He shuddered. “It gets kind of nasty from here on out.”
* * *
Gabe Bowman pulledto a stop in front of a red brick two-story in Berlin, Maryland, and checked the house number. Yes, this was the right place. Decorah Security had sent him to the Eastern Shore to check out a missing person’s report that had been ignored by the police.
It was a routine assignment. Nothing paranormal. The werewolves who worked for the agency were most likely to get those, although Gabe had been on some pretty unusual cases—stuff that the general public would consign to the realm of fantasy or science fiction. But from his work with the Decorah, Gabe knew that you could never discount the weird. As far as he was concerned, that was one of the perks of working for Frank Decorah, like the time Gabe had been in on the takedown of a clandestine military base where the commanding officer was into some highly illegal stuff. Specifically, the growing of clones to send off on suicide missions. I mean, why sacrifice a real human being when you could make an expendable copy?
They had rescued one of the poor bastards. He’d been a mess when they recovered him, but he’d joined the agency and turned out to be one of their prime operatives.
Gabe knew Frank Decorah was very particular about which of his people he sent where. This seemed like a routine assignment, but maybe there was something special about it that Gabe would figure out along the way. He hoped so. He wasn’t keen on trying to track down a guy who had probably figured he had good reason to take off and cut his losses. On the other hand, perhaps Travis Carson had met with foul play. But no use jumping to conclusions until he had some solid facts.
He studied the house. It looked old, probably dating back to the early 20th century, but it was well-maintained. The wide wood trim had a new coat of paint, and the grounds were neatly manicured with flower beds running in straight lines along the front of the porch and along the brick walk in what he thought of as the German style, orderly and standing to attention.
After ringing the bell, he waited for several minutes before he heard footsteps shuffling toward the door. First, he saw a gnarled hand pull aside the curtain at the sidelight so a shadowy figure could peer out. Apparently he passed inspection, because the door was opened cautiously by a woman who looked to be in her late sixties or early seventies with a lined face and white hair pinned neatly up in a bun.
“Yes?”
“I’m Gabe Bowman from Decorah Security. Are you Lydia Wilder?”
“Yes.” She gave him a dubious inspection, taking in his dark hair, dark eyes, and face he had contrived to age a bit with a neatly trimmed beard.
“Aren’t you too young to be a detective?”
“I’m a graduate of the University of Maryland law enforcement program and worked for the Montgomery County police for four years before joining Decorah Security.”
“Why aren’t you still with the police? Did you get fired or something?”
Thinking this was a bad way to start an interview, he sighed. “I was in a department where a lot of guys were in front of me for promotion. Then Frank Decorah, the head of the agency, offered me a job and I took it.”
“All right. You might as well come in.” The woman stepped aside so he could enter.
After locking the door behind them, she led him through an entry hall with a dining room on one side and a sitting room on the other. The sofa and chairs sported cream-colored doilies on the arms. When she lowered herself into a straight-back rocker, he took a wing-back opposite.
“Ms. Wilder...”
“That’s Miss Wilder. I never met a man I thought was worth giving up my independence for. I made a good living for myself as an executive assistant at White and Pendelton,” she said, naming a well-known manufacturer of power tools that had its home office on the Eastern Shore.
He might have apologized for the mistake if he hadn’t been afraid she’d take it the wrong way.
Instead, he simply said, “I’m going to take some notes.”
“Go ahead.”
“You say your nephew disappeared about two weeks ago?” he began.
“Yes.”
“How did you realize he was missing?”
“Usually, he calls me every other week. We don’t have a set day because he takes people out on fishing expeditions. When he didn’t call, I got concerned. I left messages, then drove over to St. Stephens where he keeps his boat. It’s in its usual slip. He’s not there.”
“What about his home?”
“He’s got a small house that he inherited from his father. He wasn’t there either.”
“His car?”
“It’s a Toyota Camry. I didn’t see it in either place.”
