Evil Without a Face by Jordan Dane Page A

old liquor bottle with its spilled contents, and his bed pillows, which had migrated across the room. Strands of his dark blond hair hung over his eyes, masking much of the upheaval from last night. A good thing. He’d never get high marks from Good Housekeeping , even on his best day.
    To clear the haze, Payton ran a hand over his face and scratched the stubble on his chin. Every bone in his head throbbed with a dull pain. Even his teeth hurt. And his throat felt like someone had jammed an old sock down it, foot and all.
    “You’re up. Good. I thought you might be dead.”
    Payton jerked his head when he heard the man’s voice. The sudden move punished him. A shadow stirred, a dark shape sitting at a wooden table next to his stove. A blur of red flannel and a slick navy windbreaker beaded with rain.
    Gradually, the deadpan expression of Joseph Tanu emerged from Payton’s self-induced fog. Oval face with dark skin and long black hair streaked with gray. Joe’s deep-set eyes looked like dense volcanic glass, shiny obsidian reflecting the man’s ancient Haida lineage. Age lines furrowed his face, but Payton had no idea how old Joe was. He never asked; it never seemed important. He’d known the Native Alaskan since his early teens. Being a local trooper at the time, Joe had been the one who told him and his sister Susannah about their parents—right after his father’s Cessna slammed into the mountain range outside Juneau. The worst day of his life. And that was saying something.
    “Thanks for the concern,” Payton grumbled. He sat up inbed and raked fingers through his hair. Every muscle and joint bellyached from old gridiron war wounds, a persistent pang made worse by his self-inflicted booze bullet to the brain.
    When Joe shoveled a fork full of eggs into his mouth— his eggs —Payton put two and two together.
    “Hey, you eating my food?”
    “I was out of bacon.” Joe shrugged without contrition. “And if you woke up dead, I wanted dibs on your stuff. Bacon and eggs seemed like a good place to start.”
    Payton scrunched his face. “Can’t argue with that flawless logic, but I’ve seen bag ladies with better shit than me.”
    Joe leaned back in his chair and looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time.
    “You’ve got a point.” He nodded, pursing his lips. “Guess I better raise my standards.”
    “You don’t have any. That’s why we’re friends.”
    A rare smirk flashed across Joe’s face. “I made you breakfast. Get your sorry ass over here.”
    “Not hungry. It’s too early.”
    Payton stood on wobbly legs in his boxers and trudged to the bathroom. Not bothering to close the door, he took care of business.
    “In some countries, you might be right. But here, the morning’s already come and gone.”
    Thinking over the vague memories of last night, Payton flushed and washed his hands and face, then looked over his shoulder as he toweled off.
    “Hey, how did I get home last night? You took my truck keys, right?”
    Joe chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “You were in no condition to drive. Your truck’s out front. You gotta gimme a ride home. But last night, that Jessica Alba look-alike offered to tuck you in bed personally.”
    “Sandy Kirkwood? I must have been drunk… and out of my mind.”
    For a woman, Alaska was a target rich environment, with the male to female ratio nearly four-to-one. With her looks, Sandy could have her pick. Yet for some bizarre reason, she had culled him out of the herd, targeting her red hot brand on his hindquarter. The feeling wasn’t mutual.
    “She’s got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I didn’t get married last night, did I?” He quickly brushed his teeth.
    “No, you turned her down flat and walked home. That really pissed her off, but I got a feeling she considered it foreplay.” Joe narrowed his eyes and crooked a lip. “Playing hard to get, that’s not a maneuver most guys can pull off. And Sandy’s not the