Werewolf Sings the Blues (18 page)

“Have Devin start cracking that password,” Frank orders.

“What about the bodies?” Tate asks.

“Threw them in the house as it burned. I smashed out the Marshal's teeth so he couldn't be ID'd.”

“And his car?” I ask. The men all glance at me as if they'd never heard a female voice before. “What? I was seen leaving in it by police with a Federal Marshal who will now be missing. If he's ever tied to the house and other bodies, it's a one-way trip to Deathpenaltyville for me.”

A quick, proud smile passes over Frank's lips. “She's right. The others have no real link to us. A Marshal and federal fugitive going missing will attract a hell of a lot of attention.”

“I took off the plates and rolled the town car into a nearby lake,” Omar says. “With him burnt and without teeth, it'll probably take weeks to ID him. By then, this should be over. We can ask George Black to delete the warrants for her and Jason.”

“This Donovan was supposedly on vacation,” Adam adds. “He had
a friend altering records. None of his bosses knows what he was up to. He won't be reported missing for a while.”

Really doesn't make me feel much better.

“So, we're fairly clean on last night,” Tate says, “as long as the princess here doesn't get her ass arrested again.”

I'm about to sling some choice words at this asshole, but Frank beats me to it. “Watch your tone, Tate Blue. That is my daughter, your pack member, you are speaking to. Apologize.”

Frank stares at the man, mostly neutral but with a hint of menace in those blue eyes. Tate returns the gaze for a second, fighting for dominance but loses and looks away. “I apologize, Vivian, for my disrespect.”

“Um, okay. I forgive you.”

“Good,” Frank says, neutrality returning. “Now, Vivi, I need you to tell us everything that happened when you were alone with Donovan and the others. Everything that was said or done in as much detail as possible.”

The men listen, faces impassive, as I recount my living nightmare. There isn't a lot of intel I can give them as I was either asleep or locked in a cage most of the time. They listen as if I were telling them about a trip to Bermuda, like what I went through was just another day. Either they've been through a lot worse or I'm surrounded by sociopaths. I hope the first because I've reached my limit on sociopaths, thank you. Only Adam throws me a few sympathetic smiles.

“I don't know,” I conclude, “I just got the impression that they didn't really want
me
. Even in the parking garage, I was incidental. Bait.”

“What else struck you as odd?” Frank asks.

“Couple things. I mean, how did they even know it was Jason you sent to California? They came there looking for
him
not me. And Donovan mentioned our pit-stop in Kansas for weapons. Unless that vampire NARC'ed to Seth, the only people who knew we went were you guys. He also knew you were on your way to Pennsylvania. What he was saying at the time didn't make sense, but it does now. I think he even asked how many of you were coming. Add all of that to the bowl, plus Jason said you never advertised my existence, Frank, and I'm thinking there's a rat among the wolves.”

“That's ridiculous,” Omar says. “We're a pack. We—”

“The same pack that was once under this guy Seth's rule,” I point out. “Who's saying there isn't a loyalist or two around?”

“She has a point,” Tate says.

“So who knew about it all?” I ask. “Kansas? Me?”

Adam scoffs. “Come on. Who didn't? This pack is worse than any group of teenage girls when it comes to gossip.”

“Wonderful,” I say. “And here I thought I was a secret. That was the point, right?”

“There is no one who'd betray us like this, sir,” Omar insists, talking over me. Protesting too much maybe?

“Okay, enough,” Frank says, holding up his hands to stop the chatter.
“I need time to think. Omar, you and Tate take Reid on the Costco run. Maureen says we're out of almost everything. Again. Try and make sure your guns stay hidden this time. And I don't want any of this rat business leaving this room until I decide how to proceed.”

“Yes, sir,” Tate says. He and Omar rise to leave.

“Adam, take over for Sam on perimeter duty if you feel you're up to it.”

“I am, sir,” Adam says as he stands. Adam shoots me another bright smile before walking out as well.

And I am alone with my father. Swell.

“Did you sleep well?” Frank asks.

“Yeah. Fine. Thanks,” I say, glancing everywhere but at him.

“And how do you feel? In any pain?”

“I took some pills.”

And cue the excruciating silence. I mean, even if I were operating at full capacity, I still wouldn't know what to say to this man. I study him for a split second. The resemblance really is uncanny. Same long jaw, same blue eyes, same red hair. Hell, we even look the same age. No way in hell would I think this man is in his fif
ties. Mid-thirties maybe. Must be a werewolf thing, the lucky bastards. I look away before he catches me.

The thirty-second awkward silence tolerance must be genetic too because after second twenty-nine, Frank says, “Vivi, I—”

“You're sorry,” I cut in. “You're sorry you dragged me into this nightmare. You're sorry you left me, that you never called me, that
I inherited flat feet from your side of the family. I get it. I just …
don't care. I'm too tired and freaked out and overwhelmed to even
hear it right now. Thank you for sending Jason to me. Thank you for coming for me last night, okay? I appreciate it. I do. Everything else … just don't expect a Hallmark moment between us. Ever. There is no water under the bridge because the water swallowed that fucker up years ago. Okay?”

“That's … fair.”

“Okay,” I say, standing, “then I'm gonna try and make myself useful. Let you get back to work. You just became a rat catcher on top of all else.”

“It seems I have,” he says with a quick smile. “Thank you for all
your assistance in this matter. It's appreciated. Good work.”

“Always glad to be appreciated.” I nod and walk out.

The moment I slide the doors shut, I take a deep breath and let it out. That went a million times better than I thought. Of course I always figured it'd end with me being arrested and him bleeding.

With Jason's clothes in hand, I walk out the front door, stepping into scalding soup. Steamy Maryland felt just like where I grew up in Florida, although I hadn't been back in years. I forgot how much I hate humidity, especially when it's in the high nineties already. The majority of people must be inside as the shanty town to my right is almost deserted. Air conditioning is a gift from the gods, no question. I remember Jason saying he had a house on the property, not sure where though. Thankfully Adam is in the driveway talking to a man standing beside an ATV. The sweaty man with black bushy hair, must be Sam, hands his helmet to Adam as I approach.

“Hey,” Adam says with a smile. He does like to smile. “Sam James, Vivian Dahl.”

“Hello,” I say. “Call me Viv.”

“Nice to meet you. See you around,” says Sam before walking back to the house.

“We have two guys driving the perimeter at all times as look-outs,” Adam explains.

“Smart.” I pause. “You aren't, by any chance, driving by Jason's are you?”

“Yeah, but he's probably still asleep.”

“Take me anyway? I have some of his clothes, and—”

“Oh, I can take them,” Adam offers.

“I'd, uh, rather do it myself.”

“Um, I don't know if that's a good idea. You're safer he—”

“
Please
. I need … I can't stay in that house right now. And I need to see him. I need to set eyes on him. The way we left things …” I shake my head to clear my list of bad deeds. “Please?”

I understand his reluctance. I am the siren that almost crashed his best friend's boat after all. Thank God he's such a softie. My pleas break him down. That smile resurfaces as he hands me the helmet. “Hop on.”

He is officially my favorite. “Thank you.”

I hold onto Adam as we careen down the paved driveway to a gravel offshoot through the trees. It is beautiful here. Thick trees with green leaves exploding from large branches. I forgot how g
reen the East Coast is compared to brown California. The trees grow sparser by the second though, replaced with brush and wild grass, then sand, as dark blue water comes into view. As does a wooden bungalow at the end of the path. It's small with three windows
visible, one on the triangular second floor. There are two trucks with planks of wood and tools in the back parked out front. As we stop beside one, I see the trucks have “Top Dog Construction” with a picture of a wolf on the side of the trucks. Their contracting business.

“You know he practically built this place himself,” Adam says as I climb off. “I mean, we helped, but …” He shrugs. “The door's open. I'll be back around every fifteen minutes if you want a lift back. Flag me down.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He puts the helmet on. “Just … be gentle with him.”

“What—”

Adam speeds away before I can finish. What the hell did that mean? Whatever. I walk up to the house and enter through the or
nately carved wooden door. The eaves around the roof have the
same
pretty, wavy pattern with tiny rosebuds sprinkled in. Bet it took
him forever to carve those. Worth it, though. They're beautiful. The inside is bigger than I anticipated but still cozy. It's a large open room like my apartment, with a living room and kitchenette attached. The similarities stop there. His furniture is much nicer than mine, most of it carved wood, but mixed with various blue and plaid cushions softening the couches. There are huge bay windows along the back wall looking out onto a deck and water. The snoring werewolf in the loft above me cuts through the calm. There's a ladder, but when I walk into the kitchen I see him asleep in the bed next to the only other piece of furniture up there, a nightstand. I love this place. If not for the beer cans, dirty plates, clothes strewn around, and sheets on the couch it'd be perfect. Houseguests can be a pain in the ass.

As quietly as I can, I start cleaning up the living room and kitchen. It's the least I can do. The very fucking least. I locate the washer and dryer inside a pantry but no trash can. My search leads me to the only other room besides the bathroom, his workshop. The scent of varnish and sawdust assaults my nose the second I open the door, and I step in regardless. It's almost as large as the house itself
with workbench, assembly table, saws, racks, drills, even a sink.
He was working on a guitar judging from what's propped up on the workbench. I'll bet he spends all his free time in here. If what I've seen before is his work, he's a master craftsman. I'm impressed. Not surprised, but still impressed.

My clean-up project has a wonderful side effect, I get to poke around in the name of helping. I glean he only reads magazines and books on woodworking. He roots for the Baltimore Ravens. Really it's the photos on the walls that capture my interest. Several group shots taken on the lawn outside the manor portray the pack through the years. I recognize a few faces from the house. They've barely aged. There are also several photos of just the family. One is from when the Dahl boys were teens, on dirt bikes, with Linda off to the side. Beside that is their wedding photo. Linda and Matt stand in front of a tree with their parents on either side. My brother was a good-looking kid with shaggy brown hair and the Dahl jaw and nose. His mother, Jenny, wasn't nearly as good looking as my mother even before the plastic surgery, but she was still pretty. Petite with brown eyes, long brown hair, but thin lips
and a hooked nose. Wish I could have met them, well Matt, at least
. He looked like a sweet guy, my kid brother.

There are more photos. One of Jason changing a diaper beside Matt as he changes one as well. Jason and Adam sitting in a johnboat holding up fish. Adam and Tate with a short old woman wedged between them. My smile falters a little when I see the one of me onstage singing in this dive bar in New York City when I was nineteen. After a few more of Jason with various men engaged in sports or holding Matt's kids, I spot another of me, this one more recent. Once again I'm onstage in my red silk dress with a magnolia in my hair, holding an old-fashioned silver microphone. It's my publicity still, signed even. Sometimes people write or e-mail my website asking for a photo. Doesn't happen often. I'm … honored to be on his wall amid family. Among the people he loves.

Though it ain't easy with a broken finger and slashed arm, I continue cleaning, even tackling the bathroom that sorely needed a scrubbing. Manual labor helps keep the doubts and guilt at bay for a while. I finish the bathroom and search for more to do. Nothing. Jason's still in bed, but the snoring has ceased. I'd watch TV but that'd wake him. I sure as hell don't want to go back to that manor with dozens of grinning, well-meaning werewolves. I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and wander into the soup outside.

Crickets and birds ring out through the stillness. I follow the breeze to the lapping water of the Chesapeake. At the end of the wooden dock, I kick off my flip flops, and lower my still-aching body into a sitting position. The water's refreshing against my feet, helping to chill the rest of me. I can even enjoy the warm press of the sun against my skin. I close my eyes to heighten the sensations. Cool, warm, fresh. Close to heavenly.

What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four hours ago I was being driven to my death. Didn't think I'd live to see this very day. Now I'm at a manor sunbathing and sipping a sudsy beer. I made it. I'm alive. Feels pretty damn good.