Forbidden (5 page)

The storm was blasting for real now, wind and snow whipping around us, the sky dark. We stood outside the high school, hidden behind a massive sign that read. “Football Semi-Finals Saturday! Go Werewolves!” It looked like a typical country school—a one-floor cinderblock, with no redeeming architectural features. The simple layout would make infiltration easy. So would the parking lot with only two cars, both almost buried under snow, making me wonder if the owners had just left them there.

I glanced at Morgan. “I’m going to have you stand guard. Come closer to the side door with us, then watch the lot and whistle if you see anything. Don’t engage; just whistle.”

We walked around the side of the school. Morgan followed. When we reached the doors, they were flush with the building, leaving him no recess to hide in. So he just stood there, at the corner.

“Better take cover,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Clay said. “We don’t want to spring you from the cop shop again.”

Morgan scowled and stalked off to hide behind a cluster of evergreens. When he was gone, Clay examined the door, then looked around.

“Too exposed,” he said.

I nodded and waved to the back. We found a better door around there. Not only was it recessed, but it backed onto the football field, which was surrounded by forest.

As Clay checked the lock, I said, “You could go a little easier on him. The Pack needs wolves, and he seems like a good kid.”

“Yeah, but if he can’t take direction and criticism? Pack’s the wrong place for him.”

“He’s taking direction just fine. It’s the criticism that’s causing problems.”

Clay heaved on the door until the lock snapped. Then he opened it an inch, inhaling and listening. He seemed to be ignoring me, but I knew he was processing. Struggling to reconcile instinct and logic.

He was capable of being nicer. Hell, our kids have never heard a critical word from him. Disapproving, yes. But a gentle growl and nudge in the right direction, rather than a snarl and snap. He’d do the same with any Pack child, I’m sure. That’s the wolf in him.

But a grown wolf like Morgan required a sterner hand. He’d get the snarl and snap, reminding him of his place and booting him into it. Once Clay was sure Morgan understood that, he’d get the growls and nudges, like Noah and Reese did, more gently shaping their behavior as he taught them everything they needed to know to survive and flourish as a werewolf.

“He’s more than ten years older than Noah,” I said. “At least five years older than Reese. He isn’t a kid, and he doesn’t appreciate being treated like one.”

Clay closed the door and looked over. “You want him in the Pack?”

“I want to have the chance to evaluate that.”

Clay’s chin dipped. “Fair enough. I’ll take it down a notch.”

“Thank you.”

“But if he screws up—”

I lifted a hand. That’s all I needed to do. We’d already taken a chance, coming here to help Morgan. If he messed up another time, he’d be escorted to the state border and told—in detail—what would happen to him if he ever trespassed on Pack territory again.

We entered the school. It was, as I’d noted from peering in, a very simple layout. Two corridors ran lengthwise and a short one connected those two to the front and back doors. The first hallway was empty.

Clay headed along the short connecting corridor. I followed. When we reached the corner, I peered down the long front hall to see a woman in a nurse’s uniform. She sat at a table doing a crossword. Standing guard over the body? Looked like it. Smelled like it, too, from the faint scent of decomp wafting past on the furnace heat.

I backed us up to the rear corridor, the empty one. We went down it and found the third door led into a classroom decorated with fading DNA and cell posters. A door at the back was conveniently labeled “lab.” It was locked, but Clay’s sharp twist on the handle fixed that.

Clay checked through the door. I glimpsed a sliver of the lab. When I stepped to the side, I could see the main door to the hall. It was half open, showing the corner of the nurse’s table.

Clay opened the door a little more. He peeked in, then withdrew and shut it.

“Body’s right there,” he whispered. “If she gets up and looks in, she’ll see us.”

I took a deep breath. “Can you manage a quick examination?”

He nodded. Clay’s a cultural anthropologist, not a forensic one, but he’s done a fair bit of cross-reading and studying. He’s not an expert, but he’s a damned sight closer to it than I am.

Clay went in. He crept soundlessly to the left, where I could see the edge of the examining table. Then he bent over the body, pencil in hand, to poke and prod at the corpse.

I listened for any noise from the nurse’s post. She didn’t move. Then Clay stopped, head tilting. I caught the sound a split-second after he did. Morgan’s whistle.

Clay hurried back into the classroom with me. A moment later, we heard the faint whoosh of the front doors opening. Then the louder sound of footsteps. Boots. Heavy. A grown man, I was guessing. Alone. His footsteps approached the nurse’s station.

“Hey, Miz Morrison. Doc got you standing guard?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I motioned for Clay to crack the door open. He did and we caught the scent of Officer Kent.

“He does,” the nurse replied. “At least until he figures out how to do the autopsy here. Or bring that thing back to the office without making every patient sick from the smell.”

“Well, you can take a break from the smell yourself. Why don’t you head over to the corner store and grab a coffee? I’ll be here awhile. Chief wants pictures.”

“Didn’t she get enough earlier?”

“Apparently not. You know how she is.”

“Thorough,” the nurse said. “Which is more than anyone could say for Chief Lyons.”

Kent murmured something under his breath that could be taken as agreement, but I got the feeling he’d rather his boss was a little less dedicated to her job. I wondered how long she’d been chief. Probably not very, which might explain her attitude. The new girl on the block, working to prove she deserved her post.

There was scuffling as the nurse gathered her things, clearly eager to be gone. As Kent walked her to the door, he asked if the janitor was around.

“Snowed in, last I heard,” the nurse said. “I’m hoping he’ll show up soon. Doc said I can leave if he does. Otherwise, I’m stuck here until he’s done his evening appointments.”

As they talked, Clay leaned over and whispered, “I got enough.”

I looked back at the classroom door. “I think we’d make more noise leaving than staying. We’ll go as soon as Kent settles in.”

Clay nodded. Footsteps sounded in the hall again. I watched through the crack as Kent entered the science lab, big camera in hand. He walked to the table. Then he stopped and seemed to be listening, as if waiting to see if the nurse would come back. After a moment, he laid the big camera on the edge of the table. Then he started taking photos…with his cell phone.

Clay grunted. I nodded. For at least ten minutes, Kent took shots, from every possible angle. Then he grabbed the big camera and snapped a few pictures, with nowhere near as much care as he’d taken in getting the ones for his private collection.

When he finished, he stood over the body, staring at it. Then he reached out and—

The front doors creaked open. Kent shoved his cell phone into his pocket, picked up the camera and strode from the lab.

“That was fast,” he called.

“Polly closed shop early,” the nurse answered. “Too much snow and not enough business, I guess, but…”

We slipped away as they talked.

•

We were waiting for Officer Kent when he exited the school. He’d arrived in what must have been his personal vehicle—a pickup. Not surprising, given that I was pretty sure he was here on his own time, pursuing his own interests. What interests could involve taking photographs of a decaying corpse? Several. None that he’d add to an online dating profile.

He could plan to sell them online. Yes, there are people who’ll buy that sort of thing. Using his position to sell macabre photographs of crime scene evidence violated his professional obligations—and made him a bottom-feeding creep—but it wasn’t as bad as the possibility he wanted them to satisfy his own perverse interest in dead bodies. But the most heinous explanation was the one I liked best, because it would mean our killer definitely wasn’t a werewolf—he was a small-town police officer who couldn’t resist more photographic trophies of his handiwork.

We waited behind the sign as Kent crossed the parking lot. While he was distracted clearing snow from his vehicle, I motioned for Morgan to loop around behind him. Clay and I set out. Kent didn’t notice us until I called, “Officer?”

He jumped and swung the brush up like a weapon. Then, as snow crunched behind him, he turned to see Morgan approaching from the other direction.

I smiled. “Seems like a never-ending task today, doesn’t it?”

“Wh-what?”

I motioned at the snow brush.

“Oh, right.”

I stopped in front of him. Clay halted behind me.

“I heard the body was here.” I waved at the school, then at the camera around his neck. “Taking pictures for Chief Dales?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Hope they help.”

I started heading past him, Clay beside me.

“I’ll let her know you’re hard at work,” I called back.

“What?” He scrambled over to us so fast he slid in the snow.

“We’re just heading to the station to see how things are going.”

“No, umm…” He looked from me to Clay, then cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t waste your time. Chief Dales isn’t at the station. She’s off trying to ID the victim.”

“Oh? They haven’t made an ID yet? Well, it shouldn’t take long. You can’t have many missing people in this town.”

He hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t tell me anything, but he didn’t want me going to the station either.

He moved closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me? I don’t think she’s going to make an ID. Guy’s obviously a drifter. We get them through here all the time. He wouldn’t be the first to disappear.”

“No?”

He shrugged. “It happens everywhere.”

Actually, no, it doesn’t. Not in a place the size of Westwood. 

Was Kent serious about drifters going missing in Westwood? Or was he just saying that so we’d back off? There was an easy way to find out. Research.

First, we needed to notify Jeremy. I’d called him earlier, after the local mechanic finally phoned to say he was stuck handling a pile-up on the highway and wouldn’t be back to town tonight—he lived ten miles away. I’d told Jeremy we wouldn’t be home and asked him to break it to the kids. Now I was phoning to update him and say goodnight to them.

We usually Skype with the kids. Ever since they discovered they could see us, too, they weren’t going back to regular calls. But the Internet here was slow, meaning it would be an exercise in frustration. So Clay used my cell phone to talk to them while I started my research. Morgan was at the diner grabbing take-out for all of us.

Clay was still on the phone when I saw Morgan pass the window. Then a rap sounded at our door.

“Come in!” I called.

“Yep, that’s Mommy,” Clay said. “She’s…doing some work while we’re stuck here. I’m going to pass over the phone to her. Dinner’s arrived, so I want you to keep her busy until I finish it all, okay?”

I heard Kate giggling as he handed me the phone.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “What’s up?”

They were on the speaker-phone at Stonehaven. That’s something we learned from Skype—calls home work a lot better when the kids aren’t battling for the receiver. They both chattered away, telling me about the Clue tournament they’d played with Jeremy and the phone call from Uncle Nick, who’d promised to bring Reese and Noah up for a weekend of snowshoeing and cross-country skiing.

They didn’t complain once. Didn’t whine once. Didn’t argue once. I should have been happy about that. But there was this little part of me that worried they were being on their best behavior because they suspected we’d fled to escape them. I was probably overreacting. They’d just worked through their cabin fever and slid back into being their usual happy selves. But it didn’t keep me from feeling guilty. I’m really good at that.

I promised we’d be home tomorrow. Even if we still had work to do, Westwood was close enough to home for us to make the drive and spend the night at Stonehaven. We just needed to get the damned vehicle fixed. Jeremy said that if it looked as if that wouldn’t happen tomorrow, he’d rent another SUV in Syracuse and pick us up. Everyone seemed happy with that solution.

I was wrapping up when Morgan asked Clay if I’d found any more possible murder victims. Clay motioned him to silence and jabbed a finger at the phone. To his credit, he didn’t back that up with a scowl. Just a stern look. Which was as close to “being nice” as I could hope for.

“Sorry,” Morgan murmured. “Kids with super-hearing. That must be fun. So, did she find what she was, uh, looking for?”

I signed off and started fixing a plate from the food containers covering the bed.

“Kent was right,” I said. “This place is a regular Bermuda Triangle for drifters. In the last five years, three have been reported missing in the region. I can imagine how many more
weren’t
reported.”

“Preying on those who won’t be noticed or missed. That’s a serial killer m.o., isn’t it?”

“Man-eaters, too.”

Morgan shrugged. “Same thing.”

I shook my head as I swallowed a bite of chicken. “Obviously a repeat man-eater is a serial killer, using the strictest definition of the term. And certainly some are classic serial killers. They kill because they enjoy it. But some just screw up.”

“Repeatedly,” Clay muttered.

I nodded. “Because they don’t have a family or a Pack or anyone to teach them not to Change around humans until they can control the urge to see them as prey.”

“But it
could
be a human serial killer,” Morgan said.

“Yes,” I said. “If so, it’s an unusual one. All three missing persons are young men—late teens into twenties. Young guys on the road, looking for work, and a place to call home. Not your usual serial killer prey, but not unheard of.”

“So you think this is the work of a man-eater? What’d you learn from the body?”

“He matches the pattern of the missing drifters,” Clay said. “Male. Young, but past adulthood. Definite predation.
Major
predation—not something taking a nibble. But a large predator would usually scatter body parts, taking pieces home for later. Everything seemed intact except for that missing hand.”

“Then it could be a werewolf.”

“Living this close to us? For years? Possible, I guess. But I doubt it.”

“Which won’t stop us from investigating,” I said. “Man-eater or not, we’ve got people disappearing a little too close to home. Especially if we have partly-eaten bodies.” I glanced out the window at the darkness. “Time to see if we can sniff out any more corpses.”

•

The snow had stopped falling a while before we headed out, leaving desolate streets without so much as a set of tire imprints, as if everyone had retreated home after dinner and stayed there. Forest bordered the whole north edge of town, so we didn’t need to walk far to reach it.

Even with nightfall, it was easier to see than it had been this afternoon. The quarter moon shone from a nearly cloudless sky. With enhanced night vision, that lit things to near-daylight, even inside the tree line.

The forest was silent and still. No sign of footprints or snowmobile tracks. No scent of people or gasoline fumes.

“Is it hunting season?” Morgan asked as we trekked into the forest.

“Deer,” Clay said. “Maybe turkey. Can’t remember exactly when that ends. Depends on the location.”

“Do they hunt either at night?”

“Sunrise to sunset legally,” I said. “It’s iffy at dusk, but we’re usually safe running.”

“I’m actually asking because of those guys I heard in the forest last night. It was too late for hunters and I didn’t smell snowmobiles. I was wondering what they were doing out there.”

“Lots of reasons people go into the woods at night,” Clay said. He paused, softening his snap by adding, “But if you hear the voices again in town, let us know. Might be worth figuring out what they were up to.”

“Looks like a clearing over there,” I said, waving. “Good place to Change.”

“I’ll stand guard. Morgan—”

“Find my own spot. Got it.” He stepped into the clearing ahead of me. “How about just over there—”

He stopped. I followed his finger to see a small animal pelt hanging from a tree. I took another step into the clearing and looked around to see more tiny pelts hanging from trees marked with a familiar symbol.

“We saw these earlier,” I said to Clay. “The symbol, not the skins. They were on trees in another clearing, back near where I found the body. I was going to show you photos, just out of curiosity. But apparently it’s more than a one-off. It could have something to do with the men Morgan heard in the forest.”

“Maybe. The pelts are moles, voles, mice…No ritual significance I can think of there.”

He flipped over a pelt and shone a penlight on it. On the back, someone had burned a crook and flail into the skin.

“Osiris,” he said, then added for Morgan. “Egyptian god of death and rebirth. Cults of Osiris and Anubis used to hang pelts from sticks.”

He examined the symbol on the tree next.

“Definitely not Egyptian. Possibly Mesopotamian. Someone’s mixing their mythos.”

Morgan leaned toward me. “So he really is an anthropologist? I thought that was a joke.”

“Everyone does,” I whispered back.

“I heard that,” Clay said.

“And it’s hardly news.”

He grumbled and walked around the clearing. “Same symbols at the other spot?”

I held out the cell phone photo in answer. He looked at it.

“Yeah, it’s the same. But no pelts?”

“Not that we noticed. The snow was coming down hard, though.”

He peered up into the trees, then down at the ground. “Could be something under the snow. Ritual circle maybe. But if we clear the snow, we’ll only disturb what was there.” He took another slow look around. “Snap some more photos. That’s all we can do for now. It’s time to Change. Morgan?”

“I’m on it.”