by Aimée Thurlo
“I assume this isn’t a problem at the moment?” John commented, seeing their reaction. “But wait. There’s another complication,” he added, his gaze resting on his dog. “Consider a dog and its master.”
“I think I know where you’re headed,” Lee said. “Dogs use scent to identify their owners, but they also rely on visual confirmation. If I wore your scent I might confuse your dog, but not fool him. He knows what you look like.”
“So, basically, if Lee was trying to pass himself off as an animal the rest of the pack knew, it would only work if the pack couldn’t see or hear him,” Diane said. “That’s not much help.”
“In the past, I’ve tried masking the scent with aftershave and that was a dismal failure. But what if I wore the scent of another Navajo—a man the pack didn’t know?” Lee asked. “Would that successfully mask the scent of my nightwalker blood?”
“It might work, but that’s providing you don’t stick around too long. Once you started sweating, it would alter the scent. But I’m only guessing here,” John said.
“Do you want to give it a try?” Diane looked at Lee.
“Yeah. I do. Sounds like it might work,” Lee said.
“Then let’s get started. You can use my sweat,” John said.
“Are you sure? If they realize I’m a nightwalker, but all they can detect is your scent, they’ll search for you thinking you’re the nightwalker,” Lee said.
“That could only happen if some of the pack with that scent memory survive,” John said. “You don’t plan to let that happen, do you?”
“No,” Lee said honestly.
“Then I’ll risk it. I’ve seen your hunting skills. But it may not work anyway, so don’t get your hopes up too high.”
“How are we going to make you sweat?” Diane asked with a tiny smile. “Make you do your taxes? Or maybe we should force you to install a new modem in an old computer.”
Lee looked at the hataalii. “I think the Navajo way might be better. Do you agree?”
John nodded. “That sauna might work as well as a sweat lodge. I haven’t tried it out yet, but the woman who originally showed me the house said it worked great. The California guy who built the house used it once a day, she said.”
A few hours later, at nearly 2 A.M., Lee and Diane were back in Albuquerque in the alley beside their business office. The streets were relatively empty at this hour. A passing police car had given them the once-over as they’d left the Interstate a few minutes earlier, then driven off in the direction of the main police station.
“I’m going to spray myself with some Buckscent before we check on our prisoner,” Lee said. “I’ll stay in the front office out of sight, so you’ll need to watch him carefully and see if he gives you any indication that he can still smell me.” Lee brought out the spray bottle that had come from John Buck’s new laundry-room cabinet. If it worked, John promised to send some via FedEx every other day.
Diane crinkled her nose. “Just when I think I’ve heard and seen everything, you manage to come up with something really gross and off-the-wall.”
“I’ve tried just about everything else, including women’s perfume and skunk descenter enzymes. But it never occurred to me that smelling like some other guy—gross as it seems—might do the trick.”
Lee unbuttoned his shirt, then sprayed his chest and armpits. Lastly, he squirted more liquid onto his hands and patted his face as with aftershave.
Diane shook her head. “I like John, but having his scent in a bottle? No thanks.” Diane took the Buckscent from him and placed it back in Lee’s vehicle, then locked up the car. “Let’s go,” she said. Turning off the alarm with a special key, she unlocked the door.
“Careful,” Lee whispered.
Diane pulled out her pistol as she stepped into the front office and Lee slipped in behind her, turning on the lights. He didn’t hear any sounds from the other room.
Giving Diane a nod, he stepped out of sight. Diane opened the inner door, pistol ready, turned on those lights, and walked over and checked the monitor. Tsosie appeared to be sleeping on the floor.
Diane stepped over to the heavy safe door and, hearing the click of the locking mechanism, Lee stepped back out of sight, his own pistol ready.
As Diane opened the door Tsosie stood blinking against the brightness of the room lights and instinctively took a step closer to the door. He stopped in midstep as he noticed the barrel of Diane’s pistol pointed at his chest.
He stood still for a moment, sniffed the air, then smiled. “Who’s the new guy? Another Navajo? Didn’t think I’d know he’s in the front room?”
“He’s going to be your zookeeper for a while. If my partner and I manage to hook up with your Silver Eagle acquaintances, you may still get out of this alive. If something goes wrong, you’ll disappear. Got that?”
Tsosie looked at her strangely. “Why are you letting me out, if you don’t want me to come with you?” He glanced at the pistol, then stared back at Diane, trying to read her expression.
“You’ve been locked up for hours, so I’m going to give you a minute or two to use the bathroom. I’m not being nice, either. I just hate having to stand guard over someone while they clean up their own mess. But don’t try anything, or your life will end right now.”
She motioned toward the door to the tiny room, which had a small sink and a toilet. The only opening was for an air duct in the ceiling. But he’d have to remove the vent cover first, and even then his shoulders would be too wide to squeeze through.
“Maybe when this is all over, well end up working together,” Tsosie said with a shrug while he walked to the bathroom. As he went past the darkness of the front office, he sniffed the air, but Lee was out of sight completely.
Tsosie stepped into the bathroom and started to close the door, but Diane interrupted him.
“Don’t close that door completely, Tsosie, and remember that bullets will cut through that door and the walls here like paper. You have three minutes.”
Lee stepped into the doorway of the inner office. He hated playing games with the man, knowing that he’d eventually have to kill him anyway. Skinwalkers had an incurable affliction, according to everything he’d seen or heard from medicine men, and anyone who preyed on innocents had to be stopped—permanently. Lee braced himself for action. If their prisoner was going to make a move, it would be now.
Diane glanced over at Lee, then looked back toward the bathroom. “You have two minutes left.”
Tsosie cursed, then shut the door. I’m taking my time. Go ahead and shoot if it makes you happy. You’re never going to get into Silver Eagle without my help anyway.”
Lee stepped into the room. Listening at the bathroom door, he waited, his pistol ready. Soon there was a loud metallic scrape and the thud of something hitting the floor.
“He’s at the vent!” Diane yelled.
“Damn.” Lee stepped back and kicked the door, splintering it in half lengthwise. The vent cover was on the floor, and on the ceiling was a rectangular hole where the duct began.
“He shape-shifted!” Diane yelled, her weapon aimed up toward the ceiling of the bathroom. “He’s gone up through the duct somehow.”
“Step back, but cover me!” Lee jammed his pistol into his pocket and crashed through the remnants of the door as if it were cardboard. Spinning around, he reached toward the only blind spot in the room, where the big black panther was crouched. Lee grabbed the animal around the middle as it tried to slip past him.
“Gotcha, fur ball!” Lee hung on tightly as the animal leaped through the doorway. The room shook as they collapsed in a heap in the center of the office floor.
Lee threw out his left arm to protect his throat from the razor-sharp fangs of the cat as he groped for his handgun. The cat, which was already twisting around as they rolled across the floor together, sank his teeth into Lee’s right biceps.
Lee groaned and instinctively grabbed the animal’s throat. He was vaguely aware of Diane shouting for
him to get clear; a breath later, the room exploded from two earth-shattering blasts. The panther shuddered, then slowly relaxed and slumped to the floor. Lee pulled his arm free, blood flowing freely around the deep punctures and dripping down onto the dead animal, then scooted away from the body, still on his back on the floor.
Lee saw Diane holster her handgun and reach for a hand towel, so he held out his arm. “Who the hell do you think you are, Siegfried and Roy and Hulk Hogan all rolled into one?” she demanded. “What were you going to do, pin his shoulders to the floor and count to three?”
Diane, who was trying to stop the bleeding, didn’t look up from her work. Lee noticed that her hands were shaking but he didn’t know if it was from concern or anger.
“I was hoping to keep him alive just a little longer in case his story about Silver Eagle’s North Valley location was a crock. The numbers match an address, but that doesn’t mean the place is dirty or the one we want to hook up with.” Lee reached out and put his free hand on her shoulder. “It’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”
“The cat could have ripped out your throat instead.” Diane increased the pressure she was putting on the towel covering the wounds.
“That’s what he was going for. Fortunately, I managed to get my arm in the way.” Lee smiled grimly. “We seem to be getting better at this, aren’t we? Good thing you’re such a damn good shot.” He moved his injured arm. “I think it has stopped bleeding now, but I’ll leave the towel around it a few minutes longer.”
“I didn’t think a skinwalker could shape-shift that fast. How did you know he was trying to set us up?” Diane stepped back out of the small room, but kept an eye on the panther’s body.
Lee reached over with his good arm and shut the window, then joined her in the small office. “Even if he could have fit through the vent, we’d have heard him scratching and clawing his way up that metal duct, to answer your second question first. And his transition was particularly fast, all right. He must have started to shift as soon as he closed the door, but had enough of his voice left when he called out to you.”
“You think I made a mistake giving him a moment alone like that?” Diane sat down on the office chair, took out her pistol, and replaced the magazine with one completely full.
“Except for Angela, I’ve never kept a skinwalker alive like this before, so I’m not going to second-guess you. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do at the time.” Lee confirmed that the panther was dead, then unwrapped his bandage. The arm was bloody but the wounds were closing up now. He placed the plastic-bag-lined wastebasket back upright—it had been overturned earlier—and dropped the ruined towel into it.
“So, you think he knew I was still here, or was he pretending not to smell me before?” Lee asked.
“He thought someone else was here, I’m pretty sure of it. He probably wouldn’t have tried to escape if he’d known you were in the other room. He’d already seen how quick and strong you are.”
“Well, for him, it’s over. Let’s wait awhile in case the gunfire attracted attention, then get rid of the body.” Lee looked down at his wristwatch. It was nearly three in the morning.
CHAPTER 7
he sun was just peering over the Sandia Mountains as Lee drove south through the ever-increasing traffic heading toward Albuquerque. He had buried the carcass of the shape-shifter in the county landfill, selecting a place where the big bulldozers were going to work today. Diane had stayed at the office to erase the surveillance video and clean up the mess.
Lee drove past the Fourth Street address Tsosie had given them. One quick glance told him the basics. There was an auto-repair business called Frank’s Automotive at the site and, although there was a CLOSED sign in the window, a hot-looking Ford Mustang and a older-model pickup were parked outside to the right of the entrance. Two other vehicles with yellow cards on their windshields were parked in front of the bay doors on the left or southern side of the entrance.
Lee committed to memory the license-plate numbers for the Mustang and the pickup, assuming the other vehicles belonged to customers. He noted that the posted garage hours were 8 to 6, so the place would be opening shortly. When it did, he’d be there posing as a new customer. After that, he’d play it by ear.
Buckscent was about to get its first—and possibly its last—trial. If any of the employees were skinwalkers, he’d know in a matter of seconds. The fact that it was daytime would prevent any of them from shape-shifting, so he’d only have to worry about an attack from humans, possibly armed. It was a risky proposition, but he’d been through worse.
Bridget Anderson woke up with a start. She lay atop her bed in the semidarkness of her new apartment, her heart beating rapidly. When the vehicle horn sounded again in the parking lot below and she realized what had woken her up, she relaxed. There was a pistol within arm’s reach. Stealing it had been a piece of cake.
She’d been a good thief—until the day Elka had caught her breaking into her hotel room and had given her a choice: Either die, or live forever as a member of her family. Now, with her new abilities, she was no longer a good thief—she was an exceptional one.
The family Elka had drafted her into had turned out to be a group of vampires who made their living by selling special services to the highest bidder. Mercenaries who packed a punch. But for someone like her, who’d survived on the streets since she’d fled her fourth foster home, it seemed good to be wanted, to belong. And the work paid very, very well.
But now the stakes were much higher. Bridget was being paid to take a life, and help Elka take another. It was a bad idea, and Bridget wanted out. She felt no loyalty to Elka or to the ones who’d died. She’d been with them only six months—less time than she’d spent in some of the crappy foster homes she’d endured until finally running away. She had no intention of taking orders from Elka for the rest of her days—particularly ones that included murder.
Bridget took a quick look around the apartment just to verify once again that she was alone, then closed her eyes. Tonight, she’d have a long drive ahead of her.
Lee walked into the small office of Frank’s Automotive and looked through the open doorway leading into the garage bays. One of the vehicles he’d seen outside earlier was on the rack getting a brake job, from what he could tell, and the other was beside it, the hood up. A radio was on somewhere in the back, tuned to a local news and talk radio station. To him that seemed a little odd, since he’d expected music. But to each his own.
A dark-haired man in faded green overalls was working on the brakes and had his back to Lee, but the other mechanic working under the hood must have heard the bell above the door ring as Lee had entered.
“What can I do you for, pal?” the skinny Anglo called out, peering around the hood. His voice was a little strange-sounding, probably because of the wad of chewing tobacco stuffed in his cheek. A dribble of nicotine leaked out of the corner of his mouth.
“My engine dies on me nearly every time I put the thing in reverse. Annoying as hell,” Lee replied. The man doing the brake job turned curiously, gave him the once-over, then turned back to his job. Lee decided the man was Hispanic, not Indian, and probably no skinwalker, but he’d applied the Buckscent liberally just before arriving, which, with luck, would eliminate any threat of detection. Lee had already ruled out the Anglo as a potential skinwalker.
A reinforced metal door with a deadbolt indicated that there was another room behind the garage bays, probably a storeroom. The presence of a tiny window of reflective, obviously one-way glass in the door got Lee’s interest immediately. It seemed out of place and reminded him of back-room gambling establishments he’d raided as part of a strike team. His next step would be to find out if Silver Eagle was operating out of that room, or at least using it to store their merchandise.
“I can take a look now, buddy, and give you a quick estimate of the problem. Unless it’s something very simple, though, you’re going to have to leave the car. There are a few repair jobs ahead of yours,
” the Anglo said, walking toward him. Lee could see a name tag—BRUCE.
“I understand. Want me to start it up?” Lee asked, heading toward the entrance. He passed a small counter and saw a sheet containing self-adhesive stickers, the kind used to indicate dates and mileage between oil changes. Tsosie had had an identical sticker on the inside of his door. Of course it would have been natural for Tsosie to have his car work done here, that is if Tsosie hadn’t lied to them in the first place. He’d get the license-plate numbers of the vehicles in the shop, just in case he’d been telling the truth, and have them run as well.
“You wanna pop the hood?” Bruce followed Lee outside, and within a minute, while Lee was writing down the vehicle tag numbers of the other cars, had identified the low idle setting as the problem. The guy was honest, at least this time, because Lee had created the problem himself less than a half hour earlier on the way over.
“I can set this pretty well by ear right now, or hook up the electronics later today and charge you thirty-five dollars’ labor for setting the idle to factory specs,” the mechanic said, pulling a screwdriver from his shirt pocket. Lee was standing by the fender, staring at the engine, which was still running, though it sounded like it might die any second.
“Just fix things so the engine won’t die every time I put it into reverse. If you can do it right now without all the computer crap, that will be good enough for me. Twenty bucks okay?” Lee asked, reaching into his wallet and bringing out a bill.
“Sure enough.” Bruce took the twenty and put it into his pocket. “I’ll work my magic, you test it out until you’re satisfied, then you can be on your way.”
The guy adjusted the fuel screw with a quarter turn, listened to the engine for ten or fifteen seconds, then gave it another eighth. “Okay, see if you can put it into reverse now.”
Lee had only turned the fuel screw a quarter turn in the opposite direction, so he knew it would be more than enough to work. He put the vehicle into reverse, backed up ten feet, then put on the brakes and let it run for a while. Pulling forward, he went through the same motions again, successfully.