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Back The Trickster Save as PDF
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

Sam fought himself one last time, then, losing the battle, did what he had waited twenty years to do. He put his head back and wailed. The achingly empty wail of grief, shame, fear and pain filled the tunnel, echoing back at them from the hard rock. Calvin Bitterhand bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to shut out that howl of agony. But he could not. He sat and listened to it, taking the pain it caused him like a punishment.

52

‘Sorry. I only got the message half an hour ago that you called.’ She ushered him into the lobby quickly before any of the vultures could get a clear shot of her tear-stained face.

Craig was unsure what to do. Katie had obviously been crying for hours, and his first instinct was to hold her, comfort her. But that was out of the question. Under the circumstances.

She looked up at his face, and gestured at the crudely fixed band-aid on his forehead. ‘What you do?’

‘Fell against the door this morning. Believe that?’

Katie Hunt shrugged. She believed anything now. Anything at all. She looked at Craig’s face and thought how hollow and ill it had gotten since last night. ‘Eaten today?’

‘Sure. I had a late lunch. Sandwich about three-thirty. You?’

Katie shook her head. ‘Ann’s been in most of the day. Trying to feed me and the kids. Didn’t work.’

‘Is she still here?’

‘You tell me. Your guys are watching who comes and goes like this is Alcatraz.’

Craig looked at her steadily, refusing to offer the apology she was seeking. Katie relented. ‘She went about an hour ago. After she helped put the kids to bed.’ She turned and led the way through to the lounge and he followed her silently. The room was uncomfortably tidy. Craig reckoned he knew what Katie’s friend had been busy doing all day. The tools of refuge from crisis or grief; the hoover and the damp cloth.

He sat down uninvited on the long sofa and waited for her to speak. Katie stood in front of the fireplace, her back to the empty grate like a detective in a corny country house drama about to unmask the killer. If only, wished Craig.

‘I haven’t got news if that’s what you’re hoping,’ she said, reading his face. She looked down at her feet and continued in a smaller voice. ‘But I’ve got something.’

‘Uh-huh?’ He sounded weary, not eager.

Katie looked back at him with blue eyes sparkling behind puffy, red skin. ‘Hope.’ She walked over and sat down beside Craig before he had time to respond. ‘You think I’ve gone crazy, don’t you?’

He studied her face. ‘Depends. What’s giving you hope?’

Katie sat back heavily into the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah. Maybe I have gone crazy. But it feels better than yesterday. Yesterday I hated my husband.’