Hunting Moon (Decorah Security Series, Book #11): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel (3 page)

As Brand drove north, he felt a strange excitement building inside his chest. It made him think of the first giddy moments when he’d well and truly changed from man to wolf. He had survived the fierce, paralyzing headache and come through the test—alive.

And when he’d glanced at his father, he saw the tremendous relief on his face. That look almost paralyzed Brand again because it suddenly jolted him to the realization that Dad had come here prepared to bring home another dead son. But this time the ancient gods had granted mercy to the Marshall family.

To celebrate, Dad took Brand on a hunting trip to the Finger Lakes National Forest. It was one of the best memories of his life—alone with the old man, learning the skills he’d need to live as a werewolf.

Of course, there were plenty of learning opportunities when he was growing up. His family lived in an ideal location for a werewolf pack—a farm in western Howard County, Maryland, where they could have the privacy they needed to hunt—and no noisy neighbors to ask why two of their teenage boys, seemingly the picture of health, had died suddenly.

The Marshalls raised sheep, which helped fulfil their need for meat. Dad also brought in money running a rural machinery repair shop where local farmers brought equipment that had broken down.

But the most memorable week of Brand’s teen years was that trip north, just the two of them.

Today he was going there again, as an adult.

His memories of that first trip were vivid. The two of them hiking to a secluded area. Dad showing him how to dig a trench around their tent so it wouldn’t flood in a rainstorm. Dad pointing out which plants a human could eat and showing him how to rappel down one of the many cliffs in the area. And the two of them working together to herd a deer into a blind canyon.

Now he’d supplemented those memories with research about the natural area and found it lay on a ridge—called the Hector Backbone—between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes. New York State's only national forest, it was patterned after similar parks out west, with great sweeps of open land as well as thick forest stands.

He was going there for a wolf’s hunt, but he saw the wisdom of establishing a human campsite, the way his father had done.

After setting out before dawn, he’d made the trip north in five hours and was caught by a sense of homecoming as he found a secluded parking area where he could leave his vehicle. Intent on getting as far away from civilization as possible, he shouldered his pack and set off into the wilderness. A man might have worried about finding his way back to where he’d left his vehicle. A werewolf had no such problem.

He followed a trail through thick forest, then crossed a meadow and plunged into forest again, this time without a path to follow, which was what he’d been looking for.

Two hours later, he figured he was far enough from the world of men. Picking a clearing at the edge of a hard wood grove, he set up his tent near a stream where he could get fresh water. Once he had secured the camp site, he grew restless, ready to change to wolf form and prowl.

He’d told himself he was coming to this secluded location to get away from his normal routine. Now he was wondering why he was really here.

He should relax and wait for dark before he changed, but he couldn’t make himself hold back. He stomped off into a blackberry thicket and started taking off his clothes, too impatient to fold anything neatly before he rushed into the chant that would change him from man to wolf.

The transformation grabbed him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was like a new burst of freedom.

Still, he was cautious as he made his way through the woods, wary of running into a hunter who would love the chance to bring home a wolf-pelt trophy. If someone shot and killed him in wolf form, would he stay that way? It was a question that had run through his mind on some of his Decorah assignments.

Then he’d often been on a dangerous assignment. Was he operating as a wolf now because he wanted to take a risk?

He slipped through the forest, listening to the sounds of the wildlife around him, passing a small herd of deer, breathing in their fear as they became aware of him. But he would only hunt after dark.

Instead he headed north, sensing that something was drawing him. He had the impulse to fight it. But he shook it off because his destiny was here in these woods.

It was fanciful notion that reminded him of a book he’d read a long time ago—
Appointment in Samarra
—about a man who tries to outrun death but finds it waiting for him anyway.

Was death stalking Brand? He had the feeling it was something else entirely. More like life.

Or the life he was meant to lead. Did that mean he wasn’t coming back to Decorah Security?

He hoped that wasn’t the case.

“How are you feeling this evening?”

Tory opened her eyes and tried to focus on . . . Dr. Raymond, the man who had brought her to this place a little while ago.

What had he called it? A name, “The Refuge,” bobbed to the surface of her mind like a fishing cork in murky lake water.

Tory was sitting in a comfortable chair, her head lolling to the side. Gripping the padded arms of the chair, she pushed herself up straighter, blinking as she took in the doctor and then the room.

Raymond was relaxing in a similar chair, separated from her by a small oval table. There was a large rosewood desk across from them, a tasteful Oriental rug on the floor, and light wood paneling on the walls. The room was about twelve by thirteen feet, she judged, and the window behind the desk had bars. The only other furnishing was a sideboard, like the kind that held lateral file drawers. There were no ornaments in sight, probably so that she couldn’t pick up an ashtray and bash the doctor’s head in. And escape? She didn’t even know what was behind the closed door.

Last time she’d seen this man was in the car where the nicely dressed goons had taken her. Then the doctor had been wearing a business suit. Now he had on a more casual outfit, dark slacks and a light blue golf shirt.

“How are you feeling?” he repeated, closing the notebook he must have been writing in. She’d like to see those notes.

“I don’t know,” she answered uncertainly.

“You have these spells,” the doctor said.

She tried to work her way through the statement—and the implications. “Spells?” she repeated cautiously, fighting the icy fear that was collecting in the pit of her stomach like slush on the side of a highway in winter.

“Yes. Sometimes you’re perfectly lucid and other times you seem to go off into never-never land.

Again, Tory tried to make sense of his words. “What do you mean, sometimes?” she asked in a barely audible voice when she wanted to scream.

“Last week we thought you were making good progress, but you seem to have slid back downhill.”

“Last week? I just got here,” she shot back.

The doctor’s expression turned sympathetic as he shook his head. “You didn’t just arrive. You’ve been at the Refuge for three weeks.”

“No! Men brought me up here in a plane. . .” She fought against rising panic as she turned her head toward the window and saw that it was dark outside. “I guess it had to be yesterday. I tried to get away, but they caught me and brought me to you in the car.”

Raymond shook his head sadly. “You keep coming back to that incident in our sessions, but it wasn’t yesterday. It was three weeks ago.”

Denial was her only defense. “No! I don’t believe you. That’s a mistake—or a trick.”

She pushed herself up and stood on shaky legs, then looked down at her clothing. She had come here wearing the dressy black sweater and skirt she’d changed into after work. Now she was wearing dark sweatpants and a yellow sweatshirt. The thought that someone had undressed her and dressed her again sent a shiver over her skin. She wanted to check to see if she had on the bra and panties that she’d been wearing, but she wasn’t going to do that in front of this guy, not even if he really was a doctor.

“I know it’s tempting, but you can’t hold on to that illusion,” he said, using the same gentle voice he had when they’d been in the car. . . a few hours ago. She knew she’d only been here a few hours, didn’t she?

“You fell asleep during our session,” the doctor said. “You keep doing that. Either there’s something seriously wrong with you physically, or you’re using it as a way to avoid confronting your problems. We should do some blood work in the morning and see if your labs are normal.”

She tried to keep her voice steady as she asked, “And what are my problems, exactly?”

“You feel guilty about your part in Mr. Denato’s death, and that’s destabilized your grip on reality.”

The words hit her with the force of rocks hurled by desperate street fighters.

“My part in his death?” she gasped out. “I had no part in his death. I was in the other room when it happened.”

“But you admit you were there?”

It was a question she didn’t want to answer, but she settled for a small shrug.

“If you remember that, you must remember . . . other things.”

“Like what?” she murmured.

“I was hoping you could tell me. Tell me about your associates.”

This man wanted something from her, and she was damned if she was going to give it to him. Or perhaps she was damned either way, she thought with a shudder, then fought against the dizzying sensation the movement produced.

“Perhaps if you were more specific,” she answered, trying to get a handle on what this was all about.

“You don’t have to lie about anything. Who did the actual shooting?”

She managed not to scream at him to leave her alone. Her mind was spinning. This man was sitting there calmly telling her she’d been here for three weeks, although she was sure it couldn’t be true. Or was she the one making things up because she didn’t want to believe him, and a false version of reality would soothe her?

“I won’t press you now.”

“Oh goody.”

“I don’t need any more sarcasm from you, young lady.”

She kept her gaze steady, and he was the one who looked away first. “You can go join the other patients for dinner.”

Dinner? She wasn’t hungry, but maybe it was better to cooperate while she tried to figure out what was going on in this place.

oOo

As soon as Tory stepped out of the office, Alexander Raymond stood and locked the door behind her, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Stupid, stupid. You don’t need to be in such a hurry. You have the luxury of doing this right. And you’d
better
do it right,” he added.

But he couldn’t shake the conviction that he had less time than he’d figured on.

He dismissed that notion with a savage chop of his hand, wishing he could have delivered a chop to the back of the woman’s neck. She was putting up a fight, and he wasn’t used to resistance—particularly from an airhead nightclub dancer.

Well, she’d find out tomorrow who was the boss here. Especially when she got some of the drugged food into her system.

oOo

Tory found herself stepping into a waiting room with comfortable couches and magazines on the table. She thought about looking at the dates for a clue to the real timeline here, but when had she ever found up-to-date reading material in a doctor’s office?

A woman who looked to be in her mid to late forties was sitting on one of the couches reading a book. She put it down and turned toward the door that had opened. Her hair was a close cropped, faded brown. Her glasses were rimless, and she was wearing sweatpants like Tory’s and a red sweatshirt.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” Tory answered uncertainly.

“You asked me to wait for you.”

“Did I?”

“Have you forgotten again?”

“I guess so.”

“I’m June. We’re friends.”

She eyed the woman, sure that she had never seen her before, but she didn’t challenge the claim that they knew and liked each other. “Okay.”

June glanced toward the closed door. “I don’t like the way he can be so rough on you—or maybe I meant me. But I guess it’s part of the treatment.”

Tory nodded. “Why are you here?”

“You mean at the Refuge?”

“Yes.”

“We talked about that in therapy session.”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s right. You keep forgetting stuff.” The woman dragged in a breath and let it out. “I kind of went off the deep end after Earl and Tommy were killed. In a car crash,” she added, with a gulp. “I was driving, and I was the only one who survived. We were coming back from an out-of-town trip. We should have stopped at a motel for the night, but I wanted to get back. It was late, and I think I fell asleep at the wheel.”

“I’m sorry,” Tory murmured. “Do you always talk about it compulsively?” she added, thinking that the explanation sounded like a well-rehearsed speech.

“You asked,” the woman snapped, then seemed to remember who she was talking to. In a milder tone, she went on like she was repeating advice someone had given her—or repeating lines in a staged performance, “I have to learn to live with it—and go on with my life.”

Tory could only give a little nod.

“The others are probably in the dining room,” June said. “Let’s go have something to eat.”

“Okay,” Tory answered, because it seemed safer to stick with this woman for the time being. She noted the route as they walked down a short hall, then turned to the right and entered a nicely decorated dining room with one large table like you might see in an upscale residence.

Two men were seated near the middle of the table. One looked like he was in his sixties, with gray hair fringing his bald head. The other was younger, maybe early fifties with small, suspicious eyes. Another woman, probably in her twenties, sat several places away from the men. Everyone at the table was wearing sweat clothes. And two more rough looking men dressed in golf shirts and jeans stood near the doors. They weren’t the guys who had brought her here, but they were similar types. The people at the table looked up as Tory and June came in.

“Ted. Arthur. Robin,” June said, pointing to each as she said their names.

They all nodded. Ted looked at her curiously. The others avoided eye contact. She wanted to ask what they were in here for, but she decided she’d wait until they volunteered something.

A waiter wearing a white shirt and dark slacks came in and began setting down plates. Ted got roast beef, a baked potato and green beans. Arthur got chicken with mashed potatoes and broccoli. Robin and June both had pasta with red sauce. A plate with the chicken entrée was set in front of Tory.

When she stared at it, the waiter said, “That’s what you checked on your order sheet this morning. But we still have pasta with meat sauce, if you prefer.”

“No. This is fine,” she answered, determined not to rock the boat when none of this was making sense. She’d put in a dinner order this morning? And she’d been here for three weeks? She wanted to wrap her arms around her shoulders to ground herself, but she kept them at her sides. She wanted to ask one of the others how long she’d been at this place, but if they were in on the conspiracy, they’d give the same answer at Dr. Raymond.

Was it a conspiracy? For what purpose? To drive her crazy? Or to get information? If they thought she knew something she hadn’t shared, they were in for a nasty surprise. Or perhaps
she
was. The thought sent another shiver over her skin.

The others ate in silence. Only June tried to engage Tory in conversation.

“Did they fix your hair dryer?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Was it broken?”

“You said it was.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll find out if it was fixed.”

“Are you coming to movie night?” June asked.

“What’s playing?”

“You know. The Sound of Music.”

“I think I’ll pass. I’m kind of tired.”

“I know the feeling,” one of the men said, the one named Ted.

“How’s your dinner?” she asked him.

He shrugged, and she went back to her meal.

The food was surprisingly good, not institutional at all, making Tory think that this was a pretty upscale insane asylum. Well, a private asylum, if that’s what it really was.

Who was paying for it? She certainly didn’t have the insurance for anything like this

She managed to eat about half her meal before the servers came back to take the plates away, then brought dessert.

The two men had ordered apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Tory and the other women were only having the ice cream. Strawberry for Tory and chocolate for June.

She thought about asking for the chocolate, then ate a few bites of the strawberry before pushing away from the table and standing up.

How were they going to handle the fact that she had no idea where to find her room—even though she’d supposedly been here long enough to know?

One of the guards solved the problem. “I’ll go up with you, he said.”

She nodded, letting him lead her up a broad flight of stairs to the second floor, then down a hall to room seven.

She tried to remember. Was seven a lucky number? Or was it just the opposite.

When she stepped inside, she heard the door click behind her. She was locked in, but she was finally alone, feeling like she’d been drifting through a waking dream. She turned the knob to check, but the door was definitely locked.

Looking up, she surveyed the room. It was pretty plain with a narrow bed, shelves along one wall and no rug or other decorative touches.

Quickly she crossed to the far side and stepped out onto a small balcony, breathing in the scent of a pine forest. The balcony might have been an escape route except that it was enclosed with a cage of mesh, the openings about the size of chicken wire. When she slipped her fingers through some of the spaces and pulled, it didn’t move. Obviously it was stronger than chicken wire. Could she somehow get the mesh loose from the balcony railing? And if she’d been here for three weeks, wouldn’t she have tried?