by Rebecca York
It couldn't be the demon, he told himself firmly. Yet it was long moments before he felt comfortable enough to return to his business.
Quickly he began to dig. It didn't have to be a deep grave. Just a few feet deeper than the body. If somebody found it a couple of years from now, what would it matter? Simon Gwynn would have a new name and all the power and wealth he needed to maintain his safety.
The shovel bit into the dirt, which he lifted and set in a pile. The motion was automatic, a nice workout. His anger still simmered below the surface, but he had it under control. Anger never did any good. It was a waste of energy.
He had better things to do with his mind while he dug the grave. As he shoveled up dirt, he brought back the image of the couple who had broken his concentration and spoiled the ceremony.
They were dressed for a play or a movie. Like a costume drama set in ancient Greece or Rome. He wasn't exactly sure, because the history of costume wasn't his major field. But he would do some research and figure out the era.
So had he really been viewing an ancient scene? One that the demon had dragged from the past?
Or what?
Something more recent? A man and a woman in costume.
Patience Hamilton and her lover? Jesus, did the demon know about her? Or was this something else entirely?
KATHRYN lay in the darkness, her body rigid, her mind churning, her hand clutching Jack's card. She wanted to call him, needed to hear his voice—needed that connection she'd felt to him. But she wasn't going to be the one to pick up the phone.
He should do it. Damn him! Because if she made the call, she was going to look like she was pursuing him. She'd spoken to him candidly in the dream. Too candidly. Now she refused to give him more reason to think she was chasing after him.
Maybe he hadn't phoned because it was only her dream. The abashed, embarrassed part of her wanted that to be true. The needy part wanted him to tell her that they'd connected emotionally in the dream—that what happened between them was all right. So she lay in bed, wide awake, all her senses on alert, which was probably why she heard a noise outside that might not have reached her ears under ordinary circumstances. A quick rattling, as if someone had stumbled over the trowel that she'd left near the back door.
A zing went through her nerve endings. Without turning on the light, she slipped out of bed and padded to the window, lifted a slat in the blinds, and peered out into the darkness. Below her she could see a cat streaking across the lawn.
A cat! That was all.
She went back to bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, but she was much too tense to sleep.
Finally, when she heard the newspaper hit the front porch, she pulled on sweatpants under her tee shirt and padded down the inside stairway.
Opening the front door, she took a step outside. Before she cleared the doorway, her ankle hit something taut and invisible.
A scream tore from her throat as she pitched forward, putting out her hands to break her fall as the porch floor came up to meet her.
For long moments she simply lay there on the cold boards, too stunned to move. Then she pushed herself up to a sitting position. First she inspected her hands where she'd hit the painted wood surface. They were scraped, but the damage wasn't serious.
Carefully, she flexed her arms and legs. Then with narrowed eyes, she turned to the door frame. At first she could see nothing. Then she spotted a piece of plastic fishing line stretched across the opening, about eight inches from the sill. On one side it was secured to the door hinge. On the other side, it was wound around a nail head that protruded slightly from the door frame. Not a nail that anybody had hammered into place recently, she knew. The darn thing had been sticking out for months, but she'd never gotten around to fixing it. Too bad!
Who would have done this? Someone who wanted to hurt her? Or someone who had a beef with Heather? That would mean it was someone who didn't know her tenant was missing, since the front door led to both apartments.
And what was the motive?
She had no answer. Back inside, she debated what to do. She'd been ignoring little things. Like the spray paint and the tire tracks over the flower bed. Maybe that had been a mistake. It certainly would be a mistake now, because she wanted this incident on record with the police.
So she dialed 911. When the operator came on, she explained what had happened and that she was in the upstairs apartment.
"We'll have a patrol car out there as soon as possible, ma'am," the woman told her.
How soon was that, Kathryn wondered as she quickly washed, changed her tee shirt, and pulled on clean sweatpants.
She was pacing back and forth, stopping periodically to lift one of the slats in the blinds, when she saw a cruiser roll to a stop in front of the house.
Hurrying downstairs, she made sure that the officer, whose name was Lorton, didn't trip over the fishing line. After examining it and taking photographs, he unhooked it and put it in a plastic bag. Then he dusted for fingerprints—and found none.
Straightening, he asked, "Has there been any other trouble here?"
"Some vandalism. I didn't think it was all that serious, but this is another matter. I could have broken my neck."
"Yes," he agreed, which didn't make her feel any better.
"Anything else unusual going on?" he asked.
She sighed. "My downstairs tenant has been missing for almost a week."
"You filed a report?"
"Yes. And a Detective Thornton has been out here to talk to me," she said, keeping her hands at her sides so she wouldn't twist them into a knot.
The officer wrote it down.
"Anything else?" he asked, giving her an opportunity to tell him about the strange stuff that had happened between her and Jack. She kept that to herself.
Lorton departed, leaving her with the same unfinished business that had kept her up since she'd awakened from the dream. She wanted to talk to Jack. Now more than ever. She wanted him to tell her what to do.
Finally, swallowing her pride, she picked up the phone and called him. But after all that, once again he wasn't even in the office.
Damn him!
CHAPTER NINE
« ^ »
JACK HAD BEEN planning to go to Kathryn's in the morning. But as he was shaving, he changed his mind. Maybe he was too chicken to confront her. He preferred to think he should get another perspective. So he decided to exercise another option.
After breakfast with the kids and Emily, he went upstairs to his office and called Ross Marshall.
"Would it be inconvenient if I came over this morning?" he asked.
"You've got some business to discuss?"
"Yeah. I've got to stop by the office and take care of a few things. Then I'll drive over."
He put down the phone, his gaze fixed on the bookshelves in back of the desk. He was still sitting there, staring into space, when he heard a light tap at the door.
"Yes?"
Lily pushed the door open and peeked in. "I came to kiss you good-bye."
He opened his arms, and she scurried into them, holding tight to him. Turning his face, he kissed her cheek. "I love you, honey."
"I love you, too, Daddy." She pressed closer to him.
"What?"
In a barely audible voice, she asked, "Are you mad at me, Daddy?"
"No, sweetheart."
"You seem mad."
"Do I? I think I'm just preoccupied."
"What does that mean?"
"I'm thinking hard about a case."
"Oh."
"Thanks for saying something."
"You don't mind?"
He gave her another hug. "Of course not. The only way you can know what somebody is feeling is for them to tell you."
She thought about that and nodded.
"You don't want to be late for school. I'll see you after work."
"I love you, Daddy," she said again, then turned quickly and headed for the stairs, leaving him feeling overwhelmed.
You bring a baby home from the hospital, he thought, and you don't have a clue about what you're getting into. Babies turned into children with distinct personalities and a whole bunch of needs. Here he was lusting after Kathryn Reynolds, and he had no idea how she was going to interact with his children.
He snorted. Kathryn again. Invading his thoughts in every conceivable context. So was he thinking about fucking her? Or bringing her home to meet the family? It was a little premature for the latter, he decided as he headed to the office.
He'd been collecting information on the other three missing persons, and he needed to look at the new material coming in. After sorting through the various bits of information, he picked up the bag with DeYoung's tee shirt. He hadn't logged it in as evidence. Not when he knew he was collecting it to give his werewolf detective friend a whiff of her scent.
The thought brought a grim smile to his face. Ross Marshall had an uncanny sense of smell. And he was better than a tracking dog, because he had a wolf's senses combined with a man's brain. A very potent combination.
Ross lived in the western part of Howard County in a still rural area. He'd bought a large piece of property several years ago, with a stream and woods where he could wander as a wolf at night.
The house was at the top of a hill, up a rough road paved with loose gravel and across a wooden bridge that looked like it wouldn't hold the weight of his car. But he'd been over it often enough, and he knew that Ross and Megan regularly crossed it in their SUVs.
He cleared the woods and stopped for a moment, studying the sign that said DITHREABA. It meant refuge in the old Celtic language, the language of Ross Marshall's ancestors.
Taking his foot off the brake, Jack drove up the hill, impressed as always with the setting and with the house that Ross had remodeled by himself. It was a modern structure of wood and stone, with massive windows that faced the meadow on one side and the woods on the other three. Ross had designed the house to bring the outside in—so that he had the best of both worlds, a comfortable interior environment with natural vistas that fed his soul.
After cutting the engine, Jack walked toward the front door. Movement behind the large living room window caught his attention, and he stopped in his tracks.
Through the glass he could see Ross and Megan Marshall. Apparently, they weren't expecting him so soon, and it was very clear that Ross's acute senses were not turned toward the outside of the house.
He and Megan were standing in the middle of the rug, holding each other close, swaying slightly—their mouths fused.
It was a very private moment. Jack knew he shouldn't intrude. But in his hypersensitive state, he couldn't turn away. The waves of sexual energy coming off the couple behind the window caught and held him—and set his own nerve endings quivering.
He'd suspected that there was a high degree of sensuality in the bond between a werewolf and his mate. It appeared to be true. In a moment he expected to see steam coming off the man and woman in the living room.
Ross slid his hands down Megan's back, cupped her bottom, and rocked her body against his.
Jack's breath caught. He was struggling to take a step back when a noise intruded on the scene. It took him seconds to realize it was a baby crying. By that time, Megan was already out of the room and rushing down the hall.
Released from his new role as a voyeur, Jack walked rapidly back to the unmarked, where he dragged in several deep breaths and wiped his damp palms down the sides of his trousers. After taking half a minute to collect himself, he opened the car door and slammed it loudly.
Ross was standing with his back to the window. He didn't turn as Jack came up the sidewalk. And he waited several seconds before opening the door.
His face was slightly flushed.
"I appreciate your seeing me," Jack said.
"You're always welcome here," Ross answered.
They stood awkwardly facing each other until Megan came down the hall, holding the baby.
Jack and Megan had become good friends during the time before her marriage, when she'd been estranged from Ross and wondering if she dared contemplate a future with such a man.
In the end, there had been no way she could turn away from him. Their marriage was strong, he knew. Not just physically, but emotionally as well.
This morning, she seemed to have regained her equanimity more quickly than her husband—but she'd been forced to focus on her son.
When she smiled at Jack, he smiled back.
Joshua had stopped crying, and from the way Megan was cradling him against her chest, Jack could see that the baby was nursing.
Husband and wife exchanged a long, lingering look. Then Megan's gaze came back to Jack again. "Good to see you."
"Yes. How are you doing?" he asked, still feeling like an intruder.
"Well, the son and heir is teething—which is making our life a little difficult," she answered.
"Hang on, and he'll be in a new phase before you know it."
"I hope so." As she spoke, she settled herself in the rocking chair. Ross crossed to the mother and child, standing behind the chair, reaching down to cup his son's head and stroke the fine black hair.
Megan tipped her face up, and they exchanged a look of unconscious sensuality—reminding Jack of years ago when his own children had been babies. Nursing could be a turn-on, Laura had told him. And there had been times when he'd sat beside her on the bed, his hand lightly stroking her shoulder as he waited for her to finish feeding Craig or Lily so they could get back to some rudely interrupted quality adult time.
The eye contact broke, and Ross raised his head. Aware that he had been staring, Jack looked down, watching Megan's knees as she began to rock gently.
"Get Jack a mug of tea," she said to her husband.
"Uh-huh. Tea."
Jack followed him into the well-equipped kitchen, another dividend of Ross's remodeling skills. He'd supported himself while he was in college with two very different jobs. He already had a reputation as a private investigator—using his wolf senses to solve robberies and nail adulterous spouses. At the same time, he was working as a carpenter's apprentice. Both careers built from those fledgling beginnings. Ross continued solving crimes, earning substantial fees. And he used some of the money to start buying and rehabbing fixer-upper houses.
His comfortable home in the woods was the culmination of his real estate ventures. Jack knew Ross had expected to live here by himself in this refuge from the world. Then he'd met Megan, and his life had changed.
Ross swept his hand toward the shelf of tea boxes. "What's your pleasure?"
Jack focused on a box. "Ginger-flavored green tea."
"I didn't know you were into green tea."
"A sudden impulse," Jack answered, wondering at his choice, then remembering he'd seen a similar box on Kathryn's counter.
He must have made a face, because Ross paused in the act of extracting a tea bag. "Changed your mind?"
"No."
Ross studied him, then turned to the sink. Apparently he'd added one of those instant hot water faucets, because instead of reaching for the kettle, he simply put the tea bags into two mugs and filled them with steaming water. All the modern conveniences for the descendant of ancient werewolves.
While the tea steeped, Ross asked, "So what kind of case did you come to discuss?"
"Missing person. A woman. I brought along one of her tee shirts. I was hoping you could figure out what's happened to her."
"I can give it a try. But I need more to go on. Like, if she left in a car, there won't be any trail to follow."
"I know. And it won't do any good to check her boyfriend's car. I'm sure she's been in it for legitimate purposes." Jack sighed and looked back toward the great room where Megan still rocked and nursed the baby. "Can we go outside?"
"Sure."
They each picked up a mug and walked to the front door.
"Back soon," Ross told his wife.
About six months ago,
Ross had built a fieldstone patio at the side of the house. Jack suspected that Megan might sit there when her husband was in wolf form, roaming the nearby woods, since she couldn't join him physically.
But he didn't mention his speculation as they settled themselves in Adirondack chairs, facing the forest. Ross sucked in a breath of the early spring air, his expression appreciative, and Jack wondered what scents the werewolf caught that were undetectable to a normal man.
"So what are the details of the case that you don't want Megan to hear?" he asked.
Jack set his mug on the table between the chairs and knit his fingers together. The details of the case weren't exactly the problem. It was his personal involvement, but he knew he was going to ease into that part.
"A young woman disappeared late last week. Her landlady made the report. The missing woman, Heather DeYoung, works as a substitute teacher for the Montgomery County school system. She's got a lot of debts. The landlady doesn't like the boyfriend, and I share the opinion."
As they both took sips of tea, he quickly filled in other facts—leaving out the personal stuff like the time distortions and the dream. But as he felt Ross's keen eyes on him, he knew that his friend was reading between the lines.
"So what do you think?" Jack asked when he'd finished.
"I think you're attracted to the landlady. But you're worried she's mixed up in the case somehow."
Jack let out a breath. "Something like that, yeah. You always were perceptive."
They sat in silence for several moments.
Jack scuffed his shoe against a flagstone, staring intently at the polished brown leather, steeling himself to take the next step. "I need to talk about an aspect of this I haven't touched on yet. Probably anybody else would think I'm crazy. I figure with your particular background, you're going to be open-minded."
"Just spit it out. You'll feel better."
"Easy for you to say!"
"Well, I was the loner who kept his background secret for years. Until I found out I could trust Megan—and you."
Jack deliberately unclenched his jaw and began to speak, describing in stark terms his meeting with Kathryn, the incident with the dog, the dream, leaving out some of the embarrassing details.