Shadow on the Moon (17 page)

"Stop talking. It makes your
chin move."

"Then don't ask questions.
Tell me about your childhood instead."

"What do you want to
know?" Dana stopped cutting and gave Morgan's beard a once-over.
"Good. I didn't cut too deep."

 
"How you learned to cut hair, for
instance."

"I used to cut my dad's. We
were miles from a barbershop, you know."

"Did you always live in the
Minnesota boonies?"

"Montana, Morgan. I lived in
Montana."

"Right."

"Shh." She bent again,
and he saw firelight dancing in her green eyes. The professional side of him
noted that her pupils were normally dilated, but another part just drank in the
fascinating shade. Fate had sent a woman to redeem him, and he appreciated the
fact that he was also beautiful.

"Since you asked." A tiny
grin played around her mouth. "I lived there as long as I can remember.
Mom and Dad said we stayed in a commune for a while, but they got tired of all
the rules and decided to homestead by themselves." Her grin widened.

"The first thing I remember .
.. oh, I must have been three or four . .. I was sitting on the porch, playing
with a rag doll my mother made me, while my dad chopped down a tree. All of a
sudden, I looked up and a wolf was standing at the edge of the forest. It knew
I saw him, but it stayed there for a while anyway, looking back at me. I felt
this, I don't know, I didn't think of it that way then, but I suppose you'd
call it a sense of kinship.

"I waved, and it kind of
nodded its head before turning to walk away. Then Dad caught sight of it. He
freaked. He dropped that ax, ran to the porch, and hustled me right
inside." She laughed softly. "Dad would never do that now. But back
then they were city people trying to live out a dream they didn't have the
skills for. Mother is a poet, You might have heard of her."

Morgan searched his memory.
"Johanna Gibbs?"

"Morgan, you aren't supposed
to talk," she said with feigned sternness. She tugged one side of his
beard, then the other. "Yeah, that's her. Dad is a sculptor, but he never
made it as big as Mother. He has a small following, but— They're divorced now.
. . There," she said, stepping back with a satisfied look. "You look
quite presentable, Doctor."

Morgan felt disappointed. He'd been
enjoying her story. Even more, he'd been enjoying her closeness. The heat, the
soap-and-water scent, the quick touches of her fingers, even the clip of the
scissors. Now she would stop, move away, eventually return to the daybed and
put all those feet of floor between them.

"Do you have a mirror?"
she asked, still looking pleased at her results.

Morgan shook his head.

"No clocks. No mirrors. Don't
you ever want to know the time or look at yourself?"

"At this face? You must be
kidding."

"Actually, you're quite
handsome."

Morgan felt a stupid urge to
chortle. He got up abruptly, finding himself standing chest to breast with
Dana. "Here," she said. "You've got a few loose hairs."

The brush of her fingertips shot
through his cheek like an electric current. Without quite meaning to, he
touched her curls and bent his head lower.

Dana tilted hers back.

It felt like slow Motion, that
gradual lessening of the space between their mouths, and when he met her lips
an eternity later, Morgan felt the kiss with every cell of his body. Soft lips,
warm and sweet, parting for him, inviting him to explore. But not yet. Not yet.
He skimmed his mouth across hers, gently, tentatively, nearly overwhelmed by
the sweetness of the moment.

Five long years since he'd touched
a mortal woman. Five years in which he feared the passion such a touch might
arouse. In secret fantasies, men often dreamed of devouring their woman, but
for him such fantasies could become all too horribly real.

Until now, Dana hadn't truly
comprehended the simmering tension that always seemed present when she and
Morgan were together. Suddenly, she understood completely. She wanted him . . .
the way a woman wants a man. She had felt this hunger almost from their first
meeting. Everything about him called to that secret female place within her.
His feral ways, his mercurial moods, his wry and unpredictable sense of humor.
She yearned to deepen their chaste and tentative kiss into a violent clash of
tongues and lips, to bring out the fierceness she knew lay hidden inside him.

Yet his kiss contained such
reverence, as though he cherished her beyond her wildest dreams. Rushing it risked
shattering the magic.

These needs, these wants, warred
within her, creating unbearably pleasurable sensations. How long since she'd
been with a man in this physical way? So long, she could hardly remember.

She felt his fingers moving in her
hair, stroking the locks. His beard softly grazed the corners of her mouth.
Their breaths mingled into one long sigh.

Time passed.

Then one of Morgan's knees gave. He
lurched forward and steadied himself against Dana's shoulder.

"Sorry," he mumbled,
gazing at the floor. "Fenris bumped into my leg."

The dog stood by the table, looked
up at them imploringly, then darted for the stove, where he whimpered at the
stewpot.

"He's hungry again." She
couldn't quite meet Morgan's eye. She'd never been good with romantic situations
and didn't know what to say. Should she mention the kiss? Pretend it never
happened? What?

"There's plenty for the three
of us." Morgan moved to the cupboard, took down three bowls, then began to
fill one. After placing it by the hearth for Fenris, he went back to the stove
and finally looked at Dana. "How hungry are you?"

Up until a short while ago, she'd
been famished. Now she barely had an appetite. "Just a little," she
said. When he dished in a scoop, she moved to take the bowl from his hand.

"That's all? You sure?"

She nodded, collected a spoon, then
headed for the bed.

"There's more than one chair,
you know," said Morgan.

She knew she could make up some
kind of excuse, but she only nodded again and went to the table. Morgan pulled
up the chair he'd occupied earlier and placed his bowl on the table. Although
he showed little enthusiasm, he slowly began to eat.

Dana only stared at her bowl.
Outside, the storm began to pick up steam. The windows rattled, the chimney
howled. The noise was nearly deafening, but it didn't distract her thoughts
from their kiss. Why didn't he say something? Was easing this awkwardness
supposed to be left up to her? Getting no answers, she dipped her spoon into
the stew and took a bite.

It turned out to be quite good, so
she took another one. As she swallowed her third mouthful, she caught Morgan
smiling at her.

 
"You must be hungrier than you
thought."

"I guess." She began to
relax. "Maybe tomorrow I can bake some bread."

"What a woman." He was
still smiling.

Dana smiled back, then got up to
refill her bowl. As she fished through the stew, searching for more potatoes,
she remembered her plans.

Bake bread? Who was she kidding?
First thing in the morning, weather permitting, she'd be hiking down the
mountain on her way back to her job. Her lingering smile instantly disappeared
and she guessed it didn't matter if they talked about the kiss.

After all, she'd never see Morgan
Wilder again.

Chapter Fourteen

Schumacher's teeth chattered. He'd
wrenched the last degree of heat from the generator on the motor home he was
using as headquarters, and he was still freezing. Wondering if he'd ever be
warm again, he disgustedly dropped the report he'd been reading and got up to
pour a cup of stale coffee—at least it was hot and would warm his innards—then
radioed the communications unit. "Which van is Fish—er, that is,
Rutherford in?"

"Unit nine-aught-three,
sir."

"Send someone to tell him I
want to see him."

"Right away. Also, sir,
thought you'd want to know the forensic report on Deek Kowalski came over the
fax just before the storm took up again."

"Watch out for man-eating
ghouls," joked someone else in the radio unit.

"What's that, officer?"
snapped Schumacher.

"Nothing, sir." All other
sounds at that end of the radio immediately ceased. "Nothing at all."

"That's what I thought. Keep
it that way. And send that autopsy over with Rutherford."

"Yessir!"

Schumacher glanced back at the
report he'd left on his desk. Charlie Lonetree was obviously suffering from
more than shock. He'd gone completely psychotic, raving about Indian legends,
arising beasts, sacrifices to the Great Spirit. What really rankled, though,
was how that sorry fool Fishman seemed to have taken Charlie seriously enough
to write a recommendation: Cancel Mission Lobo; concentrate all further efforts
on finding a serial killer.

Insanity! The autopsies of the
other victims clearly showed that animals had killed them. The little they'd
found left of Deek Kowalski in that mountain clearing didn't contradict that
conclusion.

A rap sounded on the door, and
Schumacher got up to let Rutherford step inside. After hastily slamming the
door on a frigid blast of air, the captain gestured to a chair. Rutherford
unzipped his down vest, took his time settling down, then pulled a folded paper
from an inside pocket.

"The forensic report."

The captain was about to ask what
happened to "sir," then remembered that Rutherford didn't work for
his agency. He took the paper, tossed it on his desk, and picked up the report
he'd been reading earlier.

"I want to talk about
this." He waved the report just inches from Rutherford's nose. "What
kind of bullshit are you pulling here?"

"I'm not pulling anything,
Captain. I interviewed Charlie before the medics coptered him out and that's
what he told me."

"Clearly he was
delirious."

Rutherford nodded gravely. "He
did appear to have fact and fantasy confused. Not unusual, considering he'd
just found his close friend brutally murdered and barely escaped death himself.
But his description is indisputable. Whoever killed Deek and chased Charlie
walked on two legs."

"And was covered with fur.
Didn't that make you wonder about the rest of it?"

"It was dark up there,
Captain. Charlie was scared out of his wits. Maybe the assailant was wearing a
fur coat. There are a number of explanations."

"Look, Rutherford, you can't
con me." Schumacher rattled the report again. "You'll do anything to
get this wolf hunt called off. Even make up a cock-and-bull story like this
one."

"With all due respect . .
." Rutherford paused, cleared his throat. "It sounds like you're
buying into those old legends about the canyon as much as Charlie has. My
conclusion is the only reasonable one."

"B-buying in?" Schumacher
sputtered. "Buying in! You read the other forensic reports, didn't
you?"

"Yes, I did and—"

"And, based on the ravings of
a half-crazy man, you want us to change the thrust of our investigation? That's
outrageous!"

"As I was saying, Captain, the
carnage has never been consistent with known wolf behavior."

"Then what? There's some
cannibalistic serial killer running amok in the canyon?"

"Ever heard of Jeffrey
Dahmer?" Rutherford interjected.

"Know what I think,
Rutherford?" Schumacher leaned over, went nearly nose-to-nose with the
man. "I think you know there really is a pack of wild wolves back there,
and you're so damned scared they'll rip you up like they did Kowalski, you'll
do anything to get out of hunting them."

"We're getting off track here,
Captain."

Rutherford's cool demeanor fueled
Schumacher's anger. Glaring, he wiggled the report inches from Rutherford's
face and spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm telling you, mister, if you
file this report, I'll go directly to your superiors and have your job before
you can say 'What the hell did I do?' You got that?"

Rutherford stood up. "I can
see we aren't getting anywhere." He walked to the door, then hesitated
before putting his hand on the knob. "I'm just doing my job, Captain
Schumacher. If you think you're right, then I advise you to do yours. I'll let
the dice fall where they may."

Then with another blast of frigid
air, he left.

Schumacher stared into space for a
while, fuming over the encounter. Cowards. Just his luck to be surrounded by a
pack of cowards. It was almost more than a man could bear. But being nothing if
not practical, he soon decided he was wasting time. The forensic report was
waiting. He opened it and began to read.

Tears consistent with animal bites

There, he thought, feeling
vindicated. No matter what Rutherford said, wolves had killed Kowalski.

. . . bones crushed and wrenched
apart

He shifted uneasily in his chair,
not wanting to remember Kowalski's butchered body.

.
. . a puzzling aspect . . .
the animal perpetrating these injuries had a jaw span of at least twenty
inches.

The captain's mouth dropped open. Did
any land-dwelling mammal have a mouth that wide? He didn't think so. With an
unsteady hand, he reached for a rough plaster rectangle that had resulted from
his order to make a casting of the print in the forest. When the final product
had arrived on his desk, he'd given it mere seconds of attention before
slamming it face down and deciding it would make a suitable paperweight.

Now, he slowly turned it and stared
at the markings in horrified fascination. He'd seen these prints, then had
vehemently denied the evidence of his own eyes. No animal he knew of left such
monstrously large tracks.