by T. F. Walsh
“Could you tell me if his skin is sensitive to light?” The question sounded stupid, but she couldn’t think of another way to get him to check the body.
Ryan leaned forward and mouthed, what are you doing?
“Detective, photosensitivity would cease at death,” came his exasperated response.
“Could you please just check what happens to the skin under ultraviolet light?”
“What are you looking for?”
Good. She had piqued his curiosity. “Any reaction. I’ll wait.” She tapped a nail on the receiver, and glanced at Ryan who just shook his head. “Just want to see if he’s still where he’s supposed to be.”
After a few moments, Hoodam returned to the phone. “There is no reaction, detective. Does that help you?”
“Yes, it does. Thanks.” Hanging up before he could ask questions, she grabbed her pen and notepad and plopped onto the couch. “Okay, he’s not a vampire. So the beating in the head and stabbing the heart is superfluous. We just need something silver … ”
Damn. Even at her time of the month, she had never been this slow. “How did Jacobs die?”
He shielded something from her. He raised walls around his mind. She could see guilt on his face as he stared at her.
“The picture frame. What a coincidence the frame was silver.”
“Yes.”
“You killed him, Ryan.” She gathered all the rage and frustration building inside and pushed them at him. He fell out of the chair as if she’d used her hands.
“I had no choice,” he said, his voice gruff and deep as he stood, glaring.
She hunched, her hands out to her sides, and circled him. “You didn’t try.” She swiped at him, her nails catching his shirt, shredding like razors.
“This anger is the full moon affecting you, Lydia. Fight it. I did try with Jacobs. Let me show you.”
Tendrils of his thought reach for her, but she slapped them away. “Don’t touch me. You made yourself out to be this great man, able to withstand evil. But you’re just a killer.” Aware her words hurt him, she wanted to soothe him. Ease the sting. And yet, she wanted to rip him to shreds.
Howling, she lunged, this time raking his chest. Anticipating the move, Ryan gripped her throat and lifted her from the floor.
As she struggled, her robe opened. Taking advantage of his distraction, she kicked his throat and landed on top of him. He gasped for air, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, but his eyes flashed with fury.
Abruptly, he wrapped her mind in rapport. Unlike the gentle links in the past, this connection was brutal. She screamed in his grip, forced to watch as Ryan tried to forge the link with Jacobs and how he killed him.
When he released her, she slid to the floor, spent and ashamed. Wrecked that she could accuse him of cold–blooded murder. It’s the moon. This isn’t me. She wanted to crawl and beg him to forgive her. That made her weak and she hated it.
The changes that should make her stronger sapped her strength. In place of the self–possessed woman lay a quivering heap of emotional discharge. No power. Only terrifying dependency and uncontrollable passions. I’ve become pathetic.
Prone on the floor, she examined the underside of the coffee table. She had attacked him. She couldn’t make this right. The last shred of dignity gone, she wept. For herself. For Ryan. For a world innocent of the dangers around it. She wept.
After what seemed like hours, she calmed, though she still whimpered softly. A whistle pierced the silence. She jumped.
By her head, Ryan sat and observed her. “Are you finished?”
Like a slap across the face, the question cleared her mind. Taking a deep breath, she stilled. Drained and weak she faced him and nodded.
Gripping her chin, he pulled her lips to his. “I’ve never looked forward to a sunrise more.”
Chapter 19
When Lydia awoke, she stretched languidly, her hand brushing across Ryan’s chest. A sleepy chuckle rumbled in her ear as his arms hugged her, pulling her close. Muscles that carried her tension since the camping trip had relaxed.
“How are you feeling?” he breathed into her hair.
“Free.” She snuggled closer, her legs caressing his. She stroked her palm over his chest as he leaned his lips to her ear.
“Good,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to nibble an earlobe. Pleasure coursed through her like sunlight invading shadow. She moaned slightly in response.
Every touch left a trail of energy on her. He felt like warm satin under her lips. Her tongue drew a path up his neck, tasted the salt on his skin.
Holding her close, he gently rolled her onto her back. Then he slipped his hands along her sides and raised her arms over her head. She gripped the headboard and shut her eyes.
With them closed, the sensation of his fingertips tracing her arms to her sides made her gasp. Lightly he kissed her lips, throat, between her breasts. He eased lower and kissed her stomach. His hands glided down her hips, which she arched in welcome.
“Not yet.” He pushed her flat and caressed the inside of her thigh with his mouth, slowly working his way down her leg. She moaned. It was delightfully excruciating.
He massaged each foot, gently squeezing the arches and pressing his thumbs in small circles. Ecstasy. He kissed each foot as he left it, and worked his way back to her mouth.
She breathed his name, her mind reeling.
“Darling.” His voice sounded clear, yet heated with passion. “I want to make love to you.”
She opened her eyes and smiled, wrapping her arms around him. “I want you, too.”
When their lips met this time, she lost herself in him, in gentle caresses and loving nips. And when he finally entered her, he moved leisurely. Like to the rhythm of a slow song, they moved together, in a sensual dance. They crested as one in the dawn of their new lives together.
• • •
They met Adams at the diner for breakfast. The men ordered egg plates and dug in with relish. Lydia savored her coffee and a bowl of fruit, her voracious appetite having finally subsided.
They reviewed the information Adams collected about Margaret Cooper. A custodian at the elementary school for twenty-six years, she never married and had only one son.
Throughout the conversation, she noticed the looks Adams shot Ryan. She didn’t need special powers to read his mind. He didn’t trust the reporter. She considered confronting him, getting it out in the open, but thought it best kept for a private moment.
For all that the other patrons minded their own business, their attention would certainly shift her way if a heated discussion began. So when Adams cleared his throat, she hid a grimace behind her coffee mug.
“Look,” he began,” I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, and I really don’t want to know.” He pointed at Ryan. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’re a suspect. You don’t belong in this interview.” He managed to keep his voice in a conversational tone.
Impressive. Matching her tone to his and forcing a small smile, she said, “He’s a victim.”
“All the more reason for him to stay out of it.”
She nodded. “Normally, I’d agree with you. This is different because he understands the nature of our killer. He spent time with him. More than anyone else, he can give us insight. We need to have him along.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow at the officer. “I signed a waiver.”
She glanced at Ryan. “Sorry about discussing you when you’re sitting right there.”
Adams ignored them. “What sort of insight?”
“I’ll explain it later if it’s necessary.” She hated avoiding the subject, and she trusted him, but she had just come to terms with the change herself. She didn’t need a scene.
“Fine,” Adams said, lifting his mug and waving for t
he waitress.
• • •
Silence dominated in the car, putting Ryan on edge. Tension weighed heavily. Lydia drove, pursing her lips slightly in a way that, despite his position in the back seat, let him know she needed to share her secret with Adams. Ryan understood the sergeant was all but her partner. It seemed natural for her to tell him, and Ryan would support her.
But he suspected she probably wouldn’t confide in him until they caught the Butcher. She’d do nothing to jeopardize the goal. Not nearly as obsessed as he with taking out the Butcher, she still wanted to catch him. It was enough.
Adams sat in the passenger seat, palming his knees, back rigid, and eyes twitching as he stared out the window. The sergeant concerned Ryan. Adams clearly didn’t want him to have anything to do with Lydia, and used concern for the case as an excuse. Ryan couldn’t tell the extent of the feelings this man had for her, and it didn’t matter. He knew Lydia’s heart, and while it held a place for Adams, the spot was designated for a friend. Just the same, he’d rather not have his back exposed to the officer, so he’d chosen the back seat.
Ryan didn’t want to question Robert Cooper’s mother. He just wanted to be there for Lydia, supporting her in case their quarry thought to visit.
He would also be able to tell if Ugh, as he still thought of him, already came home. Perhaps Lydia could, too, but he didn’t want to take a chance she would ignore her new instincts. She was still a cop.
They pulled behind an old Volvo in the driveway of a one-story white bungalow. The immaculate yard, green grass smelling freshly cut as they walked across it, led to a woman in blue overalls who stooped, buried to the elbows planting a shrub.
As they approached, she glanced at Lydia and wiped bangs from her forehead, her gardening gloves leaving brown streaks in their place.
“Hello,” she said, still crouched. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Margaret Cooper?” Adams asked.
“Yes.” A frown furrowed her filthy brow as she stood. Permed brown and grey hair framed her bright, yet guarded, green eyes. “And you are?”
“I’m Detective Lydia Davis.” Leaving the introductions there Lydia extended her badge for inspection.
Ms. Cooper removed her gloves and extended a hand, which Lydia took as she used her other to tuck her wallet away. “What can I help you with, detective?”
“I need to ask you a few questions about your son, Robert.”
The puzzled frown on Ms. Cooper’s face appeared genuine as she welcomed them into her house and offered lemonade. The obvious wince on Adams’ face when he declined made the corner of Ryan’s mouth twitch.
She waved them to sit at a little table in the kitchen as she washed her hands and set out the refreshment. While their hostess bustled, Lydia caught Ryan’s eye and raised a brow. He shook his head. The Butcher wasn’t there.
When she joined them, Margaret Cooper directed them all with a piercing look. “What about my Robert?”
“Let’s start with when you last saw him.”
“Well, that’s rude.” The woman leaned against her chair back. “It would have been twenty-five years ago at his funeral, just before I put him into the ground.”
“I’m sorry.” Lydia shot a glance at Adams. “My information said he was still living.”
“Lots of records got messed up when city hall went electronic. The paper has issues with it sometimes.” Ryan sighed. So close. He stood; leaving his lemonade on the table then strolling around the kitchen, keeping his hands behind his back lest he give into temptation and punch something. He needed to move.
“Why did you want to know about my son?” Ms. Cooper asked as Ryan studied the picture gallery hanging on the kitchen wall.
“His name was on a hotel reservation three years ago. It’s probable he was a victim of identity theft. We will look into it and take care of it for you. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
Ryan listened with a heavy heart. Another dead-end. Always slipping past him. He ran a hand through his hair. Then something caught his eye. A young man, who appeared in most of the photos, standing next to a man with a protruding nose.
“Who’s this?” Ryan pointed at the snapshot.
Ms. Cooper came to stand beside him. “Oh, that’s Robbie and his friend Virgil. Virgil Miller. They were inseparable when they were in high school, until the accident … ”
“What accident, Ms. Cooper?” Adams asked, his voice quiet.
“The one that killed my boy.” She walked to the table and sat. “They were out with friends. I think they may have been drinking.” Her voice hardened. “The police said they were on drugs, but I know better. My Robbie would never have done drugs.”
“Was it a car accident, Ms. Cooper?” Lydia sat next to her and held her shaking hand.
She tried to be strong and compartmentalize her feelings into manageable bits, but that didn’t make her less human, less compassionate. If it changed her like it changed him, becoming a werewolf could give her a new perspective on humanity.
“Yes, they said Virgil was driving. Their car crashed through the guardrail and rolled down the hill. The moon was full that night, so they should have been able to see the road. The police said there were no skid marks. That’s why they said the boys were on drugs. They found my baby thrown from the car.” Her face went red. “Shredded. The only part of him not torn to bits by the crash was his face.”
“What did Virgil say happened?”
“Oh.” Ms. Cooper dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Nothing. No one could find him. He lived with his grandparents. They had no idea where he ran off to.”
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Cooper.” Lydia shook her hand and motioned for the others to leave.
Ryan easily obliged. He didn’t want to stay still for another minute. Virgil Miller. No way was this discovery another dead–end. The boy in that photograph was Ugh. He climbed in the back seat, drumming his fingers while Lydia slid behind the wheel.
Miller is the Butcher, used Cooper’s name at the lodge, and who knows where else. Probably stole other identities too. “It’s him,” Ryan said once they got moving.
“Virgil Miller.” Adams typed on the laptop plugged into the car’s dash. “His grandparents are most likely dead.” Everyone held a breath while the page loaded. “Wow, the kid got arrested five times between age eighteen and the accident two years later.” He turned toward Lydia and smirked. “Guess what for?”
“Drug possession with intent to distribute,” Lydia guessed.
“We have a winner. Sold marijuana first, then just before the accident, lysergic acid diethylamide. Rap sheet practically echoes Robert Cooper’s.”
“What’s lysoger–whatever?” Ryan asked.
“LSD,” Lydia explained. “Acid.”
“And she thought her son was a good boy. How did she not know he didn’t graduate?” asked Adams.
“Some parents don’t like to admit their kids are in trouble. Means they did a shitty job,” Ryan said. “Even if it means they overlook the obvious.”
Lydia’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “She didn’t seem to know much about Miller. I’d like to see a report of the accident.” She tapped her nails on the steering wheel. “Ryan, does the paper keep photos from a story they don’t actually run?”
“Yes. Sometimes the story will expand and they’re needed. Occasionally, we get something that the police requests later.” He grinned.
“I’ll drop you off at the paper while we go by the office.”
Fantastic. He needed to be in motion. Digging through files in the archive might not be finishing off Ugh, but it moved him one more step in that direction.
When they pulled in front of the Daily Times building, Ryan leaned between the seats to kiss Lydia lightly on the lips. Then he turned to Adams. “None fo
r you,” he said, inches from the cop’s face. The sergeant made a faint strangling sound as Ryan got out.
Chapter 20
When they pulled away from the curb, Adams cleared his throat. Lydia knew he wanted to talk about her relationship with Ryan. He had something personal on his mind. Otherwise, he would have just come out and said it.
Bracing for an outburst, she said, “Okay, get it out of your system.”
“What do you really know about this guy?”
She laughed. “Quite a bit, actually.” Leaning toward him, she whispered, “I know his deepest, darkest secret, Eric.” Then she straightened. “Don’t worry.”
Crossing his arms, he muttered, “Just the fact he has a deep, dark secret worries me.” His gaze bore into her, and he arched an eyebrow. “Seriously. Getting it on with a victim of an active case isn’t like you. Don’t you think it’s too personal?”
“No.” She kept her voice mild. “You’re the one who’s keeping Ms. Lenz’s cat. One could argue that’s personal. The cat should have been sent to the animal shelter.”
When he didn’t say anything, she patted his knee. “Neither one of us is compromising the investigation. As long as we keep our objectivity, I don’t see a problem.” She stopped at a light and added, “Look, let’s just go talk to Sare in vice. He owes me a favor, and I think he’ll be able to recognize Miller.”
“Okay.” He nodded slowly.
At the precinct, they took the stairs to the vice squad on the second floor. They needed to speak to someone who could remember busting Cooper and Miller, meaning they needed to talk to Anthony Sare.
The aging man ran a hand through salt–and–pepper hair when he saw them approach. “Look Adams, I don’t have time for a poker game. They promoted me.” He squinted and pushed thick glasses lower on his nose, then waved at papers stacked over his desk.
“Tough break.” Lydia nudged a hip onto a sliver of desk.
Sare was the poster boy for getting the job done. When his wife passed away a few years ago, he threw himself into his work. More drug dealers met with convictions in the three years following her death than in the six years before. Even before his spree, Sare had a reputation for good police work. He would joke that he had so many commendations, he could paper the bathroom with them.