Part 28 (1/2)

Peter fought the urge to toss his head back, exposing his throat. His ears were tight against the sides of his skull, the torn edge throbbing in time with his pulse. ”I didn't do anything!” he growled, shoving awayfrom the table and stomping out of the kitchen.You just wait, he thought as he stripped and changed.I'll show you.

Rose made as if to follow but Nadine reached out and pushed her back into her chair. ”No,” she said.

Stuart sighed and scratched at a scar over his eyebrow, the result of his first challenge fight as an adult male. This had to happen when there was a stranger with the family. He looked over at Celluci who was calmly wiping ketchup off his elbow - Daniel had been overly enthusiastic with the squeeze bottle again - and then at Nadine. Arrangements to separate Rose and Peter would have to be made this evening. They couldn't put it off any longer.

Storm skulked around the barn, looking for rats to take out his bad temper on. He didn't find any. That didn't help his mood. He chased a flock of starlings into the air but he didn't manage to sink his teeth into any of them. Flopping down in the shade beside Celluci's car, he worried at a bit of matted fur on his shoulder.

Life sucks,he decided.

It would be almost two hours until dark. Hours until he could prove himself. Hours until he could take that human's throat in his teeth and shake the truth out of him. He imagined the reactions of his family, of Rose, when he walked in and declared,I know who the killer is. Or better yet, when he walked in and threw the body down on the floor.

Then faintly, over the smell of steel and gas and oil, he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. He rose. On the pa.s.senger side of Celluci's car, up along the edge of the window was an area that smelled very clearly of the man in the black and gold jeep.

He frowned and licked his nose.

Then he remembered.

The scent he'd caught at the garage, the trace clinging to the hood release of Henry's wrecked car, was, except for intensity, identical to the scent here and now.

This changed things. Tonight's meeting could only be a trap. Storm scratched at the ground and whined a little in his excitement. This was great. This alone would convince everyone to take him seriously.

”Peter?”

He p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. That was his uncle's voice, over by the house, not calling him, talking about him.

Storm inched forward, until he could see around the front of the car but not be seen. Fortunately for eavesdropping, he was downwind.

His uncle and Detective Celluci were sitting on the back porch.

”He's all right,” Stuart continued. ”He's just, well, a teenager.”

Celluci snorted. ”I understand. Teenagers.”

The two men shook their heads.

Storm growled softly. So they could dismiss him with one word could they? Sayteenager like it was some kind of disease. Like it explained everything. Like he was still a child. His hackles rose and his lips curled back, exposing the full gleaming length of his fangs. He'd show them.

Tonight.

”... course, up until the early 60s, most shooters thought that no one would ever shoot a score above 1150 in an international style compet.i.tion but then in 1962, a fellow named Gary Anderson shot 1157 in free-rifle. Well, there were some jaws. .h.i.tting the floor that day and most folks believed he'd never be beat.” Bertie shook her head at the things most folks believed. ”They were wrong, of course. That 1150 was just what they call a psychological factor and once Gary broke it, well, it got shot all to s.h.i.+t. So to speak. I'll just make another pot of tea. You sure you don't want more coffee?”

”No, thanks.” Since she'd left the force, Vicki's caffeine tolerance had dropped and she could feel the effect of the three cups she'd already had. Her nerves were stretched so tightly, she could almost hear them ring every time she moved. Leaving Bertie in the kitchen, she hurried to the living room and the phone.

The evening had pa.s.sed unnoticed while she'd been comparing lists of names. The sun, a disk so huge and red and clearly defined against the sky that it looked fake, trembled on the edge of the horizon. Vicki checked her watch. 8:33. Thirty-five minutes to sunset. Thirty-five minutes to Henry.

He said his arm would be healed by tonight so maybe he and Celluci could stake out that tree together and she could get Peter to drive in and pick her up. She snickered at the vision that idea presented as she sat down in the armchair and flicked on one of the lights. She'd definitely had too much coffee.

The surnames of eleven Olympic shooters had matched with members in the local clubs. Time for the next step.

”h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Scott? My name is Terri Hanover, I'm a writer, and I 'm doing an article on Olympic contestants. I was wondering if you were related to a Brian Scott who was a member of the Canadian rifle team at the '76 Olympics in Montreal? No? But you went to Montreal. ... That's very interesting but, unfortunately, I really need to talk to the contestants themselves.” Vicki stifled a sigh. ”Sorry to bother you. Good night.”

One down. Ten to go. Lies to get at truth.

Hi, there. My name is Vicki Nelson and I'm a private investigator. Have you or any members of your family been shooting werewolves?

She pushed her gla.s.ses up her nose and punched in the next number without any real hope of success.

For Henry the moment of sunset came like the moment between life and death. Or perhaps, death and life. One instant he wasn't. The next, awareness began to lift the shroud of day from his senses. He lay still, listening to his heartbeat, his breathing, the rustle of the sheet against the hairs on his chest as hislungs filled and emptied. He felt the weave of the fabric beneath him, the mattress beneath that, the bed beneath both. The scent of wer wiped out even the scent of self but, all things considered, that didn't surprise him. Redefined for another night, he opened his eyes and sat up, extending his senses beyond his sanctuary.

Vicki wasn't in the house. Mike Celluci was.

Wonderful. Why hadn't she gotten rid of him? And for that matter, wherewas she?

He flexed his arm and peered down at the patch of new skin along the top of his shoulder. Although still a little tender, the flesh dimpled where the new muscle fiber had yet to add bulk, the wound had essentially healed. The day had given him back his strength and the hunger had faded to a whisper he could easily ignore.

As he dressed, he considered Detective-Sergeant Celluci. The wer had obviously accepted him, for Henry could feel no fear or anger in his sensing of the mortal. While he still thought that burning the memory of the wer and the witnessed change out of Celluci's mind was the safest plan, he couldn't make a decision without knowing how things had progressed over the course of the day. He wished he knew what suspicions the man harbored about him, what he'd said to Vicki last night, and what Vicki had said in return.

”Only one way to find out.” He threw open the door and stepped out into the hall. Mike Celluci was in the kitchen. He'd join him there.

Just before the sun slid below the horizon, Storm leapt the fence behind the barn and using the fence bottom as cover, moved away from the house. If his uncle saw him, he'd call him back. If Rose saw him, she'd demand an explanation of where he thought he was going without her. Both would mean disaster so he used every trick he'd learned in stalking prey to stay hidden.

It didn't matter how long it took, the human would wait for him. He was sure of that. His ears flattened and his eyes gleamed. The human would get more than he bargained for.

”No luck?”

”No.” Vicki rubbed her eyes and sighed. ”And I've about had it for tonight. I don't think I can face thoselists again without at least twelve hours sleep.”

”No reason why you should,” Bertie told her, clearing away the sandwich plates. ”And it's not like it's an emergency or anything. Surely those people can keep their dogs tied up for a few days.”

”It's not that simple.”

”Why not?”

”Because it never is.” A facetious explanation, but she didn't have a better one. Even if she'd been able to discuss it, Vicki doubted she could do justice to the territorial imperatives of the wer - not when it involved such incredibly stupid actions as presenting oneself as a target. She checked her watch and dug another two pain killers out of her purse, swallowing them dry. At eleven, Colin would be off s.h.i.+ft. In an hour or so she'd head over to the police department and catch a ride back to the farm with him. In the meantime. ...

”If you can put up with me for a little while longer, I think I'd better get started on the non-Canadian teams.”

Bertie looked dubious. ”I don't mind. If you think you're up to it. ...”

”I have to be.” Vicki dragged herself up out of the depths of the armchair, which seemed to be dragging back. ”The people I talked to tonight will probably mention the call.” She raised her voice so she could hear herself over the percussion group that had set up inside her skull. ”I have to move quickly before our marksman spooks and goes to ground.” She gave her head a quick shake, trying to settle things back where they belonged. The percussion group added a bra.s.s section, her knees buckled, and she clutched desperately at the nearest bookcase for support, knocking three books off the shelf and onto the floor.

With the bookcase still supporting most of her weight, she bent to pick them up and froze.

”Are you all right?” Bertie's worried question seemed to come from very far away.

”Yeah. Fine.” She straightened slowly, holding the third book which had fallen faceup at her feet.

MacBeth.