Secret of the Wolf (43 page)

from drunk to sober, from ne'er-do-well to competent adult, from coward to hero
.

He laughed at himself and pressed his forehead to the sun-warmed glass. The heroism

was all Johanna's, if she could deliver him from his demons. But she couldn't do it

alone. He must give up every trace of resistance and let her into his innermost heart,

where she could drag his fears into the light. Where he must confront them

unflinchingly, even those—especially those—he had never seen except as shadows
.

How he hated choices. Easier to run. Easier until you found yourself bound by stronger

chains than any in that dark, stinking cellar

No. That dungeon was far away. Johanna was here, and now. Soon he'd see her, and

all they'd shared would become his only reality. Soon he'd be a whole man again, able

to love
.

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He mouthed the word and choked on helpless laughter. Quentin Forster, in love—with a

distinctly unglamorous, too-serious woman well past her first youth
.

An absurdity. Just like the rest of his life. Why should he be surprised?

Whistling with nonsensical happiness, he washed and dressed with extra care. This late

in the morning, Johanna would be busy with the others, but Mrs. Daugherty was bound

to have some leftovers from breakfast. He'd bide his time, visit Wilhelm and talk to

Harper. He was surprised that May hadn't come looking for him, but somewhat relieved.

May was too young to be aware of what had passed between him and Johanna
.

Or was she? His good humor dimmed. May. What was to be done about her?

Trapped in indecision, he walked out the door and found Lewis Andersen waiting in the

hallway
.

The former minister shrank back as Quentin appeared, holding his gloved hands high

like a shield between them
.

"Did you do it?" he whispered. "Did you kill that man?”

"What?" His guts knotted. "What did you say?”

"Thou

thou cursed creature of Satan. Did you kill him?”

Quentin backed into the wall and felt blindly for its support. "Kill who?”

"The owner of the Red Star quicksilver mine—Ronald Ketchum. The actress told us

about it. He was found dead, torn apart." He sucked his breath through his teeth. "You

did it, didn't you? You are evil." His hands trembled. "You will not kill again. I will stop

you.”

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Even in the midst of his horror, Quentin admired Andersen's courage. The man was

hardly the heroic sort, yet he stood face-to-face with what he believed to be a monster.

A killer. He had more grit than anyone knew
.

"If this is true," Quentin said past the constriction in his throat, "you won't have to stop

me." He took a step forward
.

Andersen held his ground. He began to sing in a high-pitched, wavering voice—a hymn,

"Soldiers of Christ Arise," that Quentin remembered hearing in his childhood
.

"I won't hurt you," he said, taking another step. "I must find Doctor Schell.”

"Stop." Andersen produced a gun from inside his coat and pointed it at Quentin's chest.

Where he had acquired such a weapon, or how he knew enough to use it, was a subject

for wild speculation
.

Quentin raised his hands. "Shoot, if you must," he said, floating within a bizarre calm. "I

won't prevent it.”

"But I will.”

Johanna came up behind Andersen. She set her hand on his shoulder. "Give me the

gun, Lewis.”

"But he is a killer, spawn of the devil. I must—”

"You don't want to hurt anyone, Lewis. Even if what you say is true, he is entitled to

representation before the law, is he not?”

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Her calm, reasonable voice worked its usual magic on Andersen. The muzzle of the gun

tilted down. Johanna pried it from Andersen's fingers and held the weapon as gingerly

as if it were a poisonous snake
.

"You would not listen before," Andersen said, never taking his gaze from Quentin. "You

must listen now. He will come after you next.”

"What makes you believe that, Lewis?”

His thin face puckered. "I know.”

"I have never given you cause to distrust my judgment, have I?”

"No.”

"Then trust me now. Quentin will not hurt me. He won't hurt any of us." She looked into

Quentin's eyes. "Whatever he may be, Quentin is not evil. No more than you or I.”

"You will

keep the gun?”

"Yes. I must speak to Quentin now, but I shall not fail to protect myself. You would help

me best if you'd gather the others and bring them into the parlor. Please fetch Mrs.

Daugherty as well, and ask her to bring my father out of his room. It's very important

that everyone stay indoors today.”

Andersen bobbed his head. "Yes. Yes, I understand." He cast Quentin a glance

composed of equal parts fear and loathing and scuttled backward down the hall,

watching them both until he passed out of view
.

Johanna released a long breath and stared at the gun in her hand
.

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"You won't need that against me, Johanna," Quentin said lightly. Better to joke than to

run wailing in despair
.

He hadn't known quite what to expect of their first meeting after last night's loving.

Awkwardness, yes, and perhaps a little shyness on her part. A new familiarity between

them. Possibly even her resolve that it should never happen again. Anything but this
.

His latest, brief flirtation with hope had already come to an end. Andersen had seen to

that—Andersen and his accusations
.

Accusations Johanna confirmed with the bleak, drawn expression on her face
.

It was still a beautiful face, though the hair hung bedraggled about her shoulders and

her forehead was moist with perspiration. He'd have to be dead not to appreciate it,

however desperate his circumstances. Her face, her lips, her form from crown to toe

were imprinted upon his hands and his lips and his heart
.

He didn't dare embrace her, though his mind and soul and body demanded the solace

of her arms. He didn't dare move at all
.

"Andersen was telling the truth," he said. "Someone was killed last night.”

"So I have heard.”

"And you think

that I had something to do with it.”

Anguish darkened her eyes to pewter. "When you left me—" Her voice faltered just for

an instant. "Afterward, where did you go?”

"To the woods. And then back here.”

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"Do you remember every moment?”

Did he? Could he be certain he hadn't forgotten the forgetting itself? He remembered

falling into bed, exhausted from his run, and then sinking into what he presumed was a

deep, uninterrupted sleep

"I didn't drink," he said, frantically sifting his mind for plausible alibis. "I knew nothing of

this Mr. Ketchum before Andersen told me.”

"He was known to mistreat his Chinese workers. As—" Her throat worked. "—as May's

father might have mistreated her.”

His lungs stopped working. "You said something happened in town

the night I got

drunk. You never told me what it was.”

"May's father was attacked and wounded.”

"Oh, God." He fell back against the wall and clutched at his head. Trouble always

followed in his footsteps, wherever he went, whispering of violence, of fear and hatred

and suspicion. It had found him again, in this last and final sanctuary
.

But in all those times past, the whispers had never been of murder
.

He forced himself to look at her instead of cringing like a whipped dog. "Did I kill this

man?" he asked, letting blessed numbness seep into his body
.

She shook her head, too fiercely. It savaged his heart to see her so torn, so vulnerable.

She was the very pillar of solid strength to everyone here, including himself
.

He'd undermined that fortitude ever since he came to the Haven, hour by hour and day

by day. Last night had shattered the remaining foundations of her life, and left her with

nothing to be sure of
.

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"Johanna," he said. "Did someone see me do this thing?" He straightened, staring past

her. "I'll go into town at once and give myself up—”

"No." She raised her chin. "We know nothing yet. No facts, only rumor. But there is

something I must tell you, something I recently discovered. I wish that circumstances

permitted me to explain more gradually. I fear it may be difficult for—" Tears filled her

eyes. "I am sorry, Quentin.”

She led him into her office, still clutching the gun in a death grip, and closed the door
.

Then she told him
.

He didn't react at all. Johanna watched for signs of horror, denial, incredulity. None

came. He listened to her account of Fenris's emergence, unmoving, as if she were

describing a rather uninteresting acquaintance
.

That was abnormal in itself, almost frightening. She carefully edited her description of

Fenris's advances upon her, but she doubted very much that he'd failed to guess what

she omitted
.

When she was finished, he gazed blankly at the wall and said nothing. Minutes ticked

by. Precious minutes that she dared not waste, for May's sake as well as his
.

Bolkonsky might arrive in a matter of hours. Oscar had not returned from his search for

May, and if he did not come soon she'd go looking herself. Her original plan for the girl's

escape was no longer viable; Bridget would simply have to spirit May out of the area

while Johanna concocted a story that Bolkonsky and Ingram were bound to find wildly

implausible. But she didn't dare risk facing them down with May still present
.

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Watching Quentin's face, Johanna mourned inside. She grieved for him, for May, for the

man who had been killed, whatever his crimes in life. She grieved for what had been so

briefly captured last night. She longed to touch Quentin, kiss him, and knew how

impossible it was. Her organs had turned to water, filling her body like a reservoir apt to

spill over into a flood of tears once she opened the gates
.

That she must not do. Her brain must become as sharp as a scalpel, her heart as hard

as marble
.

"You never suspected this," she said at last
.

"No." He turned his head toward her, but his eyes wouldn't focus. "Not this. I felt a

shadow

the shadow I ran from. And it was always—" He laughed. "It was me all

along.”

She quenched the desire to comfort him with soothing words and promises she couldn't

keep. "Not you, Quentin. A part of you, born at a time when you desperately needed

help and found none.”

"Fenris," he whispered. "It even has its own name. He." He rose from the chaise and

walked across the room, slow and halting as an old man. "All these times I've lost my

memory—after the drinking—he's come out. That's what you're saying. He lives in my

body with me. He takes over and does things—terrible things.”

"So Fenris claims—and Bolkonsky. But there is no proof, Quentin.”

"Except that two people have been attacked since I came to the Haven." He finally met

her gaze. "And I don't remember. But someone saw me, didn't they, Johanna?”

"No one witnessed the attack on May's father. Fenris admitted it himself.”

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He closed his eyes. "Why? Why did he do it?”

"He wouldn't say. But I think

" She prepared herself to hurt Quentin again. "Your

concern for May became something different for Fenris. You share a mind and a body.

He felt what you feel, knew what you knew, but he was not constrained by the bonds of

civilized behavior, or by the reason that tells us right from wrong.”

"You mean that he did what I wanted to do, but couldn't.”

"There is so much I don't know and can only theorize. I'm sorry.”

"Your theories are more than reasonable." He sat down again, as if he couldn't remain

still. "I never stayed long in any one place, because after a few days or weeks I always

sensed something wrong. Sometimes it was just a hunch, a bad feeling in my gut.

Rumors, the stares of people around me that told me that I wasn't welcome. Sometimes

I heard stories. And once in a while, the law came after me." His voice became a