Jack Slade, page 4
He watched a young man in tee shirt and Levi’s walking toward the tree. It was late at night, and the moon rode high and full in the sky. He saw a wolf appear suddenly, almost as if it had materialized from the darkness. It was the same wolf he had seen psychically on the mountain. He sensed the same ferocity. The same blood-lust. Eyes flaming red with rage, fangs dripping, roaring savagely, it pounced on the boy. Slade opened his eyes and turned away so as not to witness the gruesome scene.
“You see a lot with your eyes closed, do you?” Jeff called sarcastically.
As he bent under the tape and walked back toward them, Helen stared at him perplexedly.
“Sometimes I can tune into a place better that way.”
“Okay,” Jeff returned, drawing the word out dubiously.
“Let’s go to the next scene.”
Slade stood in a vacant lot in an upscale neighborhood in a suburb to the north of Crawford. Once again, his eyes were closed. He watched a middle-aged man walking his dog down the sidewalk. It was late at night, and the moon rode high and full in the sky. Suddenly, a wolf appeared, as if it had materialized from the darkness. Not being an expert in wolves to Slade the beast seemed the same as the last one. But there was something different, something elusive. He was forced to watch the man get torn limb from limb, blood drenching the ground and splattering the sidewalk, arms and legs ripped off and strewn over the grass, as he struggled to identify what he was feeling.
Then he had it. The energy was different. It was not the same wolf.
Another shape shifter, for whatever reason, was imitating the method of the first killings. No doubt to avoid any suspicion.
But why?
He turned to Jeff and Helen. “Let’s go to the last scene.”
Slade stood in the middle of a parking lot behind a grocery store in a rundown neighborhood in the western sector of town, beside an outline of a body chalked on the asphalt. He watched as an old Indian, apparently drunk, weaved across the lot. It was late at night. Again, a high full moon brightened the sky. Suddenly, a wolf appeared, huge and ferocious, as if it materialized from the darkness. The Indian never saw it coming. Slade opened his eyes and turned away from a scene of horrific carnage. Of one thing he was sure—it was the same wolf as the last scene.
They were dealing with two killers. Two shape shifters.
The sun was a crimson ball dropping below the distant mountains as they drove through after-work traffic on the way back to the police station. Slade was silent and moody. Jeff kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror, obviously anxious to hear what Slade had discovered. Finally, his patience ran out.
“Well, are you going to tell us what you discovered—if anything—or not?”
Helen turned her head and smirked at him. “Are you going to let us in on what you saw with your eyes closed?”
“Sorry.” Slade’s mouth quirked somberly. “I wasn’t being deliberately uncommunicative. I was just thinking.”
Jeff watched him in the mirror. “Would you mind giving us the benefit of your thoughts?”
“I’m still putting the pieces together. But there is one thing I can say at this point: it is a wolf doing the killings, so you can drop any other considerations.” About to mention that there were two killers, he hesitated, for no particular reason other than his natural caution about sharing all he knew, and decided to hold that detail back for the present. “And it’s one wolf, not a pack of wolves.”
“So we have a rogue wolf on our hands,” returned Jeff.
“That’s my assessment at this point.”
Jeff turned into the police parking lot, pulled into an empty parking space, and shut off the engine. Turning in the seat, he regarded Slade with disgust. “As interesting as that is, that means we’re still right where we were. No one in the white or the Sioux community, has seen a killer wolf roaming around the city.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more at the moment. In a few days, I expect to have more. Would you mind if I nose around here in Crawford? I might be able to pick up some leads.”
“Go right ahead. I’m up against a wall here. The city is in a state of terror. No one knows where this wolf will strike next. I’m not too proud to ask for help. If I don’t crack this case soon, my job could be on the line.”
As they climbed out, Jeff moved around the front of the car and came close to Helen. “Don’t be such a stranger. Next time you’re in town—and I hope it’s soon—let’s do lunch.”
She squeezed his hand. “We’ll do that.”
“All right, Mr. Slade.” He extended his hand. “I appreciate your help. Look around and let me know when you find anything.”
“I will.” Slade took the hand. “And thanks for the latitude.”
Jeff walked back into the station, and Slade turned to Helen. “He’s a nice guy. Intelligent. I’m surprised you’re keeping so distant from him.”
“He is a nice guy,” she answered wistfully. “But for some reason, as handsome and personable as he is, he doesn’t excite me very much.” She grinned impishly. “Maybe he’ll grow on me with time.”
“I hope so, for his sake. But right now we have a more immediate problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m starving! Can you recommend a good restaurant here in town?”
She took his arm and turned him toward the Jaguar. “I know just the place.”
4
The restaurant was just off the highway on the western edge of Crawford. The parking lot was almost full when Slade found an empty space toward the end, pulled in, and cut the engine. He gazed at a single story structure built of rugged stone and tinted plate glass windows. Massive oaken beams supported a red-tiled roof. The sign over the front door read: Red Bull Restaurant.
A hostess led them down two steps into the sunken dining room and across thick rust carpeting to a table beside a window facing west. It gave them a panoramic view of the prairie stretching all the way to the mountains. In the center of the room, a fire crackled cheerfully in a square stone fireplace. As they sat down, the hostess placed menus in front of them.
“The waitress will be with you in just a moment,” she said with a smile, then turned and walked away.
A young, pretty, blonde waitress appeared wearing a grey uniform, holding a round glass pot in her hand. “Coffee?” she asked brightly.
“Yes,” replied Helen.
“No thanks,” Slade said. “But I’d like a beer just as quickly as you can get it to me.”
She poured coffee into Helen’s cup, then smiled at Slade. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”
Her skirt flared around well-formed calves as she spun about and moved away. Slade watched her rounded hips sway from the corners of his eyes for a split-second, then applied himself to the menu.
Helen chuckled. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Nothing escapes me,” Slade murmured, his eyes riveted on the menu.
The waitress came back with his beer, and Helen ordered fresh trout, wild rice, and vegetables. Slade ordered prime rib, potatoes, salad, and a tureen of clam chowder for the two of them.
He poured a deep swallow of beer down his dry throat, sighed with satisfaction, then planted his elbows on the table and glanced out the window. The sun had set, but a faint glow still outlined the mountains shimmering in a blue haze in the far west, tinting the sky a deep velvet azure. A rising wind rustled the tall grass, giving the impression of liquid waves of pale gold undulating to the horizon.
The soup arrived, and the waitress ladled out two bowls.
As they dipped their spoons, Helen asked, “Can we go into a little more detail about what you found out this afternoon?”
Slade sampled the soup, nodded with satisfaction then replied, “I’m not sure what more I can tell you.”
“Being around my grandfather for as long as I have, I understand enough about these things to assume that the wolf you saw wasn’t a physical wolf.” When Slade kept eating his soup, she continued, “Which means that what we’re talking about is a shape shifter.” Frowning at Slade’s continuing silence, she asked, “Since you could tell it was a wolf, and we’ll assume it’s a shape shifter, could you see the human identity of the animal?”
Slade ladled out a second helping of soup. He glanced at Helen, held up the ladle, and raised his black brows questioningly.
“No thank you,” she muttered impatiently.
He chuckled. “Did you know that when you’re angry, the lights sparkling in your eyes deepen from pale to reddish gold?”
“Really, Slade! I’m being serious.”
“At the moment,” he responded imperturbably, “I can’t think of anything more serious than how emotion heightens and makes more vibrant the color of your face and deepens the mysterious pools of your eyes.”
She put down her spoon and just stared at him.
He pushed his bowl away as the waitress brought their entrees.
“Thank you,” he said as she placed his plate in front of him.
She flashed him a big smile while she put Helen’s plate on the table. As she twirled around in a flurry of skirts and moved away, Slade cut into his prime rib to make certain it was cooked the way he liked it. Satisfied, he glanced at Helen. She was stabbing at her trout with her fork in sullen silence. Deciding that he had pushed her as far as he safely could, he addressed her question.
“Your assumption is correct. We are dealing with a shape shifter. I didn’t bring up that point with Connolly because if I did, my credibility would go flying right out the window. I live and work in a world unknown to the majority of people. One that should remain unknown. So I have to guard what I say and how much information I give out. If I’m going to make any progress on this case, I need Jeff’s good will and cooperation. It would be foolish to jeopardize that by telling him all that I know or suspect.”
Her face brightened with interest. “Could you see the identity of the shifter?”
“Unfortunately, no. The wolf just materialized out of the darkness, and I couldn’t see its human identity. That’s why I asked Connolly to allow me to look around here in Crawford. I hope to stumble onto some information I can use.”
“How will you do that?”
“I’ll wander around the Native American section of town. Hit a few bars. Ask a few questions.”
“You should take along John Dancing Horse. He could interface for you.”
Slade took a bite of meat. “What do you know about John Dancing Horse?”
She shrugged. “He’s been with my father for years—ever since he was a teenager. He’s intelligent and knows the trades. He worked his way up through the crews to become my father’s right hand man. He’s enormously loyal to Dad.”
“Your father’s lucky to have him,” Slade observed quietly and pushed his empty plate away.
When Slade and Helen left the restaurant, a waxing moon hung over the eastern prairie, its pale light dimming a myriad of twinkling stars spread in a vast shimmering wash across the sable vault. The night wind ruffled the tall grass and rustled the leaves of a cluster of oaks that bordered the far end of the parking lot where Slade’s Jaguar was parked. By that time of evening, the cars had thinned out, and the Jaguar sat alone beneath the swaying branches of the oaks.
As Slade pulled the keys from his pocket, a group of four men came around the corner of the restaurant and moved toward them. Slade read the situation instantly and turned to Helen.
“Can you drive a stick shift?”
“When I have to,” she answered in a puzzled voice. “Why?”
He pressed the keys into her hand. “Get in the driver’s side of the Jaguar. Start the engine and let it idle. If things go bad, get out of here as fast as you can, and go to the police station.”
By then, she was aware of the men walking threateningly toward them.
He pulled his automatic and jerked back the slide. “Take this. It’s cocked. Keep your finger off the trigger. If you have to defend yourself, don’t hesitate to pull that trigger.”
“But what about you?”
He glared at her. “Go!”
She stared at him for a moment, her dark eyes wide with fright at the terrible change that had come over his features in the face of danger. Without another word, she turned and ran for the car.
In order to keep the men as far as possible from the Jaguar and Helen, Slade moved to meet them. He didn’t remove his jacket. It gave him enough freedom of movement, and it would be another layer of protection against the blows he knew he was going to be taking.
“Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?” he called. Steel edged his voice; his face had become a death mask. His eyes blazed with remorseless fire. A dark, terrible power exploded into his aura as battle lust transmuted the blood in his veins into molten rivers of flame.
He noticed that three of them were Native American and one was Caucasian. Most of them were unarmed; the white man carried a tire iron. Feeling the terrific force of his expanding aura, they hesitated and glanced uneasily at each other. Then, taking confidence in superior numbers, they came determinedly on.
When only three feet separated them, the man with the tire iron stepped forward, raised the iron over his head, and swung it at Slade. The move told Slade immediately that they weren’t professionals. The broad movement gave Slade plenty of time to see what he was doing. With the sinister grace of a panther, he slid in under the arm, checked it with his left palm, leaned in, and, with all his weight behind it, drove his right fist to the wrist into his solar plexus. Bad breath whooshed from the man’s gaping mouth as he grunted and doubled over. Still gripping the arm holding the tire iron, Slade placed his right hand on the back of his head and jerked him down into the knee that he snapped into his face. Cartilage crumbled, teeth snapped, and facial bones split. The man was out on his feet. The action happened so fast that the other attackers hadn’t time to react. Slade took advantage of the momentary confusion and flung the unconscious man into the others, knocking them off balance.
Without losing momentum, Slade leaped forward, dropped his weight, and buried his right fist in the stomach of the nearest man. As he grunted and doubled over, Slade torqued his hips, brought up his left fist in a tight arc, and exploded a left hook against his jaw under the ear. The blow lifted him off his feet and sent him flying three feet through the air to land on his back on the ground, out cold.
By then, the other two had gotten their wits about them, and the nearest jumped forward, threw his arms around Slade and grappled with him. It was an amateurish move. It monopolized his arms and brought him too close to Slade. He brought up his knee with crushing impact into the attacker’s groin. The man shrieked with agony, his hands slid away, and he doubled over. Slade brought his clubbed fists down on the back of his neck, and he dropped like a sack of cement onto the pavement.
But the move had taken too much time. The last attacker swarmed all over him, raining a barrage of punches down on him from every angle. Keeping his arms up to protect face and ribs, Slade backed across the asphalt, eyes glaring ferociously beneath black brows, mouth twisted in a snarl, waiting for an opening that would allow him to re-take the offensive. His chance came when the man paused to take a breath; his relentless attack had winded him. Slade’s foot lashed out and cracked against his shin; he stumbled. Slade’s other foot came up in a blur of motion and buried itself almost to the backbone in his stomach, hurling him back. Slade followed and snapped a third kick into his groin. The attacker was finished. He hung there, teetering on his feet, eyes glazed with agony, saliva drooling from slack lips, hands clasping genitals. Slade moved to the side, aimed with cold deliberation, leaned in, and cracked his fist against the man’s jaw. The bone snapped beneath his knuckles. The man sighed. His eyes closed. His knees buckled, and he dropped silently to the ground.
It was almost with a sense of regret that Slade realized the fight was over. Four men sprawled on the asphalt around him, unconscious in a spreading pool of blood. Battle ecstasy continued to course through him in rivers of flame as he turned and walked toward the Jaguar. As he moved, he realized he had taken a few blows during that last attack. His ribs were bruised, and his jaw felt as if it had almost been broken. As he neared the car, Helen, sitting behind the wheel, watched him in rapt fascination, her eyes enormous pools of dark, glimmering fire.
He walked to the driver’s side. She rolled down the window as he leaned his palms against the door. “Let me have my gun back,” he grunted.
Silently, her almond eyes studying his face, she handed it to him. He slid the hammer down and dropped it back into the holster. “Would you mind sliding over into the passenger seat?”
Still without speaking, she lifted her leg over the gearshift and moved over.
He opened the door and climbed in. His nerves were still singing from the battle. He put his head back against the seat and took a few deep breaths to calm down. He found the deep throaty growl of the idling engine somehow soothing. He opened his eyes and glanced at Helen. She was leaning against the door facing him, arms crossed over full breasts, fine black brows pulled together in a frown, watching him as if she were studying an alien from a different planet.
He grinned, then winced and felt his jaw.
She spoke for the first time. “You’re hurt!”
“That last fighter was probably the best of the four. He cracked a good one against my jaw.” He glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed the fight, but that end of the parking lot was deserted. “We need to get out of here before any cops show up.”
He shifted into Reverse, backed out of the space, then drove across the lot. At the highway, he turned west and started back toward the mountains and the reservation.
