2 Blood Trail

by Tanya Huff

  “Would you know it again?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, if you do come across it, tell me immediately. This guy is dangerous.”

  “Hey,” he protested. “I know. It’s my dad that got shot.”

  Vicki wondered if she should tell him that the person who’d shot his father and the person who’d tampered with Henry’s car weren’t likely to be the same man—the actions were far too different—and in her book this new threat, with no pattern to make it predictable, was a lot more dangerous. She decided against it. What good would it do?

  Celluci watched until Peter and Rose had gone inside then he backed out of Dr. Dixon’s driveway and headed downtown. “It’s hard not to like them, isn’t it?”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “This from the woman who once said that teenagers should be against the law?”

  “Well, they’re not exactly your typical teenagers, are they?”

  Celluci glanced sideways at her. “All right, what’s bothering you? You’ve been in a mood since we left the garage.”

  Vicki shoved her glasses up her nose and sighed. “I was just thinking . . .”

  “That’s a first.”

  She ignored him. “. . . that if someone’s taking the trouble to try to kill me, I must know something I’m not aware of knowing. The killer thinks I’m getting too close.”

  “Or you weren’t the target, Rose and Peter were. You were just there.”

  “No, there’s already a system set up to kill the wer, why change it? It’s still working. I have a feeling this was aimed at me.”

  “A hunch?”

  “Call it what you like, but if you call it woman’s intuition, I’ll rip your face off.”

  As he had no intention of saying anything so blatantly suicidal, he ignored the threat. “So let’s go over what you do know.”

  “Shouldn’t take that long.” Knees braced against the dash, Vicki ticked the points off on her fingers. “I know Barry Wu didn’t do it. I know Dr. Dixon didn’t do it. I know Arthur Fortrin didn’t do it. Anyone else might have, up to and including a chance acquaintance either of those three might have bragged to in a bar. Once Barry tells me who around London is capable of that kind of shot, well, I’ll make some comparisons with those lists of the people who use the conservation area regularly. Hopefully we can decode these directions to his apartment before he leaves for work.”

  Celluci plucked the sheet of paper off her lap, scanned it, and tossed it back. He had complete faith in his ability to find his way around in spite of the morning’s scenic tour of the countryside. “And if Barry doesn’t know?”

  “Someone knows. I’ll find them.” She smoothed the map out on her leg. “Oh, and it isn’t Frederick Kleinbein either.”

  “Who?”

  “Technically, I guess you could call him their nearest neighbor. He informed me that the Heerkens have a deep, dark secret.” She grinned. “They’re nudists, you know.”

  “Nudists?”

  “So he tells me. Apparently, the locals prefer to believe in nudists over werewolves.”

  He shot her a sour look. “Hardly surprising. I am, however, surprised it hasn’t brought flocks of young men out armed with telephoto lenses.”

  “I got the impression the ‘dogs’ took care of that problem.”

  Celluci who had been on the receiving end of one of those “dogs” in action could see how it might discourage a casual voyeur.

  Vicki interpreted his grunt as agreement and went on. “The only other people I’ve really talked to are Carl Biehn and Mark Williams.”

  It took him a moment to place the names. “The two guys this morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So maybe it’s them.”

  “Not likely.” She snorted. “Can you see someone like Williams taking the time and trouble to become a marksman? Uh uh. The way I read him, it’s instant gratification or he’s not interested.”

  “And the older man? The uncle?”

  Vicki sighed. “He’s a vegetarian.”

  “He’s not eating the wer, Vicki, he’s just killing them.”

  “And he’s a deeply religious man.”

  “So are a lot of nut cakes. It’s not mutually exclusive.”

  “And he gardens.”

  “And you like him.”

  She sighed again, flicking the air-conditioning vent open and closed. “Yeah. And I like him. He seems like such a basically decent person.”

  “Another feeling?”

  “Piss off, Celluci.” Between the bright sunlight, yesterday’s injury, and the lack of sleep, she was developing one mother of a headache. “Having a slimebag for a nephew is hardly grounds to accuse someone of multiple murders. I am, however, going to ask Barry to check out Mr. Williams for priors, just in case. If you want to be helpful, and the wind is in the right direction, you can spend tonight watching the tree.”

  “Thank you very much. Just what I always wanted to do, spend the night out in the woods being eaten alive by mosquitoes.” While you and Henry are comfy cozy inside? Not fucking likely. He glanced over at her and then back at the road. “Who says he’ll go back to it?”

  “It’s part of his pattern when the wind’s off the field.”

  “Then why don’t you cut it down?”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  “While you’re thinking about that, here’s another one. If you know he keeps going back to that tree, why haven’t you staked it out?”

  “How? You know I can’t see a damned thing after dark. Besides, Henry went out. . . .”

  “You sent a civilian!”

  “He volunteered!” Vicki snapped, ignoring the fact that she herself was now a civilian.

  “And did he volunteer to get shot?”

  “Henry’s a grown man. He knew the risks.”

  “A grown man. Right. And that’s another thing, according to his driver’s license, Fitzroy is only twenty-four years old.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to glare at her. “You’re almost eight years older than he is, or doesn’t that . . . What’s so funny?”

  Although the vibrations were doing nasty things to the inside of her head, Vicki couldn’t stop laughing. Eight whole years. Good God. Finally, the frigid silence on the other side of the car got through and she managed to get ahold of herself. Eight whole years. . . . She took her glasses off and wiped her eyes on the shoulder of her shirt. “Mike, you have no idea of how little that matters.”

  “Obviously not,” Celluci grunted through gritted teeth.

  “Hey! Are we in hot pursuit or something? You just accelerated through a yellow light.” Vicki took one look at the set of his jaw and decided the time had come to change the subject. “What could I possibly know that’s worth killing to protect?”

  It wasn’t the most graceful of conversational transitions but Celluci grabbed at it. He suddenly did not want to know what she’d been laughing at. At a full twelve years older than Henry fucking Fitzroy, he didn’t think his ego was up to it. “If I were you, I’d have Carl Biehn and his nephew pulled in for questioning.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Someone thinks you’re getting too close and they’re the only someones you’ve talked to who haven’t been cleared.”

  “Well, you’re not me.” Vicki scratched at a mosquito bite on the back of her calf. “And in case you’ve missed the point, not only is this not a police case but we can’t get the police involved.”

  “They’re already involved, or have you forgotten last night’s reported gunshot wound?”

  “Queen Street. Turn here. Barry’s apartment building is number 321.” Pushing her glasses up her nose, she added. “The police only think they’re involved. They haven’t a clue about what’s really going on.”

  “And you don’t think they’ll find out?” he asked while swinging wide around the corner to avoid a small boy on a bicycle.

  Vicki spread her hands. “How are they going
to find out? You going to tell them?”

  “They’ll investigate.”

  “Sure they will. The OPP’ll swing around by the conservation area a little more frequently for a couple of weeks and then something more important than an accidental shooting’ll come up for them to allot manhours to.”

  “But it wasn’t an accident,” Celluci pointed out, making an effort and keeping his temper.

  “They don’t know that.” Vicki forced herself to relax. Clenched teeth just made her temple throb and had no effect on the thickhead sitting next to her. “Nor are they going to find out.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to get involved when you find out who’s doing the killing. Or,” he continued sarcastically, “had you planned on arranging an accident that would take care of everything?”

  “There.” She pointed. “Three twenty-one. Sign says visitor’s parking is in the rear.”

  The silence around the words spoke volumes.

  “Jesus Christ, Vicki. You aren’t going to bring this to trial, are you?”

  She studied the toes of her sneakers.

  “Answer me, damn it!” He slammed on the brakes and, almost before the car had stopped, grabbed her shoulder, twisting her around to face him.

  “Trial?” She jerked her shoulder free. God, he was so dense sometimes. “And what happens to the wer at a trial?”

  “The law . . .”

  “They don’t want the law, Celluci, they want justice and if the killer goes to trial they won’t get it. You know as well as I do that the victim goes on trial with the accused. What kind of a chance would the wer have? If you’re not white, or you’re poor, or, God forbid, you’re a woman, the system sees you as less than human. The wer aren’t human! How do you think the system is going to see them? And what kind of a life would they have after it was finished with them?”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you trying to convince me or are you trying to convince yourself?”

  “Shut up, Celluci!” He was deliberately not understanding. His own neat little world view gets screwed and he can’t adapt. That’s not my fault.

  His voice rose in volume to match hers. “I’m not going to stand around and watch you throw away everything you’ve believed in for so long.”

  “Then leave!”

  “You’re willing to be judge and jury—who’s to be the executioner? Or are you going to do that, too?”

  They stared at each other for moment then Vicki closed her eyes. The pounding of her heart became rifle fire and on the inside of her lids she saw Donald, bleeding, then one by one the rest of the pack, sprawled where the bullets dropped them, their fur splattered with blood, and only she was left to mourn. She drew in a long shuddering breath, and then another, and then she opened her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I’ll do what I have to.”

  “And if that includes murder?”

  “Leave it, Mike. Please. I said I didn’t know.”

  He forced both hands up through his hair, closing his lips around all but one of the things he wanted to say. He even managed to keep his voice sounding reasonably calm. “You used to know.”

  “Life used to be a lot simpler. Besides,” she unhooked the seat belt, gave a shaky and totally unconvincing laugh, and opened the car door. “I haven’t even caught the son-of-a-bitch yet. Let’s worry about this shit when it hits the fan.”

  Celluci followed her into Barry Wu’s building, concern and anger in about equal proportions grinding together inside his head. Life used to be a lot simpler. He sure couldn’t argue with that.

  “Most of all, you need a good set of knives.”

  “I have the knives.”

  “Pah. New knives. Factory edges are crap.”

  “I’ll have them sharpened this afternoon.”

  “Pah.” The elderly man pulled a torn envelope out of the mess of papers on the kitchen table and scribbled an address on the back of it. “Go here,” he commanded as he passed it to his visitor, “last place in town that might do a decent job.”

  Mark Williams folded the paper in half and tucked it in his wallet. A few questions asked around the fur trade had gotten him the old man’s name. A fifty had bought him a couple of hours of instruction. Considering what the pelts were going to net him, he considered it money well spent.

  “Okay. Listen up. We go over this one more time and if you go slow you shouldn’t have any trouble. Your first cut is along the length of the belly—almost a seam there anyway—then . . .”

  “The problem is, there isn’t anyone else. In fact, I’m not positive I could make those shots myself. Not at night.” Barry stuck his head out of the bedroom where he was getting dressed for work. “I haven’t done much scope work.”

  “What about one of the special weapons and tactics people?”

  His eyebrows drew down. “You mean a cop?” Celluci sighed. In his opinion, young men always looked petulant when they tried to scowl. “You trying to tell me London’s never had a bad cop?”

  “Well . . . no . . . but it’s not like we’re Toronto or anything.” He disappeared back into the bedroom and emerged a moment later, uniform shirt hanging open and carrying his boots. “I guess I could ask around,” he offered, perching on the edge of the one remaining empty chair. The apartment was a little short of furniture although both the television and stereo system were first rate. “But frankly, I don’t think any of those guys could do it either.” He took a deep breath. “I know it sounds like bragging but even considering my lack of scope work, none of them are in my league.”

  Vicki picked Barry’s police college graduation picture up from its place of honor on top of the television. Only one of the earnestly smiling faces in the photograph belonged to a visible minority; Barry Wu. Plus five women and a werewolf. What a great mix. All the women were white. Technically, so was the werewolf. And the police wonder why community relations are falling apart. Actually, she had to admit, the police knew why community relations were falling apart, they just couldn’t come up with the quick fix solution everybody wanted in the face of such a long-term problem. Unfortunately, “it’ll take time” wasn’t much of an answer when time was running out.

  “I’m surprised the S.W.A.T. boys haven’t scooped you up.” She carefully set the picture back down. It was still strange thinking of herself and the police as separate units.

  He smiled a little self-consciously. “I’ve been warned the moment I come back with Olympic gold, I’m theirs.” The smile faded as he bent to lace his boots. “I guess I’d better check them out, hadn’t I?”

  “Well, if you can find out what their best marksmen were doing on the nights of the murders, it would help.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “Pity we didn’t have some big hostage crisis those nights that’d clear them.”

  “Pity,” Vicki agreed, and hid a totally inappropriate smile. The boy—young man—had been completely serious.

  “I just can’t believe that someone’d be shooting at Colin’s family. I mean,” he sat up and began buttoning his shirt, fingers trembling with indignation, “they’re probably the nicest people I know.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that these people turn into animals?” Celluci asked.

  Barry stiffened. “They don’t turn into animals,” he snapped. “Just because they have a fur-form doesn’t make them animals. And anyway, most of the animals I’ve met lately have been on two legs! And besides, Colin’s a great cop. Once he picks up a suspect’s scent the perp’s had it. You couldn’t ask for a better guy to back you up in a tight situation, and what’s more, the wer practically invented the concept of the team-player.”

  “I only wondered if it bothered you,” Celluci told him mildly.

  “No.” Savagely shoving his shirttails into his pants, Barry turned faintly red. “Not anymore. I mean, once you get to know a guy, you can’t hate him just because he’s a werewolf.”

  Words of wisdom for our time, Vicki thought. “Bac
k to the shooting . . .”

  “Yeah, I think I know someone who might be able to help. Bertie Reid. She’s a real buff, you know, one of those people who can quote facts and figures at you from the last fifty years. If there’s someone in the area capable of making those shots, she’ll know it. Or she’ll be able to find it out.”

  “Does she shoot?”

  “Occasionally small arms but not the high caliber stuff anymore. She must be over seventy.”

  “Do you know her address?”

  “No, I don’t, and her phone number is unlisted—I heard her mention it one day at the range—but she’s not hard to find. She drops by the Grove Road Sportsman’s Club most afternoons, sits up in the clubroom, has a few cups of tea and criticizes everyone’s shooting.” He glanced up from the piece of paper he was writing the directions on. “She told me I kept my forward arm too tense.” Flexing the arm in question, he added, “She was right.”

  “Why don’t you practice at the police range?” Celluci asked.

  Barry looked a little sheepish as he handed over the address of the club. “I do occasionally. But I always end up with an audience and, well, the targets there all look like people. I don’t like that.”

  “I never cared for it much myself,” Vicki told him, dropping the folded piece of paper in her purse. It might be realistic, certainly anything a cop would have to shoot would be people-shaped, but the yearly weapons qualifying always left her feeling slightly ashamed of her skill.

  They accompanied Barry down to the parking lot, watched him shrug into a leather jacket—“I’d rather sweat than leave my elbows on the pavement.”—and a helmet with a day-glow orange strip down the back, carefully pack his cap under the seat of his motorcycle, and roar away.

  Vicki sighed, carefully leaning back on the hot metal of Celluci’s car. “Please tell me I was never that gung ho.”

  “You weren’t,” Celluci snorted. “You were worse.” He opened the car door and eased himself down onto the vinyl seat. There hadn’t been any shade to park in, not that he would have seen it given the conversation they’d been involved in when they arrived. Swearing under his breath as his elbow brushed the heated seatback, he unlocked Vicki’s door and was busying himself with the air conditioning when she got in.