Hunted (Riley Cray)

by A. J. Colby

  “I am outside,” I replied, pulling my foot back from the doorway to validate my response. “Not that it matters. I told you no one’s in here except her cat.” As if to emphasize my point, a small ball of ginger fur chose that moment to burst out from under the couch, streaking into the kitchen where it hunkered down next to the stove and hissed at us. Except for Loki, most cats don’t like me much. I think they can sense the wolf inside and recognize her for the dangerous predator she is.

  Letting out a long, slow breath Holbrook rolled his shoulders and resettled his grip on the Glock. “Don’t. Move,” he instructed, taking several slow steps towards the bedroom door.

  Rolling my eyes at his dramatics, I remained by the door and fought to hide my irritation when Hill eased into the room. The two agents made a slow sweep of the apartment, checking every inch to make sure that it was empty. My suspicions about the fate of Shoup were confirmed when Holbrook emerged from the bedroom, barking orders into the cell phone pressed to his ear. Holbrook and Hill had both slipped their guns back into their holsters, their tension gone, replaced by solemnity now that they were sure there was no imminent threat.

  I would have enjoyed feeling smug if my vindication wasn’t dependent on the dead woman sprawled out on the bed in the other room. Even though she’d likely been crazier than a sack full of angry pixies to be tangled up with Johnson, that didn’t mean she’d deserved being butchered and left to rot in that depressing apartment. No one really deserved that.

  Well, maybe except for Samson. And Johnson. And Chrismer.

  While Holbrook rallied the troops, and Hill went outside to coordinate with his partner, I took the opportunity to venture into the apartment and do a little snooping. I knew enough from watching hours of CSI to avoid touching anything, and didn’t doubt that Santos would hang my ass out to dry if I contaminated the scene, but I had to satisfy my curiosity. I needed to know why these people wanted me dead.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, making sure I wasn’t in danger of brushing up against anything, I started looking over the random clutter littered across the coffee table. A momentary spike of guilt stabbed into my gut as I perused the woman’s life with cold detachment, but I quickly dismissed it.

  It’s not like she’s going to get pissed at me for snooping.

  At first glance it looked like the coffee table was just covered in more junk mail, old cups of coffee with God knows what growing around the rim, and several air fresheners giving off the choking scent that permeated the hallway outside. I was about to go investigate the kitchen and its hissing occupant when something caught my eye among the old pizza ads and past due credit card statements. Hesitating, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that Holbrook was preoccupied before I plucked the salmon colored flyer from underneath a dog eared copy of the National Enquirer. The venomous words swam in front of my eyes as a cold shiver raced down my spine.

  Humans for Humanity is a radical anti-supes group who believe that all non-humans are the scourge of the earth and the root of all evil. They’re a modern day National Socialist Party, and completely whack-a-doodle. Like their Nazi predecessors, they believe in a supreme race and that anyone unlike them is a form of pollution that deserves to be eradicated. To Humans for Humanity, vampires, werewolves, and all the other varied non-mundanes were as the Jews and homosexuals had been to the Nazis.

  Without thinking, I sank down on the edge of the couch, fighting to breathe through the panic burning in my chest. Johnson had left no doubt in my mind that he wanted me dead, but I’d never have guessed that he was involved with the group of racist nut jobs. Setting aside the flyer, I flipped through some of the other papers on the table, many of them hate-filled anti-supes propaganda. The sheer unadulterated hatred these people felt for me and my kind was sickening. As I rifled through the clutter spread across the coffee table, I uncovered an ashtray, filled to the brim with cigarette butts, and grew even more certain that Shoup had been involved with Johnson somehow.

  “What the hell is Johnson into?” I muttered aloud, dropping another offensive flyer on the table. Had he been a member of Humans for Humanity all along, or had his wife’s adultery driven him to join their crazed ranks?

  Behind me, Holbrook continued to issue commands to whoever was on the other end of the line, and I figured it was likely to be my only chance to get a look at the woman who had presumably been working with Johnson. I rose from the couch, and crept to the bedroom doorway on silent feet.

  Cheap metal blinds hung in the room’s single window, coated in a layer of dust so thick that they looked grey rather than white. They didn’t do much to keep the light out, leaving the room bathed in cold light. I don’t know if it was the light, or the way that she was splayed so carelessly on the bed, but I had to admit that I felt a stab of sympathy for her.

  She had been pretty, in a plain Jane kind of way, with straight dark hair cut into an asymmetrical bob that framed a slightly rounded face. Eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate stared unseeing up at the ceiling. Faint red marks on either side of the bridge of her nose indicated that she wore glasses, but I didn’t see them anywhere on the bed. Her throat had been slit, a ragged slash bisecting the pale skin of her neck. An arc of blood colored the ceiling and the wall behind the bed, while a large pool of blood had soaked into the rumpled sheets beneath her, looking dry and stiff. I was guessing she’d been dead for at least several hours.

  It was quick at least, I supposed, though I doubted that Shoup would see that as a saving grace considering she was dead either way.

  There were no lingering traces of cigarette smoke in the bedroom, making me think that it was unlikely Johnson had killed her himself.

  Figures the bastard wouldn’t have the balls to do the deed himself.

  Which meant that there were other people involved in this mess. People that would be all too happy to see me dead. The list of people who wanted to kill me was getting longer by the minute. If I was lucky, maybe they’d duke it out over who got the honors and take each other out.

  Nah, I’d never be that lucky.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  IT ONLY TOOK fifteen minutes for the apartment to be overrun by EMTs, police officers, FBI agents, and one harried animal control officer decked out in fire retardant gloves. I wasn’t sure what he was anticipating but I thought the gloves were overkill until I saw the way the little ball of fluff transformed into a whirlwind of slashing claws and needle-like teeth. At that moment even the wolf and I didn’t want to be within ten feet of that furious creature from the deepest reaches of hell.

  Officer Beefcake was a familiar face amongst the throng of uniformed officials, and he did not seem at all pleased to see me.

  “Well Ms. Cray. You seem to have a nose for trouble, don’t you?” he said as he sidled up to me, his thumbs hooked through his belt, framing his washboard abs. It should be against some kind of cosmic law for someone so hot to be such a humungous tool.

  My shoulder’s stiffened at his jibe, but I chose to take the high road and let it slide.

  Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

  “Just lucky I guess.”

  “Uh huh.”

  I sighed in relief when one of the other officers caught his attention, waving him over.

  “I’m watching you, Cray,” he warned, extending a finger in my direction before turning and stalking away like a ticked off peacock. Lucky for me his angry strut highlighted the toned curve of his ass, giving me a rather nice view as he stalked across the apartment.

  Deciding that things were getting just a little too tense for my liking in the confines of Shoup’s tiny apartment, I ducked out into the hallway and slouched against the wall. Away from the frenetic flurry of activity, I let my head roll back and my eyes slide shut, relishing the relative quiet of the hallway. I was finally healing faster than a human, but it was still painfully slow compared to typical were standards.

  “Cray. What a surprise.”

  My e
ntire body tensed in recognition of the rich, velvety purr that sounded far too close for comfort.

  What the hell?

  “Chrismer. I might say the same. You manage to ferret out a murder like a shark scents blood,” I replied without opening my eyes. Maybe if I didn’t see her I could just pretend that she didn’t exist.

  “How sweet of you to say,” she crooned.

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “I know,” she said, the dark and sultry edge to her voice making me crack my eyes open to look at her.

  As always, she was a vision of polished perfection. Her tailored, blood red skirt suit hugged her curves and emphasized the narrowness of her tiny waist in a way nothing I owned ever would. Her blonde tresses were swept up in a complicated knot that looked like it had taken at least three people to accomplish, and her makeup was flawless. I gave a brief thought to my sloppy appearance, but ultimately decided that I just didn’t have the energy to care.

  “So, where’s your Special Agent?”

  Bristling at her tone, I opened my mouth to retort but Holbrook emerged from the apartment a second later, his hair mussed from his habit of running his hands through it whenever he was stressed. Judging from the especially tousled look of his hair at that moment, I guessed he was on the verge of punching someone.

  “Ah, Ms. Chrismer. A delight as always,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

  “Agent Holbrook. Would you like to comment on the recently deceased Ms. Shoup?” she asked, producing a microphone as if by magic.

  How does she find out this stuff?

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. You know that.”

  Trudging on as if he hadn’t replied, she continued to wave her microphone at him as though it was a magic wand that would somehow loosen his lips. “Is it true she is linked to Agent Johnson, who is currently missing and accused of kidnapping and attempted murder?”

  Holbrook’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he clenched his hands into fists.

  “Don’t push it, Jessica,” he warned, something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

  The EMTs saved me from having to wipe Chrismer’s smug grin off her face with my fist when they wheeled out a gurney, Shoup’s body secured inside a black bag looking like some kind of gruesome burrito.

  A slight, balding man wearing a pair of Coke bottle glasses hurried down the hallway, the overhead lights gleaming on his shiny pate, highlighting the beads of sweat that were beginning to track down his temples. His eyes grew wide behind the thick lenses of his glasses as the EMTs approached, pushing along their grisly package. He sprang back, plastering himself against the wall to put as much distance as possible between himself and Shoup’s body. It wasn’t until the EMTs had disappeared into the elevator that he peeled himself away from the wall and continued to bustle towards us. As if his scampering waddle wasn’t laughable enough on its own, the fact that he had to pull up his pants every third step made me bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

  Drawing up beside us he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his oversized pants to mop up the sheen of sweat, puffing out breaths that smelled of menthol lozenges.

  “You’re the Super?” Holbrook asked.

  “Yes,” he replied in a nasal wheeze. “Oh, what a tragedy this is! She was such a nice girl, always paid her rent on time, never made a fuss. She never had a mean thing to say when we passed in the lobby.”

  That’s because you’re human, I thought sourly. Holbrook’s sharp glance told me that my expression had telegraphed my bitter thoughts.

  “I’m Special Agent Holbrook with the FBI. Would you be able to answer some questions, Mr. ...” Holbrook said, flashing his badge.

  “Walters, Jeff Walters,” the Superintendent stammered.

  “Do you have somewhere private where we can talk, Mr. Walters?”

  “Ah y-yes. I live in the building, my apartment is downstairs. Oh, this is just so terrible!”

  * * *

  Stepping into Walters’s apartment was like being transported back in time to the 1970’s. Tangerine orange shag carpet was just the first of a multitude of eye-searing throwbacks from the disco era that filled the small apartment that smelled of burnt coffee and moth balls.

  “Can I fetch you some coffee? Water?” Walters asked, disappearing into the kitchen before either of us could answer.

  “No, thank you,” Holbrook called out, looking over the cluttered living room.

  It wasn’t cluttered in the way that Shoup’s apartment had been, full of trash and cheap furniture. Instead, it was filled with the things collected over a lonely life – old issues of National Geographic were stacked randomly about the room, a low set of shelves under the window groaned under the weight of an overabundance of VHS tapes, the hand written labels peeling and curling, and in the corner beside a TV that looked older than I was, sat a wooden side table with a collection of model classic cars.

  Walters waddled back into the room with a steaming cup of coffee that gave off the distinct odor of whiskey, and waved us towards the sofa.

  Well, I guess someone’s taking Shoup’s death a little hard.

  At his motion, Holbrook and I moved to the floral velveteen sofa whose springs creaked as we sat down, while Walters eased himself into a hideous plaid recliner across from us.

  “Was Ms. Shoup a tenant for long?” Holbrook asked, withdrawing his notebook and pen from inside his jacket

  “About two and a half years.”

  “Did she have many visitors? A boyfriend, perhaps?”

  “No, no boyfriend. She kept to herself mainly, though she had been entertaining guests recently. I didn’t like the look of some of them to be honest. Looked like rough sorts if you know what I mean.”

  “Can you describe these people? Did you catch their names?”

  “No names, sorry. I didn’t get a good look at them, they came late in the evening mostly. Two men, both middle aged, and a younger woman. I didn’t like the look of her at all, covered in tattoos with all those ugly rings in her face. It’s not right for a young woman to desecrate her body like that,” he said before taking a big gulp of his coffee.

  Showing Walters the picture of Johnson on his phone, Holbrook asked “Was this one of the men?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe. I can’t be sure. I’m sorry,” Walters said, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his sweaty brow again. “Do you think it was one of them that did this? That they’ll come back?” he asked, growing pale and agitated.

  A long draft from his doctored coffee seemed to help steady his nerves a little, but his eyes remained bright and nervous.

  “We’ll post a few officers to watch for any suspicious persons who may come around,” Holbrook assured him, rising to his feet. Evidently Walters had been as helpful as he was going to be. “And if you think of anything else please give us a call,” Holbrook added, handing the Super a card.

  “I will,” he said, fingering the card in one sweaty hand, leaving smudges of grime on the white cardstock.

  “Well that was about as helpful as a poke in the eye,” I grumbled once Walters had shut the door behind us.

  “I see your impeccable charm worked its usual wonders,” Chrismer said with a saccharine smile, pushing away from the opposite wall to saunter towards us.

  “Let me punch her, just once?” I asked Holbrook, flashing him the sweetest smile I could muster. “It could be an early Christmas present.”

  “Riley,” he warned, though I caught the grin he tried to hide.

  “Spoil sport.”

  Chrismer brushed past me, jarring me with a non-too gentle bump of her shoulder, and raised a perfectly manicured hand to knock on the Super’s door. “Mr. Walters? I’m Jessica Chrismer from Channel 9,” she purred as soon as the door opened.

  “Ms. Chrismer,” Walters breathed, his eyes widening behind his Coke bottle glasses, glossing over with adoration. “Yes, I know who you are.”

&
nbsp; Seriously? I thought, indignant irritation flaring hot and choking in my chest.

  “I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about the recently departed Ms. Shoup?”

  “Yes, yes, please come in. Such a lovely girl, so polite,” he simpered, stepping back from the door to let Chrismer sidle inside.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, watching Chrismer’s shapely ass sashay into Walters’s apartment. Turning to close the door behind her she smiled wide, baring brilliant white teeth.

  “God, I hate that woman.”

  “She does have a particular talent for inciting your wrath,” Holbrook said with a smirk.

  “She’s like a persistent infection that just won’t go away. I can’t understand why you tolerate her so much.”

  I realized in that moment that I knew very little about Holbrook. Was it possible that Chrismer was an old lover like Alyssa? Was that why he tolerated her presence, why she wasn’t turned away from crime scenes like any other reporter would be?

  “It’s not a matter of tolerating her, Riley. I have to show respect to the Shepherd of the City,” he said as we walked towards the door leading back outside.

  “What does his Lordship have to do with this?”

  “Jessica’s his Day Servant. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Fuck me!” I lurched to a stop in the doorway. “No, I didn’t.”

  Shepherd of the City. The words sent a thread of icy dread down my spine.

  Almost every major city in the U.S. had a leader of the supernatural community, someone who acted as their voice and protector, though sometimes they seemed more like a dictator than anything else. The Shepherd was someone of immense power who commanded the fear, if not respect, of those who lived under his, or her, protection. They weren’t always a vampire; Cheyenne’s Shepherd was a werewolf, and the Shepherd of Las Vegas was a magi.

  Denver’s Shepherd was Alexei Cordova. He’d been a relative unknown until he had arrived in Denver five years ago, and quickly made a name for himself as a ruthless, but talented, businessman. In just a few years he’d risen through Denver’s political circles, somehow ingratiating himself to the movers and shakers of the city.