zana. I think she’ll be safe enough. That man she was with…he might have been a little strange, but I got the feeling that he’d do whatever it took to protect her.”
The Hunter laughed inside. In most cases, the woman would have been right. Walker would usually provide sufficient protection for Zana, but not against the Hunter. Walker and Zana had gotten lucky before, but this time he knew what he was going up against, and he would come prepared.
Let’s get on with it, Romeo.
The Hunter took the lily in his hand and bowed his head.
“Thank you, Miss?”
“You can call me Roseanne.”
“You can call me Hunter.”
“Just like Hunter S. Thompson. One of my favorite authors. I hope you have a good day, Hunter. Maybe I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Maybe you will,” he said as he thanked her again and stepped outside, letting the door to her shop close behind him.
He started walking toward his truck, still holding the yellow flower between his thick fingers.
Where the hell do you think you’re going? We still have work to do back there before we can go after Walker.
“She won’t recognize me once my face heals.”
Get your head on straight, boy. She don’t need to know what you look like to ID you to the cops. She’s peeking out here right now at your truck. Looks to me like the kind of woman with a good memory, too.
The Hunter stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes. He hated to admit it, but his father was right. He liked Roseanne and wanted her to live, but she was a loose end that he couldn’t afford—not considering what he planned on doing to Walker and Zana once he found them.
He turned around and let the flower drop to the street.
That’s my boy.
The Hunter walked back to the flower shop, placed his hand on the doorknob, and looked up at his disfigured reflection in the store window.
“Why hasn’t my face healed yet?”
I saved your shitty life, and you’re complaining about not looking good enough? Be a man and stop groaning about it. Besides…scars will give you some personality. Make you more interesting.
“I look like a monster,” he whispered.
His father’s voice was silent for a few seconds before responding in a slow, cruel tone.
You are a monster. Now get in there, and behave like one.
His father’s vile voice echoed in his head as he entered the store.
Roseanne was still up front and flashed him a huge smile as if she were genuinely glad to see him again.
Her smile vanished when he reached behind him and locked the door to the shop.
Before she could scream, he was on her, his hand over her mouth, pressing her to the back of the store, where someone passing by wouldn’t be able to see them through the shop’s display window.
He also wanted to get her to the back of the store and to the table she used to create her flower arrangements, because that was the last place he had seen her place her scissors, a tool for which he currently had a need.
Chapter 9
DESPITE SOME lingering aches and the dull echo of a hangover, Trent felt relaxed, even after another long day on the road. His shoulders were loose, and he watched in a constant state of awe at the increasingly stark and beautiful scenery.
Many people found barren landscapes depressing or uninviting, but they reminded Trent of the same kind of potential he imagined an artist saw when looking at a blank canvas.
As their car glided down the road, Zana was lost in her own quiet state—her nose plastered to the passenger’s side window. Trent knew she was thinking about something, but despite his astute observational skills, he had no idea what that something was.
Maybe she was in shock. The wide-open spaces must have looked almost alien to her after the cramped underground e
xistence to which she had become accustomed.
While she took in the scenery, Trent reviewed the previous night’s events in his mind.
He hadn’t enjoyed the beating he’d received, but he was glad that the animal spirit inside him hadn’t surfaced at least.
It made him feel more…in control of his own self, to know that the spirit wouldn’t take over every time something stressful happened in his life.
Maybe the situation was as simple as the spirit not being able to possess him when the moon wasn’t full, but Zana remained convinced that the spirit hadn’t shown itself because there had simply been no need for vengeance.
There was a good chance that the only sins Bob and his friends were guilty of were that of being a bunch of drunk assholes.
Trent glanced at Zana. He liked watching her intoxicating blend of Goth, punk rock, and classical styles all mixed into one beautiful woman.
When he refocused on the road, it was just in time to read the sign saying they were only a handful of miles away from the Canadian border.
He cursed under his breath.
Zana pulled herself away from the window.
“What is it, Trent?”
Trent grunted. He had spent his entire life sharpening his mental skills, but he’d been so preoccupied with the events of the past few days that he’d forgotten one very important thing about driving to Alaska.
“You need a passport to get in and out of Canada, Zana. I have mine—always travel with it—but they won’t let us through if you don’t have yours.”
Zana laughed—a true, genuine chuckle that surprised and bewildered Trent.
“What’s so funny?” he said.
She held up a finger, signaling him to wait, while she reached down into her bug-out bag. After rummaging around for a few seconds, she sat up straight in her seat and held her hands out to him.
He glanced over at her while trying to keep the car steady on the road. She held not one, but three passports, as if they were thick, oversized, playing cards.
“Pick a passport. Any passport,” she said with a smile.
The Whittier Trilogy Page 35
