The Soul Hunter Read Online Free PDF

heat.
    The water stayed cold, my fingers bluing as I held them there. I turned the faucet off. The
H
was right there, staring at me.
H
for hot. I turned the knob again and waited, thinking maybe the pipes were so cold the hot water would take longer to heat up. Still nothing.
    It finally dawned on me that the footsteps had come through the kitchen last night.
    The water heater was in the kitchen.
    Feeling the rage rise up inside me, I moved to the kitchen and yanked open the water heater closet and touched the skin of the water heater. It was ice cold. I knelt down, eye level now with the base of the unit and the little wads of dust and foul mysterious clumps of nastiness that accumulate in such places. I listened for the pilot light. Absolute dead silence.
    I found some matches, pried off the metal screen that obscured the pilot light (another invention of Satan, I’m certain), and spent half an hour trying unsuccessfully to light that stupid little blue flame. (Why can’t they make it easy to light these things?)
    The procedure involved a bizarre gymnastic twist in which my left index finger held the gas button down while, with my right hand, I reached up inside the belly of the water heater to a little nib that was impossible to see from any angle. The flame had to be held on that nib for several long, awkward, painful seconds while a weak little stream of gas snaked its way up the tube. Any interruption on any link of this delicate chain would ensure that the flame would not light. And that’s exactly what happened.
    I got it lit once and experienced a quick rush of ecstasy, only to hear the flame sputter and die as I held my ear to the water heater and prayed for success.
    I ended up taking an arctic shower, my skin purple and goose-bumped when I was done, and shampoo still tangled in my long, auburn hair.
    My mood at that point was beyond foul. And all nine of the fruits of the Spirit evaded me. I had no love, joy, or peace. And don’t even talk to me about patience and all that other nonsense.
    I was bitter. And angry. And cold. The fruits of a dead pilot light and a long, disastrous night.
    I dried my hair and got myself ready for the day, throwing on my oldest pair of jeans and my warmest sweater. I clicked the lock behind me as I stepped into the shivery chill of my garage. More cold air rushed into the garage as I pushed the button to raise the door.
    My truck started, to my great relief. I made it halfway down my street before I realized what day it was.
    Happy birthday to me.

4

    I don’t know where I was planning on going at 7:45 in the morning. I’d really just wanted to get out of the house. I drove around aimlessly for a few minutes, then on impulse, I turned onto the SMU campus.
    The North American college student is a nocturnal creature. Daytime activities for this species are characterized by a dull, sloth-like sluggishness, which wears off slowly as the day progresses. Hunting, frolicking, and mating activities generally take place after sunset, on a seven-day cycle, peaking in activity sometime between Thursday afternoon happy hour and Saturday night when the bars close.
    Early Sunday morning, these creatures return to their dens and hibernate their hangovers away.
    Which meant the parking lots this morning were full. Completely.
    Southern Methodist University is a private university. An expensive private university. When I drive onto the campus, I’m always struck by the vast gap between my income level and those of my students. I work there, but I could not afford to attend my own classes. I have more in common financially with the janitors, in point of fact.
    The cars I was passing were late model BMWs, Land Rovers, Mercedes. I drive a pickup. A crummy 1972 Ford pickup that Ibought for seven hundred dollars. It needs a new muffler, so it has all the delicate engine whir of a dump truck. The bench seat is cracked, patched with duct tape, and lets out a mighty squeak every time I hit a bump in