The door to the kennel opened, barking flowed out, the door closed, steps approached, and I lowered my voice so that only she could hear.
“As soon as I get rid of the kid, I got nothin’ but time.”
*
Owen had no trouble finding Peggy’s car. Not only was the bronze SUV parked sideways across the eastbound lane of Route GG. But it was on fire.
How had Peggy neglected to mention that? To be fair, being stabbed might make her a bit forgetful. It also might make her BBQ.
He parked the pickup on the shoulder about a hundred yards back, leaped out, ordered Reggie to stay. The dog did, but he started barking, gaze on the fire. Infernos always had that effect on him.
Owen approached the flaming car, hoping to yank out Peggy and then get far enough away that neither one of them would be incinerated when the gas tank blew. He was about ten steps away when his gaze was drawn to a body in the ditch on the other side of the road.
He was nearly there when he heard the telltale whoosh. He dived, covering the woman as pieces of SUV fell all around them. Reggie barked louder. The distant wail of sirens wasn’t helping.
Beneath him, the body stirred, and Owen rolled free to reveal a plump, grandmotherly woman with short hair fading from gold to silver. She wore an ID badge around her neck that confirmed she was Peggy Dalberg.
Her eyelids fluttered, opened. Her eyes were light blue and full of pain. One pale, veined hand clutched at her stomach. Blood pulsed between her fingers to the beat of her heart. The other she held to her neck.
Owen was half afraid his mom had gone for the jugular too, but the only blood on Peggy’s neck were a few drying streaks in the shape of fingers.
“Help will come soon.”
Owen yanked off his jacket and pressed it to her stomach. She winced.
“Sorry. We gotta keep pressure on this.”
She lowered her hand from her neck. She’d been branded with the head of a snarling wolf. That wasn’t his mother’s MO.
Neither was fire. Didn’t mean she hadn’t done it.
“Mary,” Peggy whispered, and blood bubbled on her lips.
Owen had seen injuries like this in the field. If he wanted to find out what had happened, he needed to do so pretty damn fast.
“Mary McAllister did this?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Woman ran into the road, had to stop.”
“You know her?”
Peggy shook her head.
“Did my mom?”
“Seemed to. Mary called her—”
Peggy coughed. Blood sprayed. Owen should urge her to rest, but he didn’t.
“Called her what?”
“Bitch-whore.”
That was his mother’s MO.
“What did she look like?”
“Tall. Solid.”
A tall, solid woman would be about …
“Six feet?”
Nod.
“One sixty?”
Nod—shrug.
“What else?”
“Brown hair past her…” She closed her eyes.
“Ears? Chin? Neck? Shoulders?”
“But,” Peggy blurted.
“But what?”
“Hair past her butt,” she clarified. “Stabbed me w-w-with an athame.”
“I don’t—”
“Knife.” She made a Z in the air with her finger. He had no idea what that meant. “Carved handle. Matched the ring.”
“What ring?”
She turned the trembling finger toward the livid brand on her neck. “She used the ring to make this.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“Venatores Mali,” she whispered.
And then she died.
*
“You should meet your mom at the café,” I said.
“It’s not even close to the end of her shift.” Joaquin’s gaze remained on the wolf curled atop a dog bed in the corner of the exam room.
“I’m sure you have homework.”
“I’m sure you’re trying to get rid of me.”
The kid always had been too smart.
“Then why won’t you be gotten rid of?”
“Where are you going to sleep?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
I’d planned on sleeping with Owen.
Bing! The light went on. I’d take Pru to the cottages, sneak her in after dark. Krazy Kyle might be amenable to hunting dogs, but wolves were another matter.
I glanced at the clock. Speaking of Owen … where was he?
“Go.” I urged Joaquin to, then out, the door. Before he could say anything more, I shut the door, flipped the lock. After a few seconds a muttering shadow passed the window. The mutters faded. So did Joaquin.
“Thought he’d never leave.”
Pru didn’t comment. She was still pouting about the cone of shame. I was still refusing to take it off.
I drew a chair next to the dog bed and collapsed into it. It had been a helluva day. Had it only been this morning that someone tried to kill me?
I pulled out my phone—I’d had a few calls from an “unknown” number, but no messages—I dialed Owen. It went directly to voice mail. Had he driven out to the house, where cell service was terrible? Or was he ignoring me?
I waited for the beep to leave a message. I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t exactly go searching for him and leave a wolf alone in the office. Wild animals trapped inside … It never went well.
“Where’d you go?” I asked. “Little worried. Call me.”