Read Online Prowlers: Wild Things by Christopher Golden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Golden
Ads: Link
can of Budweiser. They climbed into the Jeep and Jack started it up. He was about to pull out when Molly whispered his name. He looked up and saw the jarhead trotting toward them with a determined look on his face.
Wary, but curious, Jack rolled the window down.
"Hey," the jarhead said.
"You thought of something?" Jack asked.
The man blinked, then shook his head. "No. Just . . . I just wanted to make sure you knew how to get to that motel."
"Actually, we have terrible directions," Molly replied.
The jarhead actually smiled. "Take the next exit. Fairbrook, Dobbins Avenue, it says. Left at the bottom of the ramp, maybe two miles you'll pass this roadhouse called Capone's. The next left intersection is Dobbins. Take a right there and the motel's maybe a quarter of a mile up on the left."
Jack was astonished at how friendly the guy suddenly seemed. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "Drive safe out there."
But the guy did not back away. Instead, he leaned in closer to the window, and all the open, amiable warmth drained from his face.
"Pay attention, friend. I know you're full of shit," the jarhead said ominously. His eyes ticked past Jack to Molly, and then back again. "I remember the deal with that kid from Buffalo, and his mom killed herself not three months later. It was in the papers. You're not his cousin. I don't know what you're looking for, but I'll tell you this for free: go home. Turn around and drive back to Boston. Now, if you're stupid, and you stay? Just watch yourselves."
"Why?" Jack prodded, heart racing. "You know there's more going on here. Why don't you just talk to us?"
The jarhead glanced over his shoulder, though the nearest trailer blocked his view of the other three. When he turned back to the Jeep, his eyes narrowed and he stood back a couple of feet. "Stay or go. If you have questions about this dead truck driver, ask Max at the Blueberry Diner in Hollingsworth. That guy talks to everyone. Sees everything. Makes some mean French Toast, too."
He slapped the door. "Good luck."
Before Jack could thank him, he had rushed back around the truck to rejoin the other drivers.
"Well," Jack began. "That was . . ."
"Peculiar," Molly put in.
"One word for it. I was thinking more like 'freaky.'"
"That works too."
CHAPTER FOUR
From the moment he had arrived in Manhattan — at just after five o'clock that morning — Bill had regretted not having ridden his Harley down. But Lao had insisted that Bill drive. It was his quest, his trip . . . his car and his money to fill the gas tank.
Lao was a less than ideal traveling companion. They had been acquainted with one another for centuries and Bill had never been overly fond of the grim-faced Prowler. He spoke rarely and moved with a kind of cool confidence that seemed admirable in books and movies but was actually quite unnerving in real life. His reticence often caused people to make the mistake of thinking Lao was stupid, but one good look at his eyes would dispel that presumption. His mind was always working, taking the measure of any given situation, but Lao kept his own counsel.
Only the fact that Winter had instructed him to aid in the search for Olivia gave Bill any faith in Lao's loyalty. The hunter, the warrior, had no love or fealty toward Bill or his family, but it was another thing entirely to betray Winter, who owed allegiance to no one, and yet was venerated by all. The name itself had gotten them this far.
Since early that morning, they had spoken to several members of the underground, who spoke to them only because they claimed to be affiliated with Winter. Several times that day, Lao had tried to get in touch with Roger Martelle, a Prowler who was a music industry executive. By the end of the day they were dining with him at Birdland on the upper west side. Martelle gave them a lead, a music club on West Fourth Street in the Village called The Voodoo Lounge. Though the place was a hot spot in the city, it was owned by Prowlers
Wary, but curious, Jack rolled the window down.
"Hey," the jarhead said.
"You thought of something?" Jack asked.
The man blinked, then shook his head. "No. Just . . . I just wanted to make sure you knew how to get to that motel."
"Actually, we have terrible directions," Molly replied.
The jarhead actually smiled. "Take the next exit. Fairbrook, Dobbins Avenue, it says. Left at the bottom of the ramp, maybe two miles you'll pass this roadhouse called Capone's. The next left intersection is Dobbins. Take a right there and the motel's maybe a quarter of a mile up on the left."
Jack was astonished at how friendly the guy suddenly seemed. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "Drive safe out there."
But the guy did not back away. Instead, he leaned in closer to the window, and all the open, amiable warmth drained from his face.
"Pay attention, friend. I know you're full of shit," the jarhead said ominously. His eyes ticked past Jack to Molly, and then back again. "I remember the deal with that kid from Buffalo, and his mom killed herself not three months later. It was in the papers. You're not his cousin. I don't know what you're looking for, but I'll tell you this for free: go home. Turn around and drive back to Boston. Now, if you're stupid, and you stay? Just watch yourselves."
"Why?" Jack prodded, heart racing. "You know there's more going on here. Why don't you just talk to us?"
The jarhead glanced over his shoulder, though the nearest trailer blocked his view of the other three. When he turned back to the Jeep, his eyes narrowed and he stood back a couple of feet. "Stay or go. If you have questions about this dead truck driver, ask Max at the Blueberry Diner in Hollingsworth. That guy talks to everyone. Sees everything. Makes some mean French Toast, too."
He slapped the door. "Good luck."
Before Jack could thank him, he had rushed back around the truck to rejoin the other drivers.
"Well," Jack began. "That was . . ."
"Peculiar," Molly put in.
"One word for it. I was thinking more like 'freaky.'"
"That works too."
CHAPTER FOUR
From the moment he had arrived in Manhattan — at just after five o'clock that morning — Bill had regretted not having ridden his Harley down. But Lao had insisted that Bill drive. It was his quest, his trip . . . his car and his money to fill the gas tank.
Lao was a less than ideal traveling companion. They had been acquainted with one another for centuries and Bill had never been overly fond of the grim-faced Prowler. He spoke rarely and moved with a kind of cool confidence that seemed admirable in books and movies but was actually quite unnerving in real life. His reticence often caused people to make the mistake of thinking Lao was stupid, but one good look at his eyes would dispel that presumption. His mind was always working, taking the measure of any given situation, but Lao kept his own counsel.
Only the fact that Winter had instructed him to aid in the search for Olivia gave Bill any faith in Lao's loyalty. The hunter, the warrior, had no love or fealty toward Bill or his family, but it was another thing entirely to betray Winter, who owed allegiance to no one, and yet was venerated by all. The name itself had gotten them this far.
Since early that morning, they had spoken to several members of the underground, who spoke to them only because they claimed to be affiliated with Winter. Several times that day, Lao had tried to get in touch with Roger Martelle, a Prowler who was a music industry executive. By the end of the day they were dining with him at Birdland on the upper west side. Martelle gave them a lead, a music club on West Fourth Street in the Village called The Voodoo Lounge. Though the place was a hot spot in the city, it was owned by Prowlers
Similar Books
