Kiss of the Silver Wolf (2 page)

Despite making all the arrangements for the visiting hours and funeral, she still couldn't believe her parents were gone, killed in a single-car accident on a dry road by the light of the March moon.

A crowd of colleagues, co-workers, and friends, waiting to pay their respects, queued out the door, but Charlene had never felt so alone. A gangly, skinny outcast in high school, she'd been best known for her speed as a long-distance runner and her preference for practice runs at night. Even now, she still felt different, separate from her peers at her metropolitan university. Although she'd dated a lot of guys, and even had a serious relationship with one for a year, her family stayed her only
real
source of unconditional love.

Her gaze snagged on the memory table laden with a satin stainless steel urn and photos of her parents. In one, Mom held her in the crook of her arm. Dad looked over Mom's shoulder, smiling broadly. In another, her grinning parents stood behind Joey, her older brother. Someone in the funeral home had artistically arranged candid shots of her father at work in the Johns Hopkins genetics lab and her mother in her nursing scrubs between the family portraits. A fresh wave of grief washed over her.

She had to be strong for Joey. He was all the family she had left.

A classical arrangement played in the background, not quite covering the crowd's whispers and murmurs. “Tragic!�� “So young.” “...cause of accident?"

She winced and mentally thanked her parents for their memorial service plans. Practical to the end, they had ordered cremations and no eulogies. She would have never been able to deal with a viewing. Not after what she'd seen in the morgue. She shuddered at the memory. No amount of post-mortem grooming and cosmetics would have covered
—No. Don't go there. Don't think about the medical examiner's odd questions. She had to focus on the here and now.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Hoffman.” She shook the stooped, gray-haired man's soft hand.

"Fred was a wonderful guy. I'll miss his quirky sense of humor. We'll be a boring bunch of nerds without him around."

"You believed in his research. That meant a lot to him."

Hoffman nodded and looked down at the floor. “He was passionate,
obsessed
with a cure for Joey."

A sudden vision of the medications, needles and syringes she found in her brother's room after the accident flashed into Charlene's mind.
Did her father use experimental drugs on Joey?
She opened her mouth to ask Hoffman about it, but closed it without saying a word. She hadn't been home much for the last year and a half, nor had she been Joey's caregiver.
What right did she have to criticize her parents? She was always too busy with her life, her studies, her research, her career to ask how they were doing. She'd been self-centered and myopic. Now they were gone and she'd never get to talk to them again. What choice did she have but to continue to use the medicine her parents had left for her brother?
Tears welled up in her eyes and she choked up.

Hoffman pressed his business card into her palm and snapped Charlene back into the present. “If there's anything I can do for you, call me."

She could only nod. Vision blurred, she searched a nearby table for a box of tissues. When she turned back to the line, an old man in a threadbare black suit, snow-white shirt, and a thin black tie shuffled up to Charlene and grasped her hand with his callus-hardened one. As she stared at geometric patterns on the large signet ring on the elder's hand, the scent of apple pie laced with cinnamon wafted over her. For a moment, her shoulders lost their tension and she smiled.
Her mother loved apple pie.

Taut skin, the color of beef jerky and deep creases in his forehead and cheeks gave the man the appearance of a puppet when he spoke. Only his ice-blue eyes and thick gray hair appeared to be human. “You don't know me, but we're kin."

Apprehension tickled the back of her neck.
Kin?
Charlene mentally compared his face with her mother's photo albums and came up empty. “I'm sorry, I don't recognize you. You are—?"

"Jethro Carter. This is my wife, Rebekkah."

An elderly woman with iron-gray hair pulled back into an impeccable bun stepped up to Charlene, gave her a slow once-over with piercing blue eyes, and nodded. “You're a bit taller and your hair's a little redder, but you're hers, all right. You have her eyes."

"Thank you.” When Charlene extended her hand, the old woman pulled her close and sniffed her neck.

Rebekkah stepped back. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You even smell like her."

What was that about?

The old woman glanced at Jethro and he nodded. Rebekkah reached into her pocket and retrieved a dark metal bracelet. “This was your mother's. She would have wanted you to have it.” She slid the oddly heavy bangle onto Charlene's wrist. “Wear it always."

A fresh wave of grief hit, and Charlene could barely speak. “Thank you."

Jethro cleared his throat. “And this is Zachariah Abingdon."

Charlene expected to see someone the same age as Jethro and Rebekkah. She caught a whiff of soap and some unrecognizable musky spice and jumped, startled to find him standing at her elbow.

The younger man flipped shocks of silver hair away from his piercing blue eyes. A trail of heat blazed in her face, and ignited a fire in her core. He gazed down at her, an amused hint of a smile playing on his full, sensuous lips. “Call me Zack."

When he spoke, she felt as if he had reached out and caressed her cheek. He took her hand, and a surge of energy jolted her.
Did he feel that?
Dry-mouthed, she squeaked, “Are we related?"

He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. “Not that I know of. Is that a problem?"

Heat rushed up her neck, and she felt a blush blooming on her face. She looked down at his large hand still clasping hers. She didn't want to let go. “No. Not at all."

Jethro cleared his throat again, and Zack grinned at her, a sly look in his eyes as he slid his fingers away. She glanced down, half-expecting to see a visible red glow where his touch lingered on her skin in a trail of heat.

"We should let other people speak with you.” Jethro pressed an envelope into her hand. “There are no orphans among our people. You and Joey need to come home. We can help you take care of him in Eden."

Goose bumps ran up her spine.
How did he know about her brother? Eden. Her mother had warned her about that place. Who exactly were these people?
She stared at the odd trio in their old-fashioned garb as they moved toward the memory table and whispered to each other. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone sounded pleased.

Pleased at what?
She examined her new bangle. Feathery-scripted
J
s twined across the surface.
Joanna.

As she puzzled over the dark metal, a dumpling of a woman lunged at Charlene and pulled her into a bear hug. The brassy blonde reeked of cheap perfume, and her nose bore the signs of time spent with a bottle.

"I'm so sorry. This is such a tragedy."

Charlene remembered meeting the woman at Joey's school. She'd overheard her whispering to another parent, making a joke at her brother's expense:
"Doesn't he remind you of Lon Chaney when he played Wolfman?"
The gossip's son attended school with Joey. Charlene liked her son, Todd. But the mother was a pain in the neck.
What was her name? Did it begin with an N? M?
“How's Todd?"

"Oh, isn't that
just
like you and your parents? Even in your hour of need, you ask about my son.” The woman clutched her hand in a sweaty grip and pulled her closer. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and the smell of alcohol layered over the cloud of cologne. “Will you be putting Joey in a home?"

Charlene slipped her hand out of the woman's grasp. “Why would I do that?"

"Well, dear, the school is
very
expensive,” Todd's mother continued in a condescending tone. “Trust me, I know. Now that your parents are gone, I don't know how
you'll
be able to afford it."

"Thanks for your concern.” She remembered the woman's name. “I assure you, Mrs. Morton, I have
no
intention of taking my brother out of our home."

The woman huffed and moved to the memory table on unsteady feet.

Charlene scanned the crowd. Zack caught her gaze, and winked at her and turned away. A metal chain dangled out of his back pocket, much like one a biker would wear.
A bad boy.
Her heart jittered. She forced herself to take a deep breath and chided herself for her instant and powerful attraction. Her brain chemicals were in hyper drive, nothing more. She recalled her mother's warnings. He was from Eden. He
couldn't
be good for her.

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Chapter Two

Death's Hostage

Shortly after the last mourner shook her aching hand, Charlene sat on the edge of her seat in her family lawyer's office and spoke between gritted teeth. “What do you mean, there's no money?"

Will Rutler handed her a sheet of paper. “Here's the medical examiner's final report. Cause of death: Suicide."

"I don't understand. They were happy, in love—"

"The police interviewed Dr. Hoffman and reviewed your father's lab notes. Your dad was having trouble at work, depressed over his lack of progress in his research on Gorlin-Chaudry-Moss Syndrome."

She shook her head. “No. I don't believe it. He was a scientist. He knew breakthroughs take time."

Rutler looked down at his yellow legal pad and underlined something with his Montblanc pen. “The National Institutes of Health wouldn't renew his grant—questions about the direction of his research."

Her mind whirred with reasons to disbelieve the family lawyer and financial manager. She sensed another shoe mid-air. “What are you hiding from me, Mr. Rutler?"

He looked pained. “I think you have no choice but to place your brother in a group home."

She leaped to her feet and the dark, book-lined room seemed to whirl and close in on her. “No. I won't do that. It's
my
job to take care of him. I have to do this
myself
."

"Your father changed the policy less than a year ago, increasing the payoff to a million dollars in the event of his death.” He paused. “But, the insurance company won't pay for a suicide."

"I don't believe he killed himself—and what? Murdered my mother, too? Never. He loved her, would have given his life for her—” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the weight of it all—the loss, the grief, the unknown—crashed onto her. She slumped into the red leather chair and buried her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?"

"Your mother had a modest insurance policy, fifty-thousand dollars. That will take care of the funeral, their credit card debt and you and Joey for a while.” He slid a sheaf of papers across the desk to her. “Sign these so I can take care of the bills."

She gazed at the papers, and his voice became a murmur in the background to her thoughts. Rutler wasn't being unkindly. It was his job—she knew that. He was trying to be helpful. He'd known her parents for over twenty years, even been to dinner with them on many occasions. They'd been more than business acquaintances. They'd been
friends
. How could he believe her father would commit suicide and murder her mother?

"Charlene?"

She looked up and saw him gazing at her with a concerned expression.

"Sell the house. Put Joey in a state-supported group home. Finish your doctorate. You're only twenty-four. You have your whole life ahead of you."

"What kind of life will I have if I disown my brother? I'll find a way, Mr. Rutler—even if I have to quit my PhD program and work three jobs. I will never,
ever
place my brother in a home."

She stood. He opened his mouth to speak and she put her palm out. “I want a copy of the Medical Examiner's report, and I want copies of all the photographs."

"You shouldn't do that to yourself. It's too gruesome."

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I'm a neurobiologist, Mr. Rutler. I spend my days and many nights dealing with blood and brains, stuff that makes most people queasy."

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I need to see with my own eyes. I need to know what happened. I need
closure
. Please do as I ask."

A month later, Charlene pulled into her gravel driveway with Joey in the converted minivan. She glanced in the rearview mirror, and smiled at her brother. “You need a shave and a haircut, Joey. Time to get my clippers out.” She made a buzzing sound, and he laughed and signed, “Moon, moon, moon.” How he
loved
the moon.

A dark sedan with tinted windows parked at the curb. Will Rutler climbed out of the car, his forehead creased with a frown. “I've been trying to reach you, but your phone's been disconnected."

"I just switched to a cell phone. It's cheaper. I was going to call you.” Charlene gave him the number as she struggled to move the heavy wheelchair off the lift, her bracelet clanking against the chrome. Baltimore roasted in a surprise late April heat wave and sweat poured into her eyes.

Rutler strode to her side, his expensive citrus-scented cologne preceding him. “How are you? How's Joey?"

She mopped her brother's brow with a handkerchief. “We're okay. I got a job at Joey's school, and they trained me to be a bus driver. Between that, my school loans and his scholarship for students with disabilities, I'm making ends meet.” She eyed Rutler. “But you didn't come by to make small talk. What's up?"

"I have bad news and good news."

Her mouth went dry.

"You have the medical examiner's report? The photos?"

He nodded and held up a bulky manila envelope.

She reached for it, but he pulled it away. “Not just yet."

"
Now
what?"

"Your Aunt Jessie died. That's the bad news. You inherited her farm. That's the good news."