Free Blood Brothers: A Short Story Exclusive by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page B

his unkempt hair, his dirty hands gaunt as a skeleton’s.
    As the officer interceded, the man abandoned the photo, grabbed the easel, and swung it like a club. Miller tried to dodge, but his hip crashed against a neighboring pew. The easel struck the officer on the shoulder, driving him to his knees. The thief raised the easel again, high above the head of the dazed officer.
    Before Arthur could consider otherwise, he rushed forward. It was the kind of foolhardy action his brother, Christian, would take in such a circumstance—but it was out of character for the normally reserved Arthur.
    Still, he found himself barging between the two men as the crowd hung back. He grabbed the attacker’s arm before he could deal a fatal blow to the fallen police officer. He struggled with the assailant, giving Miller time to scramble to his feet. The officer then manhandled the attacker away from Arthur and quickly secured the man’s wrists behind his back with handcuffs. The man glared all around. His pupils filled his entire irises, making his eyes look black. He was definitely under the influence of some kind of drug.
    Miller caught Arthur’s gaze. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
    Breathing hard, his heart thumping in his ears, Arthur could barely manage a nod and pushed back toward the exit.
    What was I thinking . . .
    As he reached the streets, the bright City by the Bay seemed suddenly a darker place, full of shadows. Even the morning light failed to dispel them. He fetched up against a light pole and stood there for a moment, trying to slow his breath, when a flash of white caught his eye.
    A paper flyer had been pasted onto the pole. The title drew his attention.

    But it was what was beneath those hand-scrawled words that sucked the air from his lungs and turned his blood to ice. It was a black-and-white photo of a handsome young man in his midtwenties, with dark hair and light eyes. Though the photo had no color, Arthur knew those eyes were a piercing green.
    They belonged to his brother.
    Christian.
    The flyer contained no further details except a phone number. With trembling fingers, Arthur wrote the number on the bottom of his notebook. He hurried down the crowded street, searching for an empty phone box. When he found one, he slotted his money into it and waited. The phone burred in his ear, once, twice, five times. But he couldn’t put it down.
    He let it ring, balanced between disbelief and hope.
    Finally, a man answered, his voice spiked with irritation. “What the hell, man? I was sleeping.”
    “I’m sorry.” Arthur apologized. “I saw your flyer on the street. About Christian Crane?”
    “Have you found him?” The man’s tone sharpened, annoyance replaced with hope. “Where is he?”
    “I don’t know,” Arthur said, fumbling for his words. “But I’m his brother. I had hoped—”
    “Damn,” the voice cut him off. “You’re the Brit? His foster brother. I’m Wayne . . . Wayne Grantham.”
    From the man’s tone, he clearly thought Arthur would recognize him, that Christian might have spoken to Arthur about him—but Arthur hadn’t shared a word with Christian for over two years, not after the way they had left matters in England, after their fight. It was why Arthur had come to San Francisco, to mend fences and start anew.
    Arthur pushed all that aside. “How long has Christian been gone?”
    “Eleven days.”
    That was one day before Jake was killed. It was a ridiculous time to peg it to, but the folksinger’s murder was fresh in his mind.
    “Have you called the police?” Arthur asked.
    A snort answered him. “Like they give a damn about a grown-up man gone missing in San Francisco. Happens all the time, they said. City of Love, and all that. Said he’d probably turn up.”
    “But you don’t believe that?”
    “No.” Wayne hesitated. “He wouldn’t have left without telling me. Not Christian. He wouldn’t leave me not knowing.”
    Arthur cleared his throat. “He left without