"He doesn't mean anything by it," the bearded man said. He stood up and offered his hand, first to Jack and then to Molly. They all shook.
"Jack Sears. And this is Molly Feehan," Jack lied.
"I'm Dave Krause," the man said. "Terrible thing about your cousin. I think I remember hearing about that on a run through here, maybe last fall. Found him at a rest area, didn't they?"
"That's right," Molly said.
All their eyes went to her. Jack didn't like the way Hank Krause looked at her, but there was nothing particularly monstrous about it. Just the normal every day beast that any pretty girl had to deal with. Still, he glared at the guy. Hank caught the look, and gave him a sly grin, just between the two of them. Jack wanted desperately to hit him, but he figured unless he had a baseball bat, he had best just stand right where he was.
"Actually, it was this rest stop," Molly went on.
"Oh," Dave said, and a moment of silence fell upon them all as they looked around, apparently creeped out by the news. "Wow," he added. "Suzanne's right, though. Not sure what you hope to find after all this time."
Jack took a breath, stepped away from the card table and stared out at the road. "Jared's mom still cries herself to sleep at night," he said, hating the taste of the lie in his mouth and wondering how good an actor he was. He turned around and studied them to see if they were buying it. It seemed like they were.
"When we saw this news piece about a trucker who got killed pretty much the same way up here, we just figured maybe it's the same guy. Maybe there's some connection between how this freak found Jared and how he ended up killing this other guy."
All four stared at him. The jarhead's gaze went back and forth from him to Molly. It had not been lost on Jack that the guy had yet to say a single word.
"What was the driver's name?" Suzanne asked.
Jack had forgotten completely. He glanced at Molly.
"Chester Douglas," she said. "Chet, I think people called him."
As though they were holding their breath, the drivers all glanced awkwardly at one another, searching each other's faces, clearly waiting for one among them to say, ah, poor Chet, or something of the sort. Hank Krause tilted his can of Budweiser back and let it stream into his mouth, ignoring everyone else.
"Don't think I've ever heard of him," Suzanne said.
Dave shrugged.
The jarhead just stared at them.
Jack sighed and scratched the back of his head. He half-turned to Molly and she reached out to take his hand. It's all right, he thought as he slipped his hand into hers. Let them see that. The frustration, or whatever. Maybe it makes it all the more real.
"Listen, we're sorry to have bothered you," Molly said. "We really appreciate the time. The way we're thinking now is that if whoever killed Jared also killed Chet Douglas, he may have killed more people around here. Chet drove a truck and the police say he often slept in rest stops along this road on his long runs. Jared was probably hitchhiking and his body was left in a rest stop. If you think of anything else you've heard, even if it's only a rumor, that might be related, we'll be at the Riverside Motel in Fairbrook for a couple of days."
Dave slipped his hands in his pockets, glanced at Suzanne, and then looked back at them. "We're on the road, y'know? I mean, in a couple of hours, none of us is going to be within fifty miles of here. But if I think of anything, well, I know where you are."
"Same goes for me," Suzanne said. "I'm headed for West Virginia, but I'll keep it in mind. And pass it on."
"Thanks," Jack said. "Much appreciated."
With that, he and Molly turned and went back to the Jeep. Behind them, the drivers were silent, save for the sound of Hank popping another can of Budweiser. They climbed into the Jeep and Jack started it up. He was about to pull out when Molly whispered his name. He looked up and saw the jarhead trotting toward them with a determined look on his face.
Wary, but curious, Jack rolled the window down.
"Hey," the jarhead said.
"You thought of something?" Jack asked.
The man blinked, then shook his head. "No. Just . . . I just wanted to make sure you knew how to get to that motel."
"Actually, we have terrible directions," Molly replied.
The jarhead actually smiled. "Take the next exit. Fairbrook, Dobbins Avenue, it says. Left at the bottom of the ramp, maybe two miles you'll pass this roadhouse called Capone's. The next left intersection is Dobbins. Take a right there and the motel's maybe a quarter of a mile up on the left."
Jack was astonished at how friendly the guy suddenly seemed. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "Drive safe out there."
But the guy did not back away. Instead, he leaned in closer to the window, and all the open, amiable warmth drained from his face.
"Pay attention, friend. I know you're full of shit," the jarhead said ominously. His eyes ticked past Jack to Molly, and then back again. "I remember the deal with that kid from Buffalo, and his mom killed herself not three months later. It was in the papers. You're not his cousin. I don't know what you're looking for, but I'll tell you this for free: go home. Turn around and drive back to Boston. Now, if you're stupid, and you stay? Just watch yourselves."
"Why?" Jack prodded, heart racing. "You know there's more going on here. Why don't you just talk to us?"
The jarhead glanced over his shoulder, though the nearest trailer blocked his view of the other three. When he turned back to the Jeep, his eyes narrowed and he stood back a couple of feet. "Stay or go. If you have questions about this dead truck driver, ask Max at the Blueberry Diner in Hollingsworth. That guy talks to everyone. Sees everything. Makes some mean French Toast, too."
He slapped the door. "Good luck."
Before Jack could thank him, he had rushed back around the truck to rejoin the other drivers.
"Well," Jack began. "That was . . ."
"Peculiar," Molly put in.
"One word for it. I was thinking more like 'freaky.'"
"That works too."
CHAPTER FOUR
From the moment he had arrived in Manhattan — at just after five o'clock that morning — Bill had regretted not having ridden his Harley down. But Lao had insisted that Bill drive. It was his quest, his trip . . . his car and his money to fill the gas tank.
Lao was a less than ideal traveling companion. They had been acquainted with one another for centuries and Bill had never been overly fond of the grim-faced Prowler. He spoke rarely and moved with a kind of cool confidence that seemed admirable in books and movies but was actually quite unnerving in real life. His reticence often caused people to make the mistake of thinking Lao was stupid, but one good look at his eyes would dispel that presumption. His mind was always working, taking the measure of any given situation, but Lao kept his own counsel.
Only the fact that Winter had instructed him to aid in the search for Olivia gave Bill any faith in Lao's loyalty. The hunter, the warrior, had no love or fealty toward Bill or his family, but it was another thing entirely to betray Winter, who owed allegiance to no one, and yet was venerated by all. The name itself had gotten them this far.
Since early that morning, they had spoken to several members of the underground, who spoke to them only because they claimed to be affiliated with Winter. Several times that day, Lao had tried to get in touch with Roger Martelle, a Prowler who was a music industry executive. By the end of the day they were dining with him at Birdland on the upper west side. Martelle gave them a lead, a music club on West Fourth Street in the Village called The Voodoo Lounge. Though the place was a hot spot in the city, it was owned by Prowlers and at any given time a good portion of the clientele wasn't human. It was not a refuge for the underground, but nor, according to Martelle, was it a haven for the savages.
But the word on the street was that Jasmine was recruiting, and the Voodoo Lounge was where she did her scouting.
The Oldsmobile had been in a garage on 72nd Street since shortly after breakfast, and Bill figured it would be bes
t to just leave it there until it was needed again. With the parking situation in New York, it simply made more sense to take the subway or a taxi.
It was dusk as the yellow cab rolled up to the curb in front of the Voodoo Lounge. Lao climbed out first without a word or a glance, leaving Bill to pay the fare. He knew it should not bother him. Whether Winter put him up to it or not, the truth was that Lao was doing him a favor and by rights Bill should be the one to pay the expenses involved. But there was something about Lao's attitude, the way he floated ghost-like through each new situation, barely even acknowledging that there was a fare to be paid, a bit of decorum to be observed, that raised Bill's hackles.
On the sidewalk, they stood side by side and gazed at the façade of the Voodoo Lounge. The place was a study in downscale hip, the blacked-out windows painted in fluorescent musical notes and the sign quite purposefully and expensively crafted to appear as though it had been made from wood and rusted metal. It was inconspicuous. If he had driven past it during the day, Bill thought he probably would have thought that the place had been abandoned, closed down for months.
There would be no making that mistake after dark, however. A pair of bouncers stood on either side of the door, and Bill studied them, trying to determine if they were human. He tried to catch a scent but the wind had kicked up. Live music blared loud enough inside that they could hear it on the street, muffled but clear enough to make out some of the lyrics. It was a jazzy kind of blues that wasn't quite rock but sure as hell wasn't pop, and Bill felt his pulse drop into rhythm with the music.
He started for the door, and Lao stopped him.
Bill twitched, glared at the other Prowler. It was all he could do not to snarl. Lao withdrew his hand without a hint of apology.
"Stay here," the other Prowler said.
"Bullshit."
Lao's expression was impassive. "You are known, Guillaume. You wish to believe that this is not true, but it is. There are many among us who would have known you by sight even before you played football with the humans. If Jasmine is here, or even if her pack gathers here, there will undoubtedly be those who will recognize you. We are not here for a war. We are here to get in, find your niece, and get out as quickly as we can."
Without waiting for a response, Lao turned and went through the front door of the club, leaving Bill to stare after him. Much as he wanted to argue, what Lao said made sense. The bouncers were eyeing him closely now. Bill might have glared back at them, but Lao's words echoed in his mind and instead he walked along the sidewalk until he was just out of sight of the entrance.
Cars slid by on the narrow Village street. A kid with too many piercings and a chain dangling from his pants rode a bicycle several years too small for him. Bill had spent so much time living amongst the humans that he was practiced ate blending in, at being inconspicuous, in spite of what Lao had said. Still, there on the sidewalk he felt exposed and vulnerable, as out of place as a nervous thief hesitating in the parking lot before robbing a convenience store. A young lesbian couple passed, hand in hand. One of them, tall and lithe and blond, smiled at him.
"You lost?" she asked.
"Just waiting for someone," he replied.
The urge to hurt his silent traveling companion grew.
The metal watch on his wrist ticked off the minutes, and each time Bill glanced at it, he was certain its hands were moving slower than before. The residents of the neighborhood were an eclectic mix of faces and ages, from middle-aged business types to skateboard punks to hip twentyish women dressed in what he thought of as ragged glamour. A man with graying hair and the attire of a male fashion model strode confidently along the sidewalk with a violin case in his hand.
With every tick of his watch, the sense of being out of place grew. Bill countered it with thoughts of Olivia. However vulnerable he felt, it was the smallest of sacrifices to make if it would lead to locating his niece, the beautiful girl he had held in his arms when she was just a baby. She had purred when he stroked her fur. She had grown up with a charisma and a kind of personal momentum that always reminded Bill of her mother. But as much as Bill loved his sister, he was not going to tell her daughter that.
In his mind, he saw Olivia's golden eyes, like burnished brass. The last time he had seen her, she had been bent over an acoustic guitar, clumsily picking out a tune that sounded familiar but not familiar enough. He had been certain she would get it eventually, though. She was a determined girl.
Bill didn't want to think about how long it had been since that day, how long it had been since he had really checked on Olivia, even to see how she was faring. It grieved him to know that he only discovered her plight secondhand. The very thought of it sent shivers of anger and sadness through him, brought the beast that much closer to the surface. If he had run his tongue over his teeth just then, he was sure he would find them jagged and sharp, and far too many for a man.
With a deep breath, he forced the beast down. What else could he do? He could kill. He could hunt. Those things were easy. The hardest thing for him was to do what he was doing now: being patient.
It was more than thirty-five minutes before Lao exited the club. He moved with a grace that belied his size, and perhaps that was something else that bothered Bill about him. Even amongst his own kind, Bill was used to being the most imposing presence in the room, but Lao was simply bigger. His tranquility combined with his size and that striking tiger tattoo to ominous effect. Lao made people nervous.
The bouncers in front of the Voodoo Lounge did not even glance at Lao as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, sniffed the air for Bill's scent, then started toward him. Bill frowned. They had seen him go in, of course, and he would not be as remarkable a sight the second time around. But it seemed odd that they would not even acknowledge his departure. Bill wondered if he was recognized as someone connected to Winter, for that might explain their treatment of Lao.
"You were in there a while," Bill said.
Lao raised his eyebrows, the tiger at his temple rearing back, then he bowed respectfully. "My apologies, Guillaume."
"Did you get any leads on Olivia?"
"No one will confirm that Jasmine is holding her, but there were those within who know the girl. I did not get a sense that anyone thinks her dead."
As he exhaled, a chill passed through Bill as though he were releasing some of his fear, that dark anticipation, along with his breath. But it was hardly over yet, he knew that. It was only beginning. Still, it was something.
"That could mean the word is out that Jasmine has her, but no one wants to talk because of possible repercussions," Bill ventured.
Lao bowed again, but only slightly this time. "That was my thought as well. A direct approach seems most appropriate now. I have arranged for a meeting with a member of Jasmine's pack. Alec Brand. We are to meet him at eleven o'clock."
The beast in Bill Cantwell's heart growled low, wary. "Where?"
Even at eleven o'clock at night midtown Manhattan was abuzz with activity. New York was called the city that never sleeps, and Bill had found that to be an accurate appellation. There were parts of Manhattan where people wandered about at all hours, moving from bar to bar to after hours party, sitting in coffee shops or restaurants when most other people in the time zone had long ago gone to sleep.
But there were other parts of the city that became deserted as the hour grew late. Much progress had been made in the past decade in making New York City safer, in reclaiming blocks and sometimes whole neighborhoods that had gone to seed. Times Square was a brilliant jewel in the crown of this reclamation.
Walking west from Times Square on 48th Street, the jewel became tarnished with every block they moved closer to the Hudson River. Bill had seen so many faces on this city over the years, the heights of its greatest glory and the filth of its greatest shame. For better or worse, though, New York was a magnificent place, a city that lived and breathed, alive with the power of imagination and human ambition, yet with a dark pulse of violence and c
ruelty underneath. The architects of this grandest of cities had built their dreams high, their buildings higher, and Bill thought now as he and Lao walked along 48th Street that perhaps they had done so in order to draw attention from the streets themselves.
For awful lurked in the shadows on the street, and beneath it. Abandoned humans, broken children, drug-addled women, the forgotten of their race, all were horrible enough, but there were inhuman things as well. And so there were places in the city that were overlooked when the wealthy captains of industry decided to give Manhattan the polish it had so badly needed.
They crossed Tenth Avenue and started for Eleventh, and shortly Bill and Lao came to one of those places. 48th Street became bridge there, just for a short span. Perhaps thirty feet below the bridge, railroad tracks ran along the bottom of a long narrow ravine in a bed of gravel. Though it was autumn, weeds still grew up on either side of the tracks where the sun would hit them. To the north, the steel rails disappeared into a tunnel beneath 49th Street that somehow seemed too small for a train to have passed through. Chain link fence had been erected on both ends to keep people from entering the ravine, by accident or by choice.
An aging, filthy, unmarked delivery truck rattled east on 48th Street. The driver was a swarthy man with a shaved head and a cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. He glared at them as he passed, but Bill knew his obvious rancor was not caused by suspicion, but a natural response many powerful human males had in the presence of one another like apes pounding on their chests.
When the truck had rumbled away, Bill and Lao exchanged a glance, took one more cautious look around, and then grabbed hold of the chain link fence. With speed and agility no human of his size could ever have, Bill scaled the fence in a sliver of an instant, crouched impossibly on the top bar, and then dropped over the edge, plummeting into the ravine and landing on his feet with a grunt and the crunch of gravel. Lao dropped down beside him an instant later and together they started along the train tracks without a backward glance.
Prowlers: Wild Things Page 6
