Read Red Rider's Hood for Free Online Page A

history.
    Most of Marissa’s time was spent at the library, scouring old newspapers and public records for clues. She discovered the dates and names of people who’d gone missing. She found out which homes were bought and sold during those dark times, and even found out where some of the sellers moved to—hoping that it would lead us to the hunters.
    Me, I didn’t have the patience for that sort of thing. I had to be on the prowl, so I took to the streets in Grandma’s neighborhood. I started mowing lawns and doing other favors for some of Grandma’s older neighbors, getting them to like me and trust me enough—and for me to trust
them
enough—to ask them questions.
    â€œI’ve been in this very house for thirty-six years,” one old-timer said as I helped him take his trash cans out to the curb.
    â€œWow, that’s a long time to live in one place,” I said…then I started meandering around to the real questions. “I hear rumors about weird things that went on way back then.”
    He looked down into his trash can like there was somethinginteresting in there, but I knew he was just avoiding my gaze. “Depends on what you mean by weird.”
    â€œWeird like a couple of hunters.”
    â€œNothing weird about hunters. Lots of folks hunt.”
    â€œWell, I hear these hunters didn’t exactly hunt deer. Or so I heard.”
    He still stared into the trash can, so I pushed just a little further.
    â€œIt makes me wonder where they might be now.”
    â€œDead, I expect,” the old man said. “Hunters of that nature don’t live very long.”
    â€œBut if they are alive, I wonder where they might be…and how a person might be able to get them a message….”
    The old man backed away from the trash can and waved his hand in front of his nose. “Whew, what a stench.” He covered the can with the lid. “Good thing about bad rubbish is you can make the stench go away just by covering it up. It never comes back as long as you keep a tight lid on it.”
    â€œMaybe so,” I told him. “But sometimes the really bad stenches come back.”
    He looked at me then. We both knew we weren’t talking about trash. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled dollar bills, holding them out to me. “Thanks for your help.”
    I didn’t take his money. “My pleasure.”
    I turned to go, but before I got too far, he called to me.
    â€œIf you talk to the right people, maybe your message will get through.”
    I turned to ask him who might the right people be—but he had already gone inside.
    There were a few more folks on the street who had been around for thirty years or more, but they were all like the old man—afraid to talk, like maybe just talking about it would bring the bad times back. Still, I did find out some things. Like how every house on the block had once had silver doorknobs. And how the local playground had become overgrown with wolfsbane that someone had planted years ago. That is, until someone mysteriously torched it just a few months back. Then there was this one crazy old woman who showed me a little lock of hair she kept in a jar of formaldehyde.
    â€œIt came from a werewolf,” she told me, her eyes big as golf balls. “It turns to wolf fur on the full moon.”
    The old woman also said it belonged to Frank Sinatra, but I had serious doubts.
    It was as I rode down Bleakwood Avenue on my way to meet Marissa at the library that I heard the threatening roar of a motorcycle beside me. Before I knew what happened, a Harley, black as a moonless night, cut me off, clipped my front wheel, and sent me flying head over heels onto the pavement, skinning my palms and knees.
    I looked up, fully ready to battle whoever it was, but was stopped by what I saw. There was a black medallion hanging around the cyclist’s neck, dangling heavily against his