Watcher of the Dark: A Jeremiah Hunt Supernatual Thriller (The Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the air, as my memory came flooding back to me.
    Whisper’s warning.
    Rivera and his crew.
    The fall from the walkway and the subsequent car ride.
    Trouble with a capital T .
    “Put the gun away, Angel. We’re all friends here. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hunt?”
    The voice was suave, cultured, with only the barest trace of an accent that the speaker had no doubt worked hard to lose. I would have bet that a sighted individual never would have heard it at all. I did, though, and filed the information away just in case it ever became relevant.
    This man was not a native.
    “Come, come, Hunt. I asked you a question.”
    Cultured and impatient, it seemed.
    At this point I didn’t have too much to lose, so I ran with the first thing that popped into my head. “If you make a regular habit of kidnapping your friends, then I guess that’s what we are. And my name’s not Hunt.”
    Silence fell.
    Did I mention yet that my mouth has a tendency to get me into trouble? I mentally reminded myself that I wouldn’t feel a thing if Rivera pulled that trigger, but then the silence was broken by a man’s hearty laughter and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, hopeful that I might live to see what the next five minutes would bring after all.
    “Word on the street is that you have a bit of an acerbic tongue, but I see already that they aren’t doing you justice. I think I’m going to like you, Mr. Hunt.”
    Acerbic? Who was this guy?
    “I’m telling you, I’m not Hunt. I don’t know who that is. My name is Steve Chambers.”
    That was the name on the fake driver’s license I’d commissioned back in New Jersey, before Dmitri, Denise, and I made our fateful trip to New Orleans.
    “Steve Chambers? I don’t think so.” There was definitely a trace of amusement in his tone as he said, “Jeremiah Hunt. Former professor of languages at Harvard University. Previously married to Anne Cummings, now divorced. One child, Elizabeth, now deceased. Any of this ringing a bell?”
    I shook my head. “You got the wrong guy.”
    My host went on as if he hadn’t heard me.
    “Arrested by the Boston PD on murder charges. Subsequently escaped custody and murdered a police detective by the name of Stanton. Fled Boston for New Orleans, where you were involved in another shoot-out, this time with the FBI. You are currently also wanted for stabbing a woman in the chest with a knife stolen from the Museum of Natural History in Chicago. Am I missing anything, Mr. Hunt?”
    I hadn’t killed Stanton, the FBI had been shooting at me, not the other way around, and I’d stabbed Denise in the heart in order to save her life, but, aside from those few minor quibbles, he had it all dead to rights. What I didn’t understand was how he knew so much.
    Still, I wasn’t going to cop to being Hunt. Not yet at least.
    I leaned forward in my chair and put as much earnestness into my voice as I could.
    “Look, I told you, I’m not Hunt. Check my driver’s license, you’ll see. Your guys made a mistake. Happens to the best of us. I get it, fine. No harm, no foul. Since I’m blind there’s no way for me to identify you, so how about you just let me go and we can forget this ever happened, all right?”
    Another moment of silence in which I could feel my host studying me, but I didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. I got my answer a moment later when the sound of a dial tone filled the room.
    Speaker phone , I thought.
    A number was dialed and the line was picked up on the other end after just the first ring.
    “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said a spry, female voice.
    Uh oh.
    “I’d like to speak to Agent Doherty,” my host said.
    “Just a moment, please.”
    The receptionist put the call on hold, filling the line with classical music.
    I knew Doherty; knew him far too well. He’d been the one to push for my arrest back in Boston, believing I was the killer the press had dubbed the Reaper, guilty of murders in multiple