But Corinne hadn't crumbled. Not under the cruelty of Dragos or the depravity of Henry Vachon. Not even afterward, in the face of Victor Bishop's unconscionable betrayal. She was a stout-hearted warrior in a petite, five-foot-four frame.
All for love of her child.
Now that Hunter knew the source of her determination and courage, it only made him respect her more. He truly did want to see her happy. He hoped against all logic and reason that she could reunite with her son without the tears and anguish Hunter dreaded was waiting for her. Delivered by his own hand.
He expelled a curse, low under his breath.
As if his knowledge of Mira's vision wasn't enough to haunt him, in drinking Corinne's blood, Hunter had added another weight to his shoulders. He'd told her that her blood had yielded nothing useful to them in searching for her son, but there had been ... something. It had been only a small fact, but a potentially crucial one. Precisely what it was, he wasn't yet certain. Locked in her memory of the day she gave birth to her son was a partial sequence of numbers, recited by one of the attending Minions in the delivery room. It had been a casual recitation of digits, and an incomplete one at that, cut off from Corinne's consciousness when she was administered a strong sedative soon after her baby had been born and removed from the room.
What the numbers signified, Hunter didn't know. It could be anything; it could be nothing at all. But he'd given them to Gideon along with the encrypted data files and scanned lab records, instructing the warrior to report back if the sequence returned a match of any kind. Hunter wasn't sure what outcome he hoped for more: a confirmation for Corinne that they'd finally located her son, or no success connecting the sequence to anything useful. Nevertheless, he should have told Corinne what he'd found, whether or not it created false hope for her. He wanted to spare her that if he could.
If he could, he'd like to spare her every pain for the rest of her life. He ran a hand over his head and let himself slide down into a crouch in the corner of the room. As he lowered to his haunches, he noticed a dark rectangular object lying on the floor just under the foot of the bed.
The leather file pouch Corinne had retrieved from the box truck earlier that morning. Amid the all-too-pleasant distraction of their love-making, he had managed to overlook this piece when he'd gotten in touch with the compound regarding the rest of Dragos's lab records. Now he reached for the pouch and pulled out its contents.
Yellowed paper files and handwritten notes comprised the bulk of it, but it was the weathered, book-size black ledger that caught his eye and wouldn't let go. He set the pouch and paper files down on the floor beside him, then opened the cover of the ledger. A jagged scrawl crept across the top of the first page.
Subject No. 862108102484
Hunter stared at the string of numbers. It wasn't familiar to him. Not any part of the sequence he'd given Gideon, nor anything he'd ever seen before.
And yet his blood seemed to cease flowing in his veins, his limbs going cold. He turned to the next page.
Date of Record: 08 August 1956. 04:24 AMResult: Successful live birth of Gen One subject, first to gestate full termStatus: Hunter Program - Initiated
Hunter stared at the page until the
letters blurred together and a din started up in his head. He flipped farther into the ledger, scanning the later entries, his mind absorbing facts and data even as his conscience struggled to blot the details out.
Holy hell ...
He was looking at the birth record and developmental progress of the very first Hunter successfully created in Dragos's labs.
Him.
Corinne woke up and stretched her arm across the bed, searching for Hunter's warmth. He wasn't there.
"Hunter?" She sat up in the dark of the bedroom, nothing but the chatter of the surrounding swamps filtering in from the window. "Hunter, where are you?"
When no answer came from anywhere, she climbed off the bed and slipped back into her clothes. Her shoes were on the floor near the foot of the bed ... and not far from where they lay was the leather file pouch from Dragos's laboratory records.
Its contents were spilled onto the floor, papers scattered in careless disarray. The sight of that dumped file put a strange knot in her throat. That, and the fact that Hunter was gone without a word.
She stepped into her shoes and padded quietly out of the bedroom. Amelie's television still chattered from behind her closed door at the end of the hallway, but the rest of the house was silent, empty.
"Hunter?" she whispered, knowing if he was there, his keen Breed hearing would pick up even the smallest sound as she trailed through the house toward the back screen door of the kitchen.
Where had he gone?
She guessed she probably knew. Stepping outside to the back stoop, she peered into the shadows of the swamp, which concealed the white box truck parked several dozen yards into the thicket. The grass was crisp underfoot, the night air damp and briny in her nose. She trudged through it, rubbing off the chill that was soaking through her skin and into her bones. When she reached the truck, she found the back latch open. The double doors gapped at the center, nothing but darkness behind their battered white panels with the faded moving company signage spattered with swamp muck and dried blood from the night before. "Hunter, are you in here?"
She pulled the panels wider and peered inside. A light bulb mounted to the interior ceiling clicked on by itself. Then she saw Hunter, seated at the far back of the trailer, barefoot and shirtless, his borrowed nylon track pants riding halfway up his glyph- marked calves. His elbows rested on his updrawn knees, hands and head hanging loosely.
He glanced up at her, and the empty look in his golden eyes made her heart give a lurching heave behind her rib cage. "What's wrong?"