Bite Deep (5 page)

Corbin wasn't a G1 yet, but his work in the Dog House canteen had been nothing short of extraordinary and he'd quickly been promoted to working the kitchen at Dusty Roads. A short-order cook from Texas in his former life, the kid made burgers that were a top seller at lunch and Jericho had high hopes for the freckle-faced kid of sixteen who'd been bitten when he was eight, and had struggled since with the threat of reverting. He'd been fortunate to be bitten before puberty, since only the very young survived the virus, transmittable only through the bite of a fully reverted Breed. For a child, the process was manageable with drugs and heavy sedation, then being taught pack laws about containing the beast inside. But for an adult, a bite was a death sentence, the sudden chemical changes too much for the body to survive.

Now, Jericho watched Corbin scuffling with two of the Slayers, ginger hair falling over his eyes that were beginning to rim bright red and glint silver. White froth formed at the corner of his mouth and his shoulders had begun to swell, the air pulling tight with the electricity of a Breed on the edge of reversion, raising the hair on Jericho's arm.

The Slayers, realising they were outnumbered by a crew who could hold their own, were starting to back off. People in the crowd laughed as their earlier apprehension about being caught in a biker fight slid back to just being entertained, and some even cheered, seeing their retreat as a win for Camden. Jericho thought it was a miracle no one had pulled a gun and forced the matter to get out of hand.

He moved forward now, the crowd parting quickly for him, and when he got to Corbin he found Reaper half restraining him. Jericho put his hands on Corbin's shoulders, tightening his grip as Corbin began to rock from side to side: a basic calming technique each man was taught as a self-soothing response to rage.

Corbin's shoulders slumped now, the froth at his mouth dying to a few bubbles on his chin. Jericho kept his hand on his shoulder, letting him feel his strength.

‘You got a handle on it?' Jericho projected the alpha part of him into his voice, his words rumbling around the room. Corbin's eyes had returned to their regular colour and his breath was slowing down easily enough. Relief made Jericho almost light-headed.

He leaned closer to Corbin. ‘Are you in control?'

‘Yes.' Corbin's head fell forward, remaining anger draining from him.

‘Good.' Jericho retreated as Reaper took one of Corbin's arms, guiding the kid outside.

Turk came alongside him, watching as Winger and Blades threw the last biker out the door, the crowd cheering them on.

‘Those Slayers are bad news,' Turk muttered. ‘Reaper said they were making pretty big threats about coming back with a small army to settle the score.'

‘We can take them,' Jericho replied. ‘And if they do come back, we'll make the lesson stick hard.'

Turk glanced at the bar's entrance. ‘Was that Karla I saw leaving before?'

‘Yep.'

The old man glanced at his watch. ‘Bit early for the Royal Bitch to be gracing us with her majestic presence, isn't it?'

‘She had some news for me.'

‘What kind of news?' Turk asked. ‘Or don't I want to know.'

‘Probably you don't.' Jericho blew out a long breath. ‘Look, I want you to organise someone to keep an eye on Corbin the next few days. We came real close just then to a bad situation. I need to know if he's starting to struggle.'

‘You got it.' Turk paused, then said. ‘If he is having troubles, you got a plan?'

‘You mean better than the one I had for Lance?' Jericho's eyes sliced to the old man. ‘You think there was something else I could have done for him?'

Turk shook his shaggy grey head. ‘Everyone knows you did everything you could. In the end, there was no other way and we both know that.'

Jericho nodded, then watched Turk head towards the back to his shop, not sure the old man was right.

Chapter 4

Lydia stood outside the Camden police station, clutching the ham and cheese sandwich she'd ducked out to get for an early lunch. Her heart pounded, sweat beaded her forehead and the scars under her collarbone itched, as if the skin was still trying to heal.

Panic attack
.

The last time she'd had one was on the mainland, before she'd boarded the plane to Camden. It had only lasted ten minutes, and had been more embarrassing than anything else as she'd sat in the airport lounge, head between her legs, sucking in deep breaths, trying to ignore concerned questions from those around her. It had left her rattled and made her wonder if she was doing the right thing by returning here.

With her free hand, she adjusted her bulky duty belt. Her police uniform was stiff, and itched her skin like it was a hessian bag. On the mainland, she'd been able to wear nice clothes. Nice, comfortable clothes. Now look at her. Throttling an innocent sandwich, hyperventilating like a rookie and obsessing about how she looked in her uniform.

The Camden police station stood before her, a quaint little building in the centre of town, framed by snow-peaked mountains. The main street of Camden itself was a screenshot of beauty, with green trees lining the road and little gingerbread shops and storefronts for local breweries and homemade fudge. People greeted each other as they walked, no one rushing to deadline, everyone travelling at their own pace.

‘Good morning.'

Lydia stifled a surprised yelp and turned. A woman with sausage curls in her hair and crooked eyebrows stood beside her, holding the leash of a nervous-looking toy poodle.

‘Hello.' Lydia shuffled around as the dog sniffed her leg like it was looking for a good spot to urinate.

‘I don't believe we've met yet.' The woman stuck out a gnarled hand and Lydia smelled liquor on her breath. ‘I'm Morgan Wilcox. I work at the Red Roof Inn out on Hinkler Avenue. Dive of a place, but at least they let you drink on the job. Probably so you don't notice the cockroaches.'

‘Um, right. Yes. I'm Constable—'

‘Gault. Yes, I know. Your mother and I used to be in the same social club in a different life.'

‘Really?'

‘Every Friday night.' Her eyes crinkled at the corners, adding dozens of lines to the ones already there. Lydia realised her eyebrows had been drawn in with eyeliner, one sitting higher than the other. ‘Good times. We were quite the force to be reckoned with back then. Your mother was particularly ferocious.'

‘Sorry, I don't understand.' Lydia tried to recall her mother being part of any social group. Sure, there were times she had to go into town for errands, but Lydia had no memory of her mother doing anything other than working in her office and pottering in the garden. ‘What kind of social club was this?'

Morgan gave Lydia a grim smile and deftly changed the subject. ‘Terrible thing that happened yesterday morning, don't you think? That poor girl, being killed like that. I heard she was from that hippie place outside of town, Crystal Waters. You know it? One can only wonder who would do such a thing to a poor, defenceless girl. Do you have any ideas on what happened to her? I heard she was shot in the back. Is that true?'

‘There's been no solid leads yet, Mrs Wil—'

‘Call me Morgan.'

‘Morgan. I'm sure the senior sergeant will make a community announcement when we have something.'

Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘Frank? That man couldn't find his own backside if he was sitting on it. I'll bet he doesn't even know what happened on the Tanner orchard.' She paused and waited expectantly.

Lydia suppressed a sigh. ‘What happened at the Tanner orchard?'

Morgan tapped her nose. ‘I heard some backpackers were out there, claimed a large dog attacked them.'

‘And where did you hear this?'

‘CB radio.' Morgan tisked at her dog, who had started straining on the lead, impatient to get on with the walk. ‘The things those truckers talk about, not fit for a lady's ears sometimes.'

‘Well, it was lovely talking to you, Morgan.' Lydia lifted her sandwich. ‘I should go and have my lunch while I can.'

‘Perhaps we can catch up later then. Maybe grab a coffee from that new bakery that's opened up on Blane Street. Don't go to the Camden Grill, the cook spits in the potato salad.'

With a wave, Morgan Wilcox walked off, dog tottering beside her. Lydia watched the woman go, sure she would never get used to having strangers stop and talk to her. She was more familiar with pollution, busy city streets, and most importantly, being ignored.

She realised suddenly the unusual and confusing conversation with Morgan Wilcox had grounded her. Her heartbeat had slowed, her breath returned to normal. Satisfied the risk of attack was behind her, she entered the station. Inside, the reception desk was littered with charity tins and a community board was covered with missing person posters. A small woman greeted her with a cheerful wave.

‘Get your sandwich?' Constable Elaine Brickett gave Lydia a wide, gap-toothed smile. She had short spiky hair, bright pink lipstick and far more energy than Lydia thought was natural. She was still weary from the early start the day before, beginning with the discovery of the Jane Doe body.

‘Got it.' Lydia held up the squished bread and hoped Elaine hadn't seen her freaking out before being accosted by Morgan. Not that Elaine didn't already think something was wrong with her. After all, it had only been a week ago she'd had to fetch paper towels for Lydia after she'd had lost her breakfast in the hydrangea bushes behind the station. First-day jitters, she told herself, but still, not the greatest start. She didn't want to go back to being on anxiety medication, but if she had another close call, she might have no choice.

‘The sarg wants to see you.' Elaine threw a thumb over her shoulder, towards the back of the station. ‘I still can't believe he asked you to go to that crime scene yesterday. I mean, you're still new and he drags you out to look at a body? Honestly.'

Lydia wasn't sure how to answer that, but was saved by the reception phone ringing. Elaine gave a dramatic groan and answered it, while Lydia pushed through the door that separated the reception area from the main station.

The inside was small, with three desks—only two with computers. Simon Novak, the third constable of the station, sat behind his desk, arguing on his mobile phone. He was a big guy, with a broad face and a buzz cut. Lydia had quietly nicknamed him The Jaw, partly because of his wide double chin, and also because he always appeared to be arguing with someone on his mobile.

He caught Lydia's eyes and looked away, uninterested. Novak hadn't been friendly from the outset and she suspected he was pissed now because Bowden had called her instead of him to assist him on the crime scene yesterday. More bad starts. She tossed her sandwich on her tiny desk and walked to Bowden's office, rapping her knuckles on the shut door.

‘Come in.'

Inside the office, Bowden sat behind his desk, scratching his bald head as he hung up his phone.

‘Constable Gault.' His high-backed leather chair creaked as he leaned back, rubbing his chin. ‘Looks like today's going to be a busy one. Anglo wants us to drop by the medical centre, then we've got to go out to the Tanner farm. Sounds like someone's been mucking around with a wandering cow. Hacked it right up. Probably some UFO nutbags, or backpackers loaded up on meth or whatever it is kids take these days to screw themselves up.'

‘That's weird,' Lydia said. ‘I was just talking to a woman outside and she mentioned the Tanner farm.'

‘Oh?' Bowden's bushy eyebrows rose. ‘Who?'

‘Morgan Wilcox.'

Bowden made a face. ‘Do yourself a favour and ignore everything that comes out of her mouth. She's just an old drunk who gets up into everyone's business. Used to be part of some kooky cult, years back.'

‘Okay,' Lydia said. ‘But she did say she had a CB radio and heard gossip about some backpackers hitchhiking to the city, saying they got attacked by a large animal.'

‘We'll be able to see for ourselves soon enough what happened,' Bowden said. ‘And we can always talk to Morgan later. But only if we absolutely have to.'

Lydia tried to steady her voice, tried not to sound as frustrated as she felt. ‘After the Jane Doe murder, anything out of the ordinary is worth checking out.'

Bowden gave her an indulgent smile. ‘I think it's best if you let me make those kind of calls.'

She wanted to point out she had the experience to make her own damned calls, thank you, but the defiant reply got stuck in her throat. The image of the dead girl, lying face down on the grass, was seared into her mind's eye and she swallowed back her protests. Small steps, she reminded herself, small steps. As she had planned in the
after
of her attack, she'd reassured herself the job in Camden would entail very little excitement. It was a prospect she had dreaded and embraced in equal measures. She'd prepared herself for teenage shoplifters, breaking up pub brawls and settling disagreements between farmers. Not murder.

Bowden stood and snagged his wide-brimmed hat from the hook behind him. ‘Let's go take a look-see, shall we?'

Novak was still hissing angry words into his mobile, but he hung up when he spied them leaving and stood. ‘Where are we off to?'

‘I'm taking Lydia out to the Tanner farm,' Bowden said. ‘Why don't you pick us up some lunch from Fran's for when we get back. I'll have one of those nice chicken salads she does.' He patted his stomach. ‘Get the dressing on the side, will you?'

Novak sat back down slowly and Bowden looked at Lydia. ‘You want anything, Lydia?'

Novak eyes slid to her, filled with an oily resentment. Lydia motioned to the ham and cheese on her desk. ‘I'm fine.'

Bowden shrugged and walked out. Lydia waved goodbye to Elaine, who was still on the phone, and she gave her a tiny wave back before returning to the call. As she followed Bowden outside, Lydia wondered how much of a problem Novak was going to be. She'd already been warned by Elaine to steer clear of the prickly constable. She'd tried to explain his hostility away, saying he had domestic issues and was mean to everyone. Lydia took an educated guess that Novak was just a straight-up jerk, domestic issues or not.