Frostbitten (7 page)

“Yes, but not now. It isn’t something I want to discuss in the car. And it’s not critical. I’m just…”

“Worried.”

My hands death-gripped the wheel, breaths coming so fast my chest hurt.

“Elena…”

I didn’t look at him. “I’m fine. We’ll discuss it later.”

“Pull over and—” My expression stopped him short. He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Okay. We’ll talk at the hotel. But I don’t like thinking you’ve been this upset—”

“I’m not upset.”

“
Concerned
, and waited a week to talk to me. No wonder you were so happy to see me.”

I looked at him. “Yes, I want to talk, but I
did
miss you. A lot.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

I managed a smile. “Not a chance.”

Coming into Anchorage now, I got my first daylight look at the city. Ignore the gorgeous backdrop of ocean and mountains, and it could pass for any medium-size city with strip malls and strip joints, Wal-Marts and Walgreens. What did stand out was the snow—or the lack of it. The streets were bare and a lot of yards were, too. According to the digital signs we passed, it was forty degrees, the same as we’d expect in upstate New York this time of year, and we definitely had more snow.

Dennis’s apartment building was as normal and average as the city itself. Nothing sleazy or spectacular. Nothing historical or post modern. Just an unassuming, well-kept building.

According to the tenant list, Dennis was using his real name. All Pack werewolves do. We have IDs with aliases, but part of the reason for joining the Pack is to settle into territory, and it’s easiest to do that using your birth name.

I buzzed his apartment from the building vestibule. When no one answered after the second one, I was about to find another way in when a tenant held the door open for us. I thought she’d mistaken us for neighbors, but as we walked into the lobby she asked who we were there to visit. I said Dennis. She didn’t know him, and seemed faintly embarrassed by that, as if she should.

Clay knocked on Dennis’s door. At a second knock, a neighbor’s door opened. An elderly woman with bushy white hair and huge glasses peered out, blinking like a wizen-faced snowy owl.

“Sorry,” I said. “We didn’t mean to disturb—”

“Are you looking for Dennis?”

“Yes, we’re friends of—”

“He’s not there, dear. Been gone awhile.” She eased out the door, gripping her housecoat around her plump body. “Dennis isn’t the sort to make his presence known, not like some people—” A glare at the door across the hall. “—but I usually see him every day. He brings up my mail and asks if I need anything when he goes out.”

“And he hasn’t been by lately.” I spoke slowly, waiting to be interrupted again, but when I finished, she only blinked at me.

“He’s been away a few days?” I prompted.

“Oh, no, dear. More than that. He’s always going off for a day or two. This time it’s been close on a week.”

I felt Clay shift behind me. He didn’t like that answer.

“So Dennis doesn’t usually—” I began.

“You should speak to Charles. He’s worried about him, too.”

“Charles?”

“The landlord. Here, I’ll take you to his office.”

I said that wasn’t necessary—we’d find it—but she insisted, toddling down the hall in huge polar-bear-paw slippers. As we took the elevator, she asked me questions—where we were from, what we did for a living, did we have any children? I answered honestly. That’s one rule of werewolf life—tell the truth when you can and it’ll make the lies easier to track.

Clay kept quiet as we walked, but he held the door for her and checked his pace to hers. That’s the wolf again—indulge the young and respect the old. Not a bad philosophy in general. Now if I could just adjust his attitude toward the other 90 percent of the population.

The landlord wasn’t in his office. We found him in the front foyer, changing one of the tenant names on the list. The old lady—Lila—introduced us, then got her mail and scuttled off to read her new copy of
People
.

Charles the landlord was younger than I would have guessed. He looked about midtwenties, Native, burly and a few inches shorter than me.

“Yep, been almost a week, like Lila said.” He pasted the new tenant name in place. “Place like this, we get mostly good folk. Dennis is one of the best. Pays his rent in advance, never calls me in the middle of the night for a plugged toilet, does his own repairs, even helped me paint last fall when the student I hired didn’t show.”

He ushered us back inside. “I don’t see Dennis every day, like Lila, but we usually bump into each other a few times a week. We stop and chat, then he’ll come over to my place, and the wife makes him coffee.” Charles chuckled. “The wife hardly ever makes
me
coffee, so that’s a sure sign she likes him.”

“It’s been quite a while since we’ve seen Dennis,” I said as he peeled a Sponge Bob sticker off the wall, “so we don’t know him that well. He was a friend of my husband’s dad when Dennis lived back east.”

Charles picked at the glue left on the wall. “Whereabouts back east?”

“At the time, it was New York state,” I said carefully, thinking I was being tested—and not knowing whether Dennis had told the truth.

Charles laughed, making me jump. “I knew it. I knew it. The wife and I have ten bucks riding on this, trying to guess by the accent. I said New York; she said New Jersey. I wanted to ask, but she thought that was prying.” He glanced at Clay. “You friend with Joseph?”

It took a moment for Clay to connect Joseph to Joey. “When we were kids. We lost touch after they moved.”

“So we don’t have his address,” I said. “Or we’d stop there and ask.”

“Damn. I hoped you did.”

“Does he come by often?”

Charles snorted and started picking at another sticker. “I’ve been here three years and I’ve seen him only a few times. It’s not right. His dad’s a great guy. He’s always talking about his son, and the guy can’t bother coming to visit? Not right.”

So Dennis and Joey were still introducing themselves as father and son. I hadn’t been sure. With slow aging, that’s one relationship werewolves often fudge.

“Do you have any idea where Dennis might be?” I asked. “Lila said he takes off a lot.”

“He’s got a cabin about thirty miles south. Usually he goes there for a few days a month. Sometimes longer, but when it’s that long, he tells me, so I can collect his mail. He could be there, though. That’s what I figure. Got himself snowed in.”

I must have looked alarmed, because Charles laughed. “That’s not cause to call 911 out here. If you have a backwoods place like Dennis’s, you’re prepared. Weather turns bad, you just hole up and ride it out, enjoy the peace and quiet. There aren’t any phones out there, but Dennis has a sled. He could get out if he needed to.”

“Sled?” I pictured a dog team, which really wouldn’t work for a werewolf.

“Snowmobile. But while I’m sure he’s fine, I am getting a little worried. I wanted to run out there and check, but the wife said I should leave him be.” He grinned at Clay. “The last time I went, I spent the day ice fishing with Dennis, had a few beers, stayed the night, couldn’t call and tell her… Wives get a little funny about stuff like that.”

“We could drive up and check on him, if you have an address,” I said.

I expected him to refuse. After all, we were strangers. But he said, “I wouldn’t quite call it an address. There’s no mail delivery out there. The road stops about a half mile from the cabin. What I have are directions and coordinates. It’s rough country, though. What are you driving?”

“An SUV with a GPS unit.”

“Perfect. Let me give you—” He reached into his back pocket, swore and shook his head. “The wife convinces me I need a PDA for work and where is it? With her, for her grocery list. Can I call you with it when she gets back?”

“Sure.” I gave him my cell number.

* * * *

Next stop: Reese’s motel. You’d think a guy using stolen credit cards would be living large, but this place—like the last motel I found him in—was the kind you see advertised on the highway for thirty bucks a night, wonder how it can be so cheap, then decide you’d really rather not find out.

It was yet further proof that I wasn’t dealing with a typical careless kid. He’d been using one card for big purchases, like plane tickets, but keeping the others small, as if hoping they wouldn’t be noticed until the next bill came in.

The motel was in a part of town with a drunk on every corner. A big sign out front announced a prerace visitors’ special for the Iditarod. This year’s race had left Anchorage two weeks ago.

I told the clerk I was supposed to meet a friend, but didn’t know his room number, and he gave it to me. He’d probably have given me the key, too, if I asked nicely. In a place like this, no one wants to know why you’re looking for a guy—they just want you to leave them out of it.

While I went to Reese’s door, Clay headed around back. He was supposed to guard the rear window, in case Reese bolted when I knocked, but he returned before I got the chance.

“Window’s too small,” he said.

I lifted my hand to knock. Clay shook his head, grabbed the door handle and gave a sharp twist. When he pushed it open, unencumbered by bolt or chain, I knew what we’d find—an empty room. Clay shouldered past me and strode into the bathroom.

“Gone,” he said.

“Meaning we’re stuck on stakeout duty until he comes back.” When we’d approached the door, we’d left a scent trail that would have Reese bolting the second he got within sniffing distance.

“I saw a coffee shop across the road,” he said. “I’ll go stand watch from there, while you check the place out.”

There was nothing to check out. Reese traveled ultralight—unscented deodorant, toothbrush and a single change of clothing.

I grabbed my laptop from the SUV and caught up with Clay inside the coffee shop. He looked at my computer case.

“As long as I’m sitting around, I can do some more research into those deaths.”

“If you can get Internet service in here, I’ll give you my snack.”

“I’m an optimist.”

He shook his head and went to get us some food while I booted up.

* * * *

I was shutting my laptop as Clay returned with coffees and bagels.

“Don’t say it,” I muttered.

He handed me a coffee and set both bagels on his side of the table.

I snatched one. “I didn’t bet anything. You want two, I’ll grab you another. We’re going to be here awhile anyway.”

“No need for both of us to hang around. You wanted to stop by the newspaper. Do that and I’ll watch for the kid.”

I didn’t really want to leave. I was just starting to relax, the tension of the last week fading. But the more tasks I checked off my list now, the sooner we could take a break.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” I nodded at the cement-hard bagels. “I’ll bring a better lunch.”

The proper procedure for one journalist approaching another would be to stop at reception and ask to speak to her. Better yet, call or e-mail ahead and make an appointment, invite her out to coffee. Proper procedure would have had me waiting hours, even days, to ask a few simple questions.

One advantage to being a Canadian journalist is that Americans don’t expect you to know the rules. You’re like a small-town reporter in the big city—as long as you’re polite and respectful, they’ll excuse your charming ignorance.

When I walked into the newspaper office, the receptionist was on the phone. I sneaked around the potted plants and into the back hall. Then a guy with bristly red hair and a neon green tie stepped from an office, saw me and stopped. He gave me a once-over and straightened his tie.

“Can I help you?” he asked, with a look that said he hoped he could.

“Elena Michaels, Canadian Press.” I showed my card. He didn’t even glance at it. “I’m on vacation in Anchorage and someone mentioned the possible wolf attacks you’ve had. I was wondering if I might speak to Ms. Hirsch about her articles. It’s a subject our readers would be very interested in.”

He listened to my spiel and nodded appropriately, but I suspected I could say I was selling Tasers door-to-door and still he’d take me to Ms. Hirsch.

We walked. He asked where I was from, how long I was staying, what I’d seen of Alaska so far… I could have sworn we passed the same set of bathrooms three times before, on the fourth, we nearly collided with a man coming out.

My guide—Garth—stopped and introduced me to the editor, saying I was a visiting journalist. We were shaking hands when a woman came out of the ladies bathroom down the hall. She glanced our way. Garth called, “Mallory!” and waved her over as the editor left.

From the end of the hall, Mallory Hirsch could pass for late twenties, with short blond hair, a trim figure and stylish suit. But with each step our way, she gained a few years. By the time she reached us, I’d peg her at early forties, with a tight, expressionless face that suggested I could add another decade presurgery.