Witching Moon (3 page)

It was early, but she could feel heat rising from the marshy land on either side of the desolate road as she walked toward the barrier.

Still, when a cloud drifted across the sun, she felt a sudden chill. Shaking it off, she walked to the padlocked chain that secured the gate and opened the lock.

With the bar out of the way, she returned to her car and drove through, then swung the wooden pole back into place and snapped the lock closed, thinking that escape was now impossible.

 

ADAM
regarded his haggard face in the bathroom mirror. He looked like he'd been shot out of a cannon and missed the net.

With a grimace, he turned on the shower and stepped under water as hot as he could stand. After washing off the muck, he dabbed antiseptic on his scratches, shaved, and dressed in a clean pair of dark slacks and the green shirt that Nature's Refuge called a uniform.

At least he looked presentable. But his head still felt twice its normal size. Opening the refrigerator, he considered what to eat for breakfast. Nothing appealed to him, but he knew from experience that going without food was bad for his system. So he grabbed some chunks of stew beef and carried them to the table in his small dining room.

He liked the house that came with the job. All he had to do was step out the front door and walk a few hundred yards along a path to the main part of the park complex.

The built-up area of Nature's Refuge consisted of six structures. The largest was the administrative center with offices, a gift shop, and an auditorium where he and the other staffers gave nature talks. They also conducted tours of the swamp, both on foot along well-marked trails and boardwalks and in the trim skiffs moored in the dock area.

Chris Higman and Dwayne Parker had already arrived at the main office by the time he'd washed the meat down with a cup of blackberry tea and two ibuprofen.

Adam stopped inside the office door, automatically dragging in a deep breath, catching his staffers' familiar scent. Under normal circumstances he'd know whether either of these people had been part of last night's orgy. Today, he didn't have a clue. And the lack of knowledge made his chest feel tight.

“You two are always right on time,” he commented, trying to sound like his usual chipper self.

“Maybe I'm anglin' for your job,” Dwayne joked.

“I'll watch my back,” Adam answered, striving for a light tone.

The door banged, and Leroy Hamilton came in. He was slightly older than Chris and Dwayne, and he'd been here a couple of years longer.

In the National Park Service, all the rangers had a college degree in a prescribed set of fields. That certainly wasn't true at Nature's Refuge. When Adam had come to the park, he'd found some of the staffers poorly trained and some of the procedures pretty lax, to put it mildly. But he was getting things into shape.

As he usually did in the morning, he went over the assignments for the day. But it was impossible to turn off his earlier thoughts. He'd established a pretty good relationship with the young men and women who worked for him. Now he couldn't help wondering if any of them had chased him through the swamp last night—intent on murder.

As far as he could see, nobody seemed the worse for wear this morning. But all of them certainly knew what area of the park would be good for an after-hours party.

He stifled a sigh. They looked like clean-cut kids. In fact, he knew they were all fine upstanding members of the local Baptist church, since each of them on separate occasions tried to get him to attend services.

Most of the people around here were churchgoers. So was there some kind of underground cult in town that went completely against the cultural norms?

He snorted inwardly at the sociological jargon. Obviously, he was in a strange mood this morning. Yet the question did bear asking. Had he seen local people out for a night of revelry in the swamp? Or were the trespassers from out of the area? Would they come again? And most of all, were they the same people who had murdered Ken White?

Maybe he'd find some clues when he located the place where they'd made their fire.

Leaning his hips against his desk, he gave the three staffers a serious look. “I thought I smelled smoke out in the park last night.”

All eyes riveted to him.

“You hear anything about individuals illegally in the park?”

“No, sir,” Leroy said immediately. The others echoed his answer.

“Well, I want to go out there and have a look.”

“You want me to go with you?” Dwayne asked immediately.

“No. I'll handle it myself. Send Tim down to the ticket booth at the boat dock when he comes in.”

“You got it, boss,” Dwayne answered.

Picking up a walkie-talkie from the shelf near the door to the equipment room, Adam headed for the dock where he climbed into one of the motorboats tied up near the main channel. If you knew where you were going, sometimes a boat was the quickest way into the park's interior.

He was thinking about the party-goers again as he started the outboard motor, then settled down in the back of the skiff, his hand on the tiller.

The dark water was smooth as glass, an almost perfect mirror reflecting the trees that hung above the channel. An egret flapped away as the boat rounded a bend, and Adam thought he heard a gator splash into the dark water. Usually he enjoyed the wildlife in the park. This morning he was too preoccupied.

He wasn't sure exactly where he'd encountered the fire the night before, but he had a good idea of the general area, since he'd made it his business to get to know his domain. Fifteen minutes later, he cut the engine and tied the boat to the roots of a dead tree. Climbing out, he scrambled through muck that came several inches up his low boots, then made it onto more solid ground. Pausing again to get his bearings, he headed through the underbrush toward the open area he remembered from the night before, looking for signs of trampled vegetation and seeing none.

Cautiously, he stopped and sniffed the air. When he caught the barest whiff of the smoke, he froze. No way was he going to let that stuff take over his mind again.

For a long moment, he stood absolutely still, breathing shallowly in and out, his perception turned inward. When he'd smelled the stuff last night, he'd started feeling muzzy almost at once. As far as he could tell, nothing like that was happening now. Maybe the residue was at so low a level that it wouldn't hurt him.

Or just the opposite could be happening. Perhaps once you'd been bitten by this particular snake, it only took a little of the venom to wig you out again. And you wouldn't even realize it was happening.

He'd just decided to save his recon mission for later when movement on the other side of the clearing caught his eye, and he went very still. Something was there.

A large animal?

No—a person, dressed in green and brown that blended with the foliage. A guy who knew his way around in the backcountry.

Then the figure stepped out of the shadow of the trees, and he realized it wasn't a guy. Instead, he found himself staring at feminine curves covered by a long-sleeved shirt, cotton pants, and boots similar to his own.

She wasn't aware of him, giving him time to focus on her blond hair, caught at the nape of her neck by a simple band.

He zeroed in on that hair, thinking it was like what he remembered from some of the women last night.

Without moving a muscle, he watched her wander into the clearing. When he saw her kneel, saw her bring something shiny and metal out of the pack she was carrying, he leaped forward.

“HOLD IT RIGHT
there!”

The blond woman jerked around to face him, her hand clenched around a clump of sweet flag she was about to dig up with a small trowel.

“You're trespassing on private property,” he heard himself say, surprised that his voice sounded normal, because he felt suddenly light-headed as he gazed into wide blue eyes that regarded him warily.

It was the remnants of the smoke affecting him, he thought. It had gotten to him again. He could smell its lingering presence more strongly than he had a few moments earlier, and now he wished he had backed away instead of letting himself be drawn forward into a trap.

But it was already too late, he knew on some deep, buried level. He might have tried to puzzle out what that meant. It was only one of the confused thoughts that swirled in his brain, thoughts that danced away before he could catch onto any one of them long enough to bring it into focus.

Last night the smoke had taken away the sharpness of his senses. Now his reaction was totally different. In the morning sunlight, he was suddenly and totally absorbed by every detail of the woman kneeling before him. His gaze lingered for a moment on a blond strand of hair that had escaped the band at the back of her neck and now curved seductively around her ear. Then he took in the triangle of ivory skin exposed at the throat of her shirt.

But more than the physical impressions, he saw that she was struggling not to show panic as she stared at him with those wide blue eyes.

That panic made his chest tighten. “It's okay,” he said, then wasn't sure if the words had reached his lips or only echoed in his mind as he took her in.

What the hell was she doing out here, anyway? Had she returned to the scene of last night's clandestine party? Or was she engaged in some other crime? Like stealing plants from a private park.

He had to admit she didn't look much like a criminal. Her hair was the color of ripe wheat. Her face was heart-shaped and delicately made with beautifully curved lips, high cheekbones, and those blue, blue eyes, framed by dark-tipped lashes.

She was slender. About five five, he guessed. Her breasts were high and very nicely rounded. Probably she thought her hips were too generous, but he liked them the way they were.

He blinked, stood his ground, trying to explain in his mind why he was fixated on this woman. “The smoke,” he said, and this time was sure he had spoken aloud, because she dragged in a breath, her nose wrinkling before she answered him.

“What smoke?”

“Don't you smell it? The leftovers from the party.”

She tipped her head to the side, looking at him as though he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had. He'd lost it last night and thought he'd found it again in the morning. Now he struggled to remember what they had been talking about.

“You're trespassing,” he managed.

She was still kneeling on the ground. Now she reached for a knapsack lying a few feet away, pulled it toward her, and thrust a hand inside. When it emerged, she was holding a small revolver. “Don't come any closer,” she said, as she carefully stood up. “Raise your hands.”

He'd been feeling spacey, as though his brain and his body belonged to two separate people, and there was no way to bring the two of them back together. The gun did the trick. Suddenly the muzzy feeling was gone. He stood where he was, raised his hands, palms toward her. “Be careful with that thing,” he said.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she asked.

Had she been the one shooting at him last night? And now was he giving her a free second chance? Too bad he was pretty sure those old legends about werewolves weren't true. You didn't need to load your gun with silver bullets to bring down a member of the species. All you needed was nice hot, conventional lead.

“Who are you?” she asked again, her voice going an octave higher. He heard raw nerves in that voice, which made the situation all the more dangerous. His mind was doing swift calculations now. She didn't look like the kind of woman who was used to handling a gun, but that proved nothing, except that she could shoot him by accident.

“Take it easy,” he advised. “You don't want to get arrested for killing the head ranger at Nature's Refuge.”

“The head ranger! Don't give me that. The head ranger should be expecting me.”

Expecting her? Who the hell was she? Some inspector the park's owner, Austen Barnette, had sent and forgotten to mention to his minions? That wasn't like the old coot. Or was there some information about this woman buried in a pile of junk mail?

“I'm Adam Marshall,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “Whom should I be expecting?”

Ignoring his question, she demanded, “Show me some identification.”

He watched her eyes, gauging her level of jumpiness. Would she really pull the trigger, or would she hesitate a fraction of a second, giving him time to knock the weapon out of her hand?

Some part of his brain was viewing the confrontation from a distance like a kind of strange out-of-body experience. “Okay, my wallet's in my pocket. Don't drill me when I pull it out,” he said, speaking calmly as he reached into his back pocket and extracted the wallet, then carefully opened it to his driver's license, which he held up for her to see.

She peered at the plastic-covered rectangle, then snapped, “That's from Texas.”

“Yeah, right. I just took the job here four months ago.”

“And you haven't changed your license?”

“I've been busy. If you've been in touch with Austen Barnette, you may recall that the previous head ranger was found shot dead in the park. So pardon me for being a little careful when I meet up with strangers out here.”

She winced. After several second's hesitation, she lowered the weapon, and he managed to fill his lungs with air for the first time since the gun had appeared out of her knapsack.

“Thanks,” he said, then asked, “So who are you?”

“Sara Weston.”

The name was familiar, and he struggled to figure out the context. “The botanist,” he finally said. “Working on the drug project for Granville Pharmaceuticals.”

“That's right.”

“I was expecting a fifty-year-old woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun,” he said, feeling foolish as the words came out of his mouth.

She made a face. “You don't have to be an old bat to be interested in the medicinal uses of plants.”

“I realize that.” He sighed. “But I'd be remiss if I didn't ask
you
for some identification.”

She nodded and hunkered down to reach in her pack. As he had done, she pulled out a wallet with her driver's license—and also a letter from Barnette, giving her permission to take plant specimens from the park.

“You looking for a cure for cancer?” he asked.

“I'm looking for plants that native Americans and herbal healers have used successfully. Like this
Acorus calamus
,” she said, gesturing toward the plant she'd been about to dig up.

“Sweet flag,” he said.

“Yes.
Acorus calamus
. Or sweet flag. Or calamus or sweet root. It's been used to cure various ailments since biblical times. It looks like an iris, but it's actually related to jack-in-the-pulpit and skunk cabbage. The part used medicinally is the root. It shouldn't be peeled, because the active ingredient is right below the surface.” She stopped abruptly, maybe because she'd become aware that she was lecturing him.

“Okay,” he answered, “you've convinced me of your botanical expertise.”

Color spread across her cheeks, and he couldn't stop himself from admiring the effect.

He told himself it wasn't likely that Dr. Sara Weston had been involved with the orgy-goers of the night before. But her turning up in this particular location the next morning was certainly a screaming coincidence.

“So are you just looking for cures for diseases, or are you interested in psychotropic drugs?” he asked.

“That's kind of a strange question. Why do you ask?”

“Because I caught some people having a drug party last night,” he said, watching her carefully.

Her eyes widened. “In the park?”

“Yes. Actually right around here. Maybe you can give me your professional opinion on what they were using.”

“
Acorus calamus
has no psychotropic qualities as far as I know,” she answered.

“But some of the plants here do,” he said, “like pearly everlasting or ladies' tobacco, or whatever you want to call it.” He tossed the observation over his shoulder. He was already marching past her and toward the clearing where he thought he'd seen the fire.

He waited with his nerves on edge, then relaxed when he heard her following him.

He stopped short when he saw the fire pit. Until that moment he hadn't been absolutely sure he hadn't dreamed it.

Looking around, he half expected to find some discarded article of clothing, but on first glance, there was nothing besides ash and charred wood and a bunch of footprints in the dirt to witness that anyone had been here recently. Apparently the party-goers hadn't been too wasted to take away their personal effects.

The smoke was stronger here. When he drew in a cautious breath, he caught the remnants of the stuff mixed with the unmistakable aroma of stale sex, at least to his werewolf-enhanced senses.

Could she smell that, too? he wondered, giving her a sidewise look. Her posture had turned rigid, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they were sharing a kind of secondhand intimacy.

She walked slowly toward the place where the fire had been, staring down at the cold embers. “Isn't it dangerous—lighting a fire out here?”

“Yeah, but they cleared a fairly large area.”

He looked from her to the stone-ringed pit. He had sworn he was going to stay as far away from the smoke as he possibly could. Yet some impulse he couldn't analyze had seized hold of him. He found himself walking forward, picking up a stick, and stirring the cold ashes.

Gray flakes swirled. Caught by a little puff of wind, they rose into the air. The particles gave off the scent of the smoke that had captured him the night before.

Instantly, Adam's mind flashed back to the darkness of the moon-drenched swamp, to the wild movement of naked bodies dancing and coming together in the flickering firelight.

But this time was different. This time, in his imagination, he wasn't an outsider, silent witness to the orgiastic dancing. This time he was one of the participants, writhing and chanting among the press of bodies.

And he wasn't the only one. The pretty blond botanist was back there, too.

The nighttime scene was an overlay on the daytime reality. His gaze riveted to Sara Weston's face—to her body. Her eyes had gone unfocused. Her breath was a shaky gasp. And another flood of color suffused her face.

The remnants of the drug pulsed through his senses, and in that moment of illusion, he saw her as he had seen the dancers the night before. Naked and aroused, her nipples tight, her skin glistening with sweat.

But the smoke-induced hallucination was over before it had time to form into anything solid and real.

She was staring at him, as if she knew what had leaped into his mind.

“What just happened?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What kind of psychotropic drug would use fire and smoke as a delivery system?”

“That's not my field. I don't know.” She raised her head, looking at him with assessing eyes. “Why did you stir up the fire?”

“I was making sure it was really out,” he answered, wondering if she would call him on the lie. “As you pointed out, a fire here could be dangerous.”

She only nodded, then said, “I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I was planning to stop by your office later today.”

On some other morning, he might have accepted her words with a nod. Instead he said, “But you came out here first.”

“I was anxious to get started,” she answered.

“How did you get onto park property?”

“I have a key to the gate that locks the access road. My car's over that way,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of the road that ran along the edge of the refuge and then branched off toward the interior. Probably she was glad for the change of subject. And probably he should bring the conversation back to the drug. Instead, he let it go because he wasn't feeling any more sure of himself than she looked.

“I wouldn't come in here in a car,” he said.

“Oh?”

“The ground in the swamp can be wet and slippery. A truck with four-wheel drive is more suitable to the road conditions.”