Forbidden (7 page)

I got outside the police station before I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like roasted tree bark. I prepared to dump it into the snow.

“Uh-uh,” Clay said. “We’ve got a long night. You’re going to need that.”

He was right. The best time to investigate this list was while it was dark enough to skulk around. And before the local cops tackled the list themselves. While I was reasonably sure we didn’t have a man-eating werewolf here, it was a possibility.

Even if it was another supernatural, I couldn’t just walk away. I was the werewolf delegate to the interracial council, and one of our duties is to guard against exposure threats of any kind. I don’t do a lot of that—handling werewolves is quite enough, and the others are happy to leave me to that. But if this turned out to be a witch or a sorcerer conducting human sacrifice, I needed to find the culprit before the police did.

So I choked down half the coffee as fast as I could manage. We were heading toward the motel when a woman’s voice called, “You there!”

We turned to see Mrs. Rivera bearing down on us while her husband scrambled from their parked car.

“Maria!” he called.

We waited until she planted herself in front of us. “I saw you at the police station. Then I remembered someone said it was a couple of strangers who found the body. A young couple.”

We weren’t that young. In fact, we were probably older than she was. True, with a werewolf’s slow aging, we looked in our thirties, but I wouldn’t call that “young.” I wasn’t arguing, though.

“Yes, it was us,” I said. “We were hiking—”

“Maria.” It was the other man from the station, the one in the football jacket. He came up beside her and lowered his voice. “They just found the body. They didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course they didn’t,” she snapped. “They only arrived today. I’m not a fool. I just wanted to ask if it could be him.”

She held out a photo of a teenage boy. He was heavy-set and soft, and probably looked younger than he was. I would have guessed thirteen, but he wore a football uniform, so he had to be in high school.

I stared at the photo. He was grinning at the camera. He looked so happy. So proud of that uniform. So young. So damned young. When had he disappeared?
How
had he disappeared?

“You recognize him,” she whispered.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” I looked up at her. “He looks very happy. I’m so sorry.”

The man took the photo. “And I’m sorry,” he said to me. “We’re all very upset, as you can imagine. This…discovery has only brought it all back.” He held out his free hand, first to Clay, who had to be nudged to shake it, then to me. “Tom Hanlon. I’m a teacher up at the high school. I coach the football team.”

I introduced us.

“We’ll let you get on with your night,” he said, putting an arm around Mrs. Rivera’s shoulders as he handed back the photo.

“No!” She knocked his arm away and turned to us. “Are you sure it couldn’t have been—?”

“Jess said the body has tattoos,” Coach Hanlon said. “Ricky didn’t have tattoos.”

“I don’t care what she said. I don’t know
how
she got that job. Or who she slept with.”

“Maria!” The coach’s eyes widened. “Jessica Dales is the chief of police because she was better qualified—”

“This is my boy, Ricky,” she said, shoving the photo at me again. “He went missing just after last Thanksgiving.”

I shook my head. “The man we found was older and died much more recently. It wasn’t your son. I’m sorry.”

It took a few minutes—and her husband’s help—to get Mrs. Rivera back to the car. I didn’t try to escape until she was gone. Clay didn’t either. We just stood there, waiting. Even then, we walked slowly as the car drove away, not wanting to seem like we had better things to do. The woman had lost her child. I couldn’t imagine what that was like—didn’t dare try.

“The guy we found this afternoon definitely wasn’t him,” Clay murmured as the rear lights of their car faded in the distance. “But the second body? The smaller one? Hard to judge exactly, but I’d say it’s been there about a year.”

“I know.”

•

A couple of hours later we were hiding in the forest watching an old woman with a rifle stalk around her dilapidated cabin, gaze on the ground as she searched for footprints. She didn’t find any—I’d been careful to approach only as close as I could get without leaving the forest. She stomped back to her porch and stood there, faded nightgown whipping around her spindly legs.

“You better run!” she shouted. “This is private property, you hear? Don’t want no damn hunters. Or kids. Or sledders. Or…” The list went on, covering every possible type of person who might break the sacred seal of privacy she’d created out here.

“Aliens?” Morgan said.

“Bet she’s been beamed up a time or two,” Clay muttered.

“It’s like something out of an old hillbilly cartoon,” I said, marveling as I watched. “I thought the last cabin was bad.”

“They’re all bad,” Clay said. “The only difference is whether they’re half-crazy or all the way there.”

He was right. We’d checked out four cabins so far. With two, I’d barely gotten close enough for a good sniff before someone came thundering out, as if they could sense trespassers. The other two had been sleeping—passed out drunk, it looked like.

“Is every paranoid survivalist in America living in these woods?” I said.

“Only half,” Morgan said. “The rest are in Alaska. I think I bumped into most of them.”

“Maybe I’ll let you take the next one, then.”

We waited until the old woman went inside, then we set out again. Finding the people on Chief Dales’ list was getting tougher with every name we crossed off. The first three had been locals in town. That was easy enough. But these past four were forest cabins and only the first was even on a road. To find the rest, Dales had listed coordinates. We’d taken the portable GPS unit from Jeremy’s SUV. It still wasn’t easy.

We continued walking for about ten minutes before I could make out a distant, unlit cabin. We veered to the side, approaching from the forest.

“Do you want to handle this one?” I asked Morgan.

He didn’t answer. Just spun and wrenched Clay’s arm, yanking him hard. Clay caught Morgan’s wrist and threw him down on his back, then loomed over him.

“Don’t ever—”

Morgan cut him off by pointing to the side. We both looked to see metal almost buried in the snow. Watching Clay, Morgan rose, then reached for a nearby stick, waved us back and poked at the metal. A bear trap sprang, jaws snapping the stick in two.

“That’s another thing I saw a lot of in Alaska,” he said.

I peered around and pointed to a second one, almost hidden under a fallen branch. “And a few here, apparently. I don’t think these are meant for bears, though.”

We continued, armed with sticks as we poked our way forward. When we drew closer to the cabin, Morgan stopped us again. Penlight in hand, he waved it along a metal wire running at knee level. We approached with care and bent for a better look.

“Razor wire,” I murmured. “Someone really doesn’t want visitors.”

I decided we’d stick together as we approached the cabin. With this many booby-traps outside, I couldn’t send Morgan up there alone. As we drew close, I listened, but heard nothing from the dark building. There was a generator to the side, but it wasn’t running.

“Looks like no one’s home,” Morgan whispered.

I was nodding when I caught a scent. Not a human scent. Something else, something almost as familiar.

Morgan went still and I knew he’d picked it up, too.

I glanced at Clay.

“Yeah, I smell it,” he murmured at my shoulder. “Let me have a look.”

He took one step around the side of the cabin, then stopped. I hurried over and leaned around to see him standing in front of a darkened window, staring up. A gleaming wolf skull stared back. 

We ascertained that the cabin was indeed unoccupied. Then Clay snapped the door lock. It was a simple one—apparently, with all the traps, the owner didn’t expect anyone to get close enough to try the door. Clay went in first, looking and listening and sniffing. I waited until he’d checked all through the small cabin and came out to say he was absolutely sure it was empty. Then I stationed Morgan on the porch and slipped inside.

Clay had lit a lantern. I didn’t make it past the hall before I stopped. I stood there, gaping into the main room. If the old woman with the nightgown and rifle looked like something from a cartoon, this looked like a set from a horror movie.

Our blond heroine, having miraculously survived chasing a knife-wielding vandal into the forest, soon finds herself lost. She stumbles through the snow until, in the distance, she sees lights. It’s a cabin. An unoccupied cabin, to be sure, but she’s freezing—being half-naked in a snowstorm can do that do you. So she rushes toward the cabin, finds it unlocked and stumbles in gratefully, then looks up to see…

Dead animals. A whole lotta dead animals, all staring back at me. Some were stuffed and mounted, while others were just pelts, heads attached, glass eyes inserted. That was creepy enough. But in any good horror movie, you need more. You need weapons. Here, they lined every wall—ancient guns, machetes, knives…

Clay stood by the wolf skull. There were actually three of them—one facing out the window, two facing in. All sat atop a wolf pelt.

“That explains the smell,” I said, waving at the pelt. “Not a werewolf. Just someone who really likes wolves.” I paused and looked around, seeing a few more skulls and pelts. “Dead ones, at least.”

While the wolf skulls on the table suggested they deserved a place of honor, the cabin owner was an equal-opportunity predator fan. Every skull and stuffed beast and pelt came from one. I must have subconsciously realized that when I walked in, which is what stopped me in my tracks. It’s also what made the room look more like a scene from a horror movie than a simple hunter’s retreat. Not a single buck’s head or stuffed duck. Instead, I saw coyotes and foxes and bobcats and weasels. There was even a huge wolverine pelt, right above a polished bear skull. I could smell them all, too, and they were putting my nerves on edge.

I looked over at Clay to comment, but he was absorbed examining something on a shelf. I could make out a white sliver of skull. I walked over and, for the second time, stopped short. There were, again, three skulls on display. All from the same predator.

“Those are…” I began. “I mean, they are, right? They aren’t apes…”

“Human,” he said.

The outer two were yellowed with age. The middle one was slightly smaller and polished white, like the finger-bones in the cave. I moved closer and lowered my head for a sniff.

“Bleach,” I murmured.

Clay nodded. “The others are old. This one isn’t.” He bent for a closer look. “Can’t tell much from a skull, but it looks young and male.”

Morgan appeared in the doorway. I waved him in.

“So that skull belongs to the missing kid we found?” he said. “Ricky Rivera?”

“No,” Clay said. “We’re postulating that it
could
belong to the dead body we found, which
could
be Ricky Rivera.”

Morgan looked annoyed, as if Clay was making a petty distinction. He wasn’t. If you start making logic leaps like that, you end up in all sorts of trouble. Years of investigating have taught us to keep everything theoretical until we have proof.

I started for the door, planning to take over guard duty on the porch. I’d seen everything I needed to—time to let Morgan satisfy his curiosity while Clay searched for more. As I was leaving, I noticed a low shelf covered in bones.

I bent to examine the bones. Morgan reached over my shoulder for one. I stopped him.

“Paw bones,” I said. “They look animal.”

“These ones aren’t,” Clay said.

I turned to see Clay crouched at a bookshelf. It was stuffed with books, but one lower shelf had a gap between the tomes, scattered with small bones.

I walked over to see that they weren’t “scattered” at all. They were finger bones, like the ones we’d seen in the cave, arranged in a pattern.

“They’re a little bigger than the ones in the cave,” Clay said. “Bleached, too, though more recently.”

I could smell that. The bleach on the others had been faint, like the skull. This was strong enough to smell from
several feet away.

Clay stood, head tilting to read the titles on the books.

“Someone likes anthropology,” he said. “Lots of folklore and ritual. Can you snap shots of these, darling? I don’t recognize some of the titles.”

I took cell phone photos while Morgan watched.

“This guy seems to be our killer,” he said. “And we don’t smell a werewolf here. Meaning the murderer isn’t a man-eater. So this isn’t the Pack’s responsibility, right?”

“Just because this guy has the bones, doesn’t mean he killed anyone,” Clay said.

Again, Morgan looked annoyed. “Right, and the blood in the cave?”

“Could be animal.”

“Clay’s right,” I said. “We have lots of pieces here, and it’s natural to want to fit them together. But we need more. Are these definitely from those bodies? Is this the murderer or a scavenger? And what about the eating? Animal scavenger? Man-eating werewolf? Cannibal human? Dark magic? Once we eliminate the supernatural possibilities, we’re free to go. Until then, we’d better get comfy in Westwood.”

•

We finally made it back to town, coming out on a residential road just north of the main street. As we walked, I kept thinking about what we’d found. I hadn’t really before. Sure, that was pretty much all I’d
been
thinking of, but in an abstract way. How did those victims die? Who did it? Why? Now, seeing houses was like a cold slap, waking me up and reminding me that we hadn’t just found bodies—we’d found people. Two young men who’d been murdered, their bodies mutilated.

That should be the first thing I think of, shouldn’t it? It used to be. No, that’s a lie. It never was. There was a time when I’d blame Clay for my lack of empathy. Clearly I’d been around him too long. I’d started seeing things the way he did. But that gives him too much credit. Or perhaps it gives me too little—that I’d be so easily influenced. But I can’t blame him. I can’t blame being a werewolf. I can’t even blame the fact that I’ve seen so many bodies that I’ve built up an immunity. That last one plays a factor, of course. Because I
have
changed. It does take me longer these days to pause and recall that I’m dealing with lost lives. But the truth is that I’ve never been someone who could see a dead body and instantly mourn a life lost. I know people who do, and I feel like I should. But I don’t. I do mourn; it just takes longer.

“You okay?” Clay whispered.

“Mmm-hmm. Just thinking.”

Morgan cleared his throat. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m freezing. I’m going to kick it up a notch and get back to the motel.”

Clay nodded. Morgan murmured for us to call in the morning, and he took off, jogging down the snowy sidewalk. I watched him go. When he reached the corner, I took a deep breath, sucking in cold air to wake myself up.

“Okay, we need a plan for morning,” I said. “We’ve got our booby-trapping, predator-fixated hermit’s name on that list, so I can research that. You can look up those books from his cabin. I’ll touch base with Paige and Jaime on the symbols.” I sighed. “Lots of little pieces, none of them seeming to add up to—”

I stopped, my attention caught by a sign in a yard.

We stood in front of a small two-story house with a car in the drive. Just your typical family home. On the lawn were two signs, one a weathered, “Our Son is a Werewolf!”, the other newer and larger, dominated by a huge picture of Ricky Rivera and, “Please Help Bring Our Ricky Home!”

I stared at that sign. Then I wrenched my gaze away and looked at the house. It was dark except for a single second-story light. Was that Ricky’s room? The light left on to bring him home?

I took a deep breath. Clay’s arm went around me, his warm breath on my cold cheek as he bent to whisper, “It might not have been him.”

“It was,” I said. “I know we’re trying to keep an open mind. But we know that was him and I just keep thinking what if it was…”

“I know.”

“I don’t think I could handle…”

“I know.”

As we stood there, I thought of the playground back home, in Bear Valley. Of what had happened just last week. The weather had been nice—cold but sunny—and I jumped at the chance to take the kids to the playground for some much-needed socializing. Yes, my children’s idea of socializing is to be in the same place as other kids, interacting only when physical contact occurs and avoiding that as much as possible. But it’s better than total social isolation, which is our natural bent.

At the playground, I’m one of
those
parents. Like hawks watching their fledglings’ first flight from the nest, endlessly circling, endlessly hovering. I’m not standing on the sidelines yelling, “Don’t go up there! Hold on tight! Watch your step!” But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it, cringing with every reckless move my little daredevils make.

That day, though, I’d resolved not to hover. On the drive, I’d been encouraging them to join in with other children’s games, then I arrived and saw the other mothers huddled on the benches, sipping coffee and chatting, me off to the side, oblivious and alone, and realized I really wasn’t setting a good example for the twins. So I took out my thermos, went over and sat with the other parents. I talked, too, letting the conversation engage more and more of my attention until…

Until Kate’s scream of pain.

That’s when she fell. When I wasn’t paying attention. I heard her scream and I leaped up and I saw her there, huddled beside the big slide, Logan shoving past other kids as he raced down the ladder.

They’d been arguing, they later admitted. She wanted to slide down together and he didn’t. They tussled. She fell over the side. And I hadn’t seen it. I hadn’t heard them fighting. I hadn’t seen her fall. I hadn’t been there to catch her. I’d been preoccupied and she’d been hurt and it could have been so, so much worse.

Back then, when I’d thought it could have been worse, I’d been thinking of the fall, if she’d hit wrong or landed on her back. Now as I looked at Ricky’s house, at that single light, I realized just how much worse it could have been. It would have taken no longer than that preoccupied moment for someone to grab her.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “The world’s a dangerous place for kids already. And our corner of it’s even worse. Are we being careful enough? Should I even be out here? Should I be Alpha? What if a supernatural did this and tries to retaliate when we catch him? What if some mutt, at any point, tries to retaliate for whatever—”

Clay cut me off, both arms going around me as he stepped in front of me. “No one protects their kids like we do. They have the whole Pack watching out for them. If you stopped chasing guys like this, that wouldn’t make anyone less likely to come after our kids. Same as if you decided not to become Alpha. It would only show that you’re afraid. That would make you—and them—a target. You need to do exactly what you are doing—carrying on as if no one would dare touch our children while making sure they’re so well-guarded that no one could.”

I nodded. He was right, of course. Holing up in my cave with my pups was a sign of fear. Fear was a sign of weakness. Killers—werewolves or not—prey on that.

Clay continued, “I’m sure this boy’s parents watched out for him, but they aren’t werewolves.”

I nodded. I knew he was telling himself that made a difference. Maybe it did. But he said it because he needed to believe it. He’s Clayton Danvers and we’re the Pack and our children are safe. But the truth was that all it took was one distracted moment in a playground, and they could be gone. Forever.

I looked back at that lit window and let Clay prod me along the sidewalk.

•

We reached our motel room door. Morgan’s light was out. Had he gone to bed already?

Clay sighed when he saw me looking in that direction. “Yeah, I’ll go check on him.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just…”

“I know.”

I opened our door as Clay started walking past. Then he stopped, wheeled and pushed through, shouldering past me. As I regained my balance, he lifted a hand, telling me to stay back. He looked around, eyes narrowing.

“The room is empty,” I said. “The door was locked. No one is under the bed…”

“Someone’s been in here.”

“Yes, restocking the mini-bar, which I’m about to appreciate. Just as soon as
I
go check on Morgan.”

Clay was there in a shot, gripping my elbow to stop me.

“Hold on,” he said.

Before I could say a word, I caught the intruder’s scent. And I noticed a cracked-open drawer with clothing peeking out. A water bottle I’d left on top had been knocked over, water pooled on the floor.

I walked over and inhaled deeper. “It’s the same guy who slashed Morgan’s tires. Probably ours, too.” I motioned at the drawer. “The room’s been searched. Better see what’s missing.”

We started to look. A few minutes later, a knock came at the door. Clay opened it to find Morgan standing there.

“Just got back,” he said. “I walked down to the gas station—it’s the only place open to grab a pop. I came back to find someone has been in my room. Nothing’s missing, but I doubt this place has turndown service. And I don’t want to be paranoid, but it smelled like—”

“The vandal we chased earlier today,” I said. “Whatever he was looking for, I don’t think he found it. My laptop was still hidden. There’s nothing else personal in our room.”

“I’ll help you check yours,” Clay said. “Elena?”

“Lock and bolt the door behind you,” I said. “Yes, sir.”