Jack saw ghosts. He spoke to the lost souls of the dead. That included Artie. And though it had been nearly two months since the last time he had seen the ghost of the third member of this strange love triangle, and Artie himself wanted them to be together, he still haunted them.
Then there was Eden Hirsch, a rich girl from Winchester who believed she had been reincarnated dozens of times throughout history, and who visited the spirit world in her dreams. She had helped them out in the past, and had made it clear in no uncertain terms that she would like to get to know Jack better. Though he was very attracted to her, and it was cathartic for him to be able to talk to someone else who had contact with the lost souls of the dead, Jack did not feel for Eden the way he did about Molly.
Complicated.
But they were dealing with it.
Slowly, in the past handful of weeks, they had begun to spend more time together outside the pub. Dates. Real, actual, boy and girl dates, sweet and romantic; the kind of thing Jack had never really made the time for in the past. There had been a great deal of kissing. Long, tender, almost ridiculously earnest kissing, and very little else. Jack and Molly both wanted to take things slow, to take their time. Particularly in moments like this, with her in his arms, curled up against him, lips brushing his, lingering, he did not mind in the least.
Her fingers twined in his and she rested her head against his chest.
Then she gave him a hard shove and he toppled onto his butt on the brittle grass. Molly stood over him with her hands on her hips.
"I am not riding a horse."
Jack laughed and stood, shaking his head. It was his turn now to wag an admonishing finger at her. "Listen, you. We spent more than half an hour looking at baskets and scarecrows and all that artsy craft stuff in the barn back there, and I didn't say a word. That, sweetheart, is my idea of hell. Now you're going to tell me that you can't spend an equal amount of time riding a big, stupid, harmless animal at a walking pace with a guide making sure you don't get lost or go too fast?"
The chestnut mare whinnied as though taking offense at Jack's words. Molly only stood and stared at him in contemplation for a long moment as a family of five trundled by with a wagonload of pumpkins.
"You called me 'sweetheart,'" she said at last.
Jack frowned. "So?"
"It's so . . . Humphrey Bogart. So old-fashioned." Molly raised her eyebrows suggestively. "I think it's kinda sweet."
It was a standoff then, the two of them staring at one another. The pleasure of her company, the laughter in Jack's heart, was something Jack cherished, yet as the seconds ticked by he struggled in vain to keep it from being eclipsed by other concerns. They both had to work that night. Then, in the morning, they would be leaving for upstate New York to search for answers in a rash of mysterious death, to search for Prowlers.
Perhaps Molly saw a flicker of dread in his features, or perhaps, he thought, her own mind was traveling down the same road and she was willing to do anything to avoid thinking about it for a few hours longer. Whatever it was, she narrowed her eyes and studied him.
"We are going to buy a ton of pumpkins for the pub."
"I don't know about a ton," Jack countered. "How would we get them all back?"
"And there will be more cider donuts for Molly before we leave."
Jack smiled. "Are there fewer calories involved if Molly speaks about her appetite for donuts in the third person?"
She hit him, feigning a look of shock.
"Yes, yes, hoards of pumpkins and enough cider donuts for both Mollys," Jack said quickly, backing away with his hands in the air.
She stared at him a moment longer. Then Molly shrugged. "All right. Let's ride."
"No fair. I've always wanted to say that."
Courtney felt like a different person whenever she sat down in front of her computer. As long as there were no monsters about, the rest of her life was pretty predictable, and it all revolved around the pub. Not that she minded — Bridget's meant everything to her. But in her daily life people saw her as the boss, or the woman with the cane. A lot of men, despite what they said, had a hard time seeing past that length of oak.
Not that she was all that concerned with what men thought since she and Bill had become involved. Still, she could not deny that for once it would be nice to be admired by a guy who didn't notice the cane first.
The computer, though . . . that was an entirely different story. The Internet had changed life so fast, in so many ways, that she found it difficult now to remember what it had been like before. Online shopping, airline tickets, news, gossip a chat room for anything and everything, no matter how eccentric or perverse.
Which accounts for the perverts, she thought. For no matter what the topic was, there were always those men who took the opportunity to try to hit on her, some woman they knew nothing about who was just a name on a computer screen. Guys were so very strange.
In the past few months, Courtney had spent more and more time surfing the web for news and rumors about the Prowlers. Just like everything else online, the majority of what she found was useless, bits of myth and local legend, stories passed down that were likely no more true than classic campfire tales like "the Hook" or the one about alligators in the sewer.
A chill went through her as she stared at the screen. On the other hand, given what she knew about Prowlers, Courtney had begun to believe that many of the stories she read about them, even the most far-fetched, likely had some basis in reality. It made her wonder whether that was true of so many other urban myths as well.
"Don't get all freaky, Dwyer," she chided herself. Her life was freaky enough as it was.
Anytime she chatted online, or posted on a message board, it created a stir of strange emotions in her. There was a kind of anxiety that came from having seen too many bad movies and television series about people who were stalked or otherwise tormented by strangers who discovered vital information about them via computer. Not the mention the barrage of e-mail warnings about viruses that could cripple her computer and destroy her files. Though she spent a lot of time online now, she was nowhere near savvy enough to understand what was possible and what wasn't.
At the same time, the anonymity of it intrigued her, the idea that she did not have to behave or speak the way people who knew her in real life expected her to. Probably why so many people act bizarre out here, she thought. Courtney had never been to college, but she had heard stories of old friends changing completely during their freshman year. That sort of thing was possible when you were put into a situation without any expectations.
So Courtney was someone else. Prowlergrrl. When she thought of it independent of the online world, it seemed silly, almost embarrassing. But online, it got results. It was one thing to use search engines to find reports of mutilation murders, or where police suspected the involvement of animals, and to track down rumors about the Prowlers themselves. Another thing entirely to actually speak to people online. Especially when so many of those she contacted in her research were odd at best, and complete lunatics at worst.
Considering the subject matter, she was not at all surprised.
Wildside was different, though. Courtney had never met him in person, nor had she been able to establish any personal information about him save that his real first name was Gregg and he lived somewhere in Alaska. In her journeys across the Internet, Courtney had not found a single source of information more reliable than Wildside's website, UnderTheSkin. When she stumbled across it in early September, it made her feel foolish to compare her meager efforts with what had obviously been years of work on his part.
From the things she read on his site, she was certain Wildside had encountered Prowlers personally and lived to tell about it. Most of the posts on his message board were ridiculous, but from time to time there were those that sounded real, as if they might have come from witnesses, or even from Prowlers. The site reported sightings, suspicious disappearances and deaths, and even "outed" public figures suspe
cted of being Prowlers, including Senator Vaughn McKeckern of Illinois.
According to Wildside, he had received a number of death threats in connection with the site. That was how he knew for certain he was on the right path. But it was still up and running.
What had chilled Courtney was to discover that UnderTheSkin had rumor reports about the things Jack and Molly had done in Boston and Vermont, though thankfully there were no names attached. There was no way she was going to tell Wildside who Prowlergrrl really was, but she had told him enough that he believed she had first hand experience.
Enough that he was willing to share information. And that was key.
Now she sat at the computer and stared at the Instant Message window in which she was currently conversing with Wildside.
I can't believe I missed all this Route 87 stuff, he typed.
Neither can I. You're supposed to be the expert. : )
Nobody's an expert on this stuff.
Courtney swallowed and found that her throat was dry. She really knew nothing about this man — if he even was a man — but he was too valuable a resource not to pursue it further.
I could use some help, she typed. Some friends of mine are going to look into it. Now that we've pinpointed this as a hot zone or whatever, could you see what else you can find out? It may be that there are suspects out there, or prime locations to start looking, that I haven't been able to figure out yet.
There was a pause before Wildside replied.
Wait. You mean your friends are GOING there?
Courtney took a breath. Then typed: Yes. They've done this sort of thing before.
Then I won't try telling you how crazy that is. Look, I can do whatever you need. I'll get on it now. If it comes to it, I can access satellite images of every square block of the lower forty-eight. All right, kinda exaggerating, but if I can help, you just have to ask.
A smile stole across Courtney's features and she sat up a little straighter. You're something else.
No, trust me, I'm not. I'm all human.
LOL. That's NOT what I meant, Wildside.
Promise me one thing? he wrote. When they came back, you'll tell me about it?
Courtney stiffened, concerned for all their privacy, for their lives. Then she relaxed. It was a reasonable request, and she could easily do that without giving too much away.
I will.
And think about visiting me in Alaska?
"Men," Courtney muttered to herself. Then she typed: I told you I'm involved with someone.
Bring him, Wildside replied.
She smiled at that. Somehow I don't think you two would get along.
They said their goodbyes and she shut down the computer. There were four cell phones on the desk and Courtney snatched one up and clipped it to her belt. All four were programmed with the other three numbers, and only those numbers. She grabbed her cane and headed out of her room, then down the stairs into the restaurant. It weighed only a few ounces, but she knew that it would only ever ring if someone was in trouble, in danger. That was a burden that had nothing to do with physical weight.
Bill had been on auto-pilot ever since Wednesday night. Though he would not allow himself to believe that Olivia was dead, he was certain that his niece was in trouble. The beast in his heart wanted to lash out, to rip and tear, to draw blood and force answers along with pleas for life. In the garage beneath his apartment building he had an old Harley that practically screamed out to him. He could get on it, ride down to New York, hit the underground and just start beating down doors and cracking heads until someone put him onto Jasmine or Olivia.
But he could not do that. He would alienate the underground, possibly get himself arrested, even get Olivia killed. Winter had prevailed upon his common sense. There was a better way to go about it, quieter, more diplomatic, and Winter had offered his help. Despite the primal urges within him to lash out, Bill had agreed. Yet with each hour that passed without word from Winter, the tension grew within him, the predatory urges almost too powerful to combat.
A day and a half had passed with no word and Bill spent that time dishing out beer and cocktails to customers he barely saw. He barked responses to other staff members. Only with Courtney was he calm. Her presence did not soothe the ferocity of his emotion and instincts, but seeing her brought him focus.
The Friday lunch crowd had thickened and with Courtney upstairs, Bill had once more become sullen, almost surly. As he served Samuel Adams to a pair of men talking technology at the bar, a third — a guy in a dark suit with close-cropped hair, a tan in October, and arrogance even in his posture — raised a finger and frowned.
"Excuse me!" the guy said loudly, as though offended that Bill had not been there to serve him within seconds of his bellying up to the bar.
The scent of him, the way he swaggered without even having to move, just set Bill off. He clacked the other customers' beers on the counter and stalked down the bar at the newcomer. Bill bared his teeth, a growl starting up from his throat that had been building in his chest since Wednesday night.
"Patience is a virtue, my friend," he snarled.
Most people would have sensed it right off, the threat of violence, the warning of danger that Bill knew must be coming off him in waves. Not this moron. He stood a little taller, righteous and offended.
"Do you have some kind of problem?"
Bill grinned. There was nothing friendly or amusing about it. "I don't like your tone."
The guy actually snickered. "I don't much care if you like my tone. Now, what I'd like is a Crown Royal on the rocks. And if you have a problem, why don't you take it up with your employer before I do."
Bill narrowed his eyes. Though he had spent years containing the beast, he could feel it straining to be free, the fur threatening to tear through his skin. His upper lip quivered. He was an eyeblink away from tearing the smarmy little man's face off.
Then he caught the scent.
Furrowed his brow.
Lao.
People in the pub turned to stare at the huge Asian as he walked through the front door and then across to the bar. But they stared because of his size and the tiger tattooed on the side of his bald head, not because they knew what he truly was. Lao stepped up to an empty stool but did not sit, merely stood behind it, waiting patiently, silently.
Bill focused again on the arrogant fool in front of him. He seemed to have faltered some when he realized he no longer had the bartender's full attention.
"Go away," Bill told him softly.
The guy still didn't understand that he was tempting fate. "You know what? I think, instead, I'll go talk to the manager."
"You do that." Bill spotted Courtney coming down the stairs from the apartment and he pointed her out to the guy. "See that woman on the stairs? That's her. Go on. See if she'll fire me to keep you happy."
At last, the guy looked unsettled. Bill's dismissal had thrown him off. He glanced over at Courtney and clearly was about to say something more, but Bill was done with him. He left the guy standing there and moved down to speak to Lao.
None of the humans would notice, or if they did it would be nothing they could put words to, but the air in the pub now was charged with a kind of dark electricity. These two beasts, two old hunters, had never been friends, nor even really friendly. They were wary of one another, and yet the underground — and their acquaintance with Winter — made them unlikely allies. Lao seemed incredibly out of place to Bill, almost surreal as he stood there in the midst of middle-class tourists and local businessmen.
"Winter sent you?" Bill asked.
Lao nodded. "He has been unable to find any further information about your niece's whereabouts. As such, he has asked me to accompany you to New York and to introduce you to people there who might be able to aid you."
With a small chuckle, Bill scratched at his beard and studied the other Prowler. "I hadn't expected to have company. You're sure a phone call wouldn't do for introductions?"
The throat
of the tiger on Lao's skull — where the tattoo covered his temple — pulsed with his heartbeat, as if it were about to spring.
"Winter has asked me to accompany you. There are places you will not be welcome otherwise." Lao stared a moment longer, then nodded once. "We depart at midnight from the Lotus. You will drive."
Bill ground his teeth together. Here was another guy whose tone he did not like. But his mind went to Olivia, his only living family, and he knew that putting up with Lao was a small price to pay if he could get her back.
He nodded in return. "I'll see you there."
As Lao left the pub, once again drawing the stares of the patrons inside Bridget's, Courtney walked over. She looked more than a little confused as she glanced from Bill to the retreating form of Lao.
"You met my new friend?" the bartender asked her.
Courtney slid onto a stool. "The guy you wouldn't serve? Yes. I just gave him lunch on the house. You want to tell me what that was about?"
Bill sighed, rested his hands on the countertop. "Sorry. This is your place and I shouldn't take advantage of how we feel about each other like that. He was a jerk, and he caught me at a very bad time."
With a soft smile, she reached out and covered his huge hands with her small, delicate ones. "I didn't like him either. But I don't want him spreading the word. On the other hand, you're my main concern. What's the story with that guy you were just talking to?"
"That's Lao. He's . . . well, he's supposed to help me find Olivia. With Jack and Molly leaving in the morning, I know the timing couldn't be worse, but I have to find her, or at least find out what happened to her."
Courtney reached up to stroke his face. "When do you have to leave?"
"Tonight at midnight."
He saw the sadness, the shadow of hurt that fell across her face, but then it was gone. "I guess we're going to find out if my new assistant managers can do the job."
"I shouldn't be gone more than a few days."
"Take as long as you need. I hope you find her. I hope she's all right," Courtney said. "But whatever you find down there, you come back to me when you're done, Bill Cantwell.
Prowlers: Wild Things Page 4
