Shadow on the Moon (16 page)

Beyond, in the area pointed out by
his officer, were scattered mounds of snow. A solid chunk of ice here, a
broken-up clump there. Further out, probably a hundred yards by his estimate,
were a number of smaller pieces. The captain didn't even want to consider that
they also came from this source. Still, his officer was right. There wasn't any
other explanation.

"Wouldn't want to meet that
guy in a dark alley." He tightened the neck fastenings of his jacket
against the cold. "I hope he's on our side."

"Yes, sir." For a second,
the two just stood and looked at each other. Schumacher remembered the bits and
pieces remaining of Deek Kowalski, but he couldn't say what his officer was
thinking.

"Should, er, should I open her
up now, sir?"

"Yeah, I guess," he
mumbled, then remembered who he was, what he stood for—the best of the Arizona
Highway Patrol. "Look, kid," he said harshly. "Don't go sissy on
me. We're here to rid this forest of those killers, or die trying. So buck up,
do your job, and report as soon as you have an ID on the vehicle. Got
that?"

"Yessir!" Yet Schumacher
still saw poorly disguised terror in the younger man's eyes.

The remaining officers had fanned
out in all directions, searching for the missing occupant or occupants. Two
were on a snowmobile, traversing a large meadow. Another man had just entered a
snow-dogged path leading up the mountain.

"Anything yet?" he called
as he approached the sergeant in charge.

"No, sir."

 
"Well, step it up! We don't have all
day!" "Yes sir." The sergeant turned away and delved into the
dark, thick forest. Schumacher stared after him until he disappeared. Soon he
heard the plop of falling snow, which was followed by a curse. Obviously a tree
had dropped a load of snow on the man's head. Another time the captain might
have smiled, but not now.

He didn't like this place.

True, they were miles from those
goddam black fingers and that shredded body, but even the base of the mountain
seemed to have the same dead feel. It wasn't in Schumacher's frame of reference
to call it cursed, yet if he'd searched the depths of his soul with any kind of
rare honesty, he would have admitted he felt just that.

It was so cold here. A deep,
piercing cold that reached a man's marrow. He stomped his feet to get more
blood flowing and moved into the sunnier meadow. Here the snow billowed
constantly in the ceaseless wind, so even the sun failed to warm him.

The officer assigned to the vehicle
came running up, waving a piece of paper. "This does belong to the missing
biologist, Captain." He handed over the Ranger's registration, which
Schumacher saw was from New Mexico. It listed the owner as Dr. Dana Gibbs.

"Should we step up the search,
sir?"

Schumacher hesitated. The public
was screaming bloody murder about the wolf slaughters. This was, after all,
Mission Lobo. Yet to leave a well-known scientist to fend for herself in this
horrendous weather wouldn't exactly garner good press either. Still, he only
had so many men to spare. Which choice would be best for his career?

"Captain!"

The call came from somewhere in the
trees and pushed the dilemma from the captain's mind. The officer at his side
started racing toward the darkest part of the forest, but Schumacher hesitated
for the space of several quick heartbeats. Then, because he knew his duty, he
moved forward.

"Here, Captain," someone
called from inside the forest. "Over here."

Concentrating on not tripping, he
wended his way through the many twisted roots. Jesus, it was dark in here. The
boggy ground sucked at his boots like it wanted to swallow him, and he was
regretting the thirty extra pounds he'd added over the years.

"Captain!" came another
panic-filled cry.

Schumacher forced himself on. As
his eyes grew used to the dark, he saw the officer who'd given him the
registration. Then the sergeant came into focus. Both men were gawking at the
ground.

"Good God!" the captain
exclaimed. "Good God almighty!"

"What the hell do you think
made those?" asked the sergeant.

Yeti. Bigfoot. A fucking
five-hundred-pound wolf.

"I don't know," choked
Schumacher. "I don't know. . . . But it's nothing I've ever seen
before."

Uncomfortably aware of the quaver
in his voice, he collected his emotions into a tight little ball and scowled at
the men. "Don't give me any of this lily-livered stuff," he barked.
"You don't see me trembling in my boots. Our job is to track this thing
down, and that's what we're going to do. So get to it!"

In response, he received a pair of
blank stares aimed at his hands. Slowly dropping his gaze, he saw they were
shaking like leaves in the wind.

"It's the cold," be
rasped, deepening his scowl. Then, ordering the men to make casts of the
prints, he walked away, aching to return to the sunlight.

Chapter Thirteen

Dana found some potatoes. Although
they were old, soft, and wrinkled, she figured they'd add variety to the stew,
so she peeled them and cut them up. As she was adding them to the pot, Morgan's
door opened.

She looked over to see him watching
her. His disheveled hair and tangled, wild beard gave him a frazzled
appearance, and his eyes were almost bleeding with pain. What had gone on
between him and Lily? He'd seemed almost happy before that woman showed up.

She felt a sudden stab of jealousy
and resentment, then remembered that his brief burst of good humor had ended
with the helicopter incident and Fenris's escape. Had she been the one who'd
disappointed him? It wouldn't be the first time she'd disappointed someone,
usually with dire results. A long time ago she'd lost someone dear because
she'd failed to act responsibly. She'd only been a child then, but—

"I'm sorry about Fenris."
She dropped the last potato into the stew.

"He survived. That's all
that's important." Morgan walked to the hearth and squatted beside the
dog, who rolled onto his back and begged Morgan for a scratch.

"We need to take him back to
the kennel," he said, attending to the dog's tummy.

"Now? It's going to storm
again."

"They have shelter."

"But he almost froze out
there, and— Oh, please, Morgan, let him stay."

He regarded her sternly. "I
told you, he isn't a pet, Dana. If this keeps up, you're going to turn him into
one."

She started to protest, but then
thought better of it. Fenris whined and licked Morgan's hand. Thunder tracked
outside, shaking the windowpanes.

 
"It's going to be a bad one," said
Dana. Another span of silence. Another crack of thunder.

"All right. But just
tonight." He got up, walked over to the stew pot, and looked down
suspiciously. "What are you doing to it?"

"I added a few potatoes. It's
a little monotonous eating the same thing all the time, don't you think?"

"Loses my dog, changes my
diet," he said, smiling weakly. "What a woman."

Dana took the comment as a white
flag. "So beat me," she said, smiling back.

"It crossed my mind."

He meandered around the room,
looked at the replenished log supply a second, went to the peg rack and
rearranged the hanging garments, wandered back to the stove.

"How long till the potatoes
are done?"

"Half an hour or so."

"I guess I won't starve."

Morgan wondered what Dana would do
if she learned how much truth his remark about starving contained, or of what
he'd done during his absence. Would she run in horror? Scoff in disbelief? Or.
would she tend to him as lovingly as she had the runt?

The maiden must willingly
perform the rituals, love filling her heart . . .

Love? A whole and giving woman such
as Dana love the likes of him? The idea was ludicrous.

Lord, where was Morgan Wilder,
society psychiatrist and one of New York's most eligible bachelors, now that he
needed him? Him, Dana might love. But a shapeshifter? A slavering night
creature? Not even a Harlem hooker would love him.

"I could trim your hair and
beard while we wait," Dana offered out of the blue.

"Can I trust you with scissors
near my throat?"

She laughed. "It's a risk
you'll have to take."

Morgan touched his beard, then ran
a hand through his hair. Until she'd arrived, he hadn't realized how wild and
unkempt he must look. He supposed he could more easily win her affections
without a ton of hair on his head. "Go for it. I'm braver than you’ve me
credit for."

"Oh, I give you credit all
right." She plucked a pair of scissors from a butcher-block slab on the
counter. "Not exactly hairdresser quality, but I suppose they'll do. Have
a seat."

A few minutes later, Morgan cringed
as mounds of his hair hit the floor. Delilah shearing Samson of his strength.
But how right it felt, sitting in front of her, listening to the scissors go
snip-snip-snip. Like a regular working guy letting his wife cut his hair so
they could save a few bucks to put toward a house. He'd never led that kind of
life. His had been privileged since birth. Everything came easily. Now, in
cruel contrast, he schemed desperately to win a woman's heart, with the stakes
his own humanity.

"Morgan, who were those
people?"

He'd known the question would come
eventually, had already formulated a reasonable answer. "Neighbors,
loosely speaking. They live about mid-mountain."

"How did they get here? For
that matter, how do any of you get around in these blizzards?"

"You're barraging me with
questions, Dana. Which do you want answered first?"

"God, I don't know. How do you
travel in the storms? I know you were out there, too."

"Oh?" That took him by
surprise. "What makes you think so?"

"A friend of yours came by.
Tony. You know him, don't you?"!

Morgan nodded.

"He said he'd just seen you a
little while before."

"White Hawk told you
that?"

"Yes, while he helped me carry
in the wood."

"Why were you getting
wood?"

"Because we were almost—"
She blew out an exasperated breath. "For heaven's sake, Morgan, answer my
question. How do you people do it? I mean, the weather was awful when you
left."

"Nothing mysterious," he
said, making it up as he went along. "Dress warm. Wear snow
 
shoes. Pretty soon, you learn where to find
shelter."

"Not in my experience, and I
was raised in some of the most rugged—"

 
"I know, Dana. You've told me several
times. But this is Arizona, not Minnesota, and—"

"Montana."

"Not Montana. Storms don't
last for weeks—or even whole days, for that matter." Morgan was feeling
pressured; his ire was rising. "I like storms. Okay?"

"So does everyone else up
here, it seems. Hold still, I need to get this straggling bit of hair."

Morgan felt a second's gratitude
for that stray lock, because it let him tame his anger. Strong emotions weren't
welcome here. He might have wondered how she'd react if he revealed his true
self, but he wasn't yet prepared to have her freak out over additional stray
locks sprouting on his hands.

She must vanquish her horror of
her loved one's bestiality . . . Shadow of Venus
, p 147, or so he would
once have written in the citation of some learned paper.

And probably sacrifice her life in
the process. What woman would do that, even for the human and urbane Morgan
Wilder? Besides, when did he plan to reveal himself? Time wasn't exactly on his
side. The full moon would arrive whether he was prepared or not.

"So many strange things are
happening, Morgan." He heard a small tremor in her voice. "I have so
many questions. This sounds crazy, I know. . ." Then she blurted it out.
"How did your feet heal so quickly?"

He'd been prepared for that one,
too. "I keep some salve that White Hawk gave me in the dogs' supply shed.
I put it on my feet and — well, you saw."

By the little shimmy in the
scissors, he felt her nod.

"Herbs, probably," she
said musingly. "Do wild Indians really live up here?"

Morgan chuckled.

"Sit still," she instructed
crossly. "Do they?"

"I doubt they'd call
themselves wild, but they do keep to themselves. Most of them have never been
out of the canyon. They see the occasional hiker, of course, but they avoid
them."

"Tony seems friendly
enough."

"Yeah, well, his story is a
little different."

"Tell me about it."

"He's a private man. You'll
have to ask him yourself."

Dana sighed so loudly, Morgan knew
it was for his benefit. "That's another thing. Nobody gives me straight
answers."

He turned his head to look at her,
but she put her hands on the sides of his head and stopped him.

"I'm going to start on your
beard."

She moved in front and gave him a
thorough inspection, occasionally tugging his beard. Morgan almost laughed at
his inner cringing. If he were still practicing psychiatry, he'd have diagnosed
an extreme lack of self-esteem. Probably have prescribed a few sessions, a
couple self-help books, maybe a support group. Then he would have sent himself
on his way—happy, confident, alive again—physician having healed himself.

If only it were that easy.

"A bit uneven on the
left," Dana remarked as she started trimming. After a quiet moment, she asked,
"So tell me how Lily and Jorje hiked halfway up a mountain."

"I suppose they came by sled.
They have dogs, too." Morgan instantly realized he had left himself open
for Dana to renew her request to leave, so he ad-libbed a disclaimer.
"Lily's crazy enough to try anything, despite the danger. Not a move I'd
recommend, let me tell you."