Jason Pinter - The Hunters

It’s gonna be a long night.

Those were the words I spoke to Amanda just as Jack O’Donnell left us, heading back to wherever it was that he’d left months ago. The past few days had left me drained, cold, but seeing Jack was a shot of espresso after a long sleep. I felt strong, invigorated. Strange feelings, considering I was in the middle of trying to find out who killed my brother.

Amanda and I were packing up my apartment, getting ready to move in together at a new rental farther downtown. This old place held a lot of memories, but like Jack, perhaps it was time to start over. Come clean. At some point, even the good memories are overshadowed by the bad ones, and a fresh perspective can help you hang on to the ones you want to keep and forget the ones you don’t.

But as I told Amanda, it was going to be a long night, and memories didn’t wash away that quickly.

Once the final box was packed, and sealed with enough duct tape to strap it to a cruise missile, we hopped in a cab and followed the driver down to our new place on 87th Street. It was a nice neighborhood, populated by young families and young professionals-which meant plenty of parks and playgrounds, and a whole lot of dive bars. Amanda and I were somewhere in the middle of those two worlds: not ready to face the mortgage and two-point-five children yet, and not quite in the mood to wear baseball caps while spilling beer over ourselves because our team scored a touchdown. For us, the mating ritual seemed over. We preferred quiet conversation to boisterous applause. A cold bottle of beer in front of one television beat a watered-down draft in front of twelve.

God, I sounded old.

We watched warily out the window as the moving van seemed to steer directly into every pothole on the street. I cringed every time the wheels jumped, and I waited for the moment when the axle would just snap in half and all of my oh-so-valuable possessions would come flying out the back like stuffing from a slit couch.

When the van finally came to a stop, I jumped out of the cab and met the movers at the back of their van. When the driver, a man with massive biceps and an even bigger gut, wearing a back brace that could have been used in those World’s Strongest Man competitions, went to pick up my stuff, I leaned in to help. Then I felt Amanda’s hand on my arm.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going to help carry stuff,” I said. “It’s my junk, after all.”

“Yeah, but you paid them to carry it. It’s their job.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m just not used to someone else doing the heavy lifting.”

“Would you feel better if I did it?” Amanda said, her hand on her hip.

“Actually,” I replied, smiling, putting my arm around her, “I would.”

She stood on tiptoe and gave me a small peck on the cheek. I’m not sure how wide I was smiling before, but now I was positively beaming.

It took just under an hour for the movers to transport all the boxes and secondhand furniture up to our second-story walkup. In New York, real estate prices were often dictated by how high a floor your apartment was on. A general rule of thumb: the higher the floor, the more costly the apartment. I figured in a walkup, the reverse applied. I’d rather pay more to live on a lower floor. Lugging groceries up five flights would be a bitch; two was just fine.

Once the movers were done and satisfied with their tip, Amanda and I walked into our new place. Amanda’s few things were already there. None of the boxes was unpacked, none of the furniture was where it was supposed to go. The bed frame was set up, but the mattress was on its side against the foyer wall. We hefted it up, brought it into the bedroom and left it fall onto the plywood with a thunk.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. Looked around. Amanda sat next to me.

“Everything okay?” she said.

I looked over at her. Smiled.

She was a true beauty in every sense of the word. That auburn hair that fell around her shoulders like a sunset, the small mole on her collarbone that I loved to kiss. When we met, I felt like the luckiest man on earth simply because she’d saved my life. Now, I felt like the luckiest man on earth because she’d saved my soul.

“Thinking about Jack?” she said. “I didn’t know he was still alive, let alone in our neighborhood. The least he could have done was brought over a housewarming gift.”

I shook my head. “Not thinking about Jack,” I responded.

“Then what is it?”

“Stephen. I’m thinking about Stephen.”

Amanda nodded, stayed silent. I didn’t know what to say-how would she?

A few days ago, I found out that I had a brother. A man I’d never met in my life, who until he was thirty years old had never met or tried to get in touch with me. And the day he finally did reach out to me…he was murdered.

I wasn’t exactly a good luck charm when it came to family reunions.

I checked my watch. It was nearing midnight. I’d promised Jack to be at the office early the next morning. Which meant that if I was hoping to go in refreshed, I’d have to hit the sack pretty soon. And considering that our bedsheets were sealed inside any one of twenty boxes and that it was likely underneath pounds of junk (the penalty for packing quickly and not labeling your boxes), it’d be 2 a.m. at the earliest.

Not that I could fall asleep.

There was too much at stake. I still didn’t know who was behind Stephen’s death, and I still wasn’t exactly sure what Jack had in store for me in the morning. And hardest of all, I had a beautiful girl that I loved sitting right next to me.

“I don’t think I can sleep,” I said.

“Want to unpack?” Amanda asked. “Take your mind off of things?”

“Not really,” I replied. “Just…not sure what I want to do. A little scared about how things are going to play out. Worried that this thing runs a lot deeper than I thought it did.”

Amanda sighed. She understood as well as she could, but also knew I was going through something that she wasn’t a part of.

“At least let me help a little,” Amanda said.

“Oh, yeah? How can you do that?”

When I felt her lips caressing my neck, that answered the question for me.

“We don’t even have any sheets on the bed,” I said as Amanda lowered me onto the mattress, throwing her leg over mine.

“Then I guess,” she whispered in between kisses, “we won’t have to worry about doing laundry.”

“I like the way you think,” I said. And gave in completely. I can’t say I wasn’t still thinking about the next day…but Amanda had a pretty good way of making me focus on the pleasant things in life.

“We’re gonna be late,” the blond man said. His manner conveyed a slight annoyance, even a sense of frustration, but he never would have let his emotions cross the line. The woman he was speaking to deserved more respect than that, and he considered any lack of patience on his part a reflection of his own personality defects, not of her tardiness.

He was a solid six foot two, and though he was wearing a bulky coat it was clear that beneath the fabric was a well-oiled machine. It was easy to tell from the way he walked, the way he carried himself, like a leopard that might move gracefully but could strike at any moment.

His hair was so blond it was nearly translucent, the dark roots only visible if you got close enough to look. And very few people got that close.

Everything she had worked for and planned for until now had come together perfectly. This was not the time to second-guess anything. When she needed to be on time, she was. When she wanted something to happen at her convenience, she made sure it did. So the fact that they were half an hour late to the meeting, and doing nothing but standing a block away killing time, may have made him anxious, but he knew there was a reason for it.