Prowlers - 1 (34 page)

A car horn blew down on the street. Bill Cantwell's Delta 88 pulled up to the curb and he beeped again.

"God." Jack sighed. "A guy lives as long as he has, you'd think he'd learn a little patience."

Bill stepped out of the car and stood just inside his open door, watching them over the roof of the Oldsmobile. He raised a hand to Jack, almost a salute, and smiled. Jack grinned back.

It was the first time since discovering Bill's secret that he had been able to look at the bartender and just see Bill Cantwell, and not the other face he kept hidden deep inside. That was Bill, he realized. Beneath his skin, he might be something other than human, but Jack was somehow certain that when he closed his eyes at night and dreamed, Bill Cantwell was a man, a creature with a human heart and all that it implied.

They were all quieter than usual on the ride back to Bridget's. After the previous night, there would be a lot of work to be done, a lot of lies to be told, a lot of spin control to do. It was going to be a long day.

As they cruised through Boston, Jack gazed out his window at the sidewalks and storefronts, at the couples arm in arm, the suits swinging briefcases, the old matrons walking their dogs. All of them real and tangible, flesh and blood.

No phantoms.

He kept expecting to see Artie, hoping to see Artie. Nothing.

"What are you looking for out there?" Molly asked as Bill turned a corner near Quincy Market.

Jack looked at her quizzically, then glanced at

Courtney and Bill in the front seat. He shook his head and smiled. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Damsel in distress.

Those were the words that went through Don Kramer's eyes when he saw the woman standing on the northbound side of Interstate 95 with her thumb cocked at an angle only slightly less severe than the angle of her outthrust hip. She was all legs and breasts, clad almost entirely in leather, and looked more like she ought to be strutting along a posh Manhattan street or stepping off a movie set than hitching a ride in southern Maine.

But she had no bags, not even a pocketbook. Nothing on her at all except the clothes she wore. Even for a knockout like this one, Don figured that meant one thing: she was on the run. Some guy had probably knocked her around and she was on the her way home to Mom.

Damsel in distress.

"Damn fool woman," Don muttered to himself as he downshifted his rig, braking as quickly as he dared.

The semi came to a stop fifty yards past where the woman had stood. In his rearview mirror he watched her jog up the breakdown lane and marveled again at her beauty. What the hell she was doing hitching along the highway was a mystery to him, but one he'd be happy to explore. Right after he gave her a little lecture about the perils of hitchhiking, particularly for a woman alone. If someone else had picked her up, he'd tell her, she might have ended up in a ditch somewhere.

Don rolled his eyes.

The young ones figured they were bulletproof. Untouchable. He had heard his share of horror stories in seventeen years on the road. He would share a few with this girl, maybe make her think twice about sticking her thumb out next time.

Without a word she hauled open the passenger door and hefted herself effortlessly up into the cab of the truck. Her skin was brown and silky, the color of milk chocolate. When she looked at him and thanked him for stopping, her smile dazzled him.

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"As far north as you go," she told him. "Don't worry, I'm good company."

Don chuckled. Her telling him not to worry, that was a laugh. "I have no doubt, darlin'. None at all."

The girl smiled again and Don was almost mesmerized by her eyes. They were the most incredible shade of orange he had ever seen, but he didn't think they were contact lenses. They were almost hypnotic, those orange eyes. And there was something else about them that struck him, sent a cold thrill running through him. They were playful, those orange eyes. Mischievous.

Wild.

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN is the award-winning L.A. Times bestselling author of such novels as Strangewood, Straight on 'til Morning, and the three-volume Shadow Saga. His other works include Hellboy: The Lost Army and the Body of Evidence series of teen thrillers (including Meets the Eye and Skin Deep) which is currently being developed for television by Viacom. He has also written or co-written a great many books, both novels and non-fiction, based on the popular television series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the world's #1 comic book, X-Men.

Golden's comic-book work includes Batman: Realworlds, stints on The Crow, Spider-Man Unlimited, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Batman Chronicles; and the ongoing monthly Angel series, tying into the Buffy television spinoff. As a pop culture journalist, he was the editor of the Bram Stoker Award-winning book of criticism, CUT!: Horror Writers on Horror Film, and coauthor of both Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Monster Book and The Stephen King Universe.