by Rebecca York
“Francesca?” he croaked.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“You . . . you were chanting something. It sounded like something from a cult. I was frightened,” she said, the words pouring out of her as she watched his expression.
His face contorted as though someone had pounded a fist into his midsection.
“But you woke me before I finished?” he asked urgently.
“I guess. You stopped.”
Now relief rearranged his features.
She put her hand on his good shoulder, trying to reassure him, although she wasn’t sure of what.
“I was trying to change,” he rasped.
“Change what.”
“Shit. That’s the last thing I should have said.”
“Zane, I don’t understand any of this.”
“I know.” He dragged in a breath and let it out.
“Are you in . . . some kind of cult?”
She waited for him to laugh off the question, but he seemed to be considering it.
“No,” he finally whispered. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he only gave a quick shake of his head.
She swung her gaze toward the window, seeing the sky starting to turn from black to gray. “You should have another antibiotic.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll be right back.” She hurried away. Something strange had just happened, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
In the galley, she got the antibiotic plus more bottled water and brought them back.
###
When Francesca left, Zane struggled to prop himself up on the pillows. Damn. He knew what had happened. He was wounded, and he was having trouble controlling his inner wolf. He was lucky that Francesca had woken him up before he’d finished the chant and she found an animal in bed.
He knew something similar had happened to his brother when he’d been shot escaping from a drug lab in western Maryland. After Knox had told him about it, he’d laughed. He wasn’t laughing now.
He tensed as Francesca came back, looking worried.
Clearing his throat, he offered, “Sorry if I scared you.”
“I guess you were having a nightmare.”
“Yeah.”
He was thinking how badly he’d screwed things up. First he’d almost gotten killed at the Tuckerman house. Now he’d almost scared the shit out of Francesca.
Taking the water and the pill from her, he swallowed the medication. She was watching him, and he was afraid she was going to bring up her previous question. Was he in a cult? He’d said, “No,” but maybe there was a kind of truth to the question. He couldn’t tell her that the men in his family were under an ancient Druid curse—or had been given a gift by the Druid gods, depending on the way you looked at it.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Better,” he answered automatically. Mostly he was thankful that he didn’t seem to have an infection.
“That’s good, but I’d better change your dressing.”
He waited while she got more bandages and antiseptic, then unwrapped the dressing. They both looked at the arm.
“It’s healing fast.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t add that werewolves had excellent powers of recuperation.
She swabbed him with antiseptic and replaced the bandage. When she looked up, he saw something in her eyes.
“What else is on your mind?”
She swallowed. “Yesterday you said the bad guys might assume we left town. After last night, they know we’re still here.” She swallowed. “Do you think the one I hit with that flowerpot is dead?”
He reached for her hand. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Okay. I’m trying to reassure you. The only guy we know is dead is Tuckerman—because I shot him.”
“He shot you first. And you have a recording of what happened on your phone. It shows you didn’t go there to kill him—or rob his house. You wanted information.”
He sighed. “I don’t think the recording alone buys us much. He didn’t really admit to murder or arson. If I’d had more time, maybe I could have gotten the truth out of him. We need more proof. And it doesn’t help that I took the other guy’s wallet. I should have left it and just taken his ID.”
“We were in a hurry. Maybe there’s something on the morning news programs.”
“There’s no TV on the boat, but let me fire up my computer and find out.”
He’d laid the machine on the shelf at the side of the bunk. She brought it down, and he booted up, shifting so she could sit beside him and see the screen while he found the Web site of a local station. The headline was, Murder in Quiet Neighborhood. Man and Woman Suspected.
Beside him, Francesca gasped.
Quickly he scanned the text. Apparently he and Francesca had been spotted leaving the house after gunshots were heard. A neighbor had gone over and found one man dead in bed. Another had been taken to the hospital with blunt force trauma to the head. The apparent motive was robbery. The man who left the house appeared to be wounded, although that had not been confirmed.
Zane cursed under his breath. He hated seeing such a blatant identifying characteristic.
Francesca was as jumpy as he was. “The guy I hit could die. Or he could wake up and say who we are.”
“If he wakes up, he’s not going to identify us. He’d have to explain how he knows us. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to talk about that or his involvement in your uncle’s murder.”
“Is he one of the men who was chasing us? Or one of the men the big dog mauled on the beach?”
He tried not to wince when she mentioned the dog. Did he look like a dog, or was she just unable to comprehend that a wolf had been on the beach? Hadn’t he told her the animal was a wolf? He wasn’t sure.
“Did the guy look like anyone you saw?” he asked her.
“It was the same type. I mean build, haircut. Tough looking.”
“I’m assuming he was one or the other. It’s unlikely that Tuckerman was involved and his roommate wasn’t.”
He shook his head. “I’m forgetting we have their pictures.”
He booted up his computer and retrieved the photos of the men that he’d snapped at the park.
One was definitely Tuckerman.
“I didn’t see the face of the guy behind me.”
“And then he was facedown on the floor.”
That observation made him want to slap his forehead.
She gave him a questioning look.
“What am I thinking? His wallet’s in my pants pocket.”
“Right.” She retrieved the billfold, and they both inspected the contents. There was a Florida driver’s license in the name of Sammy Jackson plus credit cards in the same name. There was also a wad of cash. When she counted the money, they found a little over two thousand dollars.
“Who carries around that much money?” Francesca asked.
“Someone who got paid for an illegal job.”
There was nothing else of significance in the wallet.
“I’ll get Decorah to check the name.”
“What do we do now?”
“Sit tight.” He didn’t say, and hope nobody thinks anything suspicious is going on here.
“I’d better get some groceries.” She gave him a questioning look. “Are you willing to start with something easily digested, like chicken soup?”
He sighed. “If I have to. But you’d better be careful about going out.”
“Like how?”
“Stick to that local grocery store we passed. Wear a ball cap and pull the brim down. Don’t do anything to call attention to yourself.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t take more than a hundred dollars to the store, and don’t use anything bigger than a twenty. Put the rest in the suitcase.”
She did as he asked, then looked toward the window. “I’ll go now. Maybe the store won’t be so crowded early in the morning.”
; “Hopefully.”
He watched her get ready to go and approved of her pedal pushers and blue tee shirt. After she left, he lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes for a few moments. He’d like to get himself and Francesca out of town, but he was in no condition to do more than stay in bed and heal, at least for the next twenty-four hours. Plus, the cops might be watching the escape routes.
He reached for his phone to check in with Decorah, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to say what had happened on a phone.
Instead he used a secure computer voice line.
As soon as the call went through, Frank Decorah picked up.
“That was you at the murder house last night, right?”
“Unfortunately.” He quickly filled in his boss on the night’s activities, not sparing the fact that Jackson had gotten the drop on him.
Frank didn’t berate him. “How bad is the wound?” he asked.
“The bullet passed through the outer side of my upper arm.”
“And you didn’t leave any of your blood there?” Frank asked urgently.
“I don’t think so. We wrapped my arm in undershirts from Tuckerman’s drawer. I guess we’ll find out if I missed a drop.” Switching topics, he asked, “Can you have Teddy find out some more about him? And the guy Francesca hit with the flowerpot?”
“Yes. And I’ll try to keep tabs on the police investigation as best I can.”
When they’d exchanged as much information as either of them knew, Zane clicked off and lay back with his eyes closed. He needed to rest, but he couldn’t relax until he knew Francesca was safely back on the boat.
###
When she stepped off the dock, Francesca turned and glanced at the houseboat. It looked so innocent floating there. Would you ever guess that the couple involved in a break-in and murder last night were hiding out onboard? Well, the guy was. The woman was going out to get some food. As she walked the short distance to the parking lot, she scanned the area, trying to take the kind of precautions that Zane would. Nobody else was around.
Once in the car, she headed for the small shopping center where they’d seen the grocery store. It was less than a mile away, and she wasn’t going to get lost on the short trip.
The strip mall wasn’t like anything she’d seen back home. It had a strange mix of stores besides the grocery and the restaurants, there was a women’s clothing shop, an appliance store, a place that sold seashells, and a cigar store.
A TV was playing in the window of the appliance shop, and a picture of a newscaster standing in front of a house caught her attention. Francesca realized with a little gasp that it was the house where she and Zane had gotten into a lot of trouble the night before. She couldn’t hear what the woman was saying through the window, but as she looked more closely she saw crime scene tape on the door of the house.
The images shook her. Obviously the murder was the big news around here.
She walked away quickly, feeling like she should rush back to the boat and tell Zane. But what was there to report, really? She had considered making a pot of chicken soup they could both enjoy, but she changed her mind when she stepped into the medium-sized grocery store.
The layout was unfamiliar, and she didn’t know where anything was located. Instead of trying to gather all the ingredients for anything homemade and cooking it in an unfamiliar galley, she went to the aisles with canned goods, picking up chicken noodle soup, beef stew, and a couple of other staples.
What else should she get? Probably something for herself, but she wasn’t all that hungry. Still, she had to eat, so she headed for the deli department and selected a couple of ready-made chicken sandwiches. Because she knew Zane liked meat, she also put several packages of cold cuts into her cart.
When she returned to the front of the store, she saw there was only one checkout counter open, and she had to wait behind several women with full baskets who chatted with a hefty redheaded lady working the cash register and bagging groceries. Each transaction seemed to take a century, and she wanted to scream at everyone to hurry up.
Clenching her teeth, she kept her cool, and finally got to the front of the line.
The women in front of her had seemed to know the checker. Maybe a stranger could just transact her business and get out of there quickly.
But when Francesca approached the register, the woman, whose name tag said “Louise,” asked, “You new in the neighborhood, honey?”
Francesca’s mouth had turned so dry that she could barely speak. Act normal she warned herself. “We’re vacationing in the area.”
“You and your husband. Or do you have kids?”
Francesca dragged in a breath. “The four of us.”
Louise looked at the food on the moving belt. “You’re not getting much.”
“We brought a lot of stuff with us. But Henry asked for the soup, and Josh wanted the stew,” she said, wondering how long it would take to ring up her purchases.
“You got a store card?”
“No. I’m paying in cash.”
“You can fill out a form.”
“No thanks. I’m in a hurry.” She dug out a couple of bills and paid. Relieved to be out of the store, she headed back to her car.
The TV was still on in the appliance shop. She wanted to march on past, but she couldn’t help stopping when she saw the newscaster still standing in front of Tuckerman’s house. Then the scene grew dark, and she stared at what appeared to be a cell phone video. It showed a man and a woman from the back, staggering together down the sidewalk.
Oh my God. It was them—from last night. They stopped beside a car. The man, who looked sick or injured, got into the passenger seat. The woman went around to the driver’s side.
The only good news was that it was dark and the video was taken from the back.
As the car started up, the focus switched to the license plate. Her heart stopped, then started to drum inside her chest. Looking over toward their rental, she saw the same license number as though it were in a flashing neon sign.
Chapter Fifteen
Oh God. Oh God. Somebody last night had taken a picture of the car—even though they’d parked well down the street. And that wasn’t all the bad news. Her head snapped up when she saw movement from the corner of her eye. A man who had been in the store looked from the TV to her Chevy.
Her heart was blocking her windpipe as she climbed in the vehicle, tossed the grocery bag onto the passenger seat, and started to back out of the space. A horn loudly sounded, and she slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing a collision with a jeep that was barreling along the access lane. The driver leaned out and hurled a curse at her, and she hoped he wasn’t going to pull out a gun.
As soon as the jeep passed, she headed back toward the marina, praying that nobody was following her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to speed back to the houseboat. Instead she drove at a normal pace, checking in the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure nobody was trailing her.
###
As he waited for Francesca to return, Zane kept looking at the time on the bottom right of the computer screen. Finally he sighed and forced himself to stop obsessing. Francesca still had the burner phone from last night. He could call her and find out if everything was okay.
The only thing that stopped him was knowing she’d think he didn’t trust her to make a simple run to the grocery store.
He knew he should take the opportunity to rest, but he couldn’t relax. Instead he kept his ears peeled for the sound of her returning.
Finally, he heard footsteps on the deck. Someone walking fast.
He grabbed his gun and pushed himself out of the bunk, standing on unsteady legs so he could see who was coming.
It was Francesca.
When she pelted across the main cabin and down the stairs, he was pretty sure something was wrong. Her wide-eyed look confirmed it. As her gaze zeroed in on the gun, she made a strangled sound.
He lowered the weapon. “What?”
“Where the hell did you see that?”
“On a TV in the appliance store.”
“Shit.” He backed into his room and sat down heavily on the bunk. “There wasn’t anything about that on the news earlier.”
“I guess they hadn’t come forward with it yet. Or maybe they didn’t turn it over to the cops. Maybe they sold it to the TV station.”
He considered. “Did anyone notice you—or the car?”
She flapped her arm in frustration. “A guy was looking at the plate. And the checker in the grocery store asked me a bunch of nosy questions.”
“You didn’t tell her where we were staying?” he demanded.
“No. I pretended we were vacationing with our kids. But how many places are there around here to stay? All they have to do is start looking for the car.”
He cursed again. “We’d better split. But we can’t take a chance on driving with those plates. I guess the only good news is that I used my alternate ID to rent the car.” He didn’t say that their fingerprints were in the vehicle.
He sat for a moment gathering his strength. Was it better to leave the Lady Slipper here as a decoy and take the dinghy on the platform off the back? He decided to leave the dinghy in place and take the larger boat, since there was no telling how far they’d have to travel and under what conditions.
“Go to the main room and keep watch. Tell me if you see anyone coming.”
Francesca gave him a long look. “You should be lying down.”
“Later.” As she started for the stairs, he called up a map of the area, checking the waterways and plotting an escape route.
Which was better, to head into the Gulf or take this river inland? And what about the fuel? How far could they get on what was in the tank? Should he take a chance and stop at the fuel pump? Or should he just head out?