Page 77 of The Devoted Game

Now everyone knew.

Twenty-One

Beale Street

Memphis, Tennessee, 9:15 p.m.

The alley was dirty and dark. His hunger, a beast roaring to be fed. The homeless shelter on the corner was filled to capacity ... there was nowhere left to go for the desperate souls lurking in the night. They would be found here and beneath overpasses in cardboard condos and tents. Anywhere that offered protection from the wind and the rain.

Those who were smart stayed hidden ... kept their eyes and ears closed.

He remained in the shadows and watched. Watching had always been his part ... but it had been different then ... when there had been two. His beloved partner would bring home the prize, and when his pleasure was finished, he was allowed to take what he would. Their love had made the watching and waiting complete. Had, as nothing since, fulfilled him.

Being alone was so very painful, and he had been alone so, so long. There was no one to love him or protect him.

He watched the two men beating the third, taking shoes, clothes, and the precious wallet that perhaps contained enough money to sustain them for a few days. Their needs were too desperate for anything less than barbaric behavior.

The residents in those pretend condos and tattered tents trembled in fear, but not one dared to defend the helpless victim.

The scent of spilled blood reached him, exploded in his nostrils, filled him with need. What he would give for one taste ...

He would have to wait until the other two were finished taking what they would. Then he would take what remained.

It was the only way to fill his needs ... to be satisfied, if only by the tiniest fraction.

Nothing filled him completely ... not since he had lost the other part of himself.

The pain howled through him. He groaned with the force of it. Wrestled it away.

The frantic struggles at the other end of the alley ceased. Those committing the violent acts turned their attention in his direction ... searching for trouble.

He would need to leave now or risk exposing himself.

He could not be exposed at any time for any reason. Not even to assuage his needs the tiniest bit.

Never.

His true identity could not be known until he was dead. Then they would all know the truth.

But he was not ready to die tonight.

He scurried out of the dark alley and onto the well-lit sidewalks of Beale Street and embedded himself within the crowd of tourists heading for their bus.

Hailing a taxi, he resigned himself to the fact that his needs would not be slaked tonight.

Tomorrow night, perhaps.

As he settled into the back seat, he provided the driver with his home address. If he had only caught himself in time to notice how small she was, he could have given another address, a remote one where they were sure to be alone. He could have taken the driver.

He was certain he could have handled her.

But then she could be carrying a weapon ... or pepper spray.

No. It was best to do what he had been trained to do. To watch and take what remained.

Thirty minutes passed before they reached his quiet home on a cul-de-sac surrounded by small, attractive homes where mothers and fathers and children lived their lives as if all were right with the world. As if no harm could ever come their way.

He paid the fare, but no tip. The driver shouted vile names at his back as he strode up the sidewalk. She would never know that he had left her the most valuable tip of all—life.