Headhunters Read Online Free PDF Page A

horn screaming in my ears. I
saw my mistakes coming, but that doesn’t mean that I did a damn thing to get
out of the way.
    A week after the funeral, I slipped out of the house one
night and went for a drive in my car. I’d bought a Volvo S80. It was a big
beast of a car. Safe. I took it out along some winding roads, not really
knowing where I was going at first and yet managing to end up exactly where I
knew I would at the same time. I pulled to a stop outside the cemetery, parked the
car and began walking.
    I’d only been to Claire’s grave once before, but I found it
with very little trouble. One of the mixed blessings of having a near
photographic memory, you can never forget some things. No matter how hard you
try. I’d been walking for five minutes when I stopped for a moment and looked
about me. I stood in a field of gravestones, alone, under the darkness of
night. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the bottle of scotch still
in the paper bag from the liquor store. I crumpled the bag and shoved it back
into my pocket. I twisted the top off the scotch and took a deep pull on it,
the liquid burning my throat, like fire through my chest, making my eyes water.
I screwed the top back on and kept walking.
    I found Claire’s headstone. I brushed the leaves off of it.
I adjusted the flowers we’d left earlier in the week. I sat down and leaned
against her headstone and took the bottle from my pocket and began to drink.
Part of me knew that she wouldn’t want me to take things like this. Part of me
wasn’t so sure.
    Suddenly, I saw a blinding light in front of me. It was
fixed on me, not wavering, locking me in its path. I raised a hand to block the
glare and saw someone walking toward me.
    “Who is it?” I called. My voice wavered more than I’d have
liked and it was lost among the tombstones. The figure kept coming, coming
closer. Visions flashed in my mind of a hundred late night horror movies of
idiots like me who’d wandered into cemeteries only to be torn apart by some
Hollywood ghoul. When the bony hand reached for me, I still screamed.
    I raised my arms to defend myself. The liquor had taken away
my ability to stand quickly, maybe to even stand at all. The hand reached down,
seized the bottle from me and pulled it away roughly.  The hand withdrew and I
could see the outline of the figure, tall and gaunt, a long coat hanging from
his frame. He up-ended the bottle and let the scotch pour out on the ground. I
tried to say something in protest, but the words caught in my throat.
    “Simon, don’t do this to yourself, son.”
    Randall. It was Randall Kendrick.
    Somehow, dealing with flesh-eating zombies seemed easier
than dealing Kendrick right then. Exhaustion flooded my body and I slumped back
and began to cry unashamed.
    “I miss her.”
    “Of course you do.”
    “It was my fault.”
    “Yes, I suppose it was.”
    The one thing about Kendrick I always liked was that he told
you the truth. Sometimes it was his version of the truth, but he always laid it
out there.
    “The thing of it is, son,” Kendrick continued, “Claire is gone.
But you have those kids to think of now. They need their daddy. For better or
worse, you’re it.”
    I sighed and looked up. Kendrick was squatting in front of
me, his long bony legs bent so far out it nearly brought him down to my level.
    “You’ve got to do right by those kids.”
    “Where am I going to go? How am I going to do this?” I knew
he was right. I knew he was right before I’d ever left home that night.
    Kendrick reached into his pocket and handed me a business
card. I took it and stared at it, but couldn’t make my eyes work in the light.
    “Max Donovan,” Kendrick offered. “He runs a headhunter firm
out of Chicago. He’s outside of Blackthorn. I met him a few years ago. We keep
in touch. He’s expecting your call.”
    Chicago. Somehow that sounded right. Somewhere new. Away
from the same old streets, the house, the memories. This was hope