“I’m planning a coup as we speak,” Will says with a smirk.
I stuff a piece of Danish in my mouth. “So, what’s in Charlotte?”
“I got in contact with an old friend at the Bureau who agreed to help me cull through missing persons reports.”
“An old friend?”
“Yeah, he was one of the FBI liaisons when I was at Metro P.D. We sometimes went rowing together, out for drinks, stuff like that.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“About a month before the attack. We took our wives to a Chris Isaak concert.”
“Are you nervous about seeing him again?” I ask, stuffing more Danish in my mouth.
“A little. I mean, I don’t think he’ll take one look at me and think, ‘That guy’s a werewolf’ or anything. We’ve e-mailed once or twice through the years. I just hope I can keep my lies straight.”
“Do you keep in contact with a lot of people from DC?”
“No. Everyone sort of gave up trying after a year of me not calling or writing back. Not that I blame them. I just, I wasn’t in any shape to handle their pity and questions. I severed all ties and didn’t look back,” he says with a hint of regret. “Even with Mary’s parents. They tried for years. I handled the whole thing so badly. I just…vanished.”
“It’s never too late,” I say. “I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
“Maybe. We’ll see how things go with Jonesy first. And speaking of…” He downs the rest of his coffee and stands. “I better get on the road.” He takes a step and kisses the top of my head. “See you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I say as if I’ve been doing it for decades.
Giving me a boyish smile, he runs his hand over my hair and walks off. Wow. Anyone who was watching us would think we were an ordinary, boring couple together for years. I used to be so envious when I’d see a couple like us, just this cohesive unit with eyes only for each other as they shared a meal. Let me just say finally being on the inside looking out totally rocks. Envy away outsiders.
Nancy and the others join the breakfast brigade after I’m on my second Danish. Before they can grab a bite, Chandler is upon them with orders of the day. Nancy is back on lab work, Andrew is on communication with law enforcement and George, and the rest are on park duty. At least I won’t be stuck in that trailer all of today. In my tenure with the F.R.E.A.K.S. I discovered I’m a natural interviewer. Something about me just puts people at ease and makes them want to tell me all their secrets. Oliver’s better at it, especially with women, and when we’re together we’re unstoppable. We just have this rapport, instinctively playing off each other. Crap, I’m doing it again. Stop thinking about him. He is persona non grata until he apologizes, and that includes thoughts. The band has broken up. I’m a solo act now.
We all finish breakfast, go back to our rooms to retrieves our kits, and drive to mobile command. First up, I telephone the other two rangers, Adrian Winsted and Kyle Taylor, and set up appointments. I have a bit of time before I have to go meet Winsted so I skim the report Oliver wrote last night. Despite his personal faults, the man is a good agent. He tracked the four wolves from the summit where they changed. He located some spoor spread out down the mountain, but the scent was gone until a blood, tissue and fur trail began about a hundred yards from where Will flipped out. It ended where we found the pool of blood hidden under leaves. Per the report, he had no reaction at the site, nor did anyone else, which led him to conclude that she had ingested a mild potion to amp up her pheromones to a level animals can sense and thereby turn the wolves into horn dogs. And every woman knows the best way to control a male is through sex. Yes, he wrote that in the report.
I find it odd that there’s no mention of the victim in the report. Oliver spent all night combing the woods, at least according to this, and found nary a trace of human blood except for at the kill spot. It’s as if our mystery man plopped down from the sky in the very spot he was attacked. The blood trail continued sporadically to the spot on the trail where they found the leg. I thought for sure that he’d find a trace of the victim. A piece of clothing, a wallet, body parts, something.
These people are good. Through. They had to have planned this. Where the heck is the rest of this guy? Did they bury him? Pack him in garbage bags and haul him home? Even if they ate him, there would be bones. No, I’ll bet they dug the grave ahead of time. Graves. Oliver marked spots where he sensed bodies around the park, about ten of them. Guess we’ll have to dig those people up. I just hope I don’t have to be there when we do. Interviewing park rangers is more my speed, thank you very much.
There were no further developments in the night, so I join the others in the war room. They’ve read the report too and are speaking to the state police about digging up those bodies. We may have an ID by tonight. Wolfe drew short straw, as he usually does when up against Chandler and Rushmore, and has to coordinate at the park with the staties. Ten bodies to be excavated, examined, photographed and that’s before they bring it out of the grave. I hope all aren’t victims of the wolves, but I’d bet money one or two are.
Dr. Neill is in her sanctuary, throwing together her kit with the assistance of Carl. Busy day for them. We’re going to be knee deep in corpses tonight. Since I’d rather visit the dentist than the lab, I check our e-mails and faxes before my appointment. George faxed a list of telephone numbers and names of local witches with Mona McGregor circled. She lives in Goodnight, Virginia, wherever the heck that is. The town’s name is familiar for some reason. It takes a second but it does come to me. About six months ago I met another witch, Anna West, who was involved in a triple murder in Goodnight. Her vampire lover and two others killed an entire family after she ran away from him. Vamps really have to work on their jealousy issues.
It’s rather early, but I call McGregor anyway. Life and death and all. Someone picks up on the third ring, though I can barely hear over the commotion. “Cora, just put on your flipping shoes like I asked,” the woman on the other end shouts. “You’ll miss the bus!”
“But Aunt Mona,” a little girl, I assume Cora, whines, “I—”
“Just do it! Now!” Mona snaps. She sighs then says, “Sorry about that. Hello?”
“Um, Ms. McGregor?”
“What’s left of her after this morning. May I ask who is calling?”
“My name is Special Agent Beatrice Alexander. I got your name from George Black?”
“Oh. So how can I help the F.R.E.A.K.S.?”
“We’ve come across what we think is a werewolf using love potions to control her pack.”
“What makes you think that?” I tell her about Will’s reaction, and while I do I swear I feel his hands pawing at me. My wrists even ache where he held me. “Hell’s bells,” Mona says when I’m done. “Well, it doesn’t sound like a love potion or spell I’ve ever heard of. They’re more directed. You can only target one person. It sounds more like a lust amplification potion since it comes off in biological material.”
“What?”
“She pumped up her womanly scent to make men go bonkers when she’s around. You say only werewolves are affected?”
“And dogs.”
“Then she’s probably using a low level dose but still. The potion is short term, a day or two at most until it’s worked out of the system. She’d need a steady supply. If you’re in North Carolina we’re the closest supplier for magical ingredients, and I haven’t seen anyone buy the stuff for that potion. You need worm root, which I get imported from India, and black toadstools. I haven’t sold either in awhile.”
“Do you know of any witches in this area?”
“One or two, but once again they buy from me for the most part, and that spell’s illegal. Anything that takes away a person’s free will is. I can ask around to other suppliers. Whoever this witch is, she could be buying from multiple suppliers so she wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”
“Could you also send the names of every known wit
ch in a hundred mile radius? I have George’s list, but you might have some names we don’t.”
“Look, I know the ones closest to where you are. They’re good women. Besides, it’d get real expensive real fast just due to the illegal factor. Black toadstools are very rare and forbidden in witchcraft. They’re only used in black spells.”
“Is it possible the witch and werewolf are one in the same?” I ask.
Her end is quiet for a second. “I’ve never heard of a witch/werewolf hybrid, but stranger things have happened. It’s possible. Jason Dahl would know more about that than me. Werewolves are big on population control and keeping track of their wolves.”
“Yeah, we have a call into him as well. Is there anything we can do to counteract the lust spell?”
“Not really. It changes her body chemistry. There is a magical element to it so maybe a charm to shield from magic, but I doubt that would completely negate the biological factor. Just keep your agent away from her. Listen, I have to go get the girls to school. I’ll e-mail George the stuff you wanted, and you can call if you have more questions, okay?”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck. Bye.” She hangs up.
Well, that could have gone better. Diddly bubkus. Maybe the list will prove more useful. I just have to wait. So not my strong suit. Distraction time. Rangers to interview. Kyle Taylor is still at his seminar, but we have a Skype conference set-up in three hours. Adrian Winsted is up first. We have an appointment in over an hour, but I don’t want to wait that long in this metal box with nothing to do but stare at blood. The element of surprise is a useful interview technique anyway. The target doesn’t have time to work on the lies. A good excuse as any to get the heck out of here. I hop back into my car and punch Winsted’s home address into the GPS. Hopefully I’ll open the door, and he’ll blurt out not only the names of the werewolves but where they live. We’ll arrest them with no fuss, and Will and I can go home and finally have that wild hot monkey sex we deserve. It could happen.
Yeah. Right.
*
Ranger Winsted sure does love nature. One would think he’d get enough of that at work. Nope. Half mile from the neighbors, his domicile resembles a tree house, a two-story wood paneled home that could very well be built into the hill behind it. I park behind the red Ford Focus, only one of the five cars in the gravel driveway. A full house.
Just as I climb out of my SUV, the front door opens. An African American man, a dead ringer for a teenage Idris Elba (swoon) complete with muscles in a tight white shirt and jeans steps out, followed by a woman fiddling in her satchel. Not his mother as she’s Caucasian, though I judge her old enough to be. Early to mid-forties but gorgeous with wavy dark brown hair framing her round face. That’s not the only round thing about her. She has curves to die for, like Marilyn Monroe or an earth mother. Full breasts and large hips but all in proportion. The green dress she wears brings out the green in her large gray eyes that instantly begin to appraise me. “May I help you?”
“Yes. My name is Special Agent Beatrice Alexander, FBI. I have an appointment with Adrian Winsted?”
“Your appointment isn’t for another half hour,” the woman says.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I say, walking up to the duo.
The man, and I use the term loosely because he looks barely twenty, moves right to the woman’s side. “Jamal, go wait in the car please,” the woman says, squeezing his hand. Jamal nods and starts toward the Prius. “We’re just on our way to school. Adrian’s still in his pajamas, I’m afraid. He’s had bronchitis for over a week, the poor lamb.”
“Well, I promise to go easy on him,” I say with a smile.
Her smile melts ten years off her face. “I’ll hold you to that. Let me show you in.”
“Thank you.” God, she even smells good, like cinnamon and apples. Great, now I’m hungry. I follow her inside the tree house. Damn, it’s like a museum in here with wooden totems from Africa and Asia complete with large heads and phalluses on every surface. Even the furniture is earthy, mostly wood in dark greens and browns, antiques I think. Does need a dusting though. There are several bare spots on the walls and surfaces where paintings and more statues used to be. Mrs. Winsted must notice my furrowed brow because she says, “We’re remodeling in a week. I just started boxing everything up. It’s going to be a nightmare. Would you like some coffee or…”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She gestures to the hard green padded futon couch for me to sit, which I do. “Let me go rouse Adrian.” After another pleasant smile, the woman leaves the room. Okay, snooping time. I rise from the couch and begin by the sideboard. More knick knacks like flutes adorned with feathers or animals carved in wood and stone. Lots more bare spots. Okay why—
My cell buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out. Oh, how sweet! A text from Will. “Miss U already. Luv U.”
Smiling, I text back, “Ditto. In Charl yet?”
A second later, “Bad traffic. Where R U?”
“Ivew. Luv U Luv U Luv U. TTYL.”
A man’s coughing and footsteps make me slip my phone away. Mrs. Winsted and a man still in his brown pajamas and sipping a water bottle pad into the living room. Trooper Winsted is rather non-descript medium height and weight, with the same dark color hair as his wife receding at the temples. His frameless glasses can’t hide the red rimmed eyes. Even his skin shouts “sickness” with its waxy pallor. “I’ll leave you both to your interview,” Mrs. Winsted says. “It was nice meeting you, Agent Alexander.” She kisses her husband’s head. “Be good.” With a wink my way, she departs toward the front door.
“I apologize if I woke you,” I say. “I found myself in the neighborhood sooner than I expected.”
“It’s fine, I just,” he coughs, the deep rattling kind, before sipping his water. “Anytime is a bad time with bronchitis. I need to sit down.”
“Yes, of course.” I sit in the chair and he the futon. Not far enough away for my liking though. Those coughs of his make me squirm. “I just have a few quick questions. I’ll keep this as short as possible. You have a lovely home,” I say as I pull out my pad and pen for notes. “Very interesting knick-knacks.”
“Yes,” he chuckles. “Patsy’s an anthropologist. We’ve traveled the world. I—” The thump upstairs draws both our gazes toward the ceiling. “Just the dog. He jumps on people. Patsy indulges him.”
“It’s fine. As I said on the phone this morning, a body, well part of a body, was discovered in your park yesterday by your colleague, Trooper Mills.”
“It’s unfortunate, but it does happen. People aren’t meant to be in the park after dark for a reason.”
“We’ve since found ten more bodies at various locations within the park.”
Winsted’s bloodshot gray eyes grow behind his glasses. “Really?”
“Our forensics team is excavating them now.”
“That’s…disturbing,” Winsted says before coughing phlegm onto his sleeve. Gross. “Sorry. Any idea who they are? The victims?”
“Not yet, but we have reason to believe a group of people, possibly with attack dogs, are hunting people in your park, primarily on full moons.”
“Um, I’m sorry, Agent Alexander but that sounds kind of farfetched.” He coughs again, for several seconds this time. Ugh. Poor guy. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I rarely get sick beyond allergies, but this man’s about to topple over. He’s definitely not a werewolf, that’s for sure. “It’s just a theory, but all the evidence is pointing that direction. So, have you seen or heard anything suspicious at night in the past year or so? Howling? Campsites or cars left abandoned? A group of people, primarily men, you didn’t later see or appeared again the following morning?”
“No, none of that. I mean, there’s been the occasional abandoned tent or article of clothing, but in the spring and summer the homeless take to the woods and run when they see us coming. I really think you’ve got this all wrong. I’ve seen bears in t
hose woods, ma’am. They’ve attacked before.”
“And buried their kills?” I counter.
“All I know is I’ve never seen or heard anything like you’ve described. But it is a big forest,” he concedes.
Time to switch tactics. “What about the other rangers? Taylor and Mills? Anything strange or off about them?”
“I don’t really spend much time with them, just when we switch off shifts. They seem solid enough.”
“Do either have a girlfriend or wife?”
“Taylor does. A wife. I don’t know anything about her though.” Winsted begins coughing again, this time for a full thirty seconds.
I try not to cringe. “Are you sure you’re okay? Should I—”
He waves me off. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
This is a waste of time. He doesn’t know anything, and the longer I spend here the bigger the chance I’ll catch pneumonia. Plus he’s about to collapse in that couch. In this state he’s not going anywhere. I pick up my purse and rise. “Okay, Mr. Winsted, I’ll let you get back to bed now. Thank you for your time.”
“That’s it?” Typhoid Larry asks as he coughs again.
“For now. If I have any follow-up questions, I’ll call.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help right now. If I think of anything useful, I have your number,” he says through more coughs.
“Thank you. I’ll see myself out. You get some rest. Feel better.”
With one final smile, I walk out with about as much info as I had before, nothing except the need to bathe in hand sanitizer for an hour. As I hustle out of the house, it occurs to me that maybe this murder was a one off. That the bodies they’re digging up could be decades old. With the pack running wild, the rangers would have heard something at some point. Or the men are lying. I couldn’t get a read on Winsted with the illness factor. I’ll have to do more digging on them all. Today’s interviews are really just to get a sense of them. All I gleaned from Winsted is he needs more Vitamin C and Zinc in his diet. With a sigh, I climb into my car. I hate this part of an investigation. All we have are a million puzzle pieces with no clear guidance how to assemble them into a full picture. It’s frustrating and annoying and never, ever easy to assemble.
High Moon (A F.R.E.A.K.S. Squad Investigation Book 4) Page 13