The Red Hunter(100)

“She’s taking part of my cut,” said Beckham. He smiled, lifted his hands. I had a good view of his face. He was scared, too. Way out of his league. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” Beckham said. He issued a nervous laugh, glanced over at the girl, who was nodding stupidly. “Because I’ve been quiet all these years. Didn’t run my mouth off in the joint like so many of those losers. I promised you one day I’d go back for it. And here I am.”

The stranger dumped the contents of the bag on the long table and a pile of cash cascaded across the surface. The girl reached for Beckham’s hand in excitement, her eyes bright, but he pushed her away. The gloved man started counting, shifting the stacks into neat piles.

Situation assessment: There were three people, all of them motivated to fight for the payout they’ve waited years to collect. What were my odds? Poor. I would have to take my moment in the chaos I could sense was about to descend. The thinker panics, goes off half-cocked. Or freezes, paralyzed by indecision. The watcher bides her time, waits for the opportunity.

Then, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all there was,” said Beckham. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat “We took the bag from the tunnel, some kids had it first. But I brought it straight here.”

“What kids?”

“The girl, her friend,” said Rhett. “They got to the bag first.”

“They got to the bag first.” His tone was flat with menace. “How did that shake out?”

“I don’t know,” Rhett said. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I don’t how they got to it. Like I said, Josh was spilling it.”

“There’s only four hundred thousand here,” said the stranger.

“That’s what there was.” I can hear the creep of fear. “I swear.”

“You swear.” Not a question. I could hear the mockery.

“Yeah,” Beckham said. It was only a whisper.

The stranger issued another long cough.

“The night the money was stolen from Whitey Malone, there was a million. Two hundred thousand got paid out that night. Then it sat, locked in that tunnel for ten years. There should be eight hundred thousand here.”

Silence. Beckham shook his head and lifted his palms. I thought about the money in my bank account, tried to do the math—the money my mother had saved, my father’s death benefit and pension paid to my education trust. An extra three hundred thousand give or take.

It happened so fast.

Two sharp explosive bursts of sound bounced and expanded in the space, causing me to drop into a protective crouch, my ears ringing, head vibrating. When I looked again, Beckham and the girl both stood for a moment, wobbling slightly, their expressions slack. What? What just happened?

Then they crumbled, first him, then her, onto the waiting tarp. She stared at me, unseeing, a neat red circle between her eyes, blood from the hole that must have opened in the back of her head pooling black around her. I felt bad for her, even though she’d hit me in the head with a shovel. Some people were just not smart; they make bad decisions, throw their lot in with the wrong people. It’s a problem.

My breathing came shallow. I deepened it. I pushed myself against the wall. The man at the table, slowly started packing up the money. My whole body was tense, vibrating, ears ringing in the silence.

“I know you’re there,” he said. “Zoey. Come out.”

I stepped into the light, my hand gripping the gun in my pocket. He turned to me, but he was wearing a mask, a monstrous grinning blue face, mouth full of fangs, red-eyed skulls for hair, eyes black holes. The Tibetan mask for the sorcerer’s dance. It was a guardian’s mask, a protector against evil. I knew it well. No.

He put the rest of the money in the bag, unhurried as if we had all the time in the world. He pulled the zipper. I saw there was a stack left out, sitting at the corner of the table.

That’s when another form stepped out of the darkness. He wore a mask as well, the face of a gray wolf with a wide nose and deep-set eyes, yellow bared teeth. He stared at me a moment, and I slowed my breathing, hoping my heart rate would follow. But then he looked away, started dragging Rhett Beckham’s body toward the center of the tarp.

I thought about Josh Beckham. Would he mourn his brother? Would there simply be relief? In my limited experience, family relationships are complicated. Love is rarely pure, always laced with something else. Likewise, anger, even hatred was often undercut by love and loyalty.

While I watched, the big man took off his mask and lay it on the table. I knew it was him, but it still felt like a knife through the heart.

Mike. My mentor. My friend. The ground beneath my feet shifted.

“Paul’s doing better,” he said. “He was asking for you. I tried to call, finally had to make up an excuse that your phone was dead. I told him you’d come after your shift. He wants to talk to you.”

I felt a lurch of happiness, relief that Paul was okay for now, but it quickly sank into the pit of dread that my stomach had become.

The other man dragged the woman’s body to lie beside Beckham. I was surprised to feel a sob rise up in my throat. The student grows disillusioned with her teacher and so with everything he taught her. I thought of all those hours spent with him, all his words knocking around my head. He taught me so much about fighting, surviving, about myself and the watcher within. How could I reconcile that with the man who stood before me now?