Free Jack Beale 00 - Dangerous Shoals by K.D. Mason Page B

That broke the tension and they laughed. “You first,” said Jack.
    “What was that all about earlier?”
    “I’m sorry, I panicked because I saw―actually, I bumped into―the guy from the park. I was on my way in and I assumed he was on his way out. I don’t know. I just have this feeling.”
    “What kind of a feeling?”
    “I don’t know how to describe it. I guess you could say a sense of foreboding. I realize that sounds stupid, but …”
    “It’s not stupid. I know what you mean. Look, I keep seeing Daniel. I feel like he is trying to contact me and yet he won’t or can’t, and you keep seeing that creepy guy who acts like he doesn’t want to be seen, but keeps showing up.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Another beer while I finish up?”
    Jack nodded a yes and Max went out back to pour it. Returning with his beer she said, “I should be ready to go by the time you finish your beer.”

CHAPTER 20
    “IT’S TIME,” THE watcher had thought to himself as he watched Jack return to Ben’s. “He’ll be there the rest of the night protecting his little woman.” Then, from his car he retrieved an old, canvas bag with a single strap that had been used in World War I by couriers as they ran orders between the front lines and the rear. From the bag he took out a pair of thin leather gloves and worked them on. They fit like a second skin. He slung the bag over his shoulder, and began following the shadows over to Jack’s. There was no moon, and Courtney’s place was dark. Jack hadn’t left any lights on, and the other houses nearby were also unoccupied for the moment. It was a world of dark shapes and shadows. It was his kind of world and he felt at home.
    It only took seconds to get past the lock on the door, and he snickered to himself at how easy it was. Once inside, he stopped to listen. Then he slowly sniffed the air. He had learned many years ago never to trust only one of his senses. It was a habit that had served him well, sometimes meaning the difference between success and failure. He began easing his way up the stairs, testing each step, feeling every subtle nuance of their surface through his thin-soled shoes. At the top of the stairs he paused again. No matter how dark the night, unless he was in a sealed room, there was always enough light for his kind of work.
    Even an empty house made noise, and he listened to the sounds that this place made. The soft hum of a computer, the cycling of the refrigerator, a creak since no building is ever perfectly still. He listened and sniffed again. Cat. He smelled a cat. He hated cats.
    When he was a child his neighbor had a cat. It was a large white cat with a funny, pushed-in face, long wild hair, and green eyes. He remembered those green eyes. One day, while he was out playing by the street, the cat came up to him and rubbed up against his leg. It felt good, so he bent down and stroked the cat’s fur. He was fascinated with how silky and soft it was. He kept stroking the cat, but it wasn’t long before the cat had had enough, and began to walk off. He didn’t understand why the cat would leave. A dog would have stayed. He was so fascinated by the softness of the cat’s coat he wanted to keep stroking it. Running after the cat didn’t help. The faster he ran, the more the cat panicked, and he was unable to get close to it. Finally, he caught up to the cat as it was crying by the door to the house where it lived. He had it cornered, and the trapped cat hunched down and faced him, emitting a low growl as it looked at him with those green eyes. He didn’t understand that noise and reached out for the cat, which yowled, struck out with its paw, scratched his arm, and then ran off. He was in shock as he looked at the reddening lines on his arm. He watched as the redness slowly began to weep and soon blood was dripping down his arm. At first there was no pain, just anger. The pain came with the blood and with that, hatred. The knife, then, wasn’t as sharp or as