He chuckled again, sounding even more condescending. “Ms. Norville, is anything you say on your show the truth? When you tell everyone you’re a werewolf, are you telling the truth?”
“Come on, I went over all that years ago. I’m on film, for crying out loud.” This was starting to piss me off. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Franklin. Everything I talked about on my show regarding you and Speedy Mart was pure speculation. I can’t prove if it’s the truth or not. I said that. But your overreaction to the whole thing makes me wonder if I’m on to something. Well? Am I on to something?”
He studied me a moment; I couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Then he smiled broadly. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. My difficulty is that a lot of people out there believe. They’re your bread and butter. They listen to you, whether or not you’re telling the truth.”
I bet he practiced that speech. I bet he worked real hard to make it sound ominous. I glared. “Did you really think you could come here and make threats and that I’d just roll over and show you my belly?”
His eyes narrowed, a hint of anger. Like he really had expected that to happen.
“I’m not making any threats. I’ll be in touch, Ms. Norville.” He left, his Italian leather shoes squeaking on the tile.
What a jerk.
“Who the heck was that?” Lisa asked.
I had a feeling there were a couple of answers to that. Harold Franklin, corporate bigwig. Confident businessman. Supernatural conspirator? “That,” I said, “was a giant headache.”
I CALLED the lawyer who was handling the lawsuit, to let her know what had happened. She seemed to think the visit might be a basis for throwing out the case, which made Franklin’s visit even stranger. It made me think, again, that the lawsuit was a smoke screen for something else entirely. Which begged the obvious question—smoke screen for what? Then I called Ben and told him what had happened, and he responded with a detached-sounding, “Huh.” And then he said, again, how his specialty was criminal defense rather than civil law and he couldn’t give a professional opinion, but it was a fascinating case all the same. So nice that someone was enjoying this.
I MADE another call. Digging through the log for the last show, I found the phone number for Charles from Shreveport, the guy who claimed that Franklin caused Hurricane Katrina, and who seemed to have a personal grudge against the guy.
The phone rang, until someone answered—a man, but not Charles’s voice. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Charles?” I said, scribbling on the margins of my notebook paper. I was hoping to have some notes to take.
“Charles Beauregard?” the voice said.
“I think so.”
“You’re not a friend or relative?”
I stopped doodling and straightened. That didn’t sound good. “No—has something happened?”
“May I ask who you are and why you’re calling?” The formal, official tone to the voice made sense now—this wasn’t a roommate or friend. This was someone with authority who just happened to pick up the phone.
Since I couldn’t come up with a slick and plausible story fast enough, I had only one alternative. “My name is Kitty Norville, and I host a talk radio show. Charles called in to the show last week with a pretty wild story and I wanted to follow up.”
“Ms. Norville, I’m a medical examiner here. Charles Beauregard was killed at his home over the weekend.”
Coincidence, right? Because if you ruled out coincidence, the world became a tangled web of conspiracy. I spoke carefully. “I’m really sorry to hear that. May I ask how he died?”
“He was struck by lightning.”
That seemed pretty clear cut. Weird, but clear cut. Except for the panic tapping in the back of my brain.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the medical examiner asked.
“No. I guess not. Thanks for your help.”
So much for Charles from Shreveport. I wondered if I should add a mark to my map—this would have fit right in with the story he’d told me.
Next I called Cormac. It might have been to simply revel in the fact that I could call him, to get his advice when something weird happened. For the last couple of years, if I wanted to get his advice I had to drive a hundred-plus miles to Cañon City, sit in a sparse, stinking concrete visiting room, and talk to him through glass.
His phone rang and rang, which was normal. Or at least, had been normal. At last, he answered.
“Hey,” he said, sounding rushed, like he’d just come in from outside or had been boiling water on the stove.
“Hey,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“I’ve got some new info on the Speedy Mart case—Harold Franklin’s in town.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Coming to see me and offer a deal to drop the lawsuit.”
He made a noise of surprise. “Can he do that? What kind of deal?”
“He wants me to apologize on the air,” I said. “I didn’t go for it; lawsuit’s still on. He may have been trying to bait me.”
“Look you in the eye, laugh in your face, that kind of thing?” he said.
“Almost his exact words.”
“Classy,” he said with a grunt. “We gotta be able to find something on this guy. There’s more to this than a libel suit.”
“That’s what I keep thinking. There’s something else—I tried to call the guy who called in to the show. The one who blamed Katrina on Franklin? To find out where he got his info.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing—he was struck by lightning and killed over the weekend.”
“That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“Either that or Franklin can summon lightning strikes to kill people.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said. “I’ve got a lot more stones to turn before we start admitting that this guy can control the weather.”
“So Charles from Shreveport was right?” I said, a little too shrilly.
“I didn’t say that,” Cormac said.
“And what does he want with me? I’d probably never have mentioned him on the show again if he hadn’t sued me.”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Cormac said. He sounded so calm, like this was the plot of a movie we were discussing, rather than my very-real legal troubles. If he’d been standing in front of me, I’d want to shake him. And he’d stand there and take it, calmly.
He continued, “Any idea where Franklin is staying?”
“No. He came to the KNOB offices.”
“Okay. I’ll track him down.”
“Thanks. And don’t get in any trouble, okay?”
He’d already hung up. But Cormac didn’t need me to tell him not to get in trouble, right?
Chapter 8
AT LEAST this time I was in the same room with the rogue wolves. It felt like progress, except that only Tyler and Walters faced me. Vanderman was still in custody at Fort Carson and was pretty much skunked. Now we just had to move past that.
The room had been transformed into what I was coming to think of as the NIH special: a cell with silver-flecked paint and probably lots of special features I didn’t know about—like that siren. A cell for werewolves, cut off from the rest of the hospital. They didn’t even have a window. Instead of watching them through Plexiglas, Shumacher monitored them on a closed-circuit TV system. These guys probably wondered if they were ever going to get to live in a house again. At least they had furniture now: a pair of cots, one plain plastic table and a set of plain plastic chairs, and even a TV mounted on the wall.
I wanted to sit. I wanted us all to sit around the table, but that wasn’t going to happen. Tyler was pacing along the back wall; Walters was crouched on the cot, gaze darting between us. Trying to decide which of us was the alpha. I stood so I could stay at their level; sitting would have put myself lower than Tyler at least, and would have called my dominance into question. Werewolf pack bullshit
. But it mattered and I couldn’t ignore it. Hands on the back of a chair, staying as relaxed as I could manage, I watched them.
They smelled wild and terrible; the room stank with the scent. All werewolves, even in human form, smelled a little wild, a hint of fur and musk touching their otherwise human bodies. These two smelled more wolf than human. More than that, though, they smelled frightened, thick with adrenaline and uncertainty.
What did I tell them? That they should at least try to overcome the instincts to fight and run? That life—a human life—was worth living? They needed therapy, and I was vastly unqualified to be a therapist. Especially when Ben was right and I ought to be getting a little therapy myself. But who else was going to help them? Who else could begin to understand?
“Tyler, sit down,” I said. “Please. You’re driving me crazy.”
He looked at me, shot me a skin-searing glare—then ducked his gaze and slouched into one of the chairs across the table. I was amazed; I tried not to show it. Happy with that little victory, I let Walters continue hunkering. I didn’t want to press the cornered wolf, as it were.
“Well,” I said. “What’s next?” Thinking out loud more than anything. I didn’t have to do anything but listen to them talk. That’s what therapists did, right? If only.
“Van should be here,” Tyler said.
“He’s not. I’m sorry,” I said curtly.
“We’re a pack. We should be together,” Tyler said.
“That’s your wolf talking. You have to take care of yourselves right now. Vanderman hasn’t done a very good job looking after you, has he? He hasn’t been a very good alpha. That’s what got you all into this mess in the first place.”
“What do you expect us to do?”
“Talking’s a good start.”
Tyler’s body language was nearly human. He was slouching unhappily, but his attention was on me. He was leaning on the table, his fingers laced together. Not clenched like claws. Walters, on the other hand, was almost cowering. I could see the ghosts of ears pinned back and a tail clamped close to his body. There was the kind of deference a canine showed because he was offering respect to a leader. Then there was the kind of deference he showed because he thought he was going to get smacked down. Because he didn’t know what was going on, and he was afraid. Walters hadn’t said a word, yet. He just kept staring at me. If I could break that stare, I might be able to shake him.
“I respect your loyalty to Sergeant Vanderman. But if you want to go home, if you don’t want to end up locked in a cell for the rest of your lives, you’re going to have to let him go and move on.”
“It’s not right,” Tyler said. “It feels like abandoning him.”
“Is this some army ‘leave no man behind’ thing?” I said, trying to keep my temper—and sarcasm—in check. The last thing the room needed was more aggression.
“You don’t understand.”
“What Vanderman did to Yarrow, Crane, Estevan—how does that fall into the philosophy? Isn’t that leaving someone behind?”
Walters got up and started pacing, just a few feet along the back wall. I ignored him. Let him work off the nervous energy; I could only keep these guys calm by staying calm myself.
I continued. “Captain Gordon seems like he was a good guy. It sounds like he really took care of you. Vanderman shows all the signs of only caring about the power, without any of the responsibility. Now, I don’t know how much you really know about werewolves, how much Gordon really taught you. But it’s not just supposed to be about the power and playing follow-the-leader. You still have to at least try to be human, if you want to keep living with people.”
“We’re not people,” Tyler said in a rough voice.
That made my stomach sink. I held on to my sanity by clinging to the belief that I was human—maybe a different kind of human with some wacky supernatural problems going on, but human all the same, with a husband, a job, a mortgage, a family, and all the other good stuff.
If Tyler didn’t believe he was human and a part of human society, what chance did he have?
“Did Gordon warn you?” I said. “Did he tell you what it was like before he did this to you?”
Tyler winced, as if he was trying to remember something he’d forgotten—or that the remembering was difficult. “It seems like such a long time ago now. But he didn’t talk about this. He said he would always be there, he said he’d look after us. We’d always be a pack.”
Nobody should ever make that kind of promise.
“What did he say to you guys to recruit you into this? How did he convince you that this was a good idea?”
“We had a job to do in Afghanistan. An impossible job. We didn’t have the tools, the resources. But Gordon—he had a way. Of course it wasn’t easy, but if you have the chance to get the job done—if you have the ability—you take it. He promised to make us strong—unbeatable. And he did.” Tyler raised his gaze and set his jaw, determined.
I wondered if part of the problem with Vanderman was that the pack never accepted him as a replacement for Gordon. They—or at least Tyler—still saw Gordon as their alpha. Their captain. Vanderman couldn’t take over, but he was too strong for the others to dominate.
Walters slouched now, arms crossed, still hunched in on himself. But I got the feeling he was listening to me.
I leaned on the back of the chair. “I had to ask, because I didn’t want to become a werewolf. I didn’t get a choice. I have a hard time understanding why anyone would ask for this.” The only situations I’d seen where I could even begin to understand involved life-threatening illnesses—if the alternative was dying, why not become a werewolf?
After a moment, Tyler said, “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks. But you know, moving on.”
“You think it’s that easy? Just move on?” Tyler said, with a harsh chuckle.
I shrugged. “I didn’t say it was easy. Look, you have a lot to think about. I’d like to come back and talk some more. Maybe bring a friend. Figure out what we have to do to spring you guys. Is that okay?”
“Why are you even asking?” Tyler said. “You can do whatever you want. You’re the alpha here, right?”
I smiled. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure you’d admit it.”
“You—you’re more like Captain Gordon than Van,” Walters said. His voice seemed like an intrusion—startling, unexpected. He was still slouching.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. “I’ll see you guys in a day or two.”
“It’s not Van’s fault,” Walters said. I stopped, my hand almost to the door to knock for Shumacher. “It’s mental illness, isn’t it? We’re all crazy. It’s not Van’s fault.”
Frowning, I nodded. Maybe they’d decide for sure at his court-martial.
Shumacher, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm, let me out of the cell. I felt Tyler and Walters watching me until the door closed behind us. We walked to the office she’d taken over.
“It’s hard judging any progress with just talking,” Shumacher said, sighing as she set down her clipboard and leaned on the desk.
I shrugged. I tended to get a lot out of talking. “I’m going on instinct here. I’m just trying to get a feel for them. Whether there’s . . . I don’t know.”
“Whether there’s any hope for them?” she said.
“Yeah. That.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I want to get a second opinion. Tyler—I think he’s actually doing well. But Walters isn’t engaged. They’re a long way from being well. But I’d like to talk to them again.”
Shumacher looked for a moment as if she was going to say something, but then pursed her lips, holding back words. When she smiled, it was a mask. “Let’s make our next appointment, then. I look forward to it.”
She didn’t think they could be rehabilitated. She’d given up on them. That gave me a burning desire to prove her wrong.
I MADE a different sort of appointment for that
night, at Psalm 23.
The nightclub always made me anxious. I preferred meeting Rick, the Master vampire of Denver, at my place, New Moon. But he’d said this was more convenient tonight. I wondered what problems he was dealing with. At least he was almost always willing to talk to me when I asked. I could brave the club every now and then.
I went straight to the bouncer at the front door, bypassing the line—a line, even on a weeknight. I wasn’t dressed nearly well enough to gain admittance—at least I wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with my jeans—which meant I was going to have to pull rank. The bouncer tonight was one of the vampires, an unassuming Secret Service–looking guy. Stronger than someone with linebacker muscles, but he didn’t look it. And he wore dark sunglasses at night, natch.
He watched my approach all the way up the block. I watched the rim of his sunglasses and put my hands on my hips.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I’m here to see Rick.”
“What right do you have to demand this?”
I glared. Alpha werewolf, Master vampire, need to talk, blah blah. I went through this bullshit every time I dealt with the vampire minions.
“He’s expecting me.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“That’s because I’m pretty sure he considers me to be on a ‘come on in’ basis. He shouldn’t have to tell you. But, you know, if you want me to check on that for you . . .” I pulled out my cell phone. I had Rick on speed dial.
His lips twitched—a frustrated frown. “He’s too indulgent with you wolves.”
“Yeah, yeah, heathen animals, whatever.”
He stepped aside just as I was about to push past him, or rather, try to push past him. We both got to look surly.
Psalm 23 was the kind of place that provided the seed of truth to countless vampire stereotypes. The place was beyond posh, all chrome, blue plush carpets, and black leather booths, where the beautiful people standing at the bar and draping themselves over railings by the dance floor seemed like accessories, part of the decor rather than patrons. The club attracted a young, eager, suggestible clientele. A lot of Rick’s vampires came here for drinks just as eagerly. An experienced eye could spot them—the pale, appraising gazes, surveying the interior like they were picking out their lobster from the tank at a high-end seafood restaurant.