by Ryk E. Spoor
She sighed and smiled. "Okay, Jasie. We can spend a few days in the area looking."
"Hey," I said, "It's not like we weren't planning on spending weeks at the beach anyway. Venice has a really nice beach—that's where you look for the Megalodon teeth."
Sylvie put on a mock-indignant expression. "So we'll be at the beach and all you're going to look at is fossil shark teeth?"
I reached over and grabbed while keeping my eyes on the road; her sudden giggling shriek told me I'd grabbed the area I'd intended. "Not a chance."
I glanced over at her again, quickly admiring the sight of my brand-new wife in shorts and a tight shirt—a huge change from her habitual "Gypsy Princess" look, which ran to layered skirts, puffy tops, multicolored handkerchiefs, and acres of sparkling crystal necklaces, earrings, and bracelets, concealing details of her build from any prying eyes. I'd always thought she was pretty, although it was a lot more than that which had drawn us together and, a month or so ago, led to our marriage. It had been my immense delight to discover after the wedding that the gorgeous face was matched by the rest of her. Yes, as a matter of fact, I had not slept with her before marriage, not that it's any of your business. We had all our lives to make up for that lost time, after all. And I certainly intended to spend plenty of that time admiring her whenever she chose to wear something like the glittery bikini she had bought earlier today.
Venice looked much like other Florida towns—built low, no really high buildings, more recent homes and condominiums tending to follow the same vaguely Hispanic pattern while the older ones often had more individuality. It was, however, smaller than many others we'd visited, and as such was less built up and felt somewhat looser.
I chose one of the nearby hotels that had beachfront—with my current finances, I at least didn't need to worry about how much I spent on my honeymoon—and parked in a lot that was surprisingly empty of cars, only a green Ford, an orange Saturn, and a couple dully colored Hondas taking up spaces. Once more expending the effort that put the "lug" into "luggage," Syl and I dragged our stuff into the lobby.
"Reservations?" the big, cheerful-looking man behind the desk asked.
"Actually, no; I was hoping you had some openings."
"As a matter of fact, we do!" he said, grinning. "Y'all are in luck; had a small convention in here over the weekend, and as usual when they left it gave us a small hole to fill. Just the two of you? Newlyweds, I'll bet?"
"Yep," I said, answering both questions with one word. "How'd you guess?"
He chuckled. "Guess? My friend, after fifteen years in the business, there ain't no such thing. See two people walkin' in like that, draggin' a hunnert pounds o' junk without so much as a groan or a gripe, an' still tryin' to stay as close together as they know how, you know they just got hitched." He went to his computer, and glanced at another monitor near it. I knew, from its location, the glance he gave it, and the odd camera unobtrusively pointed right at the check-in desk, that it was a standard CryWolf system ($250 retail, $350 with monitor). "How many days you folks plannin' on stayin' here?"
"Two or three. Say three."
"That'd be two nights, then." A few taps on the keyboard, then, "Cash or charge?"
"Charge. Here."
I handed him my card. He turned around to his credit validation scanner, slid the card through, and sent the query through the lines which would determine whether or not my plastic was worth anything.
Had I been in a different line of business, or not been looking straight at his back, I might have missed it. But as the little credit gadget's screen lit up, I saw him stiffen, like a man opening his eyes to discover a scorpion sitting on his stomach. It was just a moment, but I was sure I'd seen it. "Anything wrong?"
He was just a hair slow in answering, and the first few words lacked the breezy, relaxed tone of our earlier conversation. "No. Not at all." His voice came back to normal. "Sorry, got distracted there, remembering something I gotta do—one of the rooms needs work and I plumb forgot. Not yours, don't worry 'bout that." He turned back, the credit slip in his hand, and gave me back the card. I signed, he did the ritual of glancing at the card and my signature, accepted that the scrawls looked similar enough, and handed me back the yellow copy. "Okay, Mr. Wood, you're all set. Here's two keys, I've given y'all one of our ocean-side rooms, that'd be number 240. Just take the elevator there—here, lemme help you with that." He hefted our bags onto a rolling cart. "There ya go. It'll be the second door to the right after y'all get off the elevator. All the rooms got cable, air conditioning, plus the doors have the new CryWolf peephole gadgets so's you can make sure any visitor is who they say they are. Pool's open from ten to ten, and we own the beach out front there. Lifeguard's around from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. on the beach—after that y'all are on your own. Thanks for coming, have yourselves a great time, and if y'all need anything just call down to the desk here. My name's Vic."
"Thanks, Vic, we will," Syl said.
We wheeled our luggage to the room and got it settled into the right places. While we did so, I mentioned my little observation to Sylvie.
Syl frowned. "Hmm. I didn't see it myself, but I know how good your observation skills are. Still, Jason, I didn't feel any hostility from him. I don't feel there's any immediate danger."
"Good enough for me. Let's get down to the beach."
52
"This really is a pretty little town," Syl said as we walked down one of the sand-strewn sidewalks in flipflops, looking very appropriately like tourists. She glanced around at the palm trees whose sunset shadows stretched towards the other side of the street.
"It certainly is that," I agreed. "Though not nearly as pretty as you." I luxuriated in walking on a solid surface after having spent the afternoon either sifting gravelly sand for fossil shark's teeth or chasing after a certain black-haired enchantress in a bikini.
"Are you flirting with me?"
"As usual, of course." We kissed. "Hey, how about I pick you out something pretty?" I said, as we were just then passing a jewelry shop.
Syl grinned. "What girl could refuse? Even if you do have questionable taste in gems."
"I make up for it by my taste in girls."
She gave me a nudge in the ribs as we entered Marie's Jewelry Box. "That had better be girl, singular, Mr. Wood."
Even ignoring the clearly visible CryWolf camera pointing at the door, the store itself was a not-so-subtle reminder of the changes Morgantown had wrought. In the old days—barely a year distant—silver had been the most popular metal for affordable but adequate jewelry. Now there were considerably fewer silver pieces on display even in large jewelry stores, and those which remained were far more expensive, some of them even designed with an eye towards defense as much as for beauty. Silver had eclipsed gold in terms of price per ounce for a while, and even after the immediate hysteria had subsided silver's price remained far, far higher than it had been before the werewolves had made their debut.
I noted even fewer silver pieces in this store than usual—only two, in the back and not well displayed. The majority were gold and platinum. Syl and I spent quite a while looking around, comparing, arguing gently on occasion, before we finally settled on a very nice platinum-and-gold bracelet with multicolored stones making a spectrum around it.
"A lovely choice," the owner Marie said, smiling—not surprisingly, since it was also one of her most expensive pieces. "Can I wrap that for you?"
I shook my head. "No," I said, slipping it onto Sylvie's wrist and kissing her hand, "I think we've got a perfectly good way to carry it, thanks."
Smiling, Marie took my proffered credit card. Her smile momentarily seemed to freeze on her face as she glanced at it. She glanced back at me, eyes wide. "J . . . Jason Wood? As in . . . the Jason Wood?"
I sighed. I might not be at the level of a movie-star celebrity, but I was already resigned to the fact that I was no longer a completely private individual either. "Yes, I'm the Jason Wood."
She smiled—for a m
oment I thought it looked a bit forced, but if so it relaxed. "Well, then, welcome. Lord, what a change you brought down on us, eh?"
"Heh." I acknowledged the (unfortunately all too familiar) mildly amusing sally. "Not entirely my doing."
"Of course not," she agreed, and turned to run the card through. "Changed my own business enough, though—on that I can guarantee you. Hardly any silver jewelry any more, and the silver dust business—well, I'm sure you know all about that."
I nodded, noticing that the almost standard-issue box for silver dust packets was present but tagged "out of stock." She noticed my gaze as she handed me the slip to sign. "Oh, my suppliers ran short on everything silver this month. I'm expecting a resupply in next week, if you were needing any . . . ?"
"No, no," I said, passing her the white copy. "We won't be here more than a couple days, just driving around."
"Well, thank you very much for your patronage, Mr. Wood—and congratulations. I hope you will both be very happy together."
"Thank you," Syl replied. "So far, so good!" She giggled as we left, jangling her new bracelet against the others she already had on.
But her face grew serious after a few more paces. "Jason?"
"Hmm?" I pulled my mind from the distraction of certain parts of Sylvie's anatomy. "What?"
"She seemed friendly enough and all, but I could have sworn . . . when she first saw your name I thought I sensed fear—almost panic."
I blinked. "Why the heck would she be afraid of me?"
Syl shrugged. "I don't know. It was a momentary impression—a flash, you know—and then everything seemed perfectly normal. Just thought I should mention it."
"Great," I grunted. "Guess I'd better check our supplies tonight. Just in case."
"Really, it's probably nothing; I don't have a bad feeling about her or anything. Let's get dinner."
It was full dark when we finally left the Cactus Steakhouse (yes, I love seafood as much as anyone, but this vacation had been awfully seafood heavy and both of us decided on a change). The stars glittered overhead, at least those which could overcome the town lighting, as we walked back towards our hotel. "Oooh, that was good," I said finally.
"It had better have been, seeing as you ate so much," Syl replied indulgently. "Jason, just because we're married I don't want you trying to settle in and grow a potbelly."
"Hey! I always eat a lot. And we were doing a lot of exercise this afternoon."
She was about to reply when something caught our ears. A . . . grunt? A cough? A slight gasp or something? I couldn't quite place it, except it sounded somehow terrified. It was coming over the fence of a nearby yard. I glanced at Syl, to feel my stomach knot; her "feeling" face was on, that frighteningly intense gaze that focused on nothing, yet seemed to see beyond anything. "Be careful, Jason!" she hissed, knowing my actions even before I'd decided.
I nodded and gestured for her to stay where she was, near the fence, while I moved forward a bit to the gate set in the fence. Cautiously I pushed; it was open and swung easily. I wished I had my trusty 10mm on hand, and wondered if I was going to be one of the cats that curiosity killed.
The yard was very dark; no lights were on in the house to which it was attached, the fence was high, and my eyes were still accustomed to the streetlights. But I could make out something on the ground, about thirty or forty feet away . . . and it seemed to me that across the yard there was a movement, another gate opening, and someone going through. There was nothing I could put my finger on . . . but something about that distant, moving figure sent a sudden shiver down my spine. "Hello?" I said tentatively.
There was no answer, though I heard a faint clack noise of the other gate shutting in the distance. "Sorry to intrude, but I heard something . . . ?"
Still no answer, but no sudden attacks from darkness either. I took a deep breath and stepped inside, walking slowly towards the object lying on the ground in front of me. Even before I reached it I had a very nasty feeling I knew what it was. I pulled out my keyring and turned on the mini-flashlight, pointing it downward.
Lying on the ground before me was a dead man.
"Oh, for crissakes," I heard myself say. "I'm on vacation, dammit!"
53
"Well, isn't this just peachy," I said, finally stripping off the clothes that had become steadily more uncomfortable during our police interviews. "Why couldn't I have chosen somewhere else?"
As the people who found the deceased—apparently the very recently deceased—Jerry Mansfield, the police had not only needed to talk to us, but to issue the standard request to remain in the area.
Syl managed a sympathetic smile, though she couldn't have been feeling any more comfortable—probably less. "Jase, darling, I think we have to face the fact; it's your karma. You attract these kind of things. If we went somewhere else, that's where we'd find the trouble. Even before you met up with Verne, the cases you got involved with had some odd features."
I admitted that this was something I couldn't argue, loath though I was to admit that there was anything to Sylvie's "karma" theory. "Maybe this one will be resolved quickly . . ." I started, as I turned on the shower. I caught her narrowed gaze, sighed. " . . . or maybe not," I said. "That feeling wasn't just death?"
"It was very, very bad, Jason. I haven't felt anything like that since . . . since I saw Renee and knew she was going to kill you."
Renee's name sent a pang through me, despite the year that had gone by. I missed her hardcase-cop façade and quiet friendship. "Did you see his face?"
Syl nodded. "Horror."
"Well, it could have been a rictus of pain, but I agree, Syl. The first thing to come to mind when I looked at him was that he died in terror. Eyes wide open." I frowned. "Looked over the body quickly, and without touching or moving him I couldn't find any traces of injuries, either. No vampire bites, no slashes, and so on."
"A werewolf doesn't have to cut you," Sylvie reminded me.
"True," I said, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water start blasting the sand out of my bod, "but according to Verne they do have to get awfully close to you in order to suck the life out of you without physical contact. You didn't look at the area nearby, did you?"
I could just make out Syl shaking her head through the mist-fogged shower door. "Not really—we didn't want to muddle things up with more tracks."
"There was silver dust scattered over a wide arc in front of him—some of it was even on his clothes. If it had been a Wolf, I'd have expected it to either be dead next to him, or at least to have made a rather loud protest about the stuff. They never were very subtle once they got hurt. But if I actually did see the killer leaving, he or she left dead silently, smooth and without great hurry either."
"But," Syl pointed out, and it was a mark of both my worry and tiredness that observing her silhouette undressing only slightly distracted me, "the fact that there was silver at all is a pretty damning clue."
I didn't answer immediately, but lathered my hair and washed. "I dunno, Sylvie. It just doesn't quite click for me. Sure, the Wolves can kill without the slashes, if we take Verne's word for it—and I don't doubt him—but still . . . I've never actually heard of them doing it that way. And even less would they do it if the victim started showering the area with silver." I chewed it over in my mind as I ran soap over the rest of me.
"Actually, I think you're right, Jason," Sylvie said. "It didn't really feel like a Wolf to me either. But if it wasn't, why the silver?"
I'd come up with a tentative answer. "Well, if you know Wolves shapeshift, and you know someone or something is trying to kill you without touching you—and he was sure scared about something—wouldn't you think 'werewolf!' right away, no matter what the thing looked like?"
"Oh." I heard the faint sounds of Sylvie brushing her teeth. "You're right, Jason, that makes sense! Confronted by the unknown, you'll try whatever weapons you have available that might work."
"Now the real question is," I said, getting out and to
welling off, "why the heck I'm spending my time trying to figure it out. Let the damn cops deal with it."
She kissed me and stepped into the shower herself. "Because you know perfectly well that they're not going to deal with this one. It's ours. Wood 'n Stake ride again."
I snorted. "Bah. I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill. The autopsy will come back saying he died of a heart attack, and the silver dust will be glitter or something from a kid's birthday party."
Syl's outline against the glass shivered. "I hope so, Jason . . . but I don't think it's going to be that way."
When I pulled out the 10mm and loaded it, she knew I felt the same way.
54
Sheriff Carl Baker was a big, tired-looking man with thinning hair combed over the top of his head and a white-sprinkled mustache that also seemed to droop tiredly. "Sorry to have ta drag you back here, Mr. Wood." he said.
"It's okay," I said. "I know what it's like when you're doing an investigation."
"Guess y' do, at that. Anyways, to be honest we're kinda at a loss. Jerry may not have been the friendliest guy in town, but he sure weren't the nastiest, an' I don't have a clue about who would've killed him."
"Are you sure he was killed?"
Baker's moon-round face twisted in a sour grimace. "Ain't sure of anything, right now. Coroner says that so far as he's concerned, Jerry should've been gettin' up off the damn slab before the autopsy. Not a thing wrong with him—heart in great shape, brain jus' fine, everything jus' fine—'ceptin' of course that he happens to be dead." He grunted and handed me a file. "Ain't procedure, but you've got yourself a rep in more than one way—I checked out what the cops up North had to say about you. Anything in there give you an idea?"
"Well, I'll see . . ." I opened the file, started reading. Sheriff Baker, relieved of the responsibility of talking to me for the moment, went into the outer office for a while.
