Spiritwalk Read Online Free Page B

was the position in which the headbeam of the chopped-down 1958 Harley-Davidson caught her. The big motor whined down as its rider brought the machine to a halt. He shut off the engine, but the headbeam stayed on, as he had it wired to the bike’s accessory terminal. With just a six-volt battery powering it, he had about fifteen minutes of light. Kicking out the stand, he rested the Harley’s weight on it.
    “Hey.”
    The voice was gentle, but she didn’t look up. The rider took off his black helmet and laid it on the seat of the Harley, then stepped cautiously toward her, approaching her as though she were a wild animal that would flee at the slightest provocation. His gaze darted left and right, looking for whatever had left her in this condition, but the night was quiet. The only sound was the creak of his boots as he knelt down by her, close, but not close enough to frighten her.
    “Hey,” he said again. “How bad are you hurting?”
    This time she looked up. She saw a broad-shouldered man, the eagle of a Harley T-shirt stretched tight against a weight lifter’s build. His jeans were greasy, his boots black. His face was roughly sculptured, as though an artist had roughed it out in clay but never gone back to finish it. Long black hair was drawn back in a ponytail. He cast a shadow that stretched out long in front of him, almost touching her.
    “P-please...” she mumbled as though it were the only word she knew. Where was her name? Where was her past?
    She knew enough to know that she should have one, but while she could remember a thousand details about the world, anything personal was simply a blank.
    “Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore,” the man said.
    He reached a hand out to her and she cringed back. The tightly closed fist opened convulsively and a small round white disc fell on the grass between them. Moving slowly, he picked it up and held it up to the light thrown by the Harley’s headbeam.
    “Shit,” he said, looking at that bone disc. His gaze returned to her. “Where did you get this?”
    Fear filled her eyes. “I... I don’t know.”
    “That’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you. What’s your name?”
    Tears brimmed. “I don’t know.”
    He studied her for a long moment. She was pretty in a way he couldn’t define—not any one thing on its own, but everything together. There was a tanned glow to her skin. Her hair was a chestnut red and tied back in a French braid. She wore jeans and a white blouse with a frill around the neckline. Adidas on her feet. No purse. The big green-gray eyes, wet with tears, regarded him, still afraid.
    “I know I don’t look like much,” he said, “but I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that I won’t hurt you. Tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there, okay?”
    “I don’t... I don’t have anyplace....” The words were barely a whisper.
    “You’re scared, right?”
    Numbly, she nodded.
    “Do you want to try to trust me?”
    A weak shrug.
    “You can’t stay here on your own.”
    “But I... I...”
    This time he moved forward, and as the flood of tears broke, he held her against his shoulder. At first she went stiff and pushed weakly at him, but he was too strong. Then she went limp in his arms.
    “Everything’s going to work out,” he said. “It usually does—though it doesn’t seem like it at the time.” He spoke soothingly, as though to a wounded animal. “My name’s Blue—funny name for a guy, right? But you should hear what my old lady saddled me with....”
    2
    In the bedroom of her small chalet in Old Chelsea, Emma Fenn woke suddenly to lie staring up at the pooling shadows of her bedroom ceiling. The three-room building creaked to itself. Outside, choruses of crickets and frogs vied with each other. In the combination living room/kitchen, the metal hands of the old mantel clock above the fireplace were edging toward midnight.
    Emma had owned the chalet for a short enough time to still wake each morning