“Yeah. Thanks, Jane,” Rick said, his voice softening.
“Why is this so important to you?” I asked. “Your job is hunting supernaturals. This isn’t your sister kidnapped. Your family wasn’t harmed except for a self-inflicted flesh wound. The culprits and victims are human. What’s PsyLED’s interest?”
“PsyLED could give a rat’s ass for this case,” Rick growled, his black big-cat sounding in his voice. “But all this came from our job down there. It’s unfinished business.”
That I understood perfectly. I nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay. I’ll track the escaped prisoner. And I’ll let the sheriff’s office handle hostage negotiation and taking prisoners unless I see reason otherwise. And this one’s on me,” I added. “Like you said. It’s unfinished business. Get Nadine to send all pertinent info to my cell and e-mail.”
I ended the call and dialed the Kid, the electronic genius member of the firm. The Kid—given name Alex—and sometimes still called Stinky because of his occasional lack of personal hygiene—answered, “Jane. Where are you? Eli said we’re doing pizza tonight.”
I took a breath and prepared to accept the consequences of going off on my own. “You guys go ahead. I’m in Chauvin.”
I heard a faint click, a change in the ambient noise on the other end, and Eli, the weapons and tactics guy of the firm, said, “Why?” Never one to waste words, my partner.
“Unfinished business. The escaped Angola prisoner was brother to the were-bitch we took down. John-Roy Wayne picked up an old cell mate and they have two women, young mothers, hostage.”
“We’ll be there in four hours.” The connection ended.
“Well, crap,” I said, staring at the phone.
“They’re your brothers, dear,” Clara said, assuming. “Brothers are like that. They have to protect their sisters.”
I started to say that we weren’t family, but we were all three orphans. We lived together. We did sorta physically resemble each other: Eli and Alex were mixed race, and I was Cherokee, giving us all dark skin and hair. We were more than friends. Family. “Yes,” I said. “My brothers are pains in the neck. Okay if we take our old rooms?”
“I’ll get them aired out, dear,” Clara said.
I carried my empty tea glass to the sink and headed to door. “I’ll be back. I’m heading out to talk to a pilot and borrow a dog.”
Without turning from the sink, where she was washing my glass, Clara said, “Tell Sarge and Chris and their great monster dog that we said hi.”
“Will do,” I said. And took off down the stairs, to wade through the newsies who were waiting for me, blocking both exits, microphones extended. I thought about ignoring them but realized that this might be the best way of keeping the escaped con in the area. I slowed and said, “I have a statement.” The cameras and reporters gathered around me like flies to beer. “I’m Jane Yellowrock. I’m in Chauvin. And I’m hunting John-Roy Wayne. You want me, Johnnie boy? Come and get me.” I climbed on Bitsa and took off, helmet still on the bike, my braid streaming in the wind.
One thing about riding a Harley. You can outpace a news van in no time flat.
***
Beyond a quick glance at the lush greenery, the kind only an earth witch can coax to grow in wintertime, I hadn’t paid much attention to Sarge’s place when Yellowrock Securities hired him to fly us to the kill sites of werewolf attacks. The house was an old tidewater, built on low stilts, with lattice covering the open space beneath. Sarge had been expecting us last time we came. Not so much now. The Vietnam War vet didn’t like most people, and he had the guns to make sure they stayed away.
I pulled into his drive, up to the house, and walked to the door. Knocking was superfluous after the noise of Bitsa, but it was also polite, and good manners had been part of the curriculum in the Christian children’s home where I was raised. I knocked. Sarge opened the door before I dropped my hand. He was holding a shotgun. At his side was PP, short for Pity Party. The part mastiff, part buffalo, part elephant growled at me, showing teeth. Freaking big teeth.
Beast padded to the front of my brain and glowered out at her. Beast chuffed, wanting to take the challenge PP offered. PP growled low, as if she detected a change in my scent, morphing into something dangerous. Most dogs could sense the big-cat of my Beast, my mountain lion, hiding deep inside. Or maybe Pity Party just didn’t like me.
I shoved Beast down and raised both hands in the universal gesture of peace, or maybe the universal gesture of I am not holding a gun. See? Don’t shoot. “Sarge,” I said, “I’m not here to cause you trouble. Or to tell anyone about your secret.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Partly because I need answers to a couple of questions.”