The Wolf at the Door

by Charlie Adhara

  “Right. On my way.” Looks like they were driving up together after all. At least the environment would be happy.

  Park was leaning against a dark SUV. Like Cooper, he’d changed into something more casual. Unlike Cooper, he somehow still managed to look just as powerful and authoritative in jeans, a T-shirt and a light jacket as he had looked in his suit. Despite the quick freshening-up in the airport restroom, Cooper felt more bedraggled than ever.

  Park nodded at him. “Special Agent Cooper Dayton.” He said it seriously enough, but the graveness of his voice and expression made Cooper sure Park was laughing at him.

  Cooper realized he didn’t know Park’s first name. Assuming Park was his last name and not his first. Was Park reminding him of this disadvantage? What kind of disadvantage would that even be? They weren’t going to be monogramming anything so what did it matter? The less they knew each other, the better.

  “Ready?” Cooper said tersely, as if he wasn’t the one just arriving. Park gestured—after you—and they both got in the car.

  The air conditioner was on low and the cool air seemed to sharpen the scents in the car. The leather seats, the tantalizing coffee in the cup holder, Park’s own smell of spring and fresh linen. Mud and detergent, Cooper corrected himself.

  It was going to be a long car ride.

  As Park pulled out of the parking lot, Cooper opened the case file. The first victim, Kyle Bornestein, was twenty-eight, recently fired from a sporting goods store and an avid hunter. The missing kid and potential third victim, Robert Gould, was twenty-three and worked part-time for the Forest Service. The second victim, still a John Doe, had suffered a lot of post-mortem damage that was making identification a bitch but according to the medical examiner he had also been healthy, fit and under forty.

  Three relatively young men in prime shape. Not your typical victim type. But then maybe that was the point. They all seemed like possible alpha males. Maybe that’s why the unsub had taken them out.

  Being an alpha may just be considered a malleable personality type with humans, but it was an actual status with real sway in wolf packs. The Trust refused to acknowledge it, as they did with anything that sounded too animalistic, but Jefferson had told him fighting for status was a bloody business in the wolf world and Cooper himself had once had an assault case between two loudmouths he was sure had been a rival alpha situation between two wolves.

  Between a wolf and a human, though? Would killing human alpha-type men carry any weight in the wolf culture? This seemed exactly like one of those questions Park could answer. But would he? He worked for the Trust, after all, and was a wolf himself. He might not want to give away too many of his own secrets. Not if it made wolves look bad. Not while they were trying so hard to promote this idea that werewolves were no more dangerous than anyone else.

  A sudden pain in his belly so sharp Cooper almost needed to vomit protested that. He bit his lip hard and ignored it. No medical reason, it’s all in your head. He went back to reading the file. Bornestein had been reported missing by a fellow hunter he’d been supposed to meet up with a week and a half before he was found dead. Gould lived with his mother, who reported him missing this morning after he never came home last night. No one had reported John Doe missing, which indicated he was a lower-risk victim than the other two. The unsub was escalating. Getting bolder with his kills.

  Cooper looked at Park. He seemed...tranquil. Like they were road-tripping to a resort, not to a gruesome, possible triple homicide.

  “Did you read over the files?” Cooper asked.

  Park didn’t blink. “Yes.”

  “Do you think there’s any weight to this missing Gould kid being another victim of our wo—unsub?”

  “Maybe. Which could be a good thing.”

  Cooper looked at Park sharply. “A good thing to be taken by a sociopathic monster? I think our definition of good and bad are at odds, Park.”

  Park just tilted his head, calmly, unfazed by Cooper’s biting tone. “Kyle Bornestein was last seen thirteen days ago, but he was only killed last week. John Doe’s autopsy indicates multiple injuries that were days old by the time he died. I think we can assume the unsub keeps them alive for several days after taking them. Robert Gould hasn’t been seen since working on the forest trails yesterday around noon. If our unsub does have him, there’s a good chance he’s still alive and we have a couple of days left to find him that way. If he’s not one of ours, something else happened to him, probably out there in the forest, that’s prevented him from returning home or contacting anyone. In which case I’d say there’s a good chance he’s already dead. So yes, Special Agent Dayton, in my humble opinion, better tortured and alive than dead and rotting.”

  It was the longest speech of Park’s yet, but he never looked away from the road or raised his voice. “Okay,” Cooper said after a moment. “Good thinking.”

  Park’s eyebrow twitched. A faint hint at surprise and the first emotion besides pleasant neutrality he’d shown so far.

  Cooper asked, “What do you think he’s holding them for?”

  “No clue.”

  “Less helpful,” Cooper snorted, but he didn’t mean it as criticism. He didn’t have any ideas either. They lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive.

  The possibility that Gould was still alive somewhere out there for a limited amount of time put a new fire under Cooper’s ass. He may not be happy being the guinea pig for a publicity ploy, but he sure as hell was going to do everything he could to make it work for Gould’s sake.

  And god knew it wasn’t like he didn’t agree that something needed to change in the BSI. He’d been sickened at the news of Syracuse.

  Two BSI agents, Barret and Johnson, had been investigating a string of suspicious robberies. The only thing the jobs had in common was no possible point of entry and some animal tracks on the scene. A footnote in the eyes of the Syracuse PD, but one that had flagged the BSI.

  Barret and Johnson had set up a sting, and sure enough, the wolves showed up. Two of them, in wolf form. And then something had tipped them off. They’d run and Barret had fired his gun, killing one and critically injuring the other.

  Both wolves were just eighteen. Teenagers being stupid and trying to make some quick cash.

  That was one version of events, anyway.

  Barret and Johnson first claimed the wolves had attacked them. Then Johnson retracted his statement and said the wolves had been running away.

  Barret insisted it only seemed they were running away because they were circling them. Version after version floated around the BSI office and leaked beyond.

  Whatever the truth, one thing was clear: Barret had panicked and a kid was dead because of it. The wolf community was outraged and Cooper didn’t blame them. It turned his stomach to think about. As far as he was concerned Barret was guilty. His fellow BSI agents fell into two camps about it, however. The people who defended Barret had protested that he couldn’t tell they were just teenagers when they were shifted. The people on the wolves’ side had said that didn’t matter. The burglaries were nonviolent. The suspects had not been threatening. Barret should never have opened fire.

  But when it came to wolves, what was considered threatening? Their claws and fangs meant they were always armed and dangerous.

  Cooper had talked to Barret around the office a few times before Syracuse. He didn’t seem to hate wolves. Never said a bad word about them. Jefferson had even called him a Trustee a couple of times behind his back. But when faced with two hundred pounds of muscle, fang and claw, Barret had made a snap decision. One he’d probably be regretting for the rest of his life.

  If partnering with Trust wolves could help identify when a suspect was about to attack and when they were just shifted but nonthreatening, then Cooper was on board.

  He just wished he wasn’t the one in the spotlight.

  They proba
bly entered Florence a lot sooner than Cooper realized. The outskirts of the town were bare, a mere handful of houses that played peekaboo between the trees. Eventually, they arrived in the town proper. It was more...full than he’d been expecting for Maine. But then he’d been expecting a post office, the police station and maybe a diner. Cooper’s knowledge of the state pretty much started and stopped with Stephen King novels.

  “It’s only three blocks of this,” Park said, accurately reading his expression of surprise. “The rest is really rural.” Cooper hadn’t even realized Park had been watching his reaction. He pointedly turned his back to him and watched the town out of the passenger window.

  Restaurants, cafés, shops and galleries crammed together in brick buildings with cheerful white trims. Most shops had a carved wooden statue of some kind propping open their door, anthropomorphized carvings—a bear wearing a suit, a manic-eyed coffee cup, a smoking cat. Probably from the wood gallery by the corner, Wood It Work. Cooper rolled his eyes. The town clearly took charming as an edict rather than an adjective.

  They passed a souvenir shop with a hen in a Hawaiian shirt outside. “Does Florence get a lot of tourists?”

  “Fair amount. The White Mountain National Forest attracts hikers, some rock hounds hitting up all the old gem mines thinking they’re going to find the next big amethyst. Route 2 runs right through here, so Florence gets a lot of people passing up to Canada.”

  Cooper nodded absently. He wondered how Park knew Florence. He looked like he could be a dedicated hiker with that body. “Seems like there are more direct ways to get to Canada.”

  “A lot of werewolves who like to head north for the summer come through this way. It’s a longer route but more discreet than passing through Portland, and there’s the forest, of course.”

  Cooper blinked at Park’s candidness. It was the first time he’d said the W word. “Do a lot of wolves head north for the summer?” What were they, geese?

  “Those who can usually do. Heat can be...unpleasant.”

  “What if our unsub is a wolf passing through?” Cooper thought out loud. He may have already moved on.

  “Most only stop off here a day or two. Anyone here longer than a week would have drawn attention. I made some calls and there haven’t been any lingering outsiders. So if all three victims are related, our unsub’s a local.”

  Now that was helpful. Park didn’t look like he was expecting praise, so Cooper didn’t offer any. “Do a lot of wolves live up here?”

  Park nodded.

  “I’m surprised I’ve never known an agent to get called to a case in this area before.”

  There was silence in the car so long that Cooper jumped a little when Park responded, almost cautiously. “It’s mostly packs up here. Old ones.”

  He said it like that explained it. Maybe it did. Larger, well-established packs could be like miniature communities to themselves with their own laws and their own swift justice. No need for outside authority. Well, no want for it, anyway. The BSI had a whole department that focused on sanctioning packs that took on governing. Cooper privately thought the sanctions were more trouble than they were worth. Stopping wolves from policing other wolves pissed off the community and just made more work for the already overtaxed BSI. It had never made sense to him. But Jefferson said the wolves’ idea of justice was frequently violent and wasn’t always limited to fellow wolves.

  “These old packs, are they the sort of wolves who would join the protests against the BSI?” Cooper asked.

  Park cocked his head. “More like the sort who opposed the coming-out to begin with.”

  Cooper looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

  “A big thing. Especially with the larger, older packs who still rather pretend it didn’t happen.” There was an odd tone in Park’s voice. Almost bitter. But he didn’t offer any more insight and Cooper didn’t ask.

  Soon they pulled into the police station parking lot. Florence PD was a two-story wood building with a dark green roof and an American flag hanging still in the breezeless summer day. Nestled between huge pine trees, it looked more like a large, rustic fishing cabin than a police station. It didn’t help that the parking lot was dirt and practically empty of cars.

  “Lovely,” Cooper muttered as their SUV dipped comically low into a pothole.

  “Welcome to Florence,” Park said.

  Maine was a good deal cooler than D.C. and despite the clear crispness of the air, there was a permanent gray tinge to the sky. Not cloudy. Just not blue, either.

  Cooper walked beside Park into the police station in silence. They didn’t discuss a game plan, but he was used to that by now. Jefferson wasn’t big on talking either and he would normally take the lead on their cases, being the senior partner. Especially when it came to coordinating with local law. Now, he assumed, that would be his job.

  Inside, the station was eerily quiet. The front desk was empty. A tall oak monstrosity flanked by another American flag on one side and Maine’s bright blue state flag on the other. An honest-to-god bell hung from the desk’s corner. Were they supposed to ring for assistance like for a concierge? Cooper started to speak, but Park turned abruptly and looked behind them just before an unfamiliar voice called out, “Hey there!”

  Cooper turned as well. A door to the side of the lobby had opened and a young man in a police uniform and dusty boots waved at them. He was solidly built, if a little soft-looking, and had a ruddy, friendly face.

  Cooper pulled out his ID. “Special Agent Dayton with the BSI. And this is Pa—uh, Agent Park.”

  The guy rushed forward to introduce himself. “Sure, sure. Officer Miller. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Cooper was relieved the officer didn’t ask what the BSI was. His supervisors usually fed the local chief some vague explanation of “special or particularly violent circumstances.” But it was not always an explanation that got disseminated through the ranks. Thankfully it seemed like Melissa Brown—the Florence chief for eleven years, Cooper remembered from the file—had her officers focused, if not totally present.

  “Are you...” Alone here? Cooper struggled to figure out a way to ask without sounding ridiculous.

  Officer Miller picked up what he was saying. “Chief Brown is at the ranger station, directing the search. She asked me to wait here for you.” He looked eagerly at Cooper, practically bouncing on his heels. “I can take you straight there if you’re ready.”

  Cooper wasn’t used to being viewed as the partner in charge. It was nice. “Let’s head out.”

  At Miller’s insistence, the three of them piled into his black Crown Victoria. Partner in charge or not, Cooper somehow found himself relegated to the back seat.

  “Chief Brown is organizing a search of the forest?” Park prompted from the front. Cooper scowled at the back of his head. Park’s thick brown hair was a tad too long for bureau regulation, falling around his ears. He wondered if anyone outside the bureau would notice.

  “Part of it, anyway. Gould was last seen working up on one of the east trails. Chief Brown thinks he could still be out there.”

  “We were told you were able to identify one of the victims?” Cooper said.

  “Yeah, Kyle Bornestein,” Miller said. “Turns out his prints were on file for a trespassing charge.”

  “Trespassing?”

  “He was a big hunter. There are a handful of private properties that butt up on the national forest, and Bornestein followed an animal into someone’s yard. The charges were dropped, but it helped us ID him. No such luck on John Doe.”

  “And you think all three crimes are related,” Park said, voice thoughtful.

  “Chief says so.”

  “What about Bornestein and Gould? Any overlap there?” Cooper asked.

  “If there is, we haven’t found it yet. They didn’t seem to run in the same circles.”
>
  “What circles were those?”

  Miller frowned. “When Gould’s not working he’s at the bar or the gym. Bornestein has a couple of hunting buddies.”

  “And they reported him missing?”

  “It wasn’t a formal report. But one of the guys he hunts with is on the force. Officer Harris. Great guy. For Gould, his mom called this morning saying he hadn’t come home all night. He’s an adult, of course, so there isn’t really anything we could do. Chief Brown is taking a gamble organizing the search party. But what with two bodies showing up, even if it is in a different part of the forest, everybody’s in full go mode.”

  “You don’t approve?” Park asked.

  Miller paused, his reluctance to disagree with a superior obviously at odds with his personal opinions. “Gould’s a twenty-three-year-old man. Could be a lot of reasons not to come home at night. He could still show up on his own.”

  * * *

  In contrast to the police station, the ranger station parking lot was packed with official vehicles. At first glance they all looked like the same service, but there were slight differences in the markings identifying state, National Forest Service and three different towns’ police. Around one car, consulting a map spread over the hood, stood a small crowd of various uniforms.

  “Chief Brown,” Miller called toward the group. A woman in heavy-duty hiking boots looked up and squinted at them. She was of average height and build, with a sensible blond bun and had a pair of wireless glasses balanced at the edge of a slightly too-small nose. She took the glasses off, and for a moment the strain and aggravation lining her mouth relaxed. She muttered something to the others standing around the map and walked toward them briskly.

  “BSI?” Brown said, shaking their hands. She had a firm, powerful grip, probably from a career of proving herself as a woman in uniform.

  “Special Agent Dayton. This is Agent Park.”