Alaskan Wolf

by Linda O. Johnston

  Blood pooled around him on the floor. Duke sat, howling softly nearby.

  “Hell!” Patrick exclaimed. “Shaun?” He crossed the room, touched the neck of his friend and backup, hunting for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Shaun was dead.

  And Patrick realized that the laptop computer that Shaun always worked on at that table was missing.

  Chapter 4

  Shaun hadn’t changed clothes from their outing at Fiske’s and still had on his blue cotton shirt. He’d obviously been in a hurry to get back to work, since he usually wore only ratty jeans and T-shirts while on the computer. What had gotten him so jazzed?

  Carefully, Patrick repositioned Shaun just a little so he could view his body, assess the wound that killed him.

  Only then did Patrick realize how much blood now covered his own hand that had sought a pulse.

  Shaun’s throat had been cut.

  “Damn it, Shaun,” Patrick whispered angrily. “How could anyone have done that to you?”

  Shaun had been a large, muscular guy. Trained in military hand-to-hand combat. He wouldn’t have gotten his throat slit easily.

  Except by complete surprise.

  Duke would have barked at the intruder. But Duke barked often when mushers entered the building, so Shaun wouldn’t have been concerned. Could it have been a fellow musher who killed him?

  Almost wishing he was in wolf form so he could howl with Duke—who now sat near the door of the small room issuing low, plaintive keens—Patrick carefully inhaled, and realized he had all but held his breath after that first assault on his senses.

  Which might have been a good idea to continue. The odor was horrible, and not just the usual scents involved with the death of a human being.

  Something pungently sharp and bleachlike, overlain with the sweetness of some cleaning potion, filled the air. As if the killer had known there would be those with extraordinary senses of smell who might enter the crime scene.

  Unsurprising, though, on a ranch where more than thirty dogs lived.

  But that could also indicate that the dogs would otherwise have been able to recognize the killer from his—or her—scent.

  Patrick needed to report this immediately to Alpha Force. A member of his unit—his pack—had been slain. But he couldn’t do anything that appeared suspicious, like making phone calls before notifying the authorities, or he could be accused of Shaun’s murder. Knowledge of his affiliation with the military couldn’t go any further than it already had, with Wes Dawes aware of it—although Wes knew nothing specific about Alpha Force.

  So, first thing, Patrick called 9-1-1, after gingerly removing his cell phone from his pocket with his left hand, not wanting to smear any more blood on himself than he already had.

  He explained the situation briefly to the operator, giving his location. Then he called the Daweses. They would need to know that the cops were coming. And why. And what had happened to one of their supposed employees.

  Only then did he call his superior officer, Major Drew Connell, of Alpha Force. Woke him up, since he was at Ft. Lukman, in Maryland, a four-hour time difference.

  “Don’t have time to discuss it now, Drew,” he said grimly. “I’ll call back as soon as I can. But Shaun’s been murdered.”

  “What the hell—” Drew began. “How? Do you know who?”

  “Like I said,” Patrick repeated as the Daweses burst into the room, “I’ll call you.” And then he hung up. “Stay right there,” he told the father and son who appeared equally ashen. “We can’t contaminate the crime scene any more than I’ve already done. Don’t you watch those shows on TV?” He added the last as an attempt to disavow any connection with law enforcement, however remote, at least as far as Toby was concerned. But he caught Wes’s eye and shot him a brief, silent message to keep what he knew quiet.

  Another conversation to have later, without an audience.

  The cops must have been on patrol in this small town where crime couldn’t be too prevalent, since a couple of uniformed officers arrived only five minutes later. They did the usual things like securing the crime scene and sequestering possible witnesses.

  By then, the other four guys who lived in the tiny apartments in the building had all been awakened and, in various stages of undress, had gathered in the narrow hall, asking questions of one another. But none apparently had any answers, so as Patrick was being escorted past them by a cop, one of them— Hank Meyer—demanded, “Hey, Worley, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Shaun’s dead,” he replied tersely, and didn’t need the cop’s gentle shove to keep moving. He wasn’t about to say anything else. Especially nothing about how he’d found Shaun, or the condition of his body, or all he had sensed. He had a right to remain silent and intended to exercise it—at least until he was cleared of suspicion.

  The cop who’d accompanied him outside sat Patrick down in the backseat of his navy-and-white patrol car with the Tagoga Police sign on the side. “A few questions for you, sir.” His name tag read Pilke, and he did, fortunately, have only a few questions, at least for now. At his urging, Patrick described where he had been that evening, when he’d last seen Shaun alive, how he had found him. The cop recorded the conversation and took notes.

  As Patrick spoke, he watched others from the ranch, including the Daweses, also escorted outside and questioned—beneath the light of a bright and waxing, but fortunately not yet full, moon.

  He wondered if any of them knew more than him.

  If any was Shaun’s murderer.

  Whether or not these cops were efficient, Patrick would find the killer. Using any and all resources he had.

  He was glad when the cop was finally done with him—after confirming Patrick’s employment here and his cell phone number. Patrick wanted to demand that they keep him informed about their crime scene investigation and when they zeroed in on any suspects, but to act that way would raise questions about who the hell he thought he was.

  And so he simply thanked the guy, made a dorky comment about how he hoped they caught the killer soon, and exited the vehicle.

  He couldn’t stay at the ranch that night. The building housing his apartment, and the others’, would be at a minimum noisy, and would all most likely be treated as part of the crime scene.

  He headed for his car. And wondered whether Inez’s B and B had any rooms available.

  On his short drive to town, Patrick called Drew Connell again. “What the hell happened there?” the major demanded immediately, as if he had been clutching his cell phone from the moment he’d hung up with Patrick.

  Driving slowly along the dark, winding two-lane highway, Patrick described it briefly—how Shaun had been with him at Fiske’s, had left early because he wanted to get back to his online research…and sometime between the time he’d left the bar/restaurant and when Patrick had arrived back there, had had his throat slit.

  “Any sign of a struggle?” Drew demanded.

  “You know…knew Shaun. The only way someone could have done that was to sneak up on him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Patrick described the smell of the cleaning agent and his assumption that it was to prevent the dogs from IDing the killer. “No indication anyone here had any idea about Alpha Force or Shaun’s connection with me. But I’ll keep looking into what happened to him. And…well, I was planning on heading up to the glaciers again. The last time I was there while it shifted, I heard and saw some stuff I couldn’t explain. But without Shaun… Can you send someone else to be my backup?”

  “’Fraid you’re on your own for now. I’ve got everyone who could otherwise be your assistant on the road with the other guys here. Something’s going on in the lower forty-eight, mine explosions we’ve been asked to look into, and all our shifters who can navigate small spaces in the dark—nearly half our troops—have been commandeered to work on it. And the other half’s their backup.”

  “Mine explosions?”

  “Yeah, as in sour
ces for minerals used to create necessary military ordnance, for one thing. We’re not sure what’s going on, but some of the heads of the mining companies have asked the military to look into it, and General Yarrow volunteered us.”

  Patrick shook his head slowly. “So the upshot is that I’m the lone wolf around here.”

  “We can enlist your bud Wes Dawes to help out to some extent.”

  As Patrick turned a corner, the lights of town—such as they were at this hour—started to appear. “Not much of an extent now,” he cautioned. “Wes could be a suspect in Shaun’s murder, although I don’t know of any motive. But I can’t eliminate anyone yet.”

  “Got it. He’s former military and his security clearance is still adequate for you to enlist what help you think is appropriate, on a limited basis. But—well, you said it. For now, you’re the lone wolf.”

  The room to which the sleepy receptionist directed Patrick was at the rear of the main floor of the B and B.

  He wondered if it was near Mariah’s.

  He didn’t ask, though. It would be better if he didn’t run into her, if she didn’t even know he was around. The curious writer might point her nose in the direction of Shaun’s murder—and possibly learn that Patrick had been acquainted with Shaun even before they’d arrived in Tagoga.

  He wished he had Duke with him, but had left his surviving partner at the ranch. Duke would be better off there as part of the pack of huskies. And Patrick hadn’t been certain where he would end up that night. This way, he hadn’t had to grovel to get a dog admitted as a guest at the B and B, and it was one of very few choices in town.

  After finishing the details of checking in, he grabbed the thick strap of the backpack he had filled hastily before leaving his apartment and started down the hallway.

  And stopped at the first closed door. It had a window inlaid at the top, and the room beyond was the inn’s small business center, where two desktop computers were set up. Mariah sat at one of them, watching the screen intensely as her fingers typed nonstop on the keyboard. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, mussed as if she’d run her fingers through it…and the thought made Patrick’s fingers itch to do the same. Her green sweatshirt hugged her curves.

  He should move on before she spotted him. But almost without thinking, Patrick opened the door. He must have startled her, since she gasped and stopped typing, turning toward him.

  “Oh, hi, Patrick,” she said.

  He realized he was grinning foolishly at her and made himself frown. “Don’t tell me you’re working this late.” He glanced down at his watch. Two o’clock. He had left her here nearly three hours ago. Had she been on the computer all that time?

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.” Her lopsided smile was wry. Then her gaze moved from his face to his side, where his backpack hung. Confusion wrinkled the lovely features of her face. “What are you doing here?”

  His body grew rigid as his mind focused again on why he had wound up at Inez’s. “Long story,” he said curtly. At her instantly irritated expression, he said, “Sorry. Hard to think about it.” He told her about Shaun’s death. No details—only that someone had killed his friend.

  “Oh, Patrick, I’m so sorry.” She was immediately on her feet. “And you…you found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. What’re you working on?” Time to change the subject. Better yet, leave before she pried anything out of him. But he couldn’t bring himself just to walk out.

  He would either have to weigh every word he spoke, or stay quiet.

  For now, he leaned against the door jamb.

  “I did more online research about some of the scientists visiting here and their work,” she said. “I need to prepare for the next questions I’ll ask for my article. There’s no internet access available in the rooms, though, so I had to work here. I was just preparing an email progress report for my editor.” She hesitated. “Patrick, I don’t want to pry, but—”

  “Then don’t,” he said gruffly. Was she about to turn into a nosy investigative reporter, demand more answers about Shaun that he wasn’t prepared to give? Worse, answers he didn’t have yet and was chewing himself out about, for not having been there for his friend. He was even more frustrated that he couldn’t leap into conducting his own investigation, his way, with the cops all over the place.

  She glanced at the computer screen and pressed a button on the mouse, probably sending her email. She rose and turned back toward him. “What I was going to say—as tactfully as I can, but that’s now out of the question—is that you look awful. Tired. And really upset. If it weren’t so late, I’d invite you to join me for a drink. But nothing’s open around here, and—”

  “Rain check,” he said. “You’re right. I’m tired. You must be, as well. I’m heading for my bed, and you should, too.” He realized she could take that wrong…or maybe not so wrong. “To your bed, I mean.”

  There was that wry smile again. And something else that smoldered in her sea-blue eyes. “Right,” she said. “Good night, Patrick. I’m planning to check out some of the resources in town tomorrow morning, so I’ll be at breakfast around eight-thirty. Maybe I’ll see you then.”

  She sat back down at the computer. He watched for a moment, changing his position so the angle allowed him to see that she was logging off. And he didn’t necessarily want to continue this conversation with her…now.

  “Good night, Mariah,” he said, and headed down the hall toward his room.

  Thank heavens he was gone, Mariah thought a moment later as she shut down the computer.

  Otherwise, she might have said something equally dumb herself. Like taking him up on his obviously unintentional offer to join him in his bed.

  But not tonight. His friend had died. Shaun Bethune. He’d seemed nice enough when she’d talked with him at Fiske’s, not that they’d said more than a few friendly words to one another.

  And now, he was dead. Apparently murdered.

  By whom? And why? A robbery gone bad? But he’d been another employee at the dogsled ranch. Unlikely that he had a lot worth stealing.

  Patrick clearly needed some cheering up. But not by her. At least not tonight.

  Tomorrow? She’d have to see.

  The guy was hot. No doubt about that. And she’d enjoyed his company the few times they had been together, despite his initial unwelcoming attitude at the dogsled ranch, and his obvious reluctance to take her on another trek onto the glaciers.

  He had kissed her, sure. Accepted her kiss. But he hadn’t pursued anything—probably for the best. He wasn’t really interested in her, and she shouldn’t be interested in him. She sighed as she walked out of the office center and closed the door behind her.

  Her room was on the next floor, so she headed toward the reception area where the stairs were located.

  And felt a little creeped out. The lights here were low. No one waited behind the inn’s small reception desk for people to check-in, not at this hour.

  The place was quiet, too. The only sound she heard was warm air blowing through the heating system.

  She felt like running to her room, but just stepped up her pace toward the stairway past the desk. Whoever killed Shaun wasn’t likely to be at Inez’s. But from what she’d gathered from Patrick, the authorities hadn’t yet zeroed in on a suspect, so how could she know for sure?

  “You okay?” said a voice from behind, startling her. She must have jumped a foot.

  She pivoted. Patrick stood there.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her body shaking.

  “I dropped my stuff in my room but figured…well, I thought you might want someone to walk you to yours. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He looked chastened, like a young boy who’d been chewed out for pulling a girl’s hair.

  “It’s okay,” she said as her trembling stopped. “And you’re right. I’d appreciate some company. Everyone around here’ll be nervous
as word gets out about what happened to Shaun.”

  “Yeah.” His expression shuttered again. Poor guy. Obviously in pain, yet not willing to show his emotions.

  “I’m upstairs,” she said gently. “This way.” And realized that, like he had done before, she’d said something that could be misinterpreted as an invitation for more than a stroll to her door.

  That would have made her smile under other circumstances. But games like that were not appropriate tonight.

  She headed up the stairway, glad to hear his footsteps behind her.

  The hallway upstairs was dimly lit. Her room was nearly at the end. When she got there, she reached into her pocket, extracted her key and unlocked the door.

  She turned back toward Patrick. “Thanks for walking me here,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb other guests. “And…well, if there’s anything I can do to help about Shaun, please let me know.”

  His expression was bleak. She wanted in the worst way to cheer him.

  Almost involuntarily, she stood up on her toes and kissed him. Gently. On the mouth. Not quite sisterly, but not suggestive, either.

  He responded immediately. His arms went around her, and she was suddenly in the middle of a torrid embrace that made her gasp. His kiss grew so sexy that it nearly made her knees buckle. She considered tugging him into her room.

  But he pulled away abruptly. A light in his amber eyes suggested that he, too, was more than a little aroused.

  Even so… “Good night again,” he said and strode off down the hall.

  Patrick slept only about an hour that night.

  His bed at the B and B was comfortable enough. His state of mind was not.

  Lying awake in almost complete darkness, beneath the duvet in the room that smelled of pine-scented cleaning solutions, he thought a lot—too much— about Mariah. She was in the same building, one floor away.

  He imagined what she looked like in bed. He remembered that not-so-chaste kiss. And their couple of prior kisses—too short, yet arousing.