Forbidden (9 page)

We’d settled in for breakfast at the diner. Pancakes were on the menu, so that’s what I ordered. We got biscuits too, just to have something to keep our stomachs from growling while we waited for the meal. I’d already had two—and a cup of coffee—and was trying not to eye the kitchen impatiently.

“You know,” I said. “I’m getting that feeling of being watched again.”

“Huh.” Clay ripped apart his fourth biscuit. “Don’t know why.”

The diner was nearly full, and I swore every one of those pa-trons—plus the server and even the cook—had found an excuse to walk past our table. At least half of them were gaping at us.

“This is why I hate small towns,” Clay muttered.

“You also hate small cities. And big ones. The common factor? They all contain people.” I glanced around. “We should take advantage of our popularity. Ask about our hermit guy. But we need to be discreet. Subtly follow someone out—”

Clay turned his chair so fast it squeaked, startling the guy behind us, who’d been leaning in to eavesdrop.

“Hey,” Clay said. “We were hiking yesterday and nearly lost a leg in a bear trap near a cabin. You know anything about that?”

The guy yanked in his chair fast. “Nope.”

Clay turned to the woman on his other side, who’d been doing her share of gaping—though only at him. “How
about you?”

“N-no.” She dropped her gaze, blushing furiously, as if she’d been caught cheating on her husband. “Sorry.”

Our breakfast arrived as I was glaring at Clay.

“Hey,” he said to the server. “Got a question—”

I kicked him under the table. He shot me a look, then turned back to her as she set out the food.

“Were you the one who served our friend the other night?” Clay said. “The guy whose car is stuck in your parking lot?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, laying out the plates.

Now the man behind Clay perked up again. “Oh, is that the one who was running around naked in the woods?” He laughed. “You better tell your friend he needs to learn to hold his liquor better.” He poked the server. “And you need to learn when to stop serving drunk guys, Marnie. Even if they are handsome young men.”

I looked up at the server. “He was drinking?”

She swallowed, then said, casually, “Uh-huh. He seemed fine, so I kept serving. It was only a few whiskeys, but I guess he can’t hold his liquor very well.”

She was lying. Even if I couldn’t tell that from her gaze, I would have smelled liquor on Morgan yesterday morning. I hadn’t. He’d said he didn’t have a drink and nothing about his scent had claimed otherwise.

I glanced at Clay. He was already attacking breakfast. The server backed away, then scampered off.

“She’s lying,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“No idea.” He waved at my plate. “Eat up. We need to leave so someone can follow us out.”

“What?”

“Just eat.”

•

We left the diner. I was about to begin the long walk back to our motel, but Clay waved me over to Morgan’s disabled car, now a snowdrift in the lot.

“What are we—?” I began.

“Stalling.”

“Because…”

“Someone will talk to us. Just not in there.”

I should have known that. I’d learned long ago that some people, particularly in small communities, are happy to gossip with strangers…just not in front of their neighbors. That’s what Clay had been doing when he’d asked about the traps. He didn’t expect an answer from the people he singled out. He was just setting the stage. I’ve pulled similar ploys, though a little more discreetly. The fact that I didn’t realize what he was doing proved just how little sleep I’d gotten, my dreams haunted by missing children.

Sure enough, as we were clearing off Morgan’s car with our hands, a family came out and headed our way. The couple was around our age. Regular-looking folks, a dark-haired man and his red-headed wife. They had two kids with them. The woman leaned over and whispered something and the kids took off for the family’s car.

“You’re going to need a snow brush for that,” the man called as they approached.

“Or a shovel,” I said with a smile.

“I can help with the brush,” he said. “Let me go grab mine.”

And with that,
he
set the stage, giving them an excuse to chat with the strangers, should anyone be watching. While he headed off to retrieve the brush, his wife introduced herself.

“Michelle Woodvine,” she said. “I heard about the traps. I’m so sorry. I’ve said before that there should be warning signs. Everyone in town knows they’re there, but visitors don’t.”

“We saw them, luckily,” I said. “Do you guys actually get bears around here?”

She sighed. “No. It’s just… It’s Charlie. A local man who’s…having some problems. Psychological problems. Everyone remembers how he used to be, though, so no one wants to make a big deal. Like he’ll just wake up one morning and snap out of it.”

“Charlie?”

“Lacoste,” Michelle said, though I already knew the name from my research. “He grew up here in Westwood. Headed off to college in New York, then went backpacking and didn’t come home for nearly twenty years.”

Her husband came back and handed Clay the brush, letting him clean while we chatted.

“Charlie got wrapped up in all kinds of crazy stuff out there,” the husband said. “Witchcraft in Africa. Voodoo in the Caribbean. Mysticism in the East. Then he came back. Married a local woman with a little boy. Taught history at the high school. Just a regular guy again.”

“Until his wife died,” Michelle said. “He got in a big fight with his son. And he started…losing it. Living in the woods, setting traps, scaring off anyone who came by.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

The three of us stood there, the silence broken only by the
swish-swish
of the snow brush as Clay cleared. They knew I was thinking of the body we’d found. I could tell by their expressions—almost guilty, as if they’d played some role by not pushing harder to get help for Charlie Lacoste.

Finally, Michelle said, “If he killed that young drifter, it wasn’t intentional. We were thinking about that earlier. Maybe the young man wandered onto his property, got hurt, then wandered off again. Bled to death or died of exposure.”

Which still made Charlie Lacoste guilty. But I didn’t say that.

“I’m sure Jess would have already brought Charlie in for questioning if she could,” the husband said. “But he went missing about a couple months back. No one’s seen him. Not even his son.”

“His son’s in Westwood?” I said.

They nodded in unison. Then Michelle said, “His name’s Hanlon. Pete Hanlon. He kept his dad’s name when his mother married Charlie.”

“Pete Hanlon. The football coach?”

Another simultaneous nod. With that we had our morning planned out. A visit to Chief Dales, followed by one to Coach Hanlon, to talk about his stepdad. 

The kid who’d slashed Morgan’s tires apparently wasn’t keen on getting caught. Still, it wasn’t exactly a fast chase—the sidewalks were covered in snow. In fact, as Morgan slid and stumbled after him, it probably looked pretty damned ridiculous. Like a chase scene shot in slow motion. The kid fell once, which might have helped, if Morgan hadn’t fallen twice. He was accustomed to running through deep snow in wolf form. As a human? Not so much.

The kid kept glancing back, his expression growing darker each time, as if to say “Are you still there? Give up already, dude.” But Morgan was nothing if not tenacious. At least, he could be, when he wasn’t backing down and running away.

Finally they were heading into the commercial heart of Westwood. The sidewalks were shoveled here and people were out and about, shopping and socializing in the wake of yesterday’s storm. The kid wisely decided running down a busy street might not be his best option. He ducked between two shops. Morgan chased him along the narrow alley. The kid veered behind the shop…and went flying as his boots slid in snow-dusted mud.

Morgan tackled the boy, grabbed him by the front of his parka and put him up against the wall. The kid struggled. He struggled quite well, actually, suggesting there was an athletic build under that bulky parka. Not that it did any good. Morgan might not be a fighter, but he was a werewolf, with a werewolf’s strength. He held him easily. As the boy fought, Morgan took a better look at him. Acne-pocked cheeks. Short dark hair. Sullen expression. Maybe sixteen, even seventeen.

“Who told you to slash my tires?” Morgan said.

“No one. I don’t like strangers.”

“So you just slashed my tires and my friends’ for kicks? And broke into our motel rooms for fun?”

The kid hadn’t denied that he was the vandal. He didn’t deny this either—didn’t even seem to pause to wonder how Morgan knew. Clearly not someone with a lot of criminal experience. Or a lot of brains.

“I was looking for money. You city folks always have money.”

“You left fifty bucks in my bag. My mini-bar wasn’t even opened. You were looking for something specific. And
someone gave you keycards to find it.”

Now the kid started thinking. And looking worried. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My door wasn’t broken. My friends’ door wasn’t broken. Those motel doors close and lock automatically, meaning whoever came in used a keycard, which he could only get from someone who worked there. Do you work there?”

The kid shook his head.

“Then someone who does gave you those cards, and is probably the same someone who told you to break in, and told you what to look for.”

“N-no. I found your card. It was…” He looked around. “In the snow. You must have dropped it.”

“And my friends dropped theirs, but both magically reappeared in our pockets later.” Morgan shook his head. “How about you tell that story to my friends. See what they think of it.”

Morgan flipped the kid around and grabbed the back of his jacket. “Walk.”

The kid took two stumbling steps, as if trying to figure out his next move. Morgan was giving him a helpful shove when a figure walked out from the alley.

“Thought I heard voices,” the man said. “What’s going on here?”

Another man joined him. Both were about Morgan’s age, burly. One wore an old Werewolves football jacket. They bore down on Morgan, coming close enough for him to smell last night’s beer on their breath.

“You like little boys?” asked the guy in the team jacket.

“Only ones who slash my tires and break into my motel room.”

The guy walked past the kid, gripped in Morgan’s hand. He leaned right into Morgan’s face. “You made a mistake.”

“Um, no, I—”

“Yeah, you did. Now let him go.”

Morgan paused. “All right. I will. At the police station. They can settle this. If he didn’t do it, I’ll even apologize for the inconvenience.”

A third guy had appeared. Middle-aged. Hanging back, watching, uncertain. When Morgan tried to nudge the kid forward, the young guy in the team jacket grabbed the boy and thrust him toward the older man.

“Bill? Take Jason home. Clive and I will handle this.”

“Handle what?” Morgan said, voice rising as Bill led the boy around the corner. “I didn’t hurt the kid. I chased him and cornered him and now I want to take him to the police station to straighten this out. You can escort us there if you’d like.”

The guy in the team jacket took a swing. Morgan saw it coming and ducked. He backed up.

“Look, maybe you don’t like outsiders accusing town kids of committing crimes, but this isn’t the way to handle—”

The other guy—Clive—swung. Morgan managed to dodge again, only to come up straight into Team Jacket’s fist. Apparently, no one else was interested in handling this properly. Not when the alternative gave these two thugs a chance to beat the crap out of a stranger.

Morgan fought back. He could manage that—he wasn’t completely inept. And he had the advantage of strength, so it wasn’t nearly as humiliating as it would be against a couple of werewolves. He managed to land a hard right to the side of Clive’s head. The guy dropped. Team Jacket charged. Morgan grabbed him by the coat, threw him aside and raced for the alley.

He rounded the corner to find himself facing a small mob headed by a middle-aged Latino woman.

“What did you do to my boy?” she demanded.

“Boy?” He looked toward the street. The guy with the kid was gone. “If that was your son, I apologize for chasing him, but he broke into—”

“That wasn’t her son,” one of the men snapped. “She’s Ricky’s mom.”

Ricky? Shit. The missing kid. Ricky Rivera.

Morgan backed up, hands lifted. “I didn’t do anything to anyone. I just got here the night before last. I—”

Team Jacket charged Morgan. He stepped aside and the guy went flying. As Morgan turned, someone in the mob took a swing. An awkward swing, from someone even less accustomed to fighting than him. He managed to catch the guy’s arm and throw him down. Then he wheeled to find Mrs. Rivera in his path again.

“Are you going to attack me, too?” she asked.

“I haven’t attacked anyone,” he said, struggling to keep the snarl from his voice. “I’ve defended myself against a bunch of—” He swallowed the last words. Insulting the locals really wouldn’t help. “Just take me to the police station and I’ll explain—”

Two men jumped Morgan from behind. He went down, face first in the muddy snow, his attackers piling onto his back.

“You’ll explain now,” Mrs. Rivera said. “I don’t trust that lady cop—”

“This isn’t the way you folks want to handle this,” said a distant voice, growing closer. “Whatever you think of Jess Dales, Maria, she’s the chief of police here. I’m going to take this man to the station and let them handle it.”

The mob parted. A hand reached down to help Morgan up. He took it. 

We were walking away from the diner when a police cruiser pulled into the lot. We waited by the front walk as Officer Kent got out.

“Fueling up before tackling that list the chief gave you?”
I said as he approached.

“List?”

“Guys living off the grid around here. I heard her mention it last night when we stopped by the station. She said you and Officer Jaggerman were handling it this morning.”

We stepped aside for an elderly couple exiting the diner.

“Right,” Kent said. “No. She changed her mind. Has me running errands today.”

We said goodbye and headed for the road.

“So, is that coincidence?” I said. “Chief Dales just happened to leave that list for us, then decided not to follow up on it? And a woman just happened to cancel the car service that could have let us leave Westwood this morning?”

“She’s getting free help,” Clay said.

I glanced over.

“I bet she’s found out you’re a journalist,” he said. “You’ve covered missing persons cases in Canada. Maybe you’d like to do a little investigative reporting as long as you’re stuck here. Doesn’t seem like the local cops are exactly homicide experts.”

“But she runs the risk that I
will
write an article, and that it won’t exactly be complimentary to the Westwood PD.”

He shrugged. “If she’s done her research, she knows you’re not a muckraker. Maybe she’s hoping negative publicity would boost the budget. Get her some decent cops. Or maybe she’s just making a very stupid mistake. She’s young.”

“Either way, we should have that chat with her. Coach Hanlon can wait.”

•

We arrived at the station to find Officer Jaggerman behind the counter.

“Chief’s out on the case,” he said.

“Do you know when she’ll—?” I began.

The night officer, apparently putting in more overtime, walked in from the back room, cordless phone in hand. He walked over to Jaggerman.

“Just got a call,” he said. “Seems there’s a disturbance over behind the old feed store.”

“Disturbance?” Jaggerman said.

“Couple guys going at it.”

Jaggerman snorted and waved him off. “Cabin fever. Let ’em duke it out.”

He turned back to me. “No, I don’t know when she’ll be back. I tried her cell a few minutes ago and she wasn’t answering. When she calls, I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

I thanked him and we left.

•

Clay and I returned to the motel. I’d left a note for Morgan to join us for breakfast, and hoped he hadn’t headed there while we were in the station. It looked like he might have—he didn’t answer when I rapped on his door.

“Could be sleeping,” Clay said. “You know what Noah and Reese are like. If they don’t have school, they sleep until noon, and it takes a bullhorn to wake them up.”

Morgan was older than the boys and likely past that stage, but I didn’t say so. Clay would just snort that he acted that age. He didn’t. But, sadly, you reach that point in life where anyone under the age of thirty is a kid.

We went to the motel office. The clerk—an elderly man—sat behind the desk reading the newspaper. I approached as Clay hung back.

“Our friend in room six isn’t answering his door. Could you ring his room for me?”

The clerk didn’t look up from is paper. “He checked out.”

I frowned. “Are you sure? He’s—”

“Young guy? Long hair? Indian?”

Close enough, I supposed, given that the old guy’s glasses were on his desktop instead of his nose. I thanked him and we headed for our room. When Clay opened the door, I saw the note shoved under it.

I’d better be moving on. Sorry for any trouble I caused. Thanks for helping me out. I owe you.

Clay read the note over my shoulder, then he walked down the sidewalk to Morgan’s room. He snapped the lock and opened the door.

I walked into the empty room, looking and sniffing.

“No scent except his,” I murmured. “Same for the note. It smells like him. No one else.” I paused. “He’s gone then.”

“I’m sorry, darling.”

I nodded, wadded the note and pitched it into the trash.

•

We’d had no luck tracking down Chief Dales. Or Coach Hanlon. It was late afternoon. It’d be dark soon, so we decided to hike back to the cabin for more answers. We were close enough to see it when we noticed footprints coming from the forest, deep ones, quickly filling with new snow.

“Someone else headed this way not too long ago,” I said as I crouched beside a print. “Small prints made with heavy boots. A kid?”

“Any scent?” Clay asked.

I shook my head. “Too much snow.”

“Follow the trail then.”

A few feet farther, we found a sprung bear trap, tracks leading up it, then moving past. Looking closer, I saw holes in the snow by each footstep. Someone poking a walking stick into the snow. Someone who knew about the traps.

We’d almost reached the cabin when Clay stopped, head tilted. “Hear that?”

It took a second, then I caught a voice on the breeze.

“Someone talking?” I said.

“Sounds more like chanting.”

The sound came from the other side of the cabin. We crept to the building, then paused. Definitely chanting. Not in English either.

I snuck along the side of the cabin, then peered around it to see a circle cleared in the snow. Candles burned at each of the compass points. A woman knelt in the ritual circle, her back to us. Her hood was down, dark hair spilling out over her navy parka.

“Looks like we found Chief Dales,” Clay whispered.

“And we found our witch.”