River never meant to stab him. He’d asked the bastard just to walk out.
But the stupid bull had plowed into him so quickly and with such impetus and venom that the knife …
It sank right into him. Right into his fat belly.
The man’s eyes—stunned and glazing—stared up into River’s with horror.
River was certain that he stared back at the man with equal dismay.
What have I done? he thought.
And he watched the man fall to the ground, the knife hilt protruding from his gut.
A sensation of panic filled him—Run! he told himself.
Then logic swept through his mind. He’d stabbed the man in self-defense. All he had to do was tell the authorities the truth.
No. Not where they were. Tio Amato, according to Beluga, owned a number of policemen. He didn’t want to call the police or be caught by them. Not here. Not in Rio. He needed to get the hell out. He slid the knife free from the man’s gut—it would have his prints on it now—and slid it into his boot, wincing at the hot slick feel of the blood on the blade. Then he turned and calmly walked out, untying Convict as he did so. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Time to take a long walk home, I think. Through the forest.”
He looked up as he heard a sound.
Someone else was heading toward the restrooms.
Another man in a suit, this one blue with a matching blue fedora.
Did he see me? River wondered. He was still at a distance.
He might be another strongman for Tio Amato.
“Hey, excuse me!”
The man was calling out to him. With Convict’s leash in his hand, River skirted around the restroom wall to the rear of the facility. He was lucky—he was facing one of the first richly forested regions that edged the city. He quickly slipped into the trees with the dog. In a matter of minutes, the growth was so dense that he could barely see himself.
His heart was pounding as he struggled through the vegetation.
He didn’t even know if the bleeding man had been dead or not.
If he wasn’t dead, he soon would be, the way the blood had been seeping from him.
River listened intently as he quickly put distance between himself and the restrooms. No sirens; no sounds of an ambulance or police.
Finally, he paused. He had to get across the road to walk the distance to the hostel. If no one was coming for him—at least not now—he needed a place to wash the blood from him.
He stopped in the forest, wiping the knife blade clean with a bandanna from his backpack. When he was certain he’d wiped away every possible fingerprint, he discarded the knife in a thick batch of prickly bushes.
His head was thudding.
He hated the fact that he might have killed.
For a moment he paused, clasping his hands to his ears and falling to his knees on the earth. He could hear it again, feel it again. The thunder in the earth when a bomb exploded.
The screams of men as they were hit by the shrapnel … as their limbs exploded along with the earth.
This time, the vision, the daydream—whatever it was—seemed to stay with him a long time. Kill or be killed.
He hadn’t caused the fight; hadn’t brought it on.
He’d begged the ass to leave him alone. The idiot had killed himself, rushing River—and meaning to kill.
The ground seemed to steady beneath him. The acrid scent of powder and ash left the air. He staggered back to his feet. Convict stood by him, licking his hand tentatively. He patted the dog’s head reassuringly. “I’m okay, Convict. I’m okay.”
Eventually, he made his way back to Beluga’s.
To his surprise, Beluga was still outside.
He stopped a good distance away. He’d thought that he’d tell Beluga what had happened. Now, he wasn’t sure.
Quickly, River tore off his shirt, stained with flecks of blood. He wiped his hands on it before pulling a clean shirt from his bag and throwing it on.
He kept the bloody shirt bunched tight in one hand as he approached his friend.
Say nothing. Say nothing.
“So, you didn’t meet up with your lady friend?” Beluga asked.
River’s heart sank. “And you didn’t get off your butt and do anything else?” he responded, casually moving the hand that held the shirt behind his back.
“Indeed. I got up. I checked in on some people, helped Maria with the dishes.”
“You did dishes?”
“Okay, so—no,” Beluga admitted. “I brought them to the sink. And don’t look at me like that. I work, I help with the laundry. Maria does the dishes because when she does them, they actually come out clean. Now, you. What of your great romance?”
“I’m trying to have a grand, sweeping, beautiful romance,” River said. “It’s not all that easy, you know?”
“Ah, love is never easy. But it’s not going so well?” Beluga asked, frowning.
“No, not brilliantly, not at this moment. But it’s going—it will just take time.”
He was always open and easy—and honest—with Beluga. Tonight felt … wrong. He’d never lied to the man. But he couldn’t tell him what had happened.
“I can still have a bed?” he asked.
“Yes. You can have the back room in my house all to yourself tonight.”
River thanked him.
“Let Convict stay with me for a bit. He can enjoy the night air. And, you know, the longer he’s out here, the less you have to worry about him using the bathroom, eh?” Beluga asked.
River forced a smile. “Convict is a good boy. He knows that his bathroom is outside.”
“He is a good boy. He’s a good dog.” Beluga hesitated. “He’s a good companion. I’m glad that you brought him.”
“I’m sure he’s glad too,” River said, watching the way the dog sat at Beluga’s side—and the way Beluga’s giant hand fell gently on Convict’s head.
“You look tired. Go. Go in.”
“Thank you, Beluga. Good night.”
Once inside he dropped his pack on his bunk and headed straight for the shared bathroom. Luckily, it was empty.
He washed his hands studiously. The blood seemed to be gone—but he kept washing. He checked his leg and his pants where the knife had been.
The blood was gone.
But he could still feel it.
It had been a long day. Emotionally searing. Funny, he could walk forever—hell, he could run forever—fetch, carry, tote, and haul, and not feel so tired.
He moved his pack and fell down on his bunk. For a while, sleep eluded him.
And then the dream came again. The awful sound of the explosions that seemed to ricochet in his skull. The stink of burning powder.
And burning flesh.
The screams of dying and injured men.
He fought to escape. To escape the dirt and the powder and the death …
The dream itself, perhaps.
But he didn’t wake. He remained in the horrible mist caused by the explosion and he saw men—men everywhere. Armed and ready and hunting and then …
She walked into view. Light seemed to surround her. To break the mist. But the men saw her too. And then turned, as if they were hunting her … stalking her.
His men? The enemy? He couldn’t see.
He shouted her name; he could hear himself, but even her name sounded strange in his ears, as if he were saying it wrong.
They were everywhere—men. The enemy. He had to fight them off—he had to reach her.