by Debra Dunbar
“It’s not self-defense,” I told the sheriff. “It’s murder. I know there are some in Alaska who don’t really like us shifters and would be happy to buy bullets that could take us down and kill us. Someone is capitalizing on that and providing bullets that can kill shifters.”
He eyed me sympathetically. “There’s nothing illegal about manufacturing and selling bullets. You can’t prosecute someone for that. Most everyone is okay with you guys, but there’s always those crazies that see you as animals, or some kind of demon that deserves putting down. If someone threatens you, or tries to take a shot at you, then you need to file a report and not try to take care of it yourself. You shifters are entitled to the same protections as humans, but you can’t go taking law into your own hands.”
We’d ignored those crazy people who saw us as animals that needed to be put down, because up until recently there hadn’t been much they could do to hurt us. The laws prohibiting assault and murder covered us too, but the group of hunters in Kenai had been operating underground, taking the risk. And once we were in animal form, it would be hard to press murder charges. If a hunter had a license, saw a bear, shot and killed a bear and claimed to not know it was a shifter, he’d probably go free.
And now, with videos on the internet of shifters attacking humans, with five dead from a rogue grizzly attack, I doubt any jury would believe our claims of magic bullets forcing us to shift. Self-defense, or a legal hunter claiming mistaken identity meant it would now be open season on killing shifters. And the real game changer was that evidently random people, including scientists, now had access to these magic-coated bullets that could kill us.
“I need to take the tainted bullet to someone who can analyze it,” I told the sheriff.
He hesitated. “We really need to tag these into evidence.”
I know he was still worried about us taking justice into our own hands. It was a valid concern. For the most part we played along with the rules of human society, but when it came to threats like this, we often colored outside the lines. I was pretty sure that neither Brent, nor Jake, the Swift River Pack Alpha, had reported those shifter hunters that they’d killed up in Kenai. Sometimes it was easier to just sweep it all into a crevasse than deal with the paperwork and questions of an investigation.
“I really need to compare this bullet with the ones used against shifters up in Kenai to see if there is a connection. And I’m also hoping that maybe we can find an antidote.”
His eyes lit up and he slid the bullets back toward me. “If you could find an antidote so that all these rogue attacks ended, then we’d have a much easier time going after whoever is targeting you guys.”
And if we could dig up enough on these guys that the police would know exactly who was targeting us, that would be even better. I hesitated a moment, wondering under what circumstances we’d feel that we needed to deliver our own justice. Brent had been raised with humans and it would take a lot for him to sanction taking the law into our own hands. If there was an immediate threat, if the police said their hands were tied and they could do nothing, then Brent might pull a discreet, select group of us to take care of these killers. Moira, the Denali Pack Alpha wouldn’t get involved unless they were specifically targeted, but Jake, the Swift River Pack Alpha, would support taking action. One of his had been shot and nearly killed, and Jake wasn’t the type of wolf to turn the other cheek.
I pocketed the bullets, shuddering at the feel of the tainted one. “I saw the videos with the attacking rogues, and like I said, I think they may have been shot off camera or that it was edited out. I believe that one of the five victims of this rogue shot the bear with this tainted bullet. Do you have their effects somewhere? Can I check and see if any of their bullets matches this one we dug out of the rogue?”
The sheriff scowled. “I’m not going to blame five scientists who lost their lives to this guy for shooting him. Like I said, selling bullets isn’t illegal. And defending yourself against an attacking animal, whether they’re a shifter or not, isn’t illegal either.”
I raised my hands. “I’m not blaming them. I’m just trying to find a connection. Maybe the rogue was shot with the tainted bullet before he even got to the campsite. Maybe one of the scientists is related to one of the shifter hunters and grabbed his bullets by mistake. I’m just trying to find a connection, if there is one.”
Although why would the shifter hunters have bullets that made shifters go rogue? It was suicidal. Instead of a head on their wall, they’d most likely wind up dead right next to the corpse of the shifter. And by the videos, someone was setting up the attack.
Was that it? Was someone selling the rogue bullets as kill bullets, catching the carnage on tape and driving the public into a panic? Although they’d need to be stealthy. If hunters found out they were being sold bullets that would end up with them dead in addition to the shifter, public opinion would shift.
“All the effects are down at the morgue with the bodies.” The sheriff gave me a narrow-eyed glare. “I’ll call down and get you in, but you’re to take nothing. Their families are making arrangements, and I don’t want to hear that so much as a sock is missing. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I reached out and shook his hand.
8
The M.E. pulled another slab out of the freezer, eyeing me as she spoke. “This is the last one. All five healthy males. All injuries consistent with a large animal attack—bear from my experience. Death from blood loss and trauma from said injuries.”
I really didn’t want to look at these mauled human bodies, but needed to be thorough. If there was anything in the rogue’s attack that gave me a clue as to what happened, I’d take it. Unfortunately, I got an eye full of mutilated corpses and nothing else. The M.E. was right. They seemed to be nothing other than a large-animal attack. Bites. Claw marks. Defensive wounds. Hunting among shifters was quick and efficient with maximum consideration for preserving the meat. This was an attack fueled by rage. Overkill. An image flashed through my memory of Karl bashing the dead rogue’s body around the clearing. Yeah. Like that.
One of these humans had been in possession of a rifle. And yes, it had been recently fired. Judging from what was left in the magazine and the damage to the stock, one of the scientists had fought back, shooting at the rogue at least four times before the gun had been swiped from his hands. But Karl had only dug one bullet out of the bear shifter besides the two the hiker had shot. Had three bullets missed? Or had all four missed and the one that had turned the grizzly shifter rogue had been from another shooter?
There was more to this than a simple bear shifter gone rogue. Who’d attacked first? I couldn’t blame a shifter for defending himself, and there were the occasional idiots who panicked and unloaded on a bear who was just eating berries a little too close to their camp. I didn’t expect that sort of behavior from most people, but the world was filled with noobs, and it wouldn’t be the first time some poor shifter got an ass full of lead when she was just minding her own business.
Yeah. I still had the scars.
And then there was that bullet we’d dug out of the rogue. “Can I see their personal effects?” I asked the M.E. The .35 caliber .358 that I had in my pocket could have been fired by the Browning that one of the naturalists had fired, or whether it could have been fired by someone else.
The personal effects took up nearly an entire room. There was a neat pile of packed-up tents, coolers, foodstuff, and research equipment. Another pile held the bagged-and-tagged samples the naturalists had been studying along with several notebooks full of scribbled handwriting. In smaller piles were duffle bags.
“This was the guy that shot the rifle.” The woman pointed to a small pile of bags. I got down to work under her watchful eyes and sorted through clothing, toiletries, more notebooks and pens, and a box of .35 caliber, .358 bullets.
They were all normal bullets, without the magic coating, but further down in the smaller dufflebag I came across something the shape of a cray
on box with five bullets and an empty slot. Gritting my teeth, I pulled each one out and examined it, comparing the smell, the feel, to the one in my pocket. This was it. Out of the bullets in the rifle, one had been tainted.
He’d bought them separately and they’d come in this plain brown cardboard container. And clearly they were expensive or he would have loaded all of them in the rifle.
One, just in case any attacking animal was a shifter. Three, so he wouldn’t waste all the expensive bullets on a wild bear. But where had they come from? This guy must have bought them specifically for this trip. And whoever was selling these bullets was complicit in the murders of not only the bear shifter in Kenai, but these five scientists. They had to be connected. Two different types of magical coating, but both affecting shifters, both in the same geographic area, and, I was willing to bet, both made by the same sorcerer and most likely sold by the same company.
“What was this guy’s name?” I asked. “And did he have anything on him as far as receipts?”
The M.E. flipped through a chart on a nearby table. “Joseph Sebastian Floyd. Age thirty-five. Portland, Oregon.”
“Any idea what he did for a living?”
She shrugged. “I take care of the bodies. I don’t do the detective work. These guys were all scientists, but they were amateurs, not professionals. That’s all I know.”
“Did he have a wallet? Can I see what was in there?”
The M.E. looked like she was running out of patience with my questions, but nodded reluctantly. “Come on.” She led me to a safe, then sorted through tagged cell phones and wallets. “Here.”
It held about forty in cash, two credit cards, and a license. I quickly committed the address and birthdate to memory, then dug through the recesses of the leather billfold, pulling out a handful of receipts. One was from a stop-and-go near Ketchikan for junk food and fuel. Others were dining receipts, more junk food, and an outfitter. I pulled my cellphone out and with a questioning glance at the M.E. for permission, I snapped a picture of the receipt. I didn’t recognize the address, and the print out only showed the total, not the detail of what was bought, but at least it was a lead.
If I were lucky, this would be the place where Joseph Floyd had bought the tainted bullets. If I were lucky.
I left the morgue and glanced at the time. Then I typed in all I’d gleaned from the license and sent it plus the receipt picture to Brent along with a summary of what had happened. Did I have time to go hunt down this outfitter before they closed? And how late would that make me in getting to Karl’s? As much as I was looking forward to getting naked and sweaty with the bear shifter, his promise of dinner was the greater draw right now. Two days of beef jerky and summer sausage weren’t my idea of sustainable dining.
My phone beeped. Where are you? Brent asked.
Still in Ketchikan. Just left the morgue. Can you get Dustin to fly me back tomorrow?
We paid the Swift River Pack for the use of their plane and pilot, but it was getting to the point where it might be cost effective for us to buy our own plane and have a pack pilot, especially with Kennedy having to fly back and forth to the trauma center in Anchorage each week.
I got in my car and typed in the address for the outfitter, grimacing at the route and estimated arrival time. If I hurried, I could squeak in just before closing time. And be very very late for smoked trout tonight.
A half an hour later, I was pulling into the parking lot when Brent called.
“Dustin will be at the harbor to pick you up at six. I know it’s early, but he’s got two other charters tomorrow and that’s the only time he can squeeze a pick-up in.”
Great. Get to Karl’s around ten or eleven, and have to be out of there at four thirty at the latest. So much for any marathon sex sessions. And from experience, sleeping while flying in a tiny plane wasn’t ideal, at least not for me.
“Thanks, boss.” I meant it. A six o’clock pick up by plane was better than an eighteen-hour ferry and drive home. “How do you want to handle the bullets? And tracing Joseph Floyd’s purchase?”
“I was thinking of sending the bullets up to Kennedy. She’s a surgeon, not a lab technician, but she’s bound to know someone. She’s got resources, and can probably put a rush on it.”
I wrinkled my nose, eyeing the store and wondering how quickly I could wrap up this conversation. “Does she have some kind of mage in the lab? I don’t think it’s a natural substance on there. Shifters have been around for ten thousand years. If this was some plant or mineral that had this sort of effect on us, I’m pretty sure we would have encountered it by now.”
“I still want her to take a look at it. I’ve been up close and personal with the killing bullets, and while I’m thinking magic too, I don’t want to rule out that there’s a genetically modified foxglove that’s lethal to us. But I’m thinking before we send it to her, we should have Ahia look at it.”
Ahia was an angel, and might have a better take on magical spells or curses than I would. Even better, she was shacked up with an archangel—an archangel with billions of years of life experience and connections that spread far beyond Alaska, or even this realm of existence.
“Magic would be tricky, though. It would be a pain to have to spell every single bullet.”
“I don’t think it’s mass produced, though. There were only six bullets in this pack, and the naturalist had only loaded one tainted bullet in with regular ones. It’s not like everyone is running around with these, and the hunters in Kenai that you encountered seemed to be an exclusive group. I’m thinking maybe they are individually spelled. If so, they’d cost a fortune and wouldn’t be available to everyone or be the sort of thing you’d load a whole magazine with unless you were super rich.”
“But then why release the bullets that cause a shifter to go rogue?” Brent asked, half to himself. “Mass hysteria is only profitable if you’ve got the volume of product to meet the need.”
Well, I was the marketing expert. “Supply and demand. If people were scrambling, panicked, for the bullets, they could push prices way up. The market would bear a thousand percent increase if demand was there. And there’s no saying they won’t hire a bunch of mages to replicate the bullets on a faster scale if they had orders in queue.”
“Hopefully we’ll bring their business down before that happens,” Brent said. “And I’ve given your information on Joseph Floyd to Marcus to see what he can dig up. Hopefully he can find enough to determine where he bought the tainted bullets. This is our only chance.”
Well that and the store in front of me that was closing in…fifteen minutes. Crap. “Brent, I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you when I’m back home.”
I hung up and ran for the store, feeling like an idiot when I burst through the doors to find myself in a silent room filled with life-vests, fishing nets, tents, rifles, and one very startled employee.
“Uh, can I help you?”
“Looking for some bullets,” I told him, trying to slow my breathing and heart rate as I walked to the back counter.
He eyed me worriedly. I didn’t blame him. I was a disheveled red-head in dirty jeans and a crumpled T-shirt looking like I was desperate to shoot something before the sun went down.
“Caliber?”
“.35. .358 diameter”
He pulled a few boxes out from under a cabinet. “How many do you need?”
“Uh, no. I need the special bullets.” I tried to give him one of those knowing looks.
Instead he stared at me as though I were the “special” one. “Like hollow point, special? What are you trying to kill?”
“Bear.” I clearly should never go into acting. “You know, bear. Like the kind that’s not a bear, but then is a bear, and doesn’t go down with regular bullets.”
I felt like such an idiot, but someone sold these things. I doubted Joseph Floyd from Portland, Oregon cooked them up in his basement. And he did have a receipt from this store in his wallet. It was the only sound lead I had.
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br /> “Are you going into Canada? Did you get a special permit or something? You can’t just go around shooting grizzlies in the woods.” The guy started to put the bullets away, obviously thinking that I wasn’t of mental soundness enough to be trusted to shoot even a BB gun.
“Self-defense.” I now tried for the weak and helpless expression. I might be a skinny redhead, but I’d never appeared weak and helpless in my life. And I doubted that I was pulling this one off either.
“The best self-defense is to just make a lot of noise in the woods and ensure you’ve got your food locked into a bear-proof container. We sell those here. And bear spray too.”
I reached out and grabbed his hand, trying not to hold on with excessive strength. “Five people were killed a few days ago—mauled by a rampaging grizzly. But he wasn’t a grizzly, he was like a werewolf grizzly. And a guy out hiking said that yesterday a crazy grizzly attacked him. Bullets didn’t stop this bear. If a wolf hadn’t shown up and distracted the attacking grizzly, he wouldn’t have gotten away.”
His eyes searched mine. “Look, I’ve heard things. I don’t know if I believe them or not. We’ve grown up knowing there are people in Alaska who have animal abilities. Some say they can even magically turn into an animal. None of these stories say anything about people getting attacked up until a few weeks ago.” He shoved a box of .358 bullets toward me. “I can sell you these. I can sell you some heavy game ammo that should be enough to take down a polar bear if one comes at you, but that’s all I have.”
I got the feeling he was telling the truth. I also got the feeling he wasn’t telling the whole truth.
“Five people are dead.” I just let that statement hang there in the air between us.
He hesitated a second, then his expression hardened. “I can’t help you. All I have is regular bullets. If you want something else, then you need to shop elsewhere.
“My friend bought some here.” I pulled up the receipt on my phone and turned it to him. This was my Hail Mary effort. “He said you had them.”