Orpheus: Homecoming (The Orpheus Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Dan DeWitt
genuine, but it led her to believe that his comment was incomplete.
“That's it?”
“Have you ever told anyone about this?”
She didn't have to think about it. “Nope. But it’s not my place to say, anyway. It’d be a violation.”
“Yes, and most people in your position would’ve violated a celebrity confidence a long time ago, just to make a few bucks. I can trust you. Think about what we can do with that money. What are the best ways to grow it or utilize it to help.”
“Help who?”
“Whoever. The families of the dead. Children of the survivors. Someone else entirely. I trust you; so will Jackie. I think …” He trailed off, seeming to concentrate on something across the street.
“Mr. Holt? Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah. And it's Cam, if you want.”
“I'll do it, Cam.”
He clapped his hands. “Attagirl. Thank you. I hate to eat, ask for a favor, and run, but I have to get back.”
“My break's over, anyway.”
Holt combined her trash with his and threw it away as he jogged past the barrel. He hit the opposite sidewalk and took a left. Gracie walked back to the bank, several ideas already circling in her mind. They were interrupted briefly by one overriding thought: Why was he jogging in the wrong direction?
O
The man hurried as fast as he could, but Holt had taken off like a shot, and he was trying to not draw attention to himself. He stopped and pulled out his cell phone.
“I lost him.”
The driver of the Land Rover said, “Me, too.”
“Shit. I'll try the wallet thing.”
“Copy. I'll make another pass on Main.”
The man from the bench pulled out his wallet and started asking pedestrians if they had seen a guy matching Cameron Holt's description running by. The man was still a celebrity. Only two people said no, and that was because they had just come out of a store.
He spun in a slow circle, frustrated.
“Are you looking for Cameron Holt?”
He turned and saw a girl of about high school age. “Yes, I am. He dropped his wallet.”
“I just saw him take a shortcut between those two buildings.” She pointed to a wide alley between a deli and book shop. “He was limping. I think he twisted his ankle or something.”
Park Bench pulled a ten dollar bill out of his own wallet and handed it to her. “Thanks, kid.”
He jogged the entire length of the alley, but didn't see his target.
On his way back, he saw something lying by the dumpster. Holt's armband. He picked it up and searched it. Everything … money, iPod, key … was still in it. He put it in his pocket and started back to Main.
He called Land Rover and told him to pick him up.
“On my way.”
White lights exploded in Park Bench's eyes, and he was nearly knocked senseless by the strike to the back of his head. He was thrown roughly to the ground face-first. Still dazed, he put his hands under him to try to buck off his attacker, but was stopped by the cold metal at the base of his skull.
“Not one fucking word.”
Park Bench listened. He didn't think that Holt would kill him, but there was that whole PTSD thing to worry about. He relaxed as much as he could, and didn't fight when Holt pulled his hands behind his back, locked his fingers together, and clamped down. During the process, Park Bench was rolled onto his right hip and realized that his gun was gone. Held by my own gun. German's never going to let me live this down. He felt a hand slide down both of his legs, presumably looking for a secondary weapon.
He heard a voice say, “Tino? You here?”
He heard his own gun being cocked and Holt saying, “On the ground. Now.”
German sounded as surprised as the man on the ground felt. “What the fuck?!?”
Tino felt the gun being pressed into his neck again. “You might want to tell your friend to listen.”
He winced. As confident as he was that Holt wasn't a murderer, the longer this went on, the greater the chance of bullets flying. He tried to sound conversational. “Just
“That's it?”
“Have you ever told anyone about this?”
She didn't have to think about it. “Nope. But it’s not my place to say, anyway. It’d be a violation.”
“Yes, and most people in your position would’ve violated a celebrity confidence a long time ago, just to make a few bucks. I can trust you. Think about what we can do with that money. What are the best ways to grow it or utilize it to help.”
“Help who?”
“Whoever. The families of the dead. Children of the survivors. Someone else entirely. I trust you; so will Jackie. I think …” He trailed off, seeming to concentrate on something across the street.
“Mr. Holt? Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah. And it's Cam, if you want.”
“I'll do it, Cam.”
He clapped his hands. “Attagirl. Thank you. I hate to eat, ask for a favor, and run, but I have to get back.”
“My break's over, anyway.”
Holt combined her trash with his and threw it away as he jogged past the barrel. He hit the opposite sidewalk and took a left. Gracie walked back to the bank, several ideas already circling in her mind. They were interrupted briefly by one overriding thought: Why was he jogging in the wrong direction?
O
The man hurried as fast as he could, but Holt had taken off like a shot, and he was trying to not draw attention to himself. He stopped and pulled out his cell phone.
“I lost him.”
The driver of the Land Rover said, “Me, too.”
“Shit. I'll try the wallet thing.”
“Copy. I'll make another pass on Main.”
The man from the bench pulled out his wallet and started asking pedestrians if they had seen a guy matching Cameron Holt's description running by. The man was still a celebrity. Only two people said no, and that was because they had just come out of a store.
He spun in a slow circle, frustrated.
“Are you looking for Cameron Holt?”
He turned and saw a girl of about high school age. “Yes, I am. He dropped his wallet.”
“I just saw him take a shortcut between those two buildings.” She pointed to a wide alley between a deli and book shop. “He was limping. I think he twisted his ankle or something.”
Park Bench pulled a ten dollar bill out of his own wallet and handed it to her. “Thanks, kid.”
He jogged the entire length of the alley, but didn't see his target.
On his way back, he saw something lying by the dumpster. Holt's armband. He picked it up and searched it. Everything … money, iPod, key … was still in it. He put it in his pocket and started back to Main.
He called Land Rover and told him to pick him up.
“On my way.”
White lights exploded in Park Bench's eyes, and he was nearly knocked senseless by the strike to the back of his head. He was thrown roughly to the ground face-first. Still dazed, he put his hands under him to try to buck off his attacker, but was stopped by the cold metal at the base of his skull.
“Not one fucking word.”
Park Bench listened. He didn't think that Holt would kill him, but there was that whole PTSD thing to worry about. He relaxed as much as he could, and didn't fight when Holt pulled his hands behind his back, locked his fingers together, and clamped down. During the process, Park Bench was rolled onto his right hip and realized that his gun was gone. Held by my own gun. German's never going to let me live this down. He felt a hand slide down both of his legs, presumably looking for a secondary weapon.
He heard a voice say, “Tino? You here?”
He heard his own gun being cocked and Holt saying, “On the ground. Now.”
German sounded as surprised as the man on the ground felt. “What the fuck?!?”
Tino felt the gun being pressed into his neck again. “You might want to tell your friend to listen.”
He winced. As confident as he was that Holt wasn't a murderer, the longer this went on, the greater the chance of bullets flying. He tried to sound conversational. “Just