BooksBarbecue
Back The Trickster
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

A man at the end of the nearest table was leaning out and tugging at Sam’s jacket, as the drink cascaded down his arm and dripped into its own pool on the floor. But the voice only reached Sam in a dream. His consciousness was so thick with the presence of that other being, he was impervious to the man’s concern.

Sam Hunt knew what he was looking at. Lots of bits of him tried to tell him that he didn’t. His eyes told him he was merely looking at a stranger who was staring right back at him.

Staring with a malicious twist to his smile, but just staring nevertheless. And his head, his bone box of reason, told him that the stranger was probably someone Sam had seen before, which was why that nondescript blond face was so familiar, so instantly intimate.

But Sam Hunt knew.

His everyday senses that said look out for the dog crap on the sidewalk, careful with that boiling pan, put your hat flaps down or you’ll lose your ears, those senses could tell him what they wanted. They were all wrong.

He knew.

The guy who cared about wasting good Coke was shaking his head at his wife as Sam let the crushed cup fall and bounce away, splattering the rest of its contents on the tiled floor.

Sam’s arms hung limply by his side, as useless as the rest of his body, caught as it was in the radar of that obdurate gaze. He had never felt so alone. There were at least a hundred people in that barn of a room, but they could have been chocolate bunnies in ski-suits for all the comfort they were affording him right now. No one was going to rush at that man and pull him to the ground with a football tackle. No one was going to raise the alarm with a yell and empty the restaurant. No one. Because it was just a guy in a black coat sitting at a table. That’s all.

But then who can predict a miracle? The seven teenagers who stood up at the next table, rustling and jostling to get their gear together for a last run, performed that miracle. They could have gone out behind Sam. He was, after all, standing within arm’s length of the table, and behind him lay three feet of free passage to the exit. But then kids know little and care less about personal space, never guessing they’re getting in your face until it’s too late and someone ends up throwing a punch. So with the choice facing them of a polite clear passageway or shoving right past the big Indian guy, they chose the latter.