Hemlock (24 page)

“Please start,” I muttered, turning the key a second time.

Not a sign of life.

How was I going to explain to Ben that I had kiled his truck?

And, almost as important, how was I going to explain that I was not at the mal buying girl stuff but was, in fact, in the worst part of town, across the street from a house that was rumored to be a grow-op.

I suddenly wished I had listened to Tess when she tried to get me to sign up for auto shop.

Deciding I didn’t have a choice, I took out my cel and caled Ben. No answer.

I tried our apartment on the off chance he was up there, but al I got was voice mail.

Not sure what else to do, I caled Tess. She answered on the third ring, and I had to strain to hear her over the background noise of the Stray Cat. “Ben loaned me the truck and it broke down. I’m totaly fine but I caled his place—and ours—and he didn’t pick up.”

The Cat must have been swamped, because, miracle of miracles, Tess didn’t ask
why
I had needed to borrow Ben’s miracles, Tess didn’t ask
why
I had needed to borrow Ben’s truck. “Did you try his cel?”

“I don’t know the number.”

She started to recite it.

“Hold on!” I searched the truck’s cab for a pen and paper. I found a balpoint in the visor and an old receipt squashed between the seats. I scribbled down the number and repeated it back to Tess, getting halfway through before the line went dead. She’d forgotten to charge her phone. Again.

I caled the number she had given me and counted the rings until it went to voice mail. I waited a few minutes and tried again. Same result.

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I wondered if Ben had any Tylenol in the glove compartment.

TAP!

I whipped my head around so fast that my skul colided with the driver’s-side window.

Kyle stood outside the truck, arms crossed. The ghost of a grin played out across his face.

I pushed the door open. “Didn’t anyone ever tel you that it’s rude to sneak up on people?” I muttered, rubbing my head.

Kyle roled his eyes. “You’re lucky it’s me and not a drug dealer. You do know the only people who park here are the ones looking to buy, right?”

“I didn’t park here on purpose.” I slid out of the truck, grabbing the piece of paper with Ben’s phone number and slipping it into my pocket. I closed the door, made sure it was locked, and leaned against the cab. “The truck died.”

I shivered and glanced around at the depressingly dilapidated scenery. “How’d you find me, anyway? No, wait, don’t tel me: you folowed my scent.”

Kyle blushed. “Actualy, I was on my way to your place, saw you drive past, and folowed.” He rubbed the back of his neck. If possible, he turned even redder. “I wanted to apologize. For this morning.”

I kicked at a crumpled beer can. “Which part of this morning?”

“Al of it.” He sighed. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were something I was just tossing aside.”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Wel, you did.” I wanted to believe him, but part of me couldn’t help thinking that both my mother and Hank had walked away from me without any trouble. Why would Kyle be different? Maybe something about me just repeled people.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I know. I should have handled things better.”

“Understatement.”

A flash of annoyance crossed his face. “Before you get too superior, maybe you should tel me what you’re doing driving around the Meadows after dark.”

Busted.

“Iwasgoingtotalktobishop,” I mumbled.

“Figures.”

I expected Kyle to rant and maybe yel, to tel me that I was reckless and had about as much sense as an extra in a slasher flick.

Instead, he started walking east. “What’s the address?”

Instead, he started walking east. “What’s the address?”

“Two forty-two Lakeview.” I fel into step beside him and studied his profile. Even though Jason was more traditionaly handsome, Kyle was good-looking in an offbeat, quirky kind of way—even when he was obviously annoyed. Maybe—if I was being extra honest—especialy when he was annoyed. “You’re not going to freak out?”

He shrugged. “If I did, you’d just ditch me and go on your own.

At least this way I don’t have to try and track you al over town.”

We rounded a corner and turned onto Lakeview. There were a few less vacant lots and a whole parade of sad-looking duplexes.

“Do you wonder why it’s caled Lakeview?” I asked as we passed brown lawns separated by rusting metal fences. “I mean, we’re not anywhere near the lake.”

Up ahead, two men and a woman were walking toward us.

They al seemed to be wearing matching white shirts under dark jackets. Despite the chil in the air, they al had their coats unbuttoned.

My shoulders knotted with tension as they came closer. The white shirts each bore a familiar symbol—a larger version of the tattoo each undoubtedly had on his or her neck. The woman’s head was shaved on both sides, and the rest of her long, dark hair was tied back in a ponytail high on the top of her skul. She was tal enough to be an Amazon. Something bounced on her hip and I realized it was a holster—like the ones the Trackers had been wearing that day they hauled the Parker kid out of my chemistry class.

Neither of the two men had holsters, but one looked as though Neither of the two men had holsters, but one looked as though he could bench-press a cow and the other was carrying an aluminum basebal bat.

Kyle brushed my hair back and draped an arm over my shoulder. “Just pretend we’re on a date and I’m walking you home,” he murmured against my ear.

I leaned into him and slipped my hand under his jacket, resting it at the smal of his back. I tried to look like everything was normal, to focus on Kyle and not stare at the three Trackers as they approached.

The man with the muscles nudged the one with the bat and they laughed.

“After I get you home,” said Kyle, holding me a little tighter and steering me across the street, “we could order a pizza. I skipped supper.”

“Okay,” I replied, playing along, “as long as you’re paying.”

I could feel the Trackers stare as they passed, like an itch between my shoulder blades.

A cel phone went off. “It’s Derby,” said the woman, her voice turning out to be low and almost sultry. “He wants us to check in.”

And then they were around the corner and it was easier to breathe.

I leaned against Kyle. “I saw another group of them by my place.”

Gently, he removed his arm from around my shoulders and stepped away. “They’re patrols. The news this afternoon said something about Trackers walking neighborhoods where they think wolves might be hiding. They’re using what happened with Heather wolves might be hiding. They’re using what happened with Heather as an excuse.”

“They’re taking over,” I murmured, suddenly wondering if I had been selfish to want Kyle to stay.

Maybe it realy wasn’t safe for him in Hemlock.

He stopped and nodded toward half of a duplex. “Two forty-two,” he said. “Not exactly where I’d expect to find one of Hemlock’s finest.”

I took in the cracked vinyl siding and overgrown lawn. Cigarette butts littered the crumbling walkway like bits of confetti, and the basement windows were covered with plywood. There was graffiti on the front of the house. Someone had tried to cover it with white paint, but even in the dim glow from a nearby street lamp, you could see hints of the letters underneath.

It was the kind of place you rented when you didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“His daughter died two years ago. He was taken off Amy’s case in June and put on suspension. His wife kicked him out last month.

Respectable housing probably isn’t at the top of his priority list at the moment.” Catching Kyle’s surprised glance, I added, “His wife has a very non-anonymous blog. It came up when I googled him.”

I walked to the front door and Kyle folowed behind. When I rang the bel, he stood so close that our shoulders brushed. I counted to sixty, and then pushed the button a second time.

There was a scuffing noise and the click of a dead bolt turning.

The door opened half a foot, and a grizzled, bleary-eyed face peered out.

peered out.

“Detective Bishop?”

The man blinked. “Not anymore.” He started to close the door.

“I need to talk to you about Amy Walsh,” I said desperately.

Bishop paused, his bloodshot eyes suddenly sharper. “Talk to Branson Derby,” he said. “That’s why they caled him in.”

He started to close the door again, but Kyle pushed past me and wedged it open with his shoulder. “We need to talk to you.”

“You’re trespassing,” sneered Bishop.

“So cal the police.” Kyle’s voice came out low and menacing.

“We’re not leaving until you talk to us.”

I grabbed my phone and flicked to the first photo of Amy I could find. “Please,” I said, standing on tiptoe and reaching over Kyle’s broad back to show Bishop the picture. “She was my best friend.”

Bishop stared at the photo. I knew, from my Google search, that his own daughter had been just two years younger than Amy when she died.

“Al right,” he muttered, stepping back to let us inside. “Ten minutes. That’s al I’m giving you.”

The smel of rancid takeout containers and empty beer bottles hit me like a slap as I blinked in the flickering halway light. Piles of garbage and dirty clothes were heaped against the wal. Frat boys had better housekeeping skils.

Bishop reached past me to shut the door, and I tried not to breathe through my nose. He needed a pot of black coffee and a shower. Maybe not in that order.

Underneath the three-day beard, dirty clothes, and sour smel of Underneath the three-day beard, dirty clothes, and sour smel of sweat and alcohol, he was so average looking that it was almost comical. A little on the short side, average weight, middle-age, brown eyes and hair—he was the kind of guy you’d forget five minutes after meeting him. He must have been great at undercover jobs.

Without a word, he turned and started down the hal.

I stared at Kyle, who shrugged.

“Detective?” If Bishop heard me, he didn’t show it.

Kyle folowed him a few feet into the house. “We have a few questions for you about Amy Walsh.”

Bishop turned. “Not here,” he grunted, eyes darting around restlessly. He disappeared through a swinging door with hinges that screeched like banshees.

“If he goes
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
on us,” muttered Kyle,

“I’m going to spend the afterlife teling you off.”

He reached back and offered me his hand. I took it without hesitation.

We entered a kitchen that was, if at al possible, more disgusting than the hal. Kyle gave his head a smal shake, and I wondered if the smel of rotting food and unwashed dishes bothered his wolf-sensitive nose more than my human one.

Bishop waited on the other side of the room, holding open a battered screen door.

A trickle of sweat ran down my spine and the smel of garbage made my stomach churn. This suddenly seemed like a bad idea.

Kyle let go of my hand and stepped into the backyard. Queling the urge to throw up, I folowed.

the urge to throw up, I folowed.

When we were a few feet from the house, Bishop started talking. “Couldn’t say anything inside. They’re always listening.”

“Who’s always listening?” I asked, wondering if the former detective was supposed to be on some sort of prescribed medication.

“The Trackers. Derby. Who do you think?” Bishop walked to a smal shed in the far corner of the yard.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” muttered Kyle.

Bishop’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. “You think I’m joking?

They’ve got the whole house bugged. Except for the yard. They’re scared I’l go to the press. Derby has me on his ‘liabilities’ list.”

He disappeared into the smal, haphazard structure.

“Mac, we’re wasting our time. The guy’s certifiable.”

I didn’t totaly disagree, but I wanted to at least give him a chance. “That’s what Derby cals people who cross him. He cals them liabilities.”

“Mac, anyone could know that. That doesn’t prove anything.”

Maybe not, but I wasn’t going to turn around and go home, not when we were already here. “Stay in the yard, if you want. I’m going to talk to him.”

Pretending to be braver than I felt, I stepped into the shed. I let out a smal sigh of relief when Kyle folowed.

I could just barely make out Bishop in the dark. He leaned over and fumbled with something. A moment later, an electric lamp flickered to life, casting a glow over five feet by five feet of cluttered storage space, broken tools, and cobwebs.

cluttered storage space, broken tools, and cobwebs.

The shed was so smal and the smel coming off Bishop so strong that Kyle and I practicaly stood on top of each other.

Bishop stared at us. Despite his appearance and the fact that he smeled like he had bathed in liquor, his eyes were oddly sharp and focused. “So someone told you I was on the Amy Walsh case?”

“I saw the police report.”

The detective raised an eyebrow.

“A friend got me a copy.”

I shifted under Bishop’s steady gaze and glanced back at Kyle, whose face didn’t give anything away. “Jason Sheffield got it for me,” I admitted. There couldn’t be any harm in teling Bishop that.

It wasn’t like he was stil on the force.

“Ah.” Bishop leaned against the dirty shed wal and crossed his arms. “That kid’s father owns half of Hemlock—including the police department.”

I didn’t deny it. Everyone in town knew how much pul Matt Sheffield had. “There was a note in the file saying that you had been removed from the case.”

“Removed from the force, more like it. I was put on leave until further notice.” He coughed. “I was having a few personal problems. They claimed the emotional stress was impacting my work. They said it was making me
unstable
. Load of BS.”

Kyle snorted and I elbowed him in the ribs.

Bishop glared. “I was a good cop. I had the highest case closure rate in the department. Then Derby showed up and I was hung out to dry.”