by Keri Arthur
"Don't even try it,” he warned softly.
Anton's grin flashed. “Looks like Trista's won the bet."
Cade bit down on his annoyance. “What bet?"
"I said our ranger wasn't your type. Trista said it was obvious the two of you were at it like wolves in moon heat. Looks like she was right."
And here he'd thought he'd been discreet. “I do not appreciate my love life being the topic of conversation when we have a murderer to chase down."
"Hey, if you play on work time, then it's fair game. Your rules, not mine."
Damned by his own words, though he'd never actually thought they'd ever apply to him. For ten years he'd managed to keep his sex life and his work life separate. Until now. Until he'd again met the one woman who'd always blurred the lines between what he had to do and what he wanted to do.
"What's happened while I've been out of it?"
"Tests came back from the arrow.” Anton's voice was deceptively mild. Meaning, Cade knew from past experience, he was highly amused. But then, Anton had a warped sense of humor. “You'll be pleased to know the tip wasn't poisoned."
Considering he was still here and not dead, that was pretty obvious. “What else?"
"We got no prints from the arrow, but we did pull several from the crossbow. And we found a match in the data system.” Anton held out a file.
Cade accepted it and opened it up. This blonde wasn't the one who'd walked into the nightclub, though there were certainly similarities. Her name was Lonny Jackson and she was a member of the cream pack from the Merron reservation over in Wyoming. Later addresses included Laramie, Wyoming and Colorado Springs, and each of those cities have outstanding warrants against her for failing to pay minor fines. He glanced up at Anton. “The rangers seen this yet?
"Just downloaded it, so no."
"Show them. They can do the footwork again. Ranger Grant is checking the diner where the other blonde was apparently working."
Anton's eyebrows rose. “So we do have two? I'd thought Trista might have heard our ranger wrong."
"She didn't. And the woman who bribed the kid to leave the note looks enough like Lonny Jackson to be her sister."
"According to that file, Lonny Jackson doesn't have a sister."
"Dig deeper, because I'm sure there's a connection between the two. It's just too much of a coincidence, otherwise. And while you're digging, do a background check on Lonny Jackson's mother. Get me picture, if you can."
Anton grinned. “Got another itch, huh?"
"Just a suspicion.” In truth, the only thing he was positive of was the fact that Nelle James was involved somewhere in all this. She might not have been spotted yet, but he could feel her close. It was like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. There'd always been something malevolent about the woman—something not quite right. Whether she was the force behind the original murders and the current ones was open to conjecture, but regardless, he still believed there was more to Nelle James than the motherly front she'd presented to the world at large.
"Did you find the truck last night?"
"Half this town drives blue trucks. None of the ones I found was being driven by a near naked blonde, unfortunately."
"It was worth a shot.” He glanced down at the file again and frowned. He picked up the photo, shifting it a little closer to the light. “You know, Jontee McGuire also came from the Merron cream pack."
"His mom did. Jontee left when he was quite young, though."
"Fifteen isn't that young.” Not when it came to someone like Jontee, who was once described as “old man crazy,” simply because he was far more mature mentally than his years. Of course, much of that was due to his upbringing. It seemed the cream pack weren't all that tolerant of “half breeds,” even if the wolf in question was the result of force rather than choice. Jontee had no choice but to grow up fast, and according to the psych guys, didn't really know the true meaning of reality—though that fact hadn't saved him in court. Nor had the innate charm that Savannah had talked about. “Maybe it's my imagination, but there was something in the woman's cheekbones and chin structure that reminds me of Jontee."
"Jontee never had kids, as far as we know."
"There were none at Rosehall, that's for sure.” Rosehall had been all about dreams and freedom, and children represented a reality most there didn't want to know about. “But that doesn't mean Jontee couldn't have had kids earlier. He was close to forty by the time we caught him, so he was certainly old enough."
And revenge for perceived wrongdoings to a father was certainly a good motive for murder.
"If he did have kids, why weren't they listed as next of kin in his files?"
"Who knows? Maybe he didn't want his crimes wrecking his kid's lives."
Anton's expression suggested he wasn't buying that. “I'll contact the ranger in Merron and see if he can add anything to what we have."
Cade nodded. “Any word from Hart yet?"
"He's due to arrive in a couple of hours."
"Get him to set up the van at the Ranger's station. It'll be more secure there."
"You don't think this pair will go as far as attempting to destroy evidence?"
"Who knows, but I'm not taking any chances. I want everyone to pair up—with the rangers if you have to—whenever you're on the street."
Anton nodded. “You realize that'll mean letting them in on the investigation more than we usually allow."
"This case is somewhat different than normal. Actually, call a general meeting of both teams for eight tonight. It's time we started fully cooperating."
"I can hear the IIS management having apoplexies at the mere thought."
Cade smiled. “Have you done the crosscheck on Oliver?"
"Yes. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. I'm digging deeper."
"See if you can get into his bank accounts and check the statements. I want to know if there was any unusual banking activity around the Rosehall time."
Anton raised his eyebrows. “You really do think he's involved, don't you?"
He shrugged. “It's just the lack of information that's bugging me. If it wasn't Oliver, then someone else was trying to screw the investigation."
"They didn't do a good job, then, because Jontee was caught."
"Presuming Jontee was the sole murderer. I don't think he was."
"A statement, I gather, that is in the file notes we can't find."
"Conveniently."
"But you read his mind, didn't you?"
"Yes. And I have no doubt he did murder those people. But he didn't do it alone."
"What makes you so sure?"
"His own memories. He was always handing the drained blood to someone else to drink. He never drank it himself—hated the taste of it."
"As most wolves do.” Anton paused. “You never saw this other person?"
"Never."
"So were his memories faulty, or erased?"
"Knowing what I know now, I'd say deliberately smudged. Erasing them totally would have been too obvious."
"So who else do you think was involved?"
"The one woman we could never track down.” He took out the photo of the woman and handed Anton the rest of the file. “Nelle James."
"The great unknown.” Anton tucked the folder under his arm. “Have you talked to Ranger Grant yet?"
"I intend to, once I get out of here."
"Good. Because I think she might be able to give us some clues."
So did he. The trick was going to be resisting the moon fever long enough for her to answer his questions. He swung his legs off the bed, waited until the quick bout of dizziness eased, then stood and walked—or rather limped, and badly—over to the small wardrobe to retrieve his clothes.
"Boss, I don't think you getting up is a good idea."
"Me lying in bed while a killer runs around creating mayhem isn't, either."
"Ranger Grant has left orders—"
"Ranger Grant's orders cannot override mine.” He glanced
at Anton. “I need your truck."
Anton studied him for a moment then handed over the keys. “Ranger Grant is not going to be happy."
"Right now, her happiness is not my first priority. Finding this killer and ensuring we both survive is."
The time to worry about happiness could come later. Until then, he wasn't even going to consider the possibility.
* * * *
Savannah pushed the diner's door open to the sound of a distant chime, and she was immediately assaulted by the mouthwatering aroma of frying onion. She breathed the scent in deeply as her stomach rumbled a noisy reminder that she hadn't eaten in a while.
"Now, there's a smell that always makes me hungry,” Ronan said as he followed her inside. “How about we prop here for break? My treat."
Savannah grinned. “If I'm seen eating here, word will get back to my old man. And you know the trouble that will cause."
"What are people going to think,” he said, imitating her dad's gravely tone to a tee, “when they spot you eating at the opposition? It's just not good enough, Savannah."
She chuckled softly. “It's never good enough, apparently."
"His trouble is that he runs his family the way the runs this town—inflexibly."
Her amusement died. “True. But he means well."
Ronan propped his butt on one of the counter stools and gave her a deadpan look. “Meaning well almost caused Neva to lose Duncan. Meaning well drove you from town when you were seventeen."
She shrugged. “That's different."
"It's not, you know.” He picked up a toothpick from the small container on the counter and fiddled idly with it. “Are you ever going to confront him about his actions?"
"I have."
"I mean for you, not for Neva."
She grimaced. “It really doesn't matter anymore."
"It does when it stops you from fully jumping into a relationship you desperately want."
She glanced at him sharply. “That's not true. I'm planning for Cade to hang around long after this investigation is over."
"Good girl."
She poked her tongue out at him, and he grinned.
"But,” he continued, “that doesn't answer the question. Do you intend to tell your old man about Rosehall and Cade?"
"Definitely Cade."
"But not Rosehall?” He caught her hand and squeezed it gently. “You never were a coward, Savannah. Don't start being one now."
"I've always been a coward,” she refuted softly. “I ran from Cade ten years ago rather than face up to what we'd both done. I came straight home and hid the wilder part of me, afraid of what others might think. And I'm still afraid of telling my old man about Rosehall and my time there."
"You did nothing wrong."
"He won't see it that way."
"Maybe he needs to. Maybe if he realizes it was his rigid rules that drove you from town in the first place, it might make him rethink his current views."
She laughed. “My dad? I don't think so.” She glanced past him as a short woman with graying hair came through a doorway wiping her hands on a tea towel.
The woman smiled brightly. “What can I do for you two loves?"
"We wouldn't mind a couple of burgers with those onions you're frying up,” Savannah said, “And we'd like to speak to the owner or manager, if that's possible."
"Two burgs with the lot, Frank,” the woman yelled, and then she rested her fleshy hands on the counter as she studied them. “And I'm both. What can I do for you?"
"Rangers Grant and Harris,” she replied, showing the woman her badge even though the ranger uniform made it obvious who they were. “We believe you've had a young blonde woman working the night shift here for the last few weeks."
The woman snorted. “Working is a term I'd use loosely when it comes to that young tart, but yeah, she was here. Why? What has she done?"
"We believe she might be able to help us with a current investigation.” Savannah hesitated. “Can you tell us a bit about her?"
"She said her name was Candy Jackson. What mother in her right mind names their kid Candy these days, I ask you? No wonder the woman was a flake."
Savannah resisted the urge to smile. “Flake in what way?"
"Always chatting up the customers, always asking stupid questions, never actually doing half the things she was supposed to do."
She shared a glance with Ronan. Maybe they'd just got their first really good lead.
"What type of questions?” he asked.
The woman shrugged. “About the different packs, who ran them, and who was on the council.” She hesitated and frowned. “You know, I heard her asking people about you and your family, Ranger Grant. Seemed awfully interested in where you all lived and what you all did. Not that it's hard information to find out, like. All anyone with half a brain had to do was pick up a phone book or check out the town's website. You and your dad are prominent."
True, but whoever committed the recent murders obviously wasn't overburdened with a logical mind. “Have you seen her recently?"
The woman shook her head. “She was supposed to report in last night, but she didn't. She's out the door if she actually does show her face. Help may be hard to find, but I'm not that desperate."
"Don't suppose you can give us her address?"
The woman considered them for a moment and nodded. “I don't suppose I owe her any loyalty, that's for sure. Hang on a sec, and I'll get her records."
She was back within a few minutes, carrying two bagged burgers but no paperwork. “Someone's been through my files,” she said, her expression annoyed. “Everything I had on her is gone."
Savannah blew out a frustrated breath. They were always one damn step behind. “Don't suppose you can remember her address?"
The woman frowned, then leaned back and bellowed, “Frank, where did Blondie live again?"
"Summit Street,” a rough voice replied.
She exchanged another glance with Ronan. Summit Street just happened to be where Lana Lee had died as her house burned down around her. Coincidence? Instinct said no.
"Don't suppose she mentioned anything about her personal life? Friends? Family?"
The woman screwed up her nose. “Not really. I think she was from Merron, one of them cream wolves they have over there, but she never mentioned kin or anything. Though when she wasn't out here chatting, she did seem to spend an awful lot of time on the phone."
Meaning they had better try to get hold of the phone records. “How come you didn't sack her if she was so bad?"
The woman sniffed. “Bad help is sometimes better than no help. And she did bring the men in. Customers are customers.” She glanced pointedly at the burgers.
Savannah grinned as Ronan took the hint and shelled out some money. “Thanks for your help."
"Anytime, rangers. Anytime."
They grabbed the food and headed out the door. Savannah stopped near a bus stop seat and began unwrapping the burger. “Mmm,” she said, as she took a bite and all the rich juices flowed into her mouth. “The mysterious Frank can cook."
"That he can,” Ronan agreed around a mouthful of food. “What next? We cruise over to Summit Street and hope to get lucky?"
"Candy was driving a blue truck last night. If we don't find that, we knock on doors.” She paused to take another bite. “And perhaps we should revisit Rex and see if he ever saw a blonde visiting Lana."
"You think there's a connection between the two?"
"I think there is.” She screwed up her nose. “But there's no logical reason for thinking so at the moment."
"We've all learned to trust your illogical jumps. Well, all of us except Ike, but he's still green."
His words sent a chill running through her. For a moment it felt as if death herself had reached out and caressed her soul. Her appetite fled, and it was all she could do to force down the food she had in her mouth.
"Has Ike reported in yet?” She tossed the remainder of the burger into the nearby bin.
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Ronan shook his head. “Not that I know of.” He hesitated, eyeing her, his expression suddenly concerned. “You want me to call the station?"
She nodded. “If he hasn't reported in, get Bodee to do a drive around and see if he can spot him. I'll call his mom."
She grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and quickly dialed Ike's home number. “Maureen,” she said, when his mom answered. “Is Ike home?"
"No,” she said, her concern coming down the line loud and clear. “He didn't come home at all last night."
Oh fuck ... She closed her eyes and tried not to panic. Ike, for all his faults, for all his eagerness, was sensible. And he could protect himself. “He was working late last night. He's probably fallen asleep somewhere. Tell him to call me as soon as he gets home."
"Will do, Savannah."
She hung up and swung around. And saw two things.
Cade was across the road and limping towards them.
And a big blue truck was hurtling down the street.
Not at Cade.
Not at her.
At Ronan.
Chapter Nine
"Ronan!” she screamed desperately. “Watch out."
He swung around at her warning, and in one of those snapshot moments where everything seemed to stop, she realized he'd never get out of the way in time. The truck was too close and going far too fast.
Her best friend was going to die if she didn't do something to stop it.
"No,” she screamed, to the driver, to fate herself. She dropped her phone, the plastic casing smashing on the pavement, the tiny shards glittering like tears as the sun caught them. She picked up the nearby metal trash can, and with a grunt of effort, she hauled it over her head and threw it at the approaching truck.
The trash can turned end over rim, spewing rubbish everywhere as it flew through the air, seeming to go fast as everything else slowed down around her. Like a dreamer caught in the middle of a nightmare, she saw the brown-haired driver's mouth drop and her fingers clench and haul at the wheel. Watched the trash can smash into the windshield, sending hundreds of spider-like cracks webbing across the glass. Heard the squeal of tires as the truck turned sharply. Saw the fender hit Ronan. Heard his grunt of pain. Watched him fly backwards like a broken sack.
