Page 69 of The First Hunt

John gripped the bat in his hand. “But Iamlike you. I’m your son. This is who I am. Whoweare.”

Clint stared down at Holly’s body. “And look at what you’ve done now!” He looked up to meet his son’s gaze, his expression more helpless than John had ever seen it. “How did you kill that woman in Fairbanks? You were only a child.”

John grinned. “I’ve been waiting five years for you to ask me that.”

Chapter 45

JOHN

Fairbanks, Alaska

May 1985

“What’s the matter?”

The woman spun, her hand over her heart atop her wool coat. “Oh,” she said, seeing John. A puff of white breath escaped her mouth beneath the dim lights from the bar. “You scared me.” She scanned the empty bar parking lot that surrounded them. “What are you doing out here all alone? Are you lost?”

John shook his head. “I’m staying at the motel across the street.” He’d been lying awake, unable to go back to sleep after his father had crept into their room. “I heard a car door slamoutside and looked out the window. I saw you lifting the hood of your car. You looked like you might need help.”

“Well, I do.” She dropped her arm to her side and glanced at the engine. “My battery is dead. I got a jump before coming to work, but I should’ve known it wouldn’t start again in this freezing weather.”

“Can you call someone?” John motioned toward the bar.

She chewed her lip, seeming to think it over before shaking her head. “My boyfriend’s at work.” She sighed, looking at her car. “I didn’t even bring any jumper cables with me.” She turned to John, and her eyes lit up. “Do your parents by chance have any with them at the motel?”

“It’s just my dad.” John studied the woman, trying to repress the crazy impulse that jumped into his head. “He left me alone. Said he was going to the bar, but he never came back,” he lied. John looked around the parking area, adding, “I think he went home with someone.”

Her eyes widened as she flicked her gaze to the motel across the road. “You don’t look old enough to be left alone all night.” She turned to John. “What does he look like?”

“Brown hair. Tall. He was wearing a red plaid shirt and a brown leather jacket.”

“Oh, yeah.” She nodded. “I saw him leave with Vikki. She’s known for turning tri—” Her voice faltered as she held his gaze, seeming to remember she was talking to a ten-year-old boy. “I mean…”

“Turning what?” John cocked his head.

“Nothing.” She shrugged. “She just hangs out at the bar sometimes.”

“Do you know where she lives?” John stuck his freezing hands into his coat pockets.

“Yeah.” She pointed behind John. “Her place is on the other end of that long stretch of highway. But it’s too far to walk. Especially in this weather.”

John fixed his gaze on her chunky knitted scarf as she tightened it around her neck. “We can take my dad’s car.” John motioned over his shoulder. “You can drive. After we get to Vikki’s house, my dad can take you home.”

She blew out another white breath, seeming to debate the idea. John held his breath as his chest felt like it might burst with the surge of nervous excitement fluttering inside him.

“Okay,” she said, closing her hood before following him across the road. “My name’s Pamela, by the way. What’s yours?”

“It’s John.”

Less than five minutes later, John climbed into the rental car behind Pamela at the motel. He’d nearly chickened out when he crept back inside their room to get the car keys, afraid his dad would wake up and ask him what he was doing. But his father was out cold, snoring even louder than when John had left.

When she started the engine, John’s heart thumped in his chest. Would the noise wake his father? John looked back at their motel room as Pamela pulled onto the street, relieved to see the lights were still off.

A minute later, Pamela pulled onto the two-lane highway. John stared at the scarf around her neck, wondering what it would be like to grab the knitted fabric by both ends and pull so tight it squeezed Pamela’s throat shut.

John’s mind drifted to the bear falling to the snowy forest floor, dead from his father’s bullet. John eyed the woman in front of him, bobbing her head to the Prince song playing on the radio, imagining he was the hunter and she was the prey. He leaned over toward the middle seat to peer out the windshield. They were driving down a long, straight stretch of highway with no other cars in sight.

As they sped along, a whirlwind of emotions surged through him at what he was about to do—thrill, anticipation, a strange sense of power. In this moment, he felt more alive than he ever had before. But beneath it all, coiled deep in his chest as Pamela sang along to “Raspberry Beret,” was fear.

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