PacksBrokenHeart (11 page)

No way he could charm Suzanne’s wolf into running with him again.

After an early supper at the diner Owen spent the rest of the evening at the community center. He taught two self-defense classes, talked with pups and their parents, signed off on some bills for payment and sent a few back-and-forth emails to a graphic designer. He had an idea for flyers to advertise the center’s facilities for corporate team-building activities, family get-togethers and special occasions. Lucky for them the graphic designer was talented and offered to donate five hours of her time.

For the cost of a ream of paper a local pizza joint with a good color printer had offered to print up the flyers. They’d also distribute them.

More and more Owen was enjoying the work. It cleared his head and made him feel he had a purpose. As he and Gerry locked up and wished each other a good night, Owen was looking forward to getting the results of his aptitude tests the next day.

As he got in his pickup and headed for his rented home he decided to put off calling Cutler until the next night. The only thing he had to report was zero progress. Owen hated the thought but maybe he should tell Cutler to get somebody more experienced to help. Maybe a private investigator or something. His head was full of ideas about what that aptitude test would tell—that and images of Suzanne’s soft curves and pretty mouth. The wind was strong out of the west and carried no unusual scents.

Still pissed at the idea of having to admit his failure, Owen stopped halfway to his front door. The walkway was littered with tiny black boxes, almost invisible in the dark. Bending down, he picked one up. It smelled vaguely of lemon, which puzzled Owen. He looked up at the eaves trough, at the roof. Maybe they’d fallen but from where? His musing stopped when the little plastic box in his fingers began to vibrate.

The boxes still on the ground started to shimmy and bounce. His fingers were opening to drop the box in his hand. He was pivoting, starting to run for cover as fast as he could when all the boxes started emitting a high-pressure mist.

The stink of citronella was overwhelming. Still moving, Owen could feel his eyelids swell as the spray from two of the boxes scored a direct hit and soaked his face. His throat tried to close up and protect his lungs. Pain exploded behind his knees when what had to be a baseball bat caught his legs from behind. He went down like he’d been shot but rolled. Through swelling, streaming eyes he could just make out four males surrounding him. With a start Owen recognized the outline of gas masks over each of their faces. Probably Army surplus. How fucking ironic was that?

With no time to dwell on it Owen twisted out of the way of a boot coming at his gut. They reached for him, all at once. If they wanted him on his feet, Owen had no problem with that. Two of them held his arms behind his back. They hadn’t shot him and they hadn’t used that baseball bat to beat him into unconsciousness. Whatever it was they wanted probably involved some talking. He had no problem with that either. If they talked, they might just say something useful.

“Consider this your one and only warning, stray.” The voice was definitely male, so gravelly and muffled it had to be disguised. The two males holding him were strong. They had to be weres.

“Get out of town.” The speaker, the one Owen took for the ringleader, was swinging the baseball bat and smacking the business end with his palm.

The air around Owen began to clear as those little black boxes, one by one, exhausted their stores of citronella. He was still coughing like an asthmatic though.

“In fact, get out of the state.” That baseball bat kept moving in steady arcs full of angry promise that might have hypnotized a lesser were.

Owen couldn’t make out any identifying features on any of the men. His eyes were still watering like crazy so all he could see were baseball caps hiding their hair and dark nondescript clothing covering them from neck to ankle. They were all shorter than him but that wasn’t much help. Just about everybody was shorter than him.

That baseball bat kept moving. “This ain’t your pack and you ain’t welcome.”

After that the punches started flying. One caught him in the ribs, hard. The two weres who thought they had power-lock holds on his arms were flung forward as Owen stepped back, leaned against their weight and used their own shifting inertia to swing them around either side of him. The rolling momentum of their own bodies ripped Owen’s arms out of their hands.

Apparently the conversation was over. It was time to rock.

A fist caught him in the belly but he managed to duck in time to keep that baseball bat from taking his head off. He kicked out, sending one of his attackers into the shrubbery. Another jumped on his back, hung on with arms and legs and tried to choke him out. Owen tipped forward, grabbed the guy’s neck and flipped him up and over.

Guy Number Two landed on the concrete walkway with a satisfying groan.

When Owen straightened, when he shifted his weight to block the next two incoming punches, the odds caught up with him. The baseball bat connected with the side of his head, stunning him. He dropped to his knees.

The last thing he heard was the sound of running feet. Then, from a distance, the sound of an engine roaring to life. He looked around as best he could but couldn’t even see taillights speeding away. Instinct screamed at him to get up and chase the bastards down.

Common sense told him he didn’t stand a chance—not with lungs full of choking gas and eyes swollen half-shut.

Still on his knees, he grabbed up a handful of the little black boxes. He’d been brought down by canine spray-trainers, the kind dog owners used to keep their dogs from barking. Dog trainers! When he got his hands on those guys Owen was going to mess them up good. Enraged, he whipped the boxes in his hand across the yard as hard as he could and passed out.

Owen was behind the wheel of his pickup, thinking driving was a bad idea. He probably had a concussion, although his wolf wasn’t as sentient as Owen so his wolf could withstand a headshot better than Owen.

And it was his wolf that was taking him to the sheriff’s office. Damn thing always knew when the human part of Owen’s head wasn’t functioning on all cylinders. If the wolf said step aside, experience had taught Owen to listen.

Logically it made more sense to seek medical help. Dial up 9-1-1 and call himself an ambulance. Or contact Cory and advise him what had happened. Maybe there was a covert coup going on?

One of his tires hit a pothole and the jarring made Owen flinch. Who the hell would bum rush a were who’d approached the Alpha honorably and been given permission to stay? He felt spots of blood trickling down the side of his head from where the baseball bat had caught him. Gingerly, Owen rubbed away the tickle.

He pulled up outside of the sheriff’s office and practically sighed with relief. His wolf wanted to be one place and one place only—with Tom and Suzanne.

How fucked up was that?

Its part played, Owen’s wolf slipped behind Owen’s conscious mind where it regularly resided.

It was Owen who staggered into the office. Deputy Sheriff Wally Pierce, who was manning the desk, took one look at him, hoisted Owen’s arm over his shoulder and led him to a desk. He sat Owen down then grabbed a first-aid kit off the top of a filing cabinet.

“You look like shit,” Wally said succinctly. He picked up a water bottle somebody had left sitting around and began drizzling water in Owen’s eyes. “And you smell like furniture polish. I’m not sure which is worse.”

Owen appreciated the oversized brown-haired were’s humor. He appreciated the ice pack Wally held against his head even more. Wally tended to his injuries and asked what happened.

When he could finally see more than fuzzy outlines and felt a little more lucid, Owen looked around the office. “Where’s Tom and Suzanne?” It seemed odd only one sheriff would be on site. There wasn’t a desk sergeant or even a dispatcher in the place.

“Didn’t you hear?” Wally asked. He handed Owen a towel so he could mop himself up. “No, I guess you didn’t,” Wally said, shaking his head and answering his own question.

“Hear what?”

“Look, maybe it’ll be best if they tell you.” Wally got on the radio and called up Tom. Once he had him on the line all he said was that Owen Wells was at the station and he’d been attacked.

Owen heard Tom’s voice saying he’d be at the station soon. Leaning back and cradling his bruised ribs, Owen held the ice pack to his head and began repeating his story while Wally keyed the particulars into a computer.

A little while later Tom came in through the front door. Suzanne was on his heels. Without a word she walked up to Owen and punched him in the face, hard.

“What the…?” Owen bellowed, jumped to his feet, dropped the ice pack and raised his forearms to deflect another blow.
If
one came.

“You slimy son of a bitch,” she cursed. She grabbed her cuffs with one hand and his wrist with the other.

He had to hand it to the bitch, she sure could move fast. In an instant she’d spun around behind him, had his thumb bent back over his wrist, had one cuff on him and was yanking his other arm back to restrain that one as well. Owen’s wolf snarled but didn’t resist the female manhandling him. Big, strong and trained, Owen could have easily thrown her away from him. But his wolf had no interest in harming the female so he submitted without argument.

“You’re under arrest,” she yelled in his ear, making him wince. The small, feminine hand on his shoulder dug right into a pressure point, dropping his ass back in the chair as if there were magnets in it.

“For what?” Owen yelled back.

“Murder, you lying snake in the grass piece of shit.”

“Murder? Who? What the—?”

“Cory Amos, you dumbass. I’m arresting you for the murder of Cory Amos.”

Owen blinked. His head ached from the sudden, deafening silence. Cory? Cory was dead?

“You had means, motive and opportunity,” Suzanne hissed. The venom in her voice made his stomach roil…and not because he’d taken a shot to the head less than a half-hour before. “Cory’s neck was snapped and it wasn’t done by an amateur.” She stepped in front of him, dropped her face near his and sneered.

Owen wished she wasn’t standing between his legs. He wanted to squeeze his thighs together and protect his boy bits from her. Whatever else she was, the fine deputy sheriff, at the moment, was scary. Eyes bugging out and mouths open, Tom and Wally stared at her as if she’d gone insane.

Suzanne continued in a quiet, furious tone, “Whoever did it left wide tire tracks on the unpaved parking lot behind the pharmacy. There are boot tracks too.” She jammed the toe of her brown steel-toed boot into his.

“A group of weres,” Owen shot back, “jumped me outside my place.” He might be liking the way those full round breasts of hers were moving beneath her brown uniform shirt but he didn’t lie down and bare his belly for anybody. “They gassed me with citronella spray.”

“What kind of lame-ass excuse is that?” she demanded but her nose was wrinkling like she was finally registering the smell coming off him.

Owen stood up so suddenly she staggered back a step. “The proof’s right here, in my front pocket.” He shoved his hip at her.

“Shove that thing in my direction once more and you’ll find yourself neutered.”

“Are you always this dense or is it just your blonde roots showing? Check the pocket. I kept one of the spray trainers they used. The rest are scattered over my front lawn. What? You think I
like
admitting I was brought down by a dog-training device?”

Throughout all this Tom had stood one step behind Suzanne. Now he took the lead, reached around her, slid two fingers into the pocket of Owen’s jeans and pulled out the small black plastic box. He sniffed it then held it up for Suzanne to do the same. Like Tom, she recoiled from the strong residual smell.

Owen watched them peer at his eyes. They still felt puffy and he bet they were red as hell too.

After a moment Tom’s mouth thinned. “What were,” he said slowly, “especially one as strong as Owen, would admit to something so humiliating unless it was the truth?”

“I also didn’t hit myself in the head with a baseball bat, or across the back of my knees.” Owen made a deliberate effort to bring his anger down a notch. Cory was dead. He couldn’t believe it.
Refused
to believe it.

Suzanne shot him a skeptical look but she examined the side of his head, glanced at the open first-aid kit and the ice pack sitting on the desk. She held her breath for a moment then exhaled, slowly. “Show us your injuries,” she said in a calm, professional voice, then stepped behind him and unlocked the handcuffs.

Without argument, Owen loosened his belt, unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down his hips. “Guess Momma was right about the clean underwear,” he deadpanned when Tom joined Suzanne. He felt her warm fingertips smooth over the backs of his knees, right where the swelling was starting to rise.

“Wally,” Tom said, “get us another couple ice packs, would you?”

Owen took off his jacket and lifted his shirt. He winced mentally when he saw the red, swollen imprint of a fist over his ribs. In a day the bruising would be ugly as hell. When Wally came back Tom took one of the ice packs and held it against Owen’s side.

“Hope nobody drops by,” Owen quipped, even though he didn’t feel much like laughing. “What would the citizens of Pinebridge think if they saw me with my drawers down and you two with your hands all over me?”

Grinning crookedly, Tom used the back of his hand to slap Owen lightly—right on his rising bruise. Owen flinched.

“Sorry, buddy,” Tom said dryly. “Suppose I should have asked if you thought anything was broken first.” His grin, even though it faded quickly, took the sting out of the teasing slap. Getting hit actually made Owen feel better. If he’d been hurt bad the big cop would never have treated Owen’s injuries so lightly.

Owen let them tend to him—ice his wounds, drizzle more water in his eyes. He could have taken care of himself. He was used to taking care of himself. Still, when Wally walked back to the dispatcher’s station to respond to an incoming call Owen felt peaceful with Suzanne and Tom near. When his bruises were iced to numbness he pulled up his jeans and tucked in his shirt.

“Okay but why him?” Suzanne asked. She sat on the edge of the desk, one foot dangling and one on the floor. With her arms crossed in front of her, she looked pensive instead of angry for a change.

“I can think of a good reason,” Tom said. He pulled up a chair, sat down and stretched out his long legs. “It was an attempt to injure Owen or overpower him so he’d have no choice
but
to leave. Think about it. An attack like that was meant to humiliate him. It would have if those boys had managed to beat you.” Tom nodded slowly and pointed at Owen. “He leaves the same night Cory’s murdered…” Tom’s voice faltered when he said Cory’s name. “And he implicates himself. Also, he leaves and…and the strongest male in our pack leaves the same night our Alpha’s murdered.”

Suzanne transferred the call she’d placed to Cutler to the speakerphone in the station’s conference room.

“I agree with Tom’s theory,” the Alpha said. He sounded tired and angry at the same time. “The strongest males in Pinebridge are being eliminated systematically. Tom, as acting sheriff, you make your own decisions about how to handle this investigation but I’d suggest you assign deputies to keep a close eye on Roger Madison and Skip Walters.”

“You think they’re suspects? Not them. No way.” Roger owned one of the grocery stores in town. Skip worked as a foreman for one of the big ranches in the area.

“No. Just the opposite. When I was there I pegged them as two of your pack’s strongest males. Potential candidates to step in and take on Ed’s role as Beta.”

Tom’s brow furrowed then he nodded. “Agreed. I’ll meet with them tonight. Tell them what’s going on and set up a roster to keep them under surveillance.”

“And Tom…assign a deputy to keep a watch on you too.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

Tom’s brow furrowed again. Deeper this time. His head came up. Suzanne was giving him one of those cool, assessing looks of hers then she nodded. Owen shrugged and nodded too.

Cutler continued, “With Ed gone you’re a logical choice for Beta, Tom. No insult intended but I’m not sure you’ve got what it takes to be an Alpha. Especially now when your pack needs a powerhouse leader. Leaders,” Cutler added, correcting himself.

“No insult taken, Sheriff,” Tom said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Once or twice Ed and I talked about me moving up in the ranks. We joked about me honing my fighting skills. Funny thing was, in the back of my mind I kind of felt he
wasn’t
joking.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to him more outside the job. He was a good male and there wasn’t enough time to learn all I could from him.”

Cutler hadn’t mentioned sending Owen there to investigate and Owen decided not to bring it up either. At this point it might muddy the waters.

“That’s something you’ll have to process another time, Tom,” Cutler said. “What your pack needs now is strong interim leadership. You’ve got a helluva situation unraveling there. I need the three of you to step in and step up. Yes, Suzanne, the
three
of you,” Cutler added even before Suzanne’s growl rumbled through the room. “Whether Owen stays or not he’s got Alpha written all over him. That pack needs him now.

“I’m your Alpha, Suzanne, and I trust Owen. It comes down to whether you accept my judgment.”

Her mouth thinned and those eyes of hers looked at Owen as if she was thinking of stringing him up out back and laying a good beating on him herself. Then her expression softened. The anger faded and was replaced by a resigned professionalism that Owen admired.

“I accept your judgment, Cutler. You know I do.” She exhaled slowly. “I also agree with Tom. Whoever’s behind this has destabilized the hierarchy. That said, in the absence of worthy leadership, people will cleave to anybody who steps up and dazzles them with a few well-chosen words. Best-case scenario, that’s what whoever’s behind this is waiting to do.”

Tom nodded. “Wipe out the hierarchy and step into the void,” he added. “Worst-case scenario? The killing hasn’t stopped and Owen and I, as well as the other two fellas, are at the top of the hit list.”

“Agreed,” Cutler said. “Protect Roger and Skip then protect yourselves by staying together.”

“No way, Cutler,” Suzanne interrupted hotly.

“I know you and Owen are like oil and water.”

Owen wondered where he’d heard that recently.

“Well, think of Tom as soap,” Cutler suggested with the high-handed, unshakeable confidence of an Alpha. “He’ll let you bind. Make you a cohesive team that can lead that pack through this. When it’s over, Suzanne, you can bite Owen’s ass on the way out the door. Nobody will reprimand you for it, me included.”

When he woke up the next morning Owen stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. He was in Tom’s guest room. Somebody was using the shower down the hall and he sat up gingerly. There was a goose egg on the side of his head that hurt only when he touched it. His ribs were tender but nothing that would sideline him.