Touch of Madness (4 page)

Tom was waiting in the hall just outside the door. Putting his hands on my waist, he looked me straight in the eyes. The kindness in his gaze warmed me to my toes, made me wonder, yet again, what I’d done to deserve this man.

“How’d it go?”

I gave a small shrug. “He blames himself.”

“No surprise there.” Tom pulled me into his arms. I didn’t fight it. It felt so good to rest my head on his shoulder, feel his heart beating and listen to the soft, quiet hum that blocked out the angry voices in my head. I took a deep breath, inhaling the masculine scent of skin and soap. We were still standing like that when the police officers rounded the corner and said my name.

“Excuse me, are you Mary Kathleen Reilly?”

I stepped out of Tom’s embrace reluctantly, taking a small step back. Tom took my hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“That would be me.”

There were two of them, both a few years older than me, probably thirty-five to my twenty-eight. Both wore suits that fit well enough and looked as though they got a fair amount of use. Not shabby, but not new either. The one on the left stood about five feet ten. He wore a tan suit with a brown belt and loafers. The color suited his sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. The man on the right was Italian-American. It showed in his olive coloring, his features, and somehow, in his attitude. I would be hard pressed to say how I could tell, but it was unmistakable, at least to me. And while they weren’t uniforms, and weren’t flashing their badges, it was just as obvious they were cops.

“Could we have a word with you?” The blond gestured toward a wooden bench a short distance down the hallway.

“May I ask what’s going on?” Tom’s voice was even, but I could feel the tension singing through his arm and the hand that held mine. Something about them was bothering him. Normally, I’ve learned to trust his supernatural instincts, but I let go of his hand instead, turning to rest it lightly on his chest. The gesture was meant to reassure him. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I knew that any more strain and he wouldn’t be able to hold onto his beast. The last thing he, I, or anyone else wanted was for him to change form in the middle of a crowded courthouse. Unlike most of the werewolves, he retained his personality, but that didn’t make changing unexpectedly a good thing. Nobody else in this hallway would know he was still himself. There could be a panic. With the rampant prejudice and fear that lycanthropes faced it wasn’t inconceivable that one of the officers might draw a weapon. There were far too many negative possibilities for me to be willing to risk it. I might not be armed with weapons, but I was still pretty good in a fight if it Came to it. But my psychic senses told me neither of the men were Thrall hosts.

“We just want to ask Ms. Reilly a few questions.” The blond smiled as he said it, raising one hand in a placating gesture. But there was a tension in his body language that I didn’t like.

“Fine. No problem,” I agreed. I started walking toward the bench they’d indicated earlier. Tom came with me. Apparently his willingness to let me handle things myself only went so far. For the life of me I couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. But I didn’t have time to think too much about it. As soon as my butt hit the wood the Italian introduced himself and his partner and started in on the questions.

“I’m Detective Frank Martinelli. This,” he gestured toward the blond, “is my partner, Detective Al Cook.”

Neither one held out a hand for me to shake, so I nodded my acknowledgment.

Cook took the lead then. “Ms. Reilly, can you tell us where you were last night at around 10:00 P.M.?

Tom was still standing. He looked from Martinelli to Cook, then back at me. “I think I’ll go get your lawyer.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary, sir.” Cook forced himself to smile when he said it. He was being the very picture of the polite police detective in dealing with Tom, but I got the impression he wasn’t happy about it.

“I do.” Tom gave me a look that said as clearly as words that I should shut up and wait for the attorney. It was probably good advice. That didn’t mean I was going to take it.

I watched him hurry toward the courtroom. He’d barely stepped through the door when I turned my attention back to the detectives and answered the question.

“Last night at ten I was watching a DVD with Father Michael O’Rourke and my brother Bryan in the rectory at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope parish.”

Cook’s expression changed. He looked almost like he’d swallowed a bug. Martinelli let out a bark of laughter. He stifled it with difficulty in response to a glare from his partner, hiding it behind a cough.

“Right.” Cook pulled a small spiral notebook and pen from his trouser pocket. It reminded me forcibly of all the police procedurals I’d watched on television. I wondered just exactly what crime had been committed. I didn’t, however, ask. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I really had been at the rectory. But I already had one pending criminal case and as the saying goes, anything I said can, and would, be used against me. I wasn’t looking to get myself into any more trouble.

“And Father O’Rourke can verify this?”

“Of course. Let me get you his number.” I took a minute to rummage in my bag to pull out my cell phone, by which time Tom and the attorney were walking out of the courtroom and hurrying toward us.

“Officers.” The attorney’s voice was smooth, cultured. It matched his appearance perfectly. He wore a suit in dove gray with a faint charcoal pinstripe. It was almost the exact same shade and cut as Tom’s, but I’d have bet most of a paycheck that it cost at least twice as much. It had been cut to perfection and had that indefinable something that made me think it had been hand tailored. If I was right, that suit had cost him more than my last, lamented vehicle. He had been selected by the insurance company to represent me, and while I probably wouldn’t have chosen him if it were up to me, I had no complaints thus far. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Ms. Reilly has been charged with vandalism of a laboratory and destruction of specimens at St. Elizabeth’s hospital. Last night, someone broke into that same laboratory and stole similar specimens. We thought that was quite a coincidence, and decided we’d like to have a chat with her.” Cook was pissed and it showed. Either that or he was putting on an act. Most cops don’t rise to detective, and the ones who do don’t make it by losing their tempers just because someone brings in a lawyer.

“First.” The lawyer held up his index finger as he spoke. “She has been charged. She has not been convicted.” He held up a second finger. “Second, as you no doubt know, my client has been declared persona non grata at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. Security has been ordered to escort her off the premises on sight. Since, as you can see, she has a very distinctive appearance, I doubt she could have made it through the doorway, let alone to the laboratory.”

“The perp didn’t come in the front door,” Cook answered.

I heard him, but I wasn’t really listening. My mind was spinning. Someone had broken into the lab and stolen similar specimens. Shit. Specimens…he meant eggs. There had been more Thrall eggs somewhere in that lab, and somebody had stolen them. Oh, this was so bad.

3

« ^ »

I sat squirming in the uncomfortable wooden seat most of the afternoon. I couldn’t keep my mind on the trial. I was too distracted from the questioning by Cook and Martinelli. Fortunately, they didn’t call me up to the stand to testify. I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have sounded coherent. My mind just kept going over the same two questions again and again: who the hell would steal Thrall eggs and why?

The obvious answer was the Thrall. They were sentient, thought of eggs as their unborn children, and were facing a crisis. Tané hadn’t been wrong in his assessment that morning in the conference room. Thrall hives had been decimated throughout the world. They had to be worrying about extinction. While I wasn’t thrilled by the notion that they had recovered some of Monica’s eggs, at least that explanation made sense. But the moment I’d learned of the missing eggs I had dropped my shields and actually tried to hear what was going on in the hive. Instead of the usual angry buzz of the queens and hive there was utter silence. They were blocking me out. While a part of me really did appreciate their absence, the more sensible part knew that it couldn’t be good. The witness stood and left the stand. I hadn’t heard any of the testimony, but my attorney had one of those smug little smiles he wore when he felt we’d scored major points.

The judge glanced at the clock. He leaned forward to speak into the microphone in front of him. “We’ll adjourn for the day. Court will resume tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”

He gave a brisk nod of his head, and the bailiff called out. “All rise.”

We rose. As soon as the judge exited the room through a door behind the bench people began gathering up their belongings and leaving the courtroom. Tom and I joined the general flow headed toward the door. When we reached the hall people herded toward the exits, flowing steadily around the construction debris. Tom was helping me into my coat when a voice called out his name, the sound echoing off the stone floors and cream-colored walls.

He turned abruptly, automatically putting himself between me and any possible danger. I turned to see Jake and Rob, a pair of teenage boys who were members of his pack, approaching at a fast walk from the direction of the stairwell. I knew both boys.

I’d met Rob in July. At the time he’d been painfully thin, with straight blond hair and a penchant for chains and leather. I realized looking at him now that he’d grown. Regular meals had put meat on his bones. Daily workouts had given him bulk and definition. More than that, there was a confidence in his bearing that hadn’t been there before. He still wore all black, but instead of the biker jacket I’d seen before, today it was an expensive full-length trench coat. He was living with his girlfriend in one of the apartments in my building for free, and an uncharitable part of me wondered how he could afford the coat and not afford rent. I clamped my mouth shut, because while I think Rob needs to develop more of a sense of responsibility, my saying so wasn’t going to help today’s situation. I’d also met Jake during the crisis with the Thrall. He hadn’t liked me much then, and he didn’t like me now. He was still whipcord thin, with noticeably long arms and legs that ended in oversize hands and feet—both common traits of lycanthropes that Tom didn’t share. Anger flashed in the dark eyes that weren’t quite hidden beneath a fringe of dark hair.

“I was afraid we’d miss you,” Rob admitted. “Traffic was a bitch.”

Neither boy greeted me. I wasn’t surprised. Rob and I get along well, but he’s not big on good manners. Jake is of the opinion that even being civil might give me the mistaken impression that he approves of Tom being with me. In fact, none of the wolves are in favor of our relationship.

Werewolves are a matriarchal society, but the females are sterile. In order to maintain a healthy pack size, they use human surrogates to carry the pack’s children, which are then raised by the group. Rob’s current girlfriend, Dusty Quinn, is one of the surrogates. She’s the reason I got involved with the Thrall last time, because she was Monica’s runner-up for the queen crown and my former fiancé, Dylan Shea, was her uncle. He begged me to save her life and, sucker that I am for innocent teenagers, I agreed.

Unfortunately, while she and Rob had been going at it like little bunnies from the strange sounds I’ve been hearing through my apartment wall for the last few months, she still wasn’t preggers. Neither was their second hope for kids, Jake’s girlfriend Ruby. Mary Connolly, the wolf pack leader, was getting nervous. She’d already warned me that only the strongest males can breed, and Tom’s one of those males. Jake not only supports the pack leader’s position that Tom is supposed to remain unattached until both Dusty and Ruby are pregnant, but he’s been actively trying to turn some of the other pack members against me.

“We’ve got a pack meeting in a half hour.” Rob brushed a section of hair back from his face. His voice was tense, nervous. He kept shifting from foot to foot, his narrow face pinched with worry. Without even intending it, my mind brushed his, even though it shouldn’t be possible. He was afraid. I saw bits of conversations he’d had recently. The pack meeting had been called to discuss whether he and Jake would be given another month, or if both surrogates would need to choose another male from the pack for breeding. There was a good chance it would be Tom. Rob didn’t want to lose Dusty, and he was more than a little afraid of how I would react if the pack forced Tom and me to separate.

“Haven’t you people ever heard of artificial insemination—or free will?” The words popped out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant to say them, hadn’t even realized I was thinking them.

Tom’s eyes bugged out. Rob stepped back a pace, looking shocked. Jake gave a harsh bark of laughter that had very little humor in it. “That’s not how it works.” He gave me a long look. “The male who breeds has to be there to raise the cubs as well.”

“So? They live right downstairs. From what I was told the whole pack raises the children. Does it really matter whether the biological parents are actually sleeping together?”

“That’s not how it’s done.” Jake’s voice dropped into a lower register. He stepped forward, shoulders hunched aggressively. Both Tom and Rob stepped between us, and I heard a low, menacing growl come from between my sweetie’s lips. “Besides,” he glared at Tom, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “You were ordered not to get too close to her.” He nodded in my direction. “She shouldn’t know this much about our business. She isn’t one of us.”

Rob stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on Jake’s arm that earned him a baleful glare from the dark-haired wolf and a growl that raised the hairs on the nape of my neck.

“She knows what our Acca has chosen to tell her. No more,” Rob assured him.

“How would you know what he whispers in her ear in bed at night?”

Rob snorted in derision at the same moment I did. “Somehow I don’t think pack politics interests her as pillow talk.”