High Moon (A F.R.E.A.K.S. Squad Investigation Book 4)

by Jennifer Harlow

  I know it was an enchantment. I know he wasn’t in his right mind. I know he loves me. I know deep down he’s fighting through her tricks to come back to me. But as the hours pass with no news, no word, with only those images and my imagination to pass the time, the resentment and anger begin to build until I can’t see past them. He should be here. With me. By my side. We should be planning our wedding or looking at houses in San Diego online. He should be here. I fought like hell for that man. I took on myself, the entire F.R.E.A.K.S. squad, my friends, a troll worshiping cult, even the man himself, and goddamn it I won. He can’t fight through a lust spell and an ancient werewolf? I’m in here hacking up bloody phlegm and consulting with plastic surgeons, and he’s in some love shack banging a murderess. Every time I look at him from here on, will I be able to get those images out of my head? I don’t know. I really don’t. But I do know the alternative, never seeing him again, is a trillion times worse to contemplate. So I’ll fight. I will fight and fight and fight until my last breath. Starting now.

  “I want to check myself out of the hospital,” I tell Dr. Pali.

  “That is an extremely bad idea, Agent Alexander,” the doctor says. “We don’t know the extent of the nerve damage to your arm. You can barely move your thumb. You had very serious head trauma—”

  “We have an MD on staff. She can look after me. Just give me the damn form to sign that promises I won’t sue you if I keel over and a prescription for pain pills that don’t make me loopy.”

  Dr. Pali turns to Andrew. “Agent DuChamps, perhaps you could—”

  “I know this woman, doctor,” Andrew says. “I’m surprised she didn’t just stroll out on her own yet.”

  “And I will,” I tell the doctor, “leaving you legally responsible for my health. So go get me the damn form before I prove my friend here right.”

  Pali shakes his head. “Fine. But if you become dizzy or nauseous, you must come back immediately. And someone needs to be with you twenty-four seven for the next three days, and if you sleep, you need to wake every two hours.”

  “I’m not going to sleep,” I snap.

  “We won’t let her out of our sight,” Andrew says without a hint of irony.

  The doctor shakes his head again before finally leaving.

  “Jesus Christ, I could break out of prison easier,” I say, gently removing my covers. Oh hell, even that slow, light movement sends pain rocketing all through my body.

  “The doctor is right, you know,” Andrew says. “You should stay here. Recover. Will wouldn’t want you putting your health in jeopardy for him.”

  “Well, he can yell at me when I get him back.”

  Okay, here comes the hard part. I take a deep breath, and in one quick movement, I sit all the way up, my fingernails digging into my one good hand to stop the screams. Three cracked ribs. I’m wrapped up like a mummy underneath my gown in Ace bandages which aren’t doing a lick of good. “Andrew, three feet to your left on the floor are the clothes Nancy brought. I’m going to need your help getting dressed.”

  “Beatrice, if you can’t even—”

  “Just do it, please!”

  Even if he weren’t blind, I probably couldn’t muster any embarrassment as I get naked. It takes all my concentration not to howl in agony with every movement. We don’t even bother with a bra and panties. Just purple sweats and an ugly blue sling for my arm. Damn, I just got my other arm out of one of these things a few weeks ago. I’ll have matching Frankenstein scars on each limb now. Another fact to care about later. Standing is actually more comfortable than sitting, but I’m exhausted already. This is stupid, so f-ing stupid, me leaving. Like that’s ever stopped me before.

  Wolfe arrives just before the nurse with my paperwork and pills to escort us to mobile command. Like every other visitor, he visibly recoils at the sight of me. I did too when I first caught sight of myself. Both my eyes are black, and I mean black from the broken nose, which still drains bloody mucous even though it’s splinted. They had to shave my hair above my right temple to suture the gash but it is covered with a bandage. Bangs are in my immediate future. I look like the monster that hides under children’s beds. But Wolfe doesn’t say a word. After my discharge papers are signed, Wolfe wheels me out to the curb, helps both Andrew and me into the car, and off we go. May that be the last hospital I ever see the inside of.

  This time I successfully make it to my destination without incident. To err on the side of caution, we double back a few times before reaching mobile command, now safely ensconced on the Ft. Prior National Guard base. No one in or out without showing ID to people with huge guns. I feel safer already.

  Adam’s the first to see me when I hobble inside the trailer, even greeting me with a smile. “Hey! Do you need hel—”

  “I got it,” I say, literally waving him off. I may move slower than a sloth on marijuana, but I do make it to the conference room. The white board is covered, not an inch remains, with scribbles and pictures of victims and our perps. Will’s picture is off in the corner next to Imelda’s. Another victim. Patsy, Jamal, Adrian, Tim, Lars Tinning our Werewolf Doe’s DMV photos are dead center. My stomach twists with rage at the sight of Patsy’s smiling face. Use it, girl.

  It takes effort but I manage to lower myself into a chair. “Really, I can help you,” Adam says. “There’s no shame in asking for help if—”

  “If you really want to help me, then get me everything, and I mean everything we have on the case. Every file, every report, every photo past and present. And where are we with Adrian Winsted?”

  “He’s in real bad shape. A hundred four fever, hacking his lungs out. Your doctor won’t let us go at him too hard.”

  “So he’s said nothing?”

  “Nothing to help us find Agent Price,” Adam says. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry does me absolutely no good right now. Where is everyone?”

  “Most are at the hotel sleeping, but your boss is at the Winsted house, and the Doc is in with the son. There’s a staff meeting at seven.”

  “Let me get this straight. One of our own has been kidnapped and the team is literally asleep on the job?”

  “We’ve all been up for over thirty-six hours,” Adam points out, “and quite frankly we’ve exhausted all leads. There’s no vacation home or second property in any of their names. Their credit cards are flagged but haven’t been used since yesterday. Cell phones and GPS went dead. Their pictures are out to all of law enforcement and even on the news. There is nothing more we can do but wait.”

  “No, there has to be something. Just get me the files. Please,” I add as an afterthought.

  Adam stares for a second, a pitying smile flashing across his face, before doing as I ask. He plops two boxes on the table and opens the laptop for me as well. “Anything else before I leave?”

  “I’m good. Thank you.”

  I open the first file on the top of the pile about one of the victims at the park. Then the next, and the next with toxicology reports and pictures. Nothing. More files on victims. I give extra consideration to Imelda, re-reading it three times. Besides Tim’s current addresses matching the Winsted house, there was precious little that pointed to Patsy. Tim had an alibi corroborated by others and damn video surveillance. And there’s sure as hell nothing in here to help me find Will. A damn hour wasted and nothing to show for it.

  The second box is filled with the more recent information and evidence collected the past two days. I begin with the file on Lars Tinning, former anthropology Ph.D. student, dead at the age of twenty-four. According to this, he lived with Patsy since he was nineteen. Product of a single parent household. Seems his mother was in and out of rehab. No arrests himself. Excellent grades as both undergrad and graduate. No friends beyond the Winsted house. He took this semester off, no reason given, and just signed a lease for a new apartment in Charlotte one week before his death. Flying the coop and the big bad wolf gobbled him up for it.

  Next is
the file on Jamal Brian Greene, age thirty but looks eighteen. Parents dead, one ex-wife Rikki and daughter Latishia now eleven, both living in Knoxville, TN. Per an interview neither have seen nor spoken to him since the daughter was four. He met Patsy when she was teaching at Vanderbilt University ten years ago. He was her gardener but in the intervening years he earned his Bachelor’s degree in English. He currently works as a bartender. Those at both his and her jobs believed Jamal was her adopted son, or that’s what they told people. The son masquerading as the husband, the lover masquerading as the son. I was wrong, the Manson family were The Waltons compared to the Winsted clan. And no one questioned it. Why should they? They kept themselves to themselves, were pleasant when it was called for, and even gave money to charity. Upright citizens one and all. Of course so were Gacy and my ex Steven until they weren’t. You never can tell with people.

  Adrian’s file is just as thin as the other two. Born in Vancouver, Canada but grew up all over the world wherever Mommie Dearest studied and taught. Finally graduated high school in Russia, then earned his undergrad in Botany at the University of St. Petersburg. Right after that Mom got a post at Vanderbilt, and he did his Masters in Environmental Studies there. Applied for US citizenship and worked odd jobs until it was granted and he could join the ranger service. Never married, no children, lived his whole life with Mommy. What a loser.

  I comb through their financials next. Two years worth of groceries, Target, Starbucks, the butcher’s, all rather pedestrian. No cabin rentals, no local vacations, no payments or mortgages on other properties in any of the werewolves or Adrian’s names. They found about $10,000 in cash at the house, so maybe she had more stashed somewhere else. Her son would know.

  As I continue climbing paperwork mountain, my anger and determination grow with each boring report. Evidence lists, phone records, photos of the Winsted home each more useless than the last. We have the bastards dead to rites for the murders with the cache of jewelry and other trinkets from their victims, but nothing that guides me to Will. Over two hours and all I have to show for it is a headache. My pain pill’s wearing off already. Gritting my teeth, I push myself to my feet but have to take a second to regain my strength. I don’t know where Wolfe left my discharge bag before he took Andrew to the hotel. Damn it. I shuffle out of the conference room to medical, but the code doesn’t work. Right, they changed them all. I knock. “Dr. Neill? It’s Bea. I don’t know the code.”

  The door slides opens a few seconds later. Dang, she looks almost as wretched as I do. Her black circles come from a lack of sleep but are almost as severe. “Um…hi,” she says groggily.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “I, uh, think so. I must have fallen asleep at my desk,” she says stepping aside to let me in. “What can I do for you? How are you feeling?”

  I expected to see Adrian Winsted lying near death on the exam table, but it’s empty. However, when I venture in further, I notice the door to the freezer/holding cell hangs open. There’s the bastard, asleep on a cot with fluffy pillows, white sheets, even a comforter to keep him warm. I can hear his raspy breath from here, and he’s almost as pale as Oliver, but still he sleeps in a comfy bed. The bastard deserves Guantanamo Bay not the Four Seasons treatment. I stare at him, that rage from before now boiling my blood. He knows. He—

  “Alexander?” Dr. Neill asks behind me. I snap out of the darkness to look at the good doctor. “Are you okay?”

  “Um, my pain medication. I can’t find it.”

  “Oh. I’ll get you some from our cache.”

  “Thank you.” Dr. Neill moves over to one of the locked cabinets, and I return my attention to Sleeping Ugly. “How’s he doing?”

  “The antibiotics are helping. His fever’s down, but his lungs are still filled with fluid. He’s in and out of consciousness and keeps having fever dreams. He should be in a real hospital but…you know. I’m doing my best.”

  “I’m sure you’ve gone above and beyond.” She gives me two pills, which I dry swallow. “Thanks.” Though my nose protests with intense pain, I manage a smile for the weary woman. “Hey, why don’t you take a break, huh? You look like you’re about to pass out yourself. Why don’t you go get something to eat or take a nap in the conference room? I can keep an eye on him for you.”

  “No. I don’t think—”

  “He’s not going anywhere, and you’re no good to anyone in this state. You’ll just be in the next room. If there’s any change, any problem, I promise to come get you.”

  Come on. Come on…

  “Okay. I guess,” Dr. Neill says. “I’ll just need an hour or two. If his fever spikes or if he struggles for breath—”

  “I’ll come wake you.”

  The good doctor nods. “Thank you. Really, thank you. I’ll just be next door. Oh, and the code’s just the old one in reverse.”

  “Okay. Have a good rest,” I say with a smile.

  She nods again. I don’t drop my smile until that door shuts behind her. That was easier than I thought. I stare at Winsted still snug in his bed. I wonder what he’s dreaming about. His mother rescuing him? Evenings with the pack? Burning in the fires of hell for his crimes? Time to wake the bastard and find out.

  I manage to wait five minutes to allow Dr. Neill to fall asleep in case there’s any noise like screams before I enter the cell. I’d shut the door but I’d be locked in here too. He doesn’t wake as I roll the desk chair to his bedside and lower myself into it. I study him for a moment. Up close, I can see the family resemblance. Same chocolate brown hair color, same lips, same almond shaped eyes. Why didn’t I notice before? Another damn mistake, and now Will’s paying for it. I can’t fail him now. I will do whatever is necessary to find him. Even this. God forgive me.

  With as much force as I can muster, I slap his clammy face. Adrian jerks awake, wildly staring around the room for the source of this new pain. “What—”

  “Wakey wakey, sleepyhead,” I say menacingly. His gray eyes settle on my scowling face. “Remember me?”

  “Who—”

  “Don’t feel bad. I look a bit different from last time we met. Of course so do you. Looks like the Grim Reaper brushed us both.”

  “Wa-water,” he whispers.

  “Oh, you want some water?” I hold up the water bottle I brought in. “We’ll call this the carrot.” I set the bottle in my lap. “Here’s the stick.” I backhand his face again, leaving a white mark on his red, feverish cheek. Adrian lets out a raspy gasp before hacking his lungs out. “Now, I’m not a violent person by nature. I’m really not. Sure, I’ve killed some people. Not to brag but I even slaughtered over a dozen vampires in a single day. But I don’t enjoy it. Not even a little. Not like your mother. So personally, I prefer the carrot route. However, it’s entirely up to you. Either way, I will get what I want from you.”

  “You-You can’t do that,” he rasps. “You-You’re FBI. There are laws.”

  “Two more things you should be aware of, Mr. Winsted before you make your choice. First, the man your whore of a mother kidnapped? He’s my fiancé, so you’re not talking to Agent Alexander right now. You’re stuck helpless in a small room with the woman who killed a man at age eight by squeezing his heart,” I say, doing that very thing to this man here. Who can’t even breathe now and claws at his chest, “Until it burst.” I release the organ. Adrian gasps for air as tears stream from his eyes. I feel nothing. “Which brings us to the second point of interest. I can kill you without lifting a finger, without leaving a mark. My colleagues will chalk up your death to the pneumonia.” I sit back in the chair. “So. Again. Carrot or stick?”

  “I-I-I don’t know where they are,” he whimpers through the coughs.

  “Yeah, don’t believe you. You see, according to your mother’s phone records, she made a ten second call to Jamal Greene before they both tossed their phones. In spite of this short conversation, they still somehow ended up together to kidnap my fiancée. This leads me to believe th
ere was a pre set-up rendezvous location in case of trouble. Your mother strikes me as a smart woman. Having an exit strategy, especially with us closing in, would be a logical move. But I suppose it is possible she didn’t let you in on the escape plan. You are obviously the runt of the litter. It is your fault we tracked the pack down. If you hadn’t gotten sick you would have been in the park to clean up like all the other times. Hell, she didn’t even deem you worthy of becoming a werewolf. She brought all those boys into your home, gave them the gift, replaced you with them inside her heart, maybe even her bed—”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” Adrian snaps. “I never slept with my mother. And I didn’t want to become a werewolf. She offered a million times, but I refused. My mother loves me.”

  “So she would have let you in on her exit strategy,” I parry. His mouth snaps shut. I roll my eyes. “Carrot or stick?” His lips remain sealed. Gotta admire the loyalty. Slight pressure to the aorta hopefully makes him re-think that particular virtue. As he clutches his chest, face turning as red as blood and sweat pouring from his forehead, his mouth finally opens if only to silently plead for mercy. I pull back, and the hacking coughs begin anew with yellow phlegm this time. Yuck. I pick up the bottle again. “Is it carrot time?”

  “Fuck you,” he coughs.

  “Wrong answer.” More pressure this round, for longer as well, until the bastard becomes purple. Nothing. I don’t feel a damn thing. Not pity, not guilt. I think I could kill him and sleep well after. At least tonight.

  After five seconds, I release him. “Had enough yet? In your weakened state, I truly don’t know how much your body can take. Just tell me where she is and this can all stop, Adrian.”