Low Tide

The streets of Key West were quiet, and Connor was ambling home from the grocery store with a plastic bag in each hand. Now that he was fully settled here, he had the route to the grocery store worked out, having traced his footsteps back from the shopping center often enough that he remembered the route home. All in all, he felt like he had a good handle on things.

The Destroyer rounded a corner, watching a bicyclist cross the street ahead of him. He was glad for the mild weather. It was a relief to shake Chicago's cold out of his bones. He hadn't figured out all the trouble spots yet, but in a place this small, he didn't suppose that would take long.

Trouble often found people on Duval Street. The long, rambunctious strip was home to hotels, cafes, bars, restaurants, and shopping outlets. Even a few art galleries were tucked between the rowdier places. It was a street that came alive after sunset. Groups of women stumbled from place to place, intoxicated and sunburned, their arms linked as they strolled under the awnings. Motorcycles roared. Laughter bubbled from patios where people drank margaritas and beer on tap. Everywhere, there was music.

John walked the block from Sloppy Joe's to Fat Tuesday's. His physical appearance didn't stick out. He was better dressed than some, but the mop of messy, black hair kept him casual. It was his quiet observation that was noteworthy, the slow gait and lack of friends or a lover on his arm. He kept his hands to himself and his remarks to a minimum. He held open a door for a couple of happy women and kept going.

( I See You )

( Trespassing )