Werewolf Sings the Blues (3 page)

Blondie doesn't resurface as the set continues. Everyone appears to have fun, I don't hit any sour notes, and no one seems to mind when I sneak in Clarence Carter's “Slip Away.” When it's time for the last dance, “(I've Had) The Time of My Life,” the coke's worn off and I'm ready to go home. Another shower, slipping underneath my covers, and zoning out in front of the television sounds like heaven now. I used to do everything in my power not to be home before midnight, now I look forward to it. The magic of midnight has worn off for this broad.

I finish the tune, and we take our bows to scattered applause. Time for the bride and groom to retire for the honeymoon. Thank God. As the guests blow bubbles over the departing couple, the Dolls and I start packing up. Instruments, microphones, amps, it takes for-goddam-ever, but since I was late and didn't help setup I kind of owe them. And I'd never hear the end to the bitching if I don't.

About half an hour later, Vivian and the Dolls walk out of the ballroom into the hallway together. No sign of Blondie. Maybe he found someone else to creep out. We're halfway down the hall when two men come through the door to the parking garage, striding quickly toward us. They're an odd couple, one short and squat with acne scars dotting his wide face and the other tall and lean with dark brown hair and eyes. Both are dressed in dark
jeans, dress shirts, and sports coats. I catch a glimpse of a gun
holster on the tall one. He seems the more confident of the two, moving with purpose where the short one glances around the hall as if Jack the Ripper had a thing for acne scars. Those drunken bridesmaids may still be around and can be pretty forceful with the men folk. He is right to worry.

“Excuse me,” the tall one says when they reach us. “Are you Vivian Dahl?”

“Yeah. You the U.S. Marshals looking for me?” The men exchange a confused glance. “I'm psychic.”

“You are?” the short one asks.

Damn. Guess the Marshals don't give IQ tests before hiring. “She's kidding,” the other says. That one's gaze returns to me before flashing his star. “Yes, I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Donovan, this is Deputy Cooper.” His attention moves to my band, who are not even trying to hide their fear. Muriel's practically shaking. “May we speak in private, please, Miss Dahl?”

“Um, I guess.” I look to the others. “You guys go on ahead.”

“You sure?” Cyr asks.

Hell no. “Yeah, go on. See you later.”

Cyr, who I am sure is happy to have an excuse to get away from the fuzz, nods and ushers the others toward the parking garage. I can feel the baggie of coke burning a hole in my pocket. I stop myself from thrusting my hand in there, instead flashing the men my prettiest smile, which Donovan returns. “So, just out of professional curiosity Miss Dahl, how did you know who we were?” Donovan asks.

“What? Don't believe in psychics?” I ask with a coy smirk. When in doubt, flirt.

“Oh, I believe in them. I just know you're not one of them,” he says with a matching smile. “Although I am sure you have many
other hidden talents.” His grin slowly drops. “So, how did you know?
”

“My boss called, told me you stopped by the club. I was going to phone you tomorrow, I swear.” I fold my arms across my chest. “So, what'd he do now?”

“He?” Cooper asks.

“Louie. My ex. That's why you're here, right? He escape from prison or something?”

“Actually, no,” Donovan says. “We're actually here about your father.”

“What? Barry?” I chuckle.

“Frank Dahl. Francis John Dahl. He is your father, correct?”

Just that name makes my throat close up. “Um, yeah,” I force out.

“Has he tried to make contact with you lately?” Donovan asks.

“Not since I was a baby. Wh—what's he done?”

Cooper removes a piece of paper from his coat. “What about this man?”

He hands me the paper. It's the driver's license photo of the blonde man. Even on paper he's menacing with a deep scowl and glare for anyone who gazes at him. Oh, shit. My throat seizes again, this time from nerves. “Miss Dahl?” Donovan asks.

“I—I've seen him. A few times. He was at the club last night, and I've seen him three times since.”

The men exchange a quick, gleeful expression complete with matching grins, but only for a flash. When their gazes return to me, they're serious again. “When was the last time?” Donovan asks.

“About an hour ago,” I say, voice trembling a little. Okay, now I'm scared. Shit scared. It's as if I've been hit with a Taser, every muscle is locked from the unnatural event that just occurred.

“He's probably still in the hotel,” Cooper says.

“Oh, he's still here,” an exhilarated Donovan says. “Probably clocked us the moment we walked in.” Then the man closes his eyes and tilts his nose up. “I think I can smell him.”

“Shit,” Cooper says, glancing around.

“Calm down. We knew this would probably happen.”

“What's happening?” I ask. “What the hell is going on?”

The men finally remember I exist. “You need to come with us,” Donovan says.

“Wh—” Before I can ask another question, Donovan clamps down on my arm hard enough to bruise and yanks me toward the parking garage. “Ow, asshole! You're hurting me!”

The Marshal ignores my protests, instead whipping out a cell phone and dialing. I glance back at Cooper, who grasps a gun in his hand. A gun. A motherfucking gun. My eyes bug out. What the hell is going on? “Yeah, sir. We got her,” Donovan says into his cell. He listens for a second. “He's here too, just like you said.”

“Who is he? Where the hell are you taking me?” I ask.

“Shut up, bitch,” Donovan snaps.

The ferocity and rage in which he spews those words dials the warning bells inside my head up to eleven. This isn't right.
They
aren't right. Every one of my sharply honed survival instincts is telling me to flee. “Let me go,” I say as I try to jerk my arm away.

His grip tightens. “We'll take care of him here,” Donovan continues to the person on the phone. “No other choice. If what you say is true, there's no way in hell he'll let us leave with her.”

“I said, let me the fuck go!” I shout as I'm dragged through the parking garage door. I glance around for help. Not a soul in sight.

Donovan squeezes me again so tight pain radiates down my bones like a shockwave. “I have to go, sir.” We cease walking, and Donovan puts away his cell.

“Listen, I know my rights. I've done nothing wr—”

Oh, fuck.

Donovan slips out his gun, shoving it right into my side. Strangely, the moment that hard muzzle begins to bruise my rib, calm washes through me as I become acutely aware of everything. The warm night air. The faint sound of tires and voices in the park
ing garage twenty yards away. The distance to the door and the
approximate time it would take me to run there. Not faster than a bullet. Also scrolling through my head are the lessons from years of cardio kickboxing. Eyes, nose, groin, solar plexus, knees, feet are the sweet spots. The problem is only Jackie Chan can subdue two men with guns, and that's only in the movies. Plus he never wears heels. Fear begins to creep in, but I slice it dead with a samurai sword.
Keep calm and carry on, Dahl.

“Here are the rules,” Donovan begins. “Scream, I shoot you. Try to escape, I shoot you. Bring attention to us, I shoot them. Don't follow my exact instructions
…
you get the idea. Follow those instructions, you'll probably survive the night. Now put your hands behind your back. Cooper, get the cuffs off my belt. The ones on the left. The others are silver.”

Silver?

Donovan snatches my purse from my shoulder as I force myself to do as he says. Cooper slaps the cuffs on. “What's the plan, sir?” Cooper asks.

“We get to the garage, you flank right and hide. He'll follow me because I have the girl. You see him, you don't hesitate. Brain stem and heart. You really as good as he said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're gonna need to be. Just make sure to empty the clip in him. Last thing we want is that fucker getting up again. Once it's done, disappear. I'll handle the rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He looks at me, calm as can be for someone who just ordered an execution. “Now, Miss Dahl, all you have to do is remember the rules and look pretty. Can you handle that?”

I glare at him. “Yes.”

“Good girl. Let's go.”

Once again he jerks me forward on the open sidewalk. There is no way in hell I'm getting in his car, I know that. They can shoot me dead, but I'm not getting in that fucking car to be tortured and raped in a field somewhere. I watch
Dateline,
I know how this shit rolls. No, I'll wait until Cooper leaves, then make my move. There have to be people in the parking lot. Strike, run, scream. that's gonna have to do. Oh fuck, please let it do.

“Sir, do you smell that?” Cooper whispers behind me when we're ten feet from the garage.

Donovan sticks his nose up like a dog and sniffs. “Yep. Sweat and ectoplasm,” he whispers back.

Ectoplasm? Isn't that the gooey stuff from
Ghostbusters
? These guys are fucking nuts.

“He couldn't have changed that fast, and not with people around,” Cooper whispers. “It's coming from inside the lot.”

Donovan sniffs again. “You're right.”

“What do we do now?”

“Just shadow me to the car from a good distance. It's still two against one, and he won't do anything to put her in harm's way. Just stay low, quiet and out of sight.” Donovan switches sides so the gun is in his right hand and me on his left. At least now the gun isn't trained on me, it's pointed out at whoever's out there.

We enter through a concrete arch into the parking garage. I hear cars starting, up a level, I think. People. The exit is on the opposite side of the garage with an attendant in the booth, maybe thirty-five yards around the corner. That's my end zone. Cooper crouches and sprints to our right—the way I need to go, damn it—as Donovan keeps us moving straight ahead toward the up ramp. There are a lot of cars, one in almost every space, and Donovan's eyes scan for the enemy as his nose twitches. I don't smell a damn thing. We continue walking and the twitching increases, as does his apprehension. The creases in his brow are as deep as the San Andreas Fault. That nervousness is transferred to me like a virus, making breathing difficult. I force myself to calm down and pay attention. Strike, run, scream.
Strike, run, scream
.

I glance behind and spot Cooper poking his head from around a concrete pylon. Fuck. Donovan stops our death march, and releases my arm.
Not yet, Dahl
. Not removing his eyes from the cars directly in front of him, an SUV and the back of the Camry, Donovan slowly lowers my purse while keeping the gun trained toward the SUV. He grabs me again, positioning me in front of him as a human shield, holding the cuffs to guide me. My heart beats so fast and strong it pounds in my ears like a Gene Krupa drum solo. We stop just at the edge of the SUV. Blondie must be hiding between the cars. Not sure how I should feel about that. Fear. All I'm capable of right now. Fuck. Donovan raises his gun barrel up beside his face, waits a never-ending second, then shoves me forward with him moving half a second behind. My body becomes locked, waiting for the inevitable shot to penetrate.

Nothing. There's nobody between the cars, just a slime-covered
black jacket on the ground. I smell something now, salty and earthy.
I have a split second to process this as Donovan draws his gun at the jacket.

“Vivian, down!”

I'm so hyper-alert I'm on the ground before my brain can catch up just as a gunshot rings out. For a moment I think I've been shot but feel no pain. Shock? No, I feel the grip of my cuffs vanish. When I glance back at Donovan, he's gone, but where he was standing the glass of the SUV has shattered. I see a flash of the Marshal moving back the way we came. More shots from both left and right reverberate through the night. I'm pinned. Fu—

There's rapid fire, four quick shots from my left. On the fourth shot, movement by the Corolla to my left draws my attention. The blonde maneuvers next to me between the cars, in his right hand a smoking gun and the left … Holy fuck, I've gone crazy. His left hand is a paw, a dog's paw with tan fur up to the elbow and sharp, really fucking sharp claws. I snap my head up to gape at his impassive face. I hear a click as the freak ejects the clip from his gun.

Almost too fast to register, he places the gun in his closed left armpit to hold it, reaches back into his belt, pulls out another clip, inserts it into the gun, and presses the slide back with his paw. “You're going to roll over the hood of the Corolla and the other two cars until you reach the end of the row to stay out of the line of fire,” he says, eerily calm as he does the gun trick. “I'll draw their attention and keep them here as long as possible. Move fast, don't look back. My Mustang's right across from your car. Turn around.” I do. Fur and hot skin brushes my hands as it moves to my cuffs. One yank, and as if made of breadsticks, the tiny chain breaks. I'm free. I pivot around again as he returns his attention toward Donovan's direction. Blondie peeks around the corner. “Keys and cell phone are in my back pocket. Get them.” I obey. “Get in, keep low. There's another gun under the seat. If I'm not there in five minutes, drive
off. Do not go home, do not go to a friend's house. Push redial on
my cell and tell them what happened. They'll give you further instructions.”