When he returned to the sitting room, he switched off the lamp and forced himself to sit on the couch, his eyes narrowed, his breathing deliberately slow.
This wasn’t the work of the Warders; they knew better. .
It couldn’t have been the rogue, because it—he or she—didn't, couldn’t, know he was here. Neither would it have been so cautious.
His lungs filled and emptied.
Muted voices in the corridor rose and faded.
The dark took on weight and made his lungs work harder.
Somebody else knew, and his frustration grew when he couldn't focus his concentration on anything but the invading scent that threatened to overwhelm him.
Out, he decided then; he had to get out.
Five minutes later he was on the deserted street behind the hotel, the air much colder, moisture on the tarmac slowly turning to wafer ice. He crossed over and walked on, more rapidly now, lights from a motel across the way blurred as the mist thickened into a light rain.
His shadow kept him company.
A few cars passed, none of them slowing down.
Faster still, nearly running, as he made his way under the interstate overpass, listening to the traffic above him fleeing to the suburbs here and in Georgia, not five minutes away.
Eventually, the land rose to a low, shapeless hill on his right, a few houses at its base, nothing but trees above that he could see.
Faster, trotting, ignoring the rain, the slippery pavement, swerving abruptly into a narrow street without illumination save from a porch-light or two.
His shadow changed.
There was no agony in the transformation, and at his level, no need to discard his clothing.
What he wore merged; what he was, was human no more, although it still ran on two legs.
A dog howied hysterically
A door slammed.
He ducked into a wooded lot and let his new vision take him through to the hillside, into the trees and up, the rain comfortably cool on black-and-silver fur, the wind taking the scent of him away from the now-invisible houses.
But not away from the creatures whose territory he passed through—dark things stirred and froze at his passing, or bolted from beneath the brush; nesting birds called out softly, a few taking wing, most simply trembling; a rabbit darted across a small clearing, zigzagging, soundless.
It wasn't fast enough.
In a lunging stride, the Strider caught it, and its fangs gleamed wetly despite the dark as they tore into the creature’s neck.
Soundless.
Except for the faint raindrop splash of blood on the ground's dead leaves.
Farther up and farther west he caught another, ate, drank, and settled easily on his haunches, bobbing his great head as he tested the air. He was alone. Except for a few nervous birds nearby, he could sense no warm blood, and his hunger subsided, the bloodlust stirred by his temper finally gone. Or at least satisfied for the moment.
Slowly he rose to his full height, grunted, and made his way to the top of the hill. A small clearing sat just below the crown, an irregular oval charred by a summer fire. It was on the back slope, giving him a fairly unobstructed view of the land beyond the city, at least in this direction. It surprised him to see no more than a handful of lights below. Although most of the trees appeared to be pine, he could see, now, how isolated Chattanooga really was in spite of its urban sprawl.
If the rogue he was after was native to the area, finding it was going to be much more difficult than he'd imagined. Too many hills, too many mountains, too much untended, uninhabited woodland.
He turned away, flexed his legs, and began to run again, easily this time, lopping up to the crown and down the other side, branches slapping lightly against his shoulders and sides, at one point slipping on the increasingly slippery ground and nearly falling.
A quick laugh at himself as he regained his balance, exhilarating in the freedom he felt.
He ran for the joy of it until he felt his limbs tiring, and made his way slowly back to level ground.
Shifting on the way.
Thinking about the rogue and relishing the challenge.
Whatever side issues there were, no matter what the Warders had said, the hunt would be for the rogue—everything else would have to wait.
He grinned; he laughed aloud; he felt better than he had in months, and only vaguely noticed the increased activity at the Read House as he made his way quickly to his room. Once there, he changed into dry clothes—dark shirt and jeans, leaving his feet bare—and sat at the table, Chesney’s envelope and Minster’s folder spread before him.
He knew what would be in the Warder's package— instructions to take care, do not bring attention to yourself, do not (this time) kill the rogue if you can help it, be as swift and silent as you can. There would also be money to take care of his incidentals; the room and its charges would be taken care of by the company he supposedly worked for.
He was in too good a humor to have to read what he already knew.
He opened the folder instead, ignoring the fading scent of the room's intruder. By morning it would be gone, but he wouldn't forget it.
Two hours later he slumped back and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“Damn," he whispered.
From the newspaper clippings the detective had also included, he saw that most of the details in these reports hadn’t made it into the media, otherwise the story would have made the national news. The last death, Trish McCormick’s, was still a frontpage topic, however, partly because of the woman’s evident beauty, and partly because it had happened only last week. What the clippings didn't tell their readers was how the bodies were when they were discovered.
"Mauled" was too mild a term.
“Partially consumed” was the M.E.'s verdict, something Richard would have guessed anyway.
The second victim had been found in the river, snagged in the branches of a fallen tree only a few hundred yards north of the aquarium; what was left of the third had been found stuffed in a Dumpster out of the valley, behind an upscale mall north of the city.
The first victim, Kyle Gellman, had only been attacked. Richard assumed the reason no feeding had taken place was because the man had been found too soon.
From what he could see, the police investigation had changed its focus from a possible human maniac to the more likely solution of some kind of animal, possibly a panther drifted up from Florida once the second victim's condition had been examined. Yet here and there, he could see doubt among the investigating officers assigned to the hastily assembled task force. Cannibalism, apparently, was not being ruled out.
He groaned aloud to release some tension, rubbed his face again, and stood, stretching until he felt that his joints threatened to pop. Bed, he ordered; take some rest, talk to Minster tomorrow and have a look around the mountain where Gellman and McCormick were killed. And probably the second victim, a man, had been as well. He had. a feeling the woman found behind the mall was an aberration in the pattern.
The doorknob rattled.
Richard whirled, breath held, until it rattled again.
Two strides took him to the peephole, through which he saw a short man with astoundingly thick long white hair, glaring at his electronic key. Richard opened the door, and the man jumped back, one hand at his chest.
"Wrong room," Richard said with a polite smile.
The man closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He held up the key and snarled at it. "I hate these things. They never remind you what your number is." He glanced at the door’s brass numbers, looked to his left, and shrugged. "Damn, there is it. Sorry to have bothered you."
"No problem," Richard said, aware now of a constant noise in the background. People; lots of people.
The floor was shaped like a capital I. His room was at the base, just to the right of the corridor's intersection. The white-haired man's room was at the east end of the base, the only other room on this side, and it had double doors, the
sign of a large suite.
Richard frowned as he listened. It was late, it was Thursday, so what was going on?
The man had his door open now, and nudged a suitcase over the threshold with one foot. “You part of the convention?" he asked as he stepped inside.
"Convention?"
The man raised his eyebrows. "You’re not, I guess. Odd. They usually try to keep the guests all here in one place." He smiled. "So they can keep track of them, I reckon."
The door began to close.
"Excuse me,” Richard said, raising his voice. "What convention?"
"Hope you don't like a good night's sleep," the man said, laughing silently. "By dinnertime tomorrow, there'll be a couple of thousand of them crawling all over the place. They take over the whole building until Sunday. Noisy as hell, too. 1 love it."
The door closed.
Richard stared for a moment before backing into his room. He turned over the bolt, set the chain latch, and scratched idly at his cheek as he headed for the bedroom.
A convention.
Two thousand people.
His first reaction was to swear at Chesney for being such a fool; his second was a slow, careful smile.
Although there would undoubtedly be some inconvenience, this could very well work to his advantage: it was easier to disappear in a crowd of businessmen and their wives, than in a mostly empty building.
Besides, how bad could it be?
11
The temperature rose, but the rain didn’t stop. It fel! steadily on the back of a slow-moving wind, easing every so often to a drizzle, and every so often strengthening to a downpour that turned the traffic to a blur and sent pedestrians scurrying for the nearest doorway. Mist rose like steam from the gutters. Gusts slammed under the restaurant’s awnings and caused the large windows that made up most of its south wall to shimmy.
The glass was cold when Richard touched it with a finger.
He sat alone in a booth, watching the entrance, waiting for loanne Minster, a cup of coffee cradled between his palms. She had called his room shortly after nine, apologizing that department business would keep her away until noon, perhaps a little later. Although he was anxious to get started, he hadn't really minded when he checked outside and saw that the weather had gotten worse. There would be no spoors to pick up, not the way things were now.
On the other hand, that meant one more day for the rogue to remain free.
He had used the extra time to go over the reports once more, and the more he read, the more he wondered exactly what he was missing. Ordinarily, a rogue was increasingly affected by his madness. His movement patterns became erratic, his attacks more bold and vicious, and he seldom bothered to try to hide his tracks.
And the freefall into madness seldom took more than a couple of months.
This one was different.
Once a month since late October, give or take a few days, someone had died.
There was no telling whether or not any of the victims had been stalked; none of the interviews with family and friends indicated it, but that didn't mean much. Rogue or not, Garou weren't that careless when it came to the hunt.
And as far as the police were concerned, there were no useable tracks, either animal or human.
He wished he could talk to Fay. She had always been able to cut through the inconsequential details without batting an eye, steering him away from the irrelevant details that threatened to clutter up his mind. He knew he would get there sooner or later; Fay had the knack of making it sooner.
He had already tried calling half a dozen times, but hadn’t been able to reach her. Concern made him call another number which routed through several area codes until he was able to speak to someone who could give a message to |ohn Chesney. Every other time he had taken this step, the Warder had gotten back to him within the hour.
Chesney didn't call, and he didn’t like the sudden feeling that he had been thrust into the dark, and no one had any intention of giving him some light.
Jesus, he thought then, and squeezed his eyes shut, deliberately tightly enough to spark mild pain, lesus, do you think you could get a little more melodramatic, you idiot?
He shook his head slightly and glanced outside, wincing in sympathy when he saw a woman racing down the street after her umbrella. By the time she reached it, he thought, she might as well not bother.
Another check of the entrance made him look at his watch; it was just past one, and no sign yet of the detective.
What he did see was a steady parade of people he imagined were checking in for this convention. They didn't, however, appear to business types at all. Most seemed to be young, almost all in clothes that ran from the carefully casual to the outright grungy. Suitcases and backpacks bulged, bellmen's carts were loaded with cartons and packages, and almost all of them appeared to know everyone else.
The restaurant began to fill.
It was a long, pleasant room, with booths along the window wall, tables everywhere else. A small bar carved its own niche midway toward the back, and beyond it he could see a pair of chefs working over a steaming grill. Two waitresses and a waiter floated around the tables, sidestepping boisterous reunions with an ease and unconcern that made him suspect they had been through all this many times before. One of them stopped by to refill his cup, but slipped away before he could ask any questions.
Several times couples or groups drifted past, staring pointedly, clearly hoping he would take the hint—a single man taking up a large booth, while they had to scrounge for an extra chair for a smaller table.
Finally, one man, in a rumpled safari jacket and stone-washed jeans, with a gray-shot beard that should have been trimmed six months ago, stood over him, glaring, until he looked up.
"Yes?” he said mildly.
The man didn't answer, just an irritated wave toward the empty seat.
"I'm expecting someone," Richard explained, still smiling.
Again the man didn’t answer; his frown did it for him, and Richard had had enough. He picked up his cup, glanced out the window, looked back at the man and stared.
Just. . . stared.
. . . green fire . . .
The man blinked in confusion several times, opened his mouth, and hastily backed away. When he tried to stammer an apology, Richard deliberately turned his head toward the window, feeling the momentary fear and confusion, and scolding himself. The man had done nothing but be a little rude; he didn't deserve the fright.
Voices were raised, laughter at the weather which, he gathered, seemed to be a running joke around here this time of year.
A minute later the restaurant fell abruptly silent, one of those curious moments when all conversation halted for no particular reason.
He looked at the street and realized that the wind and rain had finally stopped, but the sky had darkened. Before he could take a breath, an enormous peal of thunder exploded over the hotel, rattling the panes, making everyone jump. The lights flickered, died, and came on again.
A heartbeat more of silence, then everyone began to talk at once, nervously and nervously laughing. Somewhere behind him, in a small area in front set off by a latticework-and-glass wall, a baby cried.
"That'll get the blood running," said loanne Minster, sliding into the booth opposite him.
Richard started, and she grinned as she yanked a scarf from her head and fluffed at her damp hair. She wore a fleece-lined denim jacket over a baggy rust sweater, and a tiny gold ankh hung from a fine gold chain around her neck.
"You eat yet?"
He nodded at his cup. "lust coffee."
"Good. I’m starving.” She twisted around to get a waitress’ attention, turned back when she did, and said, "Sorry I'm late. Department stuff, like I said. It's a pain in the butt, but I don’t have a lot to say about my life these days."
He said nothing until after the waitress, polite but harried, had taken their lunch order. "I want to talk to that girl. Polly Logan."
loanne lifted a sculpted
eyebrow. "You sure? I mean, that was months ago." She grabbed a small notepad from a black shoulder bag, flipped it open, and thumbed through the pages. "Seems to me that Hendean guy, Leon, at the hang-gliding place, would be better. It was only last week, you know?"
"He didn't see anything," Richard reminded her.
"Neither did the girl."
''Maybe."
He could tell she was unsettled, and it wasn't the weather. Long fingers darted over her food when it arrived, and she tried not to stare at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Department stuff, he thought; sure, right. She had probably spent the morning trying to find out if he was who she’d been told he was.
She hadn’t learned a thing, and that must have raised a red flag or two.
Then she pointed at his plate, at the barely brown chopped sirloin, nothing else, not even greens. “You really ought to try cooked food now and then. What the hell are you going to get from that?"
"Nourishment," he answered dryly.
She laughed. "Why don't you just eat it raw?"
"Too hard to catch." -
She laughed again, silently this time, and he decided there was a very good chance he could grow to like this woman. She was clearly suspicious of him, or of what he appeared to represent, but that didn't seem to get in the way of what had to be done. She was no doubt convinced she would figure it out before long. With or without his help.
Besides, if he was going to be honest, aside from her obvious intelligence, she wasn't all that hard on the eyes, either.
He grinned to himself then, quickly bent his head so the grin wouldn't show, thinking that a remark like that wouldn't earn him any points with a woman like her.
As he ate, she explained that her orders were simple: she was to assist him in any way possible, smooth things over with bruised egos who might think he was trying to steal thunder and credit, and make sure he didn't step on too many toes. “A snap," she said wryly. "I can do it in my sleep."
Not once did she ask for an explanation of his presence. By her tone, she obviously believed he would perform the courtesy without having to be prodded.
Then she waved a fork at the room and filled him in on the purpose of the convention: writers and readers of science fiction and fantasy from all over the South, she told him, with a sprinkling from other parts of the country. They filled the place to capacity once a year, listened to panels, watched movies, spent tons of money here and elsewhere in town, wore funny clothes at night, got drunk, got laid, and went home Sunday afternoon.
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