How to Howl at the Moon (8 page)

Lance gave up, too worried about getting caught to linger. He shifted back into his dog and ran home, arriving at first light. He took a shower and got dressed in his uniform, and was back on the road by seven a.m.

*                          *                         *

Lance wove his way up the mountain, appreciating the view on his right as the trees dropped away.
Most of last nigh
t
’
s
snow was already gone, but there w
as
still
a layer
of white in the shady spots.
A driveway came into view, and he pulled his police cruiser into it cautiously, flashing his lights. Roman Charsguard was understood to be a badass, and not one to welc
ome strangers on his land. W
hen Lance pulled up at the small house in the woods, Roman was on the porch, standing in military rest. His eyes followed Lance
’s every move. He looked relaxed, but Lance was fairly certain he had a weapon on him somewhere. Maybe several.

Lance studied the situation, then got out of the car. He rested his hands on the hood of the cruiser where Roman could see them.
He looked at Roman’s shoulder rather than meeting his gaze which Roman might take as a challenge.

“Morning, Roman.”

There was half a tick, then Roman stepped out of his pose, and came toward Lance, holding out his hand. “Sheriff Beaufort. Nice to see you.”

Lance shook his hand. “Call me Lance, please.”

“Lance,” said Roman, stiffly as if he preferred to be more formal.

Lance
relaxed and
assessed
Roman
quickly.
He
was a big man—six two and forcefully built. He was still relatively young and he looked healthy to Lance’s eye, physically at least. Mentally was another matter.

“How you doing up here, Roman?”

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

“Good. Good. Well. I wanted to see how you were. And also, I have something I wanted to get your opinion on, if you can spare the time.”

Roman perked up, his shoulders going back and his eyes brightening. “I’m happy to be o
f service. Come inside. I have
coffee on.”

Lance had never been inside Roman’s house, though Roman had moved to their community a little over a year ago. Lance had vetted him, of course. No quick ever moved to Mad Creek without Lance checking him or her out on paper, and his mother taking the often confused creature under her wing and essentially doing the same in her own inimitable way. Nothing got past Lily Beaufort.

Roman had been a military service dog, a highly trained German shepherd. No one knew the exact story of how he’d gotten the spark, or how and when he’d left the military and found his way to Mad Creek. He was a private man, tight-lipped and a little intimidating. Honestly, Lance wasn’t sure what to make of him other than feeling fairly confident Roman was not a threat to their community, not least because Lily said so. In fact, she was always encouraging Lance to use Roman’s talents to lessen his load.

Make use of him, Lance. He needs that.

Maybe Lance had found a use for Roman Charsguard.

The inside of the small house was neat to a fault. The worn couch and coffee table were at precise perpendicular angles to the walls of the room.
There was a small TV and a
shelf of what looked like map books, but otherwise the room was bare and very clean. The floor was dinged up old hardwood, but it looked
so spotless
you could do surgery on it.

“The kitchen is this way, sir,” Roman said.

On the wall near the doorway to the kitchen was a large framed photo. Lance paused to look at it. The photo showed a man in camouflage kneeling on one knee, the other bent with his boot firmly on the ground. He had an arm slung over a magnificent German shepherd. The dog was glancing up at the man adoringly and the man wore a big grin.

Something hot stirred in Lance’s chest.

“That’s Sergeant James Patson, US Army,” Roman said, his voice rough.

“His face is very pleasant.”

“He was… he was the best man that ever lived.” Roman swallowed hard, staring at the picture. “Strong. Kind. Honorable. Brave. He taught me what it meant to be a man.”

Lance could feel the force of love that washed over Roman Charsguard as he looked at the
photograph, despite the way he tried to keep the emotion off his face. Of course, a dog had to love a person that much, and be loved in return, to get the spark. But it was unusually affecting to see a tough guy like Roman so moved.

Lance wanted to ask what had happened to Sergeant James Patson, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Better not to upset Roman further. And really, it was none of his business.

“This way,” Roman said, his voice firming.

Lance followed him into the kitchen and accepted a cup of coffee gratefully.

“Now then, Sheriff. How can I be of service?”

“It’s nothing urgent, but there’s a situation I wanted you to be aware of, something you could help me be on the look-out for.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lance filled Roman in on the drug growers that had been setting up in neighboring counties and the violence they’d brought with them. He told him about Sam’s warning
. There were rumors
that activity was starting up in Madera County.

Roman was immediately engaged. “We should section off the area and set up regular patrols. I’m available, sir, though we’ll probably need a few more volunteers, depending on how much of the county you want to cover.”

“Just right around Mad Creek.”

“I’d suggest a perimeter of at least five miles, sir,” Roman was standing at attention now, his eyes bright.

“Hmm. That’s probably wise.”

Lance narrowed his eyes at Roman. He was eager, and maybe something a little more. When Roman had opened the refrigerator to get a small carton of milk for the coffee, Lance noticed there was hardly anything in it. What did Roman do for money? He probably hunted game, living out here. How else he survived, Lance had no idea. He made a quick decision.

“I do think this is important, Roman, and I’d appreciate your help. I can’t pay you full-time, but I have enough in my budget for a part-time contractor, maybe twelve-hundred a month
for two months? We can see if there’s a need beyond that.”

An expression raced across Roman’s face that was obscenely grateful. He blinked rapidly and pulled his shoulders back farther. “I’m a good choice for the job, sir. I promise you nothing unwanted will come into this territory on my watch. And… the money will be much appreciated.”

His mother was right, Roman was desperate to be useful. Lance felt a stab of unease that he’d waited so long to follow up with Roman. And then he felt more unease when he realized how many others in his pack needed his help just as badly, needed jobs, needed to feel useful.

It was a good reminder why Lance was in no position to have a private life of his own.

They discussed strategy. Roman was so far ahead of what Lance had been thinking, that it quickly became clear Roman should organize the operation. He was thrilled to be put in charge of planning, and even suggested a few other quickened he could call on for patrol duty.

“Is there any particular person you suspect, sir? Any place you want me to monitor more closely?”

Lance hesitated. He didn’t want to start finger-pointing at Tim Traynor, but if Roman was going to be working for Lance, he needed to be able to trust him. “There is one new guy, just moved here a few weeks ago. I’m not sure what he’s up to, honestly. Have you been trained in sniffing out drugs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think you’d know cannabis in plant form? Even if the plants were very young?”

“I would, sir.”

“Good. I’m hoping this guy isn’t doing anything illegal. But he’s lied to me about a few things, and he’s growing
something
. I just want to know for certain what it is.”

“And you don’t want him to know that you’re checking up on him?”

Lance sighed in relief. “That would be ideal, yes.”

“Absolutely no problem. Give me his address, and I’ll do reconnaissance today.”

“No, not today. His plants haven’t come up yet. I’ll let you know when I need you. In the
meantime, you can get the rest of it organized.”

“Looking forward to it, sir.” Roman grinned. For a moment, he looked startlingly young and more than a little dangerous.

Lance drove back to town hoping he hadn’t just
tried to leash
a tiger.

When
Lance
got into the office, he picked up another cup of coffee as he walked in the door, said hi to Leesa at the front desk, filled Charlie in on what he’d put Roman up to, and finally settled down to his email and voice mail.

His uniform felt constrictive after spending so many hours in his dog form. And the memory of the bath the night before, being shampooed and pampered by a human, made his face burn. The blush was so bright he could see it in his reflection in the window beside his desk.

Idiot.

At some point that morning, he had to talk to Bill McGurver, take his lumps in ridicule, and make sure Bill kept his mouth shut.

Christ.
The things he did for this town.

The first thing that caught his eye in his email was from Sam Miller down
in
Fresno. It had a link to a secure website where Sam had put the background check on Tim. Lance opened it with a sense of dread. He really didn’t want to find out that Tim had a record. He was surprised how badly he didn’t want that.

Tim didn’t have a record. In fact, there was no Timothy Traynor anywhere near Santa Barbara. Big surprise there. As for Tim Weston, he existed and his driver’s license photo matched the young man currently living in the Fitzgibbons place. Age: 23. Middle name: Alan. He had no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. In fact, from the lack of data, the guy hadn’t left the house since he was born.

Oh.

There was a link at the bottom to a criminal file. Tim Weston wasn’t the perp, though, that was a Richard Morton Weston. The charge was domestic disturbance and child abuse. In the file were photos of a heavyset blonde woman with a bruised face and tired eyes. And a boy. Tim
looked to be a frail ten or eleven. He had a black eye, split lip, and there were pictures of deep bruises on both upper arms in the shape of fingers, and a fist-sized bruise on his lower back. The neighbors had called the police. Charges were dropped and social services were assigned to follow up. That was all that was in the report.

A hot, angry stain spread across Lance’s chest and shot down his arms to clench his fists on the keyboard. How could any man do that to his wife and child? He longed to find Richard Weston and show him what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a beating. The dog in him was furious.
Protect! Protect him!

Lance shut his eyes and ground his teeth. He reminded his dog that this had happened a long time ago. There was no need to be upset about it now. But his dog had a fuzzy view of time, and seemed to be highly sensitive today. It took several rage-filled minutes for Lance to calm himself down. When the fog lifted, the leather seat of his desk chair had an ugly rip from his claws.

Holy shit.

Lance wiped his brow and took several more calming breaths. This didn’t change anything. The fact that Tim had had a terrible childhood held little relevance to whether or not he was planning to grow cannabis in Mad Creek. In fact, generally speaking, criminals were more likely to come from a bad home and an abusive background.

But Lance couldn’t forget Tim’s face looking down at him in the rain, his eyes wet and scared, a drop of rain poised to fall from his narrow, pale chin.

Arg.

*                          *                         *

“Chance?”

Tim called for the dog before he was even fully awake. He yawned and stretched, and then reality settled in a little more firmly.

He had a dog.

“Chance?” he called again, grinning. He jumped out of bed and tugged on his pajama bottoms. But when he got out to the living room, there was no sign of the dog. “Chance?”

Tim searched the house, even opening up cupboard doors and looking under the bed. But Chance was nowhere to be found. How did he get out? The cabin didn’t have a doggie door, and the doors and windows were all closed. Tim would have thought he’d dreamt the entire thing if not for the comforter with some black dog hair on it still on the floor, and the wet towels and wet dog smell that lingered in the bathroom.

Tim ran outside and called Chance’s name, but there was no response. Chance had gone.

Tim took it hard. With dragging steps, he returned to the kitchen and made himself coffee and toast. There was a heavy weight on his chest, and he sniffed like he was getting a cold. Stupid. He should have known the dog had a home. No doubt Chance had somehow gotten out of the house and gone back to his owners. Chance was probably fine.