Dark Heart Read Online Free Page A

spun around, weapon ready. His eyes flicked back and forth, but he couldn’t see anything through the rain. That same strong scent that he almost recognized filled the air. It reminded him of the Chinese greasy spoon he always had to walk by to get to Mandy’s Grill.
    Scumbags were scumbags. Mostly they knew not to stalk cops. Unless they were nutzo. But a handful of times, it had happened to him. Not often, and he was still around to talk about it. Still…
    He had fired his gun seven times in the line of duty.
    This was different. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew he wasn’t alone. Something else was here with him. He could sense its animosity, the hot stink of its concentrated regard.
    Something was stalking him. And all his years of experience and training weren’t turning the tables. He stood frozen, basting in his own sweat, his nostrils filled with that bizarre stink.
    And then he laughed. A short, ugly, mocking sound. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. Bad dreams. What the fuck? Acting like some five year old, wetting his Jockey shorts over the monster in the closet.
    He took a deep breath. He holstered his gun and walked back to the skin. Except for the patter of rain, the alley was silent.
    He stared at the waterlogged pile. So what did he have here? Something for the morgue? Or for a veterinarian?
    Suddenly he wanted a tall glass of Jack Daniels, and to hell with the ice. Whatever this thing had been, it hadn’t been human. So it wasn’t a homicide. But he’d never seen or heard of an animal with a skin like this. He stared at it some more.
    All cops are curious. He knew he was, though he would never admit it. No point in making an asshole of himself by calling in backup for a weird skin. But there were people he could call quietly. Bigdomes at the University of Chicago, maybe.
    He thought some more, then squatted down, grunting softly as his knees cracked. He balled up the heavy skin and tucked it beneath his left arm, leaving his right free to draw his weapon. Not that he thought he would need to.
    He was still jittery. The mouth of the alley seemed to be a block away. The distant lights of Dearborn were part of the normal world, a world where you didn’t hear noises that came from nowhere. That was where he needed to be. Not here, in an empty, rain-washed alley that stank like an open grave.
    The back of his neck kept tingling as if somebody was watching him.
    He looked over his shoulder again.
    Still no one.
    But the way the rain was pounding down, someone could be back there. Shit, they could be thirty feet away and he’d barely be able to see them in this mess.
    His eyes flicked from one side of the alley to the other.
    He was no hero. The heroes he knew were mostly dead ones. He preferred to be a live cop. And if a cop wasn’t kicking ass, he’d better be bugging out, oh yeah. But he’d bugged out before and never been this scared.
    Something dragged across the ground just behind him. Madrone stumbled as he tried to turn around.
    “What the fuck…?” He backed toward the lighted street only a few yards away now. Once again he drew his pistol. His hand was shaking, sweating on the grip of his weapon.
    Two hands grabbed his shoulders from behind and Madrone spun, leading with his elbow. The blow whiffed empty air. The owner of the hands—a thin, well-dressed Chinese man wearing a dark suit and sporting gold Armani-framed glasses—ducked and came back up. Madrone grunted, off balance. His assailant jumped closer, grabbed the skin, and yanked, trying to jerk it away.
    The skin was slick and heavy. Madrone almost lost control of it. But his fear boiled away, burned off by a rush of adrenaline. Here at last was something he could see, could strike at, could defeat. This was something he could understand.
    He ducked away from the man’s attack. He wasn’t about to play tug-of-war with some Bruce Lee wannabe. He dropped his shoulder, spun to break the man’s grip on the skin, and used the