Page 10 of Hunter

“Why?”

“It’s not polite to be naked.”

“Beckton, Winslow undress. We shower. We dress.”

She nodded, deciding to take his answer at face value. “It’s okay for men when they’re alone in a locker room. It’s not okay in front of a woman.”

She watched as he moved the towel briskly across his shoulders, then down his lean but muscular body. When she realized she was still staring, she pivoted her body in the other direction.

It dawned on her that she’d just turned her back on someone who had sent a man to the hospital a short time ago. She should be afraid, but she didn’t brace for an attack.

Behind her, the locker door opened. She heard the towel, then the rustling of clothing. When she turned back, he had pulled on a pair of blue jeans. His chest was still bare, and he was rubbing the towel vigorously across his head. Then he ran his hands through the long strands of his hair, combing them back from his face before reaching inside the locker for a dark green knit shirt and pulling it over his head.

As he sat down to pull on socks and running shoes, she framed and rejected several questions.

Again, he took the initiative from her. “The men are afraid to come in here. They are large and strong. You are small and . . .” he stopped and searched for the right word. “Defenseless. But you found the courage,” he said.

“It didn’t take so much courage.”

He looked up in the act of tying his shoe. “You are not telling me the truth.”

She was shocked at the bluntness of his observation.

“Okay. I was afraid at first. Then I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“How?”

“Your eyes,” she said.

He narrowed them, making his expression harder. She wasn’t fooled by the feigned look of aggression.

“I’m not afraid of you. But I’m afraid of what Mr. Emerson might do to you if he doesn’t hear from me soon. I’m going to open the door and tell him I’m all right. Okay?”

Seconds ticked by before he nodded.

She crossed to the door and pulled it open. Emerson and Winslow were where she’d left them—on the far side of the gym. “We’re fine in here,” she called out.

“Bring him out,” Emerson ordered.

“Not yet.”

“Bring him out, or we’re coming in.”

“Give me a few minutes to talk to him.” She closed the door firmly and turned to find John Doe watching her intently.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

“I want to help you.”

He tipped his head to one side, examining her from a slightly different angle. “Nobody wants to help me,” he said in a flat voice. “They want to train me. Like an animal who can do tricks. I have many tricks.”

The harsh words and the level tone sent a great wave of anguish crashing over her. Her face contorted, and unconsciously, she reached out a hand toward him. “I want to be your friend,” she said, realizing that it wasn’t just a ploy to get him to trust her. It was the truth. If anyone had ever needed a friend, it was this man who was so obviously cut off from normal human contact.

He searched her eyes, slipped one hand into his pocket and said nothing more. His posture and his face told her that he wasn’t prepared to believe her.

She asked herself briefly why she cared. Or why she desperately needed to prove the truth of her words. She had no answers, except that she wanted to contact him as one human being who takes responsibility for another. Going on blind instinct, she stood and crossed the room. Warily he watched her progress, but she didn’t stop until she was standing about a foot away. Reaching out, she touched his forearm. She felt the muscles under the fabric of his shirt quiver; otherwise, he stood very still, like an animal sniffing the air for danger.

She moved her hand, the barest caress, and heard him draw in a deep breath.

---