How to Run with a Naked Werewolf (12 page)

“Try not to be too angry with him,” I told Caleb, patting his arm gently. The gesture seemed to settle him, relaxing his shoulders and smoothing the firm set of his jaw. “I would probably call me names, too, if I was in the same situation.”

“I wouldn’t let you get into this sort of situation,” he retorted. And when I gave him an amused look, he added grudgingly, “I would try.”

I snorted. He really seemed to think he could control the universe, but I found it reassuring that he didn’t seem to think he could control me. As much as he might want to lead me in one direction or the other,
he seemed to have accepted that it was futile. I liked that feeling, knowing that I’d shown some backbone in this bizarre situation, that I hadn’t backslid to the faulty instincts that got Tina Campbell into trouble.

I decided to enjoy this small victory and keep quiet for the rest of the drive to the airstrip. Caleb had turned up a Tim McGraw CD to cover Jerry’s muffled curses anyway, so further conversation wasn’t necessary. I would have to list Caleb’s taste in music as the chief of his personality flaws. I could forgive the overprotectiveness and the questionable job, but I drew the line at boot-scootin’ music.

As our headlights flashed over the faded red Quonset-style hangar, Caleb motioned for me to slide low in my seat and slipped a baseball cap over my head, covering my face. He unbuckled and turned to me as Jerry noticed we had come to a stop and began thrashing violently.

“I know you don’t like being told, but trust me when I say the less these people see of you, the better. Just act like you’re taking a nap or something.”

I nodded, pulling my collapsible weapon of choice from my bag, but I kept it low and out of sight of the trio of burly men standing near the faded red metal building marked “Bird in the Bush Piloting Service.” Considering the sheer size of Caleb’s clients and the flash of what looked remarkably like a Russian mob tattoo on the tallest one’s hand, I decided that just this once, I wouldn’t be contrary. I slouched down and yawned widely, pulling the cap lower over my eyes. I would keep an ear out for any sign of trouble, but a “waking nap” didn’t sound too bad, either.

Jerry was deeply unhappy to be unloaded from the truck and marched across the frosted grass, if his colorful, anatomically unlikely insults were any indication. Even after his use of the unforgivable C-word, his whimpers and whining still struck a guilty chord within me. How could Caleb just go through the transaction as if he was dropping off a bag of laundry? And he was delivering it to people who would beat the absolute crap out of that laundry—and that was being optimistic.

While I kept low and still in the truck, I found myself getting more agitated by the minute. What if that was me? What if some bounty hunter came and packed me up like so much luggage and dropped me at some nondescript location to return me to Glenn? Would Caleb help me? Or leave me to the bounty hunter out of professional courtesy? What would become of me if the price of selling me out went higher than the price of keeping me at Caleb’s side?

I was pondering these cheerful issues when Caleb yanked the truck door open, beaming from ear to ear, and clapped an envelope into my hand. I stared down at the plain white paper, marveling at its weight. How much had he been paid for Jerry’s head? How much would Glenn be willing to pay for information about me? The thought made my stomach pitch, but Caleb seemed oblivious to my queasy distress.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel like eating a steak the size of a placemat,” he crowed, pulling out of the parking lot with all due haste. “And you, you are getting twenty percent. As much as I hate to admit it, we never
would have caught up to him without your boob-showing offer.”

I frowned at that and didn’t reply, which caught his attention.

“What’s wrong?”

“How many of these jobs do you do a month?” I asked hesitantly.

“Depends on how big the payday is. Some catches are worth more than others. There are some months I only have to do one job. Why do you have that look on your face?” he asked.

Without realizing it, I’d been giving him a pretty healthy dose of stink-eye. I sniffed and schooled my features into a more neutral expression. I hated the timidity in my voice as I said, “I don’t feel good about what we just did.”

I expected him to get defensive or angry. In fact, his lack of reaction was unnerving.

“Other than his penchant for gender-offensive four-letter words, Jerry didn’t seem like such a bad guy. And he sounded so scared. I hate to think what those goons are going to do to him.”

“Honestly? They’re probably going to do something permanent to his kneecaps. But he’ll be able to walk away from it.” When he saw the doubtful expression on my face, he amended, “Limp away. He’ll be able to limp away. The people I look for, they’re not squeaky-clean, innocent souls. There’s a reason they end up on my radar. It’s not because they jaywalk or take more than one penny from that dish by the gas-station cash register. They’ve done something serious, and that leads me right to them.”

“You don’t know that,” I insisted. “You don’t know that the information some of your less-than-reputable clients are giving you is legit. And you don’t know what reasons these people may have had to do whatever it was they did to cross your path.”

“Reasons?” he asked, looking mildly amused, which just pissed me off.

“Yes, reasons. Life isn’t black-and-white. Sometimes decent people do the wrong thing for the right reason.”

“Like stealing a loaf of bread to feed starving orphans?”

“Yes, thank you for taking me seriously.” I narrowed my eyes so dramatically I actually felt the strain on my ocular muscles. “I’m just saying that you never know what you’re capable of until you’re in dire straits.”

“I think I’m pretty familiar with what desperate people will do.” He frowned at me, but his tone was still gentle, which was confusing.

I was questioning him, openly, so why was he being so damn nice about it? How was I supposed to predict his actions if he didn’t respond the way I expected him to?

He reached across the seat to jostle my shoulder, drawing his hand away when he saw how I tensed up. “Is there a reason that you’re taking this so personally?”

I stared out the window. There were plenty of reasons I could give him. I was taking it personally because there was someone out there looking for me. And I would want someone to take it personally if I was gagged and tagged like a freshly caught deer. Because I knew what it was like to wake up afraid. I
knew what it was like to want to ask friends, family, the police—anybody—for help but being too scared.

But that was a heck of a hand to tip toward someone I barely knew.

“I just don’t like to see people hurt, that’s all,” I offered weakly.

He shifted in his seat and seemed to be choosing his words carefully as we sped toward a town called Smithville. “Well, that’s an admirable trait . . .”

I sensed an impending
but
.

“But get the hell over it,” he told me.

I crossed my arms over my chest with a harrumph.

Nice.

“Yes, thank you, my moral quandary is completely resolved,” I retorted in a saccharine-sweet voice that had him laughing.

“Well, I know what
will
make you feel better,” he said. When I arched my eyebrows, he waved “our” pay envelope. “Fresh underwear.”

“Jerry’s captors gave you fresh underwear that fits in an envelope?”

To celebrate our
big win, Caleb took me to the exotic destination of  Wall-Mart.

Please note that was
Wall-Mart
, with two Ls.

Given the faded sign lettering still evident on the storefront, I assumed the building had been an actual licensed Wal-Mart at some point, back before they changed their official name to Walmart. When the store closed, it appeared, some enterprising souls had just added an extra L to the sign and opened up their own discount megagrocery. The color scheme, façade, and layout were the same, but all of the employees seemed careful to emphasize the extra L when they said, “Welcome to Wallllllll-Mart.” I assumed this was done on the advice of legal counsel.

Caleb seemed nearly giddy about this shopping spree, cart-surfing toward the ladies’ clothing section. The selection wasn’t exactly diverse, but I was able to
find several long-sleeved T-shirts, thermals, and hoodies that I could use. I didn’t want to swerve into mom-jeans territory, so I picked some yoga pants. I tossed some plain white cotton undies into the cart without comment from my werewolf shopping partner, for which I was grateful.

I hoped that the identity Red-burn created would involve living in an area with more retail opportunities. I was sincerely looking forward to wearing clothes that were not purchased in a store where you could also buy motor oil and bagged salad. As shallow as it was, I missed open-toed shoes. I missed designer labels. Heck, I missed clothes I could wear just because they were cute, not because they would protect me from frigid winds. I wanted to wear makeup again and not worry that I was attracting too much attention.

As we passed the men’s section, I saw a triple-extra-large black T-shirt featuring a
Field & Stream–
style illustration of a wolf howling at the moon. I briefly considered buying it to sleep in, but I figured Caleb might find it suspiciously coincidental.

“You don’t seem to be getting a lot,” he noted, as we wandered toward the health and beauty section. He nodded toward the cartload of blues, grays, and blacks.

“I don’t like someone else paying my way,” I told him.

“Well, you helped me snag Jerry, so part of the fee is yours, OK?”

As gratifying as that was, it didn’t lessen the humiliation of buying tampons in front of him. I wouldn’t have to worry about it for a while, but I definitely
didn’t want to be unprepared when it happened, particularly if it happened far from civilization. As I stood, considering the various absorbencies, Caleb seemed torn between some need to stay close to me and his excruciating embarrassment.

He cleared his throat. “I’m just going to wait at the end of the aisle.”

“I think that would be best,” I said as he moved toward the end display.

His eyes widened when he realized that display happened to contain a decorative array of Summer’s Eve products. “Maybe even in the sporting-goods section.”

“Even better.”

He practically left one of those little cartoon puffs of dust in his wake as he ran away. Apparently, protective instincts only extended so far when feminine-hygiene products were involved.

When he was far out of sight, I pondered my options. This was my opportunity to escape. I could walk right out of the store and find a ride with some willing trucker, taking the risk of being assaulted or worse. Kindly, beer-hauling, grandfatherly types willing to give favors, no questions or reciprocity required, were a rarity in the transportation community. But walking any distance in the dark, even in this relatively mild cold, was lunacy.

OK, so Caleb’s job was a little—a lot—disturbing. And he had some strange werewolfy instincts when it came to boundaries between relative strangers. But there was something so inherently
good
in the way he interacted with me. He was so calm and patient and
seemed to delight in even my more irritating qualities. I could handle spending time with someone who treated me like that. I doubted I would get better offers.

Right, no more getting blown around by the belches of fate. No more decisions based on panic and circumstance. I was choosing to stay with Caleb until I could make it to Anchorage.

I took a deliberate step out of the lady-maintenance aisle and toward the snack section. Caleb had snagged another cart and was filling it with pretzels, nacho chips, and, of course, venison jerky.

“So your arteries are pretty much fossilized under the weight of salt and preservatives at this point, huh?” I said, eyeing the “Around the World Jerky” megavariety pack he dropped into the cart.

“I have a strong metabolism,” he said.

“That really doesn’t affect the probability of a stroke,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re just a big pot of sunshine, aren’t ya?”

“Humor me,” I said as I added granola bars to the pile and swapped the nacho chips for pita chips. Caleb bent his mouth into a disdainful frown while making a gagging sound. “Just wait until we get to the produce section.”

Caleb slowly but
surely integrated me into his life on the road. Although I disliked how he made his living, I could see why he enjoyed it. He got all the fun of being a detective, without the pesky paperwork and professional
accountability. He got to see new places, meet new people . . . and handcuff them. It was like an Easter-egg hunt for people, trying to trace their routes and figure out where they were stashed. But his job was scary, too. He was all alone out here. I was his only backup, which, given my pitiful upper-body strength, was a terrifying thought. If he got hurt, there might not be someone to help him. And while he could heal himself from most injuries, the thought of him lying alone and bleeding in a parking lot made me a little ill.

We drove for what felt like days, stopping in saloons and motels along the way, talking to Caleb’s contacts, and picking up information—all while I needled him to drive a little faster, to move along so we could get to Anchorage.

Caleb’s ability to use his werewolf nature to pick up on his targets’ scents made him seem like a human bloodhound. Knowing about his heightened senses helped me figure out how they helped him to see the minute details that the average person would miss, from trash left behind in a motel room to the depth and age of tire and shoe prints outside a target’s house. And when he was interviewing people, I knew he could smell changes in their body chemistry, hormonal shifts that indicated stress or deception; he could see their eyes dilate and hear changes in their heart rates. He was a walking lie detector, which made me nervous as hell.