by Kim Fielding
“We don’t need mates.”
“No. But do you want one?” Edge lifted his head to look at his brother.
Holt’s gaze went wistful and faraway before hardening again. “Doesn’t matter. Not why we’re here.”
“But is that right? Why shouldn’t we have… more than this?” He waved his arms to indicate the spartan surroundings of the kennel. The movement made his wounds hurt.
“Those are questions that will earn you beatings.”
“I should stop questioning, then, and serve in silence.”
“Serve with strength and dignity. What other option do we have?”
Edge almost told him about the Bureau, but what would be the point? Holt would only be angry that Edge had withheld information from the boss. He’d probably tell the boss himself. Edge sighed and rested his head again.
“Sleep,” Holt said. “Heal. Tomorrow I’ll charm the cook into giving us something good.”
“Do you think maybe we could get a radio?” Now that he’d learned some things about music, he wanted to listen to it.
“Maybe.”
With another sigh, Edge lay down on his side. He would have healed better in dog form, but he remained a man. And very quietly, hoping Holt wouldn’t hear, he hummed himself to sleep.
Chapter Ten
Terry’s brain cruelly replayed the highlights of his last conversation with Edge. Neutered. Bad dog. Put down. Meanwhile, traffic on the Ten crawled. He did everything he could to go farther faster, including tailgating, lane-switching, and honking. He used the carpool lane too, because he was a goddamn federal agent and if some fucking Highway Patrol asshole wanted to pull him over, let him try. None did, but even the carpool lane was torturously slow. He banged on the dashboard in frustration and finally turned on the radio full blast, but Milli Vanilli did nothing to improve his mood, and he quickly switched it off again.
God, music. Edge hadn’t even had the opportunity to enjoy music until Terry introduced it. Music had been the only thing to sustain Terry when he was lonely or miserable. How had Edge survived?
He reached headquarters at last, screeched into the parking garage, and parked badly, taking up two spaces. Who gives a fuck about that? Then without even glancing at the agent who staffed the reception desk—Terry’s usual stop for a quick chat—he sprinted toward Townsend’s office.
The chief’s secretary, as stoic as ever, sat behind her desk in the outer room of the suite. The apocalypse could happen three feet in front of her, and she’d continue pecking away on her ancient typewriter. She wore gray flannel suits no matter the weather and probably hadn’t changed her hairstyle since the fifties.
“Hi, Mrs. Lutz. I need to see him right now. Please.”
Despite his very best attempt at politeness under the circumstances, she didn’t look up. The typewriter keys rattled like gunfire, punctuated by the ring of the carriage return. Terry balled his hands into fists while fighting the urge to throw the damned machine at the wall. He would have just marched past her into Townsend’s inner sanctum, but he wasn’t at all certain he’d survive the attempt. Nobody saw Townsend until she let them in.
An endless minute later, she pulled the paper out, squared it precisely atop a stack of other papers, and glared up at him. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I’ve been on assignment. I have urgent news for him.”
Peering at him skeptically with lips pursed, she adjusted the frame of her glasses and then picked up the phone. Heavy and black, it was as much a relic as her typewriter and would probably make a decent weapon. “Agent Brandt claims he must meet with you immediately.” She listened to the response and hung up. She didn’t look pleased. “Go in.”
“Thank you.”
Townsend was leaning back in his oversized chair, hands laced behind his balding head. Although he wore expensive suits, they were always poorly tailored, and he looked as if his considerable bulk might burst the seams. The scents of cigarette smoke and whiskey were so thick they were nearly visible, and his walls were hung with framed newspaper articles containing his photo and mostly untrue reports of what he did for a living.
“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” he said jovially. “Not even a phone call?”
“I couldn’t leave the estate without blowing the assignment.”
“I see. But you’re here now. Does that mean you’ve obtained the evidence I sent you for?”
“Not exactly. But—”
“We need that evidence, my boy.”
Terry was beyond sick of being called boy, but that wasn’t his battle right now. “I know. I’m close. But, sir, he has dog shifters and he murdered—”
“Wait.” Townsend got to his feet. He moved faster and more gracefully than would be expected of a man his size. “You’re going to tell me a story, I can tell. I don’t mind stories, but I don’t much enjoy them on an empty stomach, and I haven’t had lunch. Come with me.” He grabbed his hat from the coatrack and slapped it on his head. It was possibly the last in-service Homburg in the state of California, and he rarely left the office without it.
“Sir, this is urgent.”
“Nothing is such an emergency that it can’t wait for lunch.” And with that pronouncement, Townsend sailed out of the office as Terry followed helplessly. Terry tried to talk as they walked to the garage, but Townsend ignored him and instead greeted everyone they passed with a cheery hello. When they reached an ivory Cadillac, Townsend motioned Terry into the front passenger seat.
“Sir, Whitaker is—”
“Patience. I just bought this baby a week ago, and she rides like a dream. Just sit back and enjoy.”
Clearly Townsend was going to listen only when he was good and ready. Terry fumed silently and scowled at the radio, which currently played easy-listening tunes. Townsend, on the other hand, hummed along. He had the most incredible driving luck Terry had ever seen. Every light turned green as he reached it; every lane he drove in was clear of traffic. And when he piloted the car to a downtown diner, a parking spot opened up right in front of the entrance.
The restaurant, just like Mrs. Lutz and her desk, looked as if it hadn’t changed much since 1952. There was a long counter with stools and a pie case, a row of booths along one wall and another along the front windows, and in the middle, a scattering of Formica-topped tables with chairs. The brown linoleum floor showed years of scuff marks, and a jukebox gathered dust in one corner. The waitresses wore white dresses with pink aprons, and hand-lettered signs behind the counter advertised lunch specials.
This wasn’t the type of place Terry would have pictured Townsend visiting. He assumed the director would favor dark, expensive restaurants with tuxedoed waiters and bartenders who gave a generous pour. But Townsend, clearly familiar with the diner, sailed to a booth that had just been cleaned by the busboy. Terry was surprised that Townsend was able to squeeze between the seat and the table, yet he slid in effortlessly. Terry sat across from him.
A waitress with Lorene stitched on her pocket immediately brought them white mugs and filled them with coffee. “Room for cream?” she asked Terry as she poured.
“No, thanks.”
Without asking Townsend, she left plenty of space for a healthy glug of cream and three packets of sugar. Townsend stirred his cup without bothering to look at the plastic menus tucked next to the napkin dispenser. Although Terry wasn’t hungry, he did a quick perusal of the menu options. The sooner they ordered, the sooner he could beg Townsend to act.
“I’ll have the daily special,” Townsend told Lorene. “And a bowl of soup—it’s chicken noodle today, right?”
“Yep.”
“Good. A bowl of chicken noodle. And an order of fries.”
Lorene raised her eyebrows at Terry.
“Just a burger, please.”
Townsend shook his head. “Try the open meatloaf sandwich. It’s terrific.”
Terry managed not to scream. “Fine. Meatloaf sandwich, please.”
&nbs
p; Still writing on her order pad with a stubby pencil, Lorene walked away. Terry opened his mouth to renew his pleas, but before he could get a word out, Townsend had pulled a tiny black book from inside his suit coat and begun to read silently.
“Sir, I—”
Not looking up from the book, Townsend held up a single finger to silence him. The food arrived promptly, and Townsend’s special turned out to be a platter stacked with breaded pork chops, mac and cheese, mixed vegetables, and garlic bread. He tucked away the book and dug in at once, grunting his enjoyment. Terry ate a few bites of his sandwich; it was, in fact, excellent. But a good meal wasn’t his priority right now.
Unfortunately, the meal was Townsend’s priority, and he refused to discuss anything until his plates were cleared and Lorene delivered fresh coffee and a slab of lemon meringue pie.
“You don’t like the sandwich, Brandt? You can have a burger instead, if you really want.”
“The sandwich is great.” Terry pushed the half-full plate away. “I can’t eat any more.”
“You’re all tied up in knots, my boy. This isn’t like you at all.”
Terry supposed that was true. He usually threw himself into an assignment, never questioning his orders and never getting emotionally involved in the outcome. It was just a job, after all. Best job in the world, right? “Sir, I need—”
“You know, I once recruited an agent candidate at this very diner. Well, actually he’d come to me first, and I knew he wasn’t suited for the Bureau. But then an assignment came along that was perfect for him, and….” He spread his hands, palms up, on the table.
“Sir—”
“Now, you were a different case, weren’t you? You thought you’d be happy writing parking tickets in that pissant little town in Ohio.”
“Wisconsin.”
Townsend waved away the correction. “You barely even know the Bureau existed, did you? I had to convince you that you’d be wasting your life anywhere else. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Terry nodded grudgingly as he remembered. Townsend had shown up at his home, for Chrissake, the crappy little house Terry had been renting since graduating the police academy a year earlier. Townsend had refused to reveal how he knew of Terry’s existence or why he believed Terry would be such a great catch. “It takes a special kind to make it in the Bureau,” he’d said. “I think you’re the right kind.”
Honestly, though, Terry had required very little convincing. Not when he had the chance to escape his grim childhood memories and frigid Wisconsin winters, and Townsend offered a generous salary and all the excitement a young man could want. Not to mention the opportunity for that young man to spend his off-duty hours dancing in the many gay clubs of Los Angeles instead of having to drive to Milwaukee, where the nightlife offerings were less glittery.
Until a few days ago, Terry had never questioned his decision.
“What happened to him?” he blurted. “The guy you recruited here?”
“I was right—he wasn’t suited for the Bureau. But his single mission turned out satisfactorily, I suppose. The suspect was taken down. And the young agent wannabe? He found another, more compelling interest. He and his partner ended up running a little bookstore-café.”
“Partner?”
Townsend smiled enigmatically. “Next time you have a vacation, you should go meet them yourself. They’re in Seattle. I understand their shop is still quite popular.” He swallowed an enormous bite of pie and then leaned forward slightly. “So. Your crisis, my boy?”
Terry took a deep breath. After waiting forever to tell Townsend about Edge, now he didn’t know how to start. “Did you know that dog shifters exist?”
“Of course. Why would werewolves be the only such creatures?”
That made Terry wonder what else might change from human form to something else—but he could pursue that line of inquiry another time. “Three of them live at Whitaker’s place. Brothers. He owns them, sir. I think they were specially bred… somewhere… and he bought them.”
Townsend ate more pie and looked thoughtful but not surprised. Finally he raised an eyebrow. “Why has this sidetracked you from what you’re supposed to be doing?”
“He… abuses them, sir. He pimps at least one of them out, and—”
“To you?”
Terry’s cheeks heated. “Yes. But I’m not the first. Whitaker beats him too. He doesn’t let them have any choices, really. He treats them like guard dogs.”
“Why do you care? Because you fucked one of them?”
This time anger rather than embarrassment flushed Terry’s face. “I didn’t. I mean… sort of, but not…. That’s not the point. Nobody deserves to be treated like that, sir. Not even if they’re not human.”
After swallowing the last of his pie, Townsend wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Do these brothers feel the same way? Are they unhappy with their treatment? And if so, why do they stay?”
“At least one of them is miserable. I didn’t speak with the others. But he stays because….” Terry had to consider this for a moment. “All the reasons, sir. Because he was literally raised to expect that kind of treatment—he thinks it’s what he deserves. Because of Stockholm syndrome. Because he thinks he should be loyal to his owner. Because he doesn’t want to be separated from his family. Because he doesn’t know where else to go, what else to do. Because he’s afraid, sir.”
“Of what?”
“There was a fourth brother. Whitaker mutilated him and then murdered him.”
Townsend regarded him evenly. “Your aunt—the woman who raised you—she had a heavy hand, didn’t she?”
This time, all the blood drained from Terry’s face and his mouth went dry. His hands fisted tightly enough to hurt.
But Townsend simply continued, his tone conversational. “She tried to whip the spirit out of a lively boy. Maybe tried to whip away the queerness too. But you stayed with her until you signed on with the police at twenty-one. And you never told a soul.”
“Don’t.” It was meant as a threat but came out as a whisper. A plea.
“Are you certain your assessment of this shifter’s situation is accurate and not simply a projection of your own repressed feelings?”
Terry wanted to lash out and deny everything. But Townsend had a way of knowing the truth, as he’d just demonstrated. Terry firmed his chin. “My past helps me understand his situation, sir. It helps me empathize. But I know the difference between him and me. And right now he’s in danger, in part because he protected me. He needs our help.”
Outside the window, a homeless man sauntered by. He looked into the diner, catching Townsend’s eyes, and suddenly looked terrified. But Townsend smiled and gave him a small salute, and the man—who had something weird going on with his eyes and probably wasn’t exactly a man—gave a relieved nod and took off at a healthy clip.
Townsend turned his smile to Terry. “It’s a funny thing. When the Bureau was established seventy years ago, President Wilson was sold on the idea of a federal agency to protect humans from nonhuman species. Which was true enough, my boy, true enough. But just as often, it seems that we’re called on to protect an NHS from humans. It makes you wonder what a monster truly is.”
“Whitaker is a monster. I don’t care what species he is.”
“Yes. I concur. Which is why we need to apprehend him.”
“Then go!” Terry shouted. Slightly abashed when nearby diners turned to stare, he lowered his voice. “Arrest him.”
“The Bureau enjoys special freedoms not granted to other law-enforcement agencies. The nature of our work requires it. But we’re not unrestricted. We still operate within the rule of law. And we cannot act against a suspect unless and until we have sufficient evidence.”
“Sufficient evidence,” Terry spat. “As decided by who?”
“Me.”
A simple statement of fact, indisputable and implacable. Terry wanted to cry.
Townsend waved at Lorene, who brought them more coffe
e and cleared away their plates. “Tell me everything, Brandt. Everything that occurred from the moment you entered Whitaker’s estate.”
Terry’s briefing lasted for three more cups of coffee, a trip to the bathroom on his part, and a grilled cheese sandwich for Townsend, who apparently felt peckish. Other customers came and went, but Terry and Townsend remained, with Terry spilling every detail he could recall—including his sexual encounter with Edge—and Townsend occasionally asking for clarification.
When Terry was finally finished, his throat hurt. And he couldn’t help wondering what was currently happening to Edge. But Townsend pulled out his cigarettes and silently chain-smoked three of them, stubbing each remainder into a chipped ceramic ashtray.
At long last, he sighed. “We’ve known about the issue of dog shifters for some time. We’ve suspected that at least one facility has been breeding them, but it hasn’t been a top priority. Perhaps that can change.”
“Perhaps? You’re the chief.”
“Of the West Coast Division only. Even I am answerable to a superior.”
Although Terry had always been aware that other divisions of the Bureau existed, people rarely mentioned them, and he’d never heard of Townsend having a boss. “Priorities need to change, sir. If this place still exists, they’re exploiting… children.”
“Yes.”
Not a promise, yet better than nothing. “And what about Edge?”
“Return to the estate tomorrow. Tell Whitaker you agree. When we get confirmation of what he intends to take from you, then we’ll act.”
“Act? How?” Terry realized he was yelling again, but this time he didn’t care. “Do you think I can just tell that fucker he’s under arrest and he’ll peacefully slide his wrists into cuffs? And Edge—”
“Stop.” Townsend’s voice was as modulated as always, yet the command carried such weight that Terry’s mouth snapped shut. “I am your superior and you must trust me on this.”
“Trust? I can’t even wear a wire, you know. He’ll probably make me strip again.”
Townsend pulled out his wallet and set a small pile of bills on the table. Then he put his hat on. “You have two paths to choose from. You can abandon this assignment, in which case it’s going to be very difficult for us to infiltrate Whitaker’s operation again. More innocent people will lose their souls. And your friend Edge will remain his possession. Or you can trust me. Which will it be?”