At the back of the hardware store, I fidgeted with a display of doorknobs while Parker selected three different locks—two for Marc’s front door and one to reinforce the bolt on the back door. After hearing that one of Kevin’s “men” had been at Marc’s house, we were determined to give ourselves as much warning as possible, should someone else show up.
We also picked out a good-quality air mattress, inflatable pillows and blankets.
Next we hit the grocery store. Marc’s fridge was far from empty—he was a tom, after all—but he had nowhere near enough food to sustain four full-grown werecats.
I hurried the guys through the aisles while they piled the cart with enough to feed the Dallas Cowboys for a week, and nothing that took much trouble to prepare. Pizza, frozen lasagna, family-size bags of frozen pasta, and all the usual snack stuff.
While Ethan and I paid for the food, Dan and Parker ran next door for some staples from the liquor store.
I stared at my phone all the way to Marc’s house, willing it to ring. Willing my father to come through with the information we needed to find Kevin. Who could hopefully tell us where to find Marc.
With any luck, he’d make us beat it out of him.
Parker and Dan installed the locks while Ethan and I put up the other supplies and stuck two party-size boxes of frozen enchiladas in the oven for a late lunch. I carried the blow-up mattress into the empty front bedroom, autodialing my father as I went.
I pressed my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I unrolled the mound of vinyl and hooked up the virtually useless plastic hand pump.
“Hello?” my father said into my ear, sounding both distracted and frustrated.
“Anything on Kevin yet?” I probably should have opened with a salutation, considering that I was speaking to my Alpha as well as my dad, but I’d reached the end of my patience. The beating of my own heart felt like a second hand ticking away the last moments of Marc’s life, and I couldn’t stand the thought that he could be dying while I sat in his house, pumping air into a stupid inflatable mattress!
“We have an address on file for him,” my dad said, and I stopped pumping so I could hear him over the hiss of air. “But he’s not there anymore. His cell phone’s been disconnected, too. Owen’s looking for more current information, but we’re not having much luck so far. We’ll keep trying, though.”
Damn it! I resumed pumping with determination fueled by anger and frustration.
“Faythe, are you okay?” my father asked gently.
I made myself take a long, deep breath, and my hand went still on the pump. “No. Fortunately, we have another lead. There’s another stray who might know where Eckard took Marc, but I’m gonna need Michael’s help finding him. Will they let him answer his phone during the trial?”
“I’m sure he can take a break.” He paused, and I heard Owen clacking away on a keyboard in the background. “Let me know what you find out.”
“I will.” I hung up the phone and plugged the hole in the mattress, though it was only half-inflated. “Hey, Dan?” I called, heading down the hall toward the living room.
“Yeah?” He sat in a chair in front of the open front door, patiently installing a new dead bolt with a flathead screwdriver.
“Are you sure you don’t know where Peter Yarnell lives?” It would be so much easier if he did, and we could leave immediately, instead of having to wait for Michael to dig up an address.
Dan sat up and met my gaze, the screwdriver held loosely in his lap. “I’m sure. It’s not like we get together to play poker or anything. I’ve only met him a couple of times. But he’s definitely the one you want. His scent’s right here.” Dan pointed one callused finger at the knob on the outside of the door, and I knelt for a whiff.
Sure enough, the faint scent of yet another stray clung to the aluminum knob, though I smelled it nowhere else.
“He must not have touched anything else,” I ventured, glancing around the living room and kitchen at all the things that didn’t carry his scent.
“I’m guessin’ he broke in and saw that we’d already cleaned up, then hightailed it outta here.”
I nodded, already distracted. “Thanks, Dan.”
The stray’s head bobbed in acknowledgment, and he bent over his work again.
I dialed Michael on my way into the kitchen to check on the enchiladas. The phone rang in my ear as I opened the oven door and flipped on the tiny lightbulb. And while I closed the door and took a chilled soda from the fridge. And while I popped the seal and gulped from the can. And still the ringing continued.
Just when I thought Michael’s voice mail would pick up, he answered his phone and snapped softly into it, “This better be important, Faythe. We’re in the middle of a hearing.”
Oops.
“It won’t take long.” Since I’d already interrupted him anyway…
“Fine. Hold on.” His shoes squeaked on the Di Carlos’ stone floor and a door closed. Then his voice gained its normal volume. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just about everything.” I set my can on the counter and lifted the chewed-up pencil, which had somehow made it back into the empty dish drainer. “The short version is that Marc’s still missing, and Kevin Mitchell’s mixed up in it somehow.” I exhaled slowly, and tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the faded Formica. “I don’t think he has much time left, Michael. It’s twenty-nine degrees outside, and we don’t know how or where he’s injured, but we know he’s lost a lot of blood.”
We also picked out a good-quality air mattress, inflatable pillows and blankets.
Next we hit the grocery store. Marc’s fridge was far from empty—he was a tom, after all—but he had nowhere near enough food to sustain four full-grown werecats.
I hurried the guys through the aisles while they piled the cart with enough to feed the Dallas Cowboys for a week, and nothing that took much trouble to prepare. Pizza, frozen lasagna, family-size bags of frozen pasta, and all the usual snack stuff.
While Ethan and I paid for the food, Dan and Parker ran next door for some staples from the liquor store.
I stared at my phone all the way to Marc’s house, willing it to ring. Willing my father to come through with the information we needed to find Kevin. Who could hopefully tell us where to find Marc.
With any luck, he’d make us beat it out of him.
Parker and Dan installed the locks while Ethan and I put up the other supplies and stuck two party-size boxes of frozen enchiladas in the oven for a late lunch. I carried the blow-up mattress into the empty front bedroom, autodialing my father as I went.
I pressed my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I unrolled the mound of vinyl and hooked up the virtually useless plastic hand pump.
“Hello?” my father said into my ear, sounding both distracted and frustrated.
“Anything on Kevin yet?” I probably should have opened with a salutation, considering that I was speaking to my Alpha as well as my dad, but I’d reached the end of my patience. The beating of my own heart felt like a second hand ticking away the last moments of Marc’s life, and I couldn’t stand the thought that he could be dying while I sat in his house, pumping air into a stupid inflatable mattress!
“We have an address on file for him,” my dad said, and I stopped pumping so I could hear him over the hiss of air. “But he’s not there anymore. His cell phone’s been disconnected, too. Owen’s looking for more current information, but we’re not having much luck so far. We’ll keep trying, though.”
Damn it! I resumed pumping with determination fueled by anger and frustration.
“Faythe, are you okay?” my father asked gently.
I made myself take a long, deep breath, and my hand went still on the pump. “No. Fortunately, we have another lead. There’s another stray who might know where Eckard took Marc, but I’m gonna need Michael’s help finding him. Will they let him answer his phone during the trial?”
“I’m sure he can take a break.” He paused, and I heard Owen clacking away on a keyboard in the background. “Let me know what you find out.”
“I will.” I hung up the phone and plugged the hole in the mattress, though it was only half-inflated. “Hey, Dan?” I called, heading down the hall toward the living room.
“Yeah?” He sat in a chair in front of the open front door, patiently installing a new dead bolt with a flathead screwdriver.
“Are you sure you don’t know where Peter Yarnell lives?” It would be so much easier if he did, and we could leave immediately, instead of having to wait for Michael to dig up an address.
Dan sat up and met my gaze, the screwdriver held loosely in his lap. “I’m sure. It’s not like we get together to play poker or anything. I’ve only met him a couple of times. But he’s definitely the one you want. His scent’s right here.” Dan pointed one callused finger at the knob on the outside of the door, and I knelt for a whiff.
Sure enough, the faint scent of yet another stray clung to the aluminum knob, though I smelled it nowhere else.
“He must not have touched anything else,” I ventured, glancing around the living room and kitchen at all the things that didn’t carry his scent.
“I’m guessin’ he broke in and saw that we’d already cleaned up, then hightailed it outta here.”
I nodded, already distracted. “Thanks, Dan.”
The stray’s head bobbed in acknowledgment, and he bent over his work again.
I dialed Michael on my way into the kitchen to check on the enchiladas. The phone rang in my ear as I opened the oven door and flipped on the tiny lightbulb. And while I closed the door and took a chilled soda from the fridge. And while I popped the seal and gulped from the can. And still the ringing continued.
Just when I thought Michael’s voice mail would pick up, he answered his phone and snapped softly into it, “This better be important, Faythe. We’re in the middle of a hearing.”
Oops.
“It won’t take long.” Since I’d already interrupted him anyway…
“Fine. Hold on.” His shoes squeaked on the Di Carlos’ stone floor and a door closed. Then his voice gained its normal volume. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just about everything.” I set my can on the counter and lifted the chewed-up pencil, which had somehow made it back into the empty dish drainer. “The short version is that Marc’s still missing, and Kevin Mitchell’s mixed up in it somehow.” I exhaled slowly, and tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the faded Formica. “I don’t think he has much time left, Michael. It’s twenty-nine degrees outside, and we don’t know how or where he’s injured, but we know he’s lost a lot of blood.”
