Hunted

by S W Vaughn

  Comp laughed. “Some hunch.” He tucked the check into a pocket. “Hundreds okay?"

  "That's fine."

  "Hang tight. I'll be right back.” Comp edged around a bank of monitors and disappeared into the gloom.

  Grace's gaze traveled the room in a slow circle. In addition to the money laundering and counterfeit ID service, Comp occasionally engaged in electronic spying and dirt-digging. For a price, he could find out just about anything concerning just about anyone—and if there was nothing to find, for a bigger price, he'd make something up.

  A line of flat screens caught her attention. They displayed identical screensavers: rippling water, the brilliant blue of a mountain lake. As she watched, a realistic image of a rainbow trout broke the surface on the first screen and arched up to the right. When the head began to disappear at the right edge, the image slid into the next screen and continued until the trout plunged into the water there. The virtual fish leapt through all six screens, then emerged flailing on the end of a fishing line on the last one.

  "I call that one hook, line and sucker.” Comp came into the light with a thick stack of bills in one hand and his half-grin back on his face. “Thirty-seven fifty. Pre-crumpled for your convenience.” He handed Grace the stack, and his expression grew serious. “You have somewhere to lay low for a while?"

  "I think so.” Grace tucked the cash in her bag in an inside zipper compartment. “I'm going to look up an old friend of the family."

  "Good luck with that. See you around, kitten.” Comp headed back for the mystery machine, and another idea occurred to Grace.

  "Hey, Comp."

  "Yeah?"

  "Know a good place to get a few quick studs?"

  His grin showed teeth. “There's one right here."

  Grace snorted laughter. “I mean the metal variety."

  "Crush a guy's ego, why don't you.” He smiled still, and Grace understood. The only things that excited Comp processed binary code and ran on current. “There's a place on the boulevard that'll do you fast and clean, no questions. The Pony X. Should be open now."

  "Thanks. You're a prince."

  "I know."

  Comp turned away, and Grace left with a small pang of regret. She wouldn't see him again. She missed him already.

  * * * *

  The packed train station allowed Grace to relax a little. She wouldn't be noticed easily here. It had taken longer than she anticipated to transform herself into Kayla Trumbull, apathetic Goth girl. She'd opted for an eyebrow ring and a small nose stud, and dyed her hair crayon-black. The license photo depicted her with dark brown hair and no jewelry, but the changes were unremarkable enough. The dye job couldn't be more obvious if she'd worn a sign that said I just dunked my head in hot tar and set it on fire.

  Her outfit was a little over-the-top angst for her taste but it went with the image. She'd dressed in low-rider black jeans and a black zip hoodie emblazoned with aqua and gray skulls. The lace-up corset vest under the sweatshirt wasn't bad, but she'd only picked it up to maintain a seamless illusion, not to show off. And the plated skate shoes actually felt good on her feet. It had been a while since she'd worn sneakers.

  The line at the Amtrak ticket windows snaked through two cordoned rows. Grace stood behind a middle-aged woman in business casual, who held the handle of a smoke gray wheeled tote in one hand and a cell phone in the other. With three windows open, the line moved at a steady pace, and in less than ten minutes the clerk at the far left window motioned Grace over.

  "What can I do for you, young lady?"

  The clerk, an older gentleman who managed to appear rumpled in his crisp blue uniform, gave her a grandfather's grin, and Grace experienced a compulsion to lean through the window and hug him. Strange, since she'd never known her grandfather. She cleared her throat. “I'd like a ticket to Syracuse, New York. Please."

  "One way or round trip?"

  "One way."

  The clerk nodded like he'd known her answer all along. He turned to the computer terminal beside him and punched something in, hunt-and-peck style. A moment later he said, “We've got one leaving in forty minutes. Transfers in Salt Lake City and Chicago, and she'll get you there Friday night."

  "That'll work."

  "You betcha. I'll just need to see some identification."

  Grace eased the Trumbull license from her front pocket and slid it into the cupped slot at the bottom of the window. The clerk plucked it from the depression, propped it on the back of the keyboard, and hunted and pecked some more. “Trumbull, huh?” he said while he typed. “Used to know some Trumbulls out near Boulder City. Had a daughter about your age. You related?"

  "No.” Grace snapped the word without meaning to. She sensed a pang of sadness from the clerk, and heard him think such an awful thing. Tragic. The poor girl. Could have sworn her name was Kayla, too. Maybe it wasn't. You're getting old, Pete. Old, and stupid.

  Grace pressed her lips together to keep from blurting out a reassurance. Sometimes, it was hard not to answer people when they hadn't spoken aloud. Instead, she said gently, “I'm not from around here."

  The clerk smiled. “Going home, are you?"

  "Yeah.” Hell no. Never.

  While the clerk finished filing her fake information, Grace glanced around the inside of the ticket booth. It was fairly dark behind the glass. In addition to the clerks at the windows, half a dozen others occupied the space. A few closed doors stood in the back wall, probably leading to the inner offices. A cork bulletin board hung on the right, alongside the last door, with flyers and station announcements neatly stapled to the surface.

  As she watched, a younger man in uniform stapled a fresh sheet of paper on the board. He stepped aside, turned to talk to a woman seated at a desk, and Grace read MISSING. Her younger self, blurred with darkness and distance, stared from beneath the damning word.

  "All right, young lady. That'll be two-ten and sixty cents. Cash or charge?"

  "Cash.” Feeling gray as the photo on the flyer, Grace dug the two hundreds and the fifty she'd separated from her stash out of her pocket and slid it through. The cops had probably figured out that “Susan Donovan” had scored a sizeable sum and anticipated her leaving town. At least she hadn't decided to fly. Airport security was already rigid as hell. She knew they wouldn't launch a manhunt, but heightened awareness proved enough to get people looking harder than usual. Of course, her mother's reward offered a better incentive than justice or humanity. A hundred grand could make a “hero” out of just about anyone.

  The clerk piled an accordion-folded ticket, her change, and the license in the window slot. “Don't forget to tag your carry-on bags. Enjoy your ride.” He smiled and Grace returned the expression.

  "Thanks.” She scooped the stack out, stuffed it in a pocket without counting the change and headed for the waiting area before anyone decided to give her a second glance.

  Though most of the wire mesh chairs were occupied, Grace managed to find an empty row of three near a window close to the boarding gate. She settled in, put the new sports bag she'd bought on the floor between her feet, and leaned the laptop bag against her body. Half an hour. She just needed to stay unnoticed for thirty minutes and she'd be safe again. For a while.

  She leaned her head back and stared at the television screens mounted from the ceiling. Pairs of monitors, all tuned to the same news channel, were spaced throughout the waiting area every five rows or so. Though the sound barely carried over the general clamor filling the station, black bars across the bottom of the screens ran colored text transcriptions of the program. Grace watched without registering much. More violence in the Middle East. Some celebrity couple announcing their adoption of a token baby. A bizarre fashion show at a women's prison in south Florida. Must have been a slow day for international happenings.

  A full screen banner announced local news. They ran the weather first. The weekly forecast showed five cheery, cartoonish suns lined up like a slots jackpot. Grace wondered why the Vegas meteoro
logists ever bothered letting people know it would be sunny and hot. Predicting the weather around here had to be about as exciting as fishing in a puddle.

  The image cut to a coiffed anchorwoman. A text subtitle on the left of the screen read Suspected Casino Fraud. Grace stiffened for an instant and realized she was being ridiculous. Seconds later the Golden Egg Casino filled the screen, and ridiculous became wary.

  A male reporter stood outside the place beside a pudgy, balding man stuffed into a cheap suit. The reporter's lips moved, and text scrolled through the bar. Last night the Golden Egg Casino detained a woman they suspected of rigging the games to walk away with a whopping fifty thousand dollars. The casino's owner, Mr. Howard Liederman, tells us though they could not prove anything at the time, his hunch seems to have turned out correct. Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Liederman?

  A slow burn ignited in Grace's gut and spread. The crooked, greedy son of a bitch had gone to the media. Her fingers clenched tight in her lap, and she watched Liederman's face perform a pathetic semblance of concern. The text rolled. We knew this woman, who claimed to be Susan Donovan, just wasn't right. Our cameras didn't catch her in the act but this morning, an FBI agent came to the casino to ask about Donovan. Fortunately, we had her records and I was able to tell her—the agent, I mean, where the woman was staying.

  The image changed and became Grace. A startlingly clear still-shot, culled from the casino's security feed, filled the screen. The reporter's words accompanied the picture: Apparently, the local police have also taken an interest in Donovan, who may actually be Grace Carrington, the daughter of California socialite Kendra Carrington. Grace was reported missing two years ago...

  Panicked, her only thought to stop the devastating images before someone recognized her and put things together, Grace let her mind trace the power feed to the televisions and cut them all off at once. A loud electronic screech resounded through the waiting area and the center screen directly in front of Grace emitted a shower of popping sparks. Smoke hissed from the vented plastic on the heels of the fireworks. Dimly aware that her lack of reaction appeared suspicious, Grace leapt to her feet, grabbed the bag from the floor and scuttled away. Amid the shocked murmurs of the crowd, she headed for the restrooms to compose herself.

  She stayed in a stall, shivering and perched on a closed toilet, for a full ten minutes. FBI agent? How the hell was that possible? Either Liederman had lied through his teeth to get on television, or whoever visited him had a damned good cover. Two possibilities occurred to Grace. The first was her mother, who may have had hired a marginally talented private investigator.

  The second, and the one she feared more accurate, was the red-haired woman.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 6

  Lorin sensed a ripple of power, tiny but definite. She glanced at Silver, further back in the alley. “You felt that. Didn't you?"

  Silver nodded. He squatted on his haunches beside the broken body of the cop who'd responded to the call from the Three Sailors Motel. A faint, troubled look clung to Silver's normally vacant features. “More?” he whispered weakly.

  Lorin held up a hand. She approached the cop and frowned over him. She wouldn't have had Silver hurt him at all if he hadn't insisted on checking her identification. Unfortunately, the cop didn't seem to know where the Nephil had gone. They'd been at this for almost an hour. Silver was running out of bones to break.

  She knelt beside the cop's head. “My apologies, human,” she said gently. His eyes, which had rolled back in his head, tried to focus on her. Alarm filled them. “Try not to worry. Hell is a lie, and so is Heaven—at least, as you know them. You'll be recycled. Better luck next time.” She stood and nodded to Silver.

  Finish him off.

  Silver snapped the cop's neck with one hard twist.

  "Come on.” Lorin circled the corpse and gripped Silver's wrist. “Find out where that power came from and get us there. Now."

  "Can't.” Silver struggled to speak the word.

  "Are you refusing me?"

  "No. If I move us, I may lose it. It's ... weak. I can't focus on it."

  Uneasy, Lorin relaxed her hold. Silver had never faltered on even the most impossible tasks she set for him. Had she gone too far with him last night? Perhaps he still hadn't healed. Next time, she would opt for length over intensity. “Fine. We'll walk, then. Move fast and avoid the humans as much as possible. Remember, you aren't to speak with them."

  "Yes, Lorin.” He shuddered, and made his way out of the alley, headed for downtown Las Vegas.

  * * * *

  The train pulled out of the station right on schedule despite the disruption Grace caused. Apparently, when she'd blown out the televisions, she'd also shorted a few computers, ATMs and digital information kiosks. Whoops. At least it had kept the station employees too distracted to notice her.

  Still, she couldn't relax. Just before the train began boarding, she'd sensed the electrical presence that had troubled her at the casino—faint, and growing stronger. At first, she had thought the sensation stemmed from the others like her, the ones who'd been killed. Now she realized the feeling might be that woman, or the monster.

  Grace sat beside a window in the last passenger car. The seat next to her remained empty. Altogether, no more than twenty people occupied this car, which suited Grace just fine. For the next eight hours, at least, she wouldn't have to make small talk or studiously ignore a stranger.

  Thankful that trains didn't have televisions, Grace reclined her seat and turned toward the wall. Her eyelids felt weighted and gritty. As Vegas fell behind and the sizzling undercurrent of her intuition faded, the cadenced rattle and sway of the train loosened her muscles. Tension drained from her limbs until she felt fused with the seat. She closed her eyes and drifted.

  The forest again. The chasm seemed closer this time, the light filtering through the trees stronger. Lattices of shadow lay on the ground and transformed the soft moss beneath her feet into a labyrinthine landscape. She moved forward, but the divide she longed to explore remained the same distance away. Why couldn't she reach it? A gentle wind cooled her brow and swirled discarded leaves. The breeze caught a single browned maple leaf and whisked it toward the ravine in quick loops.

  A shaft of brilliant sunlight pierced the forest canopy and plunged into the chasm like a spotlight from heaven. The leaf entered the light, became charged with it, glowing as though it would burst into flame. It seesawed back and forth and descended into the shadow of the ravine, leaving her behind.

  Grace woke with a sob lodged in her throat. Now she knew how the lame child who couldn't follow the Pied Piper felt. This place she dreamed about seemed more real than anywhere she'd been. Maybe she would find her father there. Maybe he could explain everything, tell her why she'd been cursed with such marvelous, crippling gifts. Where she'd come from, and where she belonged.

  The train had stopped. Grace returned her seat upright and glanced out the window. Another station, and dozens of people had lined up to board. Damn. She might end up with a seatmate after all. She considered tossing her bag onto the empty seat beside her, but someone would only ask her to move it. At least she would only have to suffer company until the transfer at Salt Lake. The overnight to Chicago from there wouldn't be full.

  The car swayed as the boarding passengers made their way back. An increase in noise swallowed the comforting hum of the cabin fans. Traveling companions muttered to one another, bags thumped into overhead compartments. A young mother shushed a fidgeting toddler. Grace stared out the window and willed them all to find other seats.

  "Is anyone sitting here?"

  The hesitant question was so quiet, Grace couldn't tell whether the voice was male or female. She turned to find a teenage girl, sixteen or seventeen, decked in full Goth glory. Black clothes, too much silver jewelry, blue hair. Great. The girl probably thought she'd found a kindred spirit. “Go for it,” Grace murmured, and returned her attention to the window.


  "Thanks.” The girl sat down, and Grace realized she hadn't put anything in the overhead. Curious, she glanced aside. The girl carried a single strap backpack, similar to the one Grace had abandoned a lifetime ago at the motel, and nothing more. She dug through the bag, produced a slim MP3 player, and plugged the headphone buds into her ear. Next from the bag came a battered notebook with a pen stuffed into the spiral coil. The girl lowered the folding table from the seat in front of her, tossed the notebook on the surface, and started fiddling with the player.

  Relieved the girl had something to keep her occupied, Grace leaned back and closed her eyes. Within minutes the train was in motion again. Making a mental note to pick up a pair of headphones and maybe a few DVDs for her laptop at the transfer station, Grace attempted to relax. Sleep flirted with her for a few moments, until the girl's voice drew her back.

  "Hey, can you watch my bag for a sec? I gotta pee."

  A strange urgency edged the girl's statement. “Sure,” Grace said. She opened her eyes, and saw one of the conductors at the opposite end of the car collecting tickets. The girl's gaze darted to him for an instant and dropped.

  "Thanks.” She eased out of the seat and made a beeline for the bathroom at the back of the car.

  Grace watched the conductor. At once, she realized the girl didn't have a ticket. Not smart. No way she'd stay unnoticed the whole trip, even if she managed to hide out in the bathroom until the conductor left the car. The ticket-puncher reached Grace, glanced at her and moved on. Maybe he hadn't seen the girl get up. Moments after he left the car, the girl returned and sat down with outward nonchalance. Her thoughts, however, were not nearly as calm as her appearance.

  Jesus what am I gonna do if they find me I can't go back please don't find me he'll kill me if he finds out I tried to run.

  The terror Grace sensed from the girl pierced her heart. She tried to think of something to say that wouldn't betray the knowledge she shouldn't have, but before she could speak, a shadow fell across their seats and the conductor grunted, “Need your ticket."