Linda O. Johnston

by Alpha Wolf

  It was nearly eighteen hundred thirty hours, still daylight. He had just reached downtown. Every parking space along the street was occupied. The lot beside the picturesque, aging City Hall had no available spaces, either.

  He drove toward the far end of town. Almost instinctively, he turned right onto Choptank Lane. Not many people parked there, so he found a space immediately.

  “Come on, Grunge.” He snapped the leash onto the dog’s leather collar behind the soft plastic collar. Poor animal hated the recovery gadget. But in this, at least, Drew would follow vet’s orders.

  Late afternoon in Mary Glen was a time of interesting scents. Tonight, exhaust fumes from recently parked vehicles mingled with the cool, green humidity of trees swaying in the evening breeze. The woodlands nearby proffered the odors of small animals—mostly rodents—beginning to stir for nightly foraging. Grunge, in his uncomfortable surgery collar, managed to keep his nose in the air, sniffing one way, then another.

  They were nearly alone as they passed closed retail businesses. No last-minute shoppers, no pedestrians lingering on the sidewalks. Was everyone already at the meeting?

  Drew tugged gently on Grunge’s leash and they strode up the steps into Mary Glen’s City Hall. The building was only three quarters of a century old but had the look of an older structure, emulating those in the nation’s capital not far away. It was domed and marbled, pale in color, and its huge, high-ceilinged entry was adorned with sturdy columns.

  That entry’s smooth stone floor, also marble, was almost empty, except for a few souls spilling out the wide doorways, craning their necks so they could see inside.

  Recognizing a couple as reporters who had confronted Melanie the other day, Drew halted and motioned for Grunge to do the same. Fortunately, his rubber-soled black shoes made little sound on the floor, but Grunge’s nails created rhythmic clicks that might catch the attention of the vultures, even over the roar of the crowd inside. Turning, they left the foyer.

  At the side of the building, Drew peered into some windows. The meeting room was a large auditorium. Sounds emanating from cracks under closed doors around the back told Drew which way to go. The first door was locked. The second knob turned in his hand. He opened the door and slipped inside with Grunge. They stayed against the wall in the shadows, but from there Drew could see and hear what was going on, inhale the variety of smells emanating from the room’s occupants.

  Several people stood on the stage behind a podium.

  “Of course there’s no need to panic,” the mayor was saying.

  Mayor Ed Sherwin was in his mid-sixties, with a large gut and ruddy face. He had once visited the base as General Yarrow’s guest, carefully shepherded around so he never saw anything he shouldn’t.

  “I understand everyone’s concern,” Mayor Sherwin continued, “but, well, it’s one thing to hear lectures about things that go bump in the night, enjoy being scared and all, but to believe that it’s real and going on around here—”

  “Of course it’s real!” shouted Nolan Smith. Drew knew who he was, though he had never spoken with the guy. He posted shadowy photos on his Web site and claimed they were werewolves. But those shadows were caused by optical illusions in wind swept woods.

  Real werewolves looked nothing like them.

  Smith was a tall man. His Web site picture showed a paunch above his large silver belt buckle with the likeness of a wolf. From the back, Drew saw he wore the same wide belt tonight.

  Before the mayor could respond, Drew saw someone else scramble onto the stage and to the podium—a young man he hadn’t seen recently, dressed in jeans and a blue denim jacket. “Since this isn’t a formal town meeting, can I speak now?” He glanced toward the mayor but didn’t wait for an answer. “Hi, I’m Mike Ripkey, President of the ShapeShifter Tracers—the SSTs. We’re a national organization dedicated to locating beings like werewolves, making sure the local citizenry is informed about them, and protecting people from them whenever possible.”

  Great, Drew thought. The current head of the group of nuts who periodically invaded the area. He waited to see how this guy would be received.

  Apparently with open arms, since no one booted him off the podium.

  “I held a vigil the last couple of nights in the hospital with poor Sheila Graves,” he intoned sadly, “after she was attacked by a Mary Glen werewolf. I’m sure you’ve all heard the creature was shot with a silver bullet. I want to applaud whoever did that, even if you’re too afraid to come forward. But your nice but misguided town veterinarian saved its life. Now she won’t even acknowledge that the thing she saved was a shapeshifter.”

  “Let’s get real,” shouted Melanie. In moments, she, too, was at the podium. She wore a gray suit and tailored red blouse, and looked entirely the professional that she was.

  And, even so, as sexy as hell.

  “For anyone who doesn’t know me, I’m that ‘nice but misguided vet,’” she said into the microphone. “A couple of nights ago, I saved the life of a dog. A dog.” Her tone was emphatic. “Mr. Ripkey will tell you I’m a weak-minded dork who was hypnotized in daylight by the animal’s human counterpart, so I imagined I saw both him and the dog I treated at the same time. That’s not so.” She turned to Mike Ripkey. “I’m really sorry about your friend and how she was injured. But there was no indication that the dog I saved attacked anyone or anything. I’d suggest you cooperate with the local police in finding out what really happened. And also help figure out who shot that poor animal. If one dog can get shot, so can others. Or people. Like the vet before me, Dr. Worley, and his wife. Maybe if you cooperate in finding out who shot the dog the other night, their murders can also be solved.”

  A smattering of applause resounded from the audience, punctuated by boos. Lights blazed toward the podium from the media jackals’ equipment. Like Melanie’s unplanned press conference, this was being recorded for the American public and posterity. Which meant that the loonies seeking publicity for their cause, like that Ripkey nut, would be encouraged to continue their histrionics.

  “Dr. Harding.” Nolan Smith spoke stiffly into the microphone. He sold advertising on his Web site, so he would appreciate the hype. “You’re new around here. You come from Los Angeles, where crimes go unsolved all the time. People there don’t always have their minds open to what’s really happening around them. Or who’s behind all those crimes. But we care about what happens in Mary Glen. Citizens here have experienced things caused by those local shapeshifters.”

  “Did someone believe Dr. Worley was a shapeshifter? Or his wife? They were both shot with silver bullets. But I’ve never heard that they were claimed to harm anyone or anything.” Melanie, sounding disgusted, obviously wasn’t playing to the cameras.

  “Well, no. We’re watchful of such things, and we’ve no reason to believe any of the Worleys—including their son, Patrick—were werewolves. No, we think that Dr. and Mrs. Worley were killed by shapeshifters.”

  Melanie shook her head slowly, as if in incredulity. “Then why would some supernatural creature that could only, theoretically, be harmed by ammunition like silver bullets, use it against someone else?”

  “A ruse to disguise their real killer, of course,” Nolan said patiently. “Undoubtedly a shapeshifter. Now poor Sheila has been mauled. I, for one, really want to see that supposed dog you saved. And the supposed person he turned into. And—”

  “Excellent idea,” Drew called out, stopping Melanie from talking. Judging by her furious expression, she was probably about to tell Nolan Smith what a fruitcake he was.

  Not that Drew could fault that. Even so, he strode up to the podium with Grunge at his side.

  Melanie’s eyes narrowed. “Glad you’re here, Major,” she said aloud. More softly, she added, “But I probably shouldn’t have told you to show up. There are more of these SSTs and their fans than…other people.” Drew read that as meaning sane people. “And those horrible tabloid types are here, too. I’m not sure there’s enough security to
protect you. And Grunge.” Raising her voice again, she said, “Of course, the sensible thing is to demonstrate the truth to these…folks.” Fools, was the word she wanted to say, judging by how she rolled those lovely blue eyes.

  “Thanks for your concern, Dr. Harding,” Drew said into the microphone. “But I wanted to make it clear to the people of Mary Glen what happened the other night.” He noticed some recent arrivals slip into a corner at the rear of the auditorium. With a slight nod in that direction, he turned toward Melanie and shielded the microphone so it wouldn’t pick up what he said. “And in the unlikely event I can’t handle it myself, the U.S. Army’s capable of protecting Grunge and me. Some of the guys from Ft. Lukman just arrived.” Back into the microphone, he said, “Now, tell us: is this the dog you treated?”

  Melanie looked down at the canine in question. Then she knelt, despite wearing a skirt. “Hi, Grunge.” She motioned to both Nolan Smith and Mike Ripkey. “Come here, you two. I’ll lift his bandage so you can see his wound.”

  When they stooped obediently beside her, she peeled back the tape from the shaved area of Grunge’s skin. The poor dog looked uneasy, not that he’d bite.

  Drew had observed the wound before. Had seen that the area looked clean and uninfected, the sutures skillfully done.

  “See that?” Melanie said loudly enough for the microphone to pick it up. She pointed toward the injury. “This dog was hurt. If I had to testify under oath, I’d say I removed a bullet. Those sutures are my handiwork. This is the animal I treated.”

  She maneuvered the bandages back into place, then stood and approached Drew.

  Her sable-brown hair was loose this evening instead of fastened behind her head. Her scent was the same he had noticed before—light and floral—and reminded him of the kiss they had shared…before he turned her away from the base. He had to keep in mind that she was defending Grunge, not him.

  “Okay, Major Connell. Take off your shirt.”

  “What?”

  “We need to show these people you’re not hiding a similar wound. That you’re not the being I removed the bullet from.”

  “Right.” He grinned and unbuttoned his shirt.

  And saw, with some satisfaction, that she tried, unsuccessfully, to look disinterested as he removed it.

  In a minute, he revealed he had no wounds on his body. Nor scars.

  “Okay, Major Connell. You’re the person—” she stressed the word “—I saw in the morning with Grunge. My assistant, Carla Banyan, was there, too. Gee, it looks like these folks are wrong, and you weren’t the animal I treated. Oh, unless, of course, you just hypnotized—how many people are here? A hundred? A hundred fifty? Oh, and the cameras those media types are using, too, unless they’re picking up something we don’t see in person.”

  She turned back toward the two screwball werewolf aficionados, Smith and Ripkey.

  “Okay, guys. Explain how this dog and this man are one and the same creature.”

  Chapter 8

  “I t was all so absurd!” Melanie exclaimed, though she kept her tone muted as she stood with Drew and Grunge near the stage. The crowd had started dispersing. Even with the hum of conversations, she did not want to be overheard.

  Mayor Sherwin had left the microphone after trying to shift the topic to a spring flower show planned for Mary Glen Park. The audience became restless, and he gave up.

  If he’d talked about a werewolf demonstration, Melanie felt sure everyone would have remained seated and enrapt.

  No one had moved an iota when Nolan Smith and Mike Ripkey attempted to meet her challenge and explain how a man without a scratch on him was the human version of the dog who’d been shot—and who just happened to be present at the same time.

  After starting to listen to the ridiculous theories and rationalizations, she had shaken her head and headed down the stage’s narrow stairway. Drew and Grunge had followed. That was where they still stood, Grunge lying on the floor by their feet.

  Drew had put his black shirt back on and buttoned it. He still looked breathtakingly handsome, even dressed, but she had really appreciated the view when he had bared his chest and back to demonstrate his lack of injury.

  But why hadn’t he spoken up as loudly as she had?

  “I mean really,” she continued, as if she needed to convince him. “Shapeshifting? Ridiculous. And impossible. I know you’re not a veterinarian, but the scientific and medical areas I studied, like anatomy, cell and molecular biology, physiology, and even neuroscience—none would allow for a complete, rapid and reversible metamorphosis like that. Can you even picture what a dog changing into a person would look like—or vice versa?”

  “Not a pretty sight,” Drew agreed, looking down at her with his unusual eyes. She realized now that their amber color helped to keep his expression neutral at times, like now—not revealing an iota of what he was thinking.

  Which made him seem even more of a challenge. The guy could be the epitome of secretiveness, thanks to that damned classified military base of his. It was the kind of challenge she didn’t need. Not again. No matter how much the guy intrigued her and got her hormones percolating.

  “Hey, Major,” said a voice from behind Melanie, and she turned. Captain Jonas Truro stood there. The guy who had come to her clinic to take Grunge home was dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket. “So why didn’t you slit your skin open to look like you and Grunge had the same wounds? That would really have given these people a thrill.”

  Behind him stood two other men. One was Lieutenant Patrick Worley.

  The other man stood in a stiff military stance.

  “Tell you what, Truro,” Drew said dryly. “I’ll gladly slice you once or twice so you can claim you’re Grunge’s alter ego.”

  Jonas lifted his hands in a backing-off gesture. “Not me, Major. I faint at the sight of blood, especially mine.”

  “I can vouch for that,” said the other man. He was broad at the shoulders and neck, and dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. “I’ve been on training ops with the captain when he’s skinned an elbow. I’m Lieutenant Seth Ambers, Dr. Harding.” His dark hair was just long enough that she could detect its waviness. “I heard about all you did for Grunge. Everyone at the fort has, and we’re all grateful.”

  “Yeah, and you did a great job with these crazies,” Jonas said, lowering his voice, then paused as more people slipped by. “We owe you,” he finished.

  “We owe her dinner,” Patrick said.

  “That’s just your way of saying you’re hungry,” Drew said. “But if you all want to grab something while we’re in town, let’s do it. You, too, Melanie. Hey, we’ll go back to the diner.”

  “Last night just whetted your appetite?” Melanie didn’t attempt to disguise the irony in her voice. “Angie Fishbach was in the crowd here this evening. Did you see her? She might not be thrilled about your coming to her restaurant again after proving not only to her but to everyone else that you weren’t the werewolf that supposedly killed her husband.”

  “All the more reason to go there,” Drew said. “It might be interesting to hear reactions to tonight’s meeting. Maybe someone will drop a clue about who shot Grunge.” He bent to touch his dog’s head, causing Grunge to look up and wag his tail. “Then there was your vivid demonstration. I’d like to see if anyone’s bent out of shape about it.”

  As he rose, his gaze caught Melanie’s and she suppressed a shiver of uneasiness.

  She understood his subtext. And appreciated his concern…kind of.

  She had been threatened. Would someone now be angry enough to carry through? If so, she doubted that person would be dumb enough to vocalize, in public, the anger that might result from tonight’s meeting.

  But just in case, it made sense to eavesdrop on the town’s reaction—with a bunch of military men at her side.

  “I’ll take first watch out here with Grunge,” Seth said. “Who’s with me? Wish I’d brought my own dog, Spike.”

  They had reached
the sidewalk seating area outside the diner. The group hadn’t been the only troop heading the two blocks from City Hall, so the going had been slow. And they’d received more than one heated stare, which none of the guys bothered to acknowledge.

  But Drew stuck close to Melanie, especially when she shook her head or rolled her eyes at some of those model citizens. Yeah, he found her guts admirable. And hot. But right now, inciting more antagonism wasn’t in anyone’s best interests.

  Drew hadn’t thanked the guys yet for showing up at that potential disaster of a town meeting, but he appreciated it. Of course they hadn’t done it solely for him or Grunge. Alpha’s entire mission could be blown by what was going on now in Mary Glen, so they all needed to stay alert. Gather intelligence. Watch each other’s backs.

  And above all, maintain the confidentiality of who they really were and what really went on at Ft. Lukman.

  “I’m hanging out here with my buds,” Jonas said to Seth. His leather jacket was unzipped and he wore a Baltimore Ravens cap over his shaved head.

  “You’ll be glad those gas heaters out here are turned on.” Melanie tugged at the front of her gray suit jacket. “It’s getting cold. I thought it was spring.”

  “You’re from Los Angeles,” Drew said wryly. His long-sleeved shirt allowed cool air to pass through to his skin, but he wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. “Try eating out here in March instead of April.”

  “You ever done it, Major?” Patrick asked. “Grabbed a bite outside in winter?” He, too, was dressed in nothing but a shirt and slacks. But like Drew, he didn’t seem to notice the chill. “My folks and I used to eat out here while there was still snow on the ground.”

  His folks. Both from around here. Both gone.

  Both slain with silver bullets right through the heart, in separate unsolved murders. Which helped explain his determination to assist Drew and learn who had shot Grunge.

  “Well, I’m going in, gentlemen,” Melanie said. “Anyone joining me?”

  Following her inside, Drew inhaled the diner’s distinct aroma of well-cooked food. He recognized a lot of people who’d been at City Hall, for the restaurant was packed. Even so, they didn’t have to wait long. Angie Fishbach personally showed them to an empty booth.