Barking at the Moon Page 4

  Noah put a hand on her shoulder in an obvious attempt to calm her frazzled temper. “Barabbas was going to kill you,” he said.

  Annalee very carefully did not shrug his hand away and punch him in the face for stating the obvious, which was her first inclination. Instead, she forced herself to a semblance of calm. Venting on subordinates might be satisfying for the moment, but it damaged morale and did more harm in the long run. Besides, no matter how the pooch got screwed or who did the screwing, what happened at a crime scene was ultimately the sheriff’s responsibility.

  “Secure the rest of the prisoners,” she said. “I’ll radio dispatch to send the ME along to pick up the body.” She lowered her voice and added to Noah alone, “When I get a free minute, you and me are going to talk about that stunt you pulled. Got it?”

  Noah inclined his head, but the stubborn set of his mouth told Annalee he had no regrets about stopping her from shooting the wolf. Maybe he has a point. One bullet might’ve just pissed the critter off. Wolf bites were dangerous in more ways than the obvious. She didn’t relish the thought of a round of rabies shots and the danger of blood poisoning, not to mention the potential crisis if one of her arteries was nicked.

  It was not until the last prisoner was safely in the transportation bus guarded by state troopers that she allowed herself to tremble in reaction to the near-death experience. She tried to believe it was the adrenaline kick wearing off, crashing her down from a fight-or-flight high, but the self-deception wasn’t very convincing. She knew her nightmares would be starring Barabbas Rickett and his shotgun for a while.

  “Here.” Noah nudged her and held out a can of off-brand cola.

  Annalee popped open the can and took a swallow. The sugary liquid was so cold it made her stomach muscles cramp, but it soothed her throat and the caffeine helped ease the post-crisis jitters. “Thanks,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Noah nodded. “Found some drug paraphernalia, cocaine, ether…looks like Barabbas was freebasing and went nuts when we busted inside. We also turned up a box of marijuana cigarettes, some mixed baggies of pills—probably Special K, methamphetamines, Ecstasy—and what I think is amyl poppers, but the lab’ll know for sure.”

  “That would explain why the crazy sumbitch attacked us.” Freebasing cocaine caused acute paranoia over time, and Barabbas had a record of aggressive, violent behavior anyway. “So much for a cakewalk,” she muttered bitterly, finishing the cola in a few gulps that made her headache more acute, a spike of pain making crimson light bleed into the edges of her vision. The sight reminded her of the bloody mess left of Barabbas’ throat. “Tell me, Deputy Whitlock, why’d you feel it necessary to prevent me from saving Rickett’s life?” she asked.

  His sidelong glance was cautious. “You mean the wolf? My family’s full of conservationists, you know, and the Deep wolves are an endangered species. I just reacted automatically without thinking about the consequences.”

  Annalee crushed the empty cola can in her fist. “You want to explain to me why that wolf decided to run inside the house at exactly the right moment to rip Barabbas a new one before he could blow my head off? Or how the hell you knew it was a female? ‘Don’t hurt her,’ that’s what you said.”

  “Told you, my family’s trying to save the wolves in Malingering Deep.”

  It was an answer, but not to any of the questions she’d asked. Annalee watched Betty Vernon and young Igor wheel the gurney with the body bag out of the house, carefully bumping it down the porch steps with the help of a pair of husky state troopers. Acid scorched her stomach and a sour taste flooded the back of her throat at the visual reminder of her failure. “Conservationists, huh?” she grunted.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The dying sunlight caught Noah’s eyes, making them glint gold.

  Annalee turned away, unsure if she was asking the right questions and equally unsure if she really wanted to know the answers anyway. Her father had loved the wolves. They were not often seen, but anyone who lived around Malingering Deep had heard their howling. On many nights, huddled under a pile of quilts in winter or sweating under a sheet in summer, she’d listened to the high, wavering wolf song serenade from the safety of her bed.

  She muttered, “You’re taking the witness statements and writing the report. If it’s believable, I’ll sign off on it. But don’t do that again, Deputy. Don’t ever let me hear you say you didn’t stop to think about what might happen before you jumped into a dangerous situation with fangs out and hair on fire, hear me?”

  Noah repeated, “Yes, ma’am.” His tone was soft and respectful.

  Annalee glanced at him to make sure she wasn’t being mocked, but he seemed sincere.

  Later that evening, when the arrests were processed and the paperwork done, she felt a soul deep gladness on returning home. Twilight turned the world a soft lavender-gray, blurring the trees rearing tall behind her house, built by her great-grandfather’s great-grandfather and improved by successive generations. She’d been born in the home, raised there and lived in it all her life. While memories of her grandparents, her mother and her father haunted every nook and cranny, she still loved the place with all her heart.

  She stopped her truck at the end of the driveway to check the mailbox, finding a couple of bills, a postcard from her cousin Hannah in Tennessee and coupons for the new pizza place in Brightbrook. She continued the short drive to the house. As always, she parked under a crabapple tree planted by her great-great-great grandfather in the same year that a mortar round was fired at Fort Sumter, beginning the War Between the States.

  Her cat Mongo waited for her by the front door. He was a Maine Coon crossed with God-knew-what, a rescue from the Humane Society. Annalee liked to believe he had some jaguar in his ancestry. He was much bigger than the average cat and quite the hunter. He liked to bring her rabbits, their necks neatly broken. Mongo usually left these love offerings on the back porch steps. She leaned over and scooped up the cat, burying her nose in the thick silvery fur of his ruff. As usual, he smelled of feline musk and the outdoors. His purr rumbled through her body like the vibration of a passing express train on a rail.

  Mongo hung limp against her, a soft bulky weight making her shoulder muscles protest. Annalee managed to juggle him, the mail, her key ring and the plastic bag containing her dinner without dropping anything while she struggled to get the door open.

  Inside, the house was faintly scented with beeswax and coffee, as well as a floral trace from a lilac bush growing around the side. She let Mongo slip from her arms. His heavy body landed on the floor, rattling the teacups in the china cabinet, her grandmother’s prized Andromeda-pattern Spode. Mongo stalked off grumbling.

  She moved to the kitchen where she tossed the bills and pizza coupons on the counter. The bag was emptied on a kitchen table whose wooden top bore the scars of hard use. She’d stopped at the grocery store on the way home and picked up a rotisserie chicken and potato salad. Combined with some sliced tomatoes and corn relish, it would make a good meal.

  Taking out the pins and running a hand through her unbound brown hair, she wondered once again if she ought to schedule an appointment with Arlene at the Curl Up n’ Dye for a buzz cut. Not today, she decided.

  She went to the back door, opened it and stepped through to the porch.

  The trees formed a densely packed line beginning right at the furthest edge of her backyard, which was nothing more than clipped grass and what used to be a small vegetable patch until she let it go to seed and weed, having no time to care for it. Rabbits—fewer every spring when Mongo was on the prowl—and the occasional deer came to browse. She didn’t often see many other animals, which suited her fine.

  She inhaled and smiled, her emotions settling for the first time all day. Her smile faltered when she spied a pale form moving low near the tree line.

  A wolf.

  Whether it was the same wolf she had seen that morning by Yellow Jacket Pond or the one that had killed Barabbas Rickett
, she couldn’t tell. The animal picked its way delicately over the grass, apparently headed for the porch. Her heart thumped so hard, she thought it would smash through her ribcage. She stood frozen to the spot, unsure if she should risk trying to get back into the house before the wolf sprang at her. The door was near, but sudden movements attracted predators. An age-old dilemma—fight for her life if attacked or take a chance, turn her back and try to outrun the threat.

  The wolf moved closer, its tongue lolling out of its muzzle in what looked like a good-natured grin but might well have been a smile of anticipation for a tasty meal. Wolves didn’t attack humans, according to the experts, but they also didn’t run into the middle of a police raid to kill a random stranger. The wolf’s anomalous behavior at Doodlebug McKenzie’s place was disturbing. She could not predict with any degree of accuracy what it might do. The wolf was a wild animal, and she was defenseless. Those were the only two reliable facts.

  Annalee regretted leaving her service weapon in the locker at the office. There were hunting rifles in a locked case in the living room above the fireplace, but they were out of her immediate reach. In a way, she was glad. It would be a crying shame to kill such a magnificent creature, even in self defense.

  A furry brush against her ankles made her glance down. Mongo wound himself around her legs, purring loudly. She tensed. Although she had never heard of a wolf attacking a housecat, she’d read that in the western United States, coyotes were known to kill cats and eat them. Coyotes and wolves were both canines. Were their eating habits similar?

  She prayed that supreme dumb ass Mongo would show some sense and go back into the house, but he only tipped his head back, looked at her and let out a piercing meow. She quickly switched her attention to the wolf, afraid it might show an interest in her cat, but it merely tilted its muzzle and gazed at her inscrutably.

  After about thirty seconds, Mongo lost interest and wandered away. She heard the scrape of his claws as he pawed the screen door open just enough to slip inside the house.

  Relief swept through her. One potential disaster averted, but what if the wolf actually had a hankering for human? Should she try to run? Wait the wolf out until it got bored and left? A chill trickled down her spine like ice water. Her options were limited.

  While she attempted to make a decision, the wolf paused about ten feet away and raised a forepaw. In the hazy gray light, the animal looked as insubstantial as mist. The wolf regarded her steadily without a hint of wariness.

  Annalee stayed still, her fear slowly turning to a sense of wonder and delight. The blond-coated wolf was beautiful in a way that made the breath catch in her throat. She watched, entranced, her pulse slowly returning to normal. She could have sworn she felt a sensation like tickling fingers ghosting over her ribs, her shoulders, between her breasts. Her skin tightened at the phantom touches.

  Staring into the wolf’s luminous golden eyes, she thought she heard someone calling her name from a great distance. She started when a soft voice spoke in her ear: Mine.

  Suddenly, the wolf whirled around and loped back to the trees where it disappeared from sight, leaving her alone.

  Released from the spell, Annalee blew out a sigh, wondering if her imagination had been in overdrive. She waited a few moments, but the wolf didn’t reappear. The chill of loneliness running through her went deep, beyond the bone, and raised a feeling akin to bereavement, as if she had lost something—or someone—precious. She inhaled sharply, forcing down the pang of loss, and returned inside the house.

  She cut up the chicken, sliced some tomatoes and took a jar of corn relish out of the refrigerator. When Mongo padded into the kitchen, meowing for his share of the chicken, she dropped a few tidbits on the floor. She’d planned to eat standing at the counter but decided it was too quiet in the kitchen and took her plate to the living room.

  The canned laughter of a sitcom on television wasn’t much better than the silence that usually filled the house, but at least it was noise.

  That night, when Annalee went to bed, she dreamed of running through Malingering Deep in the company of wolves.

  At some point, the dream changed.

  The hands sliding over her body were callused, but not rough. A woman’s touch. Annalee bit her lip and arched her back in a silent plea for more. God, this was good! Better than good. It had been too long since a lover stroked her body this way, reverent yet beautifully assured, trailing almost unbearable sensations in the wake of bold caresses.

  When she opened her eyes, her lover’s face and figure were shadowed, too vague to make out in any sort of detail, but she wasn’t alarmed. She accepted it, just as she accepted the sudden wet heat of a mouth on her nipple. Each tug of her lover’s lips made her feel as if she’d been flayed wide open, every nerve ending exposed.

  The other nipple crinkled tight, aching for attention. Her lover found it, circling and scratching the sensitive point with the edge of a thumbnail.

  Lightning flashed inside Annalee’s head, pleasure with a sharp, shining curve of pain. A groan vibrated out of her throat as her lover’s mouth worked against her skin, painting secrets in white hot flame with the tip of an agile, velvety tongue.

  Annalee reached out helplessly, but her hands remained empty, grasping nothingness. Her elusive lover slipped over her. Now she felt the press of another woman’s breasts, another woman’s weight straddling her, preventing her from flying away. The smell of sweat and arousal filled the air, a seashell musk increasing her desire to a fever pitch.

  Feather-light touches skimmed the places where she burned fiercest. Her lover kissed the tautly stretched tendon in her neck and, without warning, bit the pulse point at the base of her throat—gently at first, then harder, licking and sucking with bruising force.

  Annalee was sure her lover had drawn blood, but she was past caring. She writhed and panted, shaken by jolts of delight that threatened to overwhelm her utterly.

  Her lover’s weight lifted. Breath came in puffs of heavenly coolness on the backs of her knees, her belly and the insides of her thighs. She twisted around on her back, offering herself without shame to the sensual drag of fingertips over her overheated flesh.

  A hand slid between her legs, cupping her slippery center. She splayed her thighs further apart and ground down, rocking her hips. She felt utterly wanton, abandoned to a passion stoked higher when the hand was replaced by lips and tongue. Her lover lapped at her in long languorous strokes that made her whimper. The sensation was too much and not nearly enough. Fingers finally pushed inside her. She clenched around them, shuddering.

  Her breath came in urgent, agonized gasps. Her lover’s tongue was thick and greedy and far too clever, but the fingers thrusting into her body set a more leisurely pace, the counterpoint driving her out of her mind. She fisted the sheet beneath her, hanging on while the blood roared through her veins. Sounds were ripped out of her mouth, animal cries she couldn’t contain. Her entire body felt swollen, stretched from horizon to horizon.

  Teeth nipped her clitoris, ruthlessly demanding her surrender. Lightning flashed again, this time coursing over her skin, sizzling and incandescent. She let go of the sheet, desperate for a living anchor. Her flailing hand found coarse hair to grasp. She seized a handful in a convulsive grip, holding her lover’s head locked in place.

  She howled and tensed for a long, impossible moment when her climax rolled over her, a juggernaut of excruciating pleasure that caused the world to vanish in an explosion of white light. When she came back to herself, limp and languid and sore, she glanced into her lover’s face. To her profound shock, she found a pair of golden eyes staring back at her.

  Golden eyes in a pale-furred wolf’s face.

  Mine.

  Annalee jolted awake, sweat pouring off her. She sat bolt upright in bed, the damp sheet tangled around her body. The room was dark. The window showed no trace of dawn in the sky, only a glimmer of stars and a haze of moonlight. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she realized it w
as four o’clock in the morning.

  “Jesus Christ,” she murmured, rubbing her neck. “I seriously need to get out more.”

  Not the first time I’ve dreamed such an amazingly vivid sexual scenario, she thought. The dreams started in high school, clear and explicit visions in which a shadowy female lover worshipped her body. At first slightly awkwardly, as if the lover had as little experience as Annalee herself, then more confidently as the encounters continued. She had known she was attracted to girls since puberty, so that aspect came as no surprise, but at the time she had found herself drifting into pleasantly lustful fantasies during class.

  Haven’t had one of those since after graduation. Her life had become busy with community college, an accelerated program at the police academy and working with her father as a deputy. She’d forgotten about the dreams.

  Remembering when she had cherished the shiny new secret of her imaginary lover made her feel bereft. None of her real- life sexual encounters had been as satisfying. None of her one-night stands had given her half as much pleasure as she’d found inside her own mind.

  She straightened the sheet, chased Mongo off the spare pillow, got a drink of water to soothe her dry mouth and lay back down, staring at the bedroom ceiling a while. She couldn’t forget the incredible sensations generated by her dream. Her body tingled as if she’d really experienced a powerful orgasm, and she felt an uncomfortable clamminess between her legs. The whole encounter had seemed so real. She reached up and tentatively brushed the base of her throat, half-expecting the ache of a bruise.

  Nothing.

  Annalee’s disappointment brought tears to her eyes. Turning over, she buried her face in the pillow and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep was a long time coming.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning brought an unexpected development that was not wholly disagreeable—the state-police commissioner decided to take over the investigation into the Ricketts’ gambling operation, which suited Annalee just fine.