Bitten 2 (14 page)

I didn’t know who to call. My first instinct was to call Holbrook, but he’d been MIA for days, and I wasn’t sure I could hold it together if I got his voicemail. I could have called the local police department, but they were as well equipped to deal with a zombie apocalypse as something like this. That left me with two options—call Chrismer, my arch nemesis, or, worse still, Agent Billy Tillman.

Billy still hadn’t forgiven me for breaking his nose and handcuffing him to a handrail in the ladies’ bathroom at FBI headquarters. I’d been desperate at the time, half-crazy with fear that my ex-boyfriend was going to gut me. Tillman had the misfortune to be the only thing standing between me and my escape. Once upon a time, Holbrook had thought that Tillman had a crush on me, but beating him up had squashed whatever warm, fuzzy feelings he might have had.

It took several minutes for me to work up the courage to make the call, and another five to work my way through the endless loop of automated menus. I hoped whoever invented those damn things spent the rest of eternity burning in hell.

“Agent Tillman,” he answered, the background filled with the familiar hustle and bustle of the FBI building.

“Hey Billy, it’s Riley,” I said, sadness settling in the pit of my stomach as silence stretched out between us.

“It’s William,” he finally said, his words icy and clipped. “Agent Holbrook isn’t here.”

Looks like I’m still on his shit list.

“I know, he’s out of town somewhere. That’s not why I’m calling.”

Tense silence reigned once more, the only sounds those of the people bustling around him and his even breaths. As the seconds ticked by I struggled to keep myself from sighing. I knew he had every right to be pissed at me, but did he have to be such a jerk about it?

When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to cut me any slack, I broke the silence by saying, “Someone dumped a dead coyote on my doorstep.”

“Call animal control,” he said, dismissing me, and no doubt already halfway to hanging up.

“I think it was Johnson,” I said before he could disconnect the call. “Or one of his whack-a-doodle Humans for Humanity buddies.”

I could sense that Tillman still wanted to tell me to go fuck myself, but I had piqued his interest. Harry Johnson, formerly of the FBI, and Holbrook’s partner for more than five years, had turned out to be a supe-hating nut job. His deranged and violent tendencies had come to light when he kidnapped, beat, and attempted to rape me while he was supposed to be protecting me from Samson. It turns out the devil you know is a lot less terrifying than the one lurking just beneath the surface of someone sworn to protect you.

When I’d outed him in front of his boss and Holbrook, Johnson had set off a disruption spell and escaped from FBI headquarters before anyone else even realized anything was amiss. He’d been in the wind ever since, always just out of sight. The fact that he was likely a member of Humans for Humanity made him that much more of a loose cannon and a threat.

“What makes you think it was Johnson?”

“They left me a note.”

“Did you touch it?”

“No, I’m not a
total
idiot,” I replied, though the pause in Tillman’s reply gave me the impression that he didn’t agree with me.

Fair enough.

“Don’t touch anything. I’ll have a team there within a couple hours.”

“Thanks, Bill... William, I really appreciate this,” I said and then realized that he’d already hung up on me. I set my phone down with exaggerated calm, refraining from pitching it across the room with a herculean effort of will. Pushing back from the table I went straight to the cupboard above the fridge and dug out my emergency package of Milano cookies. The situation called for some serious sugar binging.

* * *

I’d already started to come down from my cookie-induced sugar high by the time the horde of black SUVs descended on the cabin and was well on my way to being groggy and grouchy. I needed a nap more than anything, but didn’t think the agents would wait while I caught some Zs. Skirting around the body and envelope I’d left on the doorstep, I approached a familiar figure sliding down out of one of the SUVs.

“Hey, Myrom.”

Agent Deb Myrom’s dark, slicked-back hair made her look like a stern librarian, but she had the sense of humor of a teenaged boy. Nothing cracked her up more than a well-timed fart joke.

“Things get too quiet around here for you, Cray?” she asked with a smile, meeting me halfway across the open stretch of gravel and snow in front of the cabin. Her gaze moved past me to look over the blood stained envelope on the doormat, the blood having dried as rusty brown smears on the paper.

“You know it.”

Wrapping my arms around myself as if the action would ward off the chill that had settled in my bones, I watched as she directed a contingent of crime scene techs and agents to fan out across the property to gather any evidence of whoever had left the little gift. I knew it was wishful thinking, but I still hoped they’d find something that pointed to Johnson and provided a detailed map of where the scumbag was hiding out.

Unsurprisingly, after an extensive search that took over an hour, the agents found no such thing. In fact they didn’t find
anything
. Not even a broken twig or stray strand of hair. Either Johnson had developed a brain, or I was dealing with someone who knew what they were doing. Neither option set me at ease.

I was about to go sulk in the privacy of the house when another government issue SUV pulled up next to the others lined up along the driveway. Tillman’s nose had healed with only a minor deviation I doubted anyone else even noticed, but the damage to his ego had yet to heal as evidenced by the other, more obvious, changes to his physical appearance. He was still tall and a little gawky looking, but the suit that had hung on him before, now strained at the seams as he stalked towards me. He’d packed on a surprising amount of muscle in the few short months since I’d last seen him, and now more closely resembled one of the FBI’s muscle-bound goons than the dorky young agent I remembered.

“Holy crap, Tillman. You start juicing?” I asked. Beside me, Myrom snorted in amusement.

Except for a tightening of his eyes, he ignored me and addressed Myrom instead. “The techs complete their sweep of the area?”

As surprising as his physical transformation was, I was more taken aback by the hard edge to his voice. Gone was the awkward kid who’d been teased by his colleagues about his shyness, and in his place was a man who radiated authority and no small amount of simmering anger.

The smile died on Myrom’s face. “They’re wrapping up now. Harrison’s getting ready to start on the hot zone.”

“He’s not done yet?” Tillman asked, his eyes narrowing in accusation as if the delay was his partner’s fault.

“He just got here. He’ll be done as soon as he can,” she replied, the tightness around her mouth telling me that this wasn’t the first time Tillman had acted like a douche.

“Make sure I get a copy of the report as soon as he’s finished.”

“Yes, Sir,” Myrom said, the ‘fuck you’ unspoken but coming across loud and clear.

So maybe not partners anymore after all.

I waited until Tillman had strutted away like a ticked off peacock before asking, “What’s up with Tillman? Is he always like that?”

“These days? Pretty much,” she replied with a sigh, her gaze following the path he carved through the crowd of agents and police officers, barking orders all the while.

Seeing the sadness on her face as if she’d lost a friend, I couldn’t help feeling guilty, knowing as well as everyone else that it was my fault.

Well, crap on a cracker.

* * *

Feeling about as welcome as a turd in a punch bowl, I left Myrom to oversee the crime scene tech examining the envelope and carcass, and retreated into the house. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit that I hid inside as much to get away from the guilt as to stay out of the way. With no work to distract myself, I ended up fixing a fresh pot of coffee and curling up on the couch with Loki. He, at least, had the decency to not remind me that I had no one to blame but myself for this mess. I tried—and failed—several times to lose myself in the latest Tom Clancy book Holbrook had left on the coffee table the last time he was over. Political thrillers aren’t my thing, and I struggled to quiet my mind enough to let the story sweep me up. My thoughts kept returning to Tillman’s drastic change. Was it all my fault, or was there something else at play?

After trying to read the same page for the fifth time and getting no further than the first paragraph, I set the book aside and reached down to stroke Loki where he lay sprawled in my lap.

“What am I gonna do, buddy? I’ve got all this crap with Cordova going on, and now Johnson decides to crawl out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in to stir shit up. I’m not sure I can handle all this without Holbrook. And what do I do about Tillman? How can I get him to forgive me?”

Offering no nuggets of wisdom that would help me haul my ass out of the mess I’d gotten myself into, he just blinked at me and head-butted my hand, demanding more attention.

“Fat lot of help you are,” I muttered.

His chirping reply was cut short by a bellow from outside. “Cray! Get your butt out here!”

I shared a puzzled look with Loki before shooing him off my lap and rising from the couch. “What the hell is his problem?” I asked my furry friend, who could only tilt his head to the side and regard me with a blank expression.

“Now!” came another, louder, demand as I approached the front door.

“I’m coming! Don’t get your boxers in a bunch,” I shouted back as I opened the door, my own irritation flaring to life in the face of his anger. Sure, I could’ve handled our last run-in a little better, but I’d been desperate and kinda scared out of my wits. Couldn’t the guy cut me some slack?

I found Tillman outside holding up a clear plastic baggy sealed with a strip of bright red tape emblazoned with the word “Evidence” in bold white letters. A single sheet of paper, presumably the contents of the envelope, was suspended inside. The look on his face would have made lesser men cower, but I just rolled my eyes at his dramatics.

“What the hell have you gotten mixed up in now?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he thrust the evidence bag at me. Accepting it from him before he could decide to just throw it at me, I looked over the note. The jagged scrawl was hard to decipher at first, and for a moment I wondered if it had been written in a foreign language. Eventually, I was able to pick out a few words, enough to get the general idea, anyway. It wasn’t very original as far as threatening letters go, just the usual psycho rant:
Stay away. You’ll be sorry.
Vague threats against me and my loved ones, yadda, yadda, yadda.

“Johnson’s a whacko, we already knew that,” I said with a shrug as I handed the note back to Tillman.

Frowning, he asked, “Do I look like an idiot?”

“Not really, though you
do
look like you decided to start doing steroids. That shit’ll make your nuts shrivel up, you know,” I fired back, sick and tired of his pissy attitude.

“Cut the crap, Cray. What are you up to?”

Cordova hadn’t issued a gag order barring me from discussing the vamp murders, but I still figured he wouldn’t want me sharing the info with the FBI. As much as I’d have liked getting a professional’s opinion on the mess I was being dragged into, I decided to keep the details—few as they were—to myself.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, trying to sound flippant though I got the feeling I just came across petulant instead.

“Yes, you’ve
clearly
got everything under control,” he said, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. The expression was made uglier by the memory of his previously shy smile. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Narrowing his eyes at me, Tillman asked, “Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” I said with a shrug.

I watched Tillman’s face flush several shades darker, reminding me all too clearly of the way Johnson’s face would turn purple when he was fighting the urge to punch me in the face. He’d later gone on to do a lot worse than just hit me, and I couldn’t help shuddering at the memory. I hoped I’d never find myself in a similar situation with the young agent glaring at me.

“You’re making a big mistake.” There was anger behind his sharp hiss, but I caught traces of sadness too. Perhaps he missed our former camaraderie as much as I did.

“Story of my life,” I said, suddenly wishing they’d all just get the hell off my property and leave me alone. As unnerving as the anonymous threats were, the tension between me and Tillman upset me even more. I’d spent years living in solitude but had never felt so alone as I did in that moment. Holbrook was god knew where, and Tillman, while not an enemy, was far from the friend I’d once thought he could be.

Sighing, he gentled his voice and said, “These people know where you live, and there’s nothing stopping them from coming back. I can’t protect you if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

“I... I can’t.”