Chapter
Nineteen
Doug Peters and Greg Simmons had been at Al
Menzie’s farm since six A.M. The Fish and
Wildlife officers had scoured the dry ground for prints, and the
bloody carcasses of twenty cows for tooth marks, evidence of bite
pressure, the whole nine yards. Tipped off by the police scanner in
his van, Tad Helfren made sure he showed up just after eight with
doughnuts and coffee.
The three of them leaned against the
government truck, coffee in hand, waiting for Horizon Dead
Livestock Removal to show up and haul away the ravaged
remains.
“God, what a mess,” said Helfren,
pretending to be a little squeamish. In truth, he found the carnage
exciting. It was evidence that he was getting closer to his own
quarry. The thrill of the hunt, boys and
girls. “I don’t know why you guys aren’t sick. Anyone find
the owner yet?”
Peters shook his head. “Jeff Maguire,
the hired man, came home from the bar last night and found the
cattle like this. Nobody home at Al’s. Maguire figures his boss
went early to a farm auction. There are three of them out by Spirit
River today and tomorrow, and they tend to go dawn to
dusk.”
“Al’s sure gonna be pissed when he
finds out these heifers are dead,” added Simmons. “They were
purebred Murray Grays. He just got them a month ago at a dispersal
sale, bred to an expensive bull to boot. It’s a huge
loss.”
“Surely there’s insurance on something
like this, right?” Helfren already knew the answer yet played the
men along. He knew there was no glamour attached to their job, and
it was likely that no one bothered to ask their opinion about much
of anything. It was a safe bet that they’d be glad to share
everything they knew with an appreciative audience. And he knew how
to be appreciative.
“Most farmers don’t carry insurance on
livestock,” explained Simmons, biting into a chocolate cream
doughnut. “Costs way too much.”
“But isn’t it a crime for a neighbor’s
dogs to kill your cows? I mean, there must be some sort of victim’s
compensation or something,” Helfren persisted.
Peters and Simmons exchanged glances.
“No dogs did this,” said Simmons. “Had to be a big animal, maybe a
bear attacked these cattle.”
“I say it was wolves,” declared
Peters.
Yes! Inside,
Helfren did a touchdown dance. On the outside, however, he kept up
the act. “Really? But wolves don’t actually attack things, do they?
I heard that was a myth.”
Simmons shrugged. “They go after
livestock once in a while, but they’d focus on one and then eat it,
leave the rest alone. Wolves don’t go on a killing spree. And none
of these animals has been eaten. I say it was a
grizzly.”
“Grizzlies don’t kill everything in
sight either,” retorted Peters.
“Maybe this one did. We didn’t find all
the cows. Twenty dollars says a griz dragged one off and cached it,
buried it under leaves and dirt for later.”
The officers argued. More coffee was
consumed. Over the next hour, the officers showed Helfren every
piece of evidence they’d found. Tooth marks on bone, stray
hairs—everything that fairly shouted to the practiced eye of the
paranormal investigator that this wasn’t the work of wild dogs. Or
bears. Or anything else belonging to the natural world. Too bad,
though, that the ground was so frustratingly dry—there wasn’t a
print anywhere. Still, Helfren took careful notes and shot photos,
even getting the men to pose in front of their truck.
Finally the livestock removal truck
lumbered into sight and the officers went to talk to the driver.
Helfren strolled around the farmyard alone, looking for anything he
might have missed. Dead cattle were scattered like discarded toys.
He was standing by one that had been killed near an outbuilding,
when he spotted the telltale buzz and swirl of flies over tall
grass down by a creek. One more cow, but he ought to check it for
clues just the same.
It was no cow.
For a long moment, Helfren stared at
the dead man, taking in the position of the body, the open staring
eyes, the terror permanently etched in the lines of the face, the
throat below it almost completely missing. Shouldn’t there be more
blood? He’d seen bodies before, but the sight chilled him
nonetheless. Gunshot victims were one thing. But this. . . . Slowly
he moved forward, circling the body carefully, scanning the ground.
And hit pay dirt. Three bloody footprints, faint but distinct.
Unmistakably wolf yet larger than any wolf had a right to
be.
Grinning, he lifted his camera. It
would be a great lead-in to the best story of his life. Capped with
a few shots of that long-legged editor changing into a beast from
hell, his reputation—and better yet, his fortune—would be assured.
He shot several dozen frames from all angles, double-checked the
digital screen to make sure he had what he needed, then carefully
backed away from the sordid scene. A glance at the officers on the
other side of the yard showed them busily directing the livestock
removal. They hadn’t noticed where he’d been or what he’d been
doing. Good. It was best if no one knew he
possessed photos of the victim. How many great stories had been
spoiled by a court ban on publication, or worse, by confiscation of
camera equipment in the name of evidence? Never his stories of course—he was much too
careful.
Helfren ambled casually back to where
the trucks were parked. He helped himself to a jelly doughnut with
powdered sugar and took his time savoring it, then checked his
watch. He imagined it would be thirty or forty minutes before
either the livestock removal crew or the Fish and Wildlife officers
worked their way over to that last cow near the stream—and stumbled
over the farmer’s body.
He called out a good-bye to the men,
got an answering wave and headed to his van, humming a little as he
tossed around captions in his head. This was going to be the best
damned edition of the OtherWorld News in its
thirty-three-year history. And with plenty left over for his
book.
He still had to get his hands on Little
Miss Editor of course. But not yet. No point in rushing things. She
wasn’t going to be useful until much, much closer to the full
moon.
And then she’d be gold.
Bernie was exultant. Giggling laughter
bubbled up in him as he sat atop the tallest standing stone in the
circle at Elk Point. The formation was said to be the meeting place
of the gods and revered for centuries as a hallowed spot by various
native peoples. Now it was mostly forgotten, hidden by tall trees
and unknown except to the occasional hiker or hunter . . . and
Changelings. They could feel the energy of the place and the Pack
held it to be sacred.
Sacred, my ass.
Bernie swung his feet, his entire body abuzz with sensation. There
were lines of invisible energy flowing deep within the earth and
this spot was an intersection of sorts. He’d never been able to tap
into it before, but now it energized him almost as much as Al
Menzie’s blood had hours earlier. Normally a Changeling could
assume wolfen form only once or twice a day at most because it
required massive amounts of energy. Three times was dangerous and
nearly unheard of. Four times would be fatal. Bernie had Changed
not once but several times in the night, simply because he could.
And he wasn’t tired in the least. Menzie, you
really recharged my batteries. Who’d have thought a dried up little
runt like you would have so much juice?
But Menzie couldn’t hold a candle to
that red-haired newcomer. Bernie had gotten only a single bite, yet
that one taste of the woman’s blood had revealed she was fairly
bursting with power, a strange and pure power that eclipsed that of
any human he’d killed to date. The energy had shot through his
system like the most potent drug, surprising and distracting him.
Then the woman had surprised him further, daring to defy him, to
fight back. Cut my face.
He’d have killed the stupid bitch, of
course, killed and drunk every last drop of her blood as she lay in
the street. He’d finally have had the power he craved, the means to
get everything he’d ever wanted—except Connor Macleod had showed up
and interrupted everything. Bernie leapt to the ground
effortlessly, crouched as if in wolfen form. Fury blinded him,
nearly choked him. I found her! She was mine, her
blood was mine! He howled long and loud in frustration, the
sound all the more chilling as it erupted from his human
form.
Damn the Macleods! They were always
ruining things for him. They’d done it again when he’d livened up
that party in the Watson’s backyard. He’d meant only to stir the
pot, provide a little footage for Helfren, a sample of things to
come. Bernie hadn’t known the red-haired woman would be at Watson’s
like an inviting snack just begging to be nibbled. But his hopes
for another energizing bite were dashed by Connor Macleod. Who’d
have thought the bastard would risk Changing in the middle of all
those humans?
Bernie automatically bared his stained
teeth in a snarl. Those interfering Macleods wouldn’t be so high
and mighty once Helfren revealed them to the world. Instead, they’d
be freaks. Freaks! The entire clan would be
hauled off to some secret government lab and studied for the rest
of their unnatural lives. Or hunted down and shot dead. Either way
worked for him.
In the meantime, the Pack was onto him,
watching for him, even hunting him. They’d never be able to trail
him of course. His new power had provided some unexpected benefits.
This old dog has learned new tricks. Thanks
to the network of waterways that connected the entire region, he
had an innovative way of getting around that other Changelings
would never even think of, never mind detect.
But it was the principle of the
thing—the Pack would pay for daring to hunt
him, starting with the Watson bitch who led them. He’d be the one
doing the hunting soon—but first he had to get to that red-haired
woman and her incredible blood. He had no idea why it possessed
such potency, and he didn’t care. The problem was how to reach her
with the Pack’s eyes everywhere. . . . A member of the Pack was
even in charge of the fucking cops. Bernie refused to risk having
the Macleods or anyone else interfere in his plans
again.
His rage disappeared abruptly as an
idea popped to the surface of his chaotic brain. He didn’t need to
waste time stalking the woman. He was her sire, wasn’t he? Hadn’t
he given her the wolf? Wouldn’t she Change at his command? Normally
it couldn’t work at such a distance—after all, he couldn’t see the
stupid bitch from here and she couldn’t hear him—but he was so much
stronger now. Much more powerful. She would
Change. And she would come to him.
It was damn fucking
perfect.
Bernie rubbed his crotch, indulging the
unexpected erection there. He felt virile, young, and oh-so-potent.
Maybe he could have a little fun with that red-haired woman before
he killed her. After all, he could tell her to do whatever he
wanted and she’d have to do it. Have to. He’d tell her to peel her
clothes off for starters. He’d like a good, long look at her rack.
She’d turn those strange gold eyes on him, those hawklike eyes, and
they’d be full of hate, but she wouldn’t be able to do a fucking
thing about it. Not a thing.
And then he’d tell her to give him
head. Oh yeah. He got even harder just
thinking about it. A new Changeling had no choice but to obey the
one who sired them, and he could make her do anything he wanted for
as long as he wanted. As long as he enjoyed her. And when he got
tired of her, he would simply drain her dry, lap up every last drop
of her luscious blood until he was damn well
invincible.
Hell, he was already strong enough to
take on the whole stinking Pack. He knew it, could feel it. He
growled low, drawing his lips back from teeth that had suddenly
gone long and sharp, crowded grotesquely in a mouth that wasn’t
designed for them. I’ll show you. All of you. Every
damn one of you.
Suddenly Bernie giggled and shook
himself. The teeth retracted, became human again. First things first. He had a little call to
make.
A routine investigation
by Fish and Wildlife into the deaths of twenty-two purebred heifers
took an ugly turn Sunday morning when the body of Allan Ralph
Menzie, 76, was discovered on his farm.
The dead livestock had
been reported earlier that morning amid speculation that a large
grizzly bear or possibly a cougar was responsible. Acting coroner,
Dr. Lowen Miller, has not yet confirmed the cause of Mr. Menzie’s
death. . . .
Zoey leaned back from the keyboard and
sighed. Nothing like being right back where she’d started. She’d
left the city, thinking she could leave the violence, the death,
and more importantly, her own psychic visions, far behind.
Ha. Maybe that’s what they—whoever
they were—meant when they said you can run but you can’t hide.
She had no hope of hiding from the
ghastly images in her head, those remnants of the horrible dream
that had proved all too true. A man was dead. Officials weren’t
saying the word wolf. At least not yet. But
in her heart she knew without doubt that it wasn’t a bear that
killed Al Menzie and his cattle. The creature that had attacked
her, whose bite she still bore on her leg, was still at large and
very, very dangerous.
Yet until the police could confirm the
animal’s identity, she couldn’t tell anyone. Oh, she could, she
supposed. But who would believe her? Zoey knotted both hands in her
hair in frustration. Her family claimed that her psychic ability
was a precious gift. Connor seemed to consider it a gift too. All
her life she’d wished she could give the useless talent back, but
never more than right now. Of course, reporting the news was a mere
formality in a small community. News traveled faster on the
grapevine than by any other means, and, by Monday morning, it was
unlikely that there was anybody left in town who hadn’t heard about
the death of Al Menzie. The Dunvegan Herald
Weekly had been a zoo all day. Reporters from surrounding
communities hung out in the coffee room, making it impossible for
staff to get a break from the constant questioning. The phone
seemed to ring without stopping. Local residents stopped by too.
Some people were merely curious, wanting to know if the newspaper
staff “had heard anything yet.” Others had theories to offer, some
sound, some bizarre. Ted Biegel had bodily removed the seventh or
eighth person who had the temerity to bring up the word
werewolf.
Zoey had decided against going to the
Menzie farm herself. The RCMP had it cordoned off anyway. Instead,
she assigned the sports reporter to drive out and take a basic shot
of the farm site from the road. That was all that a tasteful small
town newspaper had any business publishing anyway. There was no
hope for an interview with officials either, not yet. The RCMP was
being closemouthed until they concluded their initial investigation
into “an unattended death.” Fish and Game might think it was an
animal attack, but the last word would come from Lowen Miller. She
wondered what it would be like for the gruff doctor to step into a
coroner’s role again. Would he feel as frustrated as she did? Had
he and Bev also been trying to leave the big city violence behind
them? Or would it simply be like putting on a familiar pair of
shoes?
Maybe she could visit the Millers, ask
them about it sometime. And while she was at it, maybe she could
ask them about lycanthropy. That was the
word she’d come up with after researching half the day on the
Internet in between poring over financial papers in preparation for
the Village Council’s budget meeting that night. Although she’d be
surprised if the councilors got around to discussing the budget at
all. At the request of the mayor, the RCMP had promised to stop by
and report what they could on the Menzie issue.
Lycanthropy. The belief
that one can become a wolf. Zoey had heard the word but
hadn’t known it was a medically-recognized condition, treatable
with antipsychotic drugs. And it certainly seemed to fit Connor’s
wild story to a tee. Except that he had no other apparent symptoms,
appearing to be a perfectly normal specimen of the human male in
every other way. And an exceptional specimen in many ways. . . .
For the hundredth time, Zoey’s mind wandered happily to that
subject until she yanked it back in angry frustration.
Damn you, Connor
Macleod. Things had been fine between them, great in fact.
Hell, they were flat-out wonderful. So why did he have to get so
weird on her? What was it that compelled him to tell her such crazy
stories? Was he a compulsive liar? No instinct she possessed sent
up any alarm bells at his words. To her way of thinking, that could
only mean he believed his own story. It sure as hell wasn’t a
joke—one look at his face proved that—so what was his
motivation?
She had no answers, just more pain than
she’d ever known. This wasn’t heartache, this was being sawn in two
with a dull knife. How could she have come to love someone so much
in such a short time? And Connor certainly seemed to feel the same
way. Not only had he said he loved her, he’d declared his desire to
marry her and even said the C word (although she wasn’t terribly
certain that she wanted children).
I love you but I turn
into a wolf. He was trying to be honest, he said. Honest
about his mental condition? Did Connor realize he had a problem? If
so, did he know what it was? Zoey had scoured the web for
information on every mental disorder she could come up with. She
even researched the phenomenon of multiple personalities (although
she wasn’t sure that applied if the other personality was an
animal). Lycanthropy was the only thing that
seemed to fit—and yet it didn’t. Medically, lycanthropy was
considered an offshoot of a larger problem such as schizophrenia,
bipolar disorder, even clinical depression. Zoey wasn’t a doctor,
but surely she would have seen some sign of such things. Wouldn’t
she? Maybe she just hadn’t known Connor long enough. Hell, she
barely knew him at all.
Zoey held her head with both hands as a
headache began to wale on the back of her head with the force of a
two-by-four. A pair of tears slid down one cheek in quick
succession, annoying her. There was no way she was going to cry. No
way. At least not here and not now. Another
tear defied her and she might have broken down completely except
for a tiny detail that slid into her awareness like a note slipped
under a door.
Jessie. Her friend had been convinced
the saddleback wolf that stood over Zoey at the party had been
protecting her. And didn’t Jessie say to ask Connor about that?
When Zoey had asked why, Jessie had simply said he knew a lot more
about it than she did. The more Zoey thought about it, the more it
seemed a very strange thing to say.
Exactly how much did Jessie
know?
Slowly Zoey sat up. It was definitely
time to visit the Finer Diner. She shut down her computer and was
about to get up when the phone rang. Crap.
It was after six o’clock, the office was officially closed, and she
had a raging migraine, but pure reporter’s reflex had her picking
up the receiver anyway. The voice on the other end was low and
gravelly.
“I know where to find the animals that
killed Menzie.”
Great. Another wannabee tipster. “Who
is this?”
“A musher has been crossing big
malamutes with wolves and he can’t control them. Very
vicious.”
“Are you sure about this? Why haven’t
you gone to the police?”
“The police won’t take me seriously,
lady, because I drink a little too much. But this guy is keeping
these animals near my farm and I’m afraid they’ll get my horses.
Meet me and I can tell you more.”
“You’re going to have to tell me who
you are.”
“Bernard.”
Bernard Gervais? Had to be. “Aren’t you
one of the guys that claimed to have seen a werewolf?”
His voice sounded almost contrite. “I
was drinking that night, lady. I’m not drunk now. Come and talk to
me. I can give you the whole story. I’m really scared for my
horses.”
Zoey considered the fact that she
didn’t really know the man, had only seen him once. And he’d been
drunk and raving about werewolves at the time.
“I’m sorry, I’m really busy. If you
have something to say, you’ll have to say it now.”
“I want you to Change when the moon
clears the horizon.”
“Pardon me?”
“Change. When
the moon is up. And then come find me.”
He laughed, a thick chortling sound
that sent unexpected shivers down her spine. Zoey slammed the
receiver. “Stupid drunk.” But she was shaking as she closed down
her office and gathered up her things to leave.