The Secret Night

“Thanks,” Emma said, taking the card and shoving it into her handbag. They had reached the center of St. Stephens.

“Do you live around here?” Shane asked.

“No, I’m from Manitou Springs, Colorado.”

“You’re a long way from home.” He was silent for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. “It’d be easier for you to evade Caldwell in a city—some place big enough to get lost and stay lost. What if I drive you into Baltimore?”

Again, she had to fight off the tears clogging her throat. “You’d do that for me?”

“Sure.” He tossed her a crooked grin. “I admire your grit. Besides, you could turn out to be a valuable witness against Caldwell.”

She sighed. “Yeah, but he’s careful. And his worshippers are loyal. Even if the cops raided the place tonight, I bet they wouldn’t come up with any evidence that would lead to an arrest.”

“Caldwell may be careful, but nobody’s perfect,” Shane said. “He’ll have slipped up somewhere. Until we find his Achilles heel, we need to keep you safe. So let me tell my wife I’m driving you across the Bay Bridge.”

He pulled the SUV onto the shoulder and picked up his cell phone. Emma listened to his conversation with his wife—she could hardly have avoided it—and was impressed with how warm and close their relationship obviously was.

Funny how it still surprised her that there were people who could make marriage work. She found it reassuring, even if she herself hadn’t yet managed the feat. She’d long since stopped getting involved with complete jerks and losers, but it occurred to her that she’d gone to the opposite extreme by dating men so dull and lacking in passion that they bored her to tears.

Maybe, someday, she’d find a middle ground….

“All set.” Shane dropped his cell phone into a cup holder, pulled back onto the road and headed out of town.

Exhausted, Emma slumped in her seat and, without meaning to, fell asleep. When she woke, Shane had pulled up in front of a Days Inn.

“You’re about three blocks from the inner harbor,” he said. “There are lots of places there to shop, if you need to replace your clothes and stuff.”

“Thanks, yes, I will have to,” Emma replied.

“This hotel isn’t the most expensive around, but it isn’t cheap.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have enough money for the bill?”

“I have a credit card.”

He shook his head. “Don’t use it. Caldwell could track you if you do.”

She checked her wallet. “I’ve got two hundred in cash.”

“That ought to do it.”

She turned in her seat to look at him directly. “I don’t know how to thank you. I’d never have—”

Shane shook his head. “We’re square. You helped me out by sharing your information about the Refuge.”

They weren’t square. He’d saved her life. “I’m truly grateful.”

Emma watched him drive away, then staggered into the hotel lobby.

She wondered if they were going to let her in looking like a refugee from a third-world country.

THE ROUGH-LOOKING MAN had been sitting in the corner of the biker bar for the past hour, nursing a beer and trying not to breathe too deeply. The place smelled like a men’s room, with an overlay of booze and cigarette smoke.

Not his kind of scene. But in his two days’ growth of beard, uncombed hair and leather jacket, he figured he blended in okay—except for his lack of tattoos and piercings.

A biker with a picture of a cobra decorating his arm swaggered by and propped himself against the bar, allowing room for his beer belly.

“Hey, Snake,” one of his buddies called out.

“Yo,” the cobra guy answered.

That’s what I need, the observer thought. A colorful name. A handle. He could call himself…Trailblazer. Yeah, Trailblazer would do just fine.

Scanning the crowd at the bar, he shook his head in disgust. It wasn’t yet noon, but the place was already full of guys who drank their breakfast. Finally, when he’d had enough of the toxic gas that passed for air, he decided it was time to make his move.

Bellying up to the bar, he ordered another beer. When it came, he took a sip, then turned to the man next to him—a young punk named Butch McCard, the leader of the biker gang and a regular patron of the bar.

“I hear you ran into a little trouble last night,” he said to McCard.

McCard’s eyes sharpened on him momentarily. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Trouble in Ten Oaks Cemetery,” Trailblazer clarified.

McCard’s head snapped around. “Keep your nose out of that.”

“What if I can help you?”

“How?”

“How about the name of the bastard who broke up your private party?”

Trailblazer kept his face impassive when McCard grabbed his shirt and demanded, “What the hell do you know about it?”

Trailblazer cautiously shrugged off the offending hand. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Nicholas Vickers.”

“Who is he?”

Jeez, McCard really was a moron. Patiently, he explained, “He’s the guy who crashed your party.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He sleeps during the day. He sleeps real sound, so you should be able to fix him good without him ever knowing.” Seeing the look of interest in McCard’s eyes, Trailblazer held out a slip of paper. “You want his address?”

A hammy hand snatched the paper from him. It was almost comical watching the bleary-eyed McCard try to read the address.

“Hey, dude, thanks,” the biker said. “What’s your name?”

“Trailblazer.”

“You want to come with us, Blaze?”