“She is, Jason,” Glen said. There was pity in his voice and he stared at him as if he expected Jason to charge. For a moment, Jason considered it, then he turned away and crossed the floor in three quick steps. He grabbed the mug from the counter and threw it across the room. It hit the wall near Glen and shattered.
Glen never flinched. He was used to Jason’s outbursts. He crossed his arms as Jason tore through the kitchen, cursing at the top of his voice and tossing chairs and furniture aside. The commotion he was causing was enough to stir some of those still sleeping in their comfortable beds.
Pierce, in his crimson bathrobe, appeared behind Glen in the doorway. A short, fat little man with a pointed beard, Pierce was not known as a morning person. Glen breathed in harshly and stepped out of the doorway to allow him passage.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked angrily as he stepped into the ruin that had once been the kitchen. Jason hurled a piece of a splintered chair against the wall. He turned to face him, panting heavily. His eyes shone brightly with golden fury.
Pierce studied the room around him, narrowing his already small eyes. Glen crossed his arms and prepared to explain, but Jason spoke first.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said with a shake of his head. He pushed past the two men and stormed into the foyer. Glen knew he would go after Rose. He only hoped Rose would go someplace other than the house. He didn’t care to think of the two of them getting into another altercation.
He heard the door slam shut and the engine of the Camaro roar to life. Tires squealed and he was gone. Glen let out a breath.
“Damn it,” Pierce said. He kicked at a piece of broken ceramic on the floor. “Look at this mess. What was that all about?”
“He’s pissed, what do you think?” Glen stepped toward the closet and opened the door. He removed a broom and dustpan.
Pierce shook his head. “I can’t stand him, Glen, and you know it. I won’t tolerate him in this safe house any more.”
“Last time I remember, Pierce, I’m in charge here, not you. Jason is my friend and he’s going through a rough patch. Give him some time, and he’ll come around,” Glen said, trying to remain calm. He swept up some of the debris, avoiding Pierce’s annoyed stare.
“It’s been a few years, Glen. He’s not going to come around,” he replied, heatedly.
Glen paused. He hated to admit it, but what Pierce said was true. Jason wouldn’t come around. “I wish you weren’t right,” Glen whispered to himself and resumed sweeping. Pierce began to help him. “I wish you weren’t right.”
Chapter Six
The PRDI had many listings in its database and Simon once relished the ready access he had to the files. Years had passed since he had made an attempt to search them again. He felt angered at himself for not thinking of it as an option sooner.
Now, it was too late. The files were inaccessible. After reading the article about Glen Cole and the PRDI, he thought the files would still be online, for a short time. He had been mistaken. Frustrated, he sat back and ran his nails along his scalp. He felt like tearing his hair out, but he didn’t. Instead, he sighed and dropped his hands back to the keyboard. He hit a few keys and the screen flashed again, a wall he couldn’t get past.
“Fuck,” he breathed. He should’ve known the PRDI would learn from their past mistakes. Security measures had been stepped up. Someone encrypted the files and he could no longer get to them.
There goes that idea, he thought bitterly. He had been unable to find anything. He stared at the screen for a long moment, brooding and thinking. There must be another way around it.
He pushed away from the desk and stood. His right leg felt stiff, painful. He stretched it lightly before walking into the kitchen. He turned on the faucet and the water spurted with low pressure. He let it run until cool, filled a glass and drank thirstily.
The light outside was dim. The sun was just beginning to rise. In half an hour, it would be bright, the beginning of another day. Simon sloshed water around inside his mouth, drumming his fingers against the sink edge. He was determined not to let another day go by without something solid to go on.
Try again, his inner voice urged him on. He considered his options as he walked the kitchen floor. The floor squeaked underfoot as he reached the hallway and the bedroom door.
He cast a long shadow over Alana’s sleeping form. She lay on her back, wrapped in a thin sheet. Her left breast was bare, nipple peaked in the chilled air. She barely snored.
Alana was a fun romp. She was useful in his recovery, but he was beginning to depend upon her less and less. She was an annoying woman, a werewolf only because of his careless mistake, and he could care less what happened to her when he was through.
It was a relationship of convenience. The sex was great, but it was not what he wanted. He wanted Rose, always had.
He imagined sometimes that the red-haired, long-legged woman in his bed had darker hair. He imagined that the changed-blood scent Alana possessed was stronger, bolder, like that of Rose. Even though Rose had been part of his downfall, she was still somewhere in his mind, an ever incessant obsession he knew he would never be rid of. The thought of her with Jason, the man that had quickly become his worst nemesis, boiled his blood until he nearly exploded.
It wouldn’t be like that for long, once he found Jason.
He tried to change his trailing thoughts and forced himself to focus on something else. After a moment’s more brooding, he returned to the desk. He eased himself into the chair with a slight groan.
His fingers felt stiff. He cracked his knuckles before placing his fingers on the keys. He had to keeping trying. He resumed his search, yet again running into a wall. He growled, annoyed, and fought to control his temper. When he finally did, through deep breaths and clenched fists, he was able to think more clearly.
Glen Cole, Rose’s dear and trusted cousin, was the new head of the PRDI. Years of research revealed he wasn’t a fool. Of course he would have the security and encryption codes changed after he took charge. There was only one person Simon knew that could do that: Claire Hennessy.
He hated the bitch more now than he ever did then. She had betrayed him. Simon felt anger flare once again, but he had more control now. He quelled it and looked at the screen.
But it wasn’t just Glen or Claire’s fault he had failed so far. He was doing something wrong. He had to change his plan.
He stood up again, ignoring the pain in his leg and walked across the room. His cigarettes rested on the windowsill and he took one up. For a moment, the window reflected the firelight as he lit it, then it vanished. Smoke wafted toward the curtains.
Simon pressed his forehead to the glass. It felt cool, soothing to his fevered thoughts. He puffed on his cigarette and began to formulate a new plan.
An address would be great, but the PRDI file he had stolen on Rose did not hold any addresses. Jason never had a file and Glen’s address was well-known, as he resided at the main building of the PRDI, but it would be suicide to go there. That left him with nothing.
There had been only one person who came close to finding Rose, and he had been an idiot then and was a dead idiot now.
Marcus Brown, an ex-detective and one of Simon’s cronies, had abdicated Simon’s orders and had come close to ruining all their progress. He had hunted Rose on his own, cornering her as she sought help from some woman he didn’t know. Marcus didn’t last long against the female werewolf. He was long since dead. His body had been burned to hide the evidence of the deaths and his car was buried somewhere in a god-forsaken lake.
Simon sat up straight in his seat as the realization came to him.
The car, Marcus’s research—he kept all that shit close at hand. If some of it had survived, somehow…
His breath came out in quick gasps. It was all so clear suddenly. It was unlikely that anything would’ve survived the murky water of the lake, but there was a chance, however small. He remembered the area where Marcus had last be
en seen. He would have to check it out.
He stood quickly from the desk, nearly upsetting his chair. His footfalls sounded loud, the floor creaking with his weight. He found the car keys hidden beneath a pile of papers on the desk and he snatched them up. He grabbed his jacket from the peg near the door and slipped it on.
“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice coming from the hall. Simon sucked in a breath. He rolled his eyes, pivoted on his heel to face her.
She was clad only in her pale pink panties, arms crossed under her bare breasts. Strands of her red hair crossed over her shoulder and down her arm. Her eyes squinted, still sleep-filled. To most people, she would’ve looked like a goddess. To him, she looked like another annoying bitch.
“Where are you going? What’s going on?” she asked again as she stepped into the dim light of the kitchen.
“Out,” he said and turned once more. The screen door slammed behind him and he was down the trailer steps and halfway to the car before her voice called after him.
“Did you find him?”
Simon clenched his teeth. Of course she would think that.
“No,” he said, but he couldn’t be sure if she heard him or not. “But I will, soon.”
He climbed into the rust-bucket of a car they had obtained and revved the engine. The last thing he saw in the rearview mirror as he tore out of the driveway was the half-naked Alana, arms crossed. He smirked smugly to himself.
He was going to find Jason Barnett. Nothing was going to stop him now.
* * *
It did not take him all day to find the place, but he waited until dark before he began his investigation. He parked his car far off the road, in the driveway of what looked like a burnt-out old house. Perhaps this was the place where Marcus had met his Maker. Perhaps not. Simon couldn’t be sure, but it was the perfect place to start.
Walking for long distances would kill him under normal circumstances. His injured leg still hindered him. But Simon was determined and his adrenaline flowed. He would find the damn lake and the damn car. He would find the address. He would find Rose. He would find Jason and he would kill him. Even if he was in pain, it would be an even trade.
He stuck close to the thick tree line. There were fences he could climb if he needed extra cover, but he was lucky; no one was out tonight. He didn’t need those glaring headlights pointing out his position. He moved fast.
Simon smelled water as he came nearer to it. There was a body of it not far from here and he hoped that it would be the lake or pond Marcus’ BMW was at the bottom of. He climbed the fence to his left, but he was sluggish in doing so. The leg of his jeans caught hold on the barbed wire at the top. It ripped, digging into the skin. Blood spurted in the air. He caught the scent and it was strong.
“Damn it.” Once he reached the ground on the other side, he examined his leg. A three-inch cut in his right leg dripped blood onto the ruined denim of his jeans. He snarled a bit, annoyed with himself for such a mistake.
No matter, it’ll heal, he thought and hurried on.
Simon crossed the open fields quickly and reached the pond. Dark moss floated on top and the smell of water and decaying fish grew stronger as he closed the distance to it. The waning moon hung over head, a little less than full. Its light shone, giving off an ethereal blue-silver glow to the world around him.
He couldn’t be certain if this was the right place, but at this point, he would’ve searched every body of water within a twenty-mile radius. He wasn’t turning back now.
He undid the laces of his boots quickly and peeled off his socks. There wasn’t anything worse than the feeling of wet socks in your shoes, squishing out water with each step. He would avoid that if he could. He edged toward the water and stepped down the bank. It was slick and he slid through the mud, nearly losing his balance.
Simon stepped into the water. It was cold and sent an immediate shiver through him. A few more steps and he was knee deep in the icy water. He prepared himself for the cold sting of it and took a deep breath. He plunged right in.
He had never been an expert swimmer, but he could get by. The water was dark and he could barely see through it. He swam, kicking his legs and motioning his arms to propel him forward. He couldn’t see a damn thing.
His leg brushed against something hard and he turned. Perhaps it was a boulder. He paused, reached out a hand toward it. It was smooth in places, rough in others, but it didn’t feel like a damn boulder. His vision began to adjust and through the murky, dismalness of the underwater, he could see the outline of a fender. He snaked his hand along it more and felt where the taillights would be, where the trunk was. They were there. He had found the car.
He had to go up for air and he was dismayed by this but his lungs were burning. Kicking upwards, he swam straight up. He broke through the surface, sputtering what little water had entered his mouth and nostrils. He wiped hair from his forehead and eyes and took several deep breaths of air. When he felt ready, he plunged down again.
It took less time for him to find the car this time. His hands felt along the side of the car as he moved from the back to the front. His hand wrapped around the passenger’s door hand and gave a great tug. It wouldn’t budge.
Simon balled his hand into a tight fist and slammed it into the window. It cracked, but didn’t break. He tried again and it smashed. He had to find the information before it was too late.
And searching for it in the darkness and while underwater with his breath held was a difficult task. He fumbled, his hands searching along the dashboard, the floor board, the seat. Debris from within the car floated around him. A solid object hit the side of his head. He reached up, grabbed hold. His fist closed around the handle of a briefcase.
He had no time to think on it. Once more he felt the burning in his chest and made his way out of car. He floated upwards, clutching the briefcase close to his body with one hand, and his other arm pushing him upwards.
He reached the surface of the water and gasped for air. It took more than a few breaths for him to feel better. He glanced down at the wet briefcase he held. It was black, with the name “Marcus Brown” printed on the handle in gold. He sneered slightly.
“Thanks, you old bastard,” he said and swam to the water’s edge.
He stumbled up the slick embankment and tossed the briefcase onto the grass. He climbed up after it, using both hands to gain leverage. Mud covered his jeans, his shirt. He peeled off his sodden jacket and threw it aside. “Let’s see what you are.”
He fell to his knees beside the briefcase and took it up once again, leaving muddy stains along its sides. The briefcase was locked and he cursed under his breath. Even his fingernails could barely pry it open. Finally, he hit the briefcase against a rock and it cracked open. The briefcase had been nearly water-tight, but not enough. Water-logged papers and folders spilled out onto the grass.
“Ah, fuck it.” He smoothed out some of the papers as best he could, but the ink was smeared and it was still hard to read. He bent over them, setting aside the ones that were ruined beyond all hope and spending lengthy examinations of the ones that might possibly hold something.
He put the file papers aside. They clung together with dampness, one page melding into another and forming a large clump of soggy paper. But something fell out from it, a yellow slip of paper that had once been a Post-It note.
Quickly, Simon snatched it up and stared at it. The paper was wet, soggy, but the ink still somewhat legible. He stared down at it, hardly believing what he read.
The numbers ran together, but that was of no matter. The street name was clear and he was surprised to know where it was. It wasn’t far from here. This was it. This was what he had been searching for.
And scribbled below the address were the words: “Rose Sullivan’s Boyfriend”.
Jason Barnett’s address was in the palm of his hand. A smile spread over his face and laughter began deep within his throat. He had never laughed like this before. It sounded hysterical, i
n high rising tones that soon drifted and faded.
The laughter subsided into gulping chuckles. He clutched the Post-It tight into his fist. It didn’t matter if he destroyed it now; the address was committed to memory.
This was the moment he had waited for. No more time to waste. Simon stood, leaving the papers and mess where they lay and ran, ignoring the pain in his leg, to the road where his car waited.
Before the night would end, Jason Barnett would be dead and Rose would be his, finally.
Chapter Seven
Davis slept a couple of hours, but his room phone rang sometime in the late afternoon. He groaned as he rolled over, throwing aside the multitude of pillows that covered his head and chest. He grabbed the phone on its third shrill ring and answered groggily, “Hello?”
“Hi, Davis?” For a brief moment, in his sleeping mind, he thought the timid female voice belonged to Claire. He sat up quickly. A thin stream of sunlight swept in through a break in the curtains. It hurt his eyes. He closed them.
“Yeah?”
“Did I wake you? I was trying to get hold of Glen, but the line was busy.” It wasn’t Claire. It was Aurora.
“No, no you didn’t,” he lied, covering his dismay with a stifled yawn. He had been hoping for Claire’s call later today. After their weekend together, he wondered where their relationship now stood. Were they dating again? Were they just friends?
“Liar.” Aurora laughed softly into the phone. The laughter faded and she became somber once more. “I was trying to reach Rose. She was supposed to get in touch with me before today but she never did. Have you seen her?”
Davis had to think on it a moment. He swung his legs and sat on the side of the bed. He balanced the phone precariously on his shoulder as he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “She was here this morning. She and Jason had a bit of an argument and they stormed out. Have you tried her at home?”
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