Grizzly Season. S W LaudenЧитать онлайн книгу.
The two men in the van were counting on it.
They had almost reached the western end of the strip when they saw her: tall and thin with greasy brown hair that shifted and swung as she scratched at her arm. She walked fast, like there was somewhere to be, but they all knew she was just killing time—burning away the hours while she waited for dealers to come out of their apartments in the morning, keeping herself awake until she could find somewhere safe to sleep when the sun came up. She didn’t seem surprised when the van pulled alongside her and the passenger window came down.
“You cold?”
The girl kept walking. The van kept pace.
“Can we give you a ride? We have party favors.”
A hand emerged through the window, shaking a small baggie.
“I’m not working. Try the parking lot behind the library.”
“Slow down, honey. We aren’t looking for a date. Just want to help a few of you street kids out.”
She eased her pace a little, considering their offer. Adults always told her to avoid getting into cars with strangers. They also warned her never to get strung out on drugs. But here she was, twenty-one years old, weighing the options between getting well and getting killed. The same decision she was forced to make daily.
“You two aren’t cops, are you?”
The passenger laughed. The driver didn’t. The girl was somewhere in between.
“Axe murderers?”
“Stop being silly and get in. It’s cold out tonight.”
She opened the side door, leaning in to take a look. The warm blast of heated air felt good against her face. It almost made her forget about her aching muscles and itchy skin, never mind the desperate hunger that coursed through her veins.
There was nobody else in the van that she could see—just a couple of bags of chips on the back seat, and a six-pack of beer.
“Got anything stronger than that?”
“Start by smoking this.”
She climbed in and slammed the door shut, taking the small pipe and lighter in her hand as she sat.
“What is it?”
“A little relief.”
She brought the pipe up to her lips and let the flame dance across the top. The driver turned the blinker on and merged across two lanes. It would be a shame to get pulled over now that they’d found the girl they’d been searching for.
The passenger turned around to watch her take a deep pull from the pipe. She wouldn’t be awake much longer.
“What’s your name?”
She knew to lie, but couldn’t. Her vision began to narrow and pulse.
“Mary.”
“Good night, Mary.”
Chapter One
The kid in the blue cap stood in the alley in Virgil Heights. His older brother, Manny, was right beside him. They both brought their guns up in slow-motion. Greg Salem reached for his weapon, but came up empty handed. The shots rang out, reverberating off the brick walls all around them. Greg tried to duck for cover, but there was nowhere to hide. Two bullets struck his chest. The impact sent him backward onto the pavement. He could hear the brothers laughing as they fired again…and again…
“Wake up, bro!”
Marco shook Greg by both shoulders. His stringy blond hair brushed across Greg’s terror-stricken face. Greg’s fingers dug into the twisted sheets, his teeth gnashing. The murky depths of his rattled mind kept pulling him back under. He clung to the terror and inched himself upward, afraid he might drown if he screamed.
His eyes shot open. Marco was staring down at him.
“You’re kinda freaking me out, bro.”
Greg’s pounding heart brought the real world into sharp focus. He heard birds chirping in the trees outside of the cabin now. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen. It was starting to seem like everything might be all right.
Marco stood up and went for the door.
“Happy birthday, old man. Breakfast will be ready pronto.”
Greg sat up and rubbed the wetness from around his eyes. It could have been sweat, or it could have been tears. It was always hard to tell on mornings like these.
He jumped out of bed like somebody fleeing the scene of a crime. He and Marco weren’t anywhere near the ocean, but Greg always felt better when he wore board shorts. He slipped them on and went into the bathroom.
Greg checked himself in the mirror, running a hand over his fresh buzz cut. His hair was still more blond than gray, but not by much. He massaged his sunburned scalp and studied the bags under his eyes. The tattoos on his arms peeked out from under the sleeves of his T-shirt as he stretched and twisted. He splashed a handful of cold water onto his face and headed for the living room. It had only been a few minutes, but so far his fortieth birthday wasn’t agreeing with him.
Flames danced in the fireplace as Greg took a seat at the table. Marco set a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon down in front of him. He left a syrupy thumbprint behind on the edge of the plate. Marco didn’t seem to notice, but Greg definitely did. It might have killed his appetite if he’d had one to start with.
“Thanks. Did you make coffee?”
“Cool your jets, bro. I’m on it.”
Marco went back to the stove to deal with the boiling water. He’d become a pretty good cook since they started living off the grid in the Angeles National Forest. It gave him something to do with all the manic energy he had after getting sober. His wiry, shirtless body darting around the kitchen was a permanent fixture in the small cabin they’d shared for the last six months.
Greg was amazed at how tired two people could grow of each other in such a short amount of time. It reminded him of when their punk band, Bad Citizen Corporation, used to tour—back when Greg still went by the stage name Fred Despair, and Marco played drums. They were just four young beach kids who took off in a van to conquer the world, fighting over who had to drive and who got to sleep as they hurtled down the highway in the dead of night, bouncing between backwater clubs and living off of less than twenty bucks a day. It surprised him sometimes that his brother Tim was the only one who didn’t make it out alive.
Greg took a bite of bacon, letting the grease coat the inside of his mouth. He knew that all this heavy food should be taking a toll on his body, but the constant hiking kept him lean and mean for his age.
Marco set a steaming mug down on the table in front of him.
“What the hell were you screaming about in there? You scared the crap out of me.”
“It was just a nightmare.”
Just a nightmare. The same one he’d been having a couple times a week since losing his Virgil Heights Police Department badge last year. Even after months at this remote cabin in the mountains, away from the news coverage and constant reminders of the kid he shot—the kid in the blue cap—it kept coming back.
Greg was nervous that the nightmare might never go away, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his roommate.
“Doesn’t take much to scare you these days, Marco.”
“Sounded like there was a raccoon in there with you.”
“You afraid of raccoons now too?”
“Hell yeah. Little bastards are mean.”
Marco wandered off to do the dishes. Greg pushed his plate away and headed into the living room. Every piece of furniture in the cabin had come up the mountain from Greg’s childhood home in North Bay. There was more hunting and