“Anything on Kevin yet?” I probably should have opened with a salutation, considering that I was speaking to my Alpha as well as my dad, but I’d reached the end of my patience. The beating of my own heart felt like a second hand ticking away the last moments of Marc’s life, and I couldn’t stand the thought that he could be dying while I sat in his house, pumping air into a stupid inflatable mattress!
“We have an address on file for him,” my dad said, and I stopped pumping so I could hear him over the hiss of air. “But he’s not there anymore. His cell phone’s been disconnected, too. Owen’s looking for more current information, but we’re not having much luck so far. We’ll keep trying, though.”
Damn it! I resumed pumping with determination fueled by anger and frustration.
“Faythe, are you okay?” my father asked gently.
I made myself take a long, deep breath, and my hand went still on the pump. “No. Fortunately, we have another lead. There’s another stray who might know where Eckard took Marc, but I’m gonna need Michael’s help finding him. Will they let him answer his phone during the trial?”
“I’m sure he can take a break.” He paused, and I heard Owen clacking away on a keyboard in the background. “Let me know what you find out.”
“I will.” I hung up the phone and plugged the hole in the mattress, though it was only half-inflated. “Hey, Dan?” I called, heading down the hall toward the living room.
“Yeah?” He sat in a chair in front of the open front door, patiently installing a new dead bolt with a flat-head screwdriver.
“Are you sure you don’t know where Peter Yarnell lives?” It would be so much easier if he did, and we could leave immediately, instead of having to wait for Michael to dig up an address.
Dan sat up and met my gaze, the screwdriver held loosely in his lap. “I’m sure. It’s not like we get together to play poker or anything. I’ve only met him a couple of times. But he’s definitely the one you want. His scent’s right here.” Dan pointed one callused finger at the knob on the outside of the door, and I knelt for a whiff.
Sure enough, the faint scent of yet another stray clung to the aluminum knob, though I smelled it nowhere else.
“He must not have touched anything else,” I ventured, glancing around the living room and kitchen at all the things that didn’t carry his scent.
“I’m guessin’ he broke in and saw that we’d already cleaned up, then hightailed it outta here.”
I nodded, already distracted. “Thanks, Dan.”
The stray’s head bobbed in acknowledgment, and he bent over his work again.
I dialed Michael on my way into the kitchen to check on the enchiladas. The phone rang in my ear as I opened the oven door and flipped on the tiny lightbulb. And while I closed the door and took a chilled soda from the fridge. And while I popped the seal and gulped from the can. And still the ringing continued.
Just when I thought Michael’s voice mail would pick up, he answered his phone and snapped softly into it, “This better be important, Faythe. We’re in the middle of a hearing.”
Oops.
“It won’t take long.” Since I’d already interrupted him anyway…
“Fine. Hold on.” His shoes squeaked on the Di Carlos’ stone floor and a door closed. Then his voice gained its normal volume. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just about everything.” I set my can on the counter and lifted the chewed-up pencil, which had somehow made it back into the empty dish drainer. “The short version is that Marc’s still missing, and Kevin Mitchell’s mixed up in it somehow.” I exhaled slowly, and tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the faded Formica. “I don’t think he has much time left, Michael. It’s twenty-nine degrees outside, and we don’t know how or where he’s injured, but we know he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“I’m so sorry, Faythe….” he began, but I cut him off, tears standing in my eyes.
“He’s not dead, Michael. And I need your help to find him.”
“What can I do?” That was my big brother. Always ready for the bottom line. But this time his voice was pinched with concern, which warmed my heart just a little bit, and I forgave his lack of faith. I loved it that the rest of my family loved Marc as much as I did.
“Do we have anything on a stray named Peter Yarnell?” We kept track of as many cats in the free zone as we could, to make our job easier, and because Michael kept the records, he always had the most up-to-date information.
“Hang on and let me check my spreadsheet.” His footsteps echoed on the floor again, and another door creaked open. “Who is Peter Yarnell?”
“He’s the stray Kevin sent to Marc’s house this morning, to dispose of the bodies. Which we’d already done, of course. I’m hoping, since he’s obviously in on this, that he’ll know where Eckard took Marc.”
“Okay, just a minute.” Springs groaned softly as Michael settled into a chair, probably in front of the laptop he kept running all day, every day. “Um…yes. As of May of last year, Peter Yarnell was living in Gloster, Mississippi.” His fingers tapped rapidly over the keys, then he spoke again, before I could ask. “That’s about half an hour from Rosetta.”
“What’s the address?” I wrote on Marc’s notepad while Michael read information from his obsessively organized spreadsheet. “Do you have a phone number?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t suggest warning him before you show up.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Michael. What would I ever do without the benefit of your wisdom?”
“You’re welcome,” he said in response to my sarcasm. Then he read me the number.
“Thank you. Hey, while I have you on the phone, how’s the hearing going?” I asked, taking another sip from my soda.
“It’s not looking good, Faythe.”
My heart pumped harder in sympathy for Manx. I’d really been hoping for some good news to balance out the most miserable thirty-six hours of my life. “Why not?”
“Because Manx claims she killed those toms in self-defense, but they’ve already gotten her to admit she was in no immediate danger at the time. And the council doesn’t recognize any kind of temporary insanity defense.”
Which was a real shame, because most of the councilmen had considered me crazy for most of my life.
After I spoke to Michael, I called my father and gave him another update while I finished blowing up the mattress. He gave us permission to go interrogate Peter Yarnell at our earliest convenience—the very words I’d been hoping to hear.
In the kitchen, I opened the oven and pulled out both trays of enchiladas, setting them on top of the burners. Then I grabbed a pile of paper plates from an upper cabinet and a handful of mismatched forks from the top drawer. “Lunch!” I yelled, pulling three more sodas from the fridge. Footsteps stomped toward me from all directions, and in seconds the three toms had converged around the stove, scooping sloppy servings onto flimsy paper plates.
“Eat quickly,” I ordered, pleased to hear my father’s no-nonsense tone coming from my own mouth. “We’re leaving for Gloster in ten minutes.”
I filled the guys in while they shoveled huge bites of chicken, cheese and tortilla into their mouths, and I picked at my plate, only actually eating when Ethan frowned at me or nodded at my food.
Then I put on my steel-toed boots and led the way to Parker’s car, a foam cup of coffee in one hand.
Twenty minutes later, we drove into downtown Gloster, past a row of quaint storefronts and several residents ambling down the sidewalks, presumably to or from work at one of the local businesses. After another mile and a couple of turns, Parker stopped at the first—and only—gas station we saw to ask for directions to Peter Yarnell’s street. We found it quickly after that, and slowly cruised past house after house in the calm, middle-class neighborhood, in search of the address I’d written down.
It turned out to be the last one on the block, before the street ended in a dead end and a rough circle of asphalt. Yarnell’s house blended perfectly
with the rest of the neighborhood. Redbrick with black shutters. Tall windows; small, neat lawn. The two-car garage was closed, but parked in front of it was a conservative dark blue SUV.
Looks like Mr. Yarnell’s home. He’d probably taken the day off from some white-collar pencil-pushing job to clean up Eckard’s mess. Too bad for him…
Parker turned around in the circle, then parked on the edge of it, facing the house. “What’s the plan?”
“I knock on the door and flirt my way inside. You guys stand out of his line of sight, then follow me in. And try not to look too thuggish. This kind of neighborhood’s probably full of bored stay-at-home moms just itching to press the panic button.”
“What if he knows who you are?” Parker asked, scanning the hushed street.
“Then we go in as quickly and quietly as possible.” Just because we didn’t see the neighbors didn’t mean they couldn’t see us.
“Who gets to do the honors?” Ethan asked, his usual smile dim beneath the weight of recent grim responsibility. He’d been picking up a lot of Marc’s former duties, including interrogation, and the strain was starting to show on him.
I do. “We’ll play it by ear.”
Ethan nodded and opened his door, letting in a frigid draft. I started to follow him, but before anyone could get out of the car, Dan cleared his throat, drawing our attention. “Guys, I don’t know Pete Yarnell real well, but I know him by sight, and he’s…a pretty good size.”
“Size isn’t everything.” I pushed my door open but remained seated. “Anyway, compared to me, you’re all huge, and I’ve never had any trouble taking Ethan down.”
My brother’s expression lightened, and he stuck his tongue out at me, but Dan wasn’t done. “I don’t know if you could tell from that little bit of his scent on the doorknob, but Pete was there that night. Durin’ the ambush.”
I closed my door again and twisted to face Dan directly, a spike of anger quickening my pulse. “No, I couldn’t tell.” I’d only fought a few of the strays we faced that night, and there were too many personal scents floating around for me to concentrate on any one of them. “That settles it, then. If Mr. Yarnell doesn’t start talking pretty damn quickly, this is gonna move beyond chitchat. Everybody ready?”
Dan nodded and stepped out of the car, and the rest of us followed.
On the way across Yarnell’s tidy, winter-brown yard, a fluffy miniature pooch of some kind barked at us with his head sticking out of an igloo-shaped doghouse in the neighbor’s side yard. I snarled, and the dog turned a tight circle and cowered at the back of his house, whimpering like a scared…well, puppy.
Damn right.
From Yarnell’s front porch, I heard television violence and the soft hum of a central heating unit. I made a motion to the guys, and they stepped back against the front wall of the house, where Yarnell wouldn’t be able to see them from the door. Hands stuffed into their pockets for warmth, they tried to look casual, in case we were being observed by any of the neighbors. I thought they looked guilty as hell, but then, I knew what we were up to.
I took a deep, calming breath, then knocked on the door and struck my clueless-motorist pose. When no one answered, I knocked again, and that time the TV went silent, then the door swung open to reveal a tall, bullnecked man, separated from me by nothing more than a decorative storm door.
“Can I help you?” Yarnell’s voice was deep, as was his scowl, until his gaze landed on my face, then quickly traveled south.
“Hey!” My breath puffed from my mouth in a cold white cloud, and I arched my brows in fake excitement and relief. “I’m lost and my cell’s dead. Could I maybe come in and borrow your phone? Please?” I cocked my head to look harmless and vaguely stupid, mentally crossing my fingers in hopes that he wouldn’t think to check my scent.
He didn’t. He never got past the view of my cleavage, easily visible through my unzipped black leather jacket. I honestly hated playing the boob card, but I’d have done almost anything for a few private moments of PeteYarnell’s time.
“No problem. Come on in.” Yarnell pulled open the screen door and stepped back, one thick, extended arm welcoming me into his home.
“Thanks!” I stepped into the large, warm living room, past a gas fireplace and a huge television, and when Yarnell tried to close the door behind me, Parker’s broad palm was there, holding it open.
“What the hell?” Yarnell’s initial reaction was to push back, and I couldn’t help but admire his instinct—answering with aggression in the face of a threat. If he weren’t a bad guy—and easily distracted by cleavage—he might have made a good enforcer.
Clued in now, Yarnell sniffed the air, and his eyes darkened in outrage as the line of his jaw tightened.
Ethan followed Parker into the room and waved one hand at the couch. “Have a seat, Pete.” He grinned amiably at his own rhyme—dork—then nodded at me in acknowledgment. “Good work, sis.”
“Thanks.” But I barely glanced at him. My attention was focused on Yarnell, who’d backed toward the couch to put some space between himself and the sudden crowd in his living room, but had yet to sit.
Yarnell scowled, staring over my shoulder at Dan, the last arrival. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Apparently he remembered Dan.
“These are Marc Ramos’s friends.” Dan spoke softly, his voice heavy with quiet anger, and I glanced over my shoulder to find him watching Yarnell calmly, a formidable, silent threat in his steady gaze. Marc had taught him well. “Just answer their questions, and we’ll go away.”
“Like hell. You can’t just walk in here and start asking—”
“There are four of us, and only one of you.” Ethan pulled the drawstring on the blinds covering the living room windows, and they slid down, darkening the room and shielding us from potential Peeping Toms. “So right now, we can do just about any damn thing we want.”
I glared at my brother over my shoulder. No wonder most of the free zone thought we were a bunch of elitist tyrants. But Marc’s safety was more important than our reputation, so I turned back to our host, now flanked by both Dan and Parker.
“Mr. Yarnell, I’m a big fan of civil rights, so normally I’d agree with you. But today we’re here under the authority of the south-central Pride, in search of information we have reason to believe you can give us. And honestly, until I know that Marc Ramos’s well-being is secure, I don’t give a flying fuck about yours. Consider that your one and only warning.”
Ethan grinned at me, radiating pride. Fortunately, he was professional enough to do it where Yarnell couldn’t see.
With everyone in place—Dan and Parker flanking our host, ready to restrain him if the need arose, and Ethan on the edge of the room, my visible backup—I saw no reason to circle the proverbial bush. “Where’s Marc?” I met the potential informant’s gaze, hopefully showing fortitude in the strength of mine.
Yarnell pressed his lips together and smiled at me. The arrogant bastard!
I growled deep in my throat, and stepped within his immediate reach to show I wasn’t scared of him, in spite of the six inches and at least sixty pounds he had over me. “We know Kevin sent you to clean up Eckard’s mess. So just tell me where they took Marc, and we’ll get out of your fur.”
“I’m not telling you shit, bitch.” Yarnell’s pale brown eyes sparkled; he enjoyed pissing me off.
“Last chance.” My hands curled into fists at my sides, and the motion drew his gaze downward. “Tell me where they took him, or we’re going to find out which breaks first—your face or my fist.”
In the past, the thought of beating information out of a witness—even a hostile one—had made me sick to my stomach. Though I’d often seen Marc do that very thing, my most frequent offensive weapon was my mouth, rather than my fists, so I was mildly surprised by my own steady stance. Rather than nausea or nerves, I felt only desperate fear and rage, both growing by the second. They swallowed my weaker emotions, diverting all energy to the task at hand.
> Thank goodness.
But Yarnell could not be shaken. He watched me steadily, silently daring me to act.
I crouched, and my foot flew, hard and fast. The motion was a blur of denim and black leather. The steel toe of my boot slammed into his left side. He staggered to his right, absorbing the force of my blow, and I actually heard his rib crack.
Yarnell dropped to the floor in front of the couch, one hand pressed to his side, but his lips were stubbornly sealed against a cry of pain, as if to show that he was stronger than me.
“Pick him up.” I was surprised by the cold, commanding quality of my voice, and so was Parker. He eyed me with lifted eyebrows while he hauled Yarnell to his feet, then let him go. “Where’s Marc?”
“Bitch, you think you scare me?” The stray sucked in a breath and flinched at the pain, but dropped his hands, as if by denying the injury he could deny the pain. “You can kick me all night long, but I’m only going to say this one thing—Marc Ramos is a murderer, and a fucking traitor, and he got what he damn well deserved.”
“I don’t have time to convince you otherwise.” I pivoted on one foot this time, throwing all my rage into a sloppy-but-strong roundhouse. My boot caught him near the same spot, and dimly I heard another snap.
Yarnell’s face went pale, and he hunched over in pain, but his smile never faltered. Dan stepped forward to catch him in case he fell, but Yarnell slapped his hand away. “You want to know where Marc is?” he spit, glaring at me, fists clenched at his sides.
I nodded, not daring to hope he’d actually answer.
“He’s in a hole, four feet deep in the frozen ground. Your boyfriend’s dead. And like I said, he got exactly what he deserved.”
Stunned, I staggered back a step, choking on a cry of anguish until my throat burned. But the pain went much deeper than that. It hurt all the way through my heart and into my soul.
No! He was lying. Trying to throw me off. He had to be.
For a moment, I could do nothing but breathe through the shock and pain ripping into me like a full-body cramp, ending in a bolt of agony in my throat, and behind my eyes. Ethan reached for me. I sucked in a deep breath and forced my head upright, knocking his hand away. I was fine. And so was Marc.
Prey Page 15
