The Hunt Chronicles: Volume 1 Read Online Free PDF

body.
    Wilson lay in his
king-sized bed on his back, a large knife in his chest.  His pajama top
was stained with a dark red splotch, and there was blood on the sheets around
him, but it was considerably less than you might think.  That knife looked
awfully close to his heart.  I would have expected blood to hit the
ceiling.  Maybe because the knife is still in him Little Reevan
suggested, and I cringed.  My forte was Literature, not Biology or
Forensics.  Unless Wilson died reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace , I
probably wouldn’t be of any help to anyone.
    To the right was an
open window and a cool breeze blew in through it.  A bag
that was too near the edge of the bed flickered and fell, landing on the furry
red carpet with a flop.   The examiner turned to pick it up.  I
held my breath as he moved, afraid to make a sound.  He picked it up
briskly, put it in his pocket, and turned back to the body.  I noticed a
dresser to the right of the window.  Its drawers were open and articles
hung out of them like tongues.  Somebody was looking for something the
little voice said.  I concurred.
    Two tables flanked
Wilson’s bed, each with a fancy-pants lamp on it.  The one on the left,
however, was littered with some other items: a crystal clock, a small Hummel
figurine, the silver tray Thomas brought in the night before.  The tray’s
companion, the glass with a slightly chipped edge, was also there.  The
water was gone; swallowed, no doubt, by McCune along with his pill before he
slipped into eternal sleep.  Sitting under the window was Wilson’s
wheelchair like an eerie glistening tombstone.
    Coughing.   The examiner was finding it hard to catch his
breath.  Can’t be around that smell too long , I thought, no
matter how many times you’ve done it.   I had the urge to upchuck
myself, but I stifled it once more.  The examiner rose and began to turn,
no doubt heading for the door and some fresh air.  I panicked and leaped
forward, falling flat on my face to the left of McCune’s bed.  I stayed
there, motionless, until I could hear the man’s footsteps outside of the room.
    You’re over fifty
years old!   Little Reevan
shouted from inside my brain.  His voice reverberated off the walls of my
skull and racked my eyeballs in their sockets.  Probably busted a hip
you stupid old fool!   I grunted and propped myself up on all
fours.  I stayed there for a minute, on my hands and knees, afraid to move
anymore.  I’m okay I told myself.  No harm done , I
knew I’d be fine.  Just call me Indiana Hunt in the Temple of …of
nothing.  My thoughts vanished.  Then I spoke out loud not even
realizing it.  “Well, hello…”  A tiny speck of brown shone in the red
carpet beneath me.  I reached for it with my right hand.  As I
grabbed it, I noticed the rug near the speck was moist, though my knees and
left hand were touching dry carpet.  I brought the speck closer to my
eyes.  OXIZALE was engraved on it.  My mind went back to the
window across the room, and then to the wet spot on the floor.
    I got up and sat on
the left edge of McCune’s bed, thinking.  Thomas would know if that
window was open when McCune fell asleep I thought to myself.  Then my
heart skipped a beat when I realized I was sitting in a dead man’s bed…with the
dead man.  I bounded up and out of the room.  I reached the hall and
composed myself, walking like a man who was supposed to be walking.  Maddie was in the dining room, and I joined her.
    My little adventure
beyond the police tape lasted all of three minutes.  When the noise
finally died down, we saw men in gloves wheel McCune out.  He was not in
his coat on his wheel chair.  He was on a gurney in one of those long
black bags.

 
     “Of course I’m
sure!”  Nona was screaming.  I came back to myself in time to see
Nona enter a state of dangerous irritation, the state of mind animal observers
describe when they’re videotaping an angry rhino.
    “I’m