Rogue (16 page)

“Not exclusively,” Owen said from the dining-room
doorway, his worn cowboy hat hanging from one fist. He leaned against the door frame, and Vic stopped just behind him, his expression grim, his cheek streaked with dirt.

My father pushed his chair back and glanced at his watch. “I didn’t expect you back for at least another hour.”

“It’s amazing how much time you can save by not burying the body,” Vic said, pushing past Owen and into the room. “This time she got one of ours. Jamey Gardner. We brought him back for a proper burial.”

The dining room erupted into a frenzy of questions and angry exclamations as we vented rage at the murder of one of our own Pride members. My father didn’t bother trying to speak over us. He simply stood and walked calmly from the dining room into his office across the hall. The racket around the table faded into silence as we all hopped up to follow him.

Marc and I sank onto the love seat and everyone else settled into place around us. No one said a word. We knew better than to start shouting questions in our Alpha’s office, no matter how upset we were. Instead, we listened as he spoke on the phone, hoping the answers to our questions would be revealed in the course of the overheard conversations.

The first phone call went to Michael, my oldest brother. Michael hadn’t worked as an enforcer in nearly eleven years, but during times of crisis, my father never hesitated to call him home to help. Michael was a genius at organization and resource management, and much more comfortable than the rest of us were with toggling multiple phone lines and scouring the Internet for information. Having just been made partner in a local law firm, he was also our eyes and ears in the legal community.

The phone call to Michael was predictably short and to the point.

“What’s wrong?” my brother asked in lieu of a greeting.

“Call your boss and tell him you need a personal day tomorrow. Then come on over. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“Give me half an hour.”

“Good.” My father dropped the phone back into its slim black cradle, then sank into his desk chair, already flipping through his leather-bound address book for the next number. As he dialed, Ethan curled up on the floor at my feet, playing with the frayed edge of the rug, his head resting on my knee. Jace sat on his other side, leaning against one leg of a heavy oak end table.

“Wes? It’s Greg.” My father leaned forward in his chair, the phone pressed to his ear again. He paused as a disembodied voice greeted him from the earpiece and asked about his health. Wesley Gardner was Jamey’s older brother, and Alpha of the Great Lakes Pride. “I’m fine,” my father said, staring at his desk blotter as he rubbed his forehead. “But I have some bad news about Jamey.”

For a long moment, there was only silence, broken by the occasional crackle of static on the line and the creak of leather as Owen shifted on the couch across from me and Marc, his hat in his lap. When Wes finally spoke, the pain in his voice was obvious, even over hundreds of miles of wire. “How did it happen?”

My father sighed, still staring down at his desk. We all knew how much he dreaded this part of his job, and I was grateful he hadn’t delegated the responsibility to one of us. Namely me.

“I’m not sure yet. We got an anonymous tip about a body near Kisatchie National Forest in Louisiana. It turned out to be Jamey. I’m so sorry, Wes. We’re doing everything we can to catch the…one responsible.”

I glanced at Marc, surprised by my father’s failure to mention the killer’s gender—the most noteworthy aspect of the case by far. But Marc didn’t even seem to notice. Withholding information during an ongoing investigation was standard procedure, but Wes was the victim’s brother, for goodness’ sake, not some random Pride member.

“How do you want us to handle the burial?” my father asked.

Wes sighed. “We’ll come get him. I’ll call you back with the flight information once I make the reservations.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will. Thanks, Greg.”

My father hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, hands crossed over his stomach, eyes closed. He looked angry. And very, very tired. “Okay, Vic, Owen, tell us what happened.”

Vic looked at Owen and shrugged, so Owen started, shifting again on the couch to face our Alpha, who didn’t even open his eyes. “There’s not much to tell. The body was just where the caller said it would be. He was covered in leaves and loose dirt, so we couldn’t see his face at first, but we knew it was Jamey right away. From his scent.” Owen glanced at Vic again before continuing. “We could smell her, too. This time we knew what to look for from the scent. And it was fresh.”

“Injuries?” my father asked, his eyes still closed.

Owen curled the brim of his hat in both hands. “Nothin’ but the broken neck, just like the others.”

My father nodded, acknowledging the information, but before he could say anything else, the clicking of my mother’s heels sounded in the hallway, accompanied by the rich aroma of good coffee.

Seconds later she appeared in the doorway, carrying a
silver tray full of steaming mugs. Without a word, she crossed the room and set the tray on one corner of my father’s desk, then began passing out individual cups.

In that moment, as I accepted a fresh mug of coffee—loaded with sugar and vanilla-flavored creamer, just the way I liked it—I could have kissed my mother. Even though she’d finished cleaning the kitchen before joining the important meeting. Even though she’d just served drinks from a silver tray to a room full of mostly men. And even though she’d done it in a demure skirt and two-inch heels.

At the moment, I was too grateful for the caffeine to ruin her nice gesture by telling her we were perfectly capable of getting our own coffee. So, I just smiled and thanked her. And gave myself a mental pat on the back for passing up an opportunity to argue with my mother and gloat over the fact that I hadn’t grown up to be just like her.

“Anything else?” my father asked Vic, nodding at my mother in thanks as he took the mug she offered. She nodded back and accepted the seat on the couch that Parker—ever the gentleman—gave up for her.

Owen nodded as Parker settled onto the floor at his feet. My father’s armchair was empty, but none of us would have dared sit in it. “There was a third scent on Jamey’s body. A stray. Neither of us recognized it.” He glanced around the room, taking in our individual reactions. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. He probably just came into contact with a stray at some point today.”

Marc frowned and set his mug on the end table to his right. “Are you sure it wasn’t Harper’s scent?” he asked, and I knew what he was thinking. Instead of reporting Robert Harper’s indiscretions, Kevin had helped cover them up, and as much
as I hated to consider it, we couldn’t ignore the possibility that Jamey had been doing something similar. Maybe that was why my father had withheld information from Jamey’s brother.

“We’re sure,” Vic said. “We all got a good whiff of Harper last night, and this definitely wasn’t him.”

My father sat up straight, listening to the crunch of Michael’s tires on gravel out front. A dark frown settled over his face as he stood and set his half-empty coffee mug on his desk blotter. “This is the third time this rogue tabby has killed someone in our territory in as many days, and now that she’s gone after a Pride cat, the council can no longer pretend she’s doing us a favor.”

He popped the knuckles of his right hand, and the resulting crack seemed to echo throughout the room. “I can get enough votes for a combined effort now. The other Alphas will have to do something to prove they care. But the council will resist being forced into action, and every minute they spend dragging their heels and pointing fingers is another minute added to the tabby’s head start. She’s hunting in
our
territory, and we can’t afford to wait on the council to find her.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “So…we’re going to apprise them of the situation, as we’re obligated to do. Then, while they twiddle their thumbs, we’re going after her on our own.” He paused, glancing at each of us individually, determination etched into every line of his face. “Does everyone understand?”

Hell yeah, we understood! Our Alpha was going vigilante. As the tips of my fingers began to tingle with excitement, I realized that for the first time in years, I was truly pleased to call myself my father’s daughter.

O
utside, my father and Michael marched down the gravel driveway side by side, their backs illuminated only by the front porch light because the moon and most of the stars were hidden by a thick covering of clouds. The rest of us trailed behind them. Except for my mother, who’d stayed behind.

Clad in his typical off-work uniform of khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt, Michael listened without a word as our father went over the specifics of the case for him. His pace never slowed, and his step never faltered—until he heard about Jamey Gardner. The instant he heard Jamey’s name, he seemed to trip over nothing, regaining his usual grace and poise an instant later. He and Jamey had been childhood friends, not quite as close as Jace and Ethan, but more than just acquaintances.

“You’re sure it was a woman?” Michael asked, his stride once again smooth, but noticeably quicker and more determined.

My father nodded. “We have a working description, but no idea who she is or why she’s targeting toms in our territory.
Or where she came from, though we’re guessing somewhere in South America, based on the scent.”

The barn rose before us at the end of the dirt path running down the center of the western field. In my childhood, it had been my secret retreat, but instead of afternoons spent in the company of Oliver Twist and Jane Eyre, I now associated the smell of fresh hay with death and decay, because for the second time in as many days, we were using the barn as a makeshift morgue.

With a stoic heave, and not so much as a grunt, my father pulled opened the big double barn doors. Again. And again we filed in after him. But this time, as Owen and Vic unloaded the plastic-wrapped bundle from the back of the van, my father gave directions to Jace and Ethan, who scampered up to the loft to push down the only three hay bales left over from last season. We weren’t going to put the body of a Pride member—a man who’d spent several childhood summers on our ranch—on the floor.

“The most obvious starting point is the unidentified stray scent on Jamey’s body,” my father said in his Alpha voice, as Owen carefully peeled strips of duct tape from the plastic. “I’m willing to bet this stray is our anonymous informant, and that he saw Jamey with the tabby. With any luck, he’ll have some useful information for us—like her name, and where she’s going. So the first order of business is to identify this stray.”

When the sheet of black plastic draping Jamey’s body fell open, a limp hand fell with it, hanging to brush the side of the hay bale. It looked for all the world like an image from a cheesy horror movie, and was every bit as surreal.

Owen clomped forward in his boots to gently lay Jamey’s hand over his stomach. As thoughtful as the gesture was, it
didn’t really help. There’s only so much you can do to make the sight of a dead companion easier to accept. Especially under such gruesome circumstances.

My father came forward first, while the rest of us stood watching him with our hands in our pockets. He stood silently at Jamey’s side, as if to say his final goodbye, but I could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that he was breathing deeply to take in the scent. He would no more lean down and blatantly sniff Jamey’s corpse than he would lay him on the floor. Or leave him exposed as a meal for nature’s scavengers.

Finally, he stepped back and shook his head. “I don’t recognize the scent, but that’s not really surprising. I can’t remember the last time I saw a stray in person. A live stray, anyway.”

I glanced at Marc in amusement, and he smiled back. My father probably didn’t even realize his mistake; he truly never thought of Marc as a stray. He thought of Marc as a son.

Michael came forward next and actually took Jamey’s hand in his own. I knew in seconds that he hadn’t recognized the scent, because when his breathing resumed its normal rhythm, he didn’t offer us any information. Yet he stayed with Jamey for almost a full minute, staring down at his friend’s face as if he were lost in some distant memory.

Eventually, Michael shook his head and retreated silently to a spot near the door. To avoid looking at anyone, he cleaned the wire-rimmed glasses he only wore for show. Marc and I stepped into the space he’d vacated. Marc inhaled deeply, and I did the same.

Then I froze.

Son of a bitch!
My fingers clenched around Marc’s, and his knuckles popped in rapid succession. He yelped in pain and tried to pull back his hand. I barely noticed. When my hand
relaxed, his fingers slipped from my grasp. He rubbed his bruised knuckles, smiling broadly at me. He’d identified it, too.

“You recognize the scent?” Michael asked, his voice sharp and clearly skeptical.

I nodded, and Marc’s smile widened even further.

My father arched both eyebrows, already impatient with the suspense. “Well?”

“Dan Painter,” I said, excitement making a breathless whisper of my voice. Things were finally starting to make sense.
Some
things, anyway.

Ethan shook his head. “What the hell is Painter’s scent doing on Jamey Gardner?”

I indulged in a gloating smile, thrilled to be more in-the-know than he was for once. “Clearly Painter is the anonymous informer.”

Owen frowned, shifting his hat back and forth on his head. “That’s not quite as clear as you seem to think it is, sis,” he drawled. “At least not to me.”

“I second that.” Parker’s gaze flicked uncertainly from me to Marc.

“Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” Vic began, propping one arm on top of the nearest stall door. “Greg’s been getting anonymous phone calls, all from the same man, reporting the rogue tabby’s kills and telling us where to find them.”

“So far, so good.” I winked at him for good measure.

“Thanks.” He glanced at my father, then continued. “Presumably, this caller has been following the tabby around, watching her. And now you think he’s this Dan Painter fellow. The same stray you guys caught and released in Arkansas, what? Three days ago?”

“Right.” Marc nodded.

Yet I felt compelled to correct one minor misunderstanding. “Actually,
I
caught Painter. Me. All alone.”

Vic grinned. “My mistake.” I smiled in acknowledgment, and he continued. “So, we think Painter is spying on the tabby, then ratting her out. But do we think she had something to do with the missing stripper, too?”

“The tabby couldn’t have killed her. Or taken her, or whatever,” Jace said. “Tandy went missing on Thursday night, around the time the tabby was busy killing Bradley Moore. In Arkansas. She didn’t get to New Orleans—that we know of—for two more days.”

“So what does the missing stripper have to do with the dead strays? Or toms?” Ethan frowned, looking at the body laid out on the bales of hay. “I guess they’re not just strays anymore.”

“Maybe nothing,” my father said. “But maybe…” He turned to face Michael, tired eyes now bright with unspoken ideas. “When we get in, I want you to do a search for missing strippers in Arkansas and Louisiana. Mississippi and Texas, too.”

Michael nodded. “No problem. You’re thinking there may be more missing than just the girl from New Orleans?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I think your mother’s right. The tabby’s looking for something. Some
one.
Maybe she’s looking for whoever took Kellie Tandy.”

Marc reached out for me, and I let him pull me close. “That would explain why she’s two days behind whoever took Tandy,” he said. “She’s tracking him.”

“No way.” I shook my head and felt my hair rub against Marc’s shirt. “There’s no possible way she could have tracked anyone that far.” It was
incredibly
difficult for one cat to track another across long distances. In the forest, it wasn’t so bad—our ears are very sharp, and the slightest sound can give away
your position. However, over long distances, it’s virtually impossible. Cats can’t track with their noses like dogs can. And even if we could, we’d lose the trail the moment our prey got into his car. “Besides, that doesn’t explain why she’s killed three toms in less than a week.”

My father clasped his hands behind his back, frowning in thought. “No, it doesn’t, and such long-distance tracking does seem pretty far-fetched, but without more to go on, I can’t see how else Kellie Tandy could be connected to the tabby.”

“Well, shi—!” Ethan shouted, snapping his mouth closed abruptly when he realized he’d almost cussed in front of his Alpha.

“What?” our father asked, waving off the social gaffe.

“I just realized that if Marc and Faythe had brought Painter back with them for questioning, instead of releasing him, we’d probably have known who the rogue tabby is three days ago.”

Well, hell.
I could feel my cheeks begin to burn. Ethan was right.

Excuses tumbled around in my brain, and several jumped immediately into the spotlight, ready for use. But my father beat me to it.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, taking in both Marc and me with his gaze. “I told you to release him. You did the right thing.”

I nodded, thankful for his reassurance, but couldn’t help feeling like I’d made a big mistake.
Another
big mistake. Which only reminded me of the one I hadn’t yet disclosed to either him or Marc.

“Did Painter say anything…I don’t know…
important,
while you were driving him to the border?” Parker asked.

“Um, no.” Marc held me tight against his chest. “He was unconscious.”

Michael pushed his glasses—which I suspected were just to make him look smarter—farther up on his nose. “Unconscious? How did he happen to lose consciousness?”

“I…kind of knocked him out.” I shrugged sheepishly when Michael frowned. “He got vulgar, talking about chasing a piece of…
tail.
So I…” I swung my arm up, in imitation of my prize-winning right hook. But my fist froze in midair and my words trailed off, as what I’d been saying finally sank in.

Chasing a piece of ass.
He’d said he was chasing a piece of ass.

“He meant the tabby,” I whispered, too surprised to manage any real volume. But it didn’t matter. They all heard me. “Painter was chasing the rogue tabby, and I knocked him out before he could tell us about her.”

Outside, cicadas chirruped, filling the silence as everyone but Marc stared at me in complete disbelief.

Then Ethan snorted. “Isn’t
that
a bitch?” He grinned, his expression one of dark amusement—as if he appreciated the irony—rather than actual anger. But I would have understood anger. I’d screwed up the entire investigation, before I even knew there
was
one.

“I swear on my life that I do
not
do these things on purpose,” I said, letting my head fall back to rest on Marc’s shoulder as his arms wrapped around me. I hated feeling like my fellow Pride members spent most of their time cleaning up my mistakes. I was better than that, and I wanted them all to know it.

“Of course you don’t,” Jace said. I lifted my head to look at him, encouraged by the understanding in his voice, and was even more relieved to find sympathy in his eyes. “You had no way of knowing all this was going on. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She didn’t do anything right, either,” Michael mumbled, still staring at the body of his childhood friend. I wanted to snap at him but resisted the impulse. I wasn’t the real source of his anger; that much was obvious.

“Jace is right,” my father said, eyeing Michael in compassion, rather than irritation. “She couldn’t possibly have known.” Bending, he reached for the plastic hanging over the bales of hay from beneath Jamey Gardner’s body. He pulled up first one side, then the other, until Jamey was completely and respectfully covered.

Standing, my father headed for the door, motioning for Michael to join him. “You can use the computer in my office to run a search on missing strippers. I want names, locations, dates they went missing, ages, and anything else that might be relevant. Get pictures, if you can find them.”

Michael took off through the western field at a jog, headed toward the main house.

“Ethan, you and Jace go fill your mother in on what we have so far, and see if she’s thought of anything else we can use.”

Ethan nodded, and he and Jace took off down the dirt path, behind Michael.

My father turned to me and Marc next, and my hands began to sweat from dread that he would put us on another plane. Fortunately, he had something else in mind. “Will you recognize Dan Painter’s voice if you hear it again?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. And Marc’s chest shifted slightly at my back as he nodded.

“The informant got my machine both times he called, and I saved the messages.” My father paused, looking deeply into my eyes to convey the importance of what he was about to say. “I want you two to listen to them and tell me whether or
not the voice on the machine belongs to Dan Painter. We have to confirm the informant’s identity before we proceed any further, because if he isn’t Painter, we’re looking at this all wrong.”

“No problem,” Marc said.

My father nodded, satisfied. “Good. Go.”

Marc and I headed toward the house together, while Owen, Vic, and Parker hung back to hear whatever instructions our Alpha had for them. A warm summer breeze blew through my hair as we walked through the field, bringing with it the scent of summer wheat, dirt, and trees. And Marc, because he was upwind from me, though only by an inch or so.

“Jace is right,” he said, probably unaware how odd that statement sounded, coming from him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This is not your fault.”

“The hell it isn’t.” I refused to look at him, staring straight ahead at the house, rising slowly from the waist-high field of grass around us. “If I hadn’t knocked Painter out, Jamey and Harper would both still be alive right now.”

Marc stopped abruptly, turning me by my shoulders to look at him. “Maybe. They
might
still be alive. Or, we might have learned what the tabby looks like, and nothing else. You don’t know that Painter could have given her to us. And you don’t know that we could have stopped her.”

True. I didn’t know that for sure. But I felt it with every beat of my heart. I’d messed up. Bad.