The Turning Season (7 page)

“So, no brothers or sisters, either?” Joe is asking.

I shake my head. “No. I have a couple of cousins, but they don't live in Barrington anymore. So I haven't been back to Chicago in—maybe five years? Wow, long time.” I focus on him. “How about you? Family in Joliet?”

He nods. “Couple of brothers, both married, both have kids. My dad's dead, my mom's remarried, everybody seems pretty happy.”

I resettle myself against the brick, trying to get more comfortable. “Sometimes that makes it harder,” I remark. “When everyone else seems to be doing great, and you're the only one who's still trying to figure it out.”

That makes him grin. “Yeah, and my younger brother was always the screwup. I was always the one who got it right the first time. But now I'm just—” Joe spreads his hands to indicate his incomplete life. “And he's got the great job and the great kids.”

“Great wife?” I ask.

The grin grows wider. “Nah, she's a ballbuster. But
he
seems to like her, so I guess that's all that matters.”

“So you go up for birthdays, holidays, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, or football games or whatever. We're tight.”

I'm trying to think of a polite way to ask if he's made any friends in Quinville—because, if he's lived here a year and he
hasn't
, he's a pretty lost soul—when the music changes from some mournful Coldplay number to the grinding rev-up of “Footloose.” I almost squeal.

“I
love
this song,” I say. He's a total stranger and I'm standing outside on the sidewalk, but I can't keep my feet still. I'm practically dancing in front of the bouncer in the doorway of Arabesque.

But he doesn't think I'm a dork, or if he does, he's one, too, because he's raised his hands and is making syncopated gestures along with the chorus. He's grinning broadly and mouthing the words along with the band. I've actually started singing, though I'm keeping my voice low, but I've shoved myself wholly away from the wall and now I'm starting to act out the lyrics and shake my ass a little more. He pushes up from the stool and gets his feet and shoulders into it, and pretty soon there's no way to pretend we're
not
dancing together, right here in front of the club. Celeste would die if she saw me, but I'm having too much fun to stop.

The song comes to its abrupt crescendoing conclusion and we both freeze in exaggerated poses, then burst out laughing. “Hey, that was fun,” he says. “Sitting out here, I never get to dance.”

“You like to dance? Most guys hate it.”

“I always think I don't till the music starts.”

“That's how
I
feel!”
We're twins,
I think,
just like Ryan and Celeste.

We both have our heads cocked toward the door, half hoping the band members will play another beat-driven tune, but it seems “Footloose” is how they ended their set. We can hear the distorted sound of the lead singer promising to be back in a few minutes, and then a Beyonce song starts issuing from the speakers inside. Joe makes a face.

“
This
isn't my kind of music.”

Before I can answer, the door opens and people start streaming out into the night. Most of them are smokers, their cigarettes between their lips before they're even out of the building. Quinville passed a no-smoking ordinance a couple years ago, and people are still complaining, but it doesn't seem to have hurt business here in the Square.

A few of them are couples who have come outside to argue or make out. Celeste and the good-looking stranger are among them, already holding hands. She passes so close to me I could touch her on the cheek, but either she doesn't see me or she pretends she doesn't. They slip around the corner of the building where the smell of trash might be stronger but the shadows are deeper. I'm thinking maybe I can convince Ryan to give me a ride to my car so I can go home now; it's looking like Celeste might appreciate having me out of the way come closing time.

“I guess I should go back in,” I say to Joe. “My friends might be wondering where I am.”

He nods. “If you wanted, you could give me your address,” he says, his voice so offhand he's clearly making an effort to keep it that way. “In case I have time to bring Jezebel out to see you.”

“Sure,” I say, smiling to show I'd welcome a visit from him—and his dog. “Take 159 to W, go right on W, and stay on that about eight miles. There's an abandoned red barn on the left side of the road and a stone wall on the right side. I'm right past the stone wall.”

He's not writing it down but he's nodding at each landmark like he's committing it to memory. “Oh, hey, I think I've been down that way a few times to go hunting,” he says.

I can't stop my expression of horror. “Hunting? You shoot things? You won't kill a person but you'll take a gun and kill an
animal
?”

He looks both chagrined and a little defensive. “Bowhunting. Not guns. And I don't hunt anything I can't eat. And if we don't thin the deer population, it gets out of control—”

“Since we've killed off so many of their natural predators,” I rattle off. “I know. But
still
.”

He heaves a sigh. “So I guess you don't eat meat. Maybe you're a vegan.”

Now I'm the one who looks defensive. “I eat meat. Sometimes.”

“And you don't think that's hypocritical? That you'll eat meat if someone
else
has done the killing?”

“It's kind of like you and the cop thing,” I answer. “I know someone has to do it, but I don't want it to be me.”

“Well, don't hold it against me,” he says.

I don't know you well enough to care
is one option for a reply. But I don't say it and, anyway, it's not quite true. I mean, I don't know him, but I like him well enough to think it would be nice to care. “Give me a little time to get over the shock.”

“You probably do stuff that I'd think was gross, too,” he says hopefully.

Now I laugh. “Yeah, like neutering dogs and cats and looking up their butts with scopes.”

“Ew! Yuck! That is totally gross,” he responds. “But
I
don't hold it against
you
.”

“It's not the same thing! I'm saving lives and you're taking them.”

“I'd be saving lives if everyone was starving and the only food they had was the meat I brought home.”

This makes me laugh. “I get the feeling you're the kind of guy who can argue all day about something,” I say. “Am I right?”

“Kind of. I told you. Brothers. You can't ever give in, man. You can't ever admit you're wrong.”

I want to say
Sounds exhausting
, but before I can get the words out, there's a terrific clatter from the back alley. Metal trash cans rattle and clang together, and then comes the high, unnerving sound of a man's voice raised in sharp pain. I jerk around to stare in that direction, as do all the people loosely gathered in front of the club. Joe's on his feet, his hand going to his belt.
He carries a gun?
I think a little numbly, but no, it turns out he's holding something that looks like a two-way radio. The expression on his amiable face is suddenly alert and focused, and he's gathered his big body from relaxed to ready in the space of a heartbeat.

“Stay here,” he says, a command that's loud enough to include everyone in the immediate vicinity, and then he takes off in a cautious run for the alley. He's staying close to the building, as if hoping its bulk and shadows will protect him from violence, and I have a weird, fake-memory flashback of seeing him approach another crime scene in just such a grim and careful fashion. Dressed as a cop. Weapon in his hand. Death around the corner.

There's another noise explosion, more metal trash cans being kicked or battered, and then a shape staggers out from behind the building. It's just one guy, but he looks off, somehow, like he's drunk or disoriented. One hand is pressed to his cheek, one to his chest, and the only way to describe his gait is
reeling
. As Joe steps up to intercept him, I recognize him as the junker's good-looking brother.

Where's Celeste?

D
espite Joe's command, I step closer to the alley, trying to figure out what's happened. For a moment, I can hear their voices—Joe's low, authoritative, and soothing; the other guy's angry and steadily rising—but I can't make out their words. Then the handsome stranger makes a wild gesture with one hand, and I see the bloody track marks on his face.

Holy mother of God.

At that exact moment, the audio station in my head tunes in to his frequency and I can understand every word he says. “I'm telling you, asshole, she turned into a
lion
. We were making out, and she—she wasn't a
person
anymore, she was a
lion
, like a
mountain lion
. She
scratched
my
face
! She—crap, how can something like that happen? She, like, she—she wasn't human! She was this—she was like this
animal
—”

Oh my God oh my God oh my God.

I'm not the only one inching nearer to the confrontation. All around me, smokers and romantic couples are drifting over, trying to get close enough to hear, their faces reflecting fascination and amusement. Joe's voice sounds again, still untroubled, soothing.

“I'm sure that was quite a shock. You look like you've been injured, maybe we—”

“Fuck
yeah
I'm injured! She tried to claw my
eyes
out!”

“So maybe we should get those injuries looked at, Bobby. I'm just sayin'.”

Bobby. So either Joe knew the guy's name before or he was able to extract it a few seconds into the encounter and is using it now as a way to keep the man calm. Either way, I'm impressed.

But the tactic isn't working on Bobby, whose voice gets angrier. “What you should be
doing
is looking for a crazy woman who turned into a lion right here in the middle of the city!”

That's sort of what I'm doing. I've gotten to the edge of the alley by now and I'm squinting at the pile of shadows behind Arabesque, behind the nearby buildings, looking for the chatoyant glint of cat's eyes staring back at me. I don't really expect Celeste to have stuck around this long, but I'm not sure where she could have gotten to safely in the minute or so that's passed. I'm as worried about that as I am about what the
hell
she's just done.

She changed shapes? In the arms of a stranger? Okay, sure, I'm not surprised he got fresh and he might even have gotten rough and maybe she panicked, but she
changed shapes
? It's axiomatic that shape-shifters don't tell ordinary people who and what they are unless they have absolutely zero choice or they have absolutely perfect confidence. So much is at stake—not just their own lives, their own secrets, but the lives and secrets of the entire community of shifters who have existed for thousands of years beside their human brethren, unknown and unsuspected. She has jeopardized everyone.

She really must have been afraid of him.

In my scrutiny of the alley's likely hiding places, I must have missed a couple exchanges, because now I hear Joe's voice raised a little louder in response to something Bobby just said. “I said, we'll look into it. But I can smell the booze on your breath and—”

Bobby shoves Joe hard in the chest. “I am
not
drunk, motherfucker! That woman, she—” He is clearly tired of repeating himself, so he makes his point by throwing another punch.

Joe moves fast, catching Bobby's arm and twisting it behind Bobby's back, so the guy howls in pain again. But there's a lot of fight left in him, drunk and mad as he is, and he lurches around, trying to shake Joe off, trying to kick him. I hear someone in the crowd yell, “Call the cops!” and there's a general movement of people, some running back inside, some pattering closer, ready to help or interfere.

I sink deeper in the shadows, waiting for it all to get sorted out. It's only a few minutes before Bobby is more or less subdued and a small crowd, mostly male, accompanies Joe as he marches his captive to the front of the building and back inside. Seconds later, a police car arrives, complete with sirens and flashing lights, and I see a couple of uniformed men get out of the car and head for the door of Arabesque.

I slip into the alley and start looking around. By now my eyes have more or less adjusted to the dark, which is only faintly broken by a string of old white Christmas lights hung above Arabesque's back door. I'm not watching for Celeste anymore; now I'm searching for her clothes. When shape-shifters transition from human to animal form, their accessories don't transition with them. If they make the transformation before they have time to disrobe, they leave behind little piles of jeans and skirts and underwear. If they change into something much bigger than their human selves, they leave behind
ripped
piles of clothing.

I'm guessing Bobby was so unnerved by the appearance of the bobcat he didn't even notice that Celeste's clothes were littering the ground—a little supporting evidence that his story might be true. It doesn't take me long to find the items she's discarded. I pocket the gold necklace and the navel ring, because I know these are among her favorites, but I stuff the tight jeans and the strappy top and the feathered headpiece into the nearest Dumpster. I can't exactly carry them back into the bar with me but I prefer that they aren't found by anyone making a casual survey of the alley.

I look around some more but don't see anything else I should take care of.

The next trick will be finding Celeste. In her alternate state, she can make her way back to her apartment easily—well, in the sense that the journey won't be too taxing
physically
. But a bobcat on the loose in the streets of Quinville might find the trek dangerous. There are a lot of streets to cross and plenty of places where the ground cover is thin. Bobby isn't the only loud, stubborn drunk she might encounter on the way.

She could turn human again at will, of course. Celeste is blessed in that regard. But I'm not sure how much safer a beautiful naked woman would be, trying to cross Quinville at night.

Time to gather my highly questionable reinforcements.

*   *   *

I
step briskly out of the alley, around the building, and back into the bar, which, after the dimness outside, suddenly seems too bright. It's also a scene of chaos. The band has stopped playing, though the musicians are clustered together on the stage, looking uncertain. Groups of customers have gathered around tables and in corners, huddled together as if for warmth. Most people are drinking something. Many of them, primarily the women, keep glancing over their shoulders as if they're afraid something is stalking up from behind. Joe and the two cops are making dark, burly shapes around the table where Bobby, his brother, and his sister-in-law are seated. Bobby's still mad; I can see his mouth working fast and his arms gesticulating wildly. In the bar's smoky light I can also see the four slim lines of blood across his cheek.

No doubt someone has said something like, “She sure cut you up good, dawg, but those are just the fingernail scratches from an ordinary girl.” Because who could possibly believe anything else? But to me, they look like claw marks, thin and nasty.

I make my way to the table where Ryan, Rain, and the other blondes are standing, as uncertain and unnerved as everyone else. “There you are,” Rain says in exaggerated relief as she sees me. “
What
is going
on
? Do you have any idea?”

The only person in this whole room who can provide me any assistance is Ryan, so for the first time in months, I actually think I could find shelter by burrowing into his embrace. I don't do it, of course, but I do meet his eyes and we trade a look. He knows exactly what has happened and, like me, will do everything in his power to help Celeste escape this night unscathed.

I make my voice puzzled and a little alarmed. “No! I went out for a walk and when I got back the cops were here and people were acting all crazy. What happened? Where's Celeste?”

Rain's eyes are huge. “She started dancing with that cute guy, that Bobby?” She doesn't quite point, but her vague gesture indicates the table where the cops and the troublemaker are still arguing. “And when the music stopped, they went outside, you know? To talk? And suddenly he starts screaming and saying she turned into a lion and scratched his
face
up? I mean, what's that about?”

“And now the cops are here and they want people to stick around if they have any information, but
I
don't know anything,” says one of the other blondes. “I just want to go home.” Belatedly she adds, “I'm worried about Celeste, though. I mean, of course.”

“Of course,” I echo. “So what do you think happened?”

Ryan speaks up. “He probably tried to cop a feel and Celeste didn't like it and she scratched his face up.” He shakes his head admiringly. “She's done it before. The girl knows how to take care of herself.”

Ah. That's the tack we're going to take. I say, “Oh man. I remember that one time. Where were we—down on Washington Avenue in St. Louis, right?”

“That's right,” Ryan confirms.

“And this guy had been bugging her all night. And finally she agreed to dance with him, and then she kneed him right in the balls. On the dance floor. I mean,
hard
. He fell down and was writhing around like a baby.”

“They called the cops then, too,” Ryan says in a reminiscing tone.

“Bobby's face looks pretty bad,” one of the blondes says in a nervous voice.

“Well, I guess he was pretty violent with
her
,” I respond. “Celeste doesn't take much shit.”

“So are you going to stay and talk to the police?” Rain asks me. “I mean, I want to do the right thing, but I didn't
see
anything. I don't
know
anything. I don't even know if she's ever met Bobby before in her life.”

“Sure, we'll stay,” Ryan says. “You guys go home. We'll take care of this.”

Rain turns to her fellow beauty queens. “Or, you know, we could head on over to Black Market. I think they're still open for another couple of hours.”

“Oh, hey, yeah,” one of them answers. “My car's right over there, too.”

“Great!” Rain answers. She gathers up her purse, then says to me, “Tell Celeste we're worried about her and she should let us know as soon as she's home.” Then she flashes a white smile at Ryan. “Call me,” she tells him.

She follows the other girls out the door. The place has largely emptied out in the past five minutes, and now it's maybe one-quarter full. I see the musicians on stage packing up their instruments. Nothing like a little mayhem to kill the mood.

I smirk over at Ryan. “Call me,” I simper.

He grins. “Women love me.”

“She's so not your type.”

“I don't have a type. I like everyone.”

It's not worth trying to find an answer to that, and anyway, Joe and one of the cops are headed our way. Someone must have pointed us out as the people who were hanging out with Celeste before the evening deteriorated.

I recognize the cop, and I want to start swearing. He's actually the sheriff of Quinville, a transplanted Southerner with a soft voice and sharp mind. Every time I've had a conversation with him I've felt guilty and nervous, like a schoolgirl trying to hide a misdeed from the principal. He and Janet were friends, sort of—she would come into town specifically to make house calls on his three German shepherds. She always said it was a good idea to do favors for powerful people, but I've found it impossible to take over that responsibility. I keep expecting him to ask to see my vet's license or my school diploma; I keep expecting him to expose me as a fraud.

Though that is not my primary concern right now.

“Good evening, Miss Karadel,” he greets me in a pecan-pie drawl that from anyone else I would find seductive. He's good-looking in a beefy sort of way—maybe six feet tall, solidly built, with deep blue eyes looking out from a tanned and strongly molded face. His closely cropped black hair is starting to gray at the temples, and he looks like he's about forty, but Janet always said he was younger than he seemed.
It's the kind of job that ages you,
she had observed.

“Hey, there, Sheriff,” I reply.

He pulls over one of the empty stools and half sits on it—like Joe, I think, attempting to seem less intimidating. Joe ranges behind him, but I keep my focus on the man right in front of me. “Kind of got a weird thing going on tonight,” he observes, squinching his face up to indicate it's all just a little outside his normal purview.

“I'm not even sure exactly what's happened,” I say.

But he's looking over at Ryan. “Don't think I know you, son. I'm Malcolm Wilkerson.”

“Ryan Barnes. Sir.”