Guilty by Association (Judah Black Novels) (16 page)

Like the fence that intermittently separated the United States from Mexico, the one that surrounded the reservation had been constructed of an amalgamation of materials. Everything from wood slats to chain link to barbed wire stood at some point along the border, stretched between cement towers. Sometimes, the towers beyond the road were manned and sometimes they weren't. The ones on the main road in and out of the reservation were staffed at all times. The government argued that their men were there to keep humans out rather than supernaturals in but the action worked both ways. When Sal, Hunter and I exited the reservation, we had to show our identification, state our business and give an approximate date and time of return. When Sal handed over his driver's license, they harassed him a little bit about the picture but let us through without insisting that he get out of the car. The border patrol agents gave mine back to me without even glancing at it.

“Racist bastards,” Sal grunted as he tucked his wallet away and waited for them to raise the gate to let us through.

“You accusing them of hating werewolves or Indians?” I asked.

Sal grinned at me and drove on.

Just down from the main road out of the reservation, a rusty metal arch marked the turnoff to some kind of ranch. Sal took it and slowed as the pavement gave way to a well-worn dusty path lined on either side by cacti and pathetic little trees that would only have been as tall as me. Still, they were the first splash of color I'd seen in the desert and I marveled at them as if they were miracles. A little further down the road, we passed a house. It was a run down, dusty hacienda of surprising size, built once for lavish entertaining. Now, the desert had reclaimed most of it, growing in vines and flowering cacti right up to the roof. Some of the white walls were crumbling while others stood, faces bleached, against the dry heat of the sun. When we drove past the ruins, I couldn't help but glance over and wonder what kind of person had once built such a place and why it had fallen into such disrepair.

Chanter's abode, Sal informed me, was only a few hundred yards behind the hacienda. It was a much simpler place, built of stone and treated wood, just big enough to have housed two bedrooms. The front porch held two ancient looking rocking chairs. A dusty replica of the truck we were in waited in the driveway with the tailgate down. Alongside it sat a sky blue hybrid with a bumper sticker that read: WEREWOLVES ARE PEOPLE TOO and advertised a website for werewolf suicide prevention.

As soon as we got out of the truck, the screen door slammed and Chanter stepped out, shirtless and shoeless, a red, white and blue bandana tied around his head. He shot me a look of curiosity and then gave a heavy glance to my son. I thought maybe he would come over to us and offer a greeting like most normal folks would do but Chanter was a werewolf. They don't exactly do normal. He stood casually on his porch and waited for us to approach him.

Sal stopped just short of actually stepping foot on the porch, lowering his head and tucking his shoulders in a way that had to mean something. Then, he said something in a language that definitely wasn't English. Though the tone was soft and relaxed, I somehow got the impression that the exchange of words was important enough that they'd been practiced. Chanter's reply came back more casual and he waved Sal on into the house. I moved as if to follow but quickly found Chanter standing in my way. “You, I didn't invite in. Not yet.” He looked down at Hunter who rolled his shoulders and stood up straight suddenly. “This is your boy?”

Chanter's tone was neutral but edging toward cautious. I wished I could tell whether it was me or Hunter that made him tread lightly. “Hunter,” I said and put my hands on Hunter's shoulders. “Hunter, this is Chanter Silvermoon. He's in charge of the werewolves here.” I hoped my introduction made it clear enough to Hunter that Chanter was someone that automatically deserved a little respect. The last thing we needed to do was piss off someone like Chanter Silvermoon.

Hunter cocked his head to the side slightly. “If you're their leader, how come you live all the way out here?”

Chanter chuckled. “Hunter is not your real name, is it boy? Did you choose it or did someone pick this one for you?”

Hunter raised his chin with pride. “I picked it.”

Chanter squatted down but made an effort to keep his head above Hunter's in height. “It's a good name. Very strong. Tell me, who was your father, Hunter?”

Hunter looked up at me, unsure. “Go on. Answer him,” I urged, though it almost hurt me to do it. We didn't talk about Alex, Hunter and I. He'd asked once and only once and I sat him down to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Everything except that Alex had been a werewolf.

“Alex Gale. He died before I was born.”

A new wrinkle spread through Chanter's forehead as he repeated the name. His next statement made me start to sweat. “Your father was a werewolf, Hunter. Do you know what that means?” Hunter swallowed and started to nod but then decided to shake his head. “It means you've the potential to become one as well.” Chanter paused as if measuring Hunter's response but Hunter stood still as stone. “How do you feel right now? Come on, now. No wrong answers. I'll know if you're lying to me, boy.”

I felt Hunter's shoulders tense under my hands. “Mad.”

“And who is that anger directed at?”

Hunter squirmed a little before answering. “I don't know. Everyone, I guess.”

Chanter stood back up and grunted something that sounded like approval to me. “Honest to a fault.”

“There's no shame in honesty,” I told him.

“No, I suppose not.” The silence hung between us, heavy as a wet blanket. “Tonight,” started Chanter at last. “You will both be guests in my house. You will see first-hand some of what it means to be what we are and then you may decide how you feel about it. I will warn you both once. Step lightly. Assume nothing. Speak with care. There is a lot of tension here tonight and Saloso has seen fit to deliver me more.” He rubbed his chin and frowned. “Valentino will not be pleased to see you. Either of you. Do not push him, whatever you do. This is not the time and place for your investigation.” Then, he turned slowly and opened the screen door, gesturing for us to come in. “Go in, then. There are cartoons on the television.”

Some modern revival of
Scooby-Doo
was on the TV. Mismatched but comfortable furniture lined the walls of the room, giving the space more seating room than standing room. The only other person in the room was a stick of a young man who was passed out on the sofa with a comic book over his face. Chanter rolled his eyes and went over to nudge him with his foot. “Wake up, Ed.”

Ed pulled the magazine down off his face and groaned as if he were dying of being awake. “Ungh...Is it five o'clock already?”

“It's going on six.”

Chanter crossed his arms and waited while Ed unfolded himself from an impossible sleeping position, stretched and sat up, smacking his lips. He started to stretch and yawn again but paused mid yawn when he saw Hunter and I standing there. “Damn,” he said, giving me an awkward look up and down. “I didn't know BSI agents came in that model.” Hunter sat down next to him on the couch and stared intently at the TV. “Uh, hey, kid.”

“Hunter.”

“Right. Hunter.” He was quiet for a while. “So, uh, you like Scooby-Doo?”

“Shhh. This is the best part.”

“Oh,” said Ed, shrinking down. “Right.” Then he gave Chanter an unhappy glare, realizing Chanter had gotten him up to babysit.

“They'll do fine,” Chanter promised and I heard him go into the kitchen and start moving around some dishes. “Ed is practically a child himself.”

“I'll be twenty in a few months,” Ed grumbled and turned the cartoon up.

“Agent Black, if we can speak alone?”

I gave one last, long look at my son before stepping into the kitchen with Chanter. “Just Judah. I'm not working right now, remember?”

“Very well then, just Judah.” He pushed open another screen door, this one leading to the backyard, and went through it. I thought maybe he meant for me to follow him, so I did.

There wasn't really a backyard. It was just open desert without fences, walls or roads as far as I could see. Twenty yards or so away, Sal was helping two women finish stacking dry wood. Valentino sat off to the side on the ground with a few plastic grocery bags next to him. No one even glanced in my direction.

“Tell me of the boy's father.” Chanter's voice drew my attention to the edge of the stoop where he stood, rolling up a cigarette using tobacco Sal had brought.

“There isn't much to tell. Alex was a man who lived in a world that didn't believe he existed so he never told me about who he was. He was closed up. Sometimes, I didn't see him for weeks at a time. When I did, he was lost in some other thought, buried in some secret I'll never know. I loved him but I suppose I never really knew him.”

Chanter grunted. “That tells me more about you than him.”

“What do you want me to say?” I said, throwing my hands up. “That he was a good man? A bad one? What kind of pack he ran with? I don't know those answers, Chanter. Alex was a man. Good or bad doesn't matter when you're dead.”

He turned to look at me. I couldn't tell if he was surprised or amused. Maybe he was a little of both. “Your boy is close to his first change. It's worrisome but not an impossible feat to deal with. I would be able to tell you more if you knew more. It isn't wise to leave another dominant to roam free. Ironic that you should be saddled with the same fears as we are every time we bring children into the world, that you should lose him to the very agency that claims to protect us.”

I took a step toward him and uncrossed my arms. “The system isn't perfect and I don't agree with everything BSI does, but-”

He stopped me by raising a hand. I would have kept speaking, ignoring his gesture, but I physically could not bring myself to speak. “I don't hold any grudges against you. The finger can't blame the arm for burns. Honestly, I only said that to see what you would say. I'm pleased to see that you're not just another blind and deaf soldier here to enforce the law.”

“This isn't about me. This is about Hunter. Can you help him or not?”

Chanter took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out his nose before answering. “It's not my decision,” he said. “Not entirely. The others may be resistant to bringing someone else in so soon after Elias' failed incorporation. A young, dominant male is going to be even more difficult to bring in, especially if his mother doesn't understand the true nature of what it is she's asking us to do.”

I went and sat down on the top stair behind him. “Then tell me. My other option is to continue on as we have, to hide him. Now that he knows, Hunter won't accept that. If BSI finds out, I could lose him. I can't lose my son.”

“If Hunter is to learn anything, he'll have to scrape a few knees, get bruises and cuts and maybe a few broken bones. How difficult the learning is depends entirely on him. He will have to find his place here or he will be
put
in his place and likely not gently. You will have to accept some things that are uncomfortable to most humans as staples of our ways.”

“For example?”

He cracked a little smile. “You'll see some things tonight that will probably ruffle your feathers. Do yourself and your son a favor, Judah, and give the boy the space and ability to make some decisions for himself.” Chanter finished up his cigarette and crushed it with his boot before picking up the butt and dropping it in an old paint can sitting in the corner of his stoop. “You are staying for the funeral? You should. It will give you and Hunter a chance to meet everyone and see some things that might help you reach some kind of decision.”

“Decision?”

“About us,” Chanter said with a grin. “And whether or not we're all just killers and monsters waiting to happen.”

He went back inside and left me out there, pondering what he'd said. I didn't believe that all werewolves were killers. Sure, they had a natural tendency toward violence and risk taking behavior. There were plenty of psychology studies that proved that much. Alex had been in his share of fights and troubles while we were married but I didn't think he'd actually killed anyone. Maybe he just hadn't lived long enough to become the monster I believed he was capable of becoming. I didn't want to admit that I wasn't just looking to protect Hunter and keep him from drawing BSI's attention. I wanted him to stay the way he was. I didn't want him to be a werewolf. Mostly, I didn't want to feel so damn helpless about it.

“Alex,” I whispered, “if you're paying attention, damn you for dying before telling me everything.”

The only thing that answered was a small, dry wind, kicking red dust into my face.

By the time I got back into the kitchen, there was no sign of Chanter. A tall, beautiful Latina woman leaned on the stove, staring into a compact mirror and reapplying some of her lipstick. Not that she needed any more paint on her face. The Mona Lisa probably wore less paint. The woman closed her compact with a loud click, tossed a long, black strand of hair behind her shoulder and offered me a stiff hand. “Nina Silvermoon-Garcia,” she said with all the tenderness of a prosecuting attorney meeting the accused. I grabbed her hand and shook it, wincing when her manicured fingernails dug into my palm. Before I could answer, she added, “How much do you know already?”

“Judah Black.” I pulled my hand away before it started bleeding. “You must be Valentino's wife.”

“Don't jerk me around. I know you're working Elias' case. Chanter's practically ordered us to cooperate with you. If I'm going to open up my home to you, I need to know exactly how the situation stands.”

I eyed her carefully and then glanced around to make sure Chanter wasn't in earshot. “I know your son is missing.” She made a hissing sound through her teeth but said nothing else so I continued. “I know that Valentino and Elias weren't on the best of terms at the time of Elias' death. In fact, to hear some tell it, they had a pretty heated argument. Detectives Tindall and Quincy like him for the murder of your child. He probably thinks he killed Elias to cover it up, too.” That last part was a stretch, though the argument could be made. If I had really been interested in pursuing that lead, I could have twisted the evidence in my favor. Lucky for the Garcias, I was more interested than catching a kidnapper and a killer than closing cases fast.