2 Blood Trail

by Tanya Huff

  She squirmed around to face him, wondering how he’d rationalize his diet. “You don’t eat meat?”

  “Not since 1954.”

  “Oh.” His point. “What about your nephew?”

  “In my house he follows my rules. I don’t try to run the rest of his life.”

  Nor do you approve of the rest of his life, Vicki realized. “Has he been staying with you long?”

  “No.” Then he added, “Mark is my late sister’s son. My only living relative.”

  Which explains why you let the slimebag stay around at all. She sensed his disapproval, but whether it was directed at her or at Mark she couldn’t say. “I’ve, uh, never hunted,” she told him, attempting to get back into his good graces. Technically it was the truth. She’d never hunted anything that ran on four legs.

  “Good for you. Do you pray?”

  “Probably not as much as I should.”

  That startled him into a smile. “Probably not,” he agreed and pulled over at the end of the long lane leading to the Heerkens farm. “If you’ll excuse me, this is as far as I can take you.”

  “Excuse you? You’ve saved me a long hot walk, I’m in your debt.” She slid out of the car and with one finger holding her glasses, leaned back in through the open window. “Thanks for the ride. And the water. And the chance to see your garden.”

  He nodded solemnly. “You’re welcome. Can I convince you to join me at worship tomorrow, Ms. Nelson?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Very well.” He seemed resigned. “Be careful, Ms. Nelson; if you endanger your soul you endanger your chance of eternal life.”

  Vicki could feel his sincerity, knew he wasn’t just saying the words, so she nodded and said, “I’ll be careful.” and stepped back onto the shoulder. She waited where she was until he maneuvered the big car around in a tight three point turn then shifted the weight of her bag on her shoulder, waved, and started toward the lane.

  Which was when she saw Storm emerge from the hedgerow about a hundred meters down the road. Tongue lolling, he trotted toward her, sunlight shimmering in the golden highlights of his fur.

  Tires growled against gravel, the big sedan picked up speed, and headed right for the young wer.

  Vicki tried to yell—to Storm, to Carl, she wasn’t sure—but all that came out of a mouth gone suddenly dry was a strangled croak.

  Then, in a spray of dirt and small stones, it was over.

  Carl Biehn, his car, and his God, disappeared down the road and Storm danced a welcome around her.

  As her heart started beating again, Vicki settled her glasses back on her nose, her free hand absently rubbing the warm fur between Storm’s ears. She could have sworn. . . . I must’ve got just a little too much sun.

  Finding nothing to interest him in the highly overrated great outdoors, Mark Williams wandered back into the house and pulled a cold beer out of the fridge. “Thank God dear Uncle Carl has nothing against ‘alcohol in moderation.’ ” He laughed and repeated, “Thank God.” Hopefully, that blonde bitch was getting an earful of peace and love and the rest of that religious crap from the crazy old coot.

  She hadn’t been his type anyway. He liked his women smaller, more complacent, willing to be overwhelmed. The kind he could be sure wouldn’t go screaming to the police over every little bending of the rules.

  “What I like is the kind of woman that doesn’t land me in the middle of goddamned nowhere.” He took a long swallow of beer and looked out the kitchen window at the fields shimmering in the heat. “Shit.” He sighed. “This is all Annette’s fault.”

  If Annette hadn’t been ready to blow the sweet little operation he’d been running out of Vancouver, he wouldn’t have had to have her killed so quickly that he’d had to hire professional help, and sloppy professional help at that. He shuddered to think of how close he’d come to spending his most productive years behind bars. Fortunately, he’d been able to arrange it so that the hired help had ended up taking the fall. He’d barely been able to close down the business, realize most of the projected profits, and get out of the province before the hired help’s family had arrived to demand their share.

  “And thus I find myself in the ass-end of civilization.” He finished the beer and yawned. It could’ve been worse; the nights, at least, offered rare sport. Grinning, he tossed the empty into the case. Last night’s bit of fun had proven his skills were still as sharp as they’d ever been.

  A second yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. He’d been up until the wee small hours of the morning and been awakened obscenely early. Maybe he should head upstairs for a nap. “Don’t want the fingers trembling at a critical moment. Besides,” he grabbed another beer to take with him, “there’s bugger all else to do until dark.”

  When an overgrown lilac hedge blocked the line of sight from the road, Vicki silently handed Peter his shorts.

  “Thanks. What were you doing with old man Biehn?”

  “I came out of the woods on his property.” It certainly wasn’t going to hurt anything if Peter believed she’d chosen her direction on purpose. “He gave me a ride back.”

  “Oh. Good thing Uncle Stuart didn’t see him.”

  “Your uncle really ran him off?”

  “Oh yeah, and if Aunt Nadine hadn’t stopped him, he’d have probably attacked.”

  Vicki felt her brows go up and she turned her head to look at Peter directly. She gotten used to the disembodied voices of the people walking beside her but occasionally she just had to see expressions. “He’d have attacked over a difference in religion?”

  “Is that what old man Biehn said?” Peter snorted. “Jennifer and Marie were six, maybe seven, and Aunt Nadine was pregnant with Daniel. Old man Biehn came over—he dropped by pretty often back then, trying to save our souls, and it was driving us all nuts—and he started talking about hell. I don’t know what he said ’cause I wasn’t there, but he really scared the girls and they started to howl.” Peter’s brows drew down and his ears went back. “You don’t do that to cubs. Anyway, Uncle Stuart showed up and that was that. He’s never come back.”

  “He was pretty angry about it,” Vicki offered.

  “Not as angry as Uncle Stuart.”

  “But you must see him occasionally. . . .”

  Peter looked confused. “Why?”

  Vicki thought about that for a moment. Why, indeed? She hadn’t seen the two young men who lived in the back basement apartment of her building since the day they’d moved in. If in almost three years she hadn’t run into them in the hallway, by the only door. . . . Well, the odds are good you can miss someone indefinitely out here in all this space. “Never mind.”

  He shrugged, the fine spray of red-gold hair on his chest glinting in the sun. “Okay.”

  They’d come to the end of lane and Vicki leaned gracefully against the huge tree that anchored it to the lawn. Mopping her dripping brow, she opened her mouth to ask where everyone was when Peter threw back his head and ran his voice wordlessly up and down a double octave.

  “Rose wants to tell you something,” he said by way of explanation.

  Rose wanted to tell her about Frederick Kleinbein.

  “I think she’s imagining things,” Peter volunteered after his sister finished talking. “What do you think, Ms. Nelson?”

  “I think,” Vicki told them, “that I’d better go speak to Mr. Kleinbein.” She didn’t add that she doubted the tree’s falling at that time and in such a way had been entirely natural. Off the top of her head, she could think of at least two ways it could be done without leaving a scent for the wer to trace. Had Peter actually left the car, she was pretty certain he’d have returned to find his twin had been shot the same way as Silver and Ebon. Which meant the assassin’s pattern wasn’t tied to that tree in the woods. Which opened up a whole new can of worms.

  Thank God for Frederick Kleinbein. His arrival had no doubt saved Cloud’s life and, simultaneously, removed him from the suspect list.

 
All things considered though, she thought she’d better have a talk with him anyway.

  Rose shot a triumphant look at her brother. “He lives just back of the crossroads. I can tell you how to get there if you want to take Henry’s car.”

  “Henry’s car?”

  “Yeah. It’s about three and a half miles, maybe a bit more. It’s easy enough for four legs but a bit of a hike for two.”

  Peter leaned forward, nostrils flared. “What’s wrong?”

  Nothing’s wrong. But, just as I suspected, I’m piss useless out here. You see, I can’t. See that is. And I can’t drive. How the hell am I supposed to do anything and what the hell can I tell you. . . .

  She jumped as Rose reached out and stroked her arm, callused fingers lightly running over sweaty skin. She realized the touch was for comfort, not pity, and stopped herself from jerking the arm away.

  “I don’t drive,” she told them, her voice hard-edged to keep it from shaking. “I can’t see well enough.”

  “Oh, is that all.” Peter leaned back relieved. “No problem. We’ll drive you. I’ll just go get the keys.” He flashed her a dazzling grin and loped off to the house.

  Oh, is that all? Vicki watched Peter disappear into the kitchen then turned to look at Rose, who smiled, pleased that the problem had been solved. Don’t judge them by human standards. The phrase was rapidly becoming a litany.

  “. . . anyway, Uncle Stuart says that if you want the wood, it’s yours.”

  “Good, good. You tell your uncle, I get it when heat breaks.” Frederick Kleinbein swiped at his dripping face with the palm of one beefy hand. “So, I have late raspberries that rot because I am too fat and lazy to pick; you interested?”

  The twins turned to Vicki, who shrugged. “Just don’t ask me to help. I’ll stay here in the shade and talk to Mr. Kleinbein.” And as Mr. Kleinbein very obviously wanted to talk to her. . . .

  “So,” he began a moment later, “you are visiting from the city. You know Heerkens for long?”

  “Not long at all. I’m a friend of a friend. Do you know them well?”

  “Not what you call well. No.” He glanced over to where Rose and Peter were barely visible behind a thick row of raspberry canes. “They keep apart that family. Not unfriendly, distant.”

  “And people respect that?”

  “Why not? Farm is paid for. Kids go to school.” The finger he waggled in her direction looked like a half cooked sausage. “No law says got to be party animals.”

  Vicki hid a smile. Party animals—now that was a concept.

  He leaned forward, his whole bearing proclaiming he had a secret.

  Here it comes, Vicki thought.

  “You stay with them so you must know.”

  She shook her head, fighting to keep her expression vaguely confused. “Know what?”

  “The Heerkens . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “. . . the whole family . . .”

  She leaned forward herself.

  “. . . are . . .”

  Their noses were practically touching.

  “. . . nudists.”

  Vicki blinked and sat back, momentarily speechless.

  Frederick Kleinbein sat back as well and nodded sagely, his jowls bobbing an independent emphasis. “They must keep clothes on for you so far.” Then his entire face curved upward in a beatific smile. “Too bad, eh?”

  “How do you know this?” Vicki managed at last.

  The sausage finger waggled again. “I see things. Little things. Careful people, the Heerkens, but sometimes there are glimpses of bodies. That’s why the big dogs, to warn them to put on clothes when people come.” He shrugged. “Everyone knows. Most peoples, they say bodies are bad and go out of way to avoid Heerkens but me, I say who cares what they do on own land.” He waved a hand at the raspberry bushes. “Kids are happy. What else matters? Besides,” this time the smile came accompanied by a decidedly lascivious waggling of impressive eyebrows, “they are very nice bodies.”

  Vicki had to agree. So the surrounding countryside thought the Heerkens were nudists, did it? She doubted they’d have been able to deliberately create a more perfect camouflage. What people believe defines what people see, and people looking for flesh were not likely to find fur.

  And it’s a hell of a lot easier to believe in a nudist than a werewolf.

  Except that someone, she reminded herself, feeling the weight of the second silver bullet dragging at her bag, isn’t following the party line.

  Although his nephew’s jeep was still in the driveway, Mark himself appeared to be nowhere around. Carl sat down at the kitchen table and leaned his head in his hands, thankful for the time alone. The boy was his only sister’s only son, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, and the only family he had remaining. Family must be more important then personal opinion.

  Was it a sin, he wondered, that he couldn’t find it in his heart to care for Mark? That he didn’t even like him very much?

  Carl suspected he was being used as a refuge of some sort. Why else would this nephew he hadn’t seen in years suddenly appear on his doorstep for an indefinite stay? The boy—the man—was a sinner, there was no doubt about that. But he was also family and that fact had to outweigh the other.

  Perhaps the Lord had sent Mark here, at this time, to be saved. Carl sighed and rubbed at a coffee ring on the table with his thumb. He was an old man and the Lord had asked a great deal of him lately.

  Should I ask Mark where he goes at night?

  Do I have the strength to know?

  Seven

  “These are our south fields, this is the conservation area, Mr. Kleinbein lives here, and here’s old man Biehn’s place.” Peter squinted down at his sketch, then dragged another three lines into the dirt. “These are the roads.”

  “The Old School Road’s crooked,” Rose pointed out, leaning over his shoulder.

  “There’s a rock in the way.”

  “So do it here . . .” She suited the action to the words, smoothing her palm over his road and drawing in a new one with her fingertip. “. . . and you avoid the rock.”

  Peter snorted. “Then it’s at the wrong angle.”

  “Not really. It still goes from the corner down. . . .”

  “Down the wrong way,” her brother interrupted.

  “Does not!”

  “Does so!”

  They both had lips and fingers stained with berry juices and Vicki marveled at how easily they could switch from adults to children and back again. She’d decided on the drive back from Mr. Kleinbein’s—who had parted from her with a “wink, wink, nudge, nudge” adjuration to keep her eyes open—not to tell them about the local belief that they were nudists. She hadn’t quite decided whether or nor she was going to mention it to their Uncle Stuart; mostly because she doubted he’d care.

  “You’ve got to bring the crossroads up here!”

  “Do not.”

  “Do so!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Vicki told them, stopping the argument cold. The wer, she’d realized while watching them draw the neighborhood on a bald patch of lawn, had very little sense of mapping. Although they probably knew every bush and every fence post on their own territory, the dimensions Peter had drawn were not the dimensions Vicki remembered. She frowned and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “As near as I can tell, here’s the tree. And here’s where I ended up coming out of the woods.”

  “But why didn’t you just follow your back trail?” Rose asked, still confused on that point despite explanations.

  Vicki sighed. The wer also had a little trouble dealing with the concept of getting lost.

  Before they could reopen the subject of noses, a small black head shoved itself under Vicki’s hand as Shadow crept forward, trying to get a better look at what was going on.

  Peter grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back. “Get out of there you, you’ll mess it up.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Vicki stood, dusting off the seat
of her shorts. The grass on the lawn was sparse and bare dusty patches were common. “I think I’ve seen as much as I can here.” She should be inside making phone calls; this really wasn’t helping.

  Shadow squirmed in his cousin’s grasp and, when Peter released him, turned into a very excited small boy. “Show Vicki your trick, Peter!”

  Under his tan, Peter turned a little red. “I don’t think she wants to see it, kiddo.”

  “Yes she does!” Daniel bounced over to Vicki. “You do, don’t you?”

  She didn’t, but how could she say no in the face of such determined enthusiasm? “Sure I do.”

  He bounced back over to Peter. “See!”

  Peter sighed and surrendered. “All right,” he reached out and tugged at the lock of hair falling into Daniel’s eyes. “Go and get it.”

  Barking shrilly, Shadow raced off to the front of the house.

  “Is he talking when he does that?” Vicki wondered aloud.

  “Not really.” Rose’s ears pricked forward toward the sound. “Fur-form noises are kind of emoting out loud.”

  “So Shadow’s barking translates into ‘Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy’?”

  The twins looked at each other and laughed. “Close enough,” Rose admitted.

  Shadow raced back silently, but only, Vicki suspected, because the huge yellow frisbee he carried made barking impossible. He dropped it at Peter’s feet—it looked more than a little chewed—and sat back, panting expectantly.

  Peter skimmed out of his shorts and scooped up the plastic disk. “You ready?” he asked.

  The entire back end of Shadow’s body wagged.

  Looking not unlike an ancient Greek discus thrower, Peter whipped the frisbee into the air. Shadow took off after it and a heartbeat later so did Storm. Muscles rippling under his russet coat, he raced past the smaller wer, drew his hindquarters under and flung himself into the air, jaws spread, ready to clamp his teeth down on the rim of the disk.

  Only to have it snatched out of his grasp by a larger black wer who hit the ground running with both Storm and Shadow in hot pursuit.