Chapter 1
Red and gold neon lights gleamed off puddles left behind in the road by rain showers that had passed through Boston on and off all day long. But it was night now, and the rain had passed. A chill wind swept in off the ocean and weaved its way through the streets, even far away from the harbor. Jack Dwyer could taste the tang of salt on the air, the influence of the sea reaching deep into the city to touch him where he walked side by side with Bill Cantwell on a narrow Chinatown street.
Jack shivered and zipped his scuffed and battered black leather coat. His burly companion had only a light cotton jacket but did not seem to be bothered by the chilly night at all. Not that Jack was surprised. Bill was far more than he seemed. The big, bearded man was the bartender at Bridget's Irish Rose Pub, which twenty-year-old Jack and his older sister, Courtney, owned and managed. Bill was also Courtney's boyfriend.
But he wasn't human.
A delivery truck was parked halfway on the sidewalk up ahead, and they had to walk out into the street to go around it. Jack had no idea what was being delivered to a Chinese corner grocery store at ten o'clock on a Wednesday night, but he figured it was useless trying to figure it out. Though the entire neighborhood was only a few short blocks, walking through Chinatown was a journey through another world.
It was bordered by other neighborhoods, by towers that housed some of the best medical research, treatment, and education facilities in the world, but also by what little remained of the sex trade in what had once been Boston's Combat Zone. In truth, it hardly warranted being called a town at all, but Chinatown was a kind of island in the midst of the city, isolated without walls.
Neon signs blazed in the elegant symbols that made up the Chinese language. Jack knew enough from previous visits that most of the people who lived in this tiny community kept all their business to themselves. They owned the shops and bars and restaurants, and it was a matter of pride that they gave nearly all of their trade to Chinese-owned businesses within a three-block radius.
Chinatown was as insular as they could manage, and yet their economy was not as self-supporting as they might wish. The tailors and cobblers, many of the restaurants and bars, even some of the markets and other businesses, relied not merely upon neighborhood trade, but clientele from beyond Chinatown. And all day long small buses shuttled people from these streets to jobs at Chinese restaurants all over the greater Boston area. The reality was that despite appearances-and many wishes -- to the contrary, Chinatown was a part of the city.
Jack knew that. But it did not change the way he felt as he walked beside Bill along that foreign street. There was something wonderfully exotic about the place, a kind of electric current that charged the air with mystery. Young Chinese men and women cruised slowly by in their cars, engines growling low and dangerous. A middle-aged man and a white-haired old woman exchanged pleasantries on a corner, angry voices shouted inside a bar, all in a clipped language that seemed more sounds than words, just as when written it seemed more symbols than letters.
Bars and restaurants lined the street, interrupted by a Laundromat, a video store, and a dozen other small businesses, some of which Jack could only guess at because most of the signs were painted in Chinese characters. Most, but not all. On one of those signs amidst the words he could not read was a single word in English: Lotus. Even as he and Bill drew closer to the unremarkable brick front of the building, the door opened and a Caucasian man emerged. He was short, yet powerfully built, and his hair was cut to an inch of stubble. Dark glasses wrapped around his eyes, though it was long after dark.
Strange music and unfamiliar odors poured out the door in the moments before it clicked shut again behind the man. He glanced up once at Jack and Bill, nostrils flaring, and then he turned his back to them and started off in the opposite direction. Bill paused a moment outside the door of the Lotus, as though waiting for the other man to put some more distance between them. Then he glanced at Jack.
"Remember what I said."
Jack nodded once, more than happy to keep quiet and follow his friend's lead. Bill knew this place. He didn't. That was reason enough. Bill nodded in return, then rapped hard on the thick wooden door of the Lotus Club. A moment later there was a click and the door pushed in several inches. Jack reached for it, but Bill shot him a cold look and he pulled back just as it swung open.
Within there stood an Asian man so large he dwarfed even Bill. His head was shaved bald, and the image of a tiger was tattooed on the left side of his skull. Beyond him was a stairwell that led down into the cellar club, and it was from there that the odd music thumped. Multicolored lights strobed the walls.
The huge doorman narrowed his gaze and glanced from Bill to Jack and back again.
"Good evening, Lao. I'm afraid we're a few minutes late," Bill said.
Lao did not take his eyes off Bill again, but he sniffed at the air and his upper lip curled back in distaste. His teeth looked too long, too sharp, and even though Jack had expected that, still he shuddered at the sight.
"You brought a new face, Guillaume," the creature known as Lao intoned. "Winter's not going to like that."
"Winter owes me, Lao," Bill replied. "Are you going to turn me away from the Lotus? With all the other threats to our kind, would you make me an enemy?"
Lao lifted his chin and took a long, audible breath. Jack watched the two huge men-who-were-not-men, and he felt the rhythm of the music below pounding into his chest, and he inhaled the rich aromas of mint and cinnamon and coffee and so many other things from below. With eyes narrowed, Lao studied him again.
"What is your name?" the doorman demanded.
If he speaks to you, answer immediately and truthfully, Bill had said. If you lie or you become afraid, he'll smell it on you.
"Jack Dwyer."
When Lao raised his eyebrows in surprise, the tiger at his temple seemed to crouch as if it were about to strike. A sound came from his chest; a kind of rumble, either of contemplation or anger, Jack could not determine which. Then Lao leaned forward, practically bending over, to stare at him eye to eye.
"You don't look like much, boy," the doorman grunted.
Jack said nothing. He steeled himself, gazed back defiantly, and simply waited.
"You know there are those downstairs who'd like to kill you just to prove you're not as dangerous as the whispers say you are."
This time Jack could not help a tiny flinch, not of fear but of surprise. He had no doubt, any time he was within any real proximity to Prowlers, that they would be happy to kill him. Most of them were savage. So that information was hardly news to him. But the idea that he was considered dangerous, that they whispered about him...that he had become some kind of bogeyman to these monsters who lurked in the shadows of the night...
Jack found that he liked that. He liked it a lot.
But he did not allow that pleasure to show, did not crack the tiniest smile.
"He wants peace, Lao. Live and let live. Same as you do," Bill explained. "Nobody who comes to the Lotus has anything to fear from Jack or from me. Come on, old friend. We're not here to start any trouble."
A car passed by with pop music turned up loud, somehow out of place here. A short way up the street a girl stepped out from the darkness of a recessed doorway and strode toward the car as it pulled to a stop. She wore a white shirt tied at the waist to bare her belly, and a plaid skirt that would have looked like a school uniform if it had not been so short. She bent to speak softly to the man in the car and then walked around to climb into the passenger's side.
The distraction caught Jack's attention for mere seconds. When he glanced back at Lao, he realized that both the doorman and Bill were staring at him.
"Is he brave or stupid?" Lao asked.
Bill chuckled softly. "A little of both sometimes."
Jack frowned, not liking this turn in the conversation.
"You turned your back on me, boy. I might have had your life just now," Lao told him.
"Not if you wanted to survive the night," Jack replied curtly, remembering too late Bill's admonition to keep silent.
But Lao only smiled and nodded and stepped aside. "Go in, Guillaume. Remember this, though. If there is a mess, you will be the one to clean it up."
"Agreed."
With that, Bill led Jack farther inside. The door closed behind them and Lao locked it with a metallic clank. The music grew louder the moment they began to descend the stairs, and as they entered the club the swirl of colored light seemed to mute and diffuse everything, so that at first Jack could not see well at all. Slowly his eyes began to adjust.
As they moved through the establishment Jack found himself disappointed. Down the center of the club was a long oval bar that appeared to be constructed entirely of stainless steel. On one side was a small dance floor, upon which several dozen gyrated slowly to techno-punk -- or whatever the music was that pumped from the speakers. On the other side, tables and booths where clubgoers sat and drank, perhaps ate something off the traditional Chinese menu.
Jack had expected something else entirely. He had read stories and heard things about some of the wilder clubs in Manhattan, and even a few illegal after-hours things in Boston, where people played bondage games, hurt each other for pleasure, or sat and watched perverse floor shows. He had no idea what he had thought the Lotus would be like, but this was not it.
The clientele was mostly, but not exclusively, Asian. And though there was a kind of grinding, insinuating flavor to the place, as Bill led him around tables and past the bar Jack at first thought that there was nothing really extraordinary about it.
Then his eyes adjusted further and the music seemed to grow louder and the lights blurred into one red haze glittering off the eyes of the clientele in the Lotus Club. As he passed, one by one they sniffed the air and turned to gaze at him. Some of them reacted physically, crouching just slightly as though on guard. Jack felt the hairs on the back of his head prickle, and his breathing slowed. He could practically feel all their eyes on him, all those predators.
And he the prey.
Then he remembered what Lao had said, and he knew that the roles of predator and prey could easily be reversed, and he felt better. Most of the customers in the Lotus were not even people, but Prowlers, members of an ancient race of shape-shifting monsters who could look human, but who would never be human. Their numbers were comparatively few now, and the great packs of olden times had dissipated far and wide, hunting the fringes of human society, many Prowlers hunting alone.
But Bill was proof that there were also those who had given up the old ways, whose only interest was surviving the spread of humanity, living peacefully within that society as best they could. Even for those, however, there was an urge to gather. Perhaps there was no pack for them now, not really, but they felt a desire to draw together, to be among their own for a time.
The Lotus Club was the place where they could do precisely that. Jack knew from his friendship with Bill that there were Prowlers who were not savage killers, but he had never imagined there could be so many of them existing beneath the notice of their human counterparts. So many of the Prowlers in the club were Asian that he had to wonder if the Lotus was the only such place in Boston. And what of the other cities in America...and around the world? The implications of that line of thought were staggering to him.
Bill led the way to a booth in the rear corner of the club, far from the bar and partially shielded from the swirling lights of the dance floor. A thin black man with a white streak in his hair glanced up at them from the booth as they approached. He clutched a tumbler of whiskey and ice in one hand and rapped the table in time with the music with the other. He wore a dark silk shirt, without any visible adornment on his clothes or body. And yet there was something about him, the way the bartender and waiters looked his way, and the fact that there was no one seated at the adjacent tables, that spoke volumes about the man's power.
At the edge of the booth Bill paused, and Jack followed his lead. They stood there as the thin man studied them, a slim smile on his face.
"Hello, Guillaume."
"Winter," Bill replied.
The Prowler's dark gaze swung toward Jack. "Why do I think you're Jack Dwyer?"
You already know I am, Jack wanted to say. He could sense it. Someone had told Winter he was there, or the man had seen him before somehow, but it was not a guess. Winter knew who he was. But this time Jack remembered Bill's admonition and kept silent.
"Sit," Winter told them. Though he gave them an enigmatic smile, the word was not an invitation. The skin at the edges of the man's eyes crinkled slightly with that smile. Winter sat back in the booth, leather sighing as he moved, and he regarded them.
"Thank you for coming," Bill said. "I would not have asked you to look into this if I knew of any other way. It's been nearly two months since Dallas died, and I've tapped all my sources in the underground trying to track Olivia down. She just disappeared, Winter. I couldn't turn to anyone else."
Bill's tone was almost reverent. Jack had never heard him speak that way to anyone before. Though Bill had told Lao that Winter owed him, clearly it seemed he was not about to remind the other Prowler of that debt.
Winter barely acknowledged Bill's words. Instead he focused on Jack, who forced himself not to squirm under the intensity of that scrutiny.
"You really killed Tanzer?"
Tanzer. The leader of a vicious pack that had ranged up and down the eastern seaboard slaughtering humans with abandon. It had been many months ago now, but the memory was still fresh.
Jack nodded. "Not alone, but yeah, I killed him."
"And you took out the sanctuary up in Vermont?"
Again Jack inclined his head, but more slowly this time, less willing to lay claim to that particular feat.
Winter laughed softly. "I wonder how long your luck is going to hold out, Jack. Jack the Giant-Killer."
The dark-skinned man's eyes were almost mesmerizing. Much as he wanted to tear his gaze away, though, Jack would not. A dozen retorts came to mind, but he kept his teeth clamped down on all of them and simply stared back at him expectantly.
At last Winter looked away, turned his focus on Bill.
"Guillaume, I owe you my life," Winter said kindly, almost sadly. "And when I had an opportunity to save your sister's, I failed in that. No matter how far I wander or how many people whisper about me, I will never forget that. You have never called upon me before because you did not want to."
Bill began to protest, but Winter waved his words away.
"I understand. Truly, I do. I walk a line between this underground world and the surviving packs, and yet somehow I stay alive. Somehow." He smiled, and there were a thousand secrets in the lines of his face. "But you should know that you could call upon me forever and my debt would not be paid. Claudia's death is a dark cloud upon my heart, just as it is upon yours."
Winter paused, glanced at Jack, and then looked to Bill again.
"When her mother died and she realized her father was not ever going to behave toward her the way a father should, Olivia stayed for quite some time with your mother's pack in Quebec. In April of last year she simply left without a word. Weeks later she turned up in New York. She made friends in the underground quickly enough, and word from the wild there is that she wanted to make it in the music business. She played clubs, met all the right people, joined that scene.
"Six months ago she disappeared. Whispers in the wild say something went bad with the music thing, but I think that's just a cover."
Bill stared at Winter as though at a loss for words.
Jack wasn't. "Why?" he asked.
Winter shot him a questioning glance.
"I mean, why do you think that?"
The thin Prowler tapped his fingers in time with the music, and when he spoke again, it was to both of them.
"Jasmine," Winter said calmly.
"Shit," Jack whispered. Jasmine had been Tanzer's mate, one of the few survivors from the pack he and his friends had destroyed. He knew that she had had a vendetta against them ever since.
"Jasmine has gathered a new pack in Manhattan," Winter continued. "She hired Dallas to kill both of you and your loved ones. Dallas was concerned for Olivia. Jasmine told him she might be able to help him locate the girl. Maybe that was just blowing smoke, hoping to guarantee his allegiance. But what if it wasn't?"
"Then Jasmine knows where she is," Jack replied. "No disrespect intended, but we knew that already. It isn't like Jasmine's just going to tell us."
At his side Bill shuddered. Jack glanced at his friend and saw that the big man had covered his face with his hands. He ran his fingers through his beard and then turned to Jack.
"You're missing the point. Just like I missed the point. What Winter's saying is that he thinks Jasmine has Olivia. Took her on purpose, an insurance against me."
Winter nodded slowly, thoughtfully, fingers still tapping rhythm.
"Either that," he said, "or Jasmine already killed her."
The kitchen at Bridget's Irish Rose Pub closed at ten o'clock, but half an hour later there were still a few tables at which patrons lingered over their meals or simply laughed together and shared drinks, not wanting the night to end. The staff, on the other hand, couldn't wait. They had long since begun to wipe down tables and roll utensils inside clean napkins for the next day, careful all the while to avoid making the remaining customers feel rushed.
Molly Hatcher used a clean rag to polish the brass railings around a corner booth and watched as her friend Kiera Dunphy approached a fortyish couple to ask -- for what had to be at least the third time -- if there was anything else she could get them. Molly smiled and shook her head. Kiera had a new boyfriend, and it was obvious she wanted to get home to him, but if Courtney saw her hovering around customers like that, Kiera was liable to get an earful.
The bar was still buzzing, though not nearly as packed as it would have been on the weekend, or in midsummer. Nobody had gone so far as to turn the lights up in the restaurant, but by eleven, if any of the tables were still occupied, Courtney would do just that. As it was, the music on the sound system -- usually Enya or the Chieftains, something along those lines -- had been traded in for an ancient recording by the Allman Brothers Band.
Molly moved to another booth and sprayed the railing that separated it from the next. She polished it enough that she could see a gleaming, twisted fun-house reflection of herself. A long streak, probably from some child's greasy fingers, remained, and she rubbed at it.
"Don't get all crazy, Hatcher," came a familiar voice.
With a soft laugh she turned to find Courtney Dwyer eyeing her curiously. Along with her brother, Jack, Courtney had owned and managed the pub since their mother's death ten years before, and yet despite the stress she lived with day to day, it never seemed to show on her face. Though Courtney was a decade older than she was, Molly thought she would still have looked twenty if not for the lion's-head cane she relied upon to get around.
"Hey, it's your place," Molly said. "I just work here."
"And live here," Courtney corrected. "And always give two hundred percent."
Molly shrugged, sheepish. Though she and the Dwyers had a great relationship -- they were closer to her than any blood relations she had -- it was unusual for them to dish out straight compliments without a little sarcasm or teasing to go along with them.
Courtney smiled, crinkles forming at the corners of her eyes and on her nose, where a light spray of freckles lent to the illusion of youth.
"The rest of the brass can wait. I need a minute," she said. Then she turned and started off toward the back of the restaurant.
What's this all about? Molly thought. But she picked up her rag and the polish she had been using, and followed. Courtney led the way to a curved booth in the rear corner where the head hostess, Wendy Bartlett, sipped from a glass of soda. As they reached the table, Tim Dunphy pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen, a dishrag in his hands. He wiped them dry as he approached.
"Hey, boss," he said, running a hand over the stubble on his shaved head. "You wanted to see me?"
Courtney smiled. "Have a seat, Tim. You too, Molly."
They did as they were asked. Molly glanced around the table and saw from the expression on their faces that Wendy and Tim seemed to be just as much in the dark as she was. Courtney was the last to sit, sliding in beside Tim and resting her cane against the table's edge so the metallic eyes of the lion seemed to glare hungrily at them.
Molly tried not to look at it.
There was a moment's pause as Courtney took a breath. Molly let her gaze wander to the colorful tattoos on Tim's arms before she glanced back up at her friend and employer.
"I'm just going to get to it," Courtney announced. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. "No happy preamble, no pep talk about how great all of you are at your jobs and how much Jack and I appreciate the effort you put in here. Which we do. I should have done this one-on-one, but to be honest with you, I don't have a lot of time for protocol these days. So here's the thing...."
Courtney hesitated a second, and Tim jumped right in.
"There some kinda problem?" he asked, eyes narrowed, South Boston accent weighted with concern.
With a mischievous smile, Courtney nodded. "Oh, yeah, Tim. You're all fired. What with you having the kitchen under your tyrannical rule, and Molly and Wendy pretty much running the place without Jack and I having to worry about it, I figured the fastest way to bring this place into bankruptcy was to get rid of you guys. And you know, it's always fun to fire someone who lives under the same roof."
Courtney glanced at Molly and rolled her eyes.
"You got a wicked sarcastic side, Dwyer," Tim drawled.
The boss brightened. "Don't I?"
"So you were telling us how wonderful we are," Molly prodded. "Please continue."
At that, Courtney sat back in the booth as if a great burden had been lifted from her. She settled in comfortably and took them all in with a glance.
"It's no secret that Jack and I have been letting some of the day-to-day stuff fall to others. After everything that's happened, well...other things take up our attention sometimes. Bill manages the bar, and he's got a couple of responsible guys working with him. But with us not spending every single waking hour on the floor of the restaurant these days, we've decided to promote Molly to manager."
Molly blinked and stared at her, mouth open in surprise. Neither Courtney nor Jack had breathed a word about this to her, and repercussions swirled in her mind. She had been working as a waitress at Bridget's for six months. Not even. There would undoubtedly be people who thought she did not deserve the promotion, who wondered if she had gotten it by merit or simply because she was so friendly with the owners. Beyond that, there was her own self-doubt. Do I even have the knowledge and the confidence to manage this place?
"Hey! Way to go, Hatcher," Tim said. He leaned forward and patted her hand with a conspiratorial wink. "I guess I'll have to watch the flirting now, huh? Don't want to get in trouble."
Courtney's expression was grave. "As you all know, it's not often you'll find a time when both Jack and I are off the premises, but it does happen. As we get involved in other things it's also possible that there may be times when neither Molly nor Bill is here. Beyond that, it'd just be nice to know that when we're not on the clock, there are people riding herd on those shifts who can answer questions and make decisions without us. That in mind, I'd like to offer both of you, Tim and Wendy, positions as assistant managers. Not that you haven't been pretty much doing that job all along, but we thought it would carry more weight if it was official."
Tim seemed genuinely stunned. Molly knew him well enough that she understood. He was a Southie boy, born and bred, a tough Irish guy from a neighborhood that churned them out by the dozens. There was more to Tim than that, evidenced by the way the kitchen staff looked up to him, but he had never graduated from high school and thought of himself, quite simply, as a cook. It was nice to see the light in his eyes when it really sank in what Courtney was asking.
"No argument here, boss," he said. "I appreciate it."
Wendy was not so quick to respond. A line of concern had appeared on her forehead. With her new short haircut she looked severe, almost angry. Then she smiled, her face softening.
"Thanks, Courtney. It's nice to be asked. I just...I don't want to be difficult, but what does that mean exactly? You know, with pay and hours and all that?"
Courtney laughed. "Straight up? It means more hours on some shifts. If, by rare chance, none of us is on duty, I'd expect you to stay until closing. Tim already has a key and all the security system info. I'll get one for you, Wendy, but this isn't going to happen very often. On the other hand, when you're on duty, like I said, I'd expect you to handle issues that arise, particularly between employees, disputes with customers, urgent orders that need to be filled. Whatever it might be.
"There would be more money, but not nearly as much as I wish I could give you," she finished. Then she leaned forward and folded her hands on the table, studying Wendy. "What do you think?"
Wendy took a breath, let it out, and then shrugged, a sweet sort of smile on her face. "I'm in. And thanks."
Abruptly, almost as though the business at hand had been forgotten the moment Wendy said yes, Courtney grabbed her cane and stood up. Then she turned to face them again.
"It's a relief to know that we can count on you. I'll talk to you all individually tomorrow, work out the details on your pay increases. I'm going to post an announcement on the bulletin board tomorrow morning, but consider the promotions effective immediately."
Though she claimed to be relieved, all the lightness and good humor went out of Courtney then.
"Molly," she said. "Come upstairs with me. I want to go over some things with you."
With that, she turned and hobbled away on her cane, and Molly had a moment to think how much older Courtney looked when she couldn't see the light in the other woman's eyes. When all she saw was her handicap. Molly congratulated Tim and Wendy, then slid from the booth and started across the restaurant after Courtney. Together they went up the staircase that led to the apartment above the pub. As Courtney worked the key in the lock Molly nudged her.
"You could have warned me."
A flicker of a smile whispered across Courtney's face. "What would have been the fun of that?"
Then the key clicked in the lock and Courtney pushed it open. It was dark inside -- Jack was still out with Bill -- and the older woman turned the lights on while Molly locked the door behind them. Both of them stood very still a moment, listening to the sounds of the apartment, wary from painful experience of anything that might be out of place. After a moment they let out a collective breath, and Courtney led the way into her bedroom.
If not for the bed, the room would have passed for an office. Courtney had always lived simply, but in the months since Molly moved in with the Dwyers, what little personal flair had gone into decorating the small space had been overrun by bulletin boards tacked with newspaper articles and computer printouts. When there was no more room there, Courtney had begun tacking them to the bare walls.
The computer was on.
"What is it?" Molly asked as the tiny twist of unease that had been woken in her downstairs now grew into a dark, dreadful weight in her gut.
Courtney rested her cane against the wall and slid into the desk chair. She stared at the computer screen and hesitated a moment. Then she turned to face Molly again.
"Are we serious about this?"
"About what?"
"See, if we were serious, you wouldn't even ask me that," Courtney replied sharply.
Molly sighed. "All right. I'm sorry. Yes, we're serious. I just...it isn't exactly pleasant."
"No. No, it isn't." Courtney slid the computer's mouse across a blue pad and then clicked it, and a moment later the printer hummed to life on the desk beside the monitor. She stood up and went to the nearest bulletin board, limping badly without the cane. With her weight against the desk, she pointed to an article pinned to the board.
"Doug and Arlene Rausch. On the way back from eloping in Niagara Falls. Both in their fifties, both on their second marriage, the elopement wasn't a secret from anyone. They have grown children who thought it was sweet, romantic, all that sappy crap. But Doug and Arlene never got home. Last they were seen was in a bookstore just off Route Eighty-seven, a couple of hours south of the falls, where Doug used his credit card."
Molly frowned. "That could be anything."
"True." Courtney pointed to another piece of paper. "Jared Wilkes, fifteen-year-old runaway, found in the woods at a rest stop on Route Eighty-seven. All torn up. You don't need the details, but they'd sound familiar."
"All right," Molly said. "We know the signs. It was probably a Prowler, but sad to say, one killing doesn't give us enough to go on. It could be a drifter or an isolated incident. No way to track the monster just on that."
When Courtney smiled, Molly shivered. The older woman used the wall to steady herself and then indicated a magazine article that looked to have been pulled from Time or Newsweek. There were several pages taped to the wall. The piece was about the safety record of the long-distance trucking industry.
"What am I missing?" Molly asked.
"Truckers fall asleep at the wheel enough to make people concerned, but not as often as the media wants us to think. Still, it happens. They crash, people die, shipments are destroyed. But there's a thirty-mile stretch of Route Eighty-seven in upstate New York that completely throws off the statistical curve. Incidences of trucking accidents are more than double the national average. But here's the kicker. Percentage of fatalities resulting from those accidents? Eighty-seven. Eighty-seven percent, Molly. Many of the bodies burned or crushed beyond recognition. What are the chances of that?"
The dread had spread all through Molly now. Images of mauled bodies and trucks ablaze with fire flashed through her mind.
Courtney sat back at the computer and pulled the new article out of the printer. She handed it to Molly.
"Chester Aaron Douglas. Independent trucker. Apparently crashed his rig on a hard curve south of Albany. Dumped it in a ditch and the engine caught fire. Two bodies found inside, the authorities assume one of them was a hitchhiker. But Douglas's ex insists he would never have picked up a hitchhiker. And guess what else? His body was thrown from the cab during the crash. He didn't burn. His body was torn up, mauled, mutilated. New York State investigators believe it was bears that got to the body after the crash."
Molly stared at the piece of paper in her hand, but the words all blurred. A prickle of heat scurried like spiders' legs across the back of her neck.
"I guess Jack and I are going to New York."
Text copyright © 2002 by Christopher Golden
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
