by Sadie Hart
Stronger.
Chapter Eighteen
A car horn blared down the street as Brandt slammed the door of his STE vehicle and waited for Tate to come around and join him, his attention already focused on the alley behind the old burger and grill. A dumpster sat beside the back door, one lid flipped up. A man stood beside the door, his cigarette bobbing as he lifted the smoke for another drag.
The owner, Brandt presumed. He looked as rattled as he’d sounded on the phone. Then again, finding a mutilated body in your dumpster first thing in the morning tended to have that effect. It had been four days since they moved Timber. Brandt supposed they should have expected another body, since they had been fairly sure Wolfe had another woman when he’d trashed Timber’s house.
And yet he hadn’t expected this.
Even from their position by the car, Brandt could smell the blood. He’d hoped the guy on the phone was exaggerating. Brandt strode up to the dumpster, nodding at the man standing there. “Elliot Rogers?”
“Yeah.” The man blew out a breath of smoke. A shudder trailed down his spine. His face was white, lips pinched. The look of a man who’d never seen a body outside of a funeral home before.
“Brandt Lawrence.” He extended his hand but the man shook his head.
“Look, man, I don’t want shit to do with this. Let’s get this over with so I can just pretend it didn’t happen.”
Tate moved closer to Rogers and began questioning him, leaving Brandt to examine the body. Stepping up on the back steps, Brandt looked down into the large green dumpster. A woman, mid-forties, stared up at him. Her dark brown hair was matted with blood.
“Looks like she got mauled by a fucking dog and then dumped here,” the bar owner said shakily.
Brandt had suspected something different, even when they got the initial call. Dogs didn’t strip their victims naked before they attacked them. Hovering over the dumpster, he knew for a fact that it was Wolfe. He could smell the man on her. And Wolfe had really done a number on this one. He’d literally ripped her apart.
“Thank you,” Tate was saying behind him and Brandt turned to see that the Crime Scene Unit had arrived. They looked about as grim as he felt. The medical examiner stepped up on the stairs behind him.
“Poor woman,” the woman said softly.
“She was probably raped. Check for sexual assault.” For someone who claimed to already have a mate, Charles Wolfe sure raped a lot of women.
“Boss,” Tate said, and Brandt left the medical examiner to do her job. Tate was already on his way back to the car.
“What is it?”
“Owner recognized the car and Wolfe. Said he thinks he’s staying down on Park Street. Says he passes it most days parked in front of a brick house there. Hasn’t seen it in a few.” Tate swung into the car. “Pretty much since we announced on the news that we were looking for info on the car.”
Shit. Brandt started the car and pulled onto the road, and going in the direction Tate was pointing. “Turn right on Park. Guy said it was two blocks down. Should be on the left. Beat-up looking place. Said he thought it’d been foreclosed on last year, but houses these days can look pretty shitty, but as long as they’re livable, people still try.”
Hell, in this economy there were people who tried anyway. It beat being on the street.
And a house like that would make sense for Wolfe. In a crappy neighborhood, the chances of people caring about someone squatting were pretty slim. And plenty of neighbors turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to shouts and screams, especially in rougher parts of town. Nobody wanted to deal with cops, and that included Hounds.
Brandt pulled up in front of 83 Park Street. The brick house looked more than a little run down. The windows were boarded up, there were large cracks running through the front pillars, the wooden steps leading up to the front porch looked rotted, and the roof was more tarp than shingles. The house should have been condemned.
It probably had.
Then again, as Brandt looked down the street, he realized it wasn’t the only house standing on its last shitty leg, and more than a few of them had junker cars parked out front. “Let’s go have a look,” Tate said. There was a level of authority in Tate’s voice. He was getting more and more accustomed to running the pack.
Although everyone followed Tate’s leadership willingly, Brandt knew the man still had to fight not to call him boss. Sometimes Brandt noticed him pausing over an order before he gave it. And, while Brandt still would rather be the one calling the shots, he trusted Tate. The other Hound wouldn’t let him down.
Brandt got out of the car and followed Tate up the front steps. The scent of musk and wolf lingered around the place. Fear hung ripe in the air, so pungent it made Brandt’s stomach twist. There was no mistaking the scent that was Wolfe’s. He could smell the last victim, too, and the blood. But in a neighborhood full of non-shifters, no one would have smelled any of that. Brandt glanced at the houses on either side. No neighbors unless they were squatters, too, and were hiding their cars.
Which made it even less likely Wolfe would draw any attention.
“Got the right place,” Tate said grimly. “I’m going to call for backup.”
Brandt grunted, but he’d already drawn his weapon. He glanced off the edge of the porch and down the driveway. “There’s the car,” Brandt murmured quietly. He looked back at Tate.
There was a good chance Wolfe could be in the building.
“I’ll watch the back. Might want to tell backup to get a move on.”
Tate flashed him a thin smile. “Already on it.”
Brandt stepped carefully off the front porch, his boots quiet on the dirt and gravel combo of the driveway. It was soft underfoot, and he continued to watch his step as he eased around the side of the house. The windows were either boarded up or covered with blankets. Someone didn’t want anyone to see in. Considering the company Wolfe kept, it wasn’t surprising. None of this was.
This neighborhood was so perfect for Wolfe, Brandt wanted to bang his head against the wall for not finding it sooner. There were countless other neighborhoods like it in the state, and he knew it, but when the perfect place was this close, he felt like he should have known.
Edging around the side of the house, Brandt saw the collapsed deck. The wood had rotted and given way to time and weather. The backdoor opened onto the deck. It was an easy shot from the back door to the parked car in front of the garage. There were enough trees and overgrown bushes back there to make the place perfect for carrying bodies in or out. Brandt’s shoulders tightened. At night Wolfe would be damn near invisible while he moved things to and from his car.
Brandt took a breath and exhaled his tension. If all went well, they’d have Wolfe in STE custody within the hour. It was almost more than he dared hope for.
***
“Clear!” Tate shouted and Brandt’s heart sank. Wolfe wasn’t here. He glanced at the Hounds next to him, every one of them looking about as grim as he felt. They were close, though. Closer than they’d ever been.
“We’ll get him,” Brandt said, rousing a few tentative smiles.
Tate and the rest of the pack came into the room. “We’ll need Crime Scene for the bedroom. No bodies, but Brandt...you should see this.”
Tension rolled through him. Fuck. That didn’t sound good. Jaw tight, Brandt followed Tate down the hall to the back of the house. A kitchen led off to the back door and the basement. Brandt had helped clear the main level, while the pair of Hounds who came in after him had cleared the basement. They’d called Tate down first, and for that, Brandt couldn’t help but be proud.
They’d accepted the change of command easily and professionally.
The scent of fear got stronger as they descended the steps. Sex, sweat, and blood lingered in the air, a thick and heavy blanket that would only fade after a lot of time. Against the far wall Brandt saw the heavy chain connected to the wall. A thick, collar-sized cuff lay on the ground. He knelt in front of it, the scent
of a female wolf reaching up to meet him. Their most recent victim.
“Smells like our victim.”
“And silver,” Tate said. He tilted his head at a nearby door. “He used the main bedroom in the house. Smells like he slept there regularly. No sign of the women.”
Brandt had noticed that too. He glared at the wooden door in front of him. But the victims had been raped. The strongest smells came from the room in front of him.
Tate opened the door and Brandt saw the wooden bed frame first. Saw the chains attached to the leg posts next. “We think the women slept here,” Tate whispered.
It smelled like the victim they’d found this morning.
“There’s a small bathroom off to the right. Of course, it’s not up to code. It looks like whoever had this house had tried renovation, got halfway through, and called it quits.”
Brandt eyed the chains. They were barely long enough for the victim to crawl up on the bed. They didn’t allow room to move around at all. The silver lined cuffs appeared stained with blood. No doubt from where they’d rubbed the victims’ hands raw. He couldn’t imagine having to live in this hell, but these women had.
Timber had lived for a year in one very similar.
Brandt shoved a hand through his hair. “Christ, but this never gets easier. Knowing bastards like this exist.”
“Brandt,” Tate called and he whirled. The world seemed to drop out from beneath him. He staggered for a second and Tate moved to catch him, but he righted himself in time.
On the wall there were framed pictures. Timber. His jaw went rock-hard. Anger burned hot in his gut, a roaring, furious inferno. She was chained by a nightstand in one, huddled in a ball at the side of the bed. Her eyes were closed in sleep, but he could see her exhaustion in the pale lines around her eyes. She looked defeated.
In another she stared up at the camera, eyes wide but lifeless. If she’d been scared of the man holding the camera in that picture, it didn’t show. Nothing showed. The woman in that picture was simply gone, her soul in hiding.
Tate moved to step in front of one, but not before Brandt saw her stretched out over the bed, strip naked. Bruises peppered her thighs. “Shit,” Brandt turned away, his hands clenched so hard his knuckles throbbed.
“Haven’t searched the entire house yet, obviously, but so far every picture we’ve found is of Timber.”
And the pack had done an excellent job keeping that from him. Brandt opened his mouth to say as much when Tate lifted an eyebrow. “I need Brandt the Hound right now. Not the man who loves her.”
Love? The word stalled inside him, uncomfortable and foreign. He didn’t know if it was love. What he did know was that Charles Wolfe was one hell of a lucky man. If he’d been in STE custody right now, he’d have been dead already. Brandt would have walked right over and put the bullet between his eyes himself.
Hell. Maybe he wouldn’t have bothered with a clean shot. Ripping his head off bare-handed sounded good about now.
“Brandt.”
“Yeah. I got it.” He ground the words out. But he knew his job, and he’d been doing it long enough to be good at stashing his emotions in a box to deal with later. He blew out a harsh breath and turned back to the wall of pictures. “He idolized her. He viewed her as his mate when he was still human, so this isn’t surprising. He’d have wanted mementos, souvenirs. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t find any pictures of the others. They were stand-ins. In the beginning, they were a means to an end. Wolves to change him so he could be what he wanted to be, so he could be with his mate fully.”
“And the ones now?”
“He likes the kill. He likes the hunt, but they’re not the one who got away. That makes Timber more to him. She was his mate before and now she’s his ultimate hunt. He’ll never give her up.”
Not unless he was dead.
Brant had never been more thankful to know Shifter Town Enforcement would execute a shifter like Wolfe immediately. They had all the proof now. Once they had him, Wolfe would never have the opportunity to kill again.
“They’re in this room because he’s obsessing about her.” Brandt tasted the bile at the back of his throat. “It may also be that, in the beginning, Timber was in the room when he hurt and killed his first twelve victims. She saw everything. In a way, his mate participated simply because of her presence in the room. He can’t have that right now, so he’s improvising.”
Tate winced. “Fuck. To have seen that shit.”
Brandt realized he was trying to see into the picture where Timber stared emptily up at the camera. She’d seen everything, and part of her had fled deep into her mind to escape. How long had she been in Wolfe’s clutches before she looked that far gone?
“Thank you,” Tate said softly. “I wanted your take on the room.”
Brandt nodded, an odd numbness creeping through him. He needed space, somewhere far away from this room, where those broken eyes couldn’t keep staring up at him.
“I’m having the pack watch this house. I want to know if Wolfe comes back. But I need someone back at HQ. The medical examiner should have her prints. I want them run. We need to identify this victim.”
“Got it,” Brandt said and Tate visibly relaxed. Brandt shook his head. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me hovering over you.”
With that, Brandt went upstairs and out the door. He was shaking, his body tight with rage. He needed a few minutes to get himself under control before he drove back to STE headquarters. He took a deep, shuddering breath, just as something slammed against the back of his head. He grunted in surprise and staggered. Pain lanced through his skull a second time, and his knees slammed into the gravel.
And the world went black.
Chapter Nineteen
Timber heard someone knock from her spot in the kitchen. She was slicing the watermelon Shay had stuffed in the fridge. Shay scooped up a chunk from the cutting board as she hopped off the barstool where she’d been ‘supervising.’ Timber had taken that to mean watching her do all the hard work so she could help herself to the fruit of Timber’s labor.
“I’m coming,” Shay called, her mouth half full of watermelon.
Timber wiped her hands on the dishrag and followed. Shay stood on her tiptoes to peer through the peephole before she opened the door. Tate, one of Brandt’s Hounds, stood on the front steps, his hands stuffed in his front pockets. He rocked back on his heels, looking nervous, edgy.
Shay must have seen it, too, because her normally playful tone of voice instantly turned serious. “What’s up?”
Tate glanced between the two of them and his shoulders sagged a little. Something was wrong. Timber could feel it, a dark coil that seemed to knot through her. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Nice hair,” Tate said.
“What’s wrong?” And why was he here instead of Brandt?
Tate didn’t answer her. Instead he looked back at Shay. “Was Brandt here last night or today?”
“No. Why?”
“Sent him to the office from a crime scene—”
“There’s another body?” Timber asked before he could finish.
“We don’t know who she is yet.”
He was obviously trying to focus on Shay, which made Timber think he wanted to keep something from her. She opened her mouth to say something when finally Tate looked at her. “We found where Wolfe has been staying.”
She reached out to touch the wall, grounding herself, because her knees had already begun to wobble. “But he wasn’t there?”
“No.” Tate shifted uneasily on the front steps before turning back to Shay. “Can I come in? I’d like to ask Timber a few questions.”
Timber leaned into the wall. “Questions about what?”
Silence seemed to stretch between them, a lingering, dark presence that only seemed to intensify the longer Tate avoided answering her. “There were pictures. In the room where he kept his victims.”
The world around he
r faded out, blurring, and Timber’s legs shook. She didn’t fall, though. She made it to the couch and sank down into the plush cushions, just trying to breathe, trying to think past the memories suddenly swarming her.
God, how she’d hated that camera.
He’d always shoved that little red box in her face, the flash flickering bam-bam-bam. It was hard enough reliving those days in her nightmares, it was worse to remember he’d documented them. That anyone could flip through a slide show and see her at her worst, her most desperate and defeated.
“Timber...” Tate sat on the couch next to her. “Did he ever take pictures of anyone else?”
“No.” She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to look at anyone. The only problem was, there was never any real hiding. Every time she closed her eyes she could see the images of her past in vivid color and detail. “It was always me. Did Brandt see them? How bad were they?”
“You don’t want to do that,” Tate whispered. “Don’t go there.”
She’d seen a few pictures. Charles had framed them, hanging them where she could see. Her stomach twisted. She’d already gone there. She just hadn’t thought Brandt would have to.
“I want to burn them.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. They were part of an active investigation. They were evidence. The whole pack had probably gotten a look.
“Have you tried contacting Brandt?” Shay asked, bringing them back to the present.
“Yeah. We tried tracking his phone, too. It’s off. That’s not like him. Brandt’s always reachable. But I figured after yesterday he needed space. That he’d either go home or come here. Apparently he didn’t do either.”
“I want to see the place.”
Tate frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea...”
“It’s the best one you got.” Timber didn’t bother to keep the hard edge out of her voice. “You can make guesses, but I can tell you exactly what happened.”
