Marked Fur Murder (14 page)

“Understandable,” I said. “So who, then?”

Two-Notch is—was—a shark. She thinks the Great Crossroads is a huge aquarium, and won't venture past its boundaries. “How'd that go?”

I stroked Tango's silky back. “You believe her?”

“How about the coloration?” I asked.

[Yes, but you failed to say
how
long.]

I sighed, scritching behind Tango's ears. “Which might be saying more about a dead shark's ability to concentrate than anything else.”

[An action I take following most of your pronouncements.]

“So what's the verdict?” Ben asked. “What is this giant snake? Real, imaginary, or other?”

“So, maybe another prowler,” I said. “Drawn by the Great Crossroads like the others. And who knows how long it's been traveling? A big snake like that probably doesn't move that fast.”

[Not if it's among the formerly living, Tango. Physical appetites tend to perish along with the corporeal form.]

“Let's lay off the romantic slurs,” I interjected. “At least for tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, it doesn't exactly help set the mood,” Ben added.

“I
tried,
” Ben said under his breath. “But noooo, you had to tag along…”

if
you meet our standards.>

Whiskey got to his feet. [Come on, Tango. The two-legged ones want some privacy.]

She demonstrated by stretching out to her full length and closing her eyes. I rolled mine—as nice as it is to be trapped under a boneless cat, I had other plans.

“You can be comfortable somewhere else,” I said firmly. “And I don't mean under my bedroom window, either. Telepathic eavesdropping is
extremely
rude.”

“Not to mention unsettling,” Ben muttered.

She did that cat thing where she went from completely inert to full speed ahead with no transition time, like a kernel of corn popping off my lap.

“Ow! Watch the claws!”

She sauntered over to the door, where Whiskey was already waiting patiently. I got up and opened it for them. “Couple of hours, okay?”

[Certainly. Nothing like catching up on the neighborhood news. I wonder if the schnauzer down the block is over that urinary tract infection yet.]

“Yeah, keep me updated on that. I'm all aquiver.”

They slipped out into the night, and I closed the door gratefully behind them. Well, semi-gratefully.

I sat back down beside Ben. He smiled at me, then saw the look on my face. “Uh-oh. What's wrong?”

“There's something you need to know. I talked to Teresa Firstcharger today. She claimed she was a Thunderbird.”

Ben's eyes widened. “What?”

“Yes. And she could hear Whiskey's thoughts.” I told him about the conversation I'd had with her. “She knew about you and Anna, and she's convinced that the killer is going to strike again.”

Ben was on his feet now, pacing while he tried to process what I'd just told him. “You're
sure
she's a Thunderbird?”

“Well, I didn't ask her to prove it—”

“Why not?”

“What was I supposed to do, tell her to whip up a tornado? She said she was manipulating the wind to keep Whiskey from smelling her, and that seemed to be true.” Even to me, it sounded like a weak excuse. “She had me on the ropes, okay? She more or less ambushed me while Whiskey and I were out for a walk.”

He whirled around and stared at me. “Did she
threaten
you?”

“No. She was just very … forceful.”

“What does she want?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “She wouldn't tell me. She was all cryptic and ominous and in my face, and then she left.”

“Huh. Another Thunderbird.” The expression on his face was hard to read; thoughtful, yes—but what was he thinking? “I never really believed there were others out there. I considered the idea, but it just didn't seem real.” He shook his head. “If she is what she claims to be. Maybe she can just read animals' minds—seems like there's a lot of that going around.”

I hadn't mentioned Teresa's parting comment about looking forward to talking to me at dinner, and I wasn't about to. I'd told myself ZZ's dinners last for hours and I couldn't call off my date with Ben, but I knew the real reason: She'd intimidated me. Me, steadfast Foxtrot, able to stand up to blustering CEOs and brain-damaged rock stars without flinching, avoiding a possible confrontation with another woman. Okay, a supernaturally powerful woman, but still.

“Whatever she is, she seems to know what's going on,” I said. “And so does Fimsby. Too bad neither of them want to tell us about it.”

“Anna went to Australia to get her Thunderbird powers under control. She went to Fimsby for help. They must have discovered something that threatened not just her, but all Thunderbirds.” He rubbed his temples in frustration. “But I talked to her earlier that day. She didn't say a thing! And why wouldn't she just call me once she'd found out about the—whatever-it-is?”

“You're right—this doesn't make sense. On any level. But since there are two people who have a lot more information than we do, we obviously have to convince them to share some of that information with us. Tomorrow, we go on the offensive.”

He nodded, slowly. “Good idea. You tackle Fimsby, I'll talk to Teresa. That makes the most sense, right?”

I hesitated. “Sure. One Thunderbird to another. Just be careful, okay? She's kind of … intense.”

He sat back down beside me. “I can handle intense. You've never seen me and my father really get into it.”

His father. That reminded me of the deal ZZ had made with Ben's grandfather, and I didn't want to think about that. I couldn't tell him right now, I just couldn't. “Not that kind of intense. What I meant was she's a man-eater. She'll go all sexy and feminine-wily on you, I guarantee it.”

He flashed that country-boy grin of his, the one that made it hard to believe he'd grown up in a place a lot like the Zoransky estate. “Why, Foxtrot—is that a trace of insecurity I hear? I can't believe it.”

“What, it surprises you that I'm not perfect?”

“No, you have plenty of flaws—”

I punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow. I just find it hard to believe that insecurity is one of them.”

I snuggled a little close. “Well, you haven't talked to her. She has a very commanding presence, plus you and she are two of a kind. That's a little scary.”

“Think of it as an early warning system. If she and I do hook up, we won't be able to keep it secret; the weather'll go crazy for a hundred miles around.”

“Only a hundred? You must be getting old.”

He put his arms around me, pulled me in closer. “Nah, just holding back. I only pull out the really impressive stuff on special occasions.”

We kissed. It went on for a while, until I heard a rumble of thunder, which made me giggle. “Cut it out, Zeus. You're going to worry my neighbors.”

Ben pulled back, the look on his face suddenly worried. “That wasn't me.”

“So? Thunder is a natural occurance, you know.”

Now he was on his feet. “This isn't.”

He strode over to the window and stopped, looking out. “I can feel it. Like the sky is a giant harp and someone just plucked one of the strings.”

He held up one hand, his fingers wide, and brushed the air gently. “Where are you?” he murmured. “And what are you doing now?”

He closed his eyes, concentrating. I knew who it must be, and what she must be doing. Isn't it great when you're on a date and your boyfriend gets a text from another woman?

And then it began to snow.

Big, fluffy white flakes, drifting slowly out of the summer sky, down through the cones of streetlight. For a second I was sure a volcano must have erupted somewhere, and these were ashes I was looking at. But no; they dissolved into dots of wetness the instant they touched down on the still-warm pavement.

“Hah!” Ben said. “Oh,
that's
good. I see how you did that…”

He wasn't talking to me, of course. And his eyes were still closed.

“Um, Ben? I know this is exciting and all, but you think maybe you can convince your new friend to shut down the snowflakes before she drives the local weather forecasters into multiple breakdowns?”

He was moving his hand now, like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. “Don't worry, it's not like that. Totally harmless. This isn't an attack, it's a demonstration.”

“More like an invitation,” I muttered under my breath. “Ooh, baby, you just make me
melt
…”

“Huh?” Ben said, and then he made this really strange noise, kind of a crash-tinkle-
chunk
sort of noise.

And then he crumpled to the ground, and I saw the arrow sticking out of his chest.

 

C
HAPTER
N
INE

My reaction was pretty much instantaneous.

I leapt off the couch and caught him before he hit the floor. He's not a small guy, but adrenaline gives you strength; I'm no cop or fireman or paramedic, but I've had to deal with more than a few emergencies in my time. I've developed the kind of reflexes that make me jump toward the disaster instead of away from it.

“What the hell?” Ben said. He sounded more surprised than wounded, which is often the case. I've seen sudden injuries produce not just shock but denial, like the roadie who got his finger torn off in a rigging accident insisting his hand was fine. I had to get him to count his own digits three times before he'd agree to go to the hospital.

“You've been shot with an arrow,” I said. It was jutting from his upper breastbone, closer to his shoulder than his belly. Definitely missed the heart, and didn't seem to be bleeding too profusely. “It doesn't look life threatening. Don't move and try to stay calm. I'm calling nine-one-one.”

“Stay calm? I just got shot with an arrow!”

I already had my phone out and held to my ear. At the same time I was explaining things to the nice lady on the other end of the line, I was shouting in my head as loudly as I could for Whiskey and Tango to hightail it back to the house. I didn't know whether or not they could hear me; if we'd been near the amplifying effect of the graveyard they would have, but I'd specifically told them to get out of braincasting range.

Ben's skin had gotten very pale. He reached up to the arrow, but didn't touch it. “An arrow,” he muttered. “Who shoots people with an arrow?”

“Someone trying to be stealthy. Hold on, the ambulance is on its way.”

“I'm okay,” he said, and tried to sit up. He got about halfway before he made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a scream and sank back down. “We have to be ready,” he gasped. “In case they try again.”

“Relax. The cavalry is on its way. But I very much doubt if Rambo is still out there—this was a coward's attack. Whoever did it is long gone.”

“They better be,” he growled. “If the next person through that door isn't wearing fur or a uniform, they're getting the wrong end of a thunderbolt rammed down their throat.”

“Take it easy. The last thing we need is for you to lose control and flood the county. Was it her?”

He looked confused for a second. “Who?”

“Teresa Firstcharger. The woman you were just playing a duet with.”

“I—I don't know
who
that was. I mean, I think it was another Thunderbird, but I don't know for sure. That was all new to me.”

“That little demonstration was intended to draw you out, Ben. And once it did, you got shot. With an
arrow
.”

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

I could hear sirens now, getting louder. “Could you at least tell if the other weatherperson was nearby?”

“No. They might have been miles away, or across the street. Sorry.”

Then the paramedics showed up. While they were getting Ben into the ambulance, the police arrived. And while I was talking to them, my two furry partners finally put in an appearance.

Whiskey came at a dead run, his nose having told him something was wrong long before his eyes. Tango wasn't far behind. Whiskey skidded to a stop at my feet and whined anxiously as I knelt down and reassured him. [Foxtrot! What happened?]