Ghost Moon (29 page)

“Yes,” Caleb said in a strained voice. “Is he still . . . insideme?”

Quinn’s breath caught as she waited for the other woman’s answer.

After a few moments, Zarah whispered, “No. He is like a flickering shadow, dancing on the walls of a cave in the fire-light. . .” Her voice trailed off, then she exclaimed, “Oh!”

“What?” Quinn gasped.

“He lost his wife—and lost the will to live. That’s so sad.”

Quinn heard the emotion in her friend’s voice, and her stomach clenched. What if Zarah had learned that Griffin was dead? Would she give up? No, she couldn’t. She had his child inside her.

“He told me that,” Caleb said.

“You talked to him?”

“A little. When I was . . . separating from this body. I know he took a dangerous job because he didn’t care what happened to him.”

“He was spying on a militia group,” Quinn said, then clamped her lips shut as she wondered whether she was supposedto butt into the dialogue.

Zarah leaned over Caleb. “Can you tell me who Wyatt Reynolds was working for?”

When Caleb didn’t answer, she began to hum again in a low voice. Was that part of the process in this kind of ceremony?

“Concentrate. It’s very close to the surface of your mind,” she whispered.

Caleb squeezed his eyes shut, his focus turned inward as his body moved restlessly on the bed.

When his lips parted, Quinn tensed. “Jerry . . .” he said in a faint voice.

“Jerry who?” Zarah asked.

Quinn felt her heart pounding. She could see that this probing was taking its toll on Caleb. Was it going to hurt him? Make his body and his mind separate again?

But Zarah pressed on. “Jerry who?” she asked again.

“I don’t know!”

Quinn could feel energy flowing around the room, pumpingitself into Caleb, and she knew he could feel it, too—by the way his body shifted on the bed and he swung his head back and forth.

She knew Zarah was directing the flow of the energy. And she suspected it was hurting him. Physically and mentally.

She glanced across him at Zarah, and her face was a study in concentration.

Caleb made a strangled sound; his fingers tightened painfully on Quinn’s. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his shirt stuck to his chest.

“Stop,” she begged, addressing herself to Zarah. “You’re hurting him.”

His breath was coming in gasps now.

“Stop,” Quinn said again, this time more urgently. “He can’t take any more.”

On the bed, Caleb’s body jerked, and then he went absolutelystill.

WHILE
the men were having their noon meal in the mess hall, Colonel Jim Bowie ate alone in his quarters. He was living in the old farmhouse that had come with the property, but he’d fixed it up so that it was a very comfortable retreat from the pressures of his job.

He had a plate of the same food. But he didn’t want to be distracted by their conversation. He had so many responsibilitiesduring the day that he needed this downtime to unwind.

As he ate, he was reading one of his favorite passages from Thomas Jefferson. The one where he said that the tree of liberty is nourished by the blood of tyrants and the blood of patriots.

That was part of Bowie’s personal creed. He could see what was wrong with this damn country. And see how to cure it. The government needed a jolt, and he was going to give it to them.

Sometimes, when he was in a reflective mood, and he thought about the important men who had shaped history, he imagined that he had been one of those early patriots who had prodded the colonies into separating from the tyranny of George III. He could imagine himself back then, in 1776, shouting down the pussies who wanted to stay tied to England.

And maybe he’d even been there in 1787 when they’d crafted the Second Amendment, the one that prohibited the government from infringing on the rights of the people to keep and bear arms.

A lot of modern liberals and conservatives both had forgottenall that. Or maybe they were too scared to act. Well, he’d force some steel into their spines, then he’d fade into the background—ready to do it again if need be. A lot of his men were going to die soon. But they were expendable. He’d find new recruits for the cause, even if they didn’t have the intellect to follow his logic.

He already had his new identity picked out. Sam Houston,another patriot in another war.

He would . . .

The barking of the dogs interrupted his thoughts and he went very still, listening.

Since finding out Wyatt Reynolds was a traitor, he’d been on the alert.

Unholstering his Sig Sauer, he stood up, ready to see what had disturbed the animals.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Quinn clasped caleb’s fingers as she bent down, cupping her other palm over his damp forehead.

She looked accusingly at Zarah. “What have you done to him?”

“It wasn’t me. It was him. He was trying really hard, and I knew he didn’t want to stop.”

“But he should have. What if he . . . what if he left the body again?” She heard her voice rise as she said the last part. With her heart blocking her windpipe, she hovered over Caleb, clasping his fingers. For a long moment, he lay still as death, his skin pale and clammy.

Zarah touched his cheek, murmuring something low and urgent.

At first, nothing changed, and fear clawed at Quinn’s insides.Then he dragged in a shuddering breath.

“Caleb!” she exclaimed.

His eyes blinked open and focused on her.

“Quinn.” He looked like he was glad to see her, and her heart turned over.

Heedless of what Zarah might think, Quinn bent to him, held him tightly, and his arm came up to wedge her against his chest.

She felt a surge of hope. He might say that he didn’t think their relationship could work. But when his mind was unguarded,he reached out to her on a very basic level. That was something. And she would build on it.

In the next moment, she wondered if he would give her the chance. Easing away, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he was concentrating really hard.

“Jerry,” he said again. Then, “It’s Jerry Ruckleman.”

“You got his name!” Quinn breathed.

“But that’s all. I still don’t know what Bowie is planning to attack.”

JACOB
glanced down the hall for probably the sixth time. The bedroom door was still closed.

Too restless to sit and wait for a message from the psychic world, he said, “I’m going to see if I can get onto Flagstaff Farm.”

Ross gave him a sharp look. “That could be dangerous.”

“But with no life mate, I’m the logical one to do it.”

His cousin nodded, and Jacob couldn’t stop himself from resenting the gesture. He could go out there if he wanted. He didn’t need Ross’s permission.

“Can I give you some advice?”

Jacob considered the offer. He didn’t like taking advice from another werewolf. But in this case, it made sense becauseRoss was a private detective. “Okay,” he allowed.

“Wait until dark. And park at least a quarter mile from the farm.”

“Yeah. But I’ll start out now. Maybe I can get some informationin town before I invade the militia compound. The troops may have rubbed some of the residents the wrong way.”

Ross nodded. “Keep in cell phone communication—so we know you’re okay.”

“I will, until I change to a wolf.”

CALEB
swung his legs off the bed and stood up as Quinn hurried from the room. Bracing himself, he watched her returnwith Ross.

“I understand you came up with the name of Wyatt Reynolds’ boss,” the private detective said.

“Yeah. But what good does that do?” Caleb asked, hearingthe harsh quality of his own voice. “What are we supposedto do, look him up in the phone book?”

“Not the phone book. The Web.”

“Which is?”

“The greatest source of information since the smoke signalwas invented.”

Was this guy putting him on? “Smoke signal?” he asked. “Do they use them now?”

“No. I was just trying for dramatic effect. Come in the other room and I’ll show you.”

Everyone crowded into Logan’s office. Ross sat down at a very strange machine. It had a keyboard that looked somethinglike a typewriter. The numbers and letters were the same, only all the keys were on the same horizontal surface instead of being raised in tiers. And they were square instead of round.

But there was no roller at the top. And Ross didn’t put in any paper. Instead, when he typed, words appeared on somethinglike a little movie screen.

“Like a television?” he asked. “I saw one at the hunting lodge where we were hiding out. They had a lot of stations.”

“With television, they’re called channels. But you’re right, it’s like your radio. Companies broadcast programs— or send them out on cable channels, using underground wires.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Let me see if I can give you the short course in a couple of minutes. This is a computer, and it’s connected to other computers in the United States and around the world.”

“Connected? Like a telephone exchange?”

“Something like that. But there’s no operator. You do it yourself. And it’s also like going to a library catalogue and looking up a book, then taking it off the shelf. And you can search in ways that you couldn’t with a book or a catalogue. You can put in a name or a word and go right to the informationyou want. I’ll show you.” He laughed. “It’s like the post office, too. You can send a kind of mail called e-mail that comes to your machine. Well, to your address. I’m using Logan’s computer now, but I can use my own accounts.”

Caleb’s head was spinning. Struggling not to sound overwhelmed,he asked, “One machine does all that?”

“Yeah. And more. Let me type in my name and password. The password will show as a bunch of dots, so nobody else can use my account.”

When he had done what he called “login,” he said, “What’s the guy’s name?”

“Jerry Ruckleman,” Caleb supplied.

“Not a common name. That should help. Of course, his real name could be Jerome.”

AN
afternoon in Frederick had yielded little information about the group at Flagstaff Farm—except that they weren’t well liked.

After driving past, Jacob kept going to a patch of woods, where he climbed out of his car, then stepped into the shadowsand began to say the chant that his ancestors had said back into the dawn of time.

In moments, he was down on all fours—a wolf in his element,the woods. He sniffed the air, taking in the scents of the night, then started off at a fast trot for the militia compound.

He easily climbed through the rails of the wooden fence. Fifty yards farther on, he found out why access to the propertywas so easy.

Two large Rottweilers came bounding toward him, barkingloudly, ready to tear the intruder to pieces. They were both wearing what he recognized as electric collars. So if he beat it back to the fence, he would be safe.

JIM
Bowie had seen a T-shirt once with the legend, “The United States—conceived by geniuses to be run by morons.”

That was how he felt about it. The current government leaders weren’t even up to the moron level. They were idiots. And they needed shaking up to put them back on the right track. He was going to do it in just a few days.

He was contemplating the feeling of power and glory when he realized that the dogs had started barking again.

He stood in his quarters, listening intently.

As abruptly as it had started, the barking stopped.

Earlier, the handler had said they’d gone after the vegetabledelivery truck from town. Maybe this time it was a deer. There were plenty of them in the area, and it was hard for even a well-disciplined dog to resist chasing fresh game.

After a moment, he reholstered his sidearm, then sat back down in his easy chair, took another bite of his ham sandwich,and shuffled through the books on the table next to him.

The Founding Fathers had always been a source of wisdom.But he also liked to read the autobiographies of the modern generals. Patton was especially inspiring. He had a sense of history. And he knew how to rally his men to give that last full measure of devotion.

He’d inspired them with the ancient Greek battle of Thermopylae—without telling them that all of the Spartans had been killed defending the pass. The Spartans had been prepared to die. His men weren’t. But that didn’t make their demise any less glorious.

The analogy was so perfect. He knew his decision was the right one, yet he felt a sliver of uneasiness working its way through his skin, like an infected splinter.

He’d set his timetable for Operation Eagle’s Flight weeks ago.

And he’d decided to do the unexpected. Hit right before a day when the D.C. police would be on high alert.

But maybe the universe was giving him a message. Maybe he’d better not sit here reading history books.

Standing, he walked to the door of his quarters. His room was on the first floor. When he reached the porch, he looked around at his domain.

Across the quadrangle, lights blazed in the recreation hall. Most of the men were there—except the two who were on guard duty with the dogs.

He’d just take a tour around the grounds, then go back inside.

Were the men ready for the big day?

He couldn’t believe otherwise. They’d been training for this one mission for months. They functioned as a well-oiled machine.

Most of the time.

But perhaps he’d better increase their readiness over the next few days.

JACOB
went very still, making a soothing sound low in his throat, like a song.

The two dogs cocked their heads to the side, staring at him. He kept making the sound, sending out a signal to the two animals, telling them that he was no threat, that he meant them no harm, that he was their friend.