Demon Accords 10: Rogues (3 page)

Buck found her outside, eating a submarine sandwich, its wrapping paper opened on the hood of her fancy Jeep.  She was watching the town but her attention shifted to him as soon as he opened the door.  Looked like she was on the second half of a foot-long mixed Italian with all the fixings.  The familiar paper bag was from the convenience store-gas station down the road.  She wolfed down the last few bites, white teeth flashing, wiped her hands and face with a napkin, and bundled up all the trash.  There weren’t any garbage cans nearby, so she tossed the garbage into the back of her Jeep.

“So, did you check me out?” she asked, still looking at the town.

He frowned at her choice of words, but her tone had been completely even.  “Bellini said you’re the real deal.  How do you know him?” he asked, handing her the license.

“I don’t.  Not really.  More of an acquaintance, really.  He works with Larry Dalton, who I do know,” she said.  “So, we going to visit this crime scene or what?”

He paused, uncertain, which was an abnormal state of mind for him.  She just looked at him expectantly.  “It’s extremely gruesome,” he finally said.

“You left the body out there for two days?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, of course not,” he answered, voice gruff.  “But the blood is still everywhere.”

She studied him for a second.  “Bellini said you think it might possibly be a werewolf kill.  He asked
me
to come check it out, implying I’m an expert on werewolves.  Let’s assume I’ve seen werewolf kills before, as well as were cat and were bear kills.  That I’ve seen entire buildings of torn-apart bodies.  Then let’s go ahead and figure I’ll be okay with your single body, which isn’t even there anymore.”

“Well I don’t like to assume things, but I’ll make an exception in this case,” he said, his eyes narrowed at her a bit.  “Were cat?  Were bear?  Those are real, too?”

“Yup.  Lots of stuff out of myths and legends are real,” she said, hands on hips.

“That’s just great.  You’ll be able to tell which we’re dealing with?” he asked.

“Yup,” she said. 
As well as rough age, sex, and individual health issues,
she thought.  “Let’s get going.  I’ll follow you,” she said, walking around to the driver’s side of her Jeep.

He was silent for a moment, then nodded before disappearing into the substation.  A few minutes later, an older Chevy Silverado four-wheel-drive pickup truck with
Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Department
on the side pulled out from behind the building.

She followed him for twenty-odd miles of rough road: macadam for the first ten, rugged dirt for the last.  He turned off the two-lane road onto a single lane and led her another bouncy, suspension-killing three miles.  The extra-long driveway opened into a wide space set on the bank of a small river, with a large main log structure and a number of smaller cabins and outbuildings. She noted a small satellite dish installed on the main lodge.  Wi-fi might even be possible, she thought.

Various vehicles were parked in a roughly even fashion against the side of a metal Quonset hut structure that appeared to be a combination garage and equipment shed.

Three pickup trucks were parked together: a Toyota Tacoma, a Ford F-150, and a Dodge Ram.  Next to the Ram was a Lexus SUV, then a Cadillac Escalade, a black Range Rover, and finally a BMW X5.  Parked across the back of all of them was a Chevy Blazer with an attached trailer carrying a fairly new Can-Am ATV.  The side of the Blazer was emblazoned with
Maine Inland Fisheries and Wildlife – K9 unit
.

“Great, a fricking dog,” Lisa muttered to herself as she parked her Jeep next to the sergeant’s truck.  A group of men and a dog came around the side of the Quonset hut at the sound of the two vehicles, a few waving to the deputy and all of them studying the out-of-state Jeep.

“Hey Buck. Rob showed up with Brady,” a compact man, in camo pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt with
Stihl Country
across the front, greeted them, his gravely words directed at the sergeant but his eyes on Lisa.

A tall, lean, sandy-haired young man in a ranger’s uniform nodded at Buck and studied the young woman, a big German Shepard sitting at his side.  Two other men in various camouflage clothing trailed behind.  

“Hey Rob, Shorty.  This is Lisa Renault.  She’s a consultant from New York City who comes highly recommended by one of my old Army buddies,” Buck said.

Shorty, whose eyes had hardly left the attractive young woman, stepped over and offered his hand, a big smile on his face.  “How do ya do? John Kane, ma’am.  Most call me Shorty.”

“Fine, thank you, Shorty,” she said, shaking his hand.  He was in mid-shake, staring her in the eyes, whereas most men stared at her chest, when a flicker of a frown crossed his face.  Gone as quick as it appeared, he stepped back as the others came closer, his face going blank, smile gone.

“Lisa, this is Rob Sounder, with Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, and his dog, Brady,” Buck said.

Rob, expression bland but watchful, nodded at her but stayed where he was.  Brady, whose posture had gone alert at the sight of the woman, growled softly.

The game warden looked down at his dog then back at Lisa, a frown forming.  “What are you a consultant on, Miss Renault?”

“Werewolves, Warden Sounder, and other things that go bump in the night,” she said without a smile.

Everyone froze, varying degrees of disbelief on their faces. Rob, the game warden, paused, then turned to the sergeant.  “Are you crazy, Buck?”

“You saw the pictures, Rob.  Shorty doesn’t think it was a bear, and I agree with him,” Buck said. 

The other two men moved around the sergeant and game warden as the two officers began arguing quietly, and approached Lisa with smiles. 

“Scott Olsen, ma’am,” the taller of the two said, his eyes flicking to her chest before coming back up to her face.  He gave her a sly smile.

“Pete LeClair, Miss Renault,” the shorter, stockier one said.  His eyes also roved up her body from her feet to her face, but it seemed more reflex than Olsen, who’d been deliberate.

“What do you do here?” she asked.

“Guides, Lisa.  Can I call you Lisa?” Olsen asked, moving a little closer then necessary.

“Yeah, whatever.  Tell me, you fellas notice anything different about game patterns recently or find any strange animal kills?” she asked. She was hoping to shut down their male pattern boldness quick, and who knew, maybe she’d learn some small piece of information along the way.

“Deer have been very scarce this season,” Leclair said, getting her immediate attention.  “And we found that moose carcass last month.  Remember, Scott?”

The other guide broke off his not-so-subtle perusal of her figure and frowned at his companion.  “I forgot about that.  Young moose.  Mostly just a skeleton.  Coywolves had been at it,” Olson said.

“Had a broke neck,” Shorty interjected in his gravely voice.  He’d pulled back a bit when the two younger guides had descended upon Lisa.  Now he moved forward, watching her as he spoke.  “We thought maybe a bigger bull did it banging antlers.  It’s rutting season.”

Buck suddenly broke off his conversation with the IFW warden and joined the conversation.  “You had a moose kill? How come no one mentioned that?”

The three guides exchanged a glance, then shrugged.  “It was unusual but not creepy unusual.  Animals die—it’s nature,” Pete LeClair said.

“So there you have it,” Rob Sounder said.  “A bear that could kill a young moose happened on poor Morris.”

“Is that why you asked?  You thinking about bears?” Buck asked Lisa.

“No.  If this were grizzly country I’d think that a possibility, but the only bears around here are black bears, which I don’t think are usually moose killers.  But newly turned weres often make kills that kind of stand out,” she said.

“What does a New York city werewolf
expert
know about Maine bears?” the game warden asked, his tone confrontational.

She sighed.  “I happen to live in the city now, Warden Sounder, but I grew up in Vermont.  My uncle’s a state trooper and my dad was military.  Both hunted everything that you do up here.  I know about local animals.  Maybe we could go look at this kill site and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Getting late.  Only a couple hours of daylight left,” Shorty said.

“Then let’s get to it.  Do you have hunters out on watch?” she asked as the thought suddenly occurred to her.

“No.  They’re spooked by Morris’s death.  Been hanging here, playing cards, watching movies, drinking,” Shorty answered.

“Well, let’s get going.  How far is it?” she asked.

“About three miles,” Buck said, turning and walking toward the Quonset hut.  Lisa followed, and the other men trailed along behind her.  She
knew
that if she spun around fast, she’d catch them checking out her butt.  Men.

Warden Sounder, wearing a frown, turned toward his vehicle and the attached trailer as Lisa walked up even with him.  Suddenly, Brady caught her scent and came up to all four feet, barking like she was the devil’s daughter.  The young warden was caught by surprise, snapping around toward his dog, but Lisa spoke before he could do or say anything.  “Hush it,” she snapped at the Shepard, her tone low and stern.

The big dog stopped barking instantly, tilting his head at her, and began whining uncertainly.

“I’m no threat to him,” she said to the dog, her voice rising up to its normal range.

The dog whined once more and lay back down next to his master in an alert but oddly submissive posture.

“Whoa, Sounder, she schooled your dog,” Olson said, laughing.  The canine handler was looking at his dog in open shock, then up at the young woman who hardly weighed much more than the big Shepherd.

“Brady, come here,” he finally said, moving away toward his own vehicle.  Glancing around, Lisa saw that Olson was grinning delightedly, LeClair looked surprised, and Shorty Kane wore a thoughtful expression.

Turning back forward, she saw Buck Thompson watching her as well, but as soon as she started moving, he went on ahead.

On the backside of the metal hut, a John Deere Gator and two ATVs were parked haphazardly.  The four-wheelers consisted of a smaller Honda Fourtrax and a big blue Polaris Sportsman with a dedicated second rider seat.  Buck started toward the Gator, then suddenly stopped and looked back at Lisa.  She waved him on.  “I’ll ride on the back of the Polaris.”

Pete LeClair shot a grin at his fellow guide and headed toward the Polaris, pulling a key from his jacket pocket as he went. Olson’s expression turned sour as he headed toward the Honda.

They climbed onto their rides and started motors.  Lisa was very glad for the touring seat on the Polaris, as it would give her plenty of space between herself and her driver.  Seconds after starting their engines, another motor revved up and the game warden came around the hut on his own ATV, his canine running alongside.

Less then ten minutes later, they were stopping at a junction where another, much smaller, foot trail headed off at an angle.

The motors shut off and shotguns came off of carry racks, at least for the three guides and the deputy. Actions cycled, chambering rounds.  The warden was just armed with his sidearm.  Lisa stepped away from the men and listened to the woods around them.  The men had become tense as soon as they stopped and now they turned and looked at the slender, unarmed young woman who appeared more relaxed then any of them.  Her head swiveled around to the east and both Shorty and Buck noticed that Brady’s head had turned in the same direction at the exact same time.  Like they were both hearing something the others couldn’t.  The two guides were ogling her form, and the game warden was just watching his dog.