Predator and Prey Prowlers 3 by Christopher Golden Page B

in the middle of Quincy Market.
    There were no street performers now, no tourists, no balloons or flower vendors. Only the rustle of overfilled garbage cans in the summer breeze off the harbor, and the cooing of pigeons, and the forlorn forms of one or two homeless people who had found shelter on benches or in doorways.
    And across the wide promenade that separated one long building from another, through the trees that had been planted in the midst of the concrete jungle there, Bill saw him. Just a silhouette, the shape of a man that was a false shape, his outline on the far side of a glass-enclosed restaurant, perhaps a hundred yards away.
    Across the open concourse, even with the flutter of pigeons and the distant sound of car engines, he heard a low laugh.
    With a snarl, Bill ran. Too swiftly to be human, but he didn’t care now. He dared not risk being seen in his true form out here in the open like this, but was not going to worry about some street drifter talking about some guy who moved too fast to be a man.
    The air made a hushed sound as he sliced through it. A long iron and wood bench was in his way, and Bill cleared it in a single hurdle. This place, usually teeming with life, was like some post-apocalyptic landscape now and there was nothing to slow his pace. He reached the spot where the watcher had stood but of course he was gone. Bill raced around in front of the main structure of Quincy Market, the marketplace’s granite steps on the right and the brick colonial grandeur of Faneuil Hall to his left.
    No sign of anyone.
    But the scent lingered.
    And from not far off, the sound of running feet.
    Another growl came, and this time he did not swallow it, but let it out in a rolling thunder that echoed off the buildings around him. His legs pumped beneath him, muscles rippling, and yet still he fought the change. All the questions that rose up in him at the thought of the corpse in his trunk were pushed away. Why would have to wait until he had in his hands the one being who could answer that question.
    He breathed in the Prowler’s scent, and he knew it, but still could not place it.
    Around the corner of Faneuil Hall, he ran past a glass structure that housed a small florist and then he came in sight of Congress Street, the wide avenue that separated the Quincy Market area from Government Center and the ominous concrete behemoth that looked more like a prison than City Hall.
    A lone figure, crouched low, ran in a diagonal line toward the road. Lean and quick, but Bill couldn’t tell any more than that in the dark, from this distance. Despite the lateness of the hour, cars raced by on both sides of Congress Street. Bill swore loudly and kept up his pursuit, though a feeling of dread began to build in him.
    No, no, no, he thought, anger boiling up along with the dread.
    He leaned into the wind, gaining momentum, aware that at his obvious age and size, anyone who spotted him from a passing car would have to remark on his speed, but not caring. He couldn’t be arrested for being fast.
    Fast, he thought, and grunted. Not fast enough.
    For up ahead, a convertible charged through a red light and squealed to a halt at the curb. From that distance, Bill could see that the driver had blond hair, but no more. The Prowler—the creature that had planted that corpse in his trunk—leaped into the passenger seat without opening the door. The tires shrieked as the car accelerated out of there, shooting up Congress Street in the opposite direction.
    “Damn,” Bill whispered as he came to a halt, watching the car disappear. The word came out as a snarl.
    Now he would have to find the answers to his questions on his own. He turned to walk back toward the parking lot where he had left his car. When he reached the alley, the police were waiting for him.
    Only a few blocks from where she had picked Dallas up, Valerie slowed the Mustang down. Not only did she not want to attract the attention of the police, she was just plain