by Rebecca York
"You bitch. You're going to pay for that little trick," he spat as he pulled the trigger, firing more bullets into the dry leaves before raising the weapon.
Her jaw clenched tight, she braced for the pain of a slug tearing into her flesh.
THE house lights were on, but there were no sounds from inside that Jack could detect. No screams. No pleas for mercy.
He was cautiously peering through a ground-floor window when the sound of a machine gun firing shattered the silence of the night.
Behind him and to the right. In the woods.
Turning, he bolted for the stand of trees, his feet sinking into newly tilled ground, then pounding across the firmer surface of the forest floor.
The sight that greeted him was like a blow to the chest. A man with an Uzi. Arnott.
A woman cowering in front of him, trapped. Dr. Sheridan.
THE sound of machine-gun fire ripped through the air. Digging his paws into the debris on the forest floor, Ross stopped in his tracks.
He was going in the wrong direction. He'd followed Megan's scent into the woods but she must have circled back through the trees, tried to hide in the underbrush. But the killer had tracked her—found her.
Changing direction, he lowered his head and hurtled through a tangle of bramble, the thorns tearing at his fur as he pelted toward the sounds of gunfire, running at top speed but closing the distance with agonizing slowness.
His only thought was Save Megan. He had to save Megan. His mate. His woman. That was the one essential idea his brain had room to hold.
A savage snarl tore from his throat as he sprang from a thicket and focused on the man with the gun turning toward Megan, his weapon raised.
With no regard for his own safety, the wolf gave a mighty leap, springing toward the killer.
"Ross, watch out! Ross!"
Dimly, in some part of his mind, he heard Megan scream a warning. But it rolled off him as he hurtled forward, bringing Arnott down in one graceful leap. As they hit the ground, the gun discharged, sending a hail of bullets into the underbrush.
The noise mixed with the scream of terror that welled in the man's throat.
Ignoring the bullets, Ross sank his teeth into Arnott's gun arm, wringing another scream from the man—this time of pain. Frantically Arnott beat at the wolf's head and back with his free hand.
But there was no dislodging the animal. Blind rage made him hold fast, shaking the arm, biting down until the man's fingers went limp and the gun fell to the ground.
Then a knife materialized in the killer's free hand. It arced downward, slicing a gash in the wolf's shoulder.
With a growl deep in his throat, Ross dodged away, then sprang again, straddling the man, pinning the knife arm to his side as he went for the throat, crunching down through flesh and bone with a savage snap of his jaw.
A sound of horror rose from the killer's vocal cords—choked off in a rattling gurgle.
The wolf held on for a moment longer, shaking the limp body, then let it fall backward to the ground.
His muzzle dripping with blood, he lifted his head.
As he stared at the woman who cowered away from the scene of carnage, he felt a sharp mixture of triumph and sorrow.
Megan was safe—and he was lost.
A noise penetrated his consciousness, footsteps crunching on dry leaves. Turning, he saw Jack Thornton staring at him wide-eyed.
Throwing back his head, he howled for his victory and his loss, his voice mingling with the man-made wail of approaching sirens. Then he turned and raced away into the darkness.
BESIDE the white Land Rover, Ross changed back to his man form, then bent and pulled on his jeans. His upper arm was stinging from the knife wound, but the cut wasn't deep. Returning to his own vehicle, he pulled his first-aid kit from the glove compartment and tied several gauze pads around the arm before pulling on his shirt and stuffing his feet into his shoes.
After wiping the blood off his mouth, he dashed back to where he'd left Megan and found Thornton on the ground beside her, speaking to her in a low voice.
When he closed the distance between them, she raised her head and stared at him, all the horror of what she'd just seen shimmering in her eyes.
Pain squeezed his heart as he stopped five feet away, because he dared go no closer. "It's okay. I won't touch you," he managed to say in a gritty voice, then demanded urgently, "But you've got to tell me. Are you all right?"
Her lips moved, but no words came out.
He backed up a step. Kneeling on the ground, his face at her level, he focused on her pale, bruised face. But he kept his hands rigidly at his sides to show her he wasn't going to reach for her no matter how much he wanted to fold her into his arms and cling for dear life. "Megan. For God's sake, Megan. Did he hurt you?"
She lifted her hands across her chest, and he saw that she was handcuffed.
Rage and pain welled inside him. "He cuffed you. Oh, Christ. Did he do anything else? Hurt you?"
"He cut me." The words were thin, barely above a whisper, but they slashed through his own flesh.
"Where?"
She raised the cuffed hands toward her cheek. "Here. And at the top of my leg."
"The son of a bitch."
"It's not bad." Her eyes were dazed, and he knew she was in shock. "I got away before he… before he…"
"Thank God!" Turning to the police detective, he asked, "Can you get her out of those damn cuffs?"
"I don't have the key."
Pushing himself up, Ross went to the ruined body and hunkered down again, his eyes dispassionately assessing the damage the wolf had inflicted. Then, calmly, he searched the pockets and found the key, which he handed to Thornton.
Moments later the restraints clicked open, and Megan rubbed her wrists. "Is he dead?" she whispered.
"Yes," Ross answered.
"Good," she choked out. Then her eyes went to Ross's arm, where blood stained his shirt.
"He cut you, too."
"It's not deep."
He saw Thornton's head swing around, focus on the bloody shirt.
The detective opened his mouth, but before he could comment, uniformed officers came charging through the underbrush, their guns drawn.
Quickly Thornton stood, held out his badge. "I'm Detective Thornton," he called out. "The situation's under control. The suspect's dead."
"What happened?" the lead officer asked. "Did one of you shoot him?" His questioning gaze swung between Ross and the detective.
It was Thornton who answered. "I was too far away to shoot. An animal killed him. A large dog or a…" He didn't finish the sentence.
The officer stared at him as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "A large dog killed him? A pit bull?"
"I'm not sure."
The other uniform turned to Ross. "Did you see it?"
He hesitated for a minute, then said, "No. I was in the barn—searching his torture chamber."
Ross's gaze caught Thornton's—and held.
"Yeah. He missed the action," the detective said, backing up his story in a strained voice.
Both uniforms went to the body and squatted down, looking at the mangled mess of blood and flesh.
"Jesus," one of them muttered. "His throat's ripped out."
Ross bowed his head, unable to meet anyone's eyes. He'd gone for the carotid artery when he might have simply stopped the man from killing him with the knife. But rage had carried him to the next step.
"Should we put out a bulletin on the animal?" the lead officer asked.
"Sure. Couldn't hurt," Thornton said. Ross was pretty certain the detective didn't think they were going to find anything.
Megan had been sitting with her teeth clamped together. Now she began to speak again, and he could see she was struggling to keep her voice steady.
"He took me to that… that torture chamber. I got away, and he came after me with a gun."
"How did you escape?" Thornton asked.
"I pretended to
faint. When he came to pick me up, I hit him with the cuffs and ran."
"Good for you," Ross said, his hands clenched at his sides. The need to hold her, press his lips to her pale skin, was an ache inside him. But he could see she didn't want him any closer than he already was.
"I think the room is proof enough of what he's been doing here," he said. "There was a videocamera. Maybe you'll find tapes."
"Can you show us where it is?" Thornton asked.
"Yeah." His gaze swung to Megan. "But she doesn't have to see it again. Call an ambulance for her. She should be checked out in the hospital."
"I'm okay," she insisted in a thin voice.
"Ross is right," Thornton said, backing him up again.
Ross stood, blood roaring in his ears, his eyes focused on Megan. The pain in his heart was almost more than he could bear, because he knew this was the last time he would ever see the woman he loved. He would remember her like this. And remember the look of joy on her face after they'd made love. And all the other moments of the brief time they had spent together.
She had seen him kill Arnott. Seen the savagery of the wolf and cringed away from the man. And now the only thing left for him was to walk away with what dignity he still possessed.
JACK waited until one of the uniforms put in the call, then helped Dr. Sheridan into the backseat of the cruiser. While one of the officers sat with her, he and the other officer followed Marshall through the woods to a ruined barn.
The PI pointed to the opening in the floor, where bright light flowed up a flight of rough steps. "I guess he wanted to make sure he could see every detail of what he was doing."
"Yeah." Jack let Marshall lead the way down the steps into a room that looked like it had been constructed during the Inquisition—except for the modern lighting and the video equipment.
Gagging at the smell, he looked around at the racks of carefully arranged knives and other implements. At one end of the room was a TV with a VCR, next to videocassettes neatly labeled and stacked on shelves.
Penny Delano. Charlotte Lawrence. Lisa Patterson.
Cindy Hamilton. Mary Beth Nixon. The murder victims.
If the tapes showed what he thought they showed, then there was no doubt that Arnott had killed the women.
And now he was dead. His throat ripped out. Like Crawford. He'd think about that later. First he needed to get official statements from Marshall and Sheridan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
« ^
MEGAN HEARD A car stop in front of the house. Whenever that happened these days, she felt a burst of anticipation—and dread.
Ross. She longed for it to be Ross, and at the same time she didn't know if she could handle seeing him. Not now. Not yet.
Her emotions were still too raw. Her thoughts still in turmoil. Her wounds too fresh.
Crossing to the kitchen window, she looked out and felt a stab of disappointment mixed with relief.
It wasn't Ross, it was the detective—Jack Thornton.
She took a step back, her hands clenching and unclenching as she waited for the doorbell to ring. He'd made her uncomfortable once. Now…
Now she was pretty sure the two of them shared a secret that could destroy Ross Marshall.
The bell rang, and she jumped, then tried to will her heart from thumping its way through the wall of her chest as she walked toward the door.
When she opened it, they stood looking at each other for several seconds.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
"Why?"
"I want to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," she said without moving.
"Megan, let me come in."
She still had a choice, she thought. But she stepped aside and he followed her into the living room.
"Why are you really here?" she asked.
"To see how you're doing—and to talk about Ross."
She took her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking that they could circle around that latter topic for hours. Instead she decided there was no point in prolonging the uncertainty. "You could have turned him in," she said. "But you didn't. Why not?"
He stared at her, neither of them spelling it out—but both of them knowing exactly what the other meant.
"Can I sit down?" he asked.
She gave a tight nod. He took one of her overstuffed chairs; she sat on the sofa, her fingers closing around the edge of a cushion.
"What purpose would it have served to turn him in?" Thornton asked.
"It depends on whether you think Ross is dangerous."
"Because he killed Arnott?" the detective said.
He was being more direct than she'd expected. If she'd needed proof that he'd lied about the "big dog" that had killed Arnott, he'd just given it to her. Or maybe he was looking for confirmation that he hadn't imagined the impossible.
An awkward silence stretched between them.
She was the one who broke it. Ignoring his direct question, she said, "I'm trying to sort through my life, trying to decide what I want to do." She stopped and turned her palm upward. "There are things that are still too hard for me to deal with." She might have been talking about her ordeal at Arnott's. She was pretty sure Detective Thornton knew she was talking about Ross Marshall, werewolf.
"I understand." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorting through stuff, too."
Her heart leaped into her throat. "You aren't going to…"
"I'm not going to talk about him to anyone besides you," he said quickly.
"Good."
He shifted in his chair. "I'd like to come back, if you don't mind. Find out how you're getting along."
"Why are you so interested in my welfare?"
"Because I know you're going through a hard time. Because I know there's nobody else you can talk to about… what happened. And there's nobody I can talk to, either," he added.
She hesitated for a moment, torn. Despite his reassurances, she didn't know how far she could trust Police Detective Jack Thornton. But she would find out, because in the weeks ahead she might need a friend.
JACK paused at the entrance to Ross Marshall's property and inspected the No Trespassing signs, then stepped on the accelerator again and nosed the unmarked up the rutted road into the woods.
He negotiated a rickety bridge that crossed a gurgling stream, then emerged into a meadow across which he could see a very nicely proportioned stone and wood house that fit perfectly into the wooded landscape.
The ideal place to live, he thought, for a man like Marshall. Privacy. Woodland. A comfortable home.
It had been a month since Dr. Sheridan had been abducted by Donald Arnott and a gray wolf had leaped out of the darkness to cut the serial killer down.
When Jack turned off the engine and got out of the car, he heard the sound of someone splitting wood—working as if the devil himself were flogging him.
Rounding the side of the building he found Marshall shirtless in the late April sunshine, splitting a log on a chopping block. He stared at the man's tanned skin, seeing his muscles flex. Ordinary skin he told himself. Ordinary muscles.
He waited until the ax had completed its downward swing and the piece of wood had fallen into two chunks before clearing his throat.
The PI turned, looked at him warily as he propped the ax handle against the block. "Did you come to arrest me?" he asked.
"For what?"
Ross shrugged. "You tell me."
"Actually, I came to say that I hope we can keep working together."
Surprise flashed on the other man's face. "Why?"
"You've been a big help to me in the past. It's a good professional relationship. More than that, I think we've gotten to be friends."
Marshall nodded, then asked. "What about that scene at Arnott's?"
Jack had been pretty direct with Megan. This time, he gave a different answer. "I guess you missed it, 'cause you were in the barn."
"Um-hum. And what about Crawford?"
"That's a Stone Who Done It."<
br />
Marshall shifted his weight from one foot to the other, still looking uncertain, and Jack understood his reasons. With Marshall, the need for caution must be as ingrained as the habit of looking both ways before crossing the street.
"Why don't you invite me inside? You must be cold now that you've stopped working."
"Okay." The PI picked up a plaid shirt draped across the woodpile and shrugged his arms into the sleeves. As he buttoned the front, he led the way around to the front door. They stepped into a spacious room of gleaming wood and comfortable furniture. Huge windows brought the outdoors inside.
Jack looked around with a touch of envy. "Nice place. I take it you remodeled it yourself."
"How do you know?"
"I did a background check on you when I was investigating the Crawford murder. I know you bought a number of houses and fixed them up. Then put the profits into this place."
"Yeah. It's the American dream—improving your lot in life."
"You seem to have done better than most."
"It depends on the way you look at it."
Jack was wondering how to respond when Marshall spoke again. "I can offer you herbal tea. Water. I don't drink coffee. Or anything stronger." He gave a small laugh. "Caffeine plays hell with my system. And alcohol—forget it."
"Tea is fine."
He followed Marshall into a nicely laid out kitchen with granite countertops that would have made Mrs. Anderson swoon, watched him open a cabinet and gesture toward several boxes of tea.
"I'll have whatever you're having," Jack said.
Marshall filled the kettle and turned on a burner, then pulled down a box of wild blackberry tea.
Propping his hips against a counter, he looked at ease, although the tightness around his eyes betrayed his tension. "So you've decided you don't care how Arnott died or how I get the information I bring you?"
Jack kept his own posture relaxed as he met the other man's gaze. "That's right."
"But you're pretty sure you know."
"Yes."
"And that doesn't… make you want to run screaming in the other direction?"
"I believe I'm open-minded enough to handle it."
Neither one of them had said the word werewolf, but it hung in the air between them.
