members fanned out,
rifle lights lit and shining in every direction, looking for
threats.
The black SUVs roared up thirty seconds
later, followed by the state trooper cars, and another fifteen or
so agents, weapons at the ready.
I was kneeling by the fire, roasting the last
two hot dogs. Stacia and her boyfriend, whose name was Dan, were
sitting on the remains of the tent a few feet away. Dan had some
cooler ice in a towel and was holding it to the egg-sized knot on
his forehead. Stacia was sitting a little apart from him, her
watchful gaze finally lifted from me and now on the dog and pony
show.
Agent Duclair stormed up in federal fury,
planting herself, hands on hips, on the other side of the fire from
me. Gina was moving more sedately behind her. Adler went straight
for Lassiter's remains, a half dozen CSI types on his heels.
“Explain!” Duclair demanded.
“Well, the hotdog rolls are all gone and
these are the last of the franks. Why do they always give you eight
rolls and ten hotdogs? It's criminal, really,” I said.
She froze, unable to work up words, just this
side of a really decent sputter.
The girl, Stacia, answered my question.
“It's economics. If you never have the same
amount of rolls or dogs, you'll have to keep buying one or the
other. Unless you buy five packs of rolls and four packs of
hotdogs, then you'll be even,” she said.
I glanced at her, surprised. My contact
information as well as Afina's, were in the girl's back jeans
pocket. The cell reception at this campground was adequate and I
had called in every favor I had with the Pack. Stacia had even
spoken a bit with Afina , and the Pack would do absolutely
everything in its considerable power to make her transition to her
new life smooth. But it was her calm, almost eager acceptance of
this major life change that was unnerving. Perhaps it was the
invitation from Afina to come to the Big Apple and work directly
for the Pack while she learned their ways. Aside from her beauty,
clear head and obvious intelligence, Stacia Reynolds did not appear
to have much in the way of material things. Her clothes were clean,
but worn and not the latest fashion or even last year’s fashion. I
don't think her family had much money, but we hadn't gotten to
that.
* * *
Duclair could finally form sentences.
“What happened to the wer...bear?” she
hissed, glancing at the teenagers as she covered her slip.
“It died,” I said with a shrug.
“HOW did it die?” she asked, her eyes bugging
out a bit.
“Well, I encouraged it to.” I answered,
pulling a greasy dog off the stick and eating it in two bites,
while I watched her.
Gina had moved up and was studying me
carefully and I felt surprisingly uncomfortable under her gaze. She
always stared at me, it was her job. But I was feeling soul sick
and lower than pond scum.
Duclair was just about to rip into me at the
loss of her hoped for lab project, when Adler moved up to her and
whispered in her ear. Didn't matter, I could still hear him.
“ Ma'am, before you go…ah…expressing your
opinion of him, you should maybe consider this: he just ran down
and beat a werewolf to death with his bare hands.”
Her eyes widened as she took that in and she
turned to him.
“You sure?”
“ That's how it appears to the techs,
Ma'am. And I agree.”
Her eyes turned thoughtful as she turned back
to me. I didn't much care for her expression. It would seem that
the cat and its bag were miles apart.
Abruptly, she turned and strode toward the
were, with a “Show me!”
A couple of EMT types went to the teenagers
to check them out, quickly concentrating on the wounded boy. Gina
stepped up as I ate the final hotdog.
“You – outta that vest! Let's see the
damage.” she commanded.
I wiped my greasy fingers on my pants and
stood up, unbuckling the vest with my other hand. I shrugged out of
it and then at her gesture, stripped off my shredded tee shirt.
This is pretty standard for cases where physical contact
rifle lights lit and shining in every direction, looking for
threats.
The black SUVs roared up thirty seconds
later, followed by the state trooper cars, and another fifteen or
so agents, weapons at the ready.
I was kneeling by the fire, roasting the last
two hot dogs. Stacia and her boyfriend, whose name was Dan, were
sitting on the remains of the tent a few feet away. Dan had some
cooler ice in a towel and was holding it to the egg-sized knot on
his forehead. Stacia was sitting a little apart from him, her
watchful gaze finally lifted from me and now on the dog and pony
show.
Agent Duclair stormed up in federal fury,
planting herself, hands on hips, on the other side of the fire from
me. Gina was moving more sedately behind her. Adler went straight
for Lassiter's remains, a half dozen CSI types on his heels.
“Explain!” Duclair demanded.
“Well, the hotdog rolls are all gone and
these are the last of the franks. Why do they always give you eight
rolls and ten hotdogs? It's criminal, really,” I said.
She froze, unable to work up words, just this
side of a really decent sputter.
The girl, Stacia, answered my question.
“It's economics. If you never have the same
amount of rolls or dogs, you'll have to keep buying one or the
other. Unless you buy five packs of rolls and four packs of
hotdogs, then you'll be even,” she said.
I glanced at her, surprised. My contact
information as well as Afina's, were in the girl's back jeans
pocket. The cell reception at this campground was adequate and I
had called in every favor I had with the Pack. Stacia had even
spoken a bit with Afina , and the Pack would do absolutely
everything in its considerable power to make her transition to her
new life smooth. But it was her calm, almost eager acceptance of
this major life change that was unnerving. Perhaps it was the
invitation from Afina to come to the Big Apple and work directly
for the Pack while she learned their ways. Aside from her beauty,
clear head and obvious intelligence, Stacia Reynolds did not appear
to have much in the way of material things. Her clothes were clean,
but worn and not the latest fashion or even last year’s fashion. I
don't think her family had much money, but we hadn't gotten to
that.
* * *
Duclair could finally form sentences.
“What happened to the wer...bear?” she
hissed, glancing at the teenagers as she covered her slip.
“It died,” I said with a shrug.
“HOW did it die?” she asked, her eyes bugging
out a bit.
“Well, I encouraged it to.” I answered,
pulling a greasy dog off the stick and eating it in two bites,
while I watched her.
Gina had moved up and was studying me
carefully and I felt surprisingly uncomfortable under her gaze. She
always stared at me, it was her job. But I was feeling soul sick
and lower than pond scum.
Duclair was just about to rip into me at the
loss of her hoped for lab project, when Adler moved up to her and
whispered in her ear. Didn't matter, I could still hear him.
“ Ma'am, before you go…ah…expressing your
opinion of him, you should maybe consider this: he just ran down
and beat a werewolf to death with his bare hands.”
Her eyes widened as she took that in and she
turned to him.
“You sure?”
“ That's how it appears to the techs,
Ma'am. And I agree.”
Her eyes turned thoughtful as she turned back
to me. I didn't much care for her expression. It would seem that
the cat and its bag were miles apart.
Abruptly, she turned and strode toward the
were, with a “Show me!”
A couple of EMT types went to the teenagers
to check them out, quickly concentrating on the wounded boy. Gina
stepped up as I ate the final hotdog.
“You – outta that vest! Let's see the
damage.” she commanded.
I wiped my greasy fingers on my pants and
stood up, unbuckling the vest with my other hand. I shrugged out of
it and then at her gesture, stripped off my shredded tee shirt.
This is pretty standard for cases where physical contact
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