Alaskan Wolf (4 page)

“Fine.” His tone suggested it was anything but. He looked from left to right out the windshield, then turned onto the main road. “I'll let Toby know you're
interested in another expedition and have him line up someone to take you.”

Mariah felt incongruously hurt that he didn't offer to take her himself. “Thanks.” She remained silent for most of the ride back to the ranch, except to call to the dogs and thank them, too. And to insist that Patrick stop when she spotted a moose in the woods beside the road that she wanted to photograph.

They soon arrived at their starting point. Wes Dawes was outside with some other dogs, his sledding that day apparently over. Mariah popped out of the van as soon as it stopped, though Patrick came toward her side to help her out.

“Thank you,” she said again, looking into those hot light brown eyes with their unfathomable expression. “See you around.”

Did a hint of sorrow at her brush-off momentarily cross his face? No, she was just projecting. She turned, arranged her tote bag on her shoulder, and crunched her way over the driveway to say hi to Wes.

 

That evening, Patrick invited Wes and Shaun to join him in town for a drink. Toby, too. He had already returned from his meeting in Nome. He had flown there and back in a small, private plane—a major way of getting around in Alaska, where towns were spaced so far apart.

They drove in separate vehicles. Shaun had told Patrick that his online research on backgrounds of glaciers, and investigations of them by some scientists who had previously visited Tagoga or who were now in town, seemed to be yielding interesting results.
Very
interesting, in fact, but he refused to elaborate until he had followed some threads to their ends. He wanted to return to his research as soon as possible, since he would have little time with it the next day, when he was scheduled to take some tourists on a sled.

Plus, they had already decided that Patrick would spend the next evening on the glaciers in wolf form. His daytime visits as a musher hadn't yielded much information so far. Shaun would need to be there as his backup.

They wound up at Fiske's Hangout, supposedly the best place in town for a drink and dinner despite the existence of similar nearby bars.

But Patrick wasn't really fooling himself. He hoped that Emil Charteris would be there for him to try to question again. But mostly, he hoped that Mariah would be there talking with Emil. Or even on her own.

When he spotted her, his insides leaped. She wasn't with Emil, though, but hanging out with another scientist Patrick had met before, one only too happy to share the fruit of his investigations—not that Patrick
could rely on them. Flynn Shulster seemed more of a pseudo-scientist than a real one. His television show on the Science Channel featured all kinds of unusual nature events.

Patrick wondered if Mariah's articles were ever similar to Shulster's Alaskan tales. He wanted to read one. More likely, they were not like Shulster's at all. From her attitude, he had a sense that Mariah would go out of her way to ensure accuracy in her articles, but Shulster seemed all about sensationalism.

Which was undoubtedly why he was here looking into the untimely retreat of the glaciers.

Since that was why Patrick was here, too, he led his group toward the area of the ornate bar where Shulster held court, Mariah sitting next to him.

“Hi, mushers,” Shulster called over the piano music when he spotted them. He had obviously been drinking. He was dressed in a snazzy blue-and-black sweater over snug black slacks. Patrick supposed he was decent-looking, in a show-biz kind of way, with his light brown hair short and styled, his face bright-eyed and smiling. Which was what he was: more appearance than substance. “You didn't bring your dogs.”

“I suspect Thea Fiske wouldn't be too happy if I did,” Patrick responded.

Shulster returned to the tale he had been spinning to his rapt audience of local drinkers and tourists,
all about his experiences in the Himalayas looking for yetis. Nothing about his examination of the local glaciers, though. So nothing interesting to Patrick.

He edged over to Mariah. “Hi,” he said in a low voice.

“Hello, Patrick.” Her tone sounded welcoming—a surprise, considering the less than amiable way they had parted earlier. “What a surprise to see you here.” He heard the drollness in her voice and smiled.

“I could say the same. Have you eaten yet?” He wasn't sure why he asked. Was he going to invite her to join them, like he wanted to turn this chance—well, not so chance—meeting into a date?

“Yes, I have,” she said. “I stuck around because I'm interested in hearing what Flynn has to say.”

So was Patrick, eventually, after he'd eaten a barbecue sandwich and drunk a couple of beers with Shaun and the Daweses. Shaun headed off to talk to some other bar patrons as Shulster started describing what he had seen so far on the local glaciers.

Which meant Patrick had to hang out longer as the conversation segued into discussions of what others had seen and experienced. He stayed when the Daweses left because Toby was exhausted after his day traveling to Nome and back—and when Shaun excused himself, to resume his online research.

And when Flynn Shulster left, as well as some of the waitstaff and even the piano player. Patrick told
himself he was staying to listen to other patrons' tales of glacier experiences. Some stories weren't as interesting as he had hoped. The bar customers, in various states of inebriation, seemed to want to outdo one another in their descriptions—not only of the calving, but of things they had seen regarding the effects on wildlife—and were urged to focus on the facts by Mariah.

But when Mariah decided it was time to leave, though the place was still far from empty, Patrick figured he'd heard enough, too.

Outside in the cold, Mariah turned to him. “Are you walking me back to my B and B tonight?” It sounded like a challenge, not a request, and the look she turned on him with her glowing blue eyes appeared anything but welcoming.

“Sure,” he said. “Just want to make certain you arrive safely. With all those guys having a good time in there, you never know when one'll try to follow you home.”

“Like you.” She smiled briefly and started walking in the direction of her inn. “So, are you going to tell me more about your background tonight—stuff you wouldn't talk about yesterday?”

“No,” he said.

“I'm going to keep asking.”

“And I'm going to keep avoiding the question.”

She laughed. “I figured.” Instead of pressing him,
she asked more detailed questions about things they had seen on the glaciers that day, and the care and training of sled dogs.

When they reached her B and B, Patrick hesitated. Lord, how he wanted to grab her and kiss her again. Turn it into a habit.

But that made no sense, given this woman's professional curiosity and his need for secrecy.

“See you around,” he said.

Which was when she grabbed his arm, reached up to pull his head down, and planted one hell of a quick but sexy kiss on his lips.

And then she disappeared inside the inn.

 

Patrick had driven to town in the sedan the military had supplied him with. He took the roads back to the dogsled ranch as fast as possible without killing himself or anyone else.

Why had he decided, in some split second of chivalry and self-preservation, not to kiss Mariah?

And why had she kissed him anyway?

The touch of her lips had driven him nearly wild. Her scent intoxicated him more than all the beer he had drunk in Alaska. He felt as if he had engulfed a small swallow of the elixir that allowed him to turn wolfen on demand, had turned instantly into the wild animal within him.

Had wanted to claim her, take her to a secluded place and make love to her all night.

It was a good thing she had fled inside—wasn't it?

Somehow, fortunately, he made it to the ranch without swerving off the road. He pulled into the parking area behind the main house. The Daweses' car was there, and so was Shaun's crossover. Lights were on in both the house and the large building behind it where the hands' small apartments were located—his destination.

Inside, Patrick ran up the steps to his second-floor unit without seeing any of the other guys. Not surprising. It was late. And most of the time, if he saw them at all here, it was when they gathered downstairs in the small kitchen for coffee or a beer.

He felt too wired to sleep. To even stay in one place.

Good thing Duke would require a short walk before bed.

Patrick used a key to open the door to his apartment. Duke was waiting right inside the door, having obviously heard his arrival.

“Hi, boy,” Patrick said, stooping to give his large, gray friend a rough hug. “How ya doing?” He considered Duke much more than a friend. The dog was part of his cover, so that if anyone happened to see Patrick in wolf form he could laugh and say
they must have spotted Duke. But Duke was also his companion, apartment mate and buddy. Not to mention a trained canine military partner.

Now, Duke didn't hold still long enough for Patrick to do more than touch his thick fur. He ran into the hall and barked.

“Hush!” Patrick said. He didn't want the dog to wake the other guys this late, or he'd never hear the end of it.

Duke stopped outside Shaun's unit, woofing softly and leaping against the door.

“What's wrong, boy?” Patrick knocked on Shaun's door. Hearing nothing from inside, he turned the knob.

The door opened. Odd. Though guys around here often failed to lock up during the day or night, that didn't include Shaun.

Not with his valuable, government-issue computer equipment.

The sharp, ugly smells assaulted Patrick immediately. “Hey, Shaun,” he called warily into the dark ness, even as Duke sped by and started making strange, keening noises.

With an eerie, sick sensation crawling up his back, Patrick turned on the light.

Shaun was at the small table at the side of the compact room that passed as multipurpose kitch
enette, office and living room. Slumped over. Head on the table.

Blood pooled around him on the floor. Duke sat, howling softly nearby.

“Hell!” Patrick exclaimed. “Shaun?” He crossed the room, touched the neck of his friend and backup, hunting for a pulse.

There was none.

Shaun was dead.

And Patrick realized that the laptop computer that Shaun always worked on at that table was missing.

S
haun hadn't changed clothes from their outing at Fiske's and still had on his blue cotton shirt. He'd obviously been in a hurry to get back to work, since he usually wore only ratty jeans and T-shirts while on the computer. What had gotten him so jazzed?

Carefully, Patrick repositioned Shaun just a little so he could view his body, assess the wound that killed him.

Only then did Patrick realize how much blood now covered his own hand that had sought a pulse.

Shaun's throat had been cut.

“Damn it, Shaun,” Patrick whispered angrily. “How could anyone have done that to you?”

Shaun had been a large, muscular guy. Trained in military hand-to-hand combat. He wouldn't have gotten his throat slit easily.

Except by complete surprise.

Duke would have barked at the intruder. But Duke barked often when mushers entered the building, so Shaun wouldn't have been concerned. Could it have been a fellow musher who killed him?

Almost wishing he was in wolf form so he could howl with Duke—who now sat near the door of the small room issuing low, plaintive keens—Patrick carefully inhaled, and realized he had all but held his breath after that first assault on his senses.

Which might have been a good idea to continue. The odor was horrible, and not just the usual scents involved with the death of a human being.

Something pungently sharp and bleachlike, overlain with the sweetness of some cleaning potion, filled the air. As if the killer had known there would be those with extraordinary senses of smell who might enter the crime scene.

Unsurprising, though, on a ranch where more than thirty dogs lived.

But that could also indicate that the dogs would otherwise have been able to recognize the killer from his—or her—scent.

Patrick needed to report this immediately to Alpha Force. A member of his unit—his pack—had been
slain. But he couldn't do anything that appeared suspicious, like making phone calls before notifying the authorities, or he could be accused of Shaun's murder. Knowledge of his affiliation with the military couldn't go any further than it already had, with Wes Dawes aware of it—although Wes knew nothing specific about Alpha Force.

So, first thing, Patrick called 9-1-1, after gingerly removing his cell phone from his pocket with his left hand, not wanting to smear any more blood on himself than he already had.

He explained the situation briefly to the operator, giving his location. Then he called the Daweses. They would need to know that the cops were coming. And why. And what had happened to one of their supposed employees.

Only then did he call his superior officer, Major Drew Connell, of Alpha Force. Woke him up, since he was at Ft. Lukman, in Maryland, a four-hour time difference.

“Don't have time to discuss it now, Drew,” he said grimly. “I'll call back as soon as I can. But Shaun's been murdered.”

“What the hell—” Drew began. “How? Do you know who?”

“Like I said,” Patrick repeated as the Daweses burst into the room, “I'll call you.” And then he hung up. “Stay right there,” he told the father and son who
appeared equally ashen. “We can't contaminate the crime scene any more than I've already done. Don't you watch those shows on TV?” He added the last as an attempt to disavow any connection with law enforcement, however remote, at least as far as Toby was concerned. But he caught Wes's eye and shot him a brief, silent message to keep what he knew quiet.

Another conversation to have later, without an audience.

The cops must have been on patrol in this small town where crime couldn't be too prevalent, since a couple of uniformed officers arrived only five minutes later. They did the usual things like securing the crime scene and sequestering possible witnesses.

By then, the other four guys who lived in the tiny apartments in the building had all been awakened and, in various stages of undress, had gathered in the narrow hall, asking questions of one another. But none apparently had any answers, so as Patrick was being escorted past them by a cop, one of them— Hank Meyer—demanded, “Hey, Worley, what the hell's going on?”

“Shaun's dead,” he replied tersely, and didn't need the cop's gentle shove to keep moving. He wasn't about to say anything else. Especially nothing about how he'd found Shaun, or the condition of his body, or all he had sensed. He had a right to remain silent and
intended to exercise it—at least until he was cleared of suspicion.

The cop who'd accompanied him outside sat Patrick down in the backseat of his navy-and-white patrol car with the Tagoga Police sign on the side. “A few questions for you, sir.” His name tag read Pilke, and he did, fortunately, have only a few questions, at least for now. At his urging, Patrick described where he had been that evening, when he'd last seen Shaun alive, how he had found him. The cop recorded the conversation and took notes.

As Patrick spoke, he watched others from the ranch, including the Daweses, also escorted outside and questioned—beneath the light of a bright and waxing, but fortunately not yet full, moon.

He wondered if any of them knew more than him.

If any was Shaun's murderer.

Whether or not these cops were efficient, Patrick would find the killer. Using any and all resources he had.

He was glad when the cop was finally done with him—after confirming Patrick's employment here and his cell phone number. Patrick wanted to demand that they keep him informed about their crime scene investigation and when they zeroed in on any suspects, but to act that way would raise questions about who the hell he thought he was.

And so he simply thanked the guy, made a dorky comment about how he hoped they caught the killer soon, and exited the vehicle.

He couldn't stay at the ranch that night. The building housing his apartment, and the others', would be at a minimum noisy, and would all most likely be treated as part of the crime scene.

He headed for his car. And wondered whether Inez's B and B had any rooms available.

On his short drive to town, Patrick called Drew Connell again. “What the hell happened there?” the major demanded immediately, as if he had been clutching his cell phone from the moment he'd hung up with Patrick.

Driving slowly along the dark, winding two-lane highway, Patrick described it briefly—how Shaun had been with him at Fiske's, had left early because he wanted to get back to his online research…and sometime between the time he'd left the bar/restaurant and when Patrick had arrived back there, had had his throat slit.

“Any sign of a struggle?” Drew demanded.

“You know…knew Shaun. The only way someone could have done that was to sneak up on him.”

“Yeah.”

Patrick described the smell of the cleaning agent and his assumption that it was to prevent the dogs from IDing the killer. “No indication anyone here had
any idea about Alpha Force or Shaun's connection with me. But I'll keep looking into what happened to him. And…well, I was planning on heading up to the glaciers again. The last time I was there while it shifted, I heard and saw some stuff I couldn't explain. But without Shaun… Can you send someone else to be my backup?”

“'Fraid you're on your own for now. I've got everyone who could otherwise be your assistant on the road with the other guys here. Something's going on in the lower forty-eight, mine explosions we've been asked to look into, and all our shifters who can navigate small spaces in the dark—nearly half our troops—have been commandeered to work on it. And the other half's their backup.”

“Mine explosions?”

“Yeah, as in sources for minerals used to create necessary military ordnance, for one thing. We're not sure what's going on, but some of the heads of the mining companies have asked the military to look into it, and General Yarrow volunteered us.”

Patrick shook his head slowly. “So the upshot is that I'm the lone wolf around here.”

“We can enlist your bud Wes Dawes to help out to some extent.”

As Patrick turned a corner, the lights of town—such as they were at this hour—started to appear. “Not much of an extent now,” he cautioned. “Wes
could be a suspect in Shaun's murder, although I don't know of any motive. But I can't eliminate anyone yet.”

“Got it. He's former military and his security clearance is still adequate for you to enlist what help you think is appropriate, on a limited basis. But—well, you said it. For now, you're the lone wolf.”

 

The room to which the sleepy receptionist directed Patrick was at the rear of the main floor of the B and B.

He wondered if it was near Mariah's.

He didn't ask, though. It would be better if he didn't run into her, if she didn't even know he was around. The curious writer might point her nose in the direction of Shaun's murder—and possibly learn that Patrick had been acquainted with Shaun even before they'd arrived in Tagoga.

He wished he had Duke with him, but had left his surviving partner at the ranch. Duke would be better off there as part of the pack of huskies. And Patrick hadn't been certain where he would end up that night. This way, he hadn't had to grovel to get a dog admitted as a guest at the B and B, and it was one of very few choices in town.

After finishing the details of checking in, he grabbed the thick strap of the backpack he had filled
hastily before leaving his apartment and started down the hallway.

And stopped at the first closed door. It had a window inlaid at the top, and the room beyond was the inn's small business center, where two desktop computers were set up. Mariah sat at one of them, watching the screen intensely as her fingers typed nonstop on the keyboard. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, mussed as if she'd run her fingers through it…and the thought made Patrick's fingers itch to do the same. Her green sweatshirt hugged her curves.

He should move on before she spotted him. But almost without thinking, Patrick opened the door. He must have startled her, since she gasped and stopped typing, turning toward him.

“Oh, hi, Patrick,” she said.

He realized he was grinning foolishly at her and made himself frown. “Don't tell me you're working this late.” He glanced down at his watch. Two o'clock. He had left her here nearly three hours ago. Had she been on the computer all that time?

“Okay, I won't tell you.” Her lopsided smile was wry. Then her gaze moved from his face to his side, where his backpack hung. Confusion wrinkled the lovely features of her face. “What are you doing here?”

His body grew rigid as his mind focused again on
why he had wound up at Inez's. “Long story,” he said curtly. At her instantly irritated expression, he said, “Sorry. Hard to think about it.” He told her about Shaun's death. No details—only that someone had killed his friend.

“Oh, Patrick, I'm so sorry.” She was immediately on her feet. “And you…you found him?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don't want to talk about it. What're you working on?” Time to change the subject. Better yet, leave before she pried anything out of him. But he couldn't bring himself just to walk out.

He would either have to weigh every word he spoke, or stay quiet.

For now, he leaned against the door jamb.

“I did more online research about some of the scientists visiting here and their work,” she said. “I need to prepare for the next questions I'll ask for my article. There's no internet access available in the rooms, though, so I had to work here. I was just preparing an email progress report for my editor.” She hesitated. “Patrick, I don't want to pry, but—”

“Then don't,” he said gruffly. Was she about to turn into a nosy investigative reporter, demand more answers about Shaun that he wasn't prepared to give? Worse, answers he didn't have yet and was chewing himself out about, for not having been there for his
friend. He was even more frustrated that he couldn't leap into conducting his own investigation, his way, with the cops all over the place.

She glanced at the computer screen and pressed a button on the mouse, probably sending her email. She rose and turned back toward him. “What I was going to say—as tactfully as I can, but that's now out of the question—is that you look awful. Tired. And really upset. If it weren't so late, I'd invite you to join me for a drink. But nothing's open around here, and—”

“Rain check,” he said. “You're right. I'm tired. You must be, as well. I'm heading for my bed, and you should, too.” He realized she could take that wrong…or maybe not so wrong. “To your bed, I mean.”

There was that wry smile again. And something else that smoldered in her sea-blue eyes. “Right,” she said. “Good night, Patrick. I'm planning to check out some of the resources in town tomorrow morning, so I'll be at breakfast around eight-thirty. Maybe I'll see you then.”

She sat back down at the computer. He watched for a moment, changing his position so the angle allowed him to see that she was logging off. And he didn't necessarily want to continue this conversation with her…now.

“Good night, Mariah,” he said, and headed down the hall toward his room.

 

Thank heavens he was gone, Mariah thought a moment later as she shut down the computer.

Otherwise, she might have said something equally dumb herself. Like taking him up on his obviously unintentional offer to join him in his bed.

But not tonight. His friend had died. Shaun Bethune. He'd seemed nice enough when she'd talked with him at Fiske's, not that they'd said more than a few friendly words to one another.

And now, he was dead. Apparently murdered.

By whom? And why? A robbery gone bad? But he'd been another employee at the dogsled ranch. Unlikely that he had a lot worth stealing.

Patrick clearly needed some cheering up. But not by her. At least not tonight.