Chapter 8

I left for a place I had never visited before, deep in the heart of Santa Barbara. I put on a big jacket, a pair of reading glasses that I didn't necessarily need for reading, and a beanie. All this, combined with my thick beard, achieved a pretty convincing disguise. I was not Jake Berenson anymore. I was just another somebody heading to the watering hole.

It was dark out, but the dutiful street lamps guided me through. People passed, but nobody took any notice, even those who breezed by so close that I could smell the expensive perfumes.

I arrived at my destination and strolled through the doorway. The establishment's heat was a little overbearing, but I would refuse to remove my jacket, such was my awareness of being recognized. Granted, I didn't spot anybody that I knew. With that relief, I made a straight line for the bar.

The clink of glasses and the chatter of the people was a very welcome familiarity. I took my place on a stool and clasped my hands together on the counter, awaiting service. It came quickly, the bartender instantly spotting a new face.

"Good evening," the well-groomed man said.

"Evening," I replied, adding a slight gruffness to my voice. "Double-shot of your best whiskey, please. No ice."

He did as I expected any bartender to do. He looked me over and decided that I didn't look particularly old. "Do you have any ID, sir?"

Without hesitation, I reached a hand to my back pocket and retrieved my new second-hand wallet. I bypassed the old receipts that weren't mine and found the slot where I kept the driving license. I handed it to the bartender, who took a glance and decided it was enough evidence. "Thank you," he uttered, and I retrieved the license.

Caleb Robinson was a bit embarrassed by the less-than-flattering mug shot, so he hated showing his ID.

That was the story. That was who I was to the world. Self-employed. I recently bought a new place just a couple of towns away. My favorite color was green, and I broke my right leg when I was fifteen years old.

The bartender delivered my drink, and I clutched at the tumbler lovingly. Then I lifted it, placed my nose over the rim of the glass, and was lavished with the scent. I had missed that old friend.

Sitting alone at the bar, I watched the rest of the clientele go about their business. As the night progressed, some familiar though unacquainted faces appeared. People that I had seen on television or in important gatherings. There was just one that I had spoken to before, and our eyes met for one brief moment, but he turned away.

I started to wonder when I would next be able to speak to somebody as myself. Would Jake Berenson forever be a mystery to the world?

No. Somehow, we would come back. We would rescue Ax and bring him home. Surely, our crimes would be forgiven.

Were our crimes so unforgivable?

I gave up wondering in the end. Only reality could answer those questions, and that would have to wait a while longer. Tomorrow, we were going to make plans and head to Kansas. Our rest was over, and the first step in the restarted mission was about to commence.

I got up steadily, accepting that I wouldn't be as stable as earlier. Two hours had passed, and I had barely moved from my contemplative, thirsty state. I thanked the bartender, who had been giving me suspicious looks the entire night, and began to make my journey home.

The air outside had grown colder as the night aged. Human activity had lessened such that I was the only soul moving around on that street. My hands fell into my jacket pockets, and I walked away into the dark.

I must have made it halfway through my journey. The street lights were less intimidating, and the noise of distant social gatherings had died down to little more than a whisper. I thought that I was alone, but I was soon proven wrong.

Up in the distance, I could make out a figure. It was indistinguishable at the time because I was quite far away.

Too far away for the second person to see me as he jumped out in front of the first. I immediately sensed that something was wrong and hugged myself to the hedge I was walking by.

I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the body language of the one that had jumped out was threatening. The other, wearing a long coat, turned sideways as if about to move in the opposite direction.

My instinct was to act, so my legs carried me silently forward. They began to run when the long-coated man finally tried to retreat. The attacker grabbed the man by the arm and then the collar of his clothing, pushing him back against the wall they were beside.

Then he pulled back a fist and clobbered the elderly man in the face. He groaned loudly but could do little to resist.

The mugger started to pull at the man's coat, stealing from him a small item that I assumed to be his wallet.

Then he noticed me running at him. It was his cue to leave, but I had the momentum. I sped past the older man who lay crumpled on the sidewalk, reached forward, and grabbed hold of the thief's coat before he could take a right turn onto another street.

He turned and took a swing at me, but it wasn't accurate and deflected off of my chest. I gave a punch of my own and cracked him in the jaw. I struck him hard enough that I gasped from the pain that surged through my hand.

It wasn't enough. He barged heavily into me, and he wasn't a small guy by any standard. I stumbled back as a sudden twist caused me to lose my grip.

A slam to my face! He had returned fire. I was knocked back against the wall, but in the blindness of adrenaline, I pushed myself back forward, clenching my hand into a fist, ready for the next attack.

But he hit again, and suddenly everything was a blur. I wasn't big enough. Not strong enough.

But I pictured muscles in my head—the muscles of the tiger, something so effortlessly strong.

The blurriness faded just as I saw another fist destined to black me out. I dodged with such speed, and his knuckles cracked painfully on the wall where my head had been. The guy screamed out in agony and recoiled, clutching at his broken hand.

I felt the ferocity of the big cat coursing through me. The confidence, the power! I recalled that power, and it emerged.

I bulked out with tiger muscles and growled with an inhuman throatiness. The guy's eyes widened. He had no idea what was about to hit him. Literally.

My fist came forward and connected with his cheek. He flew back, blacked out at the very moment our skins collided. His body collapsed to the ground, and he wouldn't be getting up for a while.

I reversed what morphing I had done and gasped roughly, realizing that I still felt immense pain in my hand and face. Then I remembered the elderly man.

I searched over the body that lay breathing on the ground and found the stolen wallet. I leaped to my feet and ran back a few meters to where the poor guy was still groaning. He looked up to me, and even though he was in pain, he smiled, his eyes bright. I offered my hands, and I helped him steadily to his feet, giving him his wallet.

"T-thank you," he stuttered, barely able to contain his smile. "Thank you so much! I don't know how t-to thank you more!"

I shook my head. "There's no need, sir. We need to call the cops."

"Oh. Oh yes," he replied. While he knocked on the nearest door to call the cops, I went back to the thief and dragged him away from the road and to the wall.

He would be hurting for a few days, at least. A broken hand for sure. A broken nose and probably something else to add to that.

He wore grubby, dirty clothes that were either too big or too small, and the smell that rose from him was certainly not perfume.

He looked homeless. A man who had nothing in this world. A desperate man who had stooped so low that he had dedicated himself to theft.

Now he had no money. And a broken nose.

I waited by his side with the elderly man. He never rose back to consciousness, even as the cops arrived at the scene. At least, he would now have a new home to stay in.