The Headhunters Race (Headhunters #1) (16 page)

McCoy lays him flat and tips his head back. Before my eyes, Jake’s face transforms to a chilling color of blue. At first I think I’m imagining it. “Avene, get the cloth off!”

I pinch the cloth between my fingers and tug but it’s wedged between his skin and collar so tight there is not even the slightest shift. “I can’t!”

McCoy rolls Jake onto his side and attempts to yank it out himself. But I see that it’s hopeless. The collar is depressed too far into his neck, even if we were able to remove the cloth, it wouldn’t do any good. Realization hits McCoy at the same moment. He flips Jake onto his back again, removes one of his knives from the sheath at his waist, and starts prying at the lock, not giving up.

Tears fill my eyes. I reach for Jake’s hand. I squeeze three times. “This means I … love … you.” My mother taught it to me when I was a little girl. I’m not sure he hears me so I repeat it, saying each word with each press of my hand. “I … love … you.”

Jake nods, barely, his mouth open like he wants to speak, but he only makes a gurgling sound.

“Dammit!” yells McCoy, but he doesn’t quit. “Come on, Jake! Stay with us!”

“Hold on, Jake,” I say. “Please.” I can’t stop the tears. “Remember your sister. She’s waiting for you.”

Jake squeezes my hand twice, with long, deliberate caresses, and I smile with hope. “Yes, that’s it,” I say. “You’ve got it.” But when he begins the third, his fingers release unexpectedly.

I gasp. “Jake! No!” I shake him. His body wobbles at my touch, but there are no more breaths. I lose all control, sobbing, panicking, and screaming for him to breathe while McCoy desperately tries to break open the lock, jamming the knife at the seam of the collar. Pounding it with the butt of his blade. Shaking it, cursing it. Several minutes pass and McCoy doesn’t let up.

I rest my hand over his, to stop him. He looks at me and I see pain in the tears welling in his eyes. He surrenders his knife, letting it drop to the floor. McCoy takes my arm, pulling me to my feet. To him, his warmth and strength comforting me, and me him. “You did everything you could,” I whisper. The tears take turns surging and crashing down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I don’t want to. I push my head into the crook of his arm, my body convulsing with uncontrollable sorrow.

We stand there for a long while, each of us mourning. Not saying anything. Each of us swallowed up in our own grief.

Jake is gone. It doesn’t seem real. It can’t be real.

McCoy finally makes the first move, although I feel his reluctance to let me go when he hesitates. “We’ve got to keep moving,” he says. “Jake knew what the risks were. He told me all along that he thought his sister, Joselle, might have died when she ran the race. He said if he died, it wouldn’t be for nothing; he knew he’d see her again.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier for us,” I say and face toward the window. I can’t even look at him. I’m afraid I’ll lose control and I won’t be able to reclaim it.

“I know it doesn’t. But he’d want us to keep going. Now do me a favor. We need the money. It’s in Boom’s bedroom. He said there was a false bottom in the drawer of his nightstand. You’ll need to pry it out.”

“What are you going to do?”

McCoy fills his chest and then exhales before he speaks. Like he wants to tell me but at the same time he doesn’t. “I need to take care of Jake,” he says, and I can hear how hard he tries to contain his agony.

“Oh, yes,” I say. “That would be the proper thing to do.” I make my way to Boom’s bedroom, tears still tumbling from my eyes. Jake’s death brings back memories of Verla’s last few breaths, when she could barely breathe and she clutched my hand so tight I feared I’d have to be buried with her. The cancer that had ravaged her lungs left her just a wisp of a human being: thin and barely able to breathe, unable to eat.

I watched her fight to the end, cursing, defiant. I still remember the last thing she said to me.
You will have your day, Avene.
Verla’s voice echoes through my head now, over and over I hear her say those words. She’d said this to me more than once, always when King’s name came up. She knew I had revenge in my heart. She had it in hers too.

I find the nightstand and use my knife to bust out the bottom. Layers of cash line the base of the drawer. I inspect one of the bills, grateful to see the words
Millers Creek Currency
printed across the top. I scoop up every coin and bill as fast as I can, not bothering to count it. I shove a few of the bills in my pocket, some in my bra, and a couple down my boot. Just in case.

There’s no telling if McCoy is really on my side or against me. I see how much he cares for Jake. Maybe he really does care for me, but I can’t take any chances. And he’s right, we need to get back on track and I’m sure Jake would have wanted us to. Besides, it’s not like we can quit anyway.

McCoy has finished wrapping Jake in a sheet from Boom’s linen closet by the time I return. His body is lying on the couch. I can see his arms are crossed over his chest. His head is propped up on a pillow.

McCoy turns to me. “A moment?”

I nod and stand beside McCoy, who places a bible on Jake’s chest. It must have been Boom’s. The edges of the pages are frayed and the cover is peeling. McCoy takes my hand, we bow our heads, and I’m ashamed of myself because all I can think about is McCoy’s warmth radiating up my arm and it reminds me of earlier when his arms wrapped me in solace. It takes a second, but I rein in my thoughts and focus on Jake like I’m supposed to.
I’m sorry I was mean to you at first. You’re a good kid. I hope you’re with Joselle now, if she’s there. If not, I hope you’re at peace.

“Time to go,” says McCoy, releasing my hand with a light squeeze.

I hand over a wad of money to McCoy. “What’s the plan?”

He shoves the cash and coins into his pocket, saving some back and handing it to me.

“I took some already,” I say, pushing it away.

McCoy nods like it’s no big deal that I took some of the money and tucks the remainder in his pocket. “We start asking around. Do you think you’d recognize Gavin if you saw him?”

I hadn’t really thought about it. I expected he’d look nearly the same: dark hair and fair skin, except maybe taller, like his father. I’m sure he would, only older. “Yes.”

McCoy and I scavenge through Boom’s cupboards for food and find jars of pickles, pears, and a bottle of whiskey, some crackers, and a bag full of jerky. We take it all.

“We should cover our collars,” I say, rummaging through Boom’s linen closet. “I didn’t like the way that man was staring at us earlier.”

McCoy agrees. I tear a towel in half and we each wrap it around our necks like bandanas. Then we fill our canteens and head out, leaving Jake interred to Boom’s apartment.

Outside it’s busier than before and I keep a lookout for anyone young enough to resemble Gavin. I see lots of dark-haired guys roaming the streets, but none young enough to be him. We visit several shops, starting with the one next to the barbershop, and work our way down the main road. We don’t get a nip.

We stop at an eatery for a quick bite. “If we don’t find Gavin by nightfall, we leave,” says McCoy.

I halt tipping the glass I’m about to gulp from. Easy for him to say. He’s still got me, which reminds me once again that I can’t let my guard down, no matter how sincere McCoy seems. Or how much I want to believe there’s something between us.

The sun hangs somewhere around four in the afternoon by the time we reach the second to the last street in town, which happens to be named Second Street. We go inside a smoke shop, my lungs instantly filling with a mix of sweet and bitter tobacco. Rows of small square wooden slots fill the wall behind the counter. Each slot is filled with smokes … cigars, cigarettes, and a variety of raw tobacco in glass jars.

I’m grateful the place is empty when McCoy starts asking questions. I’m tired of the funny looks and snickers we’ve received all over town. “You ever heard of a man named Gavin … Gavin King?” asks McCoy.

The shopkeeper leans on the counter with both elbows and rests his chin on clasped hands, thinking. After a few seconds, he shakes his head. “Used to be a kid that worked down at the knife shop, down on First. Everyone called him G. I don’t know his last name. That was a few months ago, not sure if he’s still there.”

My heart thumps wildly. It has to be him. A knife shop would be exactly where Gavin would go.

McCoy thanks the man and I’m outside the shop so fast, I’m out of breath. “That has to be him,” I say, and I’m practically running toward First Street.

“Avene,” says McCoy, yanking me to a halt. I whirl around. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“What do you mean ‘don’t get my hopes up’?” I say, my anger rising with each word. “It has to be him.” I don’t know what trick McCoy has up his sleeve now. Until I realize he doesn’t know about Gavin’s experience with knives and that this world would be his domain. He doesn’t know it, but I do.

McCoy’s jaw flexes. “I’m just saying he might not be there anymore. Or it might not be him.”

I start toward First Street again. “We’re not going to find out by standing around.”

Finally McCoy picks up the pace. Several shops later we find
Carver’s Knives
. A little bell jingles as we walk in. The place is like I imagined: a small shop filled with every type of knife ever forged in these parts. Knives in a glass case at the counter. Knives hanging on the walls. Knives everywhere. Fixed-blade knives, folding knives, knives for hunting, survival, wood carving, kukri knives, utility knives, machetes. And throwing knives, the ones I’m most familiar with.

Several people are browsing. I can’t tell if they’re customers or the shop’s attendants, but it doesn’t matter to me who they are. I scan every man, every kid, every person’s face, but none resemble Gavin. McCoy turns back to me, as if looking for a sign that I’ve spotted him. I shrug and go in for a closer look at a young guy perusing the knives on the back wall, acting as though I’m interested in a sleek-looking fixed blade next to the one he’s admiring.

It’s not him. This guy has a small port-wine stain on his neck which I know is something you’re born with. As soon as I turn to check out the next person, I start to second guess myself. What if Gavin has changed so much that I won’t recognize him?

A kid at the counter about McCoy’s age catches my interest. I make my way over, positioning myself so I can get a better look at his face, but he’s scratching at his chin, blocking his features. That’s when I remember the scar where King had carved an X on the back of Gavin’s left hand when he’d said he didn’t want to practice one day. It was a warning, and a reminder to both of us to never disobey King’s orders.

Finally, something I can use to confirm Gavin when I find him. Now I feel like I need to re-check everyone in the shop, starting with the customer at the counter. I move around to the other side. It’s just my luck that he has his hand in his jeans pocket. But I see a watch on his wrist, and I’m about to ask him the time when a guy bursts through a swinging door from the back of the shop and hands the guy what looks like a Tanto knife, a Japanese short sword. A blade I wouldn’t mind having myself.

McCoy paces back and forth behind me, every so often nudging my shoulder and each time I give him a look. The attendant explains all the features to his customer while I salivate over it. I’m admiring the blade with its sleek shiny steel and sturdy black handle when I notice the X on the attendant’s left hand.

I inspect every feature, every line, every expression Gavin makes, wanting to believe that I’ve really found him. Wanting it to be him more than anything. So many thoughts and feelings swirl through my head. Will he laugh the same way? Is his voice the same? Will he recognize me?

My face burns hot when Gavin notices me staring at him. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Miss.” He says it like he’s annoyed.

I nod and force a smile. He’s definitely different and not just physically. There’s something peculiar and off-putting about his whole demeanor. His voice has changed, too. It’s much deeper, older, hardened. His features have become stony, with a long thin face, yet I realize that he doesn’t look much like his father at all. Well, except the stony part. Maybe he takes his features from his true mother, who I never met. In any case, I remind myself it’s been three years since I last saw him.

McCoy steps beside me. The enthusiasm must show in my face because he raises his brows questioningly and I respond in kind. The guy inspecting the Tanto knife agrees to buy it and I know it’s almost my turn. Suddenly, I’m not sure what to say. He must have heard about the race.

I wouldn’t be here if I knew about the race. And then it dawns on me that this can’t be Gavin. If you knew you were being hunted, why would you put yourself out in the open? Unless you enjoyed playing games. Or you were looking for a fight. There is no mistaking he’s a psychopath. I saw his drawing of me and my mother. With knives in our eyes and blood everywhere. I’d seen that journal and his sketches a hundred times and never once knew he hated me with that much passion.

But psycho or no psycho, you’d think he’d be scanning the place with his eyes wide and his body primed for running, yet he doesn’t seem to be on edge in the least. Maybe McCoy was right to warn me. Maybe I have made a mistake.