Predator

She looked up thoughtfully.

“I can tell you who I respect. Roy Mazur. A good guy. About as down-to-earth as they come. There are a couple of others, but he’s the nicest. Only… I feel sorry for him sometimes.”

Cross paused with his fork in his hand and looked up.

“Why?”

“His father, Kacper Mazur, is a big shot at the bank,” Maggie sighed. “He expected his son to follow in his footsteps, wear suits. But Roy… he’s happy up to his elbows in grease.”

Cross raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Where does he work?”

“A garage on the edge of town. An old hangar. He’s there from morning till night.”

Cross nodded, slowly finishing the piece of meat.

“Interesting…”

“Who else would you like to hear about?”

Cross gave a quick smile.

“Who else do you respect, Mrs. Maggie? And who don’t you respect?”

After lunch, Cross went to see Roy.

“Hi. I’m Chris.”

“Roy,” the man said, taking off a glove. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking around. People say you know what you’re doing. I’d like to settle here.”

“What can you do?”

“Sell. I’ve already made a couple of moves.”

“Interesting. Come on in.”

Cross stepped into the workshop. His eye caught the rusty parts, wheel rims, and cans hanging on the walls. An old leather sofa stood in the corner with its legs splayed out. Farther in were a table and a stove. Roy offered him a chance to warm up, but Cross declined.

“I still need to find somewhere to live.”

“I understand. So?”

“I’m from New York.”

“What brought you here?”

“Things worked out that way. But I’ve already met Hart.”

“Seriously?”

“I can sell his cars for him. And you can tell me who needs them.”

Roy took a drag on his cigarette and looked into the distance.

“Is that how you’re planning to make money?”

“No. I need a car.”

“You think he’ll give you a car for bringing him a customer?” Roy grinned.

“To use for a while,” Cross clarified.

“Right. Well, in that case… We could work something out. If you really know how to sell, we can work together.”

“Then we’ll work out a deal of our own. What do you say?”

Roy looked him over, weighing him up. Cross had expected that look and met it without flinching, as he did with everyone he encountered. Always. He was used to it by now. Used to winning.

In preparation for his new mission, he had bought clothes suited to his current position. Simpler than what his body was accustomed to, but still well made and chosen with taste. New clothes, a new name, a new life. But the same old habits and manners, impossible to conceal beneath an ordinary exterior. He could neither hide them nor get rid of them. Everything about him spoke of reliability and confidence. It was impossible not to sense it, even when he said nothing.

For a while, the men looked at each other without speaking. Roy weighed his suspicions. Cross brought his charisma to bear.

In the end, the mechanic agreed to work with him.

After Cross left, Roy sat thinking for a while longer. What did he stand to lose, anyway? Nothing. And the possibilities were real enough. There was something about this guy… something strange. He wasn’t ordinary, wasn’t like everyone else. As though he came from another world. And he clearly hadn’t come to their godforsaken little town looking for work or simply to settle down… There was something else behind it, Roy thought. And that intrigued him.

Chapter 7

First on the list the mechanic had given him was a farmer named Bob Colton. Cross immediately felt he should start with him. In places like this, a head-on approach wasn’t the way to go. First, you had to come around from the side and get a sense of the person.

It was a little after eleven. The sun hung low, and the damp winter air surrounded him on all sides. The ground smelled of moisture and last year’s leaves. Cross turned toward the house at the address he had been given, where a half-rotten fence and barking greeted him. To one side stood a shelter with hay bales neatly stacked beneath it. The barn seemed closed, but someone was at a window in the house. A curtain shifted slightly.

A dirty-white dog with a wet nose was the first to come running out, barking as it headed toward Cross.

“Hey… Easy…” Cross raised a hand without stepping back. “I’m not here for you, buddy.”

A man appeared in the doorway. Tall and powerfully built, his jacket open, his expression as gloomy as the sky above him.

“What do you want?” he asked, not loudly, but firmly.

“My name’s Chris. I’m here on business. Thought we could talk, if you’re not busy.”

The man glanced at the dog and gave a short whistle. Whimpering, it retreated to the porch. Then he approached without hurrying. His broad hand felt rough in their firm handshake. Cross noticed the attentive way he was looking at him.

“Bob. I’m listening.”

“I’m new in town. Just arrived, and I’d like to stay. I was told you’re reliable and well respected around here. I wanted to meet you.”

Bob’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he gave a small smile. He hadn’t expected that.

“Well… thank you. Come in.”

A pickup stood in the yard, a blue Chevy with peeling paint, a cracked window, and rust eating into the side of its bed. Cross glanced over the body.

“Yours?”

“Whose else would it be?” Bob grunted.

They went inside. Warm air met them immediately, along with the appetizing smells of fried onions and chicken, mingled with the scent of ashes from the fireplace. The living room was simple, with a rug on the wooden floor and worn furniture around it. But it was clean and comfortable in its own way.

Colton took off his jacket and pointed to a chair.

“Go on, then. Tell me. Just don’t say you’re looking for somewhere to hang out. You don’t look much like a farmer.” He grinned and examined Cross’s hands. “Too well groomed.”

Cross sat down and leaned back.

“I’m a salesman. I can sell anything. My brother runs a farm too… Raises bulls for meat. I make connections.”

Bob looked interested.

“Oh, meat? How’s business?”

“Steady. He’s got his sales channels established.”

“I see.” Colton nodded. “I’ve got bulls too. Thirty head. Kept twenty-six for the winter. Already sold a couple.”

Cross leaned forward a little, looking at him seriously.

“Who do you sell to?”

“Places around here. Whoever wants something, I supply it. If I can sell it, I sell it. If not, I freeze it. Handle it all myself. Where are you from?”

“A long way away. My family’s in the Balkans. I’ve come out here for now…” Cross let the words trail off as he looked around the room.

“To America, you mean?”

There was a pause. Bob went to the sideboard and took out a bottle and two glasses. Without asking, he poured, studying his guest as he did.

“I’ve been here a long time, but I only arrived in your town today. I don’t want big cities. I like the quiet. Thought I’d give it a try.”

Once again, as usual, Cross found himself being weighed up on someone’s private scales. He leaned back in his chair and let his host take all the time he wanted.

The farmer cleared his throat and sat opposite him at the table. He asked what Chris could offer him and what his plans were.

“I’ll help you reach more buyers. New stores, cafés, private customers. For a percentage,” Cross replied. He took out a pack of cigarettes and silently asked whether he could smoke. Given permission, he flicked his lighter and took a drag. Bob slid his drink toward him.

“If it works out, you’ll get your share. But watch what you promise, son. This isn’t New York.”

Cross picked up the glass. A sharp but warm smell rose to his nose. He took a sip and was quiet for a moment.

“No, it isn’t New York. Thank God.”

They laughed almost at the same time. Bob relaxed, then looked at him again.

“So how are you planning to get into business when you’ve only just arrived?”

“Well, I’m sitting in your living room right now… That’s a start too.”

The farmer watched him without speaking for a minute, then grinned.

“Keeping it simple, then? Just showing up for a conversation?”

“That’s how any business starts,” Cross said, taking a sip without looking away from Bob.

“Agreed. Tell me where you start. With your brother’s business, for example?” the farmer asked, narrowing his eyes a little.

Cross set his glass on the table, cleared his throat, and gathered his thoughts. It was perfectly fair to test whether he knew what he was doing.

“First, let me ask: is all your paperwork in order? Nothing in a gray area?”

The farmer smiled and nodded.

“How you slaughter the cattle, whether the meat meets the standards… If everything’s in order, I’ll collect copies of the documents and put together a price list. We’ll agree on my percentage and the other details, and I’ll start looking.” He lifted his chin slightly. “And I’ll find buyers. Believe me.”

The farmer regarded his guest with a pleased expression, his face serious but his eyes smiling. Like the others, he felt there was something about this stranger that he could understand, something appealing that inspired trust. But feelings were feelings, and there was still reason to be cautious.

“No problem. I’ll give you the documents, and we’ll see what you can do, my friend. See how we work together.”

“Let’s give it a try.”

“Found somewhere to live?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we’ll find something if you need it. Greyfield doesn’t bite.”

They talked a little longer, then got up and headed for the door. Bob paused there and suddenly asked:

“Listen… Have you been to Hart’s?”

Cross stopped as though he had been waiting for the question.

“I have. This morning. Saw a few things I liked. Speaking of your car, he’s got a 2014 Ford, a Dodge… Miles better than yours. And not expensive.”

Colton shrugged.

“His prices are steep. I stay away.”

“What if I work something out? A discount, installments. Say, you give me a chance with your sales, and I help you get a car?”

Bob narrowed his eyes, grinned, and pointed at him.

“You little devil… You’ve already worked something out, haven’t you?”

“Well… I know how to talk to people.”

“And I like that,” Colton grunted. “When you come back, we’ll drop by Hart’s. See what I’ll be driving by spring.”

“Deal.”

Cross nodded and went through the gate, casting a farewell glance at the dog, now silent, as though it too was wondering whether it had just met a salesman.

He left the farmer’s house, fastening his jacket as he walked, and headed back along the same street. A faint smile lingered on his face, but faded after a few steps as the town reminded him of its familiar silence. It was as though someone had taken away all sound, leaving only the occasional gust striking the sagging wires. Dogs barked behind fences, and gates creaked on their hinges with each gust. Deep in the yards, sparrows tapped their beaks against a tin trough, while an old chain on a gate thrashed in the air as though vainly trying to tear loose and escape.

Winter on the outskirts was never clean. The snow lay not as a white carpet, but mixed with grime from the highway and everyday dust. Trees along the edges stretched upward, weary of holding up their bare skeletons. It was past noon, yet the sun still hadn’t ventured out from behind the opaque, milky sky, which resembled frozen glass. The wind was growing stronger, lashing out in sharp gusts as though determined to wipe the smile from his face altogether.

Cross walked without hurrying, having decided to take a proper look around. Passing wooden houses blackened by damp, along a sidewalk where snow had long since mixed with earth to become a heavy brownish-gray slush, he kept noticing details. Even in these circumstances, the businessman in him was still alive. He thought about what he might open here once all this was over, once the bet paid off, once Lance’s million stopped weighing on him.

He smiled at his own thoughts and stopped. A dog barked in the backyard of the neighboring house, and another flashed past behind it, white, with a broken leash. Farther ahead, two elderly women in headscarves walked arm in arm, talking quietly. As he drew level with them, they looked at him with interest.

“Good afternoon,” he said, nodding.

“And to you, young man,” one replied with a broad, kind smile.

He walked on.

At the corner, beside a shabby newsstand, he stopped, took out a couple of dollars, and approached. A boy of about sixteen sat inside in a puffer jacket, his fluffy chestnut fringe falling over his forehead, his hands tucked into mittens.

“Hi. Got the latest issue?”

“Sure do. Still smells of the printing press.”

Cross smiled, took a newspaper, and handed him the money.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam. I sort of work here. Who are you?”

“A visitor,” he replied, stepping away. He unfolded the paper, automatically scanned the financial column, read a couple of paragraphs, and continued on his way.

“Next on the list…” he murmured. “The couple from Houston. Number thirty-six. Right, should be somewhere across the street.”

He crossed the road and nearly slipped halfway over, his sole sliding across a thin layer of ice. Instinctively, he stepped aside and raised a hand. At that same moment, a dark sedan braked beside him.

The young woman at the wheel looked him over instantly, like a scanner. There was no alarm on her face, only a quick assessment: had he hurt himself, should she get out, did she need to stop? He dipped his head in apology. She nodded and seemed about to smile, then changed her mind. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then she slowly drove on.

He turned away and looked up at the four-story building before him. There were three such buildings here, plain and old, with peeling mailboxes. The other homes in the neighborhood were detached houses. He walked around, looking over the parked cars. They all seemed cut from the same cloth: worn out, lopsided, and hopeless. They belonged in a junkyard, though their owners would hardly agree, he thought, stepping into a little shop tucked into the building’s shadow.

The sign read: “Two croissants and a free coffee.”

He said hello and placed a couple of dollars on the counter.

“I’ll have a coffee, then.”

“Hello, sir. Coming right up,” replied the shopkeeper, a friendly man of about sixty whose eyes held more energy than those of half the young people around here.

He placed two croissants before Cross, neatly wrapped in crisp paper. Cross partly unwrapped one, raised an eyebrow, and couldn’t help grinning. He tucked one into his backpack, almost laughing at himself. This was what hunger did to a man.

A couple of minutes later, he was sitting at a small table by the window, sipping coffee and lazily turning the newspaper pages as though he had an entire Sunday ahead of him.

But ahead of him were Roy and the next step.

Just as Cross, warmed by the coffee and sustained by the croissant, was getting ready to leave, a young woman with disheveled hair rushed into the shop and began shouting from the doorway.

“Damn it, you poisoned my boyfriend! I’ll sue you and get your fucking shop shut down!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded the owner, the same man who had so warmly made coffee for the newcomer a short while earlier.

She flung an empty milk carton onto the counter and shouted:

“Look at the expiration date!”

The man glanced at the cut-open carton, its edges crusted with dried milk.

“Why don’t you dig through the trash and bring me last year’s bottles while you’re at it? Have you lost your mind? Call the inspectors if you want. There’s nothing expired on my shelves!” He glanced at Cross and raised his chin slightly.

“What? I’ll smash this whole place up!” she threatened, striding toward the refrigerated dairy display.

Cross stood rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly open, watching the scene unfold.

The shopkeeper darted around the counter and after her, reaching the display in time to stand with his back against the glass. Behind it were bottles of milk, pieces of cheese, cream, and other products.

“Get out before I call the police!”

“Do you know who you’re threatening? If I call them now, you’ll really be in trouble!”

“Call them!”

“Oh, is that how it is?”

“I’d rather pay a fine than fall for your tricks!”

The young woman laughed triumphantly, then turned to the only witness.

“Did you hear that?”

“Me?” Cross snapped out of it. “I was actually about to leave. Don’t drag me into your argument.”

With that, he headed for the exit.

But in the doorway, he walked straight into the local sheriff’s chest. The man came in so abruptly that he almost pushed Cross back inside, then closed the door behind him.

“What’s going on here?” he asked in the tone of a man to whom everyone here was answerable.

“Sir, this shopkeeper poisoned my boyfriend, and he nearly died! The carton’s right there! And he attacked me when I complained!”

Cross closed his eyes. Oh, fuck. Not this…

“Who attacked you? I attacked you?” the shopkeeper shouted, turning to Cross. “Sir, tell him I’m right and this woman is lying!”

“He saw you run at me! You saw everything, didn’t you?”

The sheriff turned his gaze on Cross.

“Sir, can you confirm either account?”

Cross paused before finally speaking.

“The thing is, they’re both right. And they’re both wrong.”

Silence followed. The sheriff slowly removed his glasses, keeping his expression in check.

“Explain.”

“I… um… can only offer an opinion.”

“Just tell me what happened between these two people.”

At that moment, two more customers entered the shop. The sheriff apologized and asked them to wait outside. They nodded and left. Then he turned back to Cross.

“The woman came in with a complaint. She probably had grounds for it. She put down an empty carton from a product she’d used. The shopkeeper disputed that it had been expired. An argument broke out. In the heat of the moment, she threatened to go after the other products and headed for the refrigerator. He stood in her way. I saw no blow or physical contact. Then you arrived.”

“I was protecting my stock! All I did was stop her from ruining it! I never touched her!” the shopkeeper added.

The sheriff turned to the young woman, who gestured with her index finger.

“I’d like to see how you’d react if someone close to you nearly died because of somebody else! I came here with a complaint, not to ask a favor!”

“I completely agree,” Cross said, nodding.

Why did I even come in here? he wondered. All he had wanted was a croissant and coffee.

“So you threatened to destroy Mr. Jobson’s stock, and he was protecting his property?” the sheriff asked.

“Exactly!” Jobson confirmed, giving Cross a grateful look.

“You’re all in on this together!” the young woman snapped. “I brought evidence, you know!”

“Do you have proof that the product was bought here, and that it had already expired when you bought it?” the sheriff asked.

“It was yesterday. Look at the date. It expired three days ago!” She moved toward the counter.

“Don’t touch it.” The sheriff stopped her. “A forensic examiner will examine the carton if a case is opened.”

“It will be. I intend to pursue a case,” she said confidently, turning to the shopkeeper. He went pale.

“Bear in mind that if you can’t prove you bought the product here after it had expired, you could be fined for making a false accusation.”

“Of course she can’t!” Jobson exclaimed.

“That’s what an investigation is for. Let them check everything on your shelves!” the young woman insisted.

“That isn’t directly related to this incident. Miss…?”

“Bellington. Sarah Bellington. Why isn’t it related?”

“Only indirectly. Do you have a receipt? If you’re willing, we can go to the station and fill out the paperwork.”

Then he turned to Cross.

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll need to sign a witness statement too.”

“I’ve already told you everything. If possible, I’d like to sign it here. I need to go. Sorry.”

“I didn’t bring the receipt… But I bought it here. I know I did,” the young woman said more quietly, lowering her eyes. The shopkeeper smirked and shook his head.

Cross had already turned toward the exit, but he stopped and suddenly turned back to them.

“Sorry to interfere… May I suggest an alternative? Explain how I see the situation?”

“Please do, Mr.…?” the sheriff asked.

“Back. Chris Back.”

“Sheriff Chain Hamilton. We’re listening.”

Cross glanced at the shopkeeper and the young woman.

“You’ll both lose. Miss Bellington, you’re unlikely to prove the milk had already expired when you bought it. You have no receipt, and as far as I can see, there are no security cameras. Just one at the entrance.” He briefly looked around the shop, glancing at its owner, then addressed the young woman again. “You’d need a witness like me. But I haven’t seen many customers coming through, and most likely you won’t find anyone.”

He turned to the shopkeeper.

“And you, Mr. Jobson, will lose if an inspection finds even one expired product. Even something minor could cause trouble for you. You’re both taking a risk. Neither of you will come out a winner.”

The sheriff stepped back and slowly looked over the display. The room went still again.

“I suggest you come to an agreement. Here and now,” Cross added calmly.

“I’m willing… Why do we need all this trouble, Miss Bellington?” Jobson immediately replied, his voice gentle.

She bit her lip, looked around, and spoke more quietly.

“I really did buy it here… But perhaps it wasn’t yesterday.”

“And you forgot to put the milk in the refrigerator?” Cross suggested gently, a slight smile on his lips.

The sheriff studied her, then turned the same searching look on Cross.

Meanwhile, the shopkeeper continued:

“Let me offer you two cartons of fresh milk and three hundred grams of cheese. It’s excellent, a new Dutch cheese. Just arrived. Nobody’s tried it yet. Would you like some?”

“Is this a bribe?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s a treat,” the man replied calmly. His voice had taken on a pleasant, soothing quality, as though he were speaking to a child. “And you gentlemen should try it too. Tell me what you think.”

The sheriff smiled.

“Thank you, Mr. Back.” He held out his hand to Cross.

“You’re welcome.” Cross shook it. “May I go?”

“Yes, of course. We’ll find you if we need you.”

“I’m not hard to find,” Cross said, giving the others a brief nod before heading for the door.

“Would you like a ride?” the sheriff called after him.

“I think I’ll walk, sir. Thank you.”

Cross stepped outside.

The cold air felt gentle and welcome. He walked on, but about twenty meters later, the sheriff’s pickup caught up with him.

“Sir? Mr. Back, won’t you let me give you a ride after all? It would give us a chance to get better acquainted. I can see you’re not from around here. You’ve made me curious.”

He drove slowly, leaning toward the open window and speaking persuasively, his voice slightly raised.

Cross stopped, looked at the sheriff, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then he walked around the truck, opened the door, and sat beside him.

“I’m not heading anywhere in particular. Just looking around, Chief,” Cross said, glancing at the officer. “So you choose where we go.”

“Where are you from, sir?”

Cross scratched his eyebrow. A cop is a cop, not a farmer or a mechanic. Better not take chances with him.

“Ever heard of Cross Begovich?”

The sheriff thought for a moment, then gave him a quick look.

“I’ve heard something, but I can’t quite remember where…”

“Well, that’s me. But I don’t want to draw attention to myself around here by using my name. Can I count on you?” Cross held his gaze, watching him closely.

“No problem. Unless it becomes absolutely necessary, you can count on my support.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell you why right away, so there won’t be any questions.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

They drove slowly along the town street.

“Let’s put it this way… I’m looking around incognito, seeing what I could set up here, while also working on my survival skills.” Cross leaned back in his seat and sighed.