“Ciao, Franco,” she said brightly. “Buon anno, caro!”
He wondered how she knew his name, as they’d never been introduced. He also wondered why she would address him as dear in public, as if their connection were closer than it was. He felt the stares and smiled crookedly, enjoying their distress.
He stumbled through a new year’s greeting as well, and she rescued him. “My name is Caterina Cavalli. There’s a boring land title that goes along with it, but since it has been meaningless for a decade I don’t bother to use it. And you, Franco? What is your name?”
“Mi chiamo Francesco Lupo, Signora.”
“Signorina,” she corrected haughtily, but she playfully extended her hand. He felt a spark fly between her dry, soft hand and his suddenly damp palm.
At least she didn’t wipe her hand afterwards, he thought.
All through the meal, while Caterina chatted politely with most of the officers and the surly captain, she ignored the priest and lavished most of her time on Franco, who was both embarrassed and secretly pleased.
She switched easily from Italian to Czech, to Spanish, English, and to a passable German, and while Franco could only follow in the German and the English, besides the Italian, there was more than enough conversation to go around, centering mostly on the coming new year and its lack of war—the first such year in too many.
The cheap champagne and wine flowed, and even Tranelli seemed to catch the spirit of things by the time the ship’s clock showed 11:30 p.m. on the eve of 1946. The remains of the sweet after-dinner courses and cracked nuts, eviscerated figs, and scattered crumbs, covered the table but the captain clinked a steak knife against his empty glass for attention and conversation stopped. Caterina finished a low giggle at something someone had said, and then all heads turned toward the ship’s commander.
“Even though the new year shines upon us, I must remind everyone here what an absolute shit of a year we have just ended,” he said, perhaps more than slightly drunk. “In fact, gentlemen…and lady, there are more shit years behind us than I care to count.” He ignored the grimaces and headshakes of his officers and soldiered on. “So let’s drink to this new year and hope there will be less shit in it for all of us.”
Nervous laughter followed as glasses clinked. The first officer nervously announced that there would be fireworks at midnight, “if the Chief doesn’t blow us all up,” and the group slowly adjourned to retrieve coats and parkas, then headed in groups up the companionway toward the bridge.
“Come,” Caterina whispered to Franco, “escort me.” She took his arm.
His skin tingled where she touched him. She laughed when she noticed his discomfort, her wide mouth mocking and alluring and enticing all at once.
Tranelli took a bottle and followed. In fact, most of the officers took bottles and glasses.
When they reached the bridge, they fanned out around the wheelhouse along the extended exterior deck. “Watch off the starboard side,” called out the first mate. Toasts clinked in the night, which was chilly but no longer so cold as to be uncomfortable as they approached the equator on their journey south. They could see the rest of the crewmen lined up along the rail of the main deck, sounds of their own celebration reaching the bridge in snatches.
Just before midnight, an officer begin to call out the countdown.
“Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…”
Everyone made sure they had a full glass, but long glances were only for Caterina, whose sparkling laugh lit up the night. She held on to Franco, both of them with full glasses in one hand.
“Four…three…two…one!”
“Happy New Year!”
“Happy…”
“…Year!”
Above them, a series of weak fireworks bloomed in the night sky and illuminated the dark ocean in brief, colorful flashes that reminded all too many of them of guns and artillery in the night. But they pretended it was a joyous display and cheered.
As glasses clinked and the men chattered, Franco felt himself pulled closer and the scent of her was beyond intoxicating, as she laughed in his ear and then turned his face and her lips were on his, opening, and he was responding in more ways than one, clinging to her as their tongues met and the kiss seemed to go on forever.
When they parted the sensation of their mouths together lingered and Franco felt the stiffening in his groin that told him she had reached into his depths.
Is she one of them?
In that moment, Franco didn’t care. He pulled Caterina closer again and she didn’t resist, and then their lips met again and she laughed happily—or was it mockingly—as her red lip color smeared all over him again, and then they just continued to kiss, not stopping until they realized the fireworks had all been shot and the officers and crew of the freighter had abandoned them and headed off to continue serious drinking. Of Tranelli there was no sign.
Caterina took his hand and pulled him along as they slowly headed back to the ship’s superstructure and the nearest hatchway.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Barton
He had to get out of the central precinct. Ryeland had been hounding him all day, and apparently even the threat of Homeland Security sanctions wouldn’t put him off.
Nick Lupo was missing. Maybe he wasn’t just ducking after all.
That was the hushed word going around the station, after some uniform had overheard Lupo’s partner on the phone with someone, all hush-hush and secretive. Barton had tried connecting with some of his people, but no one had seen the big homicide cop. Somehow he had slipped surveillance and disappeared. It was likely he’d headed north to that backwater he liked so much, Eagle River, but so far he hadn’t been spotted. Now Barton wanted to talk to other sources, but Ryeland was huffing over his shoulder, certain the DHS agent had done something to his star detective.
On a whim Barton had tried to brace the partner, DiSanto, but the kid was all wire-wrapped electricity and of course had gotten in his face—Barton had some idea what was going on there, but he didn’t want to visit it—and then he’d disappeared too, stalking out of the police building.
So now Barton stood outside the block of unattractive gray marble, huddling in his too-light suit and getting slammed by the chill winds everybody told him swept off the lake. His phone, a government-issue satellite with built-in scrambling, tweeted or chirped (depending who you asked) and his speed-dialed number went through.
The voice that answered was curt, as always.
Barton said, “Lupo’s disappeared.”
The other party said nothing.
“I don’t know whether this is connected to our thing, or one of the hundred or so he might be involved in, or some asshole from his past…”
“Surveillance?”
Barton sighed. “Failed. I’ve got people out there trying to get eyes on him, but so far no luck.”
“Keep trying. Find him alive, if you value your career.”
Barton didn’t want to admit it, but he was sweating. “He may get himself killed without our help.”
“Just make sure he doesn’t.”
Barton said, “All right.” But he had no confidence that he or his connections could do anything at all about Lupo’s sudden disappearance. So much for him keeping an eye out on the guy.
The voice said, “And make sure the other thing is finished. Once and for all.”
He sighed. “Yes.” The phone went dead in his hand.
Fuck.
Barton knew he couldn’t go around those orders. They came from above and outside his DHS sphere. He called his teams and redoubled their efforts. Lupo had to show up eventually, but was he gone of his own will, or had he been snatched? If he was off the grid, what was he up to? If he wasn’t, what was up?
It had been a long while since Barton had felt so helpless.
He dialed and Corrado answered before the second ring. Does that guy ever sleep?
He jumped right in. “You have any idea where Lupo might have disappear
ed to?”
Corrado was silent for a moment. “I gave him a lot to think about, I think. When he wants to think, he heads north.”
“Just like that?”
Corrado chuckled. “I gather he is not really in the loop—is that the right phrase?—with this task force of yours, so what is to keep him? Besides, north is where his lady friend lives.”
“Possible. I can get eyes on him there. I just thought—I figured he’d had enough of the place after, uh, recent events.”
“He wants to be free.”
“Whatever that means,” said Barton.
“It means that he does not like being the center of all this attention.”
“Humph, it’s too late for that. Well, I’ll check out the up north angle.”
“I am sure you will.”
“I’m not convinced it’s just him being elusive.”
“Neither am I, Agent Barton, neither am I. This is why you should probably hurry. Our mutual enemies might be making a move. Or it might be a monkey-wrench. A rogue, acting on his own.”
Barton barked a humorless half-laugh and clicked off.
Corrado gave him the creeps. Too bad they were tied together. It felt like chains and an anchor and they were standing on the edge of the Marianas Trench. Whatever went wrong would bring them both down, a long way down.
He sighed. He was but an instrument of others’ will, and his understanding or agreement wasn’t needed very often.
He called his teams and directed them to head north and converge on Eagle River. He made sure they all had Lupo’s picture on their phones, in case it came down to a missing persons case.
It would take them some time to get there, and it was his fault for not moving faster.
Despite what he’d told the old man, he had not considered it a possibility that Lupo would have run away, which in essence is what this would have been. No, he didn’t figure it. I must be slipping.
DiSanto
He drove his not-so-new Ford well above the posted speed, but he’d learned from Lupo that a well-placed call to the State Patrol could keep the bulls off his back, so even though he kept sneaking looks at his chunky Invicta watch in the shifting bars of light from the overhead poles, he really was making good time as he raced toward Vilas County. He didn’t have a lightbar like Lupo, though. Have to get one of those.
Poor Doc Hawkins was probably going through the roof. Killing a guy, having a body to dump, and Lupo was nowhere to be found…
DiSanto was both miffed at Lupo for choosing now to disappear but also grateful because he could feel Heather Wilson turning his head—both heads, really—and if he was honest with himself his marriage was over. Wilson was like a fine wine that forever made you swear off the twist-top stuff. She was an animal in bed, which was certainly understandable under the circumstances, while his wife had become a breathing mannequin. In bed and everywhere else, it seemed.
DiSanto drove, silver ammo in the trunk. The doc had insisted he load up in case things went to hell. It had been so short a break from the shit, why had he thought there would be down-time? With Lupo there was never down-time.
Where the hell are you, Nick?
And what about the psychologist, Marla Anders? She had babbled on about dreams and messages, some kind of ranting about Lupo being in trouble.
Thing was, she was right. Now, was she right because of something woo-woo, as Lupo might say, or just because she knew something no one else did? Had Lupo talked to her more than he’d let on? DiSanto didn’t think so…as far as he knew Lupo had been avoiding her.
Hell, she was an attractive one, especially after the last two who had sat in her chair. DiSanto thought he’d have been willing to tap that…if he thought that way.
But he did think that way, didn’t he?
A tendril of guilt found its way into his mind, but he chased it out.
He had confirmed to Anders that Lupo was missing, but then he’d bitten his tongue and wished he hadn’t. He’d tried walking it back, but she was perceptive, damn her (better remember that, he told himself), and she’d picked up on his concern.
He hoped she wouldn’t do anything stupid. He wanted to tell her about Julia Barrett, and what had happened to her after she’d driven north. She’d had the bad luck to run into both a serial killer and the first pack of werewolves Lupo’d ever faced. No, she hadn’t been lucky at all after going up north.
Fuckin’ weird shit always happens up north.
Yeah, that was why he was heading up now. The darkening landscape flew by in a blur as he made good time, left alone by the state patrol cruisers that presumably haunted the roads especially at night. That Lupo, he was always finding ways around things.
At this rate, he’d get there no later than dawn. God, he wished they still made Benzedrine. He could have used it as an upper to keep him going. He’d stop for a quick coffee when he reached Antigo, wake him up just before he got there.
He stepped on the accelerator a little harder, roaring around a series of rumbling semi-trailers. Hell, what was the point of the blank check if you didn’t take advantage of it?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lupo
He was still blind.
No other way to describe it. His eyes were open but, as the song said, they might as well have been closed.
The freezing cold was seeping into his bones, and his wounds—though not serious as far as he could tell—were beginning to take their toll on his stamina and endurance. He was grateful there wasn’t any major snow cover here. It had all melted in a recent thaw, but then the ground had frozen again. But it had to be late, given how cold it had gotten. He had no way to know for sure, but he thought he’d heard an owl hooting just a little while ago. Looking for his dinner.
The bastard who was hunting him wasn’t far behind, either. Occasionally Lupo heard the sound of someone crashing through brush or dried, felled branches, not far behind. He almost thought it was intentional, that Rabbioso was making noise just to remind him he was there, and driving him in the opposite direction.
Like the helpless tiger of the hunts he had pictured.
Except that a tiger in the wild wasn’t completely helpless, and neither was Lupo. Wolf or no wolf, Nick Lupo had learned enough in his decades on the force to figure out how to survive a situation like this. And now, worried that Jessie might be compromised too, he realized he had to go on the offensive.
But how?
He stopped moving for a moment. It was a miracle he hadn’t tripped badly enough to break an ankle. Without the chance to heal while in wolf mode, his running would be done. Rabbioso would just walk up and put a silver bullet in his head.
Lupo wondered if the silver loads were hurting the bastard. He hoped so, but it was likely that in the same way he himself had been able to withstand the pain, so could Rabbioso. Then again, perhaps he himself was more impervious to the silver than he realized.
Another thought hit him hard: Maybe we’re both more impervious to silver than others.
Now that he wasn’t moving, he could hear the crashing around better.
He had considered just backing up to a wide enough pine or juniper trunk and resting there for a while, hoping Rabbioso would sneak past him unawares. If Lupo could outflank him and come up from behind…
The problems with his plan were obvious: he couldn’t tell whether or not his cover was adequate, and he might well never see or hear Rabbioso pass nearby unless his luck was phenomenal…and he had never had phenomenal luck. Ask various Vegas casinos.
No, he decided all he could do was use his senses to continue moving, staying out of sight of his hunter. The guy’s night vision was giving him a huge advantage over Lupo, whose normal vision was not functional.
It was “The Most Dangerous Game,” a classic short story he had read while in grade school.
He almost laughed at the paradoxical aspects of the main thrust of the plot. Human finds that the most dangerous, and therefore the most exhilarating, game
to hunt is a human. But here was Rabbioso, a werewolf in human form, hunting another werewolf who was forced to remain in human form, but normally wasn’t.
He didn’t laugh, however, because a shot rang out and a chunk of wood was blasted out of a tree, near his head. He felt the sizzle of the bullet as it parted air close to his ear and almost deafened him.
He stumbled away again and jogged blindly, hoping he wouldn’t find the next tree by smashing his face on it.
Goddamn it, Sam, sure would be nice to see you now.
Instead he heard another owl hooting.
He felt sympathy for the owl’s prey.
Rabbioso
He was glad he’d dressed for the cold, but even so he was starting to feel shivers climbing up his arms and down his legs. He could abandon all this game idea, drop the equipment, and take the wolf form that would make him almost impervious to the weather, to the dropping of the freezing shroud of the northern forests. But he’d lived in the desert over there, and in the desert surrounding Vegas, and this wasn’t so bad.
Lupo, on the other hand, since he couldn’t seem to let his wolf out, had to be suffering more and more the frigid fingers of the lingering winter. No snow didn’t by any means mean warmer, not here.
Rabbioso chuckled.
This was an ego thing, he could admit that, but the bastard had pissed him off and all he wanted was to make him suffer. He wondered if his man Jacko had gotten the woman doctor yet. After telling him he’d spotted Lupo on his way north, sooner than expected, Rabbioso had given him the go-ahead.
“Take her,” he’d said. “She’s all yours.”
Jacko had salivated audibly on the phone.
Jacko had been one of his best guys over there, one of the guys who’d been with him the day they had come face to face with a bunch of Flags and had no choice but to erase them. Rabbioso didn’t think about it much, but occasionally he remembered that Jacko was the one who’d initiated the action that had saved them all from a fate worse than court-martial.
Rabbioso heard the owls and it occurred to him that a blind Lupo wouldn’t know what time it was, at least until he heard the owls.
Wolf's Blind (The Nick Lupo Series Book 6) Page 17
