The Hallowed Hunt: A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 5 Page 14

  Herne nodded and adjourned the meeting. As I returned to my office, I passed him and he caught my wrist, pulling me to him.

  “Ember, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m sore and aching, but I’m all right.” I paused, thinking back to the blast. “But a lot of people are mourning today, including Amanda’s mother. At least we have a couple leads in Eleanor’s case. If we can bring that little girl home safely, then maybe the world will make some sort of sense again.”

  He pressed his lips against my forehead, kissing me gently. “Oh, my love. The world has never made much sense, and I doubt it ever will. That’s one thing you’ll need to get used to as time goes along.” With a soft smile, he let me go. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  I nodded, thinking that he was right. As long as the world held humans and Fae and shifters, and all other manner of people, it probably never would make much sense.

  Chapter Nine

  I waited until nine-thirty to call Amanda, wanting to avoid waking her if she were sleeping in. “Hey, it’s Ember from the Wild Hunt.”

  “Have you found Eleanor?” The hope in her voice made me cringe.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I do have some questions I need to ask you. We can either do this on the phone, or I can drive over if you like.”

  I could hear the catch in her voice and realized I had dashed her hopes. “No, the phone is fine. What do you need to know?”

  “We’ve talked to a couple of the parents of the…” I didn’t want to say dead girls, but I wasn’t sure how else to phrase it. “I need to know, at your AlkaNon meetings, was there ever a woman there who was of a slim build, possibly a blonde, and she would have shown more interest in your home life than you’d expect a stranger to. Her name might have been something like Naomi. She’s a shifter.”

  There was a pause, then Amanda gasped. “Yes, actually. I usually hang out with Tawny, but I do remember that a new member started coming at the beginning of the month. She’s a shifter. Her name…it’s not Naomi but rather, Natalie. She’s a blonde, and very thin. Why, do you think she may know where my Lani is?”

  I wasn’t about to tell Amanda that I suspected the woman might be the kidnapper—shifters went off half-cocked all too often, and if she thought that Naomi—or Natalie—had swiped her daughter, there was no telling what Amanda might do.

  “She’s a person of interest. We’re trying to reach her to find out what information she might have. Do you happen to have her last name?” I knew, given AlkaNon’s policy, it was likely she wouldn’t have it, but on the chance, I asked anyway.

  “No, I’m sorry. We don’t give out last names in the group. The only reason I know Tawny’s last name is because we’ve become good friends. But Natalie—something about her bothered me, so I shied away from her when she began to ask too many questions.”

  “When was the last time you saw her at the meetings, and do you remember what she said she was there for?”

  Amanda hesitated, then said, “I think…a week ago? Meetings are on Tuesday nights. Eleanor disappeared on Saturday, so yeah, last Tuesday. As to what Natalie’s problem is, she said she’s a recovering crackalaine addict.”

  Bingo.

  “Thank you. If I send a sketch artist out to your house, can you work with them to create a picture of Natalie?” I still had to send one out to Samantha, as well.

  “Of course.” Amanda paused, then asked, “Do you think we’ll be able to find my baby?”

  “We’re going to do everything we can, Amanda. That much I can promise you.” I hung up, then called the sketch artist the Wild Hunt kept on retainer. I made appointments for him to visit both Samantha and Amanda, then called them both to pin down the times. By the time I was done, it was ten o’clock. I thought about calling Dana Longtooth back, to ask if we could talk to her wife Hadley about the meetings, but given how tense their relationship seemed, I decided to wait until we had no other choice.

  I picked up my tablet and headed for Herne’s office, tapping on the door first before entering. “Herne? I wanted to interview the last couple that we have left in the missing-girls case.”

  He held up one hand. He was on the phone.

  “Yes, Father. Yes, I know. No, I didn’t think about that. Of course.” He motioned for me to wait outside and so I shut the door behind me, wandering over to Angel’s desk.

  “What’s up?” she asked, glancing at me. Her desk was a swamp of paperwork. “I swear, next time Charlie comes in to use my computer, I’m leaving him a strongly worded note to put my files back in order, or I’ll stake the little geek myself.” She pointed to the scattered files.

  “I’m just waiting for Herne to get off the phone. Cernunnos called him.” I stretched and yawned, wincing as the scabs on my back pulled. “Good gods, those cuts hurt.”

  “Most of them looked fairly light and should heal without too much of a scar. A few are going to be there for a while, though. The ones with stitches were jagged.” Angel frowned. “You want to see a plastic surgeon?”

  I stared at her. “What for? It’s not like the bomb got my face, though I do have some nice little skid marks on my nose. But they should heal up without a problem.”

  “You’re okay with the scars then?” Angel glanced at me as she shifted around a stack of file folders.

  “Yeah, I’m okay with them. I can’t see them and if anybody who does see them gets offended, that’s their problem. Battle scars, Ange. War wounds.” I winked at her as Herne peeked his head out of his door, motioning for me to join him.

  Angel laughed as I waved at her and followed Herne into his office.

  “What did you need?” He seemed preoccupied, frowning as he stared at something on his tablet.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve arranged to send a sketch artist over to both Amanda’s house and to Samantha’s place. Amanda said that a new member had joined her meetings this month who seemed overtly interested in her home life. She said a woman—a slim blonde—by the name of Natalie kept asking prying questions, and that she got a bad feeling from her. She was a shifter. And that matches the description of the woman Samantha mentioned, only her name was Naomi.”

  “Hmm…Natalie, Naomi. Both begin with the letters N-A.” Herne slid into his chair, leaning back and propping his feet on the desk. “What’s your gut reaction?”

  “That it’s the same woman. And the fact that she was addicted to crackalaine has to play into it. I can’t believe the cops didn’t piece it together.” I frowned.

  “Sometimes, people are ashamed of their failings and do what they can to hide them. My guess is that they didn’t even think of telling the cops about the meetings. We’re not the police—we may have a similar authority, but in a lot of people’s eyes we’re less threatening. The cops lock up crackalaine heads right and left. We don’t.”

  He had a good point. “True that. I want to interview the last set of parents. When do you want to head out to talk to Ryma’s wife?”

  “I called her and she said we could drop by around one-thirty today. So you have time, if you like.” He set his tablet down on his desk. “Who keyed your car?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I found it like that when I arrived at work.”

  “It was Ray, wasn’t it?” Herne’s eyes had a dark look to them, and I could feel his mood. It wasn’t the best.

  “I don’t really know, Herne. I suspect him, yes, but I can’t prove it and I don’t want to accuse him without any evidence.” I was half-afraid that Herne would hunt Ray down and beat the crap out of him. “At least Marilee’s counterspell has worked on him and he’s no longer obsessed with winning me back.”

  “No, now he’s just obsessed with revenge for what he sees as a deliberate action. One day, that boy is going to overstep himself when I’m around and I won’t hold back. Your glamour may have lured him in, but there’s still such a thing as taking responsibility for your actions, and Ray isn’t willing to do that.”

  I held up my ha
nd, trying to stave off this train of conversation. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Ray right now. “Can we change the subject?”

  With a grunt, Herne acquiesced. “Fine, but this isn’t over. Go ahead and interview the last couple. Be back by twelve-thirty.”

  I blew him a kiss and ducked out the door, stopping in my office to pick up the names and addresses of the third couple. Tim and Verka Wochosky were also wolf shifters. I called them. Tim Wochosky said I could come over. Jotting down their address, which was less than a mile from where we were and, sliding a rain poncho over my head, I headed for the elevator.

  The Wochoskys lived in the Cornish Apartments on Third and Blanchard. It took me five minutes to reach their place. The building was nine stories tall, and took up half the block. The bottom-story windows all had bars on them but the higher ones didn’t, and the building looked relatively old but updated. I pulled into the parking garage, finding the visitor parking, and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. The Wochoskys lived in apartment 605.

  The halls were carpeted in a quiet beige, and the walls were muted taupe. Neutrals that I detested, but they made sense in a building like this. I passed a potted palm tree and stopped in front of the door to apartment 605, ringing the bell. A moment later, the door opened and a tall, thin man greeted me.

  “I’m Ember Kearney, from the Wild Hunt Agency?” I held out my badge.

  He glanced at it for a moment, then nodded and let me in. “I’m Tim Wochosky. Please come in.”

  The apartment was small but tidy, and it felt cozy. The living room was neater than any place I’d ever seen. Everything looked ready for a magazine ad, but it felt natural here, and calm. Some places were neat out of desperation. This one felt like everything had its place and was comfortably snuggled away.

  Tim Wochosky was a thin man, and his face looked gaunt. His eyes were too bright—the brightness that only happened with speed or too much caffeine. His movements seemed jumpy.

  “Please, sit down.” He pulled out a chair at the table for me and I sat down. I was feeling more shaky than I thought I was, and when he offered me tea, I gratefully accepted.

  “I’m sorry my wife’s not here, but she works. I take care of the house and of…” He paused, grimacing. “I took care of Mallory.”

  Taking a deep breath, I dove in. “Mallory was your daughter?”

  He nodded. “I still… We can’t…” He paused, choking up. “I’ll get your tea.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

  The apartment was small enough and open enough that I could see him standing at the stove, pouring water from the kettle into two mugs. His head was down, and his shoulders were slumped. He was defeated, even if he didn’t realize it.

  When he returned, he had wiped his eyes and he placed my mug in front of me. “Here you go. I hope you don’t mind peppermint. I’m out of black tea.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I said, pulling the mug toward me. “Are you up to answering some questions?”

  “I’ll try, if it can help.” He played with the string attached to his teabag. “You said on the phone another little girl is missing?”

  I nodded. “Yes, and we think we may have time to find her. But we need every bit of information we can gather.”

  “I already told the cops what I knew, but they don’t seem to be doing anything.” He glanced over at the TV. “I suppose they’re busy now with the bomber…”

  “Yeah, they are. My agency is trying to help them on that case, too. The fourth girl went missing on Saturday and her mother came right to us, as well as the police. So we’re involved. Tell me, where was your little girl abducted?”

  He shrugged. “The mall. I took her there to pick up something my wife had ordered. We were waiting in the customer service line. There were five people ahead of me. My phone rang and I let go of Mallory’s hand to answer. I was looking the other way and when I turned around, she was gone. That’s the last time I saw her.”

  He rocked gently back and forth, his face strained as he tried to avoid crying. I knew the signs by now. The rocking helped to focus and keep control.

  “Her name was Mallory?”

  He nodded. “Mallory Jean. She was three years old. I let go of her hand…”

  “I have a delicate question. Please know, it’s important or I wouldn’t ask you.”

  Tim frowned, looking wary, but he waited for me to speak.

  “Are either you or your wife members of AlkaNon?”

  There was a pause. “I am.”

  “Have you been going to regular meetings?”

  After a moment, he nodded, his expression guarded. Finally, he seemed to find his tongue. “My wife forced me to go. I admit, my drinking was out of hand, but I was going to quit on my own. She told me that if I didn’t start going, she would take Mallory and leave me.”

  “Where do you go for your meetings?”

  “The Pike Place branch. Why?”

  I jotted down the name. Four abducted girls. Four different meeting places. Whoever the killer was, she got around, all right. “I have another question, and I’m afraid I can’t explain to you right now why I’m asking, but we need the information.”

  “All right, what is it?” Tim wiped his mouth in a gesture I had seen several alcoholics use.

  I was wary about asking him. Once it came out that this woman had been preying on AlkaNon members, I could see him blaming his wife for forcing him to go.

  “At the meetings, was there a woman—she would probably be a blonde. Slim. She might be named Natalie or Naomi or something similar, and she would have asked a lot of personal questions about your home life.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when he whispered, “Nadine.”

  “Nadine?” I frowned. She also had a variety of names.

  “She was a member of the group. She dropped out sometime last month. I didn’t notice because Verka and I were so wound up in trying to find Mallory.” He straightened up, staring at me. “Did she kill my daughter?”

  “I can’t answer that. We’re just gathering information right now. There’s no way to know for sure what’s going on yet, but we’re doing our best to find out.”

  He was holding something else back, I could tell. “What is it? Anything you could tell us can help.”

  “My daughter’s already dead. What good would it do?” The words were bitter, but there was something hiding behind the anger.

  “You might be able to help keep this from happening to other little girls, Tim. Talk to me.”

  “You won’t tell my wife?” He paused, his mouth twisting.

  “Not if I can possibly avoid it,” I said, sidestepping a promise.

  Finally, he dropped his head and muttered, “I hit on her. On Nadine. We had sex in one of the unused rooms in the community center the last night I was there. I was so angry at my wife for making me go, and I was so cocky. That weekend, Mallory vanished.”

  I leaned back in my chair. Talk about conflicting emotions. And now, they’d be even more convoluted. “Is there anything you can tell me about her? Any birthmarks or other identifying marks?”

  He shook his head, the look on his face painful. Then he froze. “A scar. She had a scar across her belly. Under her belly button. I asked her where she got it and she just brushed it away. Oh gods, did I have sex with the woman who killed my baby?” He burst into tears, burying his face in his hands.

  I sat there, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, I leaned forward.

  “We don’t know for sure how she’s involved, or even whether she’s involved. Breathe. Just breathe. We’ll be in touch with you when we know more. For now, though, I suggest you find a good therapist to talk to, perhaps together with your wife? This isn’t something that’s easy to navigate by yourself.”

  He continued to cry, nodding as the tears raced down his cheeks. “She blames me. I blame her. We blame each other. We always had problems but now, it’s like my wife has locked herself behind a massive wall and she won�
��t let me in. She never says to my face that she holds me responsible, but I know she does.” He paused, then asked, “Have you ever lost someone who was your entire world? Mallory kept my wife and me together. She was the reason I went to the meetings. She was the sunshine in our clouded marriage. And now…it’s all storm clouds.”

  I thanked him for talking to me, then let myself out. There was nothing I could do for him. He needed a qualified therapist, and probably a good divorce lawyer. Statistics said that couples either bonded tightly or were pushed apart after the death of a child, based on how close they were before the death. I couldn’t see much hope for him and his wife.

  On the drive back to the office, I found myself thinking about the people whose lives we touched. We brought some justice, to others we brought closure, and to others, we made painful situations worse. But at least we worked to uncover the truth, and that was most important.

  By the time I returned to the office, Angel had ordered lunch.

  “I ordered Italian. Hope you guys are up for spaghetti,” she said. “It’s in the break room.” She was eating at her desk, and the smells were good enough to make my stomach rumble.

  I dished up a plate and joined her, telling her what had happened.

  She frowned. “You said she had a scar across her stomach?”

  I nodded. “That’s what he said. Underneath her belly button.”

  “Did he describe it?”

  “Not really, just said it was a horizontal scar beneath her belly button. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Angel nodded. “Mama J. had one, from when she had DJ. She had to have a C-section to deliver him. Whoever she is, your suspect has had a child.”

  I blinked. “She has kids? Then why…” I paused, thinking hard. “She comes to the groups. She’s told every group so far she’s a former crackalaine user. So…maybe her child got taken away from her and she’s angry? Maybe she’s on a self-righteous trip and believes other addicts should lose their children? But why would she kill them?”