Free Brothers and Bones by James Hankins Page A

were gone. The homeless man was gone. The alley was silent. I’d lost him. I knew I could randomly choose one of the offshoots before me, but I realized it wouldn’t matter. I’d never catch the guy. These were his streets, not mine. He probably could have lost me whenever he wanted. It was time for me to go home.
    I turned around and looked back the way I’d come. Or was it the other way? I saw a Dumpster I remembered passing. Of course, there was a Dumpster the other way, too. Then I thought about the merry chase I’d been taken on, through empty streets, down forgotten alleys, even through an abandoned warehouse. I had no idea how to get home. And I was in a bad, bad place. I had to find a main street, and fast.
    I chose what I thought to be the most likely direction to lead me back to civilization and started off at a brisk walk. The shadows seemed to breathe all around me. I imagined dozens of eyes watching me from their depths. My pulse quickened, probably dangerously so. I heard shifts, scrapes, slithers from the darkness.
    After a few minutes I heard the first footsteps. Or I thought I did. I hoped it was the homeless man, suddenly following me for a change. Then I realized there were several sets of footsteps. First, they were behind me, but when I turned I saw no one. Then I heard them off to my left, and my right, tracking me from the abandoned buildings, doorways, alleys.
    I could feel eyes on me again. I heard whispers. And always the footsteps. I walked faster and my unseen followers quickened their pace to match.
    I thought about using my cell phone to page Dr. Fielding. He’d make me feel better. He’d offer again his diagnosis of my paranoia. He’d remind me of all the times I was dead certain I was being followed when, of course, I hadn’t been. He’d make me realize that these things I thought I saw and heard were in my mind.
    I was just starting to make myself feel a little better when an enormous guy with a baseball bat stepped out of the shadows in front of me.

 
     
     
     
    EIGHT
     
    “Boys, you’re looking at the stupidest guy on Earth,” the behemoth with the Louisville Slugger said. The two guys behind him laughed. So did the two behind me. I didn’t see the humor.
    I was surrounded by scarred, tattooed, pierced thugs, one of them brandishing a baseball bat, the others brandishing hard muscles and harder scowls. I was armed with only my wits, which left me horribly outgunned. I figured the only chance I had to come out of this with my facial features arranged as God originally intended would be to play it cool.
    “Well, I always wanted to take a tour of Chinatown. Figured it would be less crowded at night.” I smiled. They didn’t. Tough crowd. “Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I got a little turned around here. Which way leads back toward the financial district?”
    “That way,” Baseball Guy said, pointing. I turned and looked and immediately felt a solid blow on the side of my head. Since he’d pointed with the bat, I figured he must have hit me with his other hand. Still, I can’t imagine the bat would have hurt much more.
    I’d never been really struck with a fist in my life. Even in grade school I’d managed to avoid serious confrontations. So this was my first real punch. It hurt like a son of a bitch. A hollow, clanging sound rang in my head, followed by little bursts of red, dozens of tiny roses blooming in the air in front of my eyes. A second or two later the clanging gave way to the sound of laughter. Not mine, either.
    I turned back to see Babe Ruth, as I’d already come to think of him, looking a little surprised. I think he expected me to be sprawled on the ground, facedown and unconscious. But he actually looked pleasantly surprised, as if he realized that he and his buddies might have more fun if I wasn’t knocked senseless too quickly.
    “That hurt,” I said.
    “That was the point,” the Babe said. “Give us everything you have, including