Jason Pinter - The Hunters

Amanda Davies jolted upright in bed, her shirt coated in sweat, her shoulders heaving from the nightmare she’d just awoken from. It took her a moment to get her bearings, for the world to take shape. She swung her legs around the side of the bed, then looked back over her shoulder at Henry. He was fast asleep, not quite snoring but making that huuuunk…shhhhhhhh noise that either kept her awake or put her to sleep, depending on her mood.

Henry was splayed on his stomach, wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting boxers. There was a hole in the right leg large enough for her to put her fist through. She’d pleaded with Henry to throw out any and all underwear that had any fabric detachments, but she could tell from his absent nod that he would do no such thing. It didn’t bother her much, and truth be told, her scolding had much more in common with flirting than nagging. Their fights were few and far between, and any time temperatures seemed about to rise, a well-timed kiss or an “I love you” quashed it.

Amanda preferred it that way.

Her head pounded, and she quietly went into the kitchen to find a drink. The Brita pitcher was empty, and she didn’t feel like waiting for warm, filtered water. Instead, she pulled out a large container of fruit punch Gatorade and took a healthy pull. She wiped her mouth and took another. Then she put it back in the fridge, closed the door gently and sat down on the living-room couch.

She flicked on the television and muted it. A few reruns, some horrific looking jewelry being hawked on QVC, some late-night soft core porn, and a movie or two that she’d seen before and liked. Then she shut the TV off. She wasn’t really in the mood to watch, but she didn’t want to get back into bed while her heart was still beating fast.

She couldn’t remember the dream. Strange. She used to keep lengthy journals of just about everything that took place in her until-then boring life. Chronicling everyone she met, everything she experienced, and making an amateur go at deciphering her dreams.

At some point in the past few years, the dreams had stopped leaving imprints. She would recall having dreams, but for the life of her, she rarely remembered what happened in them.

She wasn’t sure if that was because she was more at peace now, but part of her wished she could remember what her subconscious might have been trying to say.

For some reason, right now, despite waking up in the middle of the night, Amanda did not feel tired. And she didn’t know how Henry could sleep, considering what he’d been through the past week. She supposed it might have been pure exhaustion, that his body just couldn’t take any more anxiety or stress without totally shutting down. She was glad for that, because when Jack O’Donnell showed up unexpectedly, Amanda knew this was only the beginning.

Jack had been gone for a long time, and his disappearance had weighed on Henry. Amanda had never felt let down like that, at least not in a professional sense. She’d been alone most her life, starting with the death of her parents when she was very young, and then shuttled between orphanages and foster care until finally settling in with Lawrence and Harriet Stein in St. Louis.

Death was different. Death left you feeling empty, not betrayed. And while he never said it, Amanda knew that was how Henry felt when Jack left.

She never wanted to worry about Henry, never wanted to be the kind of girl who waited up at night and screamed “Where were you?” when her boyfriend came in the door bone-tired.

Amanda knew where Henry was, or at least knew where he was not. Henry’s only mistress was his work. She trusted him, and he trusted her. Cheating was not in their DNA, and for all their faults that was one weight that thankfully would never press down very hard.

She had begun to wonder, however, what the future held for them. Love was not the issue. She believed Henry when he said he loved her, and knew he believed her when she said the same. But being young and nearly broke in New York City was a tough way to maintain a relationship. Settling down was something so out there they might as well have talked about buying a mansion.

Amanda wanted to get married. At some point. She wasn’t like most girls she knew, dreaming of the perfect wedding, waiting their whole life for one day that went by in the blink of an eye. Those girls missed the bigger picture, that a wedding was worthless if what it represented wasn’t pure. Marriage was not a celebration of that day, it was a celebration of what was yet to come. Amanda did not question her future happiness with Henry…but she couldn’t help but feel a little girly sometimes. And that wasn’t a bad thing.

Once the sports drink had settled her stomach and eased her headache, Amanda tiptoed back into the bedroom and snuggled in next to Henry. Moonlight streamed in through the venetian blinds, casting slits of light on the bed. Henry stirred a little, then turned over so he was facing her. Their bodies were still warm from the lovemaking earlier, and it made Amanda feel safe to have him so close.

Then Henry opened his eyes. Smiled.

“Hey you,” he said.

“Hey,” Amanda whispered.

“Feeling all right?”

“Yeah, just woke up. Bad dream.”

“Here,” Henry said. “Let me help.”

He untangled himself from the sheets and wrapped his arms around Amanda. His body was warm, toned yet soft, and she felt herself melting into his arms.

“I could fall asleep like this every night,” she said.

“Why don’t you?” he replied.

“Hey, don’t offer if it’s not going to happen.”

“I wouldn’t. Consider this your parking space. Reserved for Amanda Davies.”

“What’s the monthly rate?” she said.

“You already paid it. Earlier tonight.”

They both laughed, and she felt herself falling back to sleep.

“Are you excited to work with Jack tomorrow?” she asked, her eyes beginning to close.

“Excited, a little nervous. He’s never seen me in action.”

“You’ll be great,” she said.

“Yeah, I think there’s still a great story out there. Hopefully the old man can help me find it.” He gave her one squeeze, and she gripped his arms. “Good night baby,” he said.

“Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need you to tell me to be careful, do I?” Amanda said.

“Come on, Amanda,” Henry said. “What would I need to be careful of?”

The first swing of the crowbar shattered Kenneth Tsang’s kneecap. The second nearly dislodged it completely, ripping it away from the tendons that held it in place, rendering the entire leg practically useless.

Kenneth Tsang was lying in the basement of the nightclub where he’d spent so much time over the past few months. Tsang had made himself well into six figures working for Malloy, and had begun to trust the man completely. Which was why when Malloy asked him to be there at four in the morning, dressed to the nines, Tsang did not even ask why. He simply showed up, was ushered inside and subsequently had his right leg shattered beyond recognition.

Tsang lay on the floor, writhing in pain. At first he screamed as loud as anyone Malloy had ever heard, and Malloy worried for just a brief moment that the soundproof walls might just not hold up for a guy this sissified. After the second blow, however, the screams turned into a pathetic whimpering, and now Tsang lay there on the floor, still wearing his three-thousand-dollar suit, with one pant leg torn to shreds.

A small puddle of drool began to accumulate under Tsang’s head. He’d thrown up on himself. Not surprising. Pain and fear would do that to you. He was trying to crawl away, crawl anywhere. Sad, really. The door was locked. A blind man with no legs could get around faster than Tsang with that busted wheel. But he still crawled and blubbered and begged for mercy.