Behind him, the wolves spread out, forming the pack half circle they used in hunting. Feral urine and wolf scats scent-marked the clearing as another pack's territory. Gray discerned another aroma other than pee and wolf droppings—terror. Most people didn't realize the dominance of the smell of fear. Terror magnified the senses, quickened the heartbeat, and fire hosed adrenaline through arteries and veins.
A foot before the copse thinned, they stopped to study the meadow facing them.
Three separate fires, each equidistant from the other, marked the center of the razed area. Gray stooped, slipped off his boots, and rolled up his pants. Chad, Joe, and Mike mimicked his actions. Joe handed him a pair of extralong, extrathick socks insulated by a thick plastic coating on the inside. Chad passed him two gloves made in a similar manner, and distributed long sacks of the same persuasion to each man.
After slipping on the protective coverings and gloving his hands, Gray advanced into the clearing, his eyes sweeping the recently mowed grass. The other wolves stole forward in unison. To the right of him, Joe retrieved a charred bone approximately four inches in length. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“Hawk.”
Gray nodded; he'd picked up the scent of fowl.
“Another bird.”
Joe retrieved another charred bone. “Human.” He dropped the bone into his bag.
Mike handed the half-gnawed remnants of a femur over to Joe, who closed his eyes and sniffed. “Human male.”
Gray grimaced. Although he'd half expected to find evidence of murder, he'd hoped against hope not to find all the signs of the sacrificial rite of a black wolf pack detailed in white wolf legends and chants.
His grandfather hadn't eradicated the black wolves from the face of the earth decades ago.
Working as a silent, harmonious team, they scoured the clearing, collecting and bagging the evidence they found. The wolves communicated telepathically, and by the time they completed their task, their broadcasts were one-word identifications of limbs.
They arrived at the lodge as the sun set. Darkness descended with the slash of black blasted from a paint gun, not that it mattered to a wolf with night vision.
“Next move?” Joe asked as he gave his sack to Gray.
Placing Joe's bag next to the three others on the floor of the SUV, Gray replied, “Conference at the 400 later?”
“We may as well wait until you get the reports from the bone analysis,” Chad said. “How fast can you get things turned around?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to run this straight to Central now.” Gray slammed the car door shut. “If I brought you clothing from Ken and Kevin, do you think you could eliminate them from the scents you identified today?”
“Cakewalk,” Joe replied. “What's the reasoning for that?”
“Simple elimination. I want to rule out their presence here.”
“According to the legends, the black wolf human sacrificial ceremony began with paralysis and torture. You figure they started here and moved to another location?” Chad frowned. “Why?”
“Who knows? What the hell are we missing?” Gray tugged his fingers through the knots the wind had tangled in his hair.
“Don't beat yourself up. It's not as if we have a lot to go on.” Mike shook his head.
Gray shrugged out of his jacket and threw it onto the passenger seat. “Don't let Sorcha out of your sight, Joe. Or Susie and the kids. Whoever's behind this, he or she's got us in their sights now. Even with the use of the plastic gloves and booties, they'll eventually pick up our scent. I sense we're on the brink.”
“We all feel it,” Joe agreed. “What a sicko. Okay if we take Sorcha back to the farmhouse for dinner?”
“She won't go without the dog and the bird.”
“No probs.”
“Thanks, Joe. Save some food for me. Later.” Gray hopped into the vehicle. He switched on the engine, reversed the SUV, and drove too fast over the bumpy dirt-and-gravel road, until he remembered the bones in the back. Muttering an expletive, he set the cruise speed.
As he merged onto Highway 20, his cell phone rang. He fumbled with his earpiece and hit Receive. “White.”
“Boss. Coroner finished his report on Ken Hazard,” Edie said. “Initial info is confirmed re limbs and digits. He was stabbed thirty-three times. According to the good doctor, the same weapon was used in all the three murders.”
“Time of death?”
“Doctor puts it around the same time as Kevin's, at least within the same hour.”
“Whaat?” Gray smacked his palm on the steering wheel. The timing couldn't be right. The journey from Logan's Point to Leader Lake, even at full speed, took forty minutes.
“Boss, you still there?”
“Yeah, Edie. Anything else?”
“Rumor has it, Hazard's called in the FBI.”
“Fucking Jim Dandy,” Gray snapped. “Sorry, Edie. Pardon my French.”
“Almost went there myself, boss, especially when he about jammed his fingers up my nose.”
“Hazard get physical with you, Edie?” A flare of white-hot temper blinded his vision for a second.
“Nothing I couldn't handle.”
“I'll be on the road for the next couple of hours. Call me if anything else explodes.”
“Okay. Bye.”
As he snapped the phone shut, Gray realized he'd arrived at Central.
Though he tried to keep his visit short and to the point, it still took over twenty minutes to drop off the bones for analysis and expedite the request. Another ten minutes, and he merged onto Highway 20 for the return journey.
Sorcha should be sitting down to dinner with Susie, Joe, and the girls. A tidal wave of longing swept through him as he pictured the two of them doing the same thing with their own kids. At some point over the last two years, he'd lost hope of finding a mate, having a family.
An ache, so powerful it was a lance of pain, arced through his chest and strummed through his body. He rubbed the spot above his last rib and surrendered to the image of holding his own son, his own daughter, in his arms.
“You're losing it, White. Get a grip.”
He'd railroaded Sorcha too much as it was, binding her to him with every weapon in his arsenal, forcing her into Sunday family lunch within hours of claiming her. Crap, he'd claimed her within hours of their reacquaintance. Gray's subconscious kicked in. Take a step back. Give her a little, as little as possible, time and space.
Fuck that.
Air tainted with the chill of receding winter rolled through the SUV as he downed all the windows. Spring danced to his nose as he passed freshly plowed fields, and the scents of dirt and manure and unfurling buds sprouted fantasies of making love to Sorcha in the open.
He decided on the perfect spot, the rock island on the south end of Lake Wickia opposite his house. After a morning at work, he'd duck out, grab two lunches from the diner, and surprise Sorcha at home. They'd swim through the cold water, climb onto the rock, which would be hot from baking in the sun, and he'd fuck her long and hard and slow.
His cell phone rang.
Gray glanced at it and sighed when he recognized the name on the LCD display.
“What's up, Doug?”
Previously with Los Angeles Police Department, Doug Wicks had abruptly transferred to the 400 four months earlier. Everyone had groaned in silence the day he drove up to the station in a canary Corvette. Edie's theory that only fat, balding men going through the change of life and sleazy strippers drove that particular sports car certainly didn't hold true in Doug's instance.
Six-two with the rock-hard, muscular build favored by firefighter-calendar models, the man had every single eligible female in three counties panting and drooling. Gossip had it Wicks and Tonya had hooked up a while back, which had led to Tonya separating from Bruce.
“One Detective Lloyd and his associate, Detective Garner, from the FBI showed up a few moments ago. They want access to the files on the three murders.”
“Make nice. Give them anything they want. Set them up in the conference room,” Gray ordered.
“Right.”
The phone went dead just as Gray opened his mouth to ask Wicks to phone FBI headquarters and request photo ID confirmation for the two detectives. Wicks grew more insolent daily. Whatever chip the man carried had magnified over the last few months.
Two weeks ago, Edie had unofficially asked not to be paired with him on shifts. While she hadn't accused Wicks of inappropriate behavior, the request certainly inferred he'd done or said something politically incorrect.
Gray suspected Doug sided with the rednecks on most counts. Victor Morgan had complained bitterly about the cop's attitude regarding the recent vandalism of his shoe shop. Victor and his late wife, their daughter, the vice principal of the county's middle school, George and Lucretia Brown, and Sylvester Waldo formed the total African American population of Twisp.
Making a mental note to make subtle inquiries re Doug's attitude toward the Browns and Sylvester, Gray hit the indicator and turned onto the rural road leading to Susie and Joe's small farm. He flipped the headlights to high beam and geared down as he rounded a ninety-degree bend, which led into a series of tight U-turns.
The sound of water coursing over rocks grew louder as the shoulder on the passenger's side narrowed to a mere couple of inches. As he approached the last turn before the farmhouse, a vaguely familiar odor wove into the more recognizable rural smells of fertilizer, moist earth, and animal droppings. Gray took a couple of deep breaths, then a couple more, and recognized the stench he'd scented the night Harold died. The foul odor came from the river's direction.
Gray shifted his scrutiny to the rippling water on the right. Something rammed the left side of the Durango, the steering wheel jerked out of his loose hold, the vehicle swerved sharply, and the front tire on the passenger's side skated off the road.
Chapter Twelve
How long did it take to get to the Central Lab? Sorcha glanced at her watch—after nine. Joe had returned to the cabin over two hours ago. He and Susie had insisted Sorcha have dinner with the family at the farmhouse. Dinner had finished fifteen minutes earlier, and the adults had retired to the living room after Susie settled the girls in front of the TV.
At her feet, White's ears twitched, tickling her shin. The Lab suddenly sprang to his feet, and he nudged Sorcha's calf with a cold, moist nose. The teacup she balanced on one palm rattled on its saucer when the dog repeated the action in rapid sequence three times. When White barked loudly, she flinched, and warm brown liquid jetted over the top of the fine china.
“What's wrong, boy?” Sorcha set the matching porcelain on the oak coffee table in front of her.
As if answering her question, the dog trotted over to the front door and barked again.
“Gray,” Joe muttered as he bounded to his feet. “He's in the river. Susie, call Mike, then Chad. Don't leave the house. I'm scenting a stranger in the vicinity.”
Gray? In the river? He had communicated telepathically with his brother-in-law, Sorcha realized.
Her heart battered her rib cage. She stood and clutched the edge of a mahogany china cabinet for support. She couldn't begin to imagine life without Gray, hadn't realized how essential he'd become to her in such a short time. He had to be okay, had to.
Joe strode over to the gun case, keyed in a numerical combination on the LCD lock, opened the cabinet, and withdrew three pistols and a rifle.
“Get the kids into bed, Susie.” As he spoke, Joe strapped on a shoulder holster, checked both guns for ammunition, laid one on the closest sideboard, the other he inserted into the holster. He slung the rifle's black leather strap over one shoulder.
His wife stalked across the room, planted a smacking kiss on his lips, and ordered, “You be careful out there.”
Joe cupped her chin, and they stared at each other for long seconds. His hand dropped away. “Keep the gun with you at all times. Take the safety off when I leave.”
Susie nodded. “I know the drill, Joe. Don't worry about us. I can handle it.”
“I'll have my cell on vibrate. Call at the first sign of trouble.”
“I will,” Susie promised, then turned on her heels and marched out of the room.
Although the living room was cavernous, the walls seemed to narrow, and a claustrophobic oppressiveness bore down on Sorcha. Trying not to be audible, she gulped in air, but oxygen didn't make it to her lungs. Spots appeared at the periphery of her vision. Real or imagined?
Get a grip.
Sorcha knuckled her temples and squared her shoulders.
“Do you know how to use a gun?” Joe asked.
She shook her head. “I've only had one lesson so far, and I didn't get to fire a shot.”
“Let Susie handle this, then.” He stalked across the room and handed her a gun. “Do what she tells you.”
Sorcha nodded, her throat tightening, her mouth drying out as she inched the weapon onto her lap.
“I'm going to activate the alarm before I leave.” Joe inclined his head. “Tell Susie to call the precinct and have them send a couple of cars this way.”
“I'll call on my cell,” she said and sat before her buckling knees gave way entirely. “Take White with you.”
“My sense of smell is more than ten times a dog's. You keep White here. Guard,” he commanded, and the dog obeyed, sitting on his haunches, ears vertical, tail rigid.
Mind anesthetized, Sorcha followed Joe's rapid movements as he gathered a leather jacket and grabbed a backpack from the coatrack. Halting in front of the alarm keypad, he pressed a few numbers, and the LCD light on the panel flickered rapidly.
Joe exited the house, slamming the door behind him, and the alarm sounded at a regular interval for about nine beeps, then went silent. The round dot on the panel glowed red.
For some strange reason, the ruby glow kick-started her brain.
Phone the precinct. Get help for Gray.
Thumbing through the recently received calls, she found the precinct's number and stabbed Send.
When had her world tumbled into an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole? Why had she readily accepted this alternate wolf reality? And why did the notion of Gray in danger cause her heart and lungs and brain to start and stop in fits and jerks?
A male voice answered on the second ring.
“Deputy Sherriff Wells, please,” Sorcha stated.
Muzak played during the twenty-second hold.
“Wells,” a deep baritone growled.
She'd heard that voice before. Where?
“Who is this?” the man snapped.
A band of perspiration peppered her forehead. An irrational temptation to hang up had her fingers hovering over End. She inhaled, and the familiar lemony scent of wood polish calmed her sparking nerve endings.
“Sorry about that,” Sorcha muttered. “Deputy Sheriff Wells, this is Sorcha McFadden. I need you to send someone right away to the Huroq farm. Sheriff White and his vehicle are in the river.”
“In the river?” Shock graveled the lawman's voice. “I'm on it.” Sorcha heard him muffle the receiver. “Activate Sherriff White's GPS.”
“His brother-in-law's gone to help him,” she offered.
“Right. Thank you for calling, ma'am. We'll take it from here.”
White's tail slapped her ankle as she ended the phone call. Absently, she scratched the Lab's head, her thoughts centered on Gray. She focused on the fact he hadn't communicated with her telepathically; that must mean he was all right. Her fingers curled around a link in the dog's ringed metal collar.
The slap of Susie's flip-flops on the stone floor and the aroma of Obsession preceded the woman's entrance into the living room. She glanced at the pistol Sorcha held loosely in her lap. “There's one blessing that comes with having active kids—They fall asleep like that.” Susie snapped her fingers.
“I hope Gray's okay,” Sorcha said, voicing her fears.
“You'd know if someth
ing was wrong. Trust me.” Susie took a seat in a high-backed chair opposite the sofa. “Gray tells me you've started to remember parts of your childhood.”
Sorcha recognized Susie's attempt at distraction and cooperated.
“It's coming back in bits and pieces. The memories are there, but they won't come to the front of my mind. They sort of hover just out of reach. It's so frustrating.” Sorcha ground her teeth. “It's like trying to hold a snowflake.”
Kumar screeched.
Sorcha almost fell off the sofa. The guns slipped on the silk of her skirt. She trapped the cold metal with one hand.
“Shit,” Susie yelped, hand to her chest.
The barometric pressure seemed to rise, banding Sorcha's chest and compressing her lungs. Acidity coated her tongue as the stench of rotten eggs filled the room.
White growled and stood at attention.
Susie and Sorcha exchanged glances.
“The kitchen,” Susie whispered. “Give me the gun.” She held out a palm.
Sorcha didn't know she could move so fast. Before she could finish inhaling, she was at Susie's side.
“Here,” she echoed Susie's whisper and slid the gun into the other woman's hand.
Slipping out of her high heels, Sorcha trailed Susie's steps down the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen.
White stalked ahead of them, teeth bared in a ferocious but silent snarl.
As they rounded a corner and entered the kitchen, Sorcha's glance swept to where they'd situated Kumar's perch earlier.
Empty.
A fluttering noise drew her eyes to the ceiling. Kumar's claws clutched at one of the wooden blades of a fan doing a lazy circle in the center of the room.
Sorcha whistled the opening of “The Blue Danube,” and Kumar finished the stanza as he glided to her outstretched hand. The cockatoo perched on her forearm and his zygodactyl feet, with two forward toes and two backward toes, bit into her flesh as he steadied himself. She lifted her arm, and the parrot clawed his way to the cusp of her shoulder.
“Does he screech like that without provocation?”
“Sometimes,” Sorcha answered.
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