2 Blood Trail (28 page)

 

Carl Biehn turned away the moment the car left the drive. He’d always been able to find peace in the garden but this morning it had eluded him. He kept hearing, over and over, the cry of the creature he had wounded in the night. It was not one of God’s creatures so its pain should have no power to move him but he couldn’t block the cry from his mind or his heart.

The Lord tested him, to see if his resolve was strong.

Evil must not be pitied, it must be cast out.

 

“Two cops.” Mark Williams pursed his lips thoughtfully. “She seems to have brought in reinforcements.” It was too bad yesterday’s accident hadn’t removed the problem but, as he always said, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Even if Ms. Nelson’s friend was here to investigate the crash, he’d been very careful to leave nothing on the car that would incriminate him.

On the other hand, with the two of them rummaging about, he’d better get a move on or between the police and his trigger-happy uncle, there’d be nothing left of his lovely little plan.

 

“Are you going to fight with my father again?”

“Not unless he fights with me.”

Daniel turned and looked up at Stuart, who had risen as Vicki and Celluci came in and was now standing behind his chair growling low in his throat. “Daddy?”

Stuart ignored him. The two men locked eyes.

“Daddy? Can I bite him for you?”

Stuart started and glanced down at his son. “Can you what?”

“Can I bite him for you?” Daniel bared small white teeth.

“Daniel, you don’t just go around biting people. You’ve been taught better than that.”

The youngest wer narrowed his eyes. “You were going to,” he pointed out.

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Understand what?”

“Well. . . .” He shot a helpless look at Celluci who spread his hands, equally at a loss for an answer. “It’s a . . . man thing.”

Daniel snorted. “I never get to bite anybody,” he complained, kicked the screen door open, and stomped out into the yard.

Although laughter might be the spark in the tinder, Vicki couldn’t help herself. She collapsed back onto the sagging couch, holding her sides and gasping for breath. “A man thing,” she managed to wheeze finally, and started up harder than ever.

The two men looked down at her and then at each other, expressions identical.

“Stuart Heerkens-Wells.”

“Michael Celluci.”

“Is she with you?”

“Never saw her before in my life.”

 

When Vicki came downstairs from changing her clothes, only Nadine was in the kitchen.

“Where is everyone?” she asked, shoving her glasses up her nose and setting her bag on the floor.

“Well, my daughters are out in the barn chasing rats, my son is hopefully wearing himself out chasing that frisbee. . . .”

Vicki peered out the kitchen window and saw, to her surprise, Celluci throwing the frisbee for Shadow. “What’s
he
still doing here?”

“I think he’s waiting for you.”

Vicki sighed. “You know, when we turned in the lane, I thanked him for his help and told him to get lost. I wonder what made me think he’d listen?”

“He’s a man. I think you’re expecting too much of him. Anyway, Rose and Peter are getting dressed to take you back into town and Tag’s gone to check the flock.”

Which reminded Vicki of something she’d meant to ask. “Tag? He doesn’t look much like a Tag.”

“Maybe not now,” Nadine agreed, “but he was the youngest and the smallest in a set of triplets and I guess it suited him then.”

“The smallest?”

Nadine grinned. “Yes, well, he grew.”

Just then Celluci came into the kitchen leaving Shadow out on the lawn, tongue lolling, frisbee safe under both front paws. “Good, you’re ready. Let’s get going, it’s almost noon. I hear Henry Fitzroy’s still in bed.” He kept himself from sneering but only just.

“He had a busy night.”

“Didn’t we all.”

Then it hit her. “Going where?”

“Back into town. You need to check with the mechanic—unless you don’t care if Peter’s charged with operating an unsafe vehicle—someone somewhere has to know who has the skill to make those shots so I suggest we go where the boys are, and Donald has to be picked up and brought home.”

“Yeah? So?” She folded her arms across her chest. “What does any of that have to do with you?”

“I’ve decided to stick around.” He inclined his head toward Nadine. “No extra charge.”

Vicki bit off the
Fuck you!
before she actually vocalized it. It almost choked her, but her pride, measured against the lives of the wer, meant nothing. On the other hand, in spite of what he thought, Mike Celluci did not have a direct line to truth and he had no right to butt in.

“What’s up?” Peter followed his sister into the kitchen and looked from Vicki to Celluci, nostrils flared. There were some strange scents in the air.

“Vicki’s just deciding who’s going to be driving into town,” Nadine told him.

“Rose,” Peter said promptly. “I’m still traumatized from yesterday.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “You want to sit with your head out the window.”

He grinned. “That, too.”

“I’m driving because we’re taking my car.”

The twins turned as one to look at Vicki.

Reading her indecision, Peter moved a step closer, and lowered his voice. “Uh, Vicki, about
him
being around, I don’t think Henry’s going to approve.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. What the hell did Henry have to do with this? She grabbed her purse up off the floor and headed for the door. “What are you standing around for?” she snapped as she passed Celluci. “I thought you were driving.”

Celluci glanced speculatively at Peter, then followed.

“What was all that about?” Peter wondered as the twins hurried to catch up. “Why did Aunt Nadine start laughing?”

“You really don’t know?”

“No. I really don’t.”

Rose sighed and shook her head. “Peter, you are such a dork sometimes.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

They’d have continued the argument all the way into London if Vicki hadn’t threatened to muzzle them both.

“There’s your problem.”

Vicki peered down into the engine of Henry’s BMW. Nothing looked obviously wrong. “Where’s the problem?”

“There.” The mechanic pointed with the screwdriver he held. “Brakeline, up by the master cylinder.”

“There’s something wrong with the brakeline?”

“Yeah. Holed.”

“What do you mean, holed?”

The mechanic sighed. His expression said
“Women!”
as clearly as if he’d spoken the word aloud. “Holed. Like, not solid.”

“Someone put a hole in it?” It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in. Had the stakes just gone up? Had the killer become aware of her involvement and decided to do something about it? She frowned; that didn’t fit the established pattern. Suddenly the air in the garage, already redolent with iron and oil and gasoline, grew thicker and harder to breathe.

“Didn’t say someone did it. See here?” He lifted the black rubber hose on the end of his screwdriver. “Rubbed against that piece of metal. Rubbed just right between the ribs and broke through.” Shrugging, he let the hose drop. “Happens. Brakes work for a while but lose fluid. Lose enough fluid and. . . .” A greasy finger cut a line across his throat.

“Yes, I know.” Vicki straightened. “I was there. So you’ll be telling the police. . . ?”

“Accident. Tough luck. Nobody’s fault.” He shrugged again and turned to shake his head at the destroyed side of the car. “Hard to believe everyone walked away. Lucky.”

Very lucky, Vicki realized. Death had missed her by less than a couple of feet and if Rose had been riding on the passenger side, she wouldn’t have survived. Holding her glasses on her nose, Vicki bent over the brakeline again; something didn’t look right.

“Why the hell would anyone build a car so that the brakeline rubbed?”

She could hear the shrug in the mechanic’s voice. “Could be ‘cause it’s an old car. Built in ’76, things go wrong. Could’ve been a mistake on the line. No two cars are exactly alike.”

All right, it made sense, bad luck and nothing more had put her and Rose and Peter in the car when that little mistake had paid off.
Jesus, if you can’t count on a BMW. . . .

Except. . . . There were two spots bracketing the tear where the yellow markings on the hose showed brighter, places where accumulated dirt could have rubbed off on someone’s fingers as they gave that little mistake a helping hand. Careful not to touch the rubber, Vicki pressed her finger against the protruding bit of metal that had done the actual damage. While not exactly sharp, it held a definite edge.

“Suppose you wanted to hole someone’s brakeline and yet made it look like an accident,” she gestured down into the engine, “how long would it take you to duplicate that?”

The mechanic looked speculative. “Not long.”

They’d been in the restaurant for an hour and a half. Plenty of time.

Intrigued by the idea, he reached down into the car. “I’d grab it here . . .”

“Don’t touch it!”

He jerked back as though stung. “You don’t think. . . .”

“I don’t think I want to take any chances. I want you to call the police. I have the number of the officer at the scene if you don’t.”

“No. I got it.”

“Good. Tell him you’ve found suspicions of tampering and, if nothing else, they should take prints.” She had her own small kit, not exactly high tech but certainly up to lifting prints off greasy hoses. If, however, police technology could be brought to bear, so much the better.

“Why don’t you call?”

“Because you’re the expert.”

He scowled at her for a moment then sighed and said, “Okay, lady. You win. I’ll call.”

“Now,” she suggested.

“Okay. Now. You don’t touch nothing while I’m gone.”

“Fine. And you don’t touch anything until the ident man has come and gone.”

The scowl returned. He went two steps, stopped, and looked back. “Someone tried to kill you, eh?”

“Maybe.” Or Peter. Or Rose.

He shook his head, his expression hovering between respect and disgust. “Bet it isn’t the first time.” He continued to the office without waiting for a reply.

Vicki rubbed her right thumb against the faint scars on her left wrist, saw again the inhuman smile, and heard the demon say, “
So you are to be the sacrifice.”
A trickle of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran down between her breasts and behind it, she could feel her heart begin to race. Death had been so close that a shadow of it remained long after the substance had been defeated. With practiced skill, she pushed the memory away and buried it deep.

The world outside the memory seemed strange for a moment then she shook her head and forced herself back to the present. Out by the car, Rose was telling Celluci some kind of story that involved a great deal of arm waving, Peter hovering protectively at her side. When Celluci laughed at something Rose said, Vicki saw Peter’s shoulders stiffen.

“Peter! Could you come here, please?”

Reluctantly, he came.

She nodded toward the car. “What are the odds that you could pick up someone’s scent off a rubber brakeline?”

Peter glanced down into the engine and wrinkled his nose. “Slim to none. The smell of the brake fluid is kind of strong. Why?”

Vicki saw no point in lying, the wer already knew they were under the threat of death. “I think someone engineered yesterday’s accident.”

“Wow. Henry’s going to be pissed.”

“Henry?”

“Well, they totaled his car.”

“And almost killed us,” Vicki reminded him.

“Oh. Yeah.”

The office door opened and the mechanic walked back into the garage. He didn’t look thrilled. “Okay. I called. He says someone’ll come around. Later.” He glared at the car and then up at Vicki. “He says he wants to talk to you. Don’t leave town.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”

He returned her smile with a snort and pointedly bent to work on a late model, blue Saab that had seen better days.

Vicki recognized a dismissal when she saw it. As there was nothing more she could do here, she even decided to pay attention to it. “Come on, Peter.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Peter followed her out of the garage.

“What?” she asked as they crossed the parking lot to Celluci’s car.

“It’s probably nothing, but while you were talking to Mr. Sunshine I had a sniff around the edges of the hood. I mean, if someone messed with the brakes they had to get the hood open first.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, for just a second there, I thought I caught a scent I recognized. Then I lost it. Sorry.”

“Would you know it again?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, if you do come across it, tell me immediately. This guy is dangerous.”

“Hey,” he protested. “I know. It’s my dad that got shot.”

Vicki wondered if she should tell him that the person who’d shot his father and the person who’d tampered with Henry’s car weren’t likely to be the same man—the actions were far too different—and in her book this new threat, with no pattern to make it predictable, was a lot more dangerous. She decided against it. What good would it do?

 

Celluci watched until Peter and Rose had gone inside then he backed out of Dr. Dixon’s driveway and headed downtown. “It’s hard not to like them, isn’t it?”

“What’s not to like?”