This time, he would get in closer—pull the lost dog act if he needed to. If that happened, he needed Eleri nearby and he needed her sharp. Shoving the hated collar into his pocket for later, he turned to her. “It’s time for bed.”
She only nodded at him. What she didn’t know was that he had thought about her talent. He told her to sleep with something Baxter had touched. But right now that was limited to Jonah and Charity, and they were not options. Plus, he’d read that people were not good psychometric objects as they brought too much of their own energy and would obscure anything Baxter left behind.
Donovan could obtain the red shirt from the first dead girl. The blood and the fist imprint were pretty convincing evidence that Baxter had in fact touched her, repeatedly and with energy. But that was too creepy. Instead, he printed out another copy of Jonah’s drawing. He glued it to the back of Baxter’s mug shot from the juvenile record they had eventually been given access to. A two-sided picture of Baxter, now and then, photo and art. Donovan had no idea if it would lead Eleri anywhere near a helpful dream, but he’d slipped it under her pillow when she stepped out of the room.
He felt bad about it, though not bad enough to confess what he’d done. Motioning to the window, he said, “Be sure to pull the blackout drapes in the back. They really work. See you later.”
“At the witching hour.” She responded, shutting the door behind him.
33
Donovan walked into the woods, having left the car behind, tucked into thick bushes for cover. The tire tracks leading to the car would be obvious to anyone who looked, but hopefully no one would, not in the dead of night.
He held the strap of his silly little mesh backpack for comfort. He didn’t think it would fall off, but the feel of it in his grip anchored his thoughts as he picked his way through the dense brush. This time he carried no rope or anchors, he would leave the pack on the ground. Instead he carried a super compact table tucked under his arm—the kind professional campers used.
Even odder than what he carried was the fact that there was a woman behind him, traipsing directly in his footsteps as best she could, given his longer stride. Eleri carried a chair that matched the camping table, a shoulder bag with computer equipment, and a smaller thermal bag of food. And also bug spray, because no matter how dim she made the screen, she was going to be a beacon for a variety of flying and crawling things. She’d bought two different bottles of heavy-duty repellent in an effort to hedge her bets. Donovan had almost suggested she also get a gas mask, but he managed to bite his tongue on that one.
He was simultaneously soothed and completely freaked out by her presence.
Always alone until now, he was breaking a thirty-four year silence. Though he still wasn’t ready to change in front of her—wasn’t sure he ever would be—there was a level of comfort that someone had his back.
No one had ever had his back and it had taken him thirty-four years to realize he could affect his own change.
Seemingly his change came in the form of a secretive division of the FBI. A boss with a questionable set of skills and directives. And a partner, younger than him, whip smart, and battling her own demons. So he walked into the woods, picking his footing carefully, for the first time needing to locate a suitable spot to set up a computer tracking station.
Behind him, Eleri remained silent. She had on lightweight but sturdy pants that wouldn’t tear or get ruined walking the underbrush, hiking boots, and a long-sleeved shirt that would protect most of her from the bugs. She must be the proud owner of a shrink ray to get all that into the one suitcase, but he didn’t ask.
They had hiked close to five miles, the GPS indicating they were now two miles from the area where City of God was set up. Any farther out and he could get stuck with Eleri too far away. Any closer in and the patrols might find them. Light traveled far in the dark. Luckily there was a moon out tonight to mask the glow of her set-up.
Eleri tipped her head back to admire the white sliver hanging there beautifully. “It’s nearly full.” Then she frowned at it. “Clearly you can change at will. I get the whole ‘monster’ thing, though. For centuries people assumed anything they didn’t understand was either witchcraft or Satan. Of course the prevailing fix for things we didn’t understand was to kill them—often in a painful way. But how did the whole full-moon myth come about?”
Donovan shrugged as he set up the table and found an area of flat ground, digging the legs in for a little stability. “The best I can figure is that’s when we were seen. The rest of the month it was pretty dark. Are we good here?”
The unsegued change in topic wasn’t coincidental. He didn’t know much of his own history.
Eleri nodded at him. She was pulling the bag from her shoulder, opening the tablet with the tracking device, making sure it linked to the tiny keyboard. She didn’t need him here, so he turned and stalked off into the woods to a point where the light wouldn’t carry, where anyone from the City of God wouldn’t possibly see him. They would surely mark him as Satan and shoot on sight.
Peeling his T-shirt, he stepped out of his shoes and socks and shucked his jeans. In a moment, he stood there in the woods, completely naked and hopefully completely alone. After folding the clothing, pushing it down into the mesh bag and cinching the top, he began. First he rolled his shoulders, setting them into their alternate location, the long scapulae Eleri had noticed now anchored at a different angle. He flexed his toes, watching as his feet lengthened from the stretch, his ankle now further back—though not reaching quite the distance a real wolf’s would.
His head was last—had someone seen him mid-change, they would freak out, probably not mentally able to deal with what they saw. So he didn’t linger. The base of his neck popped as he moved his head forward, the muscles sliding into place to create the thicker, front-carried neck of the wolf.
When he was completely altered, the collar sitting just a little loose and a lot demeaning around his neck, Donovan picked up the pack in his teeth and trotted it back to Eleri.
She looked down at him, an odd, curious expression on her face as he dropped the pack at her feet. She was starting to give him a thumbs-up when she frowned a little more. “I guess I can talk to you, can’t I?”
Offering the best nod he could in return—aside from a few barks and whines she likely wouldn’t understand—it was the best they could do without reverting to the full Lassie scenario where she asked random questions and he barked when she was right.
“Well, then—” The look on her face was still a bit unsettled, but she was getting there. Donovan was starting to think Eleri could deal with anything. “—The GPS is working. You’re good to go.”
Another nod and Donovan turned to trot off into the woods. As long as the GPS was transmitting and as long as Eleri herself was okay, she would do the check-ins with Agent Bozeman. At one point, she offered up the brilliant idea of a button Donovan could press that would transmit his own check-ins. Donovan had quickly nixed that as he would have no way to tell when he should check in. Aside from “morning” or “night”, his internal clock wasn’t the best. And because a wolf wearing a wristwatch would get locked up at the very least and likely killed.
His pace was solid as he headed into the thick forest. This time he didn’t hold back, didn’t wonder what Eleri would think of tracking him. Inside seven minutes, he covered the distance and came to a slow trot. Just outside of range of what the patrol guards would take notice of, he walked a wide perimeter, once again starting by observing their patterns.
Out beyond sight, under cover of trees and scrub, he scared away several deer. Of the guys with guns, only two paid any attention, but a brief head turn and an even more brief survey of the forest was all the disturbance bought him. They understood they lived in the middle of any number of wild animals. Noises in the forest at night were the norm more than anything else.
Lying down in the middle of the area he cleared, Donovan rested his head on his paws. For a moment he consid
ered napping. The feel of the woods, the dampness of the air on his fur, the loamy scents of earth and trees all alleviated the itch he suffered these past days. But he had a job to do.
Careful to tilt his head and not let the light catch his eyes too much, he watched the comings and goings of the compound. The patrol guys appeared to have the same schedule as before, walking odd but consistent figure eights around some of the buildings. They carried their guns almost at the ready, upright this time, with two hands. Only one guard had done that before. For whatever reason, they were on higher alert now. One house to his right held odd chatter he couldn’t make out, but the rest were quiet.
Convinced he’d sat there long enough to develop a sense of the schedule, Donovan waited until their pattern moved them away before standing, offering himself the small luxury of a stretch, then trotting off in search of the places Grace had suggested Ruth might be buried. Earlier, when they asked the young woman why she thought these particular locations were options, she told them the children were allowed to play in most areas of the surrounding forest, as long as they stayed together. When they went out, the older kids had been actively searching for gravesites for Ruth and Jonah. They had found nothing, so she was sending Donovan into the areas that were off limits.
He made an effort to memorize the map before leaving; it wasn’t like he could carry one with him. Pretty sure he had a good sense of direction, he was finally putting it to the test. In the past he could run a loop and head unerringly toward home, whether he was wolf or man. He could easily find markers he had left behind—a scratch on a tree, the spot he’d run into the bear—on a later run. The woods just made sense to him. But he’d never tried to transfer map information into ground direction before. This was definitely a test.
Donovan was relying in good part on his sense of smell to help him find Ruth. Mostly, he wished he wouldn’t find her. He’d hoped for a while that Charity and Jonah were mistaken and the woman wasn’t really dead, just missing. But Grace was a bit older, and while she wasn’t as assertive as the younger two, she seemed to have a better handle on the goings-on. She was a more reliable source for the information, which made Ruth’s outcome less likely to be good.
He searched a large swath of area where Ruth might be, finding nothing. Once he decided nothing was there, he circled back to where he had started and passed that point. As he came in close to the edges of the City, he would slow, watch the guards, keep his head low so his eyes wouldn’t be seen. But he kept tracking the perimeter.
Last time, he was three-quarters of the way around before he ran into Jonah and was diverted. This time, he was tracking back the last quarter he hadn’t explored. It was one of the areas that Grace had mentioned was off limits to the women and children, though the men went there all the time.
Donovan found what he thought was the area she referred to, surprised to discover open space here, just beyond the trees. A short distance away he could see an oil rig, pumping to music only it could hear. At the top, the burnoff shot flames another ten or fifteen feet into the night sky. Donovan knew it wasn’t uncommon to have natural gas mixed in with shale oil. He also knew that as the gas leaked it was customary to burn it rather than send it into the atmosphere. This flame seemed suspiciously high to him, but knowing that the practice itself was normal exhausted all his knowledge on the topic. It did explain the smell he got from all their clothes—this was definitely the source.
Watching for others watching him, he tried to grid off the land without looking like he was doing it. A wolf trotting aimlessly about in the woods was not a big deal at all, but one working a clear grid? Yet another thing that would get him shot for witchcraft—especially in this bunch.
Nothing out of the ordinary came to him; in fact nothing much at all came to him. The ground gave off a light smell of decay and clean water. He could scent mushrooms blooming nearby, but that was about it. The oil burn overpowered other odors in the area until his sense faded. Sticking his nose closer to the ground, he tried harder but got nothing.
Eventually he gave up and trotted away, thinking there must be smoke in the air, he was getting a headache.
It was his hearing that saved him.
Three small buildings nestled discretely under spreading trees. Even with the drone, Donovan and Eleri had missed these. Though no one was inside at this hour, at least not that he could tell, there were guards standing sentry and more guards walking the perimeter. These buildings were more fortified than the others, more protected both by mechanics and personnel. Whatever was here it was more important than the people of the City of God.
Blinking at the dull throb radiating from the back of his skull, Donovan crept forward. One of the buildings was less guarded; no one was posted at the door, and guards walked its perimeter only half to a third as often as the other two. Donovan aimed for getting close to one of the other two.
Even with his good eyesight in the dark, the trees obscured his view. It was hard to tell just what he was looking at until he got close. On the upside, the trees would hide him as well, and he slowly snuck in closer and closer.
Once he was near enough, he could see that these were metal buildings, mobile units, intended to be taken down and reassembled a few times. Tucking himself under a bush and scooting forward, he watched while the guard passed, gun down, occasionally sweeping out at an invisible attacking enemy. No one was there.
Donovan checked out the ground around the corners of the building. They were shimmed to level the floor on this very lumpy Texas turf. Since the grass was still growing under the propped corner, they hadn’t been here long. It looked as though the group made use of the portability features and actually moved them quite a bit. Hearing the guard head around the corner, Donovan made a break for it and cut an arc that took him in close to the edge of the container.
“What was that?” The shout went up from one of the men, overlapping another voice.
“I heard something!”
Feet pounded behind him as Donovan made a dash for the cover of nearby brush. As quick as he was, he knew they were rounding the corners, guns ready, even as he took off. His heart pounded and he was suddenly frightened again. Usually one for science over religion, Donovan shucked every belief system he had and began praying to several gods at once.
He did not want to die here in the backwoods of Texas. He did not want to die at the hands of these odd, militant people. He did not want Eleri to find him, bled out, in wolf form. She’d never be able to produce his body for burial, not that anyone would really come to his funeral. So maybe that didn’t matter quite as much as the fact that he didn’t completely trust Eleri not to study him for the sake of science.
Hitting the edge of the brush, he kept going, pushing through the foliage. As he escaped he did hear one of them say to the others, “It’s nothing. I saw it, just a coyote.”
He loped away, putting distance between him and the small cluster of sheds, only this time he watched more carefully, tried to pay more attention to the smells, so he wouldn’t be surprised again.
As he passed the corner of the small building he’d picked up on a scent. Several in fact, but the main smell was cocaine. He wasn’t positive—something was clogging his olfactory sense—if there was actual coke in the building now, but there had been. Recently. Mixed with some kind of soft, fluttery scent. Whatever it was, he’d smelled it before. In the past, he’d smelled cocaine with other scents, too, and this seemed to be a common enough cutting agent.
That, then, was the money. He’d found it and he’d managed to not get shot. He’d also managed to get called a “coyote,” which was just insulting, but as he wasn’t riddled with bullet holes, Donovan could live with it.
He headed around to complete the circle, passing through another of Grace’s off-limits areas. As he moved away from the oil rig, his sense of smell started to return. Donovan had to conclude that the burn must have overpowered his natural senses.
Large trees dotted the area. Huddling
together as though afraid of the dark, their broad canopies provided cover for the dense shrubbery underneath. Though it was much the same as what he’d been running through all night, this area had more open spaces, less overall density. More points where he could stand on dirt or fallen leaves and look up and see clear sky.
He almost stepped on it before the smell hit him.
34
Watching the screen in front of her, Eleri bit into her apple, and a trickle of juice ran down her chin.
Shit.
In her bag she had a wipe, of course, but her hand was dripping juice. If she wiped her hand on her pants, not only would they be wet and sticky, but she had no doubt she’d find a swarm of bugs crawling all over that spot in just minutes. Even eating the apple had been a gamble.
She settled for wiping the dripping, sticky juice from one hand to the other and gingerly reaching the drier hand into her bag, hoping to touch only the foil packet.
Letting out a sharp breath, she produced a single wet wipe successfully. The game of Operation had nothing on late night recon in the woods with apples. Now safe with her “moist towelette” she turned back to the screen and listened to the crunch of her teeth against the flesh of the apple while she tracked Donovan.
While the tracer left on the screen was interesting as hell, watching it happen was about as exciting as watching grass grow. She could only imagine how dull it would be if he were human and going only half to one third this speed. Of course, if he were human, there would be no need for him to be alone, and she’d be in there with him.
Instead, Eleri got to sit still in the woods. At a makeshift table. With a small commune of gun-carrying loonies close at hand. She jumped when a twig snapped behind her, rocketing to her feet and grabbing her weapon. She stood there for probably five minutes before concluding that it was a false alarm.
The NightShade Forensic Files: Under Dark Skies (Book 1) Page 26
