Page 9 of Hunter

“It’s shorted out.”

“Damn.”

She was only wasting time, she told herself as her gaze swept the room. At the far end, was an exit to the outside of the building. Through the glass she could see several of the men in blue uniforms standing guard. So presumably Doe hadn’t escaped.

Trying to ignore the pulse pounding in her temple, she marched to the door on her right, pulled it open, and found herself facing an ordinary dressing room, about fourteen feet square. Gray metal lockers lined two of the walls, and wooden benches were positioned in front of them. The air smelled like damp towels and male bodies, but the room was empty. The only exit was an archway at the back from which she saw steam billowing and heard running water.

It appeared that John Doe had beaten one man unconscious and decked several others—and now he was calmly taking a shower.

Before she could change her mind, she stepped into the locker room and felt the door swing shut behind her. Seconds later, she heard the water stop. God, what was she doing, she suddenly wondered, glancing from the shower room to close the door and back again? Coming in here alone might be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done.

She wanted to bolt from the room. But she remembered the face of the man on the road. She’d seen a bleakness behind his eyes that had wrenched at her heart. No wonder, when you considered the implications of Emerson and Winslow’s callous conversation.

Instead of running away, she crossed the tile floor on unsteady legs and dropped quickly onto one of the benches.

There was no noise from inside the shower room besides the steady dripping of water. And she could see nothing beyond the billowing steam.

“Hello?” she called.

No answer.

“Hello. It’s Kathryn Kelley. Do you remember me? We met while you were on your run. I’m in the locker room.”

She sat staring into the mist, wondering if he had heard. Or if he even remembered her, for that matter, she thought with a jolt. If they’d been feeding him mind-altering drugs, there was no telling what they’d done to him.

After several seconds she saw a form moving indistinctly in the vapor. A tall, man-shaped form. Moving closer. Moving slowly on feet that were silent as a cat. Then he stepped through the doorway and into the locker room, and she couldn’t hold back a gasp. A towel was draped across his shoulders. Otherwise, he was as naked as the day he was born.

She saw her own feeling of shock mirrored on his face as he came to an abrupt halt, staring at her with a mixture of recognition and astonishment. Well, he remembered her, all right. Apparently, their meeting had been as unique for him as it had been for her.

The disbelief vanished as he continued to regard her, standing comfortably with his feet several inches apart. He was tall and intimidating, towering over her where she huddled on the bench. Droplets of water clung to his skin. His dark hair was wet, making it look almost black.

“You were with McCourt,” he said, his features filling with a roiling mixture of emotions before he got control of them.

She struggled to keep her posture relaxed as she looked up at him. He had been compelling in running shorts and a tee shirt. Naked he reminded her of Michelangelo’s David. And he stood with the same unconscious nobility, as if nudity were the norm and she was overdressed in her beige skirt and jade silk blouse. His shoulders were broad, his hips lean, his stomach flat. And his sex was proportioned to inspire some very erotic fantasies.

But this was no time for fantasies or recklessness. One wrong move and she could be in serious trouble. The two of them were alone, and he could hurt her if he wanted, she reminded herself. The thought of rape leaped into her mind, to be dismissed at once. He wasn’t looking at her like a would-be rapist. In fact, he didn’t look as if he were trying to embarrass her or make a point about a woman invading the guys’ locker room. There was no smirk on his face—only an expression that had become carefully neutral.

Still, she swallowed hard, resisting the impulse to put more space between them. Dragging her eyes upward, she saw a narrow slash along his ribs that looked like a recent knife wound. There were other injuries to his olive-colored flesh, all of which appeared to have been inflicted within the past few months, judging from their color. He’d taken a lot of physical punishment, and the knowledge made her throat tighten.

She wasn’t sure what she expected him to say. When he spoke, his words were a shock. “Why are you sad?” he asked, picking up on the emotion she had neglected to hide. She knew then, that whatever else he was, he was very good at reading people.

Her gaze moved higher still and collided with his dark, almost black eyes. They held a kind of aching vulnerability that made her fingers curl around the edge of the bench. “I... I was thinking about how you got all those injuries.”

“Fighting. Or sometimes they hit me,” he said, his voice even as if his words were of no importance.

She winced. “Like Beckton?”

He nodded gravely.

“This time he made you angry?”

The naked man didn’t answer. But she could tell he was considering the question as his gaze turned inward.

Seconds ticked by. Her mind raced as she remembered what Emerson had said about him. She didn’t want to accept the claim that he was a criminal. But she could believe the parts about his memories having been stolen. His present behavior was enough to convince her that he lacked a basic understanding of the social interactions of Western society. Either that, or he was a master at faking total unconcern for his state of undress.

Well, it might be natural for him to be conducting an extended conversation in his birthday suit. It was hardly the social norm for her.

“You have to put some clothes on,” she said, watching his face. It was as innocent as a child’s.

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