Shadow on the Moon Page 12

  "Captain!" came another panic-filled cry.

  Schumacher forced himself on. As his eyes grew used to the dark, he saw the officer who'd given him the registration. Then the sergeant came into focus. Both men were gawking at the ground.

  "Good God!" the captain exclaimed. "Good God almighty!"

  "What the hell do you think made those?" asked the sergeant.

  Yeti. Bigfoot. A fucking five-hundred-pound wolf.

  "I don't know," choked Schumacher. "I don't know. . . . But it's nothing I've ever seen before."

  Uncomfortably aware of the quaver in his voice, he collected his emotions into a tight little ball and scowled at the men. "Don't give me any of this lily-livered stuff," he barked. "You don't see me trembling in my boots. Our job is to track this thing down, and that's what we're going to do. So get to it!"

  In response, he received a pair of blank stares aimed at his hands. Slowly dropping his gaze, he saw they were shaking like leaves in the wind.

  "It's the cold," be rasped, deepening his scowl. Then, ordering the men to make casts of the prints, he walked away, aching to return to the sunlight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dana found some potatoes. Although they were old, soft, and wrinkled, she figured they'd add variety to the stew, so she peeled them and cut them up. As she was adding them to the pot, Morgan's door opened.

  She looked over to see him watching her. His disheveled hair and tangled, wild beard gave him a frazzled appearance, and his eyes were almost bleeding with pain. What had gone on between him and Lily? He'd seemed almost happy before that woman showed up.

  She felt a sudden stab of jealousy and resentment, then remembered that his brief burst of good humor had ended with the helicopter incident and Fenris's escape. Had she been the one who'd disappointed him? It wouldn't be the first time she'd disappointed someone, usually with dire results. A long time ago she'd lost someone dear because she'd failed to act responsibly. She'd only been a child then, but—

  "I'm sorry about Fenris." She dropped the last potato into the stew.

  "He survived. That's all that's important." Morgan walked to the hearth and squatted beside the dog, who rolled onto his back and begged Morgan for a scratch.

  "We need to take him back to the kennel," he said, attending to the dog's tummy.

  "Now? It's going to storm again."

  "They have shelter."

  "But he almost froze out there, and— Oh, please, Morgan, let him stay."

  He regarded her sternly. "I told you, he isn't a pet, Dana. If this keeps up, you're going to turn him into one."

  She started to protest, but then thought better of it. Fenris whined and licked Morgan's hand. Thunder tracked outside, shaking the windowpanes.

  "It's going to be a bad one," said Dana. Another span of silence. Another crack of thunder.

  "All right. But just tonight." He got up, walked over to the stew pot, and looked down suspiciously. "What are you doing to it?"

  "I added a few potatoes. It's a little monotonous eating the same thing all the time, don't you think?"

  "Loses my dog, changes my diet," he said, smiling weakly. "What a woman."

  Dana took the comment as a white flag. "So beat me," she said, smiling back.

  "It crossed my mind."

  He meandered around the room, looked at the replenished log supply a second, went to the peg rack and rearranged the hanging garments, wandered back to the stove.

  "How long till the potatoes are done?"

  "Half an hour or so."

  "I guess I won't starve."

  Morgan wondered what Dana would do if she learned how much truth his remark about starving contained, or of what he'd done during his absence. Would she run in horror? Scoff in disbelief? Or. would she tend to him as lovingly as she had the runt?

  The maiden must willingly perform the rituals, love filling her heart . . .

  Love? A whole and giving woman such as Dana love the likes of him? The idea was ludicrous.

  Lord, where was Morgan Wilder, society psychiatrist and one of New York's most eligible bachelors, now that he needed him? Him, Dana might love. But a shapeshifter? A slavering night creature? Not even a Harlem hooker would love him.

  "I could trim your hair and beard while we wait," Dana offered out of the blue.

  "Can I trust you with scissors near my throat?"

  She laughed. "It's a risk you'll have to take."

  Morgan touched his beard, then ran a hand through his hair. Until she'd arrived, he hadn't realized how wild and unkempt he must look. He supposed he could more easily win her affections without a ton of hair on his head. "Go for it. I'm braver than you’ve me credit for."

  "Oh, I give you credit all right." She plucked a pair of scissors from a butcher-block slab on the counter. "Not exactly hairdresser quality, but I suppose they'll do. Have a seat."

  A few minutes later, Morgan cringed as mounds of his hair hit the floor. Delilah shearing Samson of his strength. But how right it felt, sitting in front of her, listening to the scissors go snip-snip-snip. Like a regular working guy letting his wife cut his hair so they could save a few bucks to put toward a house. He'd never led that kind of life. His had been privileged since birth. Everything came easily. Now, in cruel contrast, he schemed desperately to win a woman's heart, with the stakes his own humanity.

  "Morgan, who were those people?"

  He'd known the question would come eventually, had already formulated a reasonable answer. "Neighbors, loosely speaking. They live about mid-mountain."

  "How did they get here? For that matter, how do any of you get around in these blizzards?"

  "You're barraging me with questions, Dana. Which do you want answered first?"

  "God, I don't know. How do you travel in the storms? I know you were out there, too."

  "Oh?" That took him by surprise. "What makes you think so?"

  "A friend of yours came by. Tony. You know him, don't you?"!

  Morgan nodded.

  "He said he'd just seen you a little while before."

  "White Hawk told you that?"

  "Yes, while he helped me carry in the wood."

  "Why were you getting wood?"

  "Because we were almost—" She blew out an exasperated breath. "For heaven's sake, Morgan, answer my question. How do you people do it? I mean, the weather was awful when you left."

  "Nothing mysterious," he said, making it up as he went along. "Dress warm. Wear snow shoes. Pretty soon, you learn where to find shelter."

  "Not in my experience, and I was raised in some of the most rugged—"

  "I know, Dana. You've told me several times. But this is Arizona, not Minnesota, and—"

  "Montana."

  "Not Montana. Storms don't last for weeks—or even whole days, for that matter." Morgan was feeling pressured; his ire was rising. "I like storms. Okay?"

  "So does everyone else up here, it seems. Hold still, I need to get this straggling bit of hair."

  Morgan felt a second's gratitude for that stray lock, because it let him tame his anger. Strong emotions weren't welcome here. He might have wondered how she'd react if he revealed his true self, but he wasn't yet prepared to have her freak out over additional stray locks sprouting on his hands.

  She must vanquish her horror of her loved one's bestiality . . . Shadow of Venus, p 147, or so he would once have written in the citation of some learned paper.

  And probably sacrifice her life in the process. What woman would do that, even for the human and urbane Morgan Wilder? Besides, when did he plan to reveal himself? Time wasn't exactly on his side. The full moon would arrive whether he was prepared or not.

  "So many strange things are happening, Morgan." He heard a small tremor in her voice. "I have so many questions. This sounds crazy, I know. . ." Then she blurted it out. "How did your feet heal so quickly?"

  He'd been prepared for that one, too. "I keep some salve that White Hawk gave me in the dogs' supply shed. I put it on my feet and �
� well, you saw."

  By the little shimmy in the scissors, he felt her nod.

  "Herbs, probably," she said musingly. "Do wild Indians really live up here?"

  Morgan chuckled.

  "Sit still," she instructed crossly. "Do they?"

  "I doubt they'd call themselves wild, but they do keep to themselves. Most of them have never been out of the canyon. They see the occasional hiker, of course, but they avoid them."

  "Tony seems friendly enough."

  "Yeah, well, his story is a little different."

  "Tell me about it."

  "He's a private man. You'll have to ask him yourself."

  Dana sighed so loudly, Morgan knew it was for his benefit. "That's another thing. Nobody gives me straight answers."

  He turned his head to look at her, but she put her hands on the sides of his head and stopped him.

  "I'm going to start on your beard."

  She moved in front and gave him a thorough inspection, occasionally tugging his beard. Morgan almost laughed at his inner cringing. If he were still practicing psychiatry, he'd have diagnosed an extreme lack of self-esteem. Probably have prescribed a few sessions, a couple self-help books, maybe a support group. Then he would have sent himself on his way—happy, confident, alive again—physician having healed himself.

  If only it were that easy.

  "A bit uneven on the left," Dana remarked as she started trimming. After a quiet moment, she asked, "So tell me how Lily and Jorje hiked halfway up a mountain."

  "I suppose they came by sled. They have dogs, too." Morgan instantly realized he had left himself open for Dana to renew her request to leave, so he ad-libbed a disclaimer. "Lily's crazy enough to try anything, despite the danger. Not a move I'd recommend, let me tell you."

  "Stop talking. It makes your chin move."

  "Then don't ask questions. Tell me about your childhood instead."

  "What do you want to know?" Dana stopped cutting and gave Morgan's beard a once-over. "Good. I didn't cut too deep."

  "How you learned to cut hair, for instance."

  "I used to cut my dad's. We were miles from a barbershop, you know."

  "Did you always live in the Minnesota boonies?"

  "Montana, Morgan. I lived in Montana."

  "Right."

  "Shh." She bent again, and he saw firelight dancing in her green eyes. The professional side of him noted that her pupils were normally dilated, but another part just drank in the fascinating shade. Fate had sent a woman to redeem him, and he appreciated the fact that he was also beautiful.

  "Since you asked." A tiny grin played around her mouth. "I lived there as long as I can remember. Mom and Dad said we stayed in a commune for a while, but they got tired of all the rules and decided to homestead by themselves." Her grin widened.

  "The first thing I remember . .. oh, I must have been three or four . .. I was sitting on the porch, playing with a rag doll my mother made me, while my dad chopped down a tree. All of a sudden, I looked up and a wolf was standing at the edge of the forest. It knew I saw him, but it stayed there for a while anyway, looking back at me. I felt this, I don't know, I didn't think of it that way then, but I suppose you'd call it a sense of kinship.

  "I waved, and it kind of nodded its head before turning to walk away. Then Dad caught sight of it. He freaked. He dropped that ax, ran to the porch, and hustled me right inside." She laughed softly. "Dad would never do that now. But back then they were city people trying to live out a dream they didn't have the skills for. Mother is a poet, You might have heard of her."

  Morgan searched his memory. "Johanna Gibbs?"

  "Morgan, you aren't supposed to talk," she said with feigned sternness. She tugged one side of his beard, then the other. "Yeah, that's her. Dad is a sculptor, but he never made it as big as Mother. He has a small following, but— They're divorced now. . . There," she said, stepping back with a satisfied look. "You look quite presentable, Doctor."

  Morgan felt disappointed. He'd been enjoying her story. Even more, he'd been enjoying her closeness. The heat, the soap-and-water scent, the quick touches of her fingers, even the clip of the scissors. Now she would stop, move away, eventually return to the daybed and put all those feet of floor between them.

  "Do you have a mirror?" she asked, still looking pleased at her results.

  Morgan shook his head.

  "No clocks. No mirrors. Don't you ever want to know the time or look at yourself?"

  "At this face? You must be kidding."

  "Actually, you're quite handsome."

  Morgan felt a stupid urge to chortle. He got up abruptly, finding himself standing chest to breast with Dana. "Here," she said. "You've got a few loose hairs."

  The brush of her fingertips shot through his cheek like an electric current. Without quite meaning to, he touched her curls and bent his head lower.

  Dana tilted hers back.

  It felt like slow Motion, that gradual lessening of the space between their mouths, and when he met her lips an eternity later, Morgan felt the kiss with every cell of his body. Soft lips, warm and sweet, parting for him, inviting him to explore. But not yet. Not yet. He skimmed his mouth across hers, gently, tentatively, nearly overwhelmed by the sweetness of the moment.

  Five long years since he'd touched a mortal woman. Five years in which he feared the passion such a touch might arouse. In secret fantasies, men often dreamed of devouring their woman, but for him such fantasies could become all too horribly real.

  Until now, Dana hadn't truly comprehended the simmering tension that always seemed present when she and Morgan were together. Suddenly, she understood completely. She wanted him . . . the way a woman wants a man. She had felt this hunger almost from their first meeting. Everything about him called to that secret female place within her. His feral ways, his mercurial moods, his wry and unpredictable sense of humor. She yearned to deepen their chaste and tentative kiss into a violent clash of tongues and lips, to bring out the fierceness she knew lay hidden inside him.

  Yet his kiss contained such reverence, as though he cherished her beyond her wildest dreams. Rushing it risked shattering the magic.

  These needs, these wants, warred within her, creating unbearably pleasurable sensations. How long since she'd been with a man in this physical way? So long, she could hardly remember.

  She felt his fingers moving in her hair, stroking the locks. His beard softly grazed the corners of her mouth. Their breaths mingled into one long sigh.

  Time passed.

  Then one of Morgan's knees gave. He lurched forward and steadied himself against Dana's shoulder.

  "Sorry," he mumbled, gazing at the floor. "Fenris bumped into my leg."

  The dog stood by the table, looked up at them imploringly, then darted for the stove, where he whimpered at the stewpot.

  "He's hungry again." She couldn't quite meet Morgan's eye. She'd never been good with romantic situations and didn't know what to say. Should she mention the kiss? Pretend it never happened? What?

  "There's plenty for the three of us." Morgan moved to the cupboard, took down three bowls, then began to fill one. After placing it by the hearth for Fenris, he went back to the stove and finally looked at Dana. "How hungry are you?"

  Up until a short while ago, she'd been famished. Now she barely had an appetite. "Just a little," she said. When he dished in a scoop, she moved to take the bowl from his hand.

  "That's all? You sure?"

  She nodded, collected a spoon, then headed for the bed.

  "There's more than one chair, you know," said Morgan.

  She knew she could make up some kind of excuse, but she only nodded again and went to the table. Morgan pulled up the chair he'd occupied earlier and placed his bowl on the table. Although he showed little enthusiasm, he slowly began to eat.

  Dana only stared at her bowl. Outside, the storm began to pick up steam. The windows rattled, the chimney howled. The noise was nearly deafening, but it didn't distract her thoughts from their
kiss. Why didn't he say something? Was easing this awkwardness supposed to be left up to her? Getting no answers, she dipped her spoon into the stew and took a bite.

  It turned out to be quite good, so she took another one. As she swallowed her third mouthful, she caught Morgan smiling at her.

  "You must be hungrier than you thought."

  "I guess." She began to relax. "Maybe tomorrow I can bake some bread."

  "What a woman." He was still smiling.

  Dana smiled back, then got up to refill her bowl. As she fished through the stew, searching for more potatoes, she remembered her plans.

  Bake bread? Who was she kidding? First thing in the morning, weather permitting, she'd be hiking down the mountain on her way back to her job. Her lingering smile instantly disappeared and she guessed it didn't matter if they talked about the kiss.

  After all, she'd never see Morgan Wilder again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Schumacher's teeth chattered. He'd wrenched the last degree of heat from the generator on the motor home he was using as headquarters, and he was still freezing. Wondering if he'd ever be warm again, he disgustedly dropped the report he'd been reading and got up to pour a cup of stale coffee—at least it was hot and would warm his innards—then radioed the communications unit. "Which van is Fish—er, that is, Rutherford in?"

  "Unit nine-aught-three, sir."

  "Send someone to tell him I want to see him."

  "Right away. Also, sir, thought you'd want to know the forensic report on Deek Kowalski came over the fax just before the storm took up again."

  "Watch out for man-eating ghouls," joked someone else in the radio unit.

  "What's that, officer?" snapped Schumacher.

  "Nothing, sir." All other sounds at that end of the radio immediately ceased. "Nothing at all."

  "That's what I thought. Keep it that way. And send that autopsy over with Rutherford."

  "Yessir!"

  Schumacher glanced back at the report he'd left on his desk. Charlie Lonetree was obviously suffering from more than shock. He'd gone completely psychotic, raving about Indian legends, arising beasts, sacrifices to the Great Spirit. What really rankled, though, was how that sorry fool Fishman seemed to have taken Charlie seriously enough to write a recommendation: Cancel Mission Lobo; concentrate all further efforts on finding a serial killer.