Demon Hunts (35 page)

Coyotes, crying for the moon.

Saturday, December 31, 11:48 P.M.

I had yet to get used to the earrings, which brushed my jaw and made me endlessly aware of their presence. Made me more aware of everything that had to do with my ears, for that matter, and that included the radio shouting in them. Its blaring countdown was the only human contact I'd had for hours.
There were better places to be—Billy and Melinda's, for example; a New Year's party was in full swing, and Billy had called twice to see where I was. I'd promised to be there by midnight, but at this late juncture, not even Petite would get me there in time.

I had paperwork spread all over my desk, Google results and newspaper clippings and police files from all over the country. Missing persons reports were shuffled together like puzzle pieces, scraps of data highlighted or circled with red and yellow pens. I needed a drink of water. My eyes were dry from scowling at so much paperwork.

The office door opened, sending me half out of my skin with fright. I clutched my chest, and Morrison, in the doorway, did a lousy job of covering a laugh. “What're you doing here, Walker?”

“Besides getting the life scared out of me?” I settled back down in my chair, gulping a couple deep breaths to calm my heart. “Just, ah. Just finishing up some paperwork. Sir.”

“It's New Year's Eve. You're off duty. You're supposed to be at the Hollidays'.” He let the door drift shut behind him as he wove his way through desks to reach mine. “What's so important?”

“It's just…” I gestured at my papers. “I was just trying to figure out who she was.” “Just” implied I hadn't spent most of my off-hours since Coyote left at this very same task, although half the department had commented that I was showing a lot of dedication given that it was the holidays.

Morrison sat on the edge of my desk, arms folded across his chest. “Any luck?”

“I don't know. We're never going to know for certain.” I straightened up and pulled a handful of papers to the fore. “But this woman, Liz Gregory…she was Tlingit, from up in the
Alaskan Panhandle near Juneau. She went missing last winter, during that cold snap in March. They never found her body, and…” I uncovered a newspaper photograph and handed it to Morrison. I'd long since memorized its image, a roundish, happy-faced woman sitting in front of a Native Alaskan-style block-print of a bear. She wore long black hair in a thick braid, and had a simple thong necklace with a claw pendant lying outside her T-shirt.

“Bear totem,” he said after a moment. “Is that what I'm looking at?”

I nodded. “I think so. The newspaper stories about her…” I sighed. “She worked outdoors a lot, did a lot of living culture work within her community. There was no mention of her being a shaman or a mystic of any sort, but I'm not sure that would've been reported on even if it were true. And maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe she was just someone who had a big spirit and belonged outdoors, and when she got lost, the cold took her.”

“The cold?”

I closed my eyes. “The place where her spirit was caught, Morrison…it was so cold. Cold enough to hurt. Cold enough that you'd do…anything. Anything at all, to get warm again. I didn't spend very long there, but you'd go mad, boss. Anybody would. I don't think very many people get out of there, once they're lost, and I'm not surprised you'd become something terrible in the trying.” I shivered, trying to throw the memories off. “Anyway, the bear totem. I haven't contacted her family to ask about it yet, but…”

Morrison helped me change the subject, for which I was grateful. “What does this mean in practical terms, Walker? Are you going to try to pin the last two months of killings on a woman who disappeared nine months ago?”

“I wouldn't be able to. There's no evidence. I just wanted to know for myself. To see if I could find out who she was. Maybe at least tell her family she's at peace.”

“Is she?”

“I have no idea.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If it was her, she's more at peace than she was as a wendigo. That's all I know. It's something. Not a lot, maybe, but something.”

Morrison nodded, not exactly satisfied, but accepting. That was just about how I felt, too. He handed the picture back. “If this woman's from Juneau, what was she doing down here? That's a long way to travel.”

That was a question I'd been trying hard not to let myself think about. I had, of course, been thinking about it almost constantly as a result, and all the answers Morrison needed showed up on my face. “Because of you?”

“Right after Halloween, Morrison. The cannibal murders started right after Halloween. Right after I blew up the cauldron, after using all that power. I mean, I could be wrong, but I see it one of two ways. Either she thought I might be able to help her move on or she thought I might be a hefty enough snack to push her back into the world. She was getting closer to me, before we found her. Charlie Groleski? He used the same mechanic I do, Chelsea's Garage. And Karin Newcomb lived in my building. They're the only two connections I can find, and I know they're tenuous, but I can't help being afraid all those people are dead because of me.”

“No.” Morrison put his hand on my shoulder, making me look at him. “Don't do that to yourself, Walker. This thing would've hunted somewhere, and people would've died. That's outside your control. What matters is it's over. You stopped it. It's all any of us can do. We don't have the insight to stop killers
before they strike, and maybe it wouldn't be a good thing if we did. This one's a victory. Take it.”

I thinned my lips, then nodded. He was probably right. There was no cause without effect, but taking on the burden of being the cause and mitigating the effects would drive me crazy, especially since I couldn't
know
whether I'd drawn the wendigo to Seattle or not. On the other hand, having finally taken up the mantle of responsibility, I didn't want to find myself shirking it, either. There had to be a balance somewhere in there, but I was still a long way from finding it. “I'll try.”

“Some days that's all I can ask for.” Morrison gave me a brief, almost sympathetic smile.

I wrinkled my eyebrows at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Holliday sent me to get you.”

“Really? You? Why?” I had a pretty good idea of why, but I was curious as to what he'd say.

“It was a toss-up between me and Muldoon, but he's three sheets to the wind and flirting with an FBI agent a quarter his age.”

I did a brief calculation. “She can't possibly be. Even if you say he's seventy-four, which he won't be for—” I turned my wrist up to look at my watch “—for another three minutes, she wouldn't be old enough to be out of training camp. I mean, police academy takes months, wouldn't FBI training take at least twice as l…” Morrison was failing to fight off a grin. “Oh. You're teasing me.”

“Yes.” He stopped trying to beat the grin down, and tipped his head at the door. “I'm here because you should be at the party, and Holliday thought you might actually listen if I came to get you. Get your coat.”

I got my coat, turned off my computer screen, and tugged Homicide's door closed behind me before chasing Morrison down the steps to the precinct's lobby.

Fireworks erupted in the sky as we pushed the doors open. Myriad colors bloomed against high clouds, reflecting the sparking streams of light as they popped and roared and whistled across the city. Distant music rang down the street, the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” played on radios and taken up by tuneless, exuberant voices. Morrison and I both stopped, taken aback by the sudden light and song show, then looked at one another.

There was really only one thing to do at midnight on New Year's Eve, and we both knew it. We stood there gazing at each other, eye to eye, neither with the height advantage. Neither breathing, as far as I could tell. Time hadn't stopped; I could feel my heart beating a little too hard as a blush started to climb my cheeks. But it felt like we were in a bubble, just me and Morrison, waiting to see what happened next.

The funny thing was that I thought if we'd been at Billy's party, I might've kissed him. A brief peck on the way to kissing someone else. It would've been impolite not to, in those circumstances, but standing there in the precinct building doors, fireworks raining colored light on us, a kiss was more than just a kiss.

I glanced up just to find somewhere else to look, and discovered some enterprising soul had hung mistletoe over the door. I breathed laughter, making Morrison look up, too.

Complicated amusement danced over his face, making his blue eyes bright. He said, “Ah,” and took one judicious step out from under the door. “Happy New Year, Walker.”

My heart filled up and turned my smile sad and stupid all at once. “Happy New Year, Captain.”

“Come on.” Morrison offered a hand. “We've got a party to go to.”

There were probably a million reasons I shouldn't accept that gesture. A million reasons he shouldn't have offered it, for that matter. Right then, I didn't care. Still smiling, I put my hand in his and squeezed. “Yes, sir.”

He squeezed back, released my fingers, and we went out into the new year together.

My undying thanks to the Word War Writers, who are too many to name, but know who they are, for the daily word wars that helped me finish this book in a timely fashion. I would not have done it without you.

I'd also like to thank Heather Fagan for use of her name in this book, and for participating in the Brenda Novak Diabetes Research auction which led to her being a character in
Demon Hunts.
Information about the auction can be found at www.brendanovak.com.

And my thanks to the usual suspects: my agent, Jennifer Jackson, and my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, whose insights helped to shed light on the structural comment that Trent made which I had totally misinterpreted. The book is all the better for your help. Also, as far as I'm concerned, cover artist Hugh Syme and the Harlequin art department, headed by Kathleen Oudit, outdid themselves on the cover for this book. Imagine little heart shapes dancing around this paragraph.

I would say you can also imagine little hearts dancing around this paragraph, wherein I thank my husband Ted for being consistently wonderful, but that would be unbearably goopy and I could never say something like that in public without ruining my rep as a tough girl. :)