The Wolf at the Door

by Charlie Adhara

  The bar didn’t go silent when they walked in. No one demanded to know what business Cooper had there. No one besides the bartender even glanced their way.

  “All clear?” Park asked. His voice full of barely restrained laughter.

  Cooper shut his mouth and looked away from the wolf’s teasing eyes. He felt like an idiot. Again. All these people were wolves? He could hardly believe that yesterday on the plane he’d been convinced he could just find a wolf hanging around town and chances were good he, or she, would be the killer.

  He knew Florence got more wolves passing through than most towns where he’d had cases but still, Cooper thought of Jefferson’s system of finding the closest wolf to the crime and had to wonder, how did that ever work?

  “Got eyes on Whittaker.” Park nodded toward the back corner of the room. Sitting at the end of the bar and chatting with a good-looking man in his forties was Sam Whittaker.

  Cooper had to admit he didn’t currently look like a serial killer on a spree. He appeared relaxed, was laughing a lot and, Cooper was startled to realize, appeared to be flirting with the older guy leaning against the bar beside him. But looks could be deceiving, as Jefferson always said. Especially when one could shift those looks as dramatically as wolves could.

  Cooper headed toward the back of the room and stopped right between the wolf and the silver fox. He could sense Park lagging behind a bit, giving him a clear lead. Cooper felt a rush of appreciation beneath the buzz of anxiety. Maybe it was foolish, but he needed to feel back in control. He’d been increasingly off-kilter since learning of his partnership with Park. Maybe even longer than that.

  “Sam Whittaker?”

  The two men stopped talking, and Whittaker looked at him with a polite if somewhat annoyed expression. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Okay,” Whittaker said, and cocked his head.

  “In private.” He’d prefer not to alert the whole bar of wolves to the presence of a BSI agent in town.

  Sam’s expression changed from annoyance to incredulity. “Uh, thanks but no thanks, man. Not that you aren’t hot and all but—”

  “Mr. Whittaker, that wasn’t one of the questions,” Cooper interrupted, annoyed to feel heat in his cheeks. Hopefully it came across as flushed with anger. “Come outside with me or you’re going to regret wanting to have this conversation here.”

  “Hey, friend. I think you should take a hint. He’s not interested in talking to you,” the older guy said, straightening up so he was in Cooper’s face.

  Cooper’s hand went to his belt and tried to ignore the vicious cramping in his belly. He really didn’t want to draw his weapon, but he didn’t want to be blindsided either. “Back away, sir.”

  “Or what?” the older man said, leaning in closer, and a flash of gold, so quick Cooper wondered if he’d imagined it, lit up his eyes.

  A low growl rumbled from behind Cooper. More vibration than actual sound. He almost would have thought it was a distant passing train except the older guy’s gaze, now a regular hazel, darted over Cooper’s shoulders and then quickly lowered into what even Cooper recognized as a sign of submission.

  “Park,” the man murmured. “I apologize. I didn’t scent you there.”

  “He said back off,” Park said. Quietly, softly, but leaving no room for argument. An order he had no doubt would be obeyed. Cooper felt a thrill up his spine.

  “I didn’t intend any disrespect,” the older guy said nervously, and retreated without a second glance at Whittaker, his head down and eyes averted.

  Ouch.

  Whittaker’s eyes were also submissively looking in the direction of Park’s knees, but he still managed to exude annoyance that his pickup had been interrupted.

  “Let’s take this conversation outside now,” Cooper repeated. Park’s little display of top dog had drawn a couple curious looks from around the room and there was an underlying tension in the murmured conversations.

  Whittaker bit his lip but didn’t argue. The three of them left the bar.

  “I’m not going farther than this ’til somebody tells me what the fuck is going on,” Whittaker said, stopping a few feet from the door.

  The sun had finished setting and the dull light of the bar cast peculiar shadows across the parking lot.

  “Mr. Whittaker, my name is Special Agent Dayton with the BSI, and this is—”

  “A Park,” Whittaker interrupted. “I know who he is. The one who went rogue. I haven’t seen you around here in a long time. What do you want with me?”

  “Kyle Bornestein. What’s your relationship with him?” Park said.

  “The dead guy? Uh, nonexistent? I never met him. Or if I did it was in the Florence way and I don’t remember.”

  The Florence way. The waitress Jenny had said that, too. Town too small not to run across someone, somehow. It made for a messy investigation.

  “You seem pretty defensive, Mr. Whittaker.”

  “Yeah? I bet. I don’t like the BSI in my business. What do you care about some yokel—” He cut himself off and looked at Park. “Bornestein was cut?”

  Park nodded, face impassive, and then, anticipating Cooper’s question, said, “Yes, he was killed by a werewolf. As was the John Doe he was found with.”

  “Shit,” Sam breathed. “Shit, shit.” He was silent for a moment, almost mournful looking, and then his defiant face was back and he sneered at Cooper. “And I suppose you’re trying to pin it on me? Good luck with that, because I had nothing to do with it and I don’t know anyone who did. Or are you not going to bother proving it? Just going to shoot me here?” He threw his arms up martyr-style, nearly yelling by the end.

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” Cooper snapped. “Jesus, I said I wanted to ask you a few questions and that’s what I’m trying to do. Keep your voice down. Please.”

  “Oh yeah? You always bring that many weapons to ask questions?”

  Cooper shifted uncomfortably. A gun and his stun gun modified specifically to take down werewolves did feel pretty extreme right now facing this slim, smart-mouthed kid. But as Jefferson said, wolves were always carrying at least ten deadly knives in their hands alone.

  “It’s standard safety procedure,” Cooper muttered.

  Whittaker snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure you feel real unsafe with a fucking Park at your side. Pull the other one.”

  “What are you ta—”

  Park cut him off. “When was the last time you saw Robert Gould?”

  “Robbie? What has he got to do with anything?”

  “Answer me,” Park said, some gravel in his voice.

  Whittaker gritted his teeth and bit out, “I saw him Saturday. Why?”

  That was new information. Whittaker had seen Gould the day he disappeared. “Where and what time exactly did you see him?” Cooper asked.

  “He came around here. Maybe a little after one. Is there any point in me asking why again?”

  “Did Gould come to the Pumphouse often?”

  “No. Of course not.” Whittaker looked at Park with an exasperated expression like the two of them were the ones stuck dealing with Cooper. Jerk. “He came here looking for me. He knows I started working the lunch shift here most days. He wanted to talk.”

  “You work here?” Park asked, which seemed like the least important part of what had been said in Cooper’s opinion.

  “Rudi gave me the job ’til I get my feet,” Sam said defiantly.

  “You’re following her now?”

  Whittaker stuck his chin out. “I am. You have a problem with that?”

  “Just find it interesting,” Park said casually.

  Cooper wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but seeing as it didn’t tie in to why Gould was talking to their main suspect the day he disappeared, he didn’t much care. “Yo
u know what I find interesting? That Gould came here just to talk after you had fought.”

  “How did you know—did Robbie tell you we were fighting? That asshole. It really wasn’t that big a deal.”

  Cooper exchanged a confused look with Park. “Mr. Whittaker,” Cooper said slowly. “Robert Gould has been missing since Saturday afternoon.”

  Whittaker’s face froze in place, like he’d heard the question and was now waiting for the subtitles to figure out what it meant. “What do you mean missing?” he said softly, and though it lacked all his previous teenage snark and arrogance, he sounded younger than ever.

  “Robert Gould disappeared Saturday, we believe, against his will. The last place he was reported being seen was working on the forest trails. Until you.”

  Cooper let that implication sink in. A slow-moving car passed on the road and the headlights caught Whittaker’s eyes, which reflected the glare inhumanly. Almost before Cooper registered it, the light cleared and the wolf’s eyes were once again warm, brown and frightened.

  “I didn’t know he was missing,” Whittaker said finally.

  “Everyone in town knows he’s missing.”

  “I’ve been up north, across the border, running pack errands for Rudi. I just got back to town this afternoon.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting coincidence. Fleeing the country after a man is attacked,” Cooper said.

  “I wasn’t fleeing shit!” Whittaker yelled, and then took a step back, running a hand over his face and breathing heavily. “I asked Rudi to send me. I needed some time away. When I didn’t hear from Robbie, I thought he was still mad at me.”

  “What’s your relationship with Mr. Gould?”

  “We were both on the wrestling team in high school. We’re friends.”

  “Funny, his mother didn’t describe it that way.”

  Sam frowned. “Yeah, she wouldn’t. I’m surprised she even remembers who I am, to be honest.”

  Cooper didn’t bother explaining that she didn’t. “What makes you say that?”

  “She didn’t like me and Robbie being friends in high school. Senior year we fell out. Stopped talking. We didn’t keep in touch all four years I was at college. I moved back last year and we started hanging out again. But I kind of thought Robbie wasn’t telling Mrs. Gould about it.”

  “Why didn’t Mrs. Gould approve of your friendship?”

  Whittaker’s face turned bitter. “She’d say Robbie was too old to have BFFs—baby fag friends. She thought I was being a bad queer influence on her precious son.”

  “And were you?”

  “No,” Whittaker snapped, a hint of a snarl in his voice. Cooper willed himself not to step back. “Robbie isn’t—it wasn’t like that. We were just friends.”

  “But you wanted something more?” Cooper guessed. “Is that why you fell out?”

  “No.” Sam shook his head. “No,” he repeated, though whether he was denying it to them or himself was debatable. “I quit wrestling at the end of junior year. Getting too much attention, you know.” He directed that at Park. “Robbie was mad. He thought I was keeping secrets. He thought I didn’t trust him. Stupid teenage bullshit.”

  “Were you keeping secrets?”

  “Dude.” Whittaker curled his upper lip and Cooper watched his canines lengthen into fangs. “Duh.” His voice came out a little raspy, and his fangs quickly retracted to normal, if slightly pointy, teeth before Cooper’s pulse even had time to quicken.

  “Fuckin’ BSI,” Whittaker added, pointedly eyeing Cooper’s belt. Cooper realized his hand had flown to his gun and was resting there. He quickly crossed his arms.

  “Gould wasn’t aware?” Park spoke up. “Informed about wolves,” he added for Cooper’s benefit.

  “No, never.”

  “Is that what you were fighting about last week?”

  “No. Not exactly. Robbie sometimes did odd jobs for extra cash. Landscaping. Farm work. Moving furniture. That kind of shit. Sometimes I helped him because—whatever, sometimes I helped. Anyway, he came by last week to say he’d gotten this new job and he needed my help. I said no. He got pissed about it.”

  “What was the job?”

  “I didn’t know the details. Robbie said something about how he was supposed to keep it on the down low because of union shit or something, I don’t know. As soon as I heard it was out by Crazy Baker’s, I told him I couldn’t do it. He wanted to know why. I couldn’t come up with a good reason. We...got into it.” Whittaker grimaced. “I guess teenage bullshit is chronic.”

  “There’s nothing out by Crazy Baker’s. What would he be doing out there?”

  “I said I don’t know, man. Robbie just said it was off Shadepoint Road. That’s too close to Baker’s land for me, so I said nah.”

  “Crazy Baker?” Cooper asked.

  Whittaker looked at Park to answer. “Geoffrey Baker, single white male, in his early forties, maybe. Born and raised here. Inherited property in south Florence bordering the forest. He’s a lone werewolf. Never been part of a pack. Never wanted to be. He’s kind of got a reputation for having...territorial issues.”

  “A wolf with territorial issues,” Cooper repeated. “Property bordering the forest. Crazy Baker. You didn’t think this might be relevant?”

  For the first time since meeting him Park looked annoyed, and maybe a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think of it. ‘Crazy’ is sort of a joke. It’s not like he’s actually a threat. Just a weird loner guy who keeps to himself and doesn’t like kids trespassing on his property. We used to make it a game, who could get closest to Crazy Baker’s house before he came storming out and chased us off. Extra points if you could make him mad enough to shift.”

  “Yeah, I did the same thing with my friends growing up,” Whittaker said. “We’d be pissing ourselves while he was tearing after us howling his head off, but it was all just fun and games, no real danger. You know, kid stuff.”

  “Sure,” Cooper said dryly. “Sounds like a barrel of laughs. If there was no real danger, why didn’t you want to go there for this job?”

  “That was when we were pups. I’m a grown-ass man now. Going there may have come across as a threat to someone like Baker. He can be...defensive. I didn’t want to risk getting into it with him. But I couldn’t exactly explain that to Robbie.”

  “But you didn’t warn him to stay away. Your good friend.”

  “There was nothing to warn about. Baker wouldn’t feel threatened by a human in his territory. He gets trespassing hunters and hikers all the time. Pissed him off for sure, but it’s not like he’d hurt them or whatever. I did tell Robbie the job sounded sketchy as hell, though. Don’t tell anyone, minimal details and it’s out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “How do you know it wasn’t Baker who hired him?”

  Whittaker snorted. “That doesn’t sound like Baker.”

  “But Gould didn’t say it wasn’t Baker.”

  “No, I guess he didn’t.”

  “You said Gould came by the Pumphouse Saturday afternoon looking for you. Why?”

  “He said he was on his way to the job and tried again to convince me to tag along. I said no, again. He left.”

  “And where were you for the rest of the day? Starting with 1 p.m.”

  Whittaker glared. “I was here. Working. I picked up the dinner shift and helped close. Didn’t get out of here till 1:30 a.m. I left town the next morning around eight.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?” Cooper asked.

  “Rudi, my—my boss. Any number of customers. We were swamped that day. A bunch of the Massachusetts packs were moving through to cross the border. Rowdy assholes.”

  “All wolves, I’m assuming.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “So I don’t necessarily trust your boss-slash-alpha not to cover for you.”

  Whittaker
snorted. “Rudi would never. But fine, do you trust Chief Brown? Because she saw me here Saturday. Or do you think the chief of police is covering for me, too?”

  “What was Brown doing here?” Park asked.

  “I don’t know. She’s here a lot. But she saw me here busting my ass, so I’m not going to complain about it.”

  “We’re going to check that,” Cooper threatened.

  “Good. Do it.”

  Cooper searched his face for any hesitation but didn’t see it. “Do you know Jennifer Eagler?”

  Whittaker frowned. “Yeah. Robbie had a big thing for her. Why?”

  Cooper’s eyebrow twitched. Nothing more dangerous than a love triangle.

  “What about Ranger Christie? Do you know him?” Park said.

  Whittaker hesitated. “He’s Robbie’s boss.”

  “Yes,” Cooper said impatiently. “What else?”

  “What else what? I’ve only met the guy a couple of times.” Whittaker sounded defensive. But then he’d sounded defensive for ninety-nine percent of the conversation.

  “What reason would he have to come looking for you this afternoon?”

  Whittaker sneered. “How the hell should I know? He knows Robbie and I are friends. One of the only people who does. Maybe he wanted to tell me Robbie was—about Robbie before an asshole like you did.” Whittaker turned to Park. “Can I go now?”

  Park observed him for a moment. “Stick around town,” he said finally. “And tell Rudi no more runs for you for now.”

  Whittaker nodded and backed quickly away. He paused by the door to the Pumphouse. “Could it—it’s still possible that Robbie’s...okay, right?”

  “Two torn-up bodies in the morgue indicate otherwise,” Cooper said. Whittaker looked ashen. He hurried inside.

  “That was harsh,” Park remarked.

  Cooper felt a twinge of regret and quickly dismissed it. You had to be tough. Whittaker was a suspect, not a family member. If Park didn’t like it, maybe he wasn’t cut out for it. “It was true.”

  They got into the car and drove back to the motel. With the way things had gone, no burgers had been murdered during the questioning at the Pumphouse and Cooper needed to eat. His guts had not stopped cramping the whole time they’d been talking to Whittaker. This schedule was not doing good things to his body.