by John Conroe
“Isn’t a lead bullet a lead bullet?” she asked.
“Is Jimmy Choo just a shoemaker?” I asked her back. “There are soft, cheap lead bullets for target practice, and there are high-end, hard-cast, flat-nose bonecrushers that are suitable for killing dangerous game like Cape buffalo. Those bullets are usually an alloy, not pure lead, which is super soft. Silver is pretty hard, and it mixes well with lead and tin.”
Both Granger and Jep were looking at me, surprised.
“Gun stuff was part of my formal education. But back to the murders. Someone was executing Simon Masten’s weres, only the males, with single gunshots to the head?”
“Yeah. The murders were very public and law enforcement got involved. Then one of the two guys with him got whacked down here, across state lines, and the FBI showed up. There’s just Simon and one other male left.”
“But nobody is killing the girls?” I asked. He shook his head, grimacing.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s just that I’ve never seen a successful Alpha treat his women like slaves or third class citizens. He leaves them out of everything.”
“Any notes or phone calls?” Another head shake. “Video?” Shake.
“What about the coroner?” Stacia asked, pouring herself some more coffee.
“The one here in Asheville is part of the Pack, so we’re covered. There were six kills in Kentucky. The first two happened in the woods, and Masten just left the bodies and filed missing person claims. The third happened outside a bar at night. The local coroner was underfunded, under trained, and not real curious. But the next three kills happened over several weeks in public places like bars, parking lots, and such. I don’t know what happened with those bodies, but Masten called me right before the sixth kill.”
“Where was the murder down here?” I asked.
“In an alley outside a popular restaurant.”
“Nobody heard the shot?”
“Nobody heard anything. Simon Masten and the remainder of his pack were inside the
restaurant. One of the guys left to use the men’s room and somehow got shot outside.”
“And you want us to investigate? To help your friends?” I asked.
He grimaced. “Simon Masten isn’t my friend. I don’t really like the guy. Treats his women like shit. But now there is mega attention on the whole thing. Agent Krupp is some kind of serial killer expert, and it’s now a big deal. The quicker it goes away, the less damage. We don’t want to move territories. Brock said you get visions of crime scenes?”
“Sometimes, if they’re supernatural crimes,” I replied.
“Gordon, I’m can’t tell you how grateful we are for saving our children. But I gotta ask, with no offense intended, what the hell are you?” Granger asked.
“He’s a bona fide gift from God!” Stacia said with a smirk before I could answer.
I gave her a glare, but it bounced off like she was coated in Teflon.
“I’m an oddity. But I still need to get that Hellgate in your kids’ bedroom closed. And deal with the book that I think might have created it.”
“Yeah, it’ll be tough to sell that dump with demons streaming into it. We’re gonna house hunt today for a new place. Let me know how you make out,” Granger said. “But Gordon, even if you can’t help with Masten’s problem or get the gateway closed, what you did last night… well, I don’t think I can ever begin to repay that debt!”
“Nothing to repay. It’s what I do.”
He nodded and got up. “Still, don’t be afraid to ask for anything you need – anything!”
The big guy, Jep, paused before following. “What he said!” he rumbled, reaching over and gripping my forearm. He nodded at Stacia and Awasos, then followed his boss.
“What next?” Stacia asked, sipping her coffee. I split the last of the food on the table with ‘Sos and stacked the empty platters for the young waitress.
“Next, we make some phone calls. Then it’s time for church.”
“Ahh, Mr. Gordon, good morning! And Ms. Reynolds, is it?” a voice said from the doorway. Agent Krupp looked in, a grim smile on her face. Behind her stood another agent, a dark-haired female who hadn’t been at the bar.
“Hello, Agent Krupp. You just missed Granger!” I said, pointing out the door.
“Oh, I didn’t miss him. I was looking for you,” she said, still smiling. It was not a heartwarming smile.
“Oh, well. Would you like some coffee? I’d offer you breakfast, but Ms. Reynolds ate it all,” I said. A small foot kicked me under the table.
Krupp entered the room, her eyes scanning everything. She pulled out a chair, and her partner grabbed the other one. She was wearing a dark gray pantsuit, her companion pressed khakis and a dark blue polo shirt.
“This is Agent Mazar,” she introduced while pouring coffee for herself and the brunette.
Mazar was taller than her boss, with black eyes and olive skin, a Middle Eastern look to her. She nodded at both of us but didn’t say a word or attempt a handshake, just sipped her coffee and watched us over the rim.
“So, to what do we owe the honor?” I asked.
“Well, Gordon, I was curious about you and Ms. Reynolds. Occupational hazard. So I ran your names through the system.”
“You don’t say,” I commented, pouring out the last of the coffee and holding the empty pot up for Jetta the waitress to see. The young girl nodded and disappeared, hopefully to get more.
“I have to say it was a unique experience for me. Not only did I immediately hit both a Department of Defense lockout, but the laptop we used to make the request was frozen remotely. Then the phone started ringing—a lot. Four calls, to be exact. The first was from Homeland Security, a deputy director. He wanted to know the circumstances of my inquiry—in detail—then warned me to leave you alone. Then I got a call from a Director Stewart, of Oracle, curious about you. He was also full of helpful warnings. Next up was a Gina Velasquez, referred by DHS, who asked a whole passel of detailed questions. I got a little short with her. Not my best moment, but I’m not used to being questioned about my investigations. She’s very calm, that one. I told her I was investigating serial murders and asked if you were a likely suspect. You know how she responded?”
I shook my head, thinking it couldn’t be good.
“She asked how the victims were killed. When I explained single gunshots to the brainstem, she assured me it wasn’t you. You know, Gordon, I’ve asked that question probably a thousand or two times in my career and the response is always no, there’s no way Johnny could ever kill anyone. But this time? It was not if you could kill, but the manner of the kill. Frankly, I was a bit dumbfounded.”
“Well, don’t they say that everyone has the ability to kill? Wouldn’t she have been wasting your time by saying I was a great guy and wouldn’t harm a flea?”
Krupp did the whole inscrutable thing, not giving away any emotions. Then she continued without acknowledging my comment. Her companion just watched.
“I pressed for details about you, and she just deflected the whole lot of them, like a damned hockey goalie. Then, like the others, she warned me. But her warning wasn’t about hassling you. No. She said to leave the wolf and the blonde model here alone. Said I could rough you up; in fact, I think she may have been encouraging it. But she was clear as day that I should avoid these two. Why would she say that, Gordon?”
I frowned. “Why would you hassle a wolf, anyway? Makes no sense to me, Agent Krupp. I mean, I can understand giving Stacia a hard time, because she’s… well, Stacia, but the wolf? I don’t get it.”
Stacia smacked my arm. She meant it, so it ended up sounding like Mark McGwire knocking a baseball into the stands. Both agents raised their eyebrows at that. I tried to ignore the sting.
“Gordon, I wouldn’t hassle the wolf. I’d shoot him!” Krupp said, leaning forward.
Awasos sat straight up, head cocked to one side, studying the agents intently. I did the same thing, my cocky demea
nor falling away, replaced by something else. Something serious.
Both agents froze, their heartbeats suddenly pounding loudly in their chests. They held themselves as if acutely aware of the location of their holstered handguns.
“Why would you say that? Who goes around shooting people’s wolves?” I asked in a voice slightly rougher than normal.
“I think Agent Krupp was trying to get a reaction out of you, Chris. Congrats on that, agent. You found a hot button,” Stacia said, swirling her coffee in her mug and generally ignoring the tension. “I’m pretty sure she wasn’t gonna actually shoot ‘Sos, right, Krupp?”
Awasos glanced to Stacia then back to Krupp, waiting for her response. I kept both hands on my coffee mug, trying to control the urge to use it as a weapon. Grim felt certain that the thick ceramic would make it through both agents’ skulls.
Krupp’s calm demeanor had been replaced with one that was a little more gunfighter in the street and a lot less investigator in the interrogation room. She blinked. Then smirked.
Awasos huffed, then lay down, his head on his paws, watching.
I peeled my fingers away from my coffee mug, one at a time, mentally counting to ten. Then I had an odd sort of insight that it might not be a coincidence that counting to ten to calm oneself matched the number of fingers on both hands. Visual aids are especially helpful to angry people. Having completed that minor introspection, I looked back up at Krupp, ignoring her companion.
“So, aside from recounting your fun evening of phone calls and indulging in a little button pushing, what exactly did you want with me this morning?” I asked, pretty much done with the conversation.
Jetta came back in, a full pot in hand. She hustled over to the table, refilling our cups and leaving the pot behind, along with a swirl of perfume and another bright smile. Cute kid.
The women exchanged glances and eye rolls at the overabundance of heavily scented air. Then Krupp fastened her gaze back on me. “I’d like you to give me your impressions of the crime scene. You are a psychic, right?”
Okay, that one caught me off guard.
“The word psychic is really kinda broad. I’m not really your crime-solving kind of spiritualist.”
“Oh? Velasquez seemed to think you might be handy.”
I needed to see the crime scene anyway, so why not?
“Okay, but I can’t promise any great insights. My specialty is more of a… cleansing of ambiance type of thing.”
“Yeah, feng shui and all that. Meet me there at eleven-thirty,” she said, handing me her business card with an address written on the back.
“Awesome. Wait, you mentioned Director Stewart of… Oracle? I never heard the name of his organization before.”
“It’s actually O.R.A.C.L. but gets pronounced Oracle, which was, I’m pretty sure, his intention. And before you ask, I don’t know what the letters stand for,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said to her retreating back. She threw up a hand in a halfhearted wave without looking back.
Jetta sidled around her and came over to our table, smiling brightly. Stacia blanched a bit as the cloud of perfume hit us. Weres' noses are even more sensitive than mine.
“I’m gonna head back to the rooms to get ready. Meet me there?” she asked, already sliding out of her chair. Olfactory coward.
“Sure. I’m gonna make some calls.”
She disappeared out the door while Jetta started clearing the dishes onto her big tray. “Did you want any more food, Mr. Gordon?” Her smile was slightly larger as she watched Stacia leave.
“Ah, no. I think we’re good for now, eh boy?” I asked the hairy horse on the floor. He picked his empty plate up in his mouth and set it on the table, which elicited a surprised laugh from the teen.
“Wow, he’s as smart as he is big!” she noted. “He’s a wolf, right?”
“And then some,” I agreed, watching her pet him. The girl had been a bit wary around Granger and Jep, downright invisible around Agent Krupp and company, but was calmly petting a giant wolf and chatting with me like we hadn’t just met. Kids.
“Your accent doesn’t quite match the local one. Where are you from, Jetta?” I asked
“Kentucky,” she said, then paused for a split second like she regretted saying that.
“I’ve never been, but I understand it’s nice country.”
“Beautiful. Horse country,” she agreed.
“You grew up around animals, I’m guessing?” I asked.
“Yeah, my parents owned a small horse farm.”
“They don’t own it anymore?” I asked.
“They’re dead, Mr. Gordon. The farm had to be sold.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry Jetta. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Gordon. I think of them every day and my memories are mostly good ones, other than when they died.”
She picked up the tray and some part of me went ahead and asked, even though I knew it was a bad idea. “Car accident?”
“No, Mr. Gordon. They were murdered,” she said, edging the big tray out the door.
Chapter 8
I left a big tip on the table with the remaining breakfast mess, trusting that Granger had the tab covered. Jetta had been an attentive waitress and I felt a bit guilty about reminding her of her parents.
Crossing the lobby, I noticed the reception desk people, a guy and girl, both human, standing near the front door, watching something in the parking lot. Curious, I looked out.
A man had Stacia in a choke hold while another man took her car keys and started to open the rear of our borrowed Volvo. A white panel van was stopped just behind our car, the passenger and driver’s doors open. The man holding Stacia was big and thuggish, wearing navy work pants, heavy boots, and a stained gray tee shirt. His companion was smaller but still bigger than the petite blonde. He was dressed in brown pants, black shoes, a black tee shirt, and a windbreaker. As he opened the rear gate of our wagon, he appeared to be speaking to my partner. I got all that in a brief glimpse while simultaneously noting that the guy receptionist was calling 9-1-1 on a wireless phone.
Sos and I headed out the lobby door but had only made it a couple of steps when Stacia jackknifed her body forward, holding tight to her captor’s arm. Classic self-defense throw. Legs bent slightly, body folded at the waist, right shoulder dipped closest to the ground. The smallest victim can usually throw the biggest attacker. But they usually don’t end up throwing six-foot men fifteen feet away. Into their other attackers. Hard enough to break bone.
The important thing to remember about beautiful, petite werewolf women is the werewolf part. Stacia was likely three times stronger than the bruiser she had just bruised. She was also multiple times faster, a fact she demonstrated by jumping forward and kicking the downed men viciously.
The smaller guy pulled himself out of the mess of arms and legs and yanked a revolver from behind his back. That’s as far as he got ‘cause a furry bundle of steel-hard muscle that I recently weighed in at 275 pounds smashed into him at well over thirty miles an hour. The gun went flying, the man went flying, and the wolf started forward. “Hold, ‘Sos!” I said, loud enough to be heard. The giant wolf stopped, stiff legged and snarling.
The big one scrambled away, his left arm hanging limply, his right clutched to his ribs. The other guy crab-walked back, away from the angry wolf and the angrier girl. Jumping to his feet, he dove into the van, his partner falling in his haste to get in the passenger side. The van peeled out.
“Fucking pricks!” Stacia snarled, furious. “Why did you call him off?”
“Because the hotel staff called 9-1-1 and right now, you and fur-face are heroes. Another five seconds and those two would have been the victims,” I said, holding a hand to my right ear in listening mode. Distant sirens were getting louder.
She was still fired up, adrenaline racing, breathing heavily to flood her system with oxygen for a fight that wasn’t going to happen. It had the effect of making her c
hest heave. Impressively. I had trouble keeping my eyes on hers, which was plainly obvious to her because her anger changed to something else, something that was amused by my distraction, something that smoldered in her green, green eyes and found its way into her slow, sexy smile. I gulped a little but couldn’t seem to look away from her face. The pattering sound of running feet finally broke our moment.
“Are you okay?” It was the female receptionist, her buddy right behind her.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Stacia responded, holding my gaze a second longer before turning a bright smile to the staff.
“That was amazing! You were amazing!” the guy blurted. “And your dog was incredible! I’ve never seen anything move that fast!”
