white wolf.jpg

by White Wolf (lit)

  “My parents' wedding rings.” The words tumbled from her lips. “Here, you take them. I'm not ready to hold anything my father wore yet.” She scooted the pouch to the right.

  Sorcha opened the last bag and let out a long sigh. “I'd so hoped.” She sighed again.

  “What had you hoped, honey?”

  “I was so hoping it was the locket Grams gave me, you know the luck of the O'Rileys that I told you about.”

  Gray pried the pouch from her fingers and looked into it. He pulled out a finely wrought gold necklace from which dangled a tiny jeweled cross. “Yours?”

  “It was Grams's, and I think her mother's,” she answered.

  “And these?” He held up a tiny ring and a pair of diamond stud earrings. “Looks like baby stuff.”

  She nodded. “I remember Mom telling me the first girl in every family gets the earrings, and the firstborn male gets the ring and the cross.”

  “Is this from Aileen's side of the family?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “I think so.” Her temple throbbed, and she pressed the ball of her thumb into the aching spot.

  The house phone rang. They both jumped and turned around and stared at the white handset hanging on the opposite wall.

  “What now?” Gray ate up the distance to the phone, yanked it off its base, and barked into the receiver, “Hello.”

  Sorcha tied the gold cord on each pouch, sealing the contents. A series of images flooded her mind, as if that first touch of her mother's pearls had switched on a continual shower of childhood memories.

  Gray let out a stream of snapped expletives, and she shifted to face him.

  Three lines creased the space between his eyebrows, and his lips had thinned. He hung up the phone.

  “What's wrong?”

  “Bruce and Tonya Hazard are at the station. I have to go in. I'll drop you at the vet's on the way in and pick you up when I'm done.” Gray reached Sorcha as she rose from the chair. He linked his arms around her waist and licked the side of her neck. “What? No argument?”

  “No argument, white wolf.” She tipped her head back and met his dark eyes. “I don't want to be alone, and I feel safer when you're around.”

  Gray growled and nipped the cusp of her shoulder. “Sweeter than honey, those words.” He bit her again and soothed the spot with his tongue. “Go get ready.”

  While he disappeared into the bedroom, Sorcha grabbed her mother's diary from Gray's gym bag, packed the tome into her purse, and stuffed her feet into worn Nikes. Gray reappeared dressed in his sheriff's uniform. After he locked the door and set the alarm, they headed to the Durango.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gray escorted her into the vet's office and kissed her good-bye.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I'm holding you personally responsible for apprehending my sons' murderer.” Bruce Hazard hadn't so much as raised his voice since he entered the 400th Precinct. Only the pulse throbbing at his temples, the white knuckles of his clenched fists, and the rapid bobbing of his Adam's apple betrayed leashed wrath.

  Gray would have preferred the man raging and bellowing. He didn't trust this soft-spoken version of Bruce.

  Steepling his fingers, Gray extended his legs under the desk, crossed his feet at the ankles, and studied Bruce through half-hooded eyes. Fury bubbled in Bruce's veins, and Gray scented rage checked by building terror. Bruce petrified to the point of panic?

  Fuck, the notion of Bruce afraid scared the crapola out of him.

  A movement to the right caught his attention. Henry waggled his almost-invisible strawberry eyebrows and angled his head to interrogation room two. Right that second, Bruce's cell phone burst into song; he snatched the instrument out of the front pocket of his tailored tweed jacket and barked, “Hazard.”

  Bruce listened for a few seconds before ordering, “Hang up. I'll call you back right away.” He rose, muttered, “I have to take this,” did an about-face and strode toward the doorway.

  Grabbing the brief respite, Gray bounded to his feet and hurried over to Henry.

  “What's up?”

  “Ted picked up James Brown, the black kid who was with Kevin and the others at Logan's Point. He's in two.”

  A quick survey of the room showed three free personnel: Edie Harold, Frank Harris, and Doug Wicks. “Where're we at with Hazard's wife?”

  “Doc Harrison gave her a shot of valium.” Henry grinned and slapped his hat against his thigh. “Ain't nothing going to get her going again. Sheeeet. I had to take three Aleves to get rid of the headache her screaming and hollering started.”

  “Edie, Doug, Frank.” Gray waved the officers over. “When Bruce returns, tell him I was called out. Assure them we'll contact them the minute we have any news.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Edie said. “Tonya Hazard's never been my favorite person, but I sure feel sorry for her. No parent should outlive their kids.”

  “Yeah,” Gray muttered as he dragged both hands through his hair. “Okay, Henry, let's you and I check this teen out.”

  The kid had bitten his cuticles so raw, dried blood stained both forefingers. Gray glanced at the sheet in front of him—James Edward Brown's seventeenth birthday occurred in nine days. The adolescent's midnight complexion had grayed, his face now the color of a murky storm cloud, and he twiddled his thumbs, the action obsessive-compulsive, one digit circling the other in a jerky motion.

  A faint hint of urine hit Gray's nose, and he realized the kid's bladder control had evaporated. He slapped his notepad on the table and let the metal screech as he dragged the chair away from the metal table. Gray sat and leaned forward. “What made you stab Kevin Hazard thirty-seven times?”

  James clapped a hand over his mouth. Gargling sounds proved the teenager was trying to control the urge to vomit. Unshed tears magnified James's black irises, and Gray couldn't tell where the kid's pupils began or ended.

  Henry rolled into the good-cop routine. “Want something to drink?”

  James nodded, his hand still cupped over his mouth. His chin dropped to a massive chest.

  “You prefer Coke or Pepsi?” Henry hefted the two cans he carried.

  “I don't care.” James raised his head, and his features crumpled. “Kevin's really dead?” His voice broke on the last word.

  “Yeah,” Henry answered, his voice full of sympathy.

  “It's my fault,” he burst into a loud, racking sob and slumped onto the table, his arms pillowing his forehead. “It was my idea to go to Logan's Point.”

  Gray frowned; the kid's reaction didn't jibe—not if he had killed Kevin.

  “Here,” Henry said as he shoved an open can of Coke in front of the teen. “Take a couple of swallows.”

  James straightened; he swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks, sniffed a couple of times, and glugged down at least half the can's contents.

  Henry flipped the chair opposite James around and sat. “What happened at Logan's Point? Start from the beginning.”

  Gray listened to the kid's stuttering recounting of an adolescent evening spent drinking and smoking and doing illegal drugs. After the fight with his twin in Malott, Kevin and James and a pickup carrying a tray load of unidentified teenagers had decided to whoop it up at Logan's Point.

  One teenager had scored two six packs of Mike's Hard Lemonade, another contributed tabs of ecstasy stolen in a robbery, and James and Kevin added a purloined bottle of Bruce's finest cognac. When the neighbor across the way hollered he'd called the police, the teens decided to regroup at the Hazard's home, as Kevin's parents were in Seattle. James's and two other cars waited an hour in the Hazard's driveway before they split.

  Reading between the lines, Gray deduced the kid had bought into the wrong crowd in the big city, and his parents had sent him to Twisp hoping he'd clean up his act. Over six-six, with the bulky build of a linebacker, James couldn't get through his written statement without Henry's assistance. The kid was barely literate.

  Someone knocked on the door, it opened, and D
oug's head appeared. “Boss, we need you for a minute.”

  Shooting Henry a glance, Gray pushed away from the table, stood, and exited the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, he asked, “What?”

  “Coroner has an initial report on Ken Hazard.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Multiple stab wounds. He bled out. Right big toe intact, other leg severed, couple of fingers missing. He's still working on the body,” Doug replied. “Should I head back to the scene to look for the missing limb and digits?”

  Alarm rang every nerve synapse; Gray fought the bile shooting up his throat. “No, I'll handle this one personally. Where are the Hazards?”

  “They both went home.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies.” What else could go wrong today? He had to get to Leader Lake with Joe, Chad, and Mike ASAP. The piling evidence pointed in one direction—the satanic black wolf cult.

  A ghost of a finger chased the back of his neck as he remembered Aileen's letter and the now-familiar scent earlier at the cabin. The same aroma he'd first identified the night Sorcha had found the cockatoos, the odor from the middle of the lake. He had to wrap the Hazard case up and get his mate to safety.

  Gray reentered the interrogation room in time to hear James ask, “Can I see Kev?”

  Schooling his features, Gray tried not to reveal his surprise; only loved ones asked to view the body. Intuition ruled his reaction.

  “Take him,” he ordered Henry, and Gray returned to his desk, thoughts absorbed by a new theory.

  Crap. James had shown all the signs of a man grieving for his lover. Ten minutes later, Henry recounted, his words tinged with contempt, that James had broken into great racking sobs when he saw Kevin Hazard's body.

  Gray ordered Henry to release James only into his uncle's care as he sensed the youth's self-destructive thoughts. He phoned the coroner, who confirmed his suspicions; Kevin's anus showed signs of vigorous activity.

  James and Kevin had been lovers. If Bruce ever found out—Gray refused to complete the thought.

  “Boss.” Edie's cheerful voice brought him back to the present.

  “What?” He shoved the papers in front of him aside.

  “We finished that second search of Miss L's cottage you ordered. I found this.” Edie deposited a loaf-shaped cake, decorated with red sprinkles that formed two and a half letters, on his desk. An antarctic chill danced from vertebra to vertebra, ending in a glacier at his nape as he made out the writing.

  “Where'd you find this, Edie?”

  “In the store under the front counter on top of a cartridge. See how it's smooshed on the one end?” Edie pointed to the loaf. “It was jammed against the wall on top of a box. I help Miss L out often in the summer, and I know how she works. She'd never stick a fresh cake on top of laser toner. That would be sacrilege in her eyes.”

  Could this be Miss L's message?

  Gray studied the two letters adorning the cake's surface, all in lowercase, an h and a w. Only half a vertical line formed the third letter; it could have been anything. Had she been icing the loaf when the murderer entered the shop?

  Cradling his head in his palms, Gray thumped his calves onto the desk, crossed his ankles, and stared at the ceiling, going through the town's population alphabetically: Harold, Harris, Harrison, Hazard, Herrington, Houndtree, and Huroq.

  Could one of the Houndtrees have done this? If he'd been drinking, Howie certainly was capable of murder. The man had a hair-trigger temper, as did most of his family.

  W should have been easier, but the predominant German ancestry of Twisp scuttled that premise: Waldo, Wallenstein, Walther, Waltraud, Wendel, Werner, Whitener, Wibeke, and Wicks. Lowering his feet, he grabbed a sheet of paper, ran a line down the center, headed one column H, the other W, and listed the names.

  He drew a line through Herrington—Miss L derived her nickname from her first name, Lillian. Then he crossed out Wicks. Crap, it could be a first and a last name; he drew another line and wrote down Henry Todd and William North.

  Snatching another sheet of paper, he penciled in the names of the serial killer's seven possible victims: Yaeger Schmidt, Kristen Frank, Donna Taunton, Mark Spring, Lillian Herrington, Kevin Hazard, Ken Hazard.

  What, if anything, did these individuals have in common?

  Idly, Gray twirled his pencil and let his glance drift about the room. He shot out of his chair when his eyes rested on the enlarged local map on the far wall.

  Fuck.

  He picked up a dry-erase marker from the small shelf-box located next to the map and circled the points where the bodies had been discovered: Twisp, Conconully, Riverside, Omak, Malott, Olema, and Carlton. The towns formed an ellipse around Leader Lake.

  Dread crept up his spine and clamped his gut in a wrench.

  The old Black wolf territory.

  He stalked out of the precinct, called his brothers-in-law, and arranged to meet them in forty minutes at the dirt road exit off Highway 20 that led to the main campground for Leader Lake. Then he called Susie and manipulated her and the girls into visiting Sorcha at the cabin for the rest of the day.

  The ride to the vet took no time at all. On autopilot, he thanked Jimmy for his good care of Kumar and paid the vet bill over Sorcha's adamant objections. His sister and the two girls were waiting when he, Sorcha, and Kumar arrived at the cabin. Gray let everyone in the house, said his good-byes, got back into the Durango, and stepped on the accelerator.

  Joe's black Hummer was parked on the shoulder before the sign for Rural Route 192. Gray jammed his foot on the brake when he paralleled the front passenger window.

  “What's the frigging hurry?” Chad's face appeared as the glass rolled down.

  “I'll explain everything once we get to the campground,” Gray replied.

  A severe drought had hit the area, and the less-than-average snowfall loosened the dust on the dirt road. A thin brown film immediately coated the windshield, and running the wipers worsened visibility. Gray swore a blue streak all the way to the camp's headquarters. He parked in front of a wooden A-frame building bearing a huge cedar sign with the words CHINOOK COUNCIL LODGE. The black SUV pulled to a halt beside him, and his three brothers-in-law climbed out of the vehicle. Gray collected his rifle from the backseat and vaulted out of his car.

  “So what's the frigging hurry?” Chad folded his arms and leaned against the burnished passenger door.

  “The Hazard twins are dead. Both murdered.”

  “Sheeet,” Joe drawled. “Glad I don't have to deal with Bruce on that one.”

  Gray summarized the events to date.

  Mike propped a foot on the Hummer's running board and braced his forearm on a bent leg. “What possible link can there be between the serial killer, this black wolf cult, and the thing or person you scented hunting Sorcha?”

  “I'm working strictly from my gut on this one.” Gray massaged the back of his neck. “Right now the only thing linking the killings is geography. All of the killings occurred in towns that delineate the old Black wolf territory.”

  “You're leaving out another salient fact. Three murders since Sorcha McFadden returned to Twisp,” Joe mused.

  Gray snapped to attention, balancing the rifle in the crook of his elbow. Joe had only voiced the one thought he had refused to verbalize. His stomach hollowed, and he swiped a hand across the beads of sweat peppering his forehead. “What's the link if that's the case? Sorcha never even knew the Hazards had kids until we discovered the twins' bodies.”

  “You're too emotionally involved. Nothing happens in this town; then all of a sudden we have this outburst of violence after your mate returns?” Joe shook his head. “Too much of a coincidence.”

  Irritation percolated Gray's veins; he drummed his fingers on the Hummer's hood. “Let's table that discussion until we get home. Mike, you know Chief Perce, want to do the social niceties?”

  “Sure. Be right back.” Mike straightened and headed to the lodge's double doors.

>   Chad scuffed the dirt with one boot. “Joe said Susie hasn't had any visions since Miss L's death. Why do you think the twins' deaths are linked to the serial killer?”

  “According to the coroner, the same weapon that killed Kevin was used to stab Miss L. His right toe's missing, so is hers, and that's certainly part of the killer's MO.” Gray adjusted his grip on the rifle. “But his body was intact, and there were no bite marks. On the other hand, Ken's right toe is intact, but his left is severed. Go figure.”

  A low rumble preceded the sun's shading by a charcoal patchwork of clouds. Gray sniffed the air and widened his stance. The moistness that preceded a thunderstorm didn't perfume the air; instead, a metallic taint pervaded his nostrils.

  “Blood,” Joe murmured.

  “Not fresh.” Chad shifted so the three men stood parallel to each other.

  Gray picked up Mike's stealthy stride before the man appeared at their side. “Human, and more than one, I'd say.” At Joe's raised eyebrow, Mike added, “Perce was in back at the tepee taking pics with tourists. I looped the building. The smell's coming from that direction.” He jutted his chin to the right.

  The coppery aroma of blood overpowered the hint of pine perfuming the atmosphere as they entered a thicket of tall evergreens. Rifle slung diagonally across his back, Gray led the way, and the others followed in single file. Western meadowlarks chirped and whistled near the forest's canopy. Dried leaves crunched, and pine needles and brittle branches snapped beneath their boots.

  Shadows fattened and lengthened, encroaching on the faint rays of sunshine alighting here and there. Their footsteps grew louder as other sounds died away. Gray's nostrils twitched as a new scent mingled with the stench of flesh and blood.

  “Fire.”

  Joe had the best nose in the pack.

  Gray acknowledged his broadcast.

  “Fresh. Last night. Burned flesh. Human and animal.”

  Joe communicated via telepathy the way he did verbally, by stating only the barest of facts.

  Ahead, Gray glimpsed a clearing the precise shape of the ellipse formed by the murders geographically. His pulse skipped a few beats and he halted, fingers curling around a birch sapling struggling to reach sunlight.