The Turning Season (31 page)

I put a hand to my mouth, because I don't want to be making that sound—that slight whimpering that could build into a full-fledged sobbing if I don't hold it in. Scottie comes over and presses against my legs, offering a wordless comfort for distress that he can sense, though he can't understand it. I drop to the floor and wrap my arms around his neck, burying my tears in his rough fur.

God, if I could do it, right now, I'd shift to animal shape and never shift back.

*   *   *

I
don't come out of the lab for the next three hours.

Most of that time I'm sitting on the floor, my back against the wall, my legs straight out in front of me. I stare out the window, but I don't register much beyond weak sunlight slowly fading over bare trees and dying grass. Scottie lies beside me, his head in my lap, my hand stroking his ears.

I'm trying to think it through.

I can mix up potions that will allow Ryan to stay human until he chooses to shift. If he's transferred to the prison in Madison County, there will surely be a day when he's out of his cell, perhaps in a prison yard with access to a delivery truck or with knowledge of some small break in the fence where a cat could squeeze through. He could be gone in five minutes. He'd never be able to return to Quinville, of course, but he's a clever man; he'd be able to make a life for himself somewhere else.

A life that very easily could include more murders.

If I don't give him the potion and he transforms while he's in a small cell under constant surveillance, my life—Alonzo's life—Celeste's and Daniel's and Juliet's and that of every shape-shifter I have ever treated—all careen into danger. Is it more urgent that I protect the secret of all the people under my care, or that I ensure a killer stays in jail?

If I don't give him the potion, he will know that I have set myself against him. He will know that I no longer trust him, and he will no longer trust me. If he somehow gets free without my assistance, will he exact some kind of vengeance?

Maybe that's what I should hope for. Maybe I should pray that he takes cat shape this very night when the camera is not turned his way. Surely he'll manage to slip through the iron bars and sidle out of the police station before anyone notices. Let him come for me, let him kill me. At least whatever happens next won't be my fault.

My hand freezes on top of Scottie's head. He lifts his muzzle to give me a questioning look.

Is it my responsibility to stop Ryan? To make sure he never harms anyone again?

I could do it, I think. Mix up a lethal potion and swap it for whatever drug the legitimate pharmacist supplies. Ryan would inject it without hesitation and die within hours. I could even pick something that would cause him very little physical suffering.

I see huge logistical problems with this plan, of course, the primary one being that the pharmacist himself would instantly be under suspicion if Ryan mysteriously died. And if he could prove his innocence, Alonzo would be the next one under investigation. But surely there is some other way to slip Ryan the fatal dose, even if I merely smuggle it in past the police guards at the station.

But if I execute Ryan for the crime of murder, how am I any better than he is?

Who
does
have the right to decide who lives and who dies?

Displacing Scottie, who scrambles up to a sitting position, I draw my knees up and rest my head on top of them. I don't know the answers to any of my questions. I have spent the past eight years of my life healing people, helping people; I have dealt in life, not death. I don't want to turn my gifts to other uses.

But I don't know what to do.

*   *   *

I
n the end I call the one person I can always count on for clarity. Aurelia's assistant tells me she's on the phone, but she'll call me back within the hour. I'm still sitting with my back to the wall, Scottie stretched out beside me. There's nothing to see out the window now, since it's past six and night has already fallen. But I don't move from my spot on the floor. It seems like the safest place to be when the world is rocking off its foundations.

Barely five minutes pass before Aurelia returns my call. “I'm on my way out the door,” she says. “What's up?”

“I think Ryan killed Alonzo's dad two years ago. Which makes me wonder if he's killed other people, too.”

There's the briefest of silences while she processes this information. She doesn't ask how I know. “What method did he use to commit the crime?”

“Handgun. Left on the scene. There were fingerprints, but they were never identified.”

“Because he wasn't in the system—but he will be
now
,” she says.

This hadn't even occurred to me, but of course I am not the only one who will make this connection if the connection exists. “I don't know what to do,” I say. I can hear the hysteria rising in my voice. “It's even worse than I thought. I don't want to help him—but if he changes while he's in jail—Aurelia, what do we do?”

“We focus,” she says quietly. “We determine what course of action serves the most people.”

I press my fist to my forehead. “I think—I think more shape-shifters will come to more harm if Ryan is discovered. I think the greater evil is Ryan changing shapes in a public place.”

“I think so, too,” she says. “So you mix the potions.”

“But if he goes free—and he does it again—”

“We will deal with that eventuality when it arises.”

“I haven't told anybody else,” I say.

“Good. For now, keep it that way. Where are you?”

“At my place. Joe's here.”

“Maybe you should stay there tonight. Come back in the morning with the serum. Alonzo already picked up the order from the pharmacy and it's ready to be delivered.”

“I can't think straight,” I say.

“No,” she says. “It's been that kind of day.”

*   *   *

I
emerge from the lab around seven, having spent the last hour finally carrying out my appointed task. I've mixed up three vials for Ryan, enough to get him through a couple of weeks, I think. Surely by that time he'll have been relocated to the prison in Edwardsville. He'll have found his chance and shed his human shape and slipped away.

Joe has made dinner, but before we sit down to eat, I take a few minutes to tour the animal cages, pausing longest at the enclosure holding the puppies. Even the smallest ones, the ones abandoned at my door one cold night, seem to be gaining weight and thriving. I have been so wrapped up in human affairs that I have had no energy to spare for these tiny creatures entrusted to my care. I scratch their heads and tug gently on their ears and promise I will be more attentive in the coming days. I only hope I can keep my promise.

Then I join the others inside the house. Joe has invited Helena and Juliet to eat with us, but the human contingent is matched by the canine one, since Scottie, Jinx, Jezebel,
and
Desdemona share the supper hour with us. As you'd expect, Desi is the most well-behaved of the lot, followed closely by Jezebel. The two of them don't bother begging for food, but curl up on the floor nearest the people they love the most—Juliet and Joe, respectively—and are rewarded for their patience with some of the best scraps from the table. Jinx and Scottie both focus on me, since I'm clearly the easiest mark.

It's hard to make conversation, because Helena and Juliet are virtual strangers and I obviously can't discuss the subject that obsesses me. But Helena is a talker, and Joe is exerting himself to ease the situation for me, so he starts drawing her out with gentle questions. She prattles away willingly, and even Juliet contributes a few observations. I think maybe she likes Joe, so she doesn't want to appear too sullen.

As the meal draws to a close, I say, “You two have been lifesavers this week when so much has been going on in town. Can I offer you anything? Pay you a salary? Do you a favor?”

“Oh, heavens, you've done us the biggest favor already by letting us use the trailer!” Helena exclaims. “We're still in your debt! But I do need to take a day or two and go to town and see if I can find a job. And, of course, I need to get Juliet registered for school.”

“What kind of work can you do?” Joe asks.

“Secretarial and light bookkeeping,” she says. “A little website maintenance. I have references.”

“I'll ask my buddy Mark if he's heard of anything. He runs a local trucking company, and he knows
everybody
in town.”

Juliet looks at me and asks a rare direct question. “Where does Alonzo go? Will I go there?”

She's only met him once, so at first I'm surprised that she'd want to follow him to school. But then I figure she wants an ally. If there's another shape-shifter on campus, life could get exponentially easier on the days that turn out to be dicey.

“He's homeschooled,” I reply with a smile. “But maybe Bonnie would take you on as a student, too.”

Her face turns wistful. “Maybe. But I like school. I like being with all the other kids.”

Well, that makes sense, too, since her shifting cycle is apparently under much better control than mine ever was. She can pretend to be normal most of the time, and what's more normal than public school?

“I think you'll probably do just fine,” I say, “even if Alonzo isn't there.”

Helena and Juliet offer to help clean up after the meal, but I'm desperate to have my house to myself, so I refuse all offers of aid and they finally leave. Once Joe and I have loaded the dishwasher and tidied up the kitchen, we head to the living room and collapse on the couch. I sag against him and he puts his arm around me and for a moment—just a moment—the perilously teetering world settles onto a stable axis.

“Day from hell,” I say.

“Week from hell, really.”

“And hell yet to come.”

He leans in to kiss my cheek. “So you've got your special injections all ready for Ryan?”

“I have.”

“Tell me again what they do for him?”

“They inhibit his transformation. Ryan normally changes shapes every five days and stays in animal state for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If he takes the serum, he can hold that off for another few weeks.”

“Hey, maybe you should take some of that potion sometime.”

I laugh softly. “Oh, I take all
kinds
of drugs, trying to control my shifting. I'm trying to find just the right formula that gets me both a predictable cycle and an acceptable alter ego. You know—trying to find a way to guarantee that I'll turn into a cat every three weeks. Then my life would still suck, but it would suck in a way that allowed me to make plans.”

He takes my chin in his hand and tilts up my face to meet his gaze. “Your life does
not
suck,” he says, and he sounds deadly serious. “You have friends who love you. Work that matters. A roof over your head, enough money to live on, and plenty to eat. So many people would envy you.”

“Yeah,” I say on a sigh. “I know you're right. It's just—”

“You're also as cute as can be,” he says, giving me a quick kiss. “
And
you have a pretty hot boyfriend. I don't think your life sucks. I think your life is
great
.”

Now my laugh is more genuine. “If my boyfriend is so hot, why are we just sitting here on the couch instead of making out in the bedroom?”

“Because he was trying to seem like somebody who could be emotionally supportive. Somebody who cared about
you
, who wasn't just interested in sex.”

“But he
is
interested in sex?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I put my arms around his neck and give him a deep kiss, as suggestive and full of promise as I can make it. “So am I,” I whisper. “Let's get to it.”

*   *   *

T
his time it's almost eight in the morning when the phone rings. Joe and I are still asleep, curled up together in a warm and blissful tangle, when my cell starts pumping out the piano riffs of my ringtone.

“Seriously?”
he groans.

“Swear to God, this only happens when I'm with you.”

I grope for the phone, which I've left on my nightstand, and feel deep apprehension to see Aurelia's name on the screen. “What happened?” is my greeting.

“He's gone.”

“Ryan? How?”

“Sheriff Wilkerson was pretty pissed off about it, because it sounds like it was all his fault. They'd decided to transfer Ryan to the Madison County jail today, so right around seven
A.M
., Wilkerson takes him from the cell and brings him outside. Ryan's in manacles, the sheriff says—feet and hands—so he thinks it's safe to leave him standing by one of the squad cars because it turns out he's brought the wrong set of keys. Wicked stupid, huh? When Wilkerson gets back outside less than two minutes later, Ryan's gone. Manacles are on the ground, still locked shut.”

“Ryan saw his chance and he shifted,” I say. That gets Joe's attention. He's lying back on the pillows with a forearm thrown over his eyes to block out the sunlight, but now he lowers his arm and gives me a questioning look. I nod.

“Looks like it,” Aurelia says. “Sheriff doesn't know that, of course. He thinks Ryan's some kind of Houdini who managed to slip the cuffs somehow.”

“Wonder what he thought when he saw the pile of clothes right there by the squad car.”

“I don't know, and we have more important things to worry about,” Aurelia says impatiently. “Such as the desperate manhunt that's currently under way. If there's not a cop at your place now, I'm sure one's going to show up within a few hours. Your place, our place, Celeste's place—they're going to be on us like white on rice.”

“Surely Ryan knows that. Surely he won't come to any of us for help.”