Pleasured By The Dark & Damaged (2 page)

Barret pointed to an older model Dodge pickup and crossed over to it. I didn’t follow. Instead, I walked over to my SUV and retrieved my duffle bag.

When I returned to Barret, he pointed at it. “What’s in there?”

“If you must know, it’s my backup bag. I have a few changes of clothes in here as well as spare keys and another cell phone. You never know when a transformation might leave you wanting.”

I carried the bag to the truck and opened the driver’s side door. Mickey’s secretary had come out the door. She waved at Barret once more, and he waved back.

“I hope you’ll be professional while we’re working this case, Barret,” I warned.

“I’m always professional.”

“No, you’re not,” I said, jabbing my finger at his ridiculously oversized chest. “You sleep with every woman that comes along.”

“Not every woman,” He countered. “Just the willing ones.”

Rolling my eyes, I climbed into the truck and slid onto the bench seat. Glare from the winter sun streamed through the windshield and sparkled in the crack that stretched the length of it. I pulled the sunshade down to shield my eyes, and a torrent of photographs rained down on me.

The one that landed on my lap was of Coral. She lay naked on her back, cradling her huge tits in her hands. Her legs were spread. The urge to tear the picture into confetti filled me. 

All of the photos featured nude women. Some were of women I knew well. Others, like one brunette with a full-body snake tattoo, were unknown to me. Barret gathered them up as I shook my head.

“Photography is a hobby of mine,” he said lamely.

“Yeah…right.” I jammed the key into the ignition and placed my foot where the gas pedal should be. All that I could find was empty air.

“What the—” I began. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the pedal was a full foot away from where it should be. “Why is the gas pedal there?”

“I told you the truck was specially designed.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me that I had to have legs like a stork. You drive.” I slid over, and he exited the truck.

Barret tucked the nude photos behind the sunshade and started the engine. I picked up the file, determined to ignore him for the rest of the trip. He flipped the radio on and pulled out of the parking lot.

Barret and I were fine for the first few miles. He didn’t talk to me, and I said nothing to him. It was quite blissful. I knew it couldn’t last.

We had been on the road for an hour when the song came on. It was a rock melody, something by the Eagles. Barret reached down to turn it up.

“Do you remember this song?” he asked.

I shook my head and turned another page in the folder.

“You have to remember it. Everybody does.”

“I don’t pay much attention to music unless it’s country.”

“Country? It’s ok. But, you’re missing out if you ignore Rock and Roll.”

Hoping that he would give up and return to our previous silence, I remained quiet. It was a huge mistake.

He began to sing.

“They stab it with their peeling wives, but they just can’t thrill the yeast.”

The noise was torture. Sour notes assailed my tender ears and I gritted my teeth as he mispronounced the lyrics.

“Everybody sing,” he called out.

“That isn’t the way the words go,” I pointed out.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Alright, then you sing it.”

“I don’t sing,” I growled.

“I thought all wolves sang.”

“We howl,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “We don’t sing.”

“What’s the difference?”

“We howl when we’re sad.”

“So, you guys are into the blues? No wonder you listen to Country. That’s the white man’s blues.”

I rolled my eyes and returned to the file.

“We bears like Rock. You know why?”

I glared up at him. “Barret, I need to read this.”

“It’s the music of sex,” he continued. “That’s why we like it.”

“That’s all you think about, isn’t it?”

He grinned. It was an infectious expression. I lowered my head and hid my face.

An Elvis song came on next. I recognized it because he had been a favorite of my grandmother’s.

Wincing in anticipation of another cacophonous barrage, I considered plugging my ears. When he began to sing, however, my eyes widened and I changed my mind.

His voice had changed. It was no longer sour, but deep and melodious. I pricked up my ears and closed my eyes.

For one magical moment, I heard nothing but his voice. A thrill rose from within me as he sang. It spread throughout my body and I swayed.

The memory of my sortie into his pocket leapt to mind. His cock had been rock hard when I’d touched it. I wondered if it was I who had made it that way.

The lids of my eyes cracked open and I took a peek at his lap. His tight jeans left little to the imagination. I turned away as the familiar flush crept into my cheeks.

The song trailed off and the spell broke.

“You can sing,” I accused.

“Never said I couldn’t.”

“But, a few minutes ago, you were yowling like a skinned cat.”

“Like you said, Sweet Thing, everything is a joke to me.”

My skin began to itch, and I felt the first mild cramps of transformation pass over my body. The thought of sinking my teeth into his heavily muscled arm passed through my mind for consideration. I abandoned the idea at once. He would just laugh if I bit him.

Having calmed myself, I returned to the biography of my erstwhile fiancé. I had lost track of him after our disastrous near-nuptials, and the news of where he’d been in that time was of interest to me.

Lobo had wandered aimlessly for several years, working odd jobs. He usually stayed with co-workers and friends because he lacked a home of his own. One friend, a man named Jack Seeton, had allowed Lobo to stay at his house for a year before the werewolf had moved on. Seeton lived in Anaconda, a small town just north of Butte. If Kyra McCann didn’t pan out, it looked like he would be our next best candidate for a Judas. Lobo had tried to use him as an alibi, and the man had refused to speak with the police.

A black and white still, taken before his recent arraignment, lay beneath the report I had been reading. I studied the picture and the rangy face within it. He seemed tired and sad.

I searched through the rest of the file. It had all the information necessary to our case, with the exception of one fact. Apparently, the wereroach wasn’t as good an investigator as Mickey thought.

Barret broke the silence with a question. “I heard a few things about his case on the news, but I know that the police always keep the important things out of the news reports. If they didn’t, then every Tom, Dick and Harry could walk in and confess. What connects our Skip to the crime?”

“The victim was a former policeman. He was dating one of Lobo’s many ex-girlfriends and he was a non-shifter. Lobo—”

“Lobo killed a human?” Barret interrupted.

“That’s what the prosecuting attorney says.”

“Only a piece of shit would murder a human.”

“He’s innocent until proven guilty, and he hasn’t been proven guilty yet.”

“Why did he run then?”

“If you’ll shut up, I’ll get to it.”

Barret grinned. “You’re so beautiful when you’re pissed.”

I ignored him and continued.

“Three weeks before the murder, Lobo was seen outside the apartment of his former girlfriend, Clea Samson. Clea, a former exotic dancer, had lived with Lobo for a year before kicking him to the curb. Apparently, he had been cheating on her with Kyra McCann. When Lobo moved in with McCann, Clea moved in with Tim Weams, the victim.

“Sounds like a regular soap opera.”

I nodded and resumed my reading. “Relations between Lobo and the victim were strained. Clea is a werewolf, and Weams was afraid she would go back to Lobo. When Weams found out Lobo was hanging around her apartment, he confronted him. They had a big argument in front of several witnesses, all of whom testified that Lobo threatened the victim, saying ‘The next time I see you, I’ll kill you.’ He also threatened several of the witnesses.”

Barret smirked. “Oh, that’s really smart.”

Three weeks later, Weams was found dismembered in a dumpster.”

Barret raised an eyebrow. “Harsh. But, not very original.”

“Lobo has a long and colorful police record. He’s never committed a felony but, because he had threatened the witnesses, and because he had just moved to Helena, he was considered a flight risk. The judge set his bail at $750,000 dollars.”

“Awful high for bail. Who was the judge?”

“Judge…Arthur Adams, it says.”

“Oh, that explains it. Arthur is a werebear. He knows Lobo is a shifter and that he poses a threat to the community. What was the new evidence that sent Lobo running?”

“Apparently, the body wasn’t just dismembered, it was torn apart. Traces of saliva were taken from the wounds, and the DNA in it matched Lobo.”

“Then, it’s case closed. He did it.”

I shook my head. “Lobo is a lot of things, but he doesn’t murder helpless humans. Either he was framed, or he’s been mistaken for someone who possesses the same DNA.”

“That’s impossible,” Barret scoffed.

I closed the file. “No, it isn’t. Identical twins have the same DNA, and so do identical triplets.”

“Are you saying Lobo has a twin?”

“No. I’m saying he’s one of three identical triplets.”

Barret stared at me, mouth gaping and eyes wide. The truck began to drift into the opposite lane, and I placed my hand on the steering wheel in order to jerk it back into the correct one. He turned back to the road, and I relinquished the wheel.

“You mean there are three Lobos out there?”

“Yep. It’s not usually discussed outside the upper echelons of the pack. I only found out because I was supposed to marry him. Mickey didn’t know, or else he would’ve included the information in Lobo’s file.”

“What’s the big deal about triplets?”

“Generally, it’s not a big deal. What makes those three special is who their father is. Have you ever heard of Vance Muerto?”

“The alpha who went on the killing spree in 1995? Don’t tell me he’s their father?”

“He is.”

Barret looked away from the road and I reached for the wheel again.

“Are they anything like their father?”

“I hope not. He had Blood Fever.”

“Blood Fever? What’s that?

“That’s right,” I remembered, shaking my head. “You’re unacquainted with the werewolf world. Let me explain.” I pursed my lips. “Let me start out by saying that there is only one true werewolf. This werewolf is like me, a human being who can transform into a wolf. The other type, the one that stands on his hind legs like a man, is a werewolf who has contracted a disease called Blood Fever. Blood Fever is the werewolf version of rabies. It is highly contagious and incurable if not caught in the early stages. Humans who are bitten by a werewolf suffering from the disease, are not true werewolves. They are simply infected by the disease and change only during certain phases of the moon. Those under the influence of the disease are unaware during their transformation into a wolf. As a result, they commit all manner of crimes, crimes they would never commit under ordinary circumstances.

Barret whistled. “You werewolves sure have some weird shit. Do you think any of the kids inherited his illness?”

“I don’t think Lobo did. But, Loco or Bob may have.”

“Bob?”

“His mother liked the name.”

“I see.”

I turned in my seat and faced him. “I think one of the triplets committed the murder. Then, he let Lobo take the heat for it.”

“We’re hunting three werewolves, not just one then.”

“Looks like it. That’s why we’ll need to find Lobo first. He’ll tell us which one of his brothers may have killed Weams.”

“We’re still headed for Helena?”

“Yes, Helena and Kyra McCann.”

We rounded a corner in the road and Barret suddenly stepped on the brakes. “What the hell is this?”

The road ahead was blocked by two Montana Highway Patrol vehicles, and two Patrolmen stood behind the barricade holding shotguns. Barret slowed and rolled his window down. An icy wind blew in as he did so.

The Trooper approached the pick-up, and Barret called out to him.

“Are you looking for someone, Officer?”

He ignored Barret’s question. “Identification, please.”

“I could ask the same of you.”

The Patrolman displayed his credentials. His name was Pat Rankin.

A strange, musky odor suddenly pervaded the truck cab, and I wrinkled my nose. Barret’s smell hadn’t seemed this bad while we were traveling. I couldn’t figure out what had made it worse.

Barret reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. I produced mine from the pocket of my jacket. Rankin studied both and then nodded. He turned to his colleague and waved. The second Patrolman hurried to his car and started it.

Rankin tipped his hat. “Have a good afternoon.” He returned to his vehicle.

The way was clear and Barret took us through the road block. I peered out the back as it was closed behind us.

“That was weird.”

“You ain’t kiddin’, Toots. Those troopers weren’t the real deal. Highway Patrol carries model 870 Remingtons. Those two had Mossberg shotguns. And, to top it off, they weren’t even human.”

I glanced at him sharply. “They weren’t?”

“The one who came to the window was a werebear. Didn’t you smell him?”

“That was his smell? I thought it was you.”

Barret gave me a disapproving look. “I have better hygiene.”

“What was going on back there?”

The werebear’s voice was grim. “It looks like we have some competition.”