“Did I pull a gun on you?” he asks with a hard glare. “Did I handcuff you? Threaten your life?”
“You’ve been following me. You attacked me last night,” I counter.
“I did not lay a hand on you. You were drunk. I was attempting to take your keys away.”
“You’ve been stalking me.”
“I was watching you in case something like this occurred.”
“So you knew they were going to do this and instead of warning me you just stalked me until I was in mortal danger? What the hell kind of plan was that?”
“I was under strict orders not to engage with you unless absolutely necessary. We knew there was a possibility this could happen, not a certainty.” He pauses. “And if it did happen, I was under orders to, if possible, capture the rogue and interrogate him as to the location of Seth Conlon.”
I wait a few seconds, but when he doesn’t elaborate, I prompt, “Who is?”
“Four years ago, after a fifty-six-year reign, Robert Conlon died in his sleep at one hundred twenty-four years old. He had one son, one daughter, three grandsons, and one granddaughter of age. The son was too old and disinterested nonetheless, two grandsons proved themselves to be Betas, which left only two other options: Seth and Tate. As is our custom, before he’d name his successor, the Alphas fought as wolves under the full moon. Seth was bigger, more aggressive. He won. When Bobby passed, Seth was our new Alpha. And for a year we put up with his stupidity. His cruelty. Seth’s first order was that your father, I, and several others who could challenge him, be more or less exiled from the pack. Only on full moons were we able to enter the compound, and even then we could not run free with the others. He imprisoned us. He embezzled pack funds as well. The last straw was when he attempted to force some of the younger women to submit carnally.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Your father reluctantly agreed to be the one to challenge Seth. He’d been close to Bobby, and was father to his great-grandson Matthew. He—”
“Wait,” I cut in. “Stop. I have a brother?”
The man’s quiet again. From what little I can see of his face from the glow of the dashboard, he remains expressionless. “Your father married Jenny Conlon, Bobby’s granddaughter, soon after the divorce from your mother. Matthew was almost a year old by then.”
I scoff. “Fast worker. Ditched one family, instantly got himself another. Sounds like a great guy,” I say with a sneer.
“Your father is the finest man I have ever met,” he says menacingly. “Please do not say a word against him in my presence.”
“Yeah, because abandoning me without a second thought, then dragging me into this bullshit is such a wonderful thing to do. Humanitarian of the year, him.”
“Your father loves you. I would not be here otherwise. There is a war back home. People I love have died. Others are in mortal danger. Your father didn’t want this life for you. He didn’t want it touching yours. So, though it broke his heart, he stayed away. Only a few even know of your existence. He didn’t want you to meet a similar fate as …” The right side of his face twitches.
“As?”
More silence, before, “Your father bested Seth. He won the challenge. Seth was forced to leave the pack, made rogue, told if he remained in our territory, we’d execute him. Through the years we heard reports he was in Canada, in New Mexico, then in the past year, that he was recruiting other rogues. We couldn’t pin down his exact location, though I spent countless hours hunting him. Then, three months ago, a D.C. detective and his wife were attacked in the Shenandoah State Park. She died, he lived to kill the wolf, but he was turned. The detective reported that the wolf targeted him first, dragging him out of the tent, biting then licking the wound. It only attacked the wife when she began shooting at it. Price had a knife on him and began stabbing when it set upon his wife, then bashed the wolf’s brains in with a rock. It bled to death before it could heal. Price was lucky. We soon discovered the wolf was one of the men alleged to be associating with Seth. Since then we’ve also seen a significant uptick in maulings, some where the victim died and others where a person reported a bite then vanished or moved away, maintaining minimal contact with friends and family. Pennsylvania, Delaware, New Jersey, Virginia. He’s amassing an army around us. We just put the pieces together too late.” He pauses. “Then Jenny went missing. And Matthew.”
“Oh, God.” I don’t think I want to hear anymore.
“We first realized something was wrong Thursday. Jenny was supposed to be at a day spa, but when it began growing dark we tried her cell phone with no answer. The spa said they had never heard of her. I was just about to go searching when the first phone call came in. Tate Blue, then soon after Omar in Delaware, Ralph in Pittsburgh, and Jenny’s father R.J. in North Carolina. All very close to your father and physically strong men, all shot or set upon by wolves. R.J. and Ralph didn’t make it. And in the middle of all the confusion Linda, Matthew’s wife, phoned too. Your brother hadn’t returned home from his photo studio and wasn’t answering his phone either.
“When I went to retrieve her and the twins to bring them to the compound, I made it all of three miles before I was shot at and run off the bridge. I split open my head and almost drowned in the bay. By the time Adam found me stumbling on the side of the road and got me patched up, the calls had stopped, but there was no sign of Matt or Jenny. Until morning. The same SUV that ran me down drove right up to our gate and dumped their bodies. They’d been … beaten, had their throats slit. Jenny was strangled too. Possibly … violated.”
“Holy fuck.”
“There was a note in Matt’s pocket. Said, ‘You took mine, now I take all of yours. With interest. S.C.’ Following his pattern, striking at everyone close to your father, it was logical he’d attempt to abduct you, possibly even infect you or use you to force your father’s hand to step down. You’d be easier to handle than two strong, experienced werewolves like Matt and Jenny. Your father and I agreed I should come watch you. Took the first flight out. I’m actually surprised it took them so long to find you.”
This is totally, off the wall, batshit crazy. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I’m having a horrible acid flashback or something. I’ve heard that can happen. I’m hallucinating the paw. Those Marshals back there thought I was involved with whatever this asshole was and were taking me in to interview me when Blondie went all Chuck Norris on them. Now I’m an accessory to murder. This psycho beside me executed Cooper without hesitation, and now he’s spouting crazy talk. I’ll just explain to the cops what happened. This was all a horrible mistake, and that this freak kidnapped me. I mean werewolf wars? This guy is certifiable. And a murderer. Oh fuck, I think the shock’s worn off. It just hit me that I’m in a car with a man who emptied a gun into another human being without an ounce of emotion. He’s a sociopath. He’s probably driving me to another field to behead me and wear my skin like Versace.
“Stop the car,” I say.
“The police are still nearby. I can’t—”
I pick up the gun from my lap, pointing it right at his head. “I said stop the fucking car!”
He glances at me with that emotionless expression. “Please lower your gun. You’re not going to—”
I move the muzzle to the right and fire, shattering his window. Damn that’s loud. That high pitch ringing in my ears is almost deafening. Does the job though. Blondie’s large frame jerks and slams on the breaks. “Jesus!”
“Get out of the car,” I say over the ringing.
“Vivian, I’m trying to save your life. Don’t—”
“Get out!” I shriek.
“Don’t make me do thi—”
“I said get the fuck ou—”
With one fast movement, Blondie slaps the gun to the side while reaching across to me. Before I can react, he’s got me by the back of the neck and squeezing like a boa constrictor on ster
oids. Lights out. Hope the vultures and coyotes enjoy their feast.
two
Huh. I’m alive. This is a surprise.
Once again the light from a window stings my eyes as I open them. Maybe this is heaven. Nope, my neck and ankles wouldn’t be torturing me if I was in heaven. And Nina Simone isn’t around to greet me. When my eyes focus, I check my surroundings. Backseat of a car. I get a few not terribly enjoyable flashbacks from my misspent youth as I lay back here. Of course the snoring blonde in the driver’s seat is new. His seat is pushed all the way back and reclined so his head is inches above my feet. Asleep. Good.
I do a quick mental diagnostic of myself for damage. Besides my aching neck from sleeping at a strange angle, I have a headache, though nothing like yesterday’s. My whole body’s stiff, my arm sore from where the Marshal grabbed me, and I think I have rope burns where the straps of my shoes dug into flesh when I was fleeing. Otherwise I’m intact. Even have my panties on too. Considering all the hell rained down on me last night, I’m in good shape. I intend to keep it that way. Time to get the fuck out of here.
The Mustang is a fabulous car, no question, except when you’ve been kidnapped and your assailant is in the front seat and you’re stuck in the back. Then you really wish they’d made it a four-door. The lever to move the passenger seat is right by my hand, but will make noise, not to mention when its down the seat blocks the door handle. Hard way it is. Careful and quiet. Slowly I unstrap my heels, removing them as I’ll move better without them on. I swish my toes and ankles in circles to restart the nerves. Oh, that’s bliss. Order restored, and never ungluing my eyes from Blondie, I gradually sit up. His snores continue. So far not awful.
Now the tricky part. Moving about an inch a second, I creep toward the front, never taking my eyes off my comely kidnapper. I’m crouched halfway to the front when he snorts. I freeze, hell I don’t even blink as he turns on his side away from me. I don’t draw breath for five seconds until he resumes snoring. I breathe a literal silent sigh of relief. Keep on keeping on, Viv.
I clasp onto the passenger head rest, bunch up my skirt, and very very very carefully move my right foot into the passenger seat. Ted Bundy continues snoring. Then the left foot. Good thing I’m flexible. Okay, almost there. Using the headrest to brace myself and flexing my back in an arch, I shift my left foot to the floor and lower myself onto the seat. Still snoring. Hallelujah. I reach for the handle and open the door with the same care. Jesus Christ, it worked. I’m free. My bare right foot touches hot dirt outside. I—
Shit!
A hand clamps around my left wrist, and my gaze jerks toward its owner. Blondie is staring at me with his usual cheer. “No.”
Fuck it. As quick as I can, I lower my head and bite down on that hand hard enough I taste blood. He releases me, and I leap out into … oh, double fuck!
Nothing. As I survey all 360 degrees of my surroundings, I find nothing. Nothing around to the horizon but dry brush and flat sandy soil. A freaking real tumbleweed rolls by. We’re in the desert. Might as well be on fucking Mars. I just can’t catch a damn break. “Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Help me!”
Blondie climbs out of the Mustang. “We’re ten miles from the nearest town. No one can hear you, Vivian.”
My gaze zips back to my captor. “Take me home,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
I move around the car to face him, spitting out his blood on the way. “Take me home right now, goddamn it, or I’ll …”
“What? Bite me again? Shoot at me?” He meets my eyes. Damn, he’s like a robot. I can’t find an emotion anywhere on his face. It’s unnatural. “The sooner you accept this new situation you find yourself in, the easier this will be for us both. I am on your side, Vivian.” He starts toward the trunk of the car. “All I want to do is escort you safely back to Maryland where we can all protect you until the danger’s passed.”
“You want to escort me to my father. Who is king of the werewolves. I’m sorry, did you forget to take your pills or something? Are the aliens telling you to do this, Blondie?”
He opens the trunk. “My name is Jason.”
“I like Blondie better,” I say with a sneer.
“I don’t.” My kidnapper extracts a duffel bag and shuts the trunk. “It’s understandable that you require proof. I would have produced it last night had you given me the opportunity before you aimed a gun at me.” He unzips the bag, rooting around in it before pulling out a stack of papers. “Here. Your father said I should bring them. As usual, he was correct.” He tosses me the bundle. Letters. I recognize the flowery handwriting on the front. Mom’s. Even has her name and address in the corner. Michelle Dahl, then later Mrs. Barry Anderson. “She promised to send photos and letters once a year. You read through them. Take your time. I have to take care of some business in private. Please do remember, though, I am faster than you so don’t run or I’ll be forced to handcuff you in the car.”
Where the hell would he go? “Fine,” I say, although the word sticks in my throat.
He nods and returns to searching in his duffel. The ground is burning my feet to a crisp, so I return to the passenger side and sit. These could be forgeries. Part of an elaborate con. Why I’d be at the center of one, I haven’t a clue. I still want to read them. I open the first envelope on the pile. If they are forgeries they’re damned good ones. I even remember the stationery with “MDA” monogrammed on the top of the later ones. Photos too. Me in front of my grandparent’s ranch house when I was about three. First grade, second, all my school photos through high school. That perm at fifteen was such a bad idea. The letters are short at first, just giving the broad strokes of my life. My first sentence. Potty training issues. Asking him to send more money. Later she starts bitching about what a nightmare I’d become. The drinking. My failing grades. The arrest for drug possession and a fake license. In one, when I was sixteen, she even begs him to take me off her hands. Nice, Mom. They stop at my eighteenth birthday, obligation fulfilled. I graduated from high school, and the next day moved to New York City with my band. Lasted a year before I moved to Austin, then New Orleans, then La-La land. Wonder if Frank knew about those too.
There are three loose photos between the letters as well. The first one I’ve seen. My father making funny faces as he holds infant me. The rest, no. Frank, a pretty woman with dark hair, and two boys opening presents under a Christmas tree. The dark-haired boy resembles the woman with similar hair and eyes, and looks to be about six or seven, but the familiar blonde is older, early teens maybe. I’d recognize that scowl anywhere. He stands apart from the trio, staring and back as straight as a razor, almost as if he’s afraid to be near them. In the third, I’m onstage at this club in Santa Monica where I used to sing. Frank was close to take this one. Front row. I was right, I didn’t know my own father when I met him on the street.
My head swims. Only one word sticks enough for me to focus on it. Lies. My entire life is based on lies. Mom lied to me. I thought he didn’t care. Hell, even though it wasn’t rational, a part of me had believed I ran him off somehow. That I wasn’t lovable enough for him to stick around. That he saw something in me as an infant and decided I wasn’t worth his trouble. That he was right to leave. I’m gonna kill Mom. It’s a damn good thing she’s three thousand miles away because if she was in front of me right now I really would murder her. Both of them.
Jason hangs by the back of the car checking the one, two, three wow, four guns laying on the trunk as I get up. “I need your cell phone,” I say.
“Why?”
“I need to call my mom.”
He sets down the revolver. “Not a good idea. If those men were Marshals, they may have contacted her already. May even have someone watching her.”
Shit. “Could my family be in danger too?”
“Unlikely, but possible.”
“Then give me the fucking phone,” I say, rounding the car toward him. I hold my hand out, and he glares at it as if it’s just slapped him. “It’s not like I can tell her where I am because I don’t even know.” He continues to glare, which earns an eye roll. “Please?” That works. He reaches into his pocket and hands me the cell. “Thank you.”
I return to my seat inside and dial. There’s no answer on the house phone, so I try her cell. “Hello?” Mom asks.
“Mom, it’s Viv.”
“Vivian! Hold on, I’m at the club.” Far away, she says, “Paula, if they call us for a court, tell them I’ll be back in five minutes.” I’m being hunted and she’s playing tennis. Fair. I hear her walking, then in a low whisper, “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Excuse me?”
“We had a call this morning from a Federal Marshal saying you were involved in a shoot-out last night. What did you do?”
My mouth drops open. “Yeah, I’m fine Mom. Thanks for asking,” I snap. “And glad to know my kidnapping and possible death didn’t keep you from your doubles match with Paula.”
She’s silent. “Are you … alright?”
“Considering last night I was almost murdered, then abducted, and oh, I just found out my father is a fucking werewolf, I’m doing pretty damn lousy. Thanks for finally asking. ”
More silence, then, “Your father’s a what?”
My rage boils up ten degrees more. I’m hotter than the damn desert air. “Don’t play dumb. Not now,” I warn roughly. “I really do not have the patience or time for it. I am staring at letters and photos sent from you to Frank where, quite a few times, you scribbled the word werewolf. And I am with a man who had a paw for a hand last night. For once … I am begging you … I need to know the truth. Okay? My life depends on it. Please,” I say, voice cracking. Shit, I think I’m about to cry. I force the desire away. Emotions have no place in my life right now.
She doesn’t speak for a few seconds, then, “It was both our decisions not to tell you. For your protection. It was for the best. For all of us.”
Werewolf Sings the Blues Page 4