True Nature (10 page)

“I hope so,” Zoe murmured as a nurse came in. Hunter stepped out while the woman helped Zoe get ready to leave.

Hunter got his car and met Zoe, in a wheelchair now, at the front of the ER. Soon they were zipping through the dark, cold night.

“This is a nightmare,” Zoe murmured. “I should have had someone watching the house.”

“We didn’t know,” Hunter said. “We didn’t expect this to happen. We’ve never had one of our clients, even in domestic abuse cases, get murdered. Damn Eric.”

“Hopefully he’s damning himself to the police right now,” Hunter retorted.

“Is Mike questioning him?”

“I believe your Detective Scala was headed that way after he assured himself that I wasn’t involved in the murder.”

“He didn’t suspect you.”

Hunter smirked, remembering the detective’s intent gaze and whip-like questions. “The good cop doesn’t like me very much. He was questioning how we showed up at two murder scenes in four days.”

“They’re completely unrelated.”

Hunter frowned. Scala said they were still working to identify the man found in the woods, but something about that scene still gnawed at Hunter. And now, more violence. He didn’t like it. His thoughts centered on that, he took the corner a little faster than he intended.

Zoe winced. “Hey! Injured passenger on board.”

“I’m sorry.” Hunter reached across the seat to take her hand. “I’m just so damn mad that I let this happen.”

“How did you let it happen? I’m the one who should have known. According to your grandfather, I’ve got the sight, and I should be able to discern when trouble is ahead.”

“What are you talking about?” Hunter glanced at her with genuine concern. “I guess you really did get a hard hit.”

“I talked to your grandfather tonight,” Zoe said. “He came to me in a vision while I was unconscious.”

Hunter stopped at a red light and looked hard at her. He reached up to touch her forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but you’re sure talking like you’re out of your head. There’s no way you could have seen my grandfather. He’s supposed to fly into town in the morning. I have to meet him for lunch.”

Zoe pushed her hair back and met his gaze. “You can turn into Fluffy but I can’t have a vision?” she deadpanned.

Hearing horns behind them, Hunter jerked forward. It was best that he just humored Zoe. “What did Grandda have to say?”

“He says I need to work on my special skill so I can help you.” Zoe rested her head on her hands. “Apparently I have ‘the sight,’ or the ability to know when trouble is coming down the pike.”

“So you’re perceptive.”

“We both know I depend on my gut feelings a lot when I’m working on a case, and more times than not, I’m right. Your grandfather said that my ability is growing and will continue to get better.”

Hunter turned off Hamburg onto Ratzer, heading toward Zoe’s house. “What does that mean?”

“When he was talking to me, your grandfather said something about someone called chimera and called him a mutant.”

Hunter jerked to look at her and Zoe screamed, “Red light!”

Slamming on the brakes, Hunter yanked the car into a side road and pulled to a stop.

“Have you heard of that before?” she asked. “Do you know what a chimera is?”

Feeling his anger drain leaving fatigue in its wake, Hunter rubbed a hand down his face.

“It’s spelled C-H-Y-M-E-R-A. He’s a bad guy, the leader of another family that has the same curse our family does, but something about their genetic make-up keeps them from fully transforming. Only their heads and upper body change, which is why the guy took the name Chymera.”

He looked both ways and slowly pulled away from the curb. “I thought he was part of Scottish folklore, and Grandda used him to scare me. Come on, it’s the twenty-first century. I never put much stock in those stories. After all, are we going to have to battle to see who is king of the mountain?”

“I hate to remind you again, but you do become a full-blown cat on occasion. It doesn’t seem weird when you put it in context with that.”

“Neither does Transformers, but we both know that’s just a movie.”

“Your grandfather said my gift is my family’s curse just like your little species swap is a curse for yours.” Zoe groaned suddenly and put her arms across her stomach. “God, Hunter, can we get home? I feel sick.”

Hunter hurried through the quiet streets to Zoe’s little house.

She was almost asleep on her feet by the time he walked her in the front door and up the stairs to her bedroom. He decided to forego pajamas, but dug in her dresser until he found the thick white socks she always wore to bed. He pulled them on and carefully tucked her in. She was so pale and still, he got scared and woke her.

“Zoe, what day is it?”

“Leave me the hell alone, Hunter,” she said, slapping at him. “When I’m awake my head’s hurting like it has a jackhammer in it.”

“Just tell me who’s president then.” He rubbed her arm to keep her awake.

“It should be Michelle Obama, but it’s Barack. Are you happy now?”

“Yeah, I think you’re fine,” he said, backing away.

Zoe mumbled something into her pillow and pulled the covers up. Hunter clicked the lamp beside her bed to low and leaned down to kiss the top of her head, the only spot without covers or a bandage.

Downstairs, he grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and pulled open a bag of nacho chips. He needed fuel to mull over what Zoe’s conversation about his grandfather. He had barely begun when his cell phone rang.

His father.

At one o’clock in the morning.

This couldn’t be good.

“Dad?” he said.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Hunter.”

“Is it Mom or Meagan?” Hunter said, worrying about his mother and sister.

“They’re fine. It’s your grandfather. I’m afraid he’s dead,” Stirling’s voice broke, a rare sign of emotion. “The police believe he was attacked by a wild animal at the estate. We’ll know more later, but we’ve got to get up there before they do an autopsy.”

Of course, protect the family secret at all costs.

“I’ve talked to Shamus,” Stirling continued, “and he’s staying with the body until we arrive. I’ve ordered the chopper to be ready in a couple of hours. Can you make it?”

“Uh…yeah, I’ve just got some things I need to do. If I’m more than fifteen minutes late, go without me, I’ll find my own way.”

“We’ll see you then.”

“Sure, Dad.”

Hunter closed the phone but kept it in his hand. Grandda was dead. It was impossible. The man always looked like he was going to live forever. He could still hunt and field dress a deer without help, something most of his staunchly Democratic friends didn’t know. He had always loved hunting in his woods.

Just minutes ago, Zoe had told him about a vision, about talking to Grandda. Now he was gone? When did he die and how the hell had he talked to Zoe? The connection between the two events chilled Hunter. He understood it was all true—both Zoe’s conversation and Grandda’s death.

And nothing was ever going to be the same.

Hunter stood. “First, I’ve got to find somebody to take care of Zoe, and then I’ve got to make that helicopter.”

He looked out the window and saw the lights still on at the house next door. Thank God Zoe’s closest neighbor was a well-known night owl. He scrolled through his cell phone until he found the number and called.

“Bernie! Hey, it’s Hunter. I’m at Zoe’s, and I need a big favor.”

Chapter 8

I jerked awake from a nightmare filled with blood. Pain in my head and neck stilled me, and my brain automatically went back to Kinley’s broken body.

I knew she was in trouble, but I got there too late.

My mother had also been in my dream. She’d been beside Kinley with a bullet hole in her chest. It wasn’t surprising that I dreamed of my mother’s murder tonight. In the dream, she was still and soulless, just as she had been when my dad came home and found her.

I stacked my pillows so I could sit up, glad Hunter had left the light on. I didn’t want darkness.

My arms and chest were sore from falling face forward. I had a tender chin and my neck felt like it had been twisted.

I closed my eyes again and thought of my mother. I was fourteen when she died. The housekeeper and I had been in the house, but Mom was killed in the master bedroom suite. We hadn’t heard anything.

As an adult, I’d seen the crime scene photos and knew the hole in my mother’s chest was small. The scene wasn’t bloody except for the pool that had spread under her back.

Pain shot through my head with the memories. I was beginning to feel the full effect of the attack now. Tomorrow was not going to be a fun day. I squinted at the clock beside my bed. Just after eight a.m. Correction—today wasn’t going to be fun.

“Zoe?” a female voice said from the hallway.

“Who is it?” I opened the nightstand, frightened when my gun wasn’t there. It took me a moment to remember the police had taken it. I’d have to get my spare out of my gun safe tomorrow.

“It’s Bernie, Zoe, you need anything?”

“Bernie?” I started to sit up more, and then immediately regretted that decision. “Where’s Hunter?”

“He had to leave.” Bernie came into my bedroom. “Let me check on you since you’re awake.”

Bernie was Bernadette Murphy Feldman, my dear friend and neighbor, who had been a nurse since World War II. She retired from her husband Ira’s medical practice when he’d died twenty years ago. I suspected she’d said goodbye to eighty several years ago, as well.

As usual, she was dressed in a cotton house dress she called a “duster,” with the snaps down the front, which made it easy to get on and off. Her misshapen hands were the result of rheumatoid arthritis, and some mornings I knew she struggled getting dressed because it was difficult to get her fingers to move.

Her snow-white hair was short and parted on the left. She kept it clean and combed and didn’t worry too much about style. She and her husband had built the house next door where she had lived there for the past forty years.

An old-school neighbor, she often brought over leftovers.

As Bernie held my wrist and checked my pulse, I said, “What are you doing here? I thought Hunter was staying with me.”

Bernie sat down on the side of the bed and held my hand in her left hand. She reached up with her right hand and felt my forehead. “Your pulse is good and there’s no fever.” She patted my hand and looked at me closely. “Do you remember Hunter waking you up and talking to you?”

“No, I was so tired.”

“He had to leave,” she said.

I sat up, uneasy. After last night, maybe I didn’t want to know what had happened now.

Dizziness came in a wave and passed. “Help me up.”

Bernie helped me get to the bathroom, but allowed me to go in by myself. After using the toilet and washing my face, I put on a robe. I was suddenly cold to my core.

Glancing out the window, I saw it was snowing. How appropriate. The world was cold and white too.

And dead.

Bernie was waiting for me.

“Tell me about Hunter.”

“His grandfather is dead.”

“Shit.” I wavered, and Bernie caught my arm.

“I have to talk to Hunter.” I slipped free of her grasp and headed downstairs.

Bernie followed, fussing the whole time.

In the kitchen, she steered me toward a chair. With the efficient movements of a long-time nurse, she took my face in her hands and studied me. Her fingers were gentle despite the ravages of her arthritis. She lifted my eyelids, and then put her fingers to the pulse in my wrist.

“I was worried after Hunter told me what happened. What a terrible thing. I’m so sorry about your friend.” She lifted the bandage on my head and peeked under it. “A little butterfly bandage but no stitches. That’s good.”

“Hunter’s friend Taylor Bradford fixed me up.”

“Oh, James Bradford’s grandson. James was a surgeon Ira and I used to work with him at Wayne Memorial.” Bernie sniffed in distaste. “He’s in Palm Beach now with a wife who’s forty years younger. But his grandson is handsome and single.”

“Bernie,” I said, recognizing the matchmaking gleam in her eye. “What happened to Mr. MacRae?”

“You need something to eat and drink.” She turned back to the refrigerator. “Maybe some ginger ale and a few crackers. I’ve already got a nice chicken soup planned for lunch.”

Bernie likes to talk, which she did at a fast clip as she filled a glass with ice and opened a sleeve of saltine crackers.

I cut through her chatter, taking the glass of ginger ale. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t really know,” Bernie said. “Hunter was in an awful hurry.”

I took another drink and stared numbly into space. Knowing Mr. MacRae was dead added an air of other worldliness to our conversation. Had he come to me before or after he died? I had no problem believing in ghosts; I just had no personal experience with one.

Bernie laid vegetables on the table. “I told Hunter he should call a cab, but he said he packed the clothes he had here and went to meet his family at the helicopter pad in Manhattan. Can you imagine flying in a helicopter any time you want to?”

“The MacRaes have an executive helicopter that has room for several passengers and probably someone who keeps Hunter’s mother in drinks. I’ve traveled in it several times with Hunter’s family to his grandparents’ home.”

Bernie folded her shopping bag and put it on the counter. “Want me to fix you some breakfast? I’ll be happy to fix whatever you want.”

“No, I don’t think so.” I sipped my ginger ale again.

“You should be hungry. You haven’t eaten in hours, and you need to regain your strength.”

She opened the refrigerator. “I can fix some dry toast and soft-scrambled eggs.”

The thought of the eggs made my stomach turn. “Let’s see if I can keep these crackers down and then we’ll talk about more food later.” I reached for the plastic sleeve she’d laid on the table and took out some saltines. “Did Hunter say he would call?”

“He said he’d be in touch as soon as he had details.” Bernie began washing carrots and celery in the sink.

I drank more ginger ale, sat at the table, and listened to Bernie prattle while she chopped celery and carrots and put a hen on to boil. It was kind of nice to have someone preparing something special for me.