Heat of the Moment (11 page)

Apparently the “lost” animals that had been found in Owen's house had not been widely reported. Which was odd considering every stray cat was usually cause for a bulletin. Three should have been front-page news.

“Wolves are hard to find,” Owen said. “I've heard that wolf hunters have to bait them, like bears.”

“True,” Krazy agreed.

“You don't sound convinced.”

“There's something about that guy…” He shook his head. “Weird smells coming from his cabin.”

“Probably sauerkraut.”

“I know what sauerkraut smells like.”

“Kielbasa?”

“It was more metallic.”

“He was cooking metal?”

“I don't know, dude.”

“You didn't ask him?”

“He said he was making his own bullets.”

“That would explain the metal.”

“I've smelled melting lead. This wasn't it.” Krazy shifted his shoulders, uneasy. “He creeps me out.”

He'd creeped Owen out too, and he'd only caught a glimpse of the guy.

“Well, if creepy were against the law, half the world would be in jail.”

“Preaching to the choir, brother.”

Krazy was a lawyer. Guess he'd know.

“My place isn't next to his, is it?” Beggars couldn't be choosers but still …

“Nah. He wanted the cottage closest to the woods.”

“I bet he did.”

“Yours is up front. Closer to the bar, right?” He held up a hand, and Owen slapped a high five. “But after this week, it'll just be you and him, so you could move wherever you want. I'm not full again until the weekend before Thanksgiving.”

“Gun deer hunting.”

“Right.” Krazy seemed like he wanted to high-five Owen again, but it was too soon. “You from around here?”

“I was,” Owen said. He really didn't consider himself from here any more. He was a soldier. His home was the United States Marine Corps.

At least until it wasn't.

“Visiting family? I know how it is. Visiting's one thing. Sleeping in the same house's another.” He tapped the keyboard of his laptop. “You're good for a month if you want. Though who wants to visit family for a month? Unless they're in Italy or something, right?”

“Right,” Owen agreed.

He hadn't planned on being here more than a week when he'd arrived. Hence the sleeping bag and Coleman lantern in his truck. But more than a month?

No way in hell.

Owen took the proffered key and drove the white truck, which he was starting to think of as his, even though it wasn't, to cabin number 4. He could have walked there, but then he'd have had to leave the truck in front of the tavern, and at this time of day, that would cause talk. At the least someone might walk over to see who was drinking at eight
A.M.
, and once they discovered his name—he hadn't told Krazy not to share it; maybe he should have—then they'd knock on his door and one thing would lead to another.

All of it annoying.

Owen parked at number 4, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the door, Reggie at his heels. In the distance, a gun boomed. For a minute he was afraid the wolf hunter had bagged one, even though it was broad daylight. But the guy stood on the porch of the cottage closest to the woods, staring into them.

A second shot sounded, and Reggie did a little spin in the grass, then glanced at Owen hopefully.

“Sorry, buddy. Not our fight.” He opened the door and waited for the dog to go in.

With all those guns around, he didn't want Reggie loping off. No one in their right mind would confuse him with a duck. However, Owen knew better than most that the number of people in their right mind was fewer than anyone imagined. In certain light, with bad enough eyes, Reggie did look like a wolf.

Owen had enough problems without explaining to the military why their extremely expensive MWD—trained, Reggie was worth about fifty grand—had a bullet hole in him. Not to mention he'd have to take the dog to Becca for treatment, and he'd rather avoid seeing her. Especially since she'd said the same about him.

The cabin was small but new and very nice. According to the brochure, several of which lay on the barely nicked countertop, local craftsmen had fashioned all the faux rustic furniture and cabinets in both the kitchen and the bath. Local art hung on the walls. The quilt and the curtains had been purchased at the Three Harbors Arts and Crafts Fair.

“Now I just need to buy some local food and everything will match.”

A creak, then a groan drew Owen's attention to the bed where Reggie already had his tail curled around his nose and his eyes closed. Owen could almost hear his thoughts.

If I can't chase and catch whatever they're shooting at, I might as well be asleep.

Owen had to agree. He unbuttoned his pants. Someone knocked on the door.

Reggie lifted his head; his ear twitched. While the majority of their time in the field required Reggie's go-go-go personality, there were other instances when they had to be silent and still and wait for something to develop. Reggie didn't like those times any more than Owen did. But he'd been trained, same as Owen, to respect them.

Owen closed all four fingers and his thumb into a fist—the hand signal for
quiet
—and the dog set his chin on his paws. Maybe if whoever was knocking heard nothing they would leave.

“Owen?”

Dammit. Owen knew that voice, and it wasn't going anywhere.

*   *   *

I flailed around, smacked someone's arms, grabbed onto them, and yanked. They didn't move, so I dug in with my nails and scratched. Instead of relief, the pressure on my face increased. My lungs labored for air. Behind my closed eyelids black spots danced across a bloodred landscape.

At first I thought the growling and snarling was in my head, lack of oxygen bringing about bizarre hearing issues. Then I considered it might be death coming for me. Like those creepy black crawly things that had skulked through the movie
Ghost
and taken away the nasty people.

But they'd taken those people to hell and … come on! I was one of the good guys.

Wasn't I?

Suddenly the pressure was gone, and I drew great gulps of lovely air into my screamingly tight lungs. The black spots cleared. I wasn't alone in my apartment. Obviously.

However, I didn't expect my wolf. She had a piece of brown cloth in her mouth that matched the shirt on the tall masked figure with the pillow still in one hand. Man? Woman? Couldn't tell. Not only had the person covered his or her face, neck, and head, but he or she wore oversized clothing too bulky to define. I got the impression of either a very tall woman or a slim man.

The wolf yanked the pillow from the intruder's gloved hand and tossed her head. The pillow thunked against the wall and hit the floor. The wolf's lip lifted in a silent snarl. She stood between the stranger and the door.

Where was my phone? Nine-one-one was in order.

Suddenly the masked attacker grabbed my end table, sending a lamp crashing to the floor, and threw it at the wolf. She sidestepped, but it caught her on the hip, sent her skidding into the coat rack. Both the wolf and the rack smacked against the wall pretty hard. Sweatshirts, scarves, and coats rained down on the too still animal.

You'd think the guy/girl would have run. Instead, he/she picked up the pillow and headed in my direction once more. The eyes shining through the mask seemed crazed.

I couldn't get up. The harder I tried, the dizzier I became. The longer I waited, the closer my attacker got.

I lifted my hands toward the descending pillow. I doubted I'd be able to prevent its smashing into my face again, but I had to try. The cool, crisp cotton case brushed my fingernails, and I braced against the pressure.

It never came. He, or she, flew up and away, whapping against the far wall and hitting the ground just like the pillow had, but with a much louder
whap
. Something smaller and tinny bounced onto the floor as well. Perhaps a tooth. I wouldn't be surprised. Or sorry.

My attacker leaped up and ran out of the apartment, weaving a little, banging into the doorjamb, then stumbling down the stairs. The silence that followed rushed in my ears like a rolling river.

I was light-headed and dopey from lack of oxygen. I was having a hard enough time accepting that someone had tried to kill me. That the would-be murderer had flown through the air with the greatest of ease only proved I was still out of it.

The wolf remained unconscious, which left her off the hook for the tossing, even if she'd had the opposable thumbs to do it.

Tear the creep limb from limb. Yes. Pick up and throw? No. Pick up and throw without touching anything? I had no answer for that question at all.

I sat up, head spinning, got my feet on the ground and stood. I needed my phone but I couldn't think where I'd put it.

“I should call it,” I muttered, then started laughing. How could I call my phone without my phone?

I put my hand over my mouth to stop the scary sound of my laughter. What was wrong with me?

My phone flew off the kitchen table then skidded a few inches in my direction. A shiver raced over me, raising goose bumps everywhere.

I dropped my hand. “That didn't happen either.”

I sounded so certain, I nearly believed myself.

I brought up the keypad on my phone screen, then paused with my thumb poised over the 9. I really needed to get rid of the wolf before the cops came. But how? She still lay there, eyes closed, her ribs lifting and lowering steadily.

I moved closer, reaching out, pulling back. I was a veterinarian, for crying out loud. I knew better than to touch an unconscious animal of any kind. That was a great way to get bit. And a wild animal?

That was a great way to get rabies.

Which was the main reason I wanted her out of here. Not that she
had
rabies. But the authorities would think so. Wild animals—especially twitchy ones like wolves—did not venture into populated areas unless they were starving or rabid. As it wasn't the time of year for starving wolves, this one would find herself in a cage or worse while they waited to make sure she didn't foam at the mouth. She'd saved my life; I couldn't do that to her.

I whistled. One of the wolf's ears twitched. She had a white circle of hair at her neck. Invisible if you weren't very close and her neck wasn't craned just right.

I clapped my hands. Her eyes opened.

Henry?

No one here but the wolf and me. Who was she talking—

Wait a second. I'd never heard anything from her before. Of course I never really heard anything from any animal. But why would I imagine she'd think—

Henry!

Exactly. I didn't know any Henry.

The wolf sat up. I stepped back and kept stepping back until my legs bumped into my daybed.

She flicked a glance at me, the eerie light green of her eyes even more so with the sunlight streaming through the window over the sink. But her gaze moved on, roaming the room as if searching for something. Or someone. Perhaps—

Henry.

She stared at the bathroom door, and that shiver I'd had before returned. Was there someone else in my apartment besides the insane masked man or woman?

“Who's Henry?”

The wolf's eyes returned to me.

“For that matter, who are you?”

Prudence.

My wolf was named Prudence. Hadn't seen that coming.

You can call me Pru if you like
.

“Sure, why not? And Henry? Who's he? Where is he?”

Her gaze went to the bathroom again.

“In there?”

No. He is next to the bookcase.

“The only thing next to the bookcase is more books.” I needed a bigger bookcase, but who didn't?

You can't see him.

It didn't sound like a question, but I answered anyway. “No. Should I?”

Her blue-black fur rippled, a lupine shrug.
Probably not.

“Why not?”

He's a ghost.

 

Chapter 9

“Sir.” Owen moved back.

Becca's father stepped into the cabin.

“Bly'b,”
Owen said, and shut the door.

The man cast him a confused glance. “Excuse me?”

That
had
sounded like gibberish.

“The dog.” Owen waved at the bed. “I told him to stay in German. It's how he was trained, the commands that he knows.”

Dale Carstairs grunted. Owen hoped he had more to say than that. Then again, maybe he didn't. The last time they'd spoken this man had ordered Owen to leave his darling daughter alone.

“You need to leave Becca alone.”

“Wow,” Owen said. “D
é
j
à
vu.”

“Don't be a smartass.”

Owen moved into the kitchen to make coffee, more for something to do than for actual drinking. He was jittery enough just being in Three Harbors without adding caffeine. But Becca's dad had revived all the uncertainty he'd always felt in the man's presence.

Even before Owen had banged his daughter.

Owen tried to cover the flinch and his continued unease with a search for the coffee. There wasn't any. Why would there be? He hadn't been shopping.

“Listen, I…” Owen scrubbed his hands through his hair, turned.

Carstairs stared at Owen's leg. Hell. He'd gimped across the room without even trying to hide it. Not that he'd have been able to
keep
hiding it for much longer, but he'd rather not have revealed his weakness to this man first.

“What happened?” While Carstairs's gaze had been hostile when he'd walked in, along with his voice, both had softened. Pity did that.

“World went boom,” Owen said shortly. “I was in the way.”