"Kyle, sent me," she said, not really sure she had been heard.The door opened slowly to reveal a man perhaps twenty years her senior, trim and handsom... in a rugged sort of way, graying around the temples. His face and arms were weathered. The eyes were bright but seemed to reflect a life of hardship and pain. The belt around his fit waist was wide, the buckle large with etchings of Native American symbols. His large mustache reminded her of town Marshals in western movies."Well," he said. The bowler hat led the way, then that John Hammond cane with its polished amber top. I pulled a blanket around my lap as he entered. A smirk, not unlike the one Samantha had worn, twisted his features. “Smells good in here, doesn’t it,” he said. Give the nasty little fucker this; he had himself a sense of blunt, lame humor that barely grazed my funny bone. “Bill,” I nod. I’m not sure what his real name is. Don’t particularly care if you really want to know, but it seemed fitting to name. More

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