by KH LeMoyne
She glanced up. Based on Matthew’s gaunt, sallow complexion and unshaven bristle, early rising hadn’t done him any good either. Unclear about his motives but not detecting any hostility, she relaxed and tucked her weapon at the back of her waistband. Her instincts told her to believe him. She leaned against the nearest desk. “You might as well have a seat and tell me why you’re staking out my office so early in the morning.”
When he hesitated, she waved toward a small stuffed armchair inside the door, the only guest accommodations Redmond Investigations owned. Their business consisted mainly of police referrals, insurance agency claims, and the occasional disgruntled spouse. Visitors rarely stayed long enough to get comfortable.
Philmont folded awkwardly into the chair until he hunched with his elbows braced on his knees and his fingers fidgeting against one another. “My coming by now is unorthodox, but I was out anyway because I couldn’t sleep.” Hands open toward her, he shook his head. “I apologize if I frightened you, Ms. Juarez.”
When she offered no response, he glanced over his shoulder at the door as if considering leaving. Then, with a deep breath, he turned back to her with apparent new resolve. “The Spokane police told me you were my best option for help.”
Lena bit back a sigh. That meant his case had more holes than Swiss cheese and wasn’t worth wasting police time and resources. She gestured toward the taped and labeled boxes around the room. “To be honest, Mr. Philmont, I’m not in the business any longer.”
He shifted and released a harsh sound, pulling his shoulders back a bit. His Adam’s apple moved with such deliberation, she would swear he was holding back tears. Uncomfortable, she glanced away. She fought against sympathy for him. It hadn’t served her well in the past. No reason to trust it now.
Unfortunately, she caught him taking in the room inch by inch, as if seeking anything that would buy him time. Fine. She’d wait. She didn’t have anywhere to go. He’d figure out fast enough that she wouldn’t help him.
“I’ll make this quick,” he said. “Today, my wife and son will have been missing for seven days. I don’t believe Shanae would willingly leave me—ever. Even so, I need to find them.”
A missing spouse and child? Most domestic disappearance cases didn’t resolve happily. She raised a brow, considering how to proceed, then decided for honesty. A more brutal option, but ultimately more compassionate. “The police would have considered you the first suspect. If they’d found evidence of foul play, you’d be in custody or interrogation or both. In the absence of that situation or any other threatening circumstances, they’d assume she was a runaway spouse. Did they find any evidence that she’d left intentionally?”
He pursed his lips and glanced away for a moment. “Shanae wouldn’t leave me without a word, much less take our son. A coworker at Trevor’s day care remembered Shanae’s offhand comment about her not being in the next day.”
Evidence of premeditation, if not exactly a well-thought-out flight. “Did the coworker find the comment unusual? Was your wife upset?”
“No,” Matthew snapped. Then he winced and sagged backward with a sigh. He ran his fingers through his hair until it spiked, adding to his rumpled appearance. “The woman failed to mention that comment when I spoke with her. Two days later, she suddenly remembers for the police.”
“Perhaps something upset your wife. A sudden emergency?”
“You don’t know my wife, but she is the sweetest, most responsible and practical person on earth. She makes her living helping people make sense out of their businesses and, to a lesser extent, their lives. She wouldn’t disappear on a whim.”
Maybe he was in denial, but he sounded sincere. Then again, Lena didn’t know him or what he might be capable of, much less his wife’s mental state.
Leaning forward in the chair, he clasped his hands again. “I’ll pay whatever you want. Twenty thousand to start. All expenses. Double that, triple it, if you can find them within the next few days, or…” He hung his head, then lifted it, his eyes glistening.
Physical posture and bearing usually didn’t lie. He’d appeared tough and determined for a few minutes, but now she gauged Matthew Philmont as a paper tiger, ready to fold from his grief—and confusion. “Mr. Philmont, what did the police tell you?”
His chin jerked higher. Sparks of anger flashed in his eyes, outshining the shadows of his fatigue. “Everything you’ve already said. They finally released me as the prime suspect, but only because they couldn’t find any evidence that I’ve hurt my wife or my son. They all but said they weren’t searching for other reasons—due to their suspicion that she fled our home. Which is absurd.” His voice strangled to a halt, and he swallowed again as if all the spit had left his mouth. “Shanae is my life. Trevor too—we want more children. We’re trying for another.”
His words dwindled off. Despite all his words couched in the present tense, he was obviously rattled. The intimate details of their plans added a painful reality Lena didn’t want to share, and she shifted uncomfortably. However, he’d also avoided countering her logic with anything substantial.
He scrubbed his face and hunched his shoulders. “I can’t keep disproving false accusations. The police insisted Redmond Private Investigations has a nearly perfect track record. Please give me the benefit of the doubt and help me.”
“What did they really tell you?” she asked softly. “That Redmond never turned anyone away, and since the owner was deceased, I’d be inclined to do one last favor?”
He remained silent for a second, then added, “I’m sorry about your partner.”
She had to give him credit. She’d posed an awkward question, and he hadn’t lied about knowing Sam was gone. “Thank you, but it’s too late to try the sympathy tactic with me. Although Sam Redmond had the softheartedness of a beloved grandfather, I’m more pragmatic.” A bald-faced lie, since she was actually considering this case.
Philmont rose and stuffed his hands into his pockets, pacing slowly toward the sole window in the room. “Then don’t do it to help me. I don’t care why Shanae left. I need to know that they are both safe.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, rage gone. Deep lines of despair still creased his face, distorting his mouth, dragging his eyes into darker shadows. “Please, Ms. Juarez. I’m begging you. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. All I can think of is what would force her to leave, and the options I come up with are bad versions of Hollywood movie plots.”
Lena released a heavy sigh. She hadn’t even heard the details and already knew this wasn’t going to end well. Hardly the final good-bye she wanted for her run on this job that had at least been successful if not enjoyable.
“Have you considered what happens if we don’t find the resolution you want?” A practical question she didn’t want to ask. He could be correct. His wife and son might have fallen into a bad situation—one they might not survive. His answer would show some inner layers of his character. If he practiced deception as an art form, then she expected a smooth delivery.
“If someone has hurt them, I want justice.” His breath became rapid as he struggled with words, his fists clenching even as he shook his head. “I’m not considering they’re—” Mouth tight, he looked away, then back. “You don’t know me, but you don’t need to in order to find them. You can save them no matter what you think of me.”
The speed with which the anger erupted shocked her. Subtly, she braced herself against the desk, but tears glistened again in his eyes. Devastation at the possible loss of his family permeated his tense expression. He’d clearly considered the worst night after night and was already killing himself, drowning in the possibilities. Lena could leave him alone, wandering down that road with no hope, but no good came out of giving up too soon. Everyone needed closure of some sort.
However, vigilantism was still a crime. Adhering to the legal system’s form of justice was high on her moral code. “Should something have gone wrong and we don’t succeed, I won’t help you get revenge. We’d both be culpable. I
can’t do that.”
He nodded slowly. “I realize the consequences. I wouldn’t involve you.”
“That wasn’t the assurance I was looking for,” she said sharply.
For a second, his lips pressed together so hard, they were almost invisible. “I would know if they were…gone. I believe that. So my priority is finding them alive.” He stared at her, evidently done begging.
Again, she believed him. Darn it. She’d been forty minutes from having the boxes finished, the door locked, and another chapter of her life ended.
She could still walk away. She could send him off with a shrug and a platitude.
Not her style. Service, loyalty, honor—everywhere her life turned, those pesky values kept creeping in.
She muttered a Hail Mary beneath her breath. Then, with a shake of her head, she waved him back toward his chair. “First, we agree that I work this case alone. You won’t interfere.”
Posture still rigid, he seemed to mull that over, but finally nodded.
She didn’t believe for a minute he’d conceded. His stubbornness had deposited him on her doorstep. Just because she accepted the job didn’t mean he’d sleep at night or stop his search. For her, that classified him as committed, not as an abusive husband and father. But who knew?
She pulled a notepad and pen out of a still-open box and sank into her desk chair. “Start at the beginning. Tell me about your wife and son.”
2
Black Haven Stronghold, Montana
Glacier National Park
Deacon tapped his fingers on the passenger door of the SUV and gritted his teeth. The view of snow-topped glaciers visible through the windshield didn’t reduce the heat swelling inside his body. With an insistent thrum, rising power inflamed his muscles and pushed against his skin until he felt held together by vapor, not flesh. Only a bit farther.
“Your Seattle lieutenant has been calling for the last few days.” Wharton gave him a brief, speculative look. He’d remained uncharacteristically silent since picking Deacon up at the airport. “Marsh will only speak to you.”
“Must have made Trim’s day.”
“After his third call where he refused to leave details, she delegated his inquiries to me. With no more success, I should add.”
“I’ll take care of it when I get in the office,” said Deacon. He closed his eyes as they passed through the last few miles preceding the stronghold’s hidden access. White reflected behind his eyelids, nauseatingly bright. Just a few more minutes.
“Can I be of help—Alpha?” Wharton asked softly, caution etched in every syllable.
Deacon’s beast growled, the sound echoing louder than normal in the closed space. Concentration broken, he spared a quick look toward his clan’s single omega. Alert gray eyes considered him with obvious concern. Despite the well-intended offer and Wharton’s unique power, Deacon couldn’t take advantage of it. He was too…combustible—a circumstance not translating well into words. Until he understood the magnitude of the problem he faced, and had a solution, he couldn’t risk involving any of his team. If worse came to worst, they’d be safer at a distance.
“Pull over,” he ordered. As Wharton’s brow inched up and quickly dropped, Deacon dug through his discomfort for civility. “Please.”
His pointless attempts at easing his abrupt mood didn’t fool either of them. Wharton could decipher the most shuttered of attitudes and diffuse the worst of tempers. He’d no doubt suspected this was beyond his skills. However, he deserved the simple gracious gesture, since he’d read the tension during the trip and resorted to the formality of Deacon’s title instead of the casual use of his name. Formality and subservience in the presence of aggressive power. Smart wolf. It wouldn’t have been necessary if his alpha was in control.
Deacon’s door was already halfway open as the SUV stopped, gravel spraying the side of the road. Five feet inside the stronghold, and he couldn’t hold back the churning boil inside him. “Tell Trim I’m making a quick pass of the perimeter first.”
Run. He needed the soil, the ground far from any contact with his people.
“Grizz has already—” Wharton held up a hand. “Got it. We’ll see you at your office.”
Deacon didn’t wait for receding taillights, but lunged and reached, bones snapping in the transition from his human body to wolf. Resistance to change pulled at him even as he embraced the molecular dissolution of his human flesh and skeleton for fur and powerful haunches. The change finished before his paws hit the ground.
The full strength of his wolf wasn’t enough. Not even pain could stop the inevitable release from coming.
Barely holding back the frustration bottled inside his frame, he pounded across the early fall frost. He needed more distance from the village, from the shifter families counting on his protection.
Magic and determination battled in a sizzle of flame across his skin. Muzzle lifted, scenting toward the looming cloud-covered mountain, Deacon released a harsh, resonant growl. Tree limbs vibrated. Rocks and debris scattered down the cliff with chunks of snow just beyond his paws. An echo of thunder followed by a pulse of lightning and a gusting wind answered his summons. Nothing rose from the earth and dispelled the force building inside.
Faster.
He charged over rocks and under tree limbs.
Just a few more yards. There, the overhang gleamed at the far rise above the glacier line.
Deacon jumped, his claws grappling against the layers of rock, channeling all his energy into advancing.
Limbs stretched for maximum reach, his claws gouged the rock. With a guttural cry, he surged up and over, rolling across the flat expanse of the grassy alcove. He tumbled, shifting back to human, his hands and knees scraping across ice and sediment. Spinning out of control and desperate, he sought small crevices and fought his momentum. He grasped a tiny fracture in the ground as his power exploded.
With a neck-wrenching jerk, he stopped.
Fingers torn and bloody and sweat coating his body, he looked over his shoulder. His toes dangled in the air. Several hundred feet below, water rushed, flowing from the neighboring alpha’s territory into his own in a wild froth over the rocks—a sure promise of death if he failed. Enduring the rough ride in the glacier runoff would prove more than just a challenge. Even with his power, he couldn’t recover from shattering every bone in his body.
He pressed his lips to the stones and panted quietly. The overwhelming surge of power receded for the first time since he’d stepped off the plane in Kalispell. He stretched a hand toward the scruff of grass in sunlight. A second tidal rush rippled across his skin, the remaining current of power funneling as he attempted to contain it. Finally, it slowed and trickled from his fingers into the ground.
The soil beneath him trembled but accepted the offering, sacred spirits momentarily appeased as the power dispersed in harmless bits. All the residents inside the stronghold would feel the backlash, but the sacred earth would filter the harshest elements.
I won. The desperation to reach this place had pressed like a vise since his plane had taken off from Portland. Racing against time, he’d been lucky. This time.
Lifting his head, he roared, pent-up rage and a challenge filling the air. His lungs forced the sound until he couldn’t breathe and the final hoarse noises choked him. He was in control again, if still aching in every bone and muscle. Hell, what was a little more pain.
He flipped onto his back and stared at the thick vanilla clouds above. A day might come when the power consumed him, even destroyed him, but it wouldn’t be today. Hard-won control and fierce rein over the calling that tugged at his brain kept him from the path of past alphas. Deacon didn’t credit luck. Luck wouldn’t have landed him in the position to threaten the lives of so many of his people while he grappled for his sanity. Today, they benefited from his hard-earned control.
His offload of energy would soothe even the most savage of his clan’s beasts. He only wished he could predict these episodes. The Black H
aven Stronghold, a place of sanctuary for his people and the only place capable of siphoning his overload, would someday become his prison without hope of escape.
Able to breathe without pain, he welcomed the cold chill of rock against his skin after the struggle of the last few hours. The energy level in his body had returned to normal.
He curled into a sitting position and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, taking one last look around. Nestled far back from the overhang, painted figures of eagles and wolves decorated the alcove wall, as vibrant as when he’d created them to honor his mother’s eternal sleep—over a hundred years ago.
He shook his head. Too many years and a multitude of new struggles separated him from that past. Recollecting would change nothing.
He shifted once more, this time allowing his wolf the leisure of enjoying the hum of earth beneath his paws, relishing what he’d missed on the frantic race to purge his demons.
Ten minutes and a mile later, Deacon padded up the steps of the stone building that housed his offices and the clan auditorium. Clan members collected in a tight mesh in the reception area. With a purposeful stride, his wolf brushed his shoulder against first one and then another in the crowd, rubbing against their thighs and hips as people jostled closer. With his power contained, he could risk several minutes of close contact. His wolf emanated a heady energy, but no member retreated from their alpha. His human consciousness sensed their compliance as the wolf scented, searching for hints of their distress. For everyone gathered here expected him to solve their problems.
He rubbed his forehead down an arm and lingered for the deep delving of fingers into his fur. A stronger dose of his power in their times of weakness wasn’t a gift. He ensured his shifter clan’s survival. They in turn renewed him. A reciprocal source of power his father had never mastered. Dominant command under his sire had nearly destroyed this stark beautiful wilderness and these courageous shifters. Deacon’s legacy was a thriving community. One built upon broader rules of justice, with a generous dose of patience.
