The Red Hunter

“I got here as fast as I could.”


She nodded, put a comforting hand on my arm. She looked at me, those eyes connecting with mine. She knew things about life and death that other people didn’t know; that knowledge had gathered somehow in the kind, crinkled corners of her gaze. There was a light there, a flat dark, too. I kept myself all wrapped up, held everything inside the shell of myself. But some people give off energy, something warm, positive. She was one of those. Her nametag read: Rose. “He should rest.”

“I won’t stay long.”

I pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

I was buzzing with a million questions. But he seemed far away, his hand limp in mine, the mask over his face. He was on the moon and I was on the earth looking up at him.

“He loved her,” said my father from the corner. “You know that.”

“Everybody loved her,” I said.

“No one more than he did,” he said. “I always knew, of course. I didn’t blame him.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we were all people,” he said. “Young once like you are now, full of bad ideas, mistakes, errors in judgment.”

“Did you rob those men?” I asked. “Did you take that money? When they came, did you know where it was?”

But, of course, he didn’t answer me because he wasn’t there. John Didion had taken his place; he was bleeding from the wound in his heart. Black blood was a river down his shirt; it dripped slowly into a pool between his feet. His face was blank, eyes looking off into whatever place it was beyond. He didn’t accuse or stare at me.

“Who hired you?” I asked him. A smarter person would have asked that question before I drove the knife deep into his heart. The Red Hunter isn’t known for her patience. But maybe the truth was I didn’t really want to know the answer.

John Didion gave nothing. Just stood there.

I sat with Paul for a while waiting for some flicker from him.

“I have questions, Uncle Paul,” I whispered. “And I have some things to tell you. I need you. Please.”

But there was nothing, just his labored breathing, not even the faintest squeeze of his fingers, and finally I left.

? ? ?

I WAS SO OUT OF it, so in my own head that I never heard them coming. Some street fighter I turned out to be.

I parked the truck in a lot near Nate Shelby’s loft and walked the distance back. I was watching the video screen in my head—Boz, Seth, the pictures on Seth’s board, the old house, the Beckhams’ place, the things Seth had said—all the pieces turning, jumbled, never coming together. It was right there, wasn’t it? I couldn’t or didn’t want to see how it all gelled.

The first blow came hard from behind, taking me down to my knees. There were two of them, masked, much larger than me. A foot to my back lay me flat on the concrete, chin scraping hard, head knocking. The next blow was a merciless kick to the ribs that left me breathless, a scream lodged somewhere deep in my throat, no air to push it out. All I saw were stars, two masked faces, white eyes, holes for mouths. Silent. Hands on me, arms pulled behind my back. I couldn’t even move, stunned, pain exploding white and hot inside. A blow to the stomach, and the hard black point of an elbow coming in fast, connecting to my jaw. And that was it. Black.

Hey! Hey! I heard as I disappeared. Get away from her. I called the police.

Next, the cool white of the lobby. A man leaning over me, a crazy pile of hair, familiar kind, worried eyes. Brown. Brown eyes, brown skin. Who was it?

“Little girl?” he said. “Wake up.”

The night doorman. Charlie. “I’m going to call the ambulance.”

“No,” I managed, pushing myself up in time to turn over and puke on the marble floor. It splattered there, ugly and rank.

“Okay,” he said, holding up his palms. “Okay. I’ll get the mop.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d been jumped, never saw it coming. Never got a blow in. I was just like any other girl in the city, vulnerable, a victim. Fuck me. I could taste blood, but all my teeth seemed to be where they belonged; that was good. Ribs bruised, not broken; there wasn’t enough pain. My ears were still ringing. It wasn’t a real beating. If it had been, I’d be in the back of an ambulance, bleeding on the inside. Those men were big; with the right kind of blows they could have easily killed me. Amateurs.

I patted my jacket. My wallet was still there on the inside pocket. It wasn’t a random mugging.

The night doorman came back with a bucket and a mop.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to stand. “I’ll clean it.”

“Just sit,” he said. “You know how many people have puked in this lobby?”

I looked around at the white leather furniture, the black-veined marble floor, the white carpet, the lacquer cubes that served as coffee tables. “One?”

“That’s right,” he said with a nod. “You’re the first.”

I found myself smiling a little, painfully.

“Your face,” he said. “You’re going to need some ice.” I caught my reflection in the glass that looked out onto the courtyard. Even in the dark reflection there I could see the purple swelling. Perfect.

I watched helpless, weak, and wobbly as he mopped until all evidence was removed. The floor gleamed.

“They dug around in your pockets. Get your wallet?”

I shook my head. I already knew what they were looking for. I’d figured that much out. I reached into my jeans and, sure enough, the key was gone. I felt a hard pulse of anger, more than that: fear.

He held out a hand to me.

“How are the cats?” I said.

He smiled. “I just checked on them an hour ago.”

“I might have to leave again,” I said.

I dropped my hand in his, used it to pull myself up. The warmth of him, the softness, it surprised me. I never touched anyone like that except for Paul or Mike. All the touching I did—striking, punching, throwing, knee, elbow, fist, worse. I adjusted the girls’ bodies, my students. Not much caressing, hand holding.

“Let me know,” he said.

How old was he? I couldn’t tell. Forty, fifty? Older? His white teeth gleamed; eyes sparkled with something. Mischief? No. A kind of wisdom with a sense of humor about it. “Sure you don’t want the police? A doctor?”

I shook my head. He followed me to the elevator, pressed the button. My legs felt weak beneath me; my stomach still roiling. I hadn’t even had time to think about who it was. The same people who tossed Paul’s apartment? Someone else? Only a couple of people knew about that key, all of them people I trusted completely.

“Never trust anyone,” my father said helpfully inside the elevator. Charlie rode up with me. “People are motivated by their own self-interest only. Only.”

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