Noah’s pulse throbbed. Emmett lured him in so easily, took him to the lake, where he’d accepted blood money. The cowards thought Noah belonged to a pack, so they got him off on his own rather than risking a bunch of pissed-off wolves.
Served him right for not trusting Paul’s warning about humans.
“Cops arrested Emmett for conspiracy to commit murder or some such and consider him a suspect in the killings. The tire tracks from his truck were found at the site. He was the last person to see the dead people alive. They found a wallet in Emmett’s truck belonging to Noah Price. The cashier said she’d seen him a few times. Probably the sixth dead guy, though police haven’t said.”
The second guy spoke up, “Whatever those folks paid him wasn’t nearly enough, I don’t suppose. They never found the body of the Price guy?”
“Volunteers spent two days dragging the lake. They ain’t found hide nor hair of him. Doesn’t mean he ain’t dead. Wasn’t any of Pritchards’ blood on those clothes.”
“What did the Prichards want with the guy?”
“Emmett says he don’t know. But get this. While all this was happening at the lake, Joe’s brother trashed and burned Price’s cabin to the ground. Whatever he did, the Pritchards sure didn’t like this Price fella. So anyway, all the Pritchards left alive are now keeping Emmett company in jail.”
“I always knew Emmett Donaldson was gonna wind up in trouble. His uncle’s as solid a guy as they come. Too bad the nephew turned out bad.”
The two men paid their bills at the counter. A bell tinkled over the door as they left.
Noah’s mostly uneaten meal sat neglected on his plate.
He grabbed a discarded newspaper from the men’s table before the busboy got there. The headline read “Bodies Found at Lake.” He’d heard the story; reading might add a few details.
Due to the mauling, a regional game warden suggested the possibility of Noah’s body being dragged away. Unfortunately, it took three days for anyone to find the bodies, and heavy rain possibly washed away some evidence.
Noah had killed. No, not him—his wolf. Had the Prichards known of his capacity for violence and decided to kill him first?
No, not violence. He’d never attack unless cornered. No use explaining to cops, “I’m a werewolf. I killed in self-defense.” Running worked better.
Everyone thought Noah Price died. Paul knew the contingency plan. Would he find Noah if he looked?
No time to worry now. Noah forced himself to finish his meal—might be a while until he ate again—cleaned up in the bathroom, kept his head down while paying, and trudged down the road to the bus station. Goodbye, Noah Price.
Mace Corley bought a bus ticket south.
Chapter Nine
TheHarleyjudderedoverthe pitted road, taking every bit of Slade’s concentration to keep from going down, even having left his trailer back at the motel. An eighty-three-year-old woman lived this far off the beaten path? Alone?
Slade didn’t remember this road being in such bad repair, but on his last visit, he’d been out of his mind in withdrawals, taking his one last chance to regain control of his life. Instead, he’d screamed, yelled, called the two women helping him names he shuddered to remember.
Great-Aunt Judith and Grandma succeeded where rehab failed. Why they didn’t tell him to go to hell, he’d never know.
He’d not been here in six years. Gran used to bring him in the summer, back when the dense woods created a wonderland for him and his brothers. Now? Given a choice between living here and death, he’d choose death.
Maybe.
The woods thinned, opening into a clearing. A small wooden house with peeling white paint sat alone under a towering oak, smaller than remembered. Two magnolia trees in full bloom scented the breeze, bunches of wildflowers growing in clumps around the roots. The breeze ruffled lace curtains in the living room windows.
The North Carolina mountains. Cooler than Alabama. He’d needed his padded leather jacket while riding. Now, standing still in the sunshine, the temperature grew toasty fast.
A rusted-out Chevy, minus tires, had sat on four cement blocks in the same location for at least thirty years. It looked like someone staged a fake Southern redneck movie. Slade turned off his bike, cutting Bob Seger off midwail, and removed his helmet, searching for some signs of life. With the stereo blasting on his bike until a minute ago, no way he’d snuck up on anyone.
The old redbone hound lying on the front porch didn’t move. Slade draped his leather jacket on the seat of his bike.
“Duke?”
The dog raised its head about two inches, tail-thumped twice, then flopped back onto the porch. Slade climbed the old stone stairs, stepping over the four-legged tripping hazard on his way to the front door. Okay, so much for Great-Aunt Judith’s security system. Slade preferred Smith and Wesson himself.
He raised his hand to knock. The door opened on a woman with bluish-gray hair. “Aunt Judith?”
