Burley was able to find all the first generation patients. Ask her for your file.”
“I did ask. She told me no.”
“Why not?”
“She was worried I might try to make contact with my family. I’m supposed to be dead. For the sake of Wyrd and the Pack and for werewolves everywhere, I’m supposed to sit here quietly and pretend like it doesn’t matter who I am or if someone might be looking for me.”
Ishmael checked the time. Identity crises were bad, but he still had two potential wendigos to deal with, a litter of kittens, one gruesome murder, and an infection that set his blood on fire. “So you asked Padre to see what he could learn.”
“I thought maybe someone blocked search terms on my computer. I figured if he could hit an internet café or something, he might find out more.”
“Then I’ll help him search,” he said. But what he meant to say was that he’d crack the password on Grey’s patient list and find out everything she wanted to know. “First chance I get.”
She smiled sadly. “Thank you.” She lowered her eyes and picked at her nails.
“And if you do want to see embarrassing pictures of me in my younger days, google ‘Backdoor Access punk rock band.’ The stuff on YouTube is a classic. You’ll get to see Gil with long hair.”
She wasn’t cheering up like he’d hoped. “The Padre wants me to keep an eye on Dep, too. To be with him. Talk to him.”
“And will you?”
She chewed a nail and spat out the twisted shard. “There’s one thing I learned at the Farms,” she said. Her reedy voice buzzed now. “Enjoy the good times, but don’t bother hanging on to them. Your heart’s a luxury, something you can open up and look into when your belly’s full and when the door’s barred. For the rest of the time, seal it and freeze it, or someone will reach in and tear it out. I’ll watch him from a distance, and I’ll do what I have to do if he gets Lost.” She turned to her computer and began closing down browser windows. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And Helen?”
“Same thing,” she said. “Same . . . exact . . . goddamned . . . thing.” She closed the computer and propped up her head with her hand, studiously keeping her face averted.
Ishmael thanked her quietly and said goodbye. She didn’t reply. He closed the door when he left.
Chapter Six
TWO-TREES HAD stripped down to his boxers and an undershirt, because the Marigold Hotel was one cockroach short of an equatorial dive. He’d had to shower to cool down. With the heating system rattling as loudly as it was, the air conditioning blowing as uselessly as it could, and with Nickelback thumping through the ceiling, he nearly missed the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand beside him. On a school night and everything.
The call display showed a local exchange but no associated name. “Hector Two-Trees,” he said.
“Two-Trees, glad I caught you. It’s not too late, is it?”
It was half past midnight, but the kegger/boxing match upstairs had only just begun. “Nope. Who is this, please?”
“DS Buckle. You remember me from earlier tonight?”
“Detective Sergeant,” he said, “there is not one damned thing I’ve forgotten about earlier tonight.” He had case files, photographs, preliminary notes, and newspaper articles strewn across the end of the bed, to remind him of anything that might have escaped his attention. “What’s on your mind?”
“We’ve got something here you might want to see. You mind coming into the office?”
He was wearing nothing but a towel and body hair. “How soon?”
“We have to release him in an hour or two.”
Two-Trees rolled off the bed and let the towel fall. “Witness or suspect?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Then gimme a few. I’ll be there.”
They said their goodbyes, and Two-Trees put his phone back on the charger to absorb what few sips of electricity it could while he dressed. He combed his
“I did ask. She told me no.”
“Why not?”
“She was worried I might try to make contact with my family. I’m supposed to be dead. For the sake of Wyrd and the Pack and for werewolves everywhere, I’m supposed to sit here quietly and pretend like it doesn’t matter who I am or if someone might be looking for me.”
Ishmael checked the time. Identity crises were bad, but he still had two potential wendigos to deal with, a litter of kittens, one gruesome murder, and an infection that set his blood on fire. “So you asked Padre to see what he could learn.”
“I thought maybe someone blocked search terms on my computer. I figured if he could hit an internet café or something, he might find out more.”
“Then I’ll help him search,” he said. But what he meant to say was that he’d crack the password on Grey’s patient list and find out everything she wanted to know. “First chance I get.”
She smiled sadly. “Thank you.” She lowered her eyes and picked at her nails.
“And if you do want to see embarrassing pictures of me in my younger days, google ‘Backdoor Access punk rock band.’ The stuff on YouTube is a classic. You’ll get to see Gil with long hair.”
She wasn’t cheering up like he’d hoped. “The Padre wants me to keep an eye on Dep, too. To be with him. Talk to him.”
“And will you?”
She chewed a nail and spat out the twisted shard. “There’s one thing I learned at the Farms,” she said. Her reedy voice buzzed now. “Enjoy the good times, but don’t bother hanging on to them. Your heart’s a luxury, something you can open up and look into when your belly’s full and when the door’s barred. For the rest of the time, seal it and freeze it, or someone will reach in and tear it out. I’ll watch him from a distance, and I’ll do what I have to do if he gets Lost.” She turned to her computer and began closing down browser windows. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And Helen?”
“Same thing,” she said. “Same . . . exact . . . goddamned . . . thing.” She closed the computer and propped up her head with her hand, studiously keeping her face averted.
Ishmael thanked her quietly and said goodbye. She didn’t reply. He closed the door when he left.
Chapter Six
TWO-TREES HAD stripped down to his boxers and an undershirt, because the Marigold Hotel was one cockroach short of an equatorial dive. He’d had to shower to cool down. With the heating system rattling as loudly as it was, the air conditioning blowing as uselessly as it could, and with Nickelback thumping through the ceiling, he nearly missed the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand beside him. On a school night and everything.
The call display showed a local exchange but no associated name. “Hector Two-Trees,” he said.
“Two-Trees, glad I caught you. It’s not too late, is it?”
It was half past midnight, but the kegger/boxing match upstairs had only just begun. “Nope. Who is this, please?”
“DS Buckle. You remember me from earlier tonight?”
“Detective Sergeant,” he said, “there is not one damned thing I’ve forgotten about earlier tonight.” He had case files, photographs, preliminary notes, and newspaper articles strewn across the end of the bed, to remind him of anything that might have escaped his attention. “What’s on your mind?”
“We’ve got something here you might want to see. You mind coming into the office?”
He was wearing nothing but a towel and body hair. “How soon?”
“We have to release him in an hour or two.”
Two-Trees rolled off the bed and let the towel fall. “Witness or suspect?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Then gimme a few. I’ll be there.”
They said their goodbyes, and Two-Trees put his phone back on the charger to absorb what few sips of electricity it could while he dressed. He combed his
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