Blood Trail

Vicki saw no apparent thinning of the woods; one moment she was in them, the next she was stepping out into a field. It wasn't a field she recognized either. There were no sheep, no fences, and no indication of where she might be.



Settling her bag more firmly on her shoulder, she started toward the white frame house and cluster of outbuildings that the other end of the field rolled up against. Maybe she could get directions, or use their phone...



"... or get run off for trespassing by a large dog and a farmer with a pitchfork." She was pretty sure they did that sort of thing in the country, that it was effectively legal, and that it didn't matter because she wasn't going back into those woods. She'd take on half a dozen farmers with pitchforks first.



As she approached, wading knee-deep through grass and goldenrod and thistles, she became convinced that no one had worked this farm for quite some time. The barn had a faded, unused look about it and she could actually smell the roses that climbed all over one wall of the white frame house.



The field ended in a large vegetable garden. Vicki recognized the cabbages, the tomato plants, and the raspberry bushes - nothing else seemed familiar. Which isn't really surprising. She picked her way around the perimeter. My vegetables usually come with a picture of the jolly green...



"Oh. Hello."



"Hello." The elderly man, who had appeared so suddenly in her path, continued to stare, obviously waiting for her to elaborate further.



"I, uh, got lost in the woods."



His gaze started at her sneakers, ran up her scratched and bitten legs, past her walking shorts, paused for a moment on her Blue Jays' T-shirt, flicked over to her shoulder bag, and finally came to rest on her face. "Oh," he said, a small smile lifting the edges of his precise gray mustache.



The single word covered a lot of ground, and the conclusion it drew would've annoyed the hell out of Vicki if it hadn't been so accurate. She held out her hand. "Vicki Nelson."



"Carl Biehn."



His palm was dry and leathery, his grip firm. Over the years, Vicki had discovered she could tell a lot about a man based on how he shook hands with her - or if he'd shake hands at all. Some men still seemed absolutely confused about what to do when the offered hand belonged to a woman. Carl Biehn shook hands with an economy of movement that said he had nothing to prove. She liked him for it.



"You look like you could use some water, Ms. Nelson."



"I could use a lake," Vicki admitted, rubbing at the sweat collected under her chin.



His smile broadened. "Well, no lake, but I'll see what I can do." He led the way around the raspberry bushes and Vicki fell into step beside him. Her first view of the rest of the garden brought an involuntary exclamation of delight.



"Do you like it?" He sounded almost shy.



"It's... " She discarded a pile of adjectives as inadequate and finished simply. "... the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."



"Thank you." He beamed; first at her and then out over the flower beds where a fallen rainbow, shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces, perched against every possible shade of green. "The Lord has been good to me this summer."



Vicki tensed, but he made no other reference to God. And thank God for that. She had no idea if her admiration had broken through the elderly man's reserve or if he simply had none when it came to the garden. As they walked between the beds, he introduced the flowers they passed as though they were old friends - here adjusting a stake that held a blood red gladioli upright, there swiftly beheading a dying blossom.



"... dusty orange beauties are dwarf hemerocallis, day lilies. If you make the effort to plant early, middle, and late varieties, they'll bloom beautifully from June on into September. They're not a fussy grower, not hard to work with, just give them a little phosphate and potash and they'll show their appreciation. Now these shasta daisies over here... "



Having spent most of her life in apartments, Vicki understood next to nothing about gardens or the plants that grew in them but she could - and did - appreciate the amount of work that had gone into creating and maintaining such an oasis of color amid the summer-toasted fields. She also could appreciate the depth of emotion that Carl Biehn lavished on his creation. He wasn't soppy or twee about it but the garden was a living being to him; it showed subtly in his voice, his expressions, his actions. People who cared that much about something outside themselves were rare in Vicki's world and it reinforced her first favorable impression.



An old-fashioned hand pump stood on a cement platform, close by the back door. Carl led the way across the lawn toward it, finishing his enthusiastic monologue about the new heritage roses just as he reached for the handle.



"The cup appears to be missing again, Ms. Nelson. I hope you don't mind."



Vicki grinned. "I may just stick my entire head under if that's all right with you."



"Be my guest."



For all its apparent age, the pump worked smoothly, pulling up clear, cold water with only the slightest taste of iron. Vicki couldn't remember the last time she'd tasted anything as good and the sudden shock of it hitting the back of her head erased much of the morning's stickiness. If the pump had been a little higher off the ground, she'd have stuck her entire body under it.



Flicking her wet hair back off her face, she straightened and indicated the pump. "May I?" When Carl admitted that he wouldn't mind, they changed places. There was more pressure against the handle than Vicki had anticipated and she found herself having to lean into the mechanism. Gardening had obviously kept her elderly benefactor in good condition.



"It really is incredible," she murmured. "I've never seen anything like it."



"You should have seen it last week. Then it was really something." He stood, wiping his hands dry on his pants and gazing proudly out over the vast expanse of color. "Still, I have to admit, it doesn't look bad. Everything out there from A to Zee, from asters to zinnias."



Vicki stepped back as a bumblebee, leg pouches bulging with pollen, flew a slightly wobbly course just past the end of her nose. From this angle, she could look out over the flowers, to the vegetables, to the fields beyond. The contrast was incredible. "It looks like shredded wheat out there. How do you keep the garden watered? It must be almost a full-time job."



"Not at all." He rested one foot up on the cement platform and leaned a forearm across his thigh. "I use an underground irrigation system, developed by the Israelis. I merely turn on the tap and the system does all the work. Just to be on the safe side, however, I've run a water line out into the garden with a hundred feet of hose, in case a specific plant needs a little attention."



She waved a hand between the brown and the green. "I just can't get over the difference."



"Well, sometimes even the Lord needs a little help, his wonders to perform. Have you been saved, Ms. Nelson?"



The question came so unexpectedly, in such a rational tone, that it took Vicki a moment to realize what had been said and a moment beyond that to come up with what she hoped would be a definitive reply. "I'm an Anglican." She wasn't, really, but her mother was, sort of.



"Ah." He nodded, stepping back off the platform. "Church of England." For just a second, caught between the sun and the concrete, the damp sole of his shoe left a print - concentric half circles of tread last seen pressed into pine gum in the crotch of a tree.



Her expression carefully neutral over a sudden surge of adrenaline, Vicki put her own foot up on the platform and bent to tie her shoe. In the heat of the sun, the print dried quickly but it was a definite match.



Unfortunately, so was the print she left behind.



A quick look told her they were wearing the same brand of running shoe. A brand that seemed to cover the feet of half the civilized world.



Shit. Shit. Shit! Good news and bad news. Or bad news and good news, she wasn't quite sure. Evidence no longer pointed directly to the feet of Carl Biehn but her suspect list, based on the sneaker print at least, had just grown by millions. There'd be small differences of course - size, cracks in the rubber, wear patterns - but the possibilities of an easy match had just evaporated.



"Are you all right, Ms. Nelson? Perhaps you should sit down for a moment, out of the sun."



"I'm fine." He was watching her with some concern so she pulled up a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Biehn."



"Well, maybe we'd best see about getting you back where you belong. If I could offer you a lift somewhere... "



"And if you can't, I most certainly will."



Vicki turned. The man standing in the doorway was in his early thirties, of average height, average looks, and above average self-opinion. He leered genially down at her, his pose no doubt intended to show off his manly physique - which, she admitted, wasn't bad. If you like the squash and health club types... Which she didn't.



Slipping on a pair of expensive sunglasses, he stepped out into the sunlight, hair gleaming like burnished gold.



I bet he highlights it. A quick glance showed he wore blue leather deck shoes. Without socks. Vicki hated the look of shoes without socks. Although odds were good he owned a pair of running shoes, she somehow doubted he'd be willing to ruin his manicure by climbing a tree. Which was a pity as he seemed to be exactly the type of person she'd love to feed to the wer.



Beside her, she heard Carl suppress a sigh.



"Ms. Nelson, may I introduce you to my nephew, Mark Williams."



The younger man grinned broadly at his uncle. "And here I thought your only hobbies were gardening and bird-watching and saving souls." Then he turned the force of his smile on Vicki.



Some expensive dental work there, she thought, picking at a bit of dried pine gum on her T-shirt and trying not to scowl.



"Ms. Nelson got lost in the conservation area," Carl explained tersely. "I was just about to drive her home."



"Oh please, allow me." Mark's voice stopped just short of caressing and more than a little past what Vicki considered insulting. "If I know my uncle, once he gets a lovely woman alone in a car all he'll do is preach."



"Please, don't put yourself out." Her tone made it more a command than a polite reply and Mark looked momentarily nonplussed. "If you wouldn't mind ..." she continued, turning to Carl. Being preached at would be infinitely preferable to being with Mark. He reminded her of a pimp she'd once busted.



"Not at all." Carl was doing an admirable job of keeping a straight face, but Vicki caught sight of the twinkle in his eye and a suspicious trembling at the ends of his mustache. He waved a hand toward the driveway and indicated Vicki should precede him.



It wasn't hard to connect the car with the man. The late model, black jeep with the gold trim, the plush interior, the sunroof, and the rust along the bottom of the doors was practically a simulacrum of Mark. The ten-year-old, beige sedan with the recent wax job just as obviously - although not as loudly - said Carl.



Vicki had her hand on the door handle when Mark called, "Hey! I don't even know your first name."



She turned and the air temperature plummeted around her smile. "I know," she told him, and got into the car.



The very expensive stereo system surprised her a little.



"I like to listen to gospel music while I drive," Carl explained, when he saw her looking at enough lights and buttons and switches to fill an airplane cockpit. He stopped the car at the end of the driveway. "Where to?"



Where to, indeed; she had no idea of the address or even the name of the road. "The, uh, Heerkens sheep farm. Are you familiar with it?"



"Yes."



The suppressed emotion in that single word pulled Vicki's brows down. "Is there a problem?"



His knuckles were white around the steering wheel. "Are you family?"



"No. Just the friend of a friend. He thought I needed some time out of the city and brought me here for the weekend." Mike Celluci wouldn't have believed the lie for a moment - he'd often said Vicki was the worst liar he'd ever met - but some of the tension went out of Carl's shoulders and he turned the car out onto the dirt road and headed north.



"I just met them this weekend," she continued matter-of-factly. Experience had taught her that the direct approach worked best with no nonsense people like her host. "Do you know them well?"



Carl's mouth thinned to a tight white line but after a moment he said, "When I first moved here, ten, eleven years ago now, I tried to get to know them. Tried to be a good neighbor. They were not interested."



"Well, they are pretty insular."



"Insular!" His bark of laughter held no humor. "I tried to do my duty as a Christian. Did you know, Ms. Nelson that not one of those children have been baptized?"



Vicki shook her head but before she could say anything, he continued. "I tried to bring that family to God, and do you know what I got for my caring? I was told to get off their property and to stay off if I couldn't leave my God at home."



You're lucky you didn't get bit, Vicki thought. "I bet that made you pretty mad."



"God is not something I carry around like a pocketbook, Ms. Nelson," he told her dryly. "He is a part of everything I do. Yes, it made me angry... "



Angry enough to kill? she wondered.



"... but my anger was a righteous anger, and I gave it to the glory of the Lord."



"And what did the Lord do with it?"



He half turned toward her and smiled. "He put it to work in His service."



Now that could mean any number of things. Vicki stared out the window. How do you bring up the subject of werewolves? "Your nephew mentioned that you're a birder... "



"When I can spare time away from the garden."



"Ever go into the conservation area?"



"On occasion."



"I have a cousin who's a birder." She had nothing of the sort; it was a textbook interrogation lie. "He tells me you can see all sorts of fascinating things out in the woods. He says the unusual and bizarre lurk around every corner."



"Does he? His list must be interesting then."



"What's the most interesting species you've ever identified?"



Gray brows drew down. "I had an Arctic tern once. No idea how it got so far south. I prayed for its safe flight home and as I only saw it the once, I like to think my prayers were answered."



"An Arctic tern?"



"That," he told her without taking his eyes off the road, "was exactly the reaction of the others I told. I never lie, Ms. Nelson. And I never give anyone a chance to call me a liar twice."



She felt as though he'd just slapped her on the wrist. "Sorry." Well, that got me exactly nowhere.



"Looks like good hunting out here," she said casually, peering out the car window, watching trees and fields, and more trees and more fields go by. "Do you hunt?"



"No." The single syllable held such abhorrence, such strength of emotion, Vicki had to believe it. "Taking the lives of God's creatures is an abomination."



She squirmed around to face him, wondering how he'd rationalize his diet. "You don't eat meat?"



"Not since 1954."



"Oh." His point. "What about your nephew?"



"In my house he follows my rules. I don't try to run the rest of his life."



Nor do you approve of the rest of his life, Vicki realized. "Has he been staying with you long?"



"No." Then he added, "Mark is my late sister's son. My only living relative."



Which explains why you let the slimebag stay around at all. She sensed his disapproval, but whether it was directed at her or at Mark she couldn't say. "I've, uh, never hunted," she told him, attempting to get back into his good graces. Technically it was the truth. She'd never hunted anything that ran on four legs.



"Good for you. Do you pray?"



"Probably not as much as I should."



That startled him into a smile. "Probably not," he agreed and pulled over at the end of the long lane leading to the Heerkens farm. "If you'll excuse me, this is as far as I can take you."



"Excuse you? You've saved me a long hot walk, I'm in your debt." She slid out of the car and with one finger holding her glasses, leaned back in through the open window. "Thanks for the ride. And the water. And the chance to see your garden."



He nodded solemnly. "You're welcome. Can I convince you to join me at worship tomorrow, Ms. Nelson?"



"No, I don't think so."



"Very well." He seemed resigned. "Be careful, Ms. Nelson; if you endanger your soul you endanger your chance of eternal life."



Vicki could feel his sincerity, knew he wasn't just saying the words, so she nodded and said, "I'll be careful." and stepped back onto the shoulder. She waited where she was until he maneuvered the big car around in a tight three point turn then shifted the weight of her bag on her shoulder, waved, and started toward the lane.



Which was when she saw Storm emerge from the hedgerow about a hundred meters down the road. Tongue lolling, he trotted toward her, sunlight shimmering in the golden highlights of his fur.



Tires growled against gravel, the big sedan picked up speed, and headed right for the young wer.



Vicki tried to yell - to Storm, to Carl, she wasn't sure  ut all that came out of a mouth gone suddenly dry was a strangled croak.



Then, in a spray of dirt and small stones, it was over.



Carl Biehn, his car, and his God, disappeared down the road and Storm danced a welcome around her.



As her heart started beating again, Vicki settled her glasses back on her nose, her free hand absently rubbing the warm fur between Storm's ears. She could have sworn... I must've got just a little too much sun.



Finding nothing to interest him in the highly overrated great outdoors, Mark Williams wandered back into the house and pulled a cold beer out of the fridge. "Thank God dear Uncle Carl has nothing against 'alcohol in moderation.' " He laughed and repeated, "Thank God." Hopefully, that blonde bitch was getting an earful of peace and love and the rest of that religious crap from the crazy old coot.



She hadn't been his type anyway. He liked his women smaller, more complacent, willing to be overwhelmed. The kind he could be sure wouldn't go screaming to the police over every little bending of the rules.



"What I like is the kind of woman that doesn't land me in the middle of goddamned nowhere." He took a long swallow of beer and looked out the kitchen window at the fields shimmering in the heat. "Shit." He sighed. "This is all Annette's fault."



If Annette hadn't been ready to blow the sweet little operation he'd been running out of Vancouver, he wouldn't have had to have her killed so quickly that he'd had to hire professional help, and sloppy professional help at that. He shuddered to think of how close he'd come to spending his most productive years behind bars. Fortunately, he'd been able to arrange it so that the hired help had ended up taking the fall. He'd barely been able to close down the business, realize most of the projected profits, and get out of the province before the hired help's family had arrived to demand their share.



"And thus I find myself in the ass-end of civilization." He finished the beer and yawned. It could've been worse; the nights, at least, offered rare sport. Grinning, he tossed the empty into the case. Last night's bit of fun had proven his skills were still as sharp as they'd ever been.



A second yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. He'd been up until the wee small hours of the morning and been awakened obscenely early. Maybe he should head upstairs for a nap. "Don't want the fingers trembling at a critical moment. Besides," he grabbed another beer to take with him, "there's bugger all else to do until dark."



When an overgrown lilac hedge blocked the line of sight from the road, Vicki silently handed Peter his shorts.



"Thanks. What were you doing with old man Biehn?"



"I came out of the woods on his property." It certainly wasn't going to hurt anything if Peter believed she'd chosen her direction on purpose. "He gave me a ride back."



"Oh. Good thing Uncle Stuart didn't see him."



"Your uncle really ran him off?"



"Oh yeah, and if Aunt Nadine hadn't stopped him, he'd have probably attacked."



Vicki felt her brows go up and she turned her head to look at Peter directly. She gotten used to the disembodied voices of the people walking beside her but occasionally she just had to see expressions. "He'd have attacked over a difference in religion?"



"Is that what old man Biehn said?" Peter snorted. "Jennifer and Marie were six, maybe seven, and Aunt Nadine was pregnant with Daniel. Old man Biehn came over - he dropped by pretty often back then, trying to save our souls, and it was driving us all nuts - and he started talking about hell. I don't know what he said 'cause I wasn't there, but he really scared the girls and they started to howl." Peter's brows drew down and his ears went back. "You don't do that to cubs. Anyway, Uncle Stuart showed up and that was that. He's never come back."



"He was pretty angry about it," Vicki offered.



"Not as angry as Uncle Stuart."



"But you must see him occasionally... "



Peter looked confused. "Why?"



Vicki thought about that for a moment. Why, indeed? She hadn't seen the two young men who lived in the back basement apartment of her building since the day they'd moved in. If in almost three years she hadn't run into them in the hallway, by the only door... Well, the odds are good you can miss someone indefinitely out here in all this space. "Never mind."



He shrugged, the fine spray of red-gold hair on his chest glinting in the sun. "Okay."



They'd come to the end of lane and Vicki leaned gracefully against the huge tree that anchored it to the lawn. Mopping her dripping brow, she opened her mouth to ask where everyone was when Peter threw back his head and ran his voice wordlessly up and down a double octave.



"Rose wants to tell you something," he said by way of explanation.



Rose wanted to tell her about Frederick Kleinbein.



"I think she's imagining things," Peter volunteered after his sister finished talking. "What do you think, Ms. Nelson?"



"I think," Vicki told them, "that I'd better go speak to Mr. Kleinbein." She didn't add that she doubted the tree's falling at that time and in such a way had been entirely natural. Off the top of her head, she could think of at least two ways it could be done without leaving a scent for the wer to trace. Had Peter actually left the car, she was pretty certain he'd have returned to find his twin had been shot the same way as Silver and Ebon. Which meant the assassin's pattern wasn't tied to that tree in the woods. Which opened up a whole new can of worms.



Thank God for Frederick Kleinbein. His arrival had no doubt saved Cloud's life and, simultaneously, removed him from the suspect list.



All things considered though, she thought she'd better have a talk with him anyway.



Rose shot a triumphant look at her brother. "He lives just back of the crossroads. I can tell you how to get there if you want to take Henry's car."



"Henry's car?"



"Yeah. It's about three and a half miles, maybe a bit more. It's easy enough for four legs but a bit of a hike for two."



Peter leaned forward, nostrils flared. "What's wrong?"



Nothing's wrong. But, just as I suspected, I'm piss useless out here. You see, I can't. See that is. And I can't drive. How the hell am I supposed to do anything and what the hell can I tell you...



She jumped as Rose reached out and stroked her arm, callused fingers lightly running over sweaty skin. She realized the touch was for comfort, not pity, and stopped herself from jerking the arm away.



"I don't drive," she told them, her voice hard-edged to keep it from shaking. "I can't see well enough."



"Oh, is that all." Peter leaned back relieved. "No problem. We'll drive you. I'll just go get the keys." He flashed her a dazzling grin and loped off to the house.



Oh, is that all? Vicki watched Peter disappear into the kitchen then turned to look at Rose, who smiled, pleased that the problem had been solved. Don't judge them by human standards. The phrase was rapidly becoming a litany.



"... anyway, Uncle Stuart says that if you want the wood, it's yours."



"Good, good. You tell your uncle, I get it when heat breaks." Frederick Kleinbein swiped at his dripping face with the palm of one beefy hand. "So, I have late raspberries that rot because I am too fat and lazy to pick; you interested?"



The twins turned to Vicki, who shrugged. "Just don't ask me to help. I'll stay here in the shade and talk to Mr. Kleinbein." And as Mr. Kleinbein very obviously wanted to talk to her...



"So," he began a moment later, "you are visiting from the city. You know Heerkens for long?"



"Not long at all. I'm a friend of a friend. Do you know them well?"



"Not what you call well. No." He glanced over to where Rose and Peter were barely visible behind a thick row of raspberry canes. "They keep apart that family. Not unfriendly, distant."



"And people respect that?"



"Why not? Farm is paid for. Kids go to school." The finger he waggled in her direction looked like a half cooked sausage. "No law says got to be party animals."



Vicki hid a smile. Party animals - now that was a concept.



He leaned forward, his whole bearing proclaiming he had a secret.



Here it comes, Vicki thought.



"You stay with them so you must know."



She shook her head, fighting to keep her expression vaguely confused. "Know what?"



"The Heerkens... "



"Yes?"



"... the whole family... "



She leaned forward herself.



"... are... "



Their noses were practically touching.



"... nudists."



Vicki blinked and sat back, momentarily speechless.



Frederick Kleinbein sat back as well and nodded sagely, his jowls bobbing an independent emphasis. "They must keep clothes on for you so far." Then his entire face curved upward in a beatific smile. "Too bad, eh?"



"How do you know this?" Vicki managed at last.



The sausage ringer waggled again. "I see things. Little things. Careful people, the Heerkens, but sometimes there are glimpses of bodies. That's why the big dogs, to warn them to put on clothes when people come." He shrugged. "Everyone knows. Most peoples, they say bodies are bad and go out of way to avoid Heerkens but me, I say who cares what they do on own land." He waved a hand at the raspberry bushes. "Kids are happy. What else matters? Besides," this time the smile carne accompanied by a decidedly lascivious waggling of impressive eyebrows, "they are very nice bodies."



Vicki had to agree. So the surrounding countryside thought the Heerkens were nudists, did it? She doubted they'd have been able to deliberately create a more perfect camouflage. What people believe defines what people see, and people looking for flesh were not likely to find fur.



And it's a hell of a lot easier to believe in a nudist than a werewolf.



Except that someone, she reminded herself, feeling the weight of the second silver bullet dragging at her bag, isn't following the party line.



Although his nephew's jeep was still in the driveway, Mark himself appeared to be nowhere around. Carl sat down at the kitchen table and leaned his head in his hands, thankful for the time alone. The boy was his only sister's only son, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, and the only family he had remaining. Family must be more important then personal opinion.



Was it a sin, he wondered, that he couldn't find it in his heart to care for Mark? That he didn't even like him very much?



Carl suspected he was being used as a refuge of some sort. Why else would this nephew he hadn't seen in years suddenly appear on his doorstep for an indefinite stay? The boy - the man - was a sinner, there was no doubt about that. But he was also family and that fact had to outweigh the other.



Perhaps the Lord had sent Mark here, at this time, to be saved. Carl sighed and rubbed at a coffee ring on the table with his thumb. He was an old man and the Lord had asked a great deal of him lately.



Should I ask Mark where he goes at night?



Do I have the strength to know?