The Watchman Read Online Free PDF Page B

pocket gun.
    Pike was not expecting the call that morning. He had known it would come, eventually, but that morning he was lost in the safe ready feel of sweat and effort when his cell phone vibrated. He had a nice rhythm going, but the people who had his unlisted number were few, so Pike heeled to a stop and answered.
    The man said, “Bet you don’t know who this is.”
    Pike let his breathing slow as he shifted the ruck. The weight only grew heavy when he stopped running.
    The man, confused because Pike had not answered, said, “Is this Joe Pike?”
    Pike had not heard the man’s voice since an eight-year-old boy named Ben Chenier was kidnapped. Pike and his friend Elvis Cole had searched for the boy, but they had needed help from the man on the phone to find the kidnapper. The man’s price was simple—one day, the man would call with a job for Pike and Pike would have to say yes. The job might be anything and might be the kind of job Pike no longer wanted or did, but the choice would not be his. Pike would have to say yes. That was the price for helping to save Ben Chenier, so Pike had paid it. That word. Yes. One day the man would call and now he had.
    Pike said, “Jon Stone.”
    Stone laughed.
    “Well. You remember. Now we find out if you’re good at your word. I told you I would call and this is the call. You owe me a job.”
    Pike glanced at his watch, noting the time. A third coyote had joined the first two, staring at him from the shadows.
    Pike said, “It’s four A. M. ”
    “I’ve been trying to get your number since last night, my man. If I woke you, I’m sorry, but if you stiff me I have to find somebody else. Hence, the uncomfortable hour.”
    “What is it?”
    “A package needs looking after, and it’s already hot.”
    Package meant person. The heat meant attempts had already been made on the target’s life.
    “Why is the package at risk?”
    “I don’t know and all I care about is you keeping your word. You agreed to let me book you a job, and this is it. I gotta tell these people whether you’re in or not.”
    Grey shapes floated between the palms like ghosts. Two more coyotes joined with the first three. Their heads hung low, but their eyes caught the gold light. Pike wondered how it would be to run with them through the night streets, moving as well as they, as quietly and quickly, hearing and seeing what they heard and saw, both here in the city and up in the canyons.
    Stone was talking, his voice growing strained.
    “This guy who called, he said he knew you. Bud Flynn?”
    Pike came back from the canyons.
    “Yes.”
    “Yeah, Flynn’s the guy. He has some kinda bodyguard thing with people who have so much dough they shit green. I want some of that green, Pike. You owe me. Are you going to do this thing or not?”
    Pike said, “Yes.”
    “That’s my boy. I’ll call back later with the meet.”
    Pike closed his phone. Brake lights flared a quarter mile away where San Vicente joined with Ocean. Pike watched the red lights until they disappeared, then hitched his ruck again. Eight or ten coyotes now waited at the edge of light. Three more appeared in an alley between two restaurants. Another now stood in the street a block away and Pike had not even seen it approach. Pike breathed deep and smelled the sage and earth in their fur.
    The older coyote did not turn for the canyon. It circled wide of Pike, then crossed Ocean Avenue and continued up Santa Monica Boulevard. The other coyotes followed. The city was theirs until sunrise. They would hold it as long as they could.
    Pike unslung the ruck and let it drop. He took a deep breath, then lifted his hands high overhead, stretching. His muscles were warm and his weak shoulder—the shoulder that had almost been destroyed when he was shot—felt strong. The scars that laced his deltoid stretched, but held. Pike bent forward from the hips until he easily placed his palms on the street. He let his hands take his weight, then lifted his