Devlin was busy circling things on the maps and Culley strained to see what his twin was doing. Finally, he got up to take a closer look. “Are these all the places Bernie's been spotted?”
“Well, not quite all.” Devlin made a couple more circles with a marker. “Holt caught sight of him
here
and chased him for a short ways until he vanished without a trace. And here's where the McIntyres saw Bernie, up on the ridge. By the time they got there, he'd disappeared and there was no trail to follow.”
Culley's gaze flicked from one circle to the other. “I can see roads intersecting these locations. But even if Bernie was driving or taking the damn bus, there'd still be a trail of scent in the air.” He closed his eyes, tried to picture each location, conjuring not just the image but the smell. If a Changeling had been somewhere in lupine form, then his brain automatically had the location mapped out in immense detail by scent. Culley knew all of these places intimately, right down to the smallest clump of earth and the types of plants that grew there. Slowly, he drew in a long breath of air as he savored each scent stored in his mind, noting the odors common to all the locationsâ
His eyes flew open. “Devlin, we need a more detailed map.”
Â
Half an hour later, it was Culley standing in front of the Pack. Emotions were still running high but the Changelings had settled into relative quiet. For the moment. At the new map, hastily scanned and enlarged at a local geological survey office, Devlin traced something in blue highlighter. At first, the thick colored line resembled a tree, branching out in all directions. Little Burnt Creek wound its way along the edge of town, a tiny stream as it passed under the Gamble Street Bridge. But by the time the creek made its way to the Peace River, it wasn't tiny anymore. Instead, countless streams had trickled through the rolling landscape to join it, swelling it to a respectable size before it merged with the mighty river.
“This is the old Gervais place.” Devlin made a square with green marker, then drew two more. “This is Menzie's farm. And
this
, over here, is the local golf course outside of town.”
“They're all linked,” announced Culley. “Everywhere Bernie's made an appearance, he's been able to get there by water. Water is the key.”
“What, he's swimming?” Holt didn't clue in at first.
Jessie did, immediately. She sat up and pounded her small fist on the table hard enough to rattle the salt and pepper shakers. “Goddammit. He's using an old fox's trick.”
There were nods around the room. It was one of the most basic of strategies, employed by many animals. A fox pursued by a dog would enter a creek and walk downstream for a time before returning to dry land. The pursuer would have a difficult time finding the scent where the quarry had left the water.
“Yes and no,” replied Culley. “I think he's taken the old trick to a whole new level. I think Bernie's using the water system in this area as his own personal highway. In fact, I'll bet he seldom leaves the waterways except to commit some new atrocity.”
Geoff wasn't convinced. “Come on, Culley. We're good hunters, all of us, and Changelings have keener senses than even real wolves do. Holt and I followed the stream by Menzie's for nearly four miles in each direction without ever catching a hint of that bastard's scent. It just plain wasn't there. Water can hide tracks and trail, sure, but we'd be able pick the scent out of the air itself if we had to.”
“True, but I'll bet more than the water is hiding him from us,” said Jessie. “By now, Bernard's accumulated a great deal of power from the blood he's spilled. Enough power to almost seem like magic. If he's walking along a creek bed, he might very well be able to wrap the energy of the water around himself like a blanket.”
“Is that even possible?” asked Holt. “Sounds like science fiction.”
“I have seen it done,” she replied. “And I think it's more than possible in this case.”
Frowning, Melly leaned forward. “I'm confused. Are you saying this energy, this power, acts like some kind of camouflage?”
Jessie nodded. “Not only would we be unable to scent him, we might not even be able to
see
him when he's traveling along the water.”
“Bollocks.” Bill sat back. “That means the rotter can come and go as he bloody well pleases.”
“So what do we do? Bernie's running around like a mad dog and people are dying,” said Geoff. “There must be some damn way of using this information.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “Maybe there is. We could try to anticipate who might be targeted next. If he's using the water system like Devlin says, then what other farms are along it? Where is Bernie most likely or most able to strike again?”
Devlin squinted at the map, pulled a red marker from the bundle in his pocket and made four new squares. “Tom Yasinski has a big bison ranch north of town. This creek right here passes through it. Quinn Madden has a farm south of Dunvegan, and I think this is Anna Webber's sheep operation to the southeast. Both of them are linked by a sizeable stream.”
“I want two members of the Pack on each of those places. I want them watched around the clock,” said Jessie. “Make sure one of you has strong mindspeech abilities so you can get a message to me if you spot Bernard. If necessary, get out your damn cell phone and call me, so I can mobilize the Pack. But don't engage him on your own.”
Culley glanced back at his brother. Devlin was standing silently, staring at the map with his finger on the fourth red square. “What it is, bro?”
“Connor's place. This one is Connor's.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“Q
uite a spread.” Tad Helfren left his van and stood for a few moments with his hands on his hips, surveying the scenery. The farm was the last one on a dead-end road, but it was easily the largest. According to the district map, everything Helfren looked at in every direction belonged to Connor Macleod. Between the stands of trees, he could see far across the lush fields to where the land dropped away steeply into the river valley. Even with the sky dark and overcast, the scenery was impressive.
He'd heard that the place had been a fixer-upper. The sprawling house was certainly old, but there was a new roof and fresh paint. It looked decent on the outside at least. He couldn't say as much for the rest of the farm. Obviously Macleod hadn't gotten around to fixing up the many barns and outbuildings, or perhaps he just didn't give a damn about them. The only thing different between this and a hundred other tired old farms in the area was the number of trees. Most farmyards were bare. This one had tall stands of poplar between the buildings and in the corrals. Was it a case of a werewolf preferring to have ample cover handy, or was it simply nature reclaiming the neglected place? A thick forest of poplars and spruce flanked the south side of the yard. Beyond that, he knew from the map, the woods gave way to more fields. Just wild grass, according to some other farmers, no crops planted in years.
Of course, what use would a werewolf have for wheat or soybeans? Behind the fences were a considerable number of cows, horses, pigs and what-have-you. Maybe it was a private buffet.
Dinner on the goddamn hoof whenever he wants it.
Helfren glanced to his right and spotted a swatch of black and white beneath a thick patch of blueberry bushes at the side of the house. Ever curious, he wandered over, his camera at the ready.
Looks like fur
. . .
Pushing a branch aside, he could see that the fur belonged to a dog, a Border Collie. Its throat was torn out and its blood was soaking into the grass. Helfren was puzzled as he studied it for clues. Why would Connor Macleod kill a dog? For fun? Sport? Maybe werewolves just plain didn't like dogs. Practice? That must be it, Helfren decided. The red-haired editor was new to being a werewolf, so it stood to reason that Macleod would make her practice her skills. Apparently she hadn't killed anything at Menzie's farm. The police report had stated it was probably the work of a single animal. So maybe she'd just watched. And learned.
Helfren raised the digital camera and snapped a couple of frames. Lowered it and considered the dog. The kill was very recent. Too recent. He'd bet the dog had been dead an hour, maybe two at the most. Yet he'd been keeping close tabs on the editor, and checked her apartment building once more before he left town. Her truck had been parked in front all day, and he'd seen Connor Macleod pull up and head into the buildingâalone.
As he straightened up, he spotted another lump of fur amid the leaves.
What the hell?
Parting the branches, he saw several more dogs, all shapes and sizes and colors. All freshly dead. All deliberately piled in the midst of the bushes, like broken toys. And in the flower bed beyond thatâhe strained to see, unable to move closer because his feet seemed rooted to the ground.
There was a body. A human body.
Helfren's mouth dried and he backed out of the brush quickly, his gaze darting everywhere at once. Was there another werewolf? The vet had brothers and a sister who lived in the area. Shitfire, what if the entire frickin' family could shapeshift?
The man's heart raced and he was having trouble pulling in enough air. If he was dealing with a whole nest of werewolves instead of just one or two, then he needed to regroup and reconsider. Refine his strategy. And from a safe distance, which meant getting the hell away from here now.
Right now.
Helfren made his way back to the driveway as quickly as his shaky legs would take him. But as he rounded the van to the driver's side, he saw an old man half sitting, half lying, on the porch steps leading up to the house.
“Gervais? What the hell are you doing here?” His voice sounded strained even to himself as he gripped the door handle of the van.
“Just waiting for Macleod and his bitch to come home,” the man giggled, and slid down one stair. A large empty vodka bottle rolled to the ground. “I've got a lil' surprise for 'em.”
Every one of Helfren's survival instincts was screaming at him to open the damn door and get in the van. Instead, his reporter's instincts considered Bernard Gervais. The guy was drunk as a skunkâbut maybe he hadn't been in this condition an hour or so ago. In fact, it was highly likely that Gervais was the one who had killed the dogs. He was mean enough to do it, and certainly pissed off at Macleod. But was he crazy enough to kill the man in the flower bed too? And what the hell had he used for a weapon? A hatchet?
You sick old bastard.
Yet the bastard seemed to be in a good mood and maybe the vodka had made him talkative. There didn't seem to be any weapon other than the empty bottle, and it had rolled out of reach. Helfren took a deep breath, then another. Reminded himself that he was no mere reporterâhe was a paranormal investigator, a professional. And a professional would damn well investigate. He forced away his fear and slid his hands into his pockets to control their shaking. A moment later he was the picture of casual friendliness. “Hey, nice job with the dogs.” He considered himself a good actor, but still he had to force out every word. “That oughta burn Macleod's ass. Perfect way to get even with a veterinarian in my books.”
“Hell, yeah.”
“And that guy back there, he musta tried to stop you. Guess you fixed his wagon.”
Gervais grinned. “Not done yet either.” He made a sweeping gesture at the paddocks and corrals.
Helfren struggled to hide his revulsion. He wasn't much for law enforcement as a rule, but he'd call in an anonymous tip to the cops the minute he was on the road and headed for town. “I've really been depending on your expertise, Mr. Gervais. Thanks to you, I've got great footage of some wolves running through the golf course and some wolf prints near Menzie's body. My readers are going to like that, but I need more. I didn't get a damn thing from the vet clinic. No footage of anyone turning into a werewolf yet. I'm hoping you might know a little more than you've been telling.”
“ 'Course I do.”
“Is it a question of more money? 'Cause I thought I was paying you pretty well.”
“Don't need your damn money.”
“What do you want then? I'm willing to negotiate but I need to know about the Macleod family. Are they all werewolves?”
“Every goddamn one of 'em. Think they're safe here, think they're protected. Wouldn't feel so fuckin' secure if there wasn't a cop on their side.”
“A cop? One of the RCMP? What about him?” Helfren had drawn his pocket recorder and clicked it on, without even being aware he had done so. “Does he know about the werewolves?” Hell, maybe the guy was on the take. Maybe he was being paid to ignore evidence or something. According to his sources in town, the Macleods were far from poor.
“The sergeant's one of
them
.” The old man spread his arms wide. He burped loudly, then followed it up with a long, drawn-out fart. “Too damn fuckin' many of 'em now. Hate 'em all.”
“There are
more
werewolves?” Helfren didn't have to fake his amazement.
“Shit, yeah.” Gervais spread his hand, counted awkwardly on his fingers. Wrapped his mouth around the names even more awkwardly. “LaLonde. McIntyre. Beauchamp. Lassiter. Rousseau. You see those names around here, there's bound to be Changelings nearby. Then there's Ghostkeeperâ”
“What?”
“That's a Métis name, city boy. Look it up in a fuckin' history book.” Gervais's expression hardened, his eyes narrowed. “And don't forget those goddamn Watsons, too. That little bitch thinks she should lead the Pack, but she's wrong.”
Helfren's mind was whirling, and the dead dogs, even the dead man, faded in importance. This was beyond anything he'd ever dreamed of. He was in goddamn Werewolf Central. He could almost taste the books, the interviews. Hell, just think of the
documentaries . . .
He swallowed hard and found his voice at last. “So, these werewolvesâare they working together?”
“Not all of 'em.”
Maybe there were different factions. Perhaps each family was a separate pack or clan or something. Helfren's head was swimming as he continued questioning the old man. “But the wolf that did the killing over at Menzie's. That was Macleod, right?”
“Ha. Not him. He doesn't have the stomach for it.”
Helfren frowned. “But I thought you saidâ” he began and then corrected himself. No point in antagonizing his source. At least until he got all the information he could from the guy. He tried another tactic. “I guess I was mistaken, Mr. Gervais. I thought you knew who the killer werewolf was.”
“Haven't figured it out, have you?” sniggered the old man.
The reporter drew on his patience, found the reservoir a little low. But he could
act
patient, by God. And humble. It always paid to act humble in an interview. You always learned more by appealing to someone's sense of importance. “Mr. Gervais, you're the only one who can help me. You're the only one who knows the truth, who knows what's really going on around here.”
“Damn right. Damn fuckin' right I do.” The drunk giggled hysterically and slid down to the last step. Closed his eyes.
Helfren took a deep breath. “Please tell me who the killer is, sir. Where is he?”
Gervais said nothing, only chuckled deep in his throat. Helfren waited in the maddening silence, but the drunk was either playing him or he didn't know as much as he'd said he did. Or maybe the vodka had finally knocked him out. Hell, if he'd consumed the entire bottle in one sitting, it was amazing he wasn't dead. Disgusted, the reporter turned to leave.
And found himself
face to face
with the old man.
“Howâhow the hell did you do that?” Unnerved, the reporter backed up a step. Then a few more. Gervais followed, his gait steady, his eyes clear and focused. On Helfren.
“You really don't know much of anything, do you Mr. Bigshot Reporter?”
The man's voice had changed, dropped a couple of octaves and was suddenly free of its drunken slur. But it was the gleam of insanity in his eyes that made all the hair on Helfren's body stand up. He continued backing away from Gervais, who was now between him and the van. The old man's hands held no weapons, but Helfren was far from reassured. He struggled to find his voice, regain control of the situation. “Come now, Mr. Gervais, we had a business arrangement. You called me, remember? You called me to come up here and write a story. You wanted somebody to tell the truth about the werewolves.”
The old man seemed to consider that for a moment. “Of course,” he agreed. “That's what this is all about. You want to know where the killer is, don't you?”
Helfren nodded because he was expected to, not because he wanted the answer.
Slowly, Gervais's lips drew back in a crazed and distorted grin. His teeth were long and pointed. “He's right here.”
Â
Hide. Gotta hide.
Tad Helfren didn't think for an instant that there was any place on Earth he could go where the monster couldn't sniff him out. But there was a slim chance he could get off the creature's radar if he wasn't in plain sight. After all, what had once been Bernard Gervais was now preoccupied with chasing down and slaughtering every single animal on the Macleod farm, and, lucky for Helfren, Connor Macleod had kept a lot of livestock.
He couldn't drag himself very far. He'd awakened in the flower bed by the front porch amid a tangle of crushed irises and lilies. The big purple and white flowers looked funereal to him and that had been enough to jolt the cloud from his brain and get him moving. Slowly, anyway. The taste of copper was in his mouth, and he was bleeding badly from dozens of bites and slices. For some insane reason he thought of an old phraseâ
Nature, red in tooth and claw
. Insane because nature had nothing to do with the thing Gervais had become.
Helfren nearly blacked out a couple of times as he pulled himself by inches toward the porch. If he could just get underneath it
. . .
Blood ran into his eyes, half-blinding him. He could hear bone-chilling howls from elsewhere on the farm and animal screams that made him want to scream himself. His head spun as he finally got a hand on the lattice work, almost wept when a loose panel gave him access.
Once beneath the porch, he pressed the corner of the panel back into place and crawled farther into the sun-dappled dark. The earth felt cool and refreshing at first, then seemed to draw all the heat from his body. As he shivered, he drew the cell phone from his pocket. Sheer reporter's instinctâor fucking insanityâhad possessed him to snap a photo of his attacker, somewhere between having his leg broken and his scalp nearly sheared off.
Sick but slick.
It was that gutsy quality that made him the best damn investigator in the entire paranormal business.