Prowlers: Wild Things (3 page)

"Six months ago she disappeared. Whispers in the wild say something went bad with the music thing, but I think that's just a cover."

Bill stared at Winter as though at a loss for words.

Jack wasn't. "Why?" he asked.

Winter shot him a questioning glance.

"I mean why do you think that?"

The thin Prowler tapped his fingers in time with the music again and when he spoke again, it was to both of them.

"Jasmine," Winter said calmly.

"Shit," Jack whispered. Jasmine had been Tanzer's mate, one of the few survivors from the pack he and his friends had destroyed. He knew that she had had a vendetta against them ever since.

"Jasmine has gathered a new pack in Manhattan," Winter continued. "She hired Dallas to kill both of you and your loved ones. Dallas was concerned for Olivia. Jasmine told him she might be able to help him locate the girl. Maybe that was just blowing smoke, hoping to guarantee his allegiance. But what if it wasn't?"

"Then Jasmine knows where she is," Jack replied. "No disrespect intended, but we knew that already. It isn't like Jasmine's just going to tell us."

At his side, Bill shuddered. Jack glanced at his friend and saw that the big man had covered his face with his hands. He ran his fingers through his beard and then turned to Jack.

"You're missing the point. Just like I missed the point. What Winter's saying is that he thinks Jasmine
has
Olivia. Took her on purpose, an insurance against me."

Winter nodded slowly, thoughtfully, fingers still tapping rhythm.

"Either that," he said, "or Jasmine already killed her."

The kitchen at Bridget's Irish Rose Pub closed at ten o'clock, but half an hour later there were still a few tables at which patrons lingered over their meals or simply laughed together and shared drinks, not wanting the night to end. The staff, on the other hand, couldn't wait. They had long since begun to wipe down tables and roll utensils inside clean napkins for the next day, careful all the while to avoid making the remaining customers feel rushed.

Molly Hatcher used a clean rag to polish the brass railings around a corner booth and watched as her friend Kiera Dunphy approached a fortyish couple to ask — for what had to be at least the third time — if there was anything else she could get them. Molly smiled and shook her head. Kiera had a new boyfriend and it was obvious she wanted to get home to him, but if Courtney saw her hovering around customers like that, Kiera was liable to get an earful.

The bar was still buzzing, though not nearly as packed as it would have been on the weekend, or in midsummer. Nobody had gone so far as to turn the lights up in the restaurant, but by eleven, if any of the tables were still occupied, Courtney would do just that. As it was, the music on the sound system — usually Enya or the Chieftains, something along those lines — had been traded in for an ancient recording by the Allman Brothers Band.

Molly moved to another booth and sprayed the railing that separated it from the next. She polished it enough that she could see a gleaming, twisted funhouse reflection of herself. A long streak, probably from some child's greasy fingers, remained, and she rubbed at it.

"Don't get all crazy, Hatcher," came a familiar voice.

With a soft laugh she turned to find Courtney Dwyer eyeing her curiously. Along with her brother Jack, Courtney had owned and managed the pub since their mother's death ten years before, and yet despite the stress she lived with day to day, it never seemed to show on her face. Though Courtney was a decade older than she was, Molly thought she would still have looked twenty if not for the lion's head cane she relied upon to get around.

"Hey, it's your place," Molly said. "I just work here."

"And live here," Courtney corrected. "And always give two hundred percent."

Molly shrugged, sheepish. Though she and the Dwyers had a great relationship — they were closer to her than any blood relations she had — it was unusual for them to dish out straight compliments without a little sarcasm or teasing to go along with them.

Courtney smiled, crinkles forming at the corners of her eyes and on her nose where a light spray of freckles lent to the illusion of youth.

"The rest of the brass can wait. I need a minute," she said. Then she turned and started off toward the back of the restaurant.

What's this all about?
Molly thought. But she picked up her rag and the polish she had been using and followed. Courtney led the way to a curved booth in the rear corner where the head hostess, Wendy Bartlett, sipped from a glass of soda. As they reached the table, Tim Dunphy pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen, a dishrag in his hands. He wiped them dry as he approached.

"Hey, boss," he said, running a hand over the stubble on his shaved head. "You wanted to see me?"

Courtney smiled. "Have a seat, Tim. You too, Molly."

They did as they were asked. Molly glanced around the table and saw from the expressions on their faces that Wendy and Tim seemed to be just as much in the dark as she was. Courtney was the last to sit, sliding in beside Tim and resting her cane against the table's edge so the metallic eyes of the lion seemed to glare hungrily at them.

Molly tried not to look at it.

There was a moment's pause as Courtney took a breath. Molly let her gaze wander to the colorful tattoos on Tim's arms before she glanced back up at her friend and employer.

"I'm just going to get to it," Courtney announced. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. "No happy preamble, no pep talk about how great all of you are at your jobs and how much Jack and I appreciate the effort you put in here. Which we do. I should have done this one-on-one, but to be honest with you, I don't have a lot of time for protocol these days. So here's the thing . . ."

Courtney hesitated a second, and Tim jumped right in.

"There some kinda problem?" he asked, eyes narrowed, South Boston accent weighted with concern.

With a mischievous smile, Courtney nodded. "Oh, yeah, Tim. You're all fired. What with you having the kitchen under your tyrannical rule and Molly and Wendy pretty much running the place without Jack and I having to worry about it, I figured the fastest way to bring this place into bankruptcy was get rid of you guys. And, you know, it's always fun to fire someone who lives under the same roof."

Courtney glanced at Molly and rolled her eyes.

"You got a wicked sarcastic side, Dwyer," Tim drawled.

The boss brightened. "Don't I?"

"So you were telling us how wonderful we are," Molly prodded. "Please continue."

At that, Courtney sat back in the booth as if a great burden had been lifted from her. She settled in comfortably and took them all in with a glance.

"It's no secret that Jack and I have been letting some more of the day to day stuff fall to others. After everything that's happened, well . . . other things take up our attention sometimes. Bill manages the bar and he's got a couple of responsible guys working with him. But with us not spending every single waking hour on the floor of the restaurant these days, we've decided to promote Molly to manager."

Molly blinked and stared at her, mouth open in surprise. Neither Courtney nor Jack had breathed a word about this to her, and repercussions swirled in her mind. She had been working as a waitress at Bridget's for barely six months. Not even. There would undoubtedly be people who thought she did not deserve the promotion, who wondered if she had gotten it by merit or simply because she was so friendly with the owners. Beyond that, there was her own self-doubt.
Do I even have the knowledge and the confidence to manage this place?

"Hey! Way to go, Hatcher," Tim said. He leaned forward and patted her hand with a conspiratorial wink. "I guess I'll have to watch the flirting now, huh? Don't want to get in trouble."

Courtney's expression was grave. "As you all know, it's not often you'll find a time when Jack and I are both off the premises, but it does happen. As we get involved in other things, it's also possible that there may be times when neither Molly nor Bill is here. Beyond that, it'd just be nice to know that when we're not on the clock, there are people riding herd on those shifts who can answer questions and make decisions without us. That in mind, I'd like to offer both of you, Tim and Wendy, positions as assistant managers. Not that you haven't been pretty much doing that job all along, but we thought it would carry more weight if it was official."

Tim seemed genuinely stunned. Molly knew him well enough that she understood. He was a Southie boy, born and bred, a tough Irish guy from a neighborhood that churned them out by the dozens. There was more to Tim than that, evidenced by the way the kitchen staff looked up to him, but he had never graduated from high school and thought of himself, quite simply, as a cook. It was nice to see the light in his eyes when it really sank in what Courtney was asking.

"No argument here, boss," he said. "I appreciate it."

Wendy was not so quick to respond. A line of concern had appeared on her forehead. With her new short haircut she looked severe, almost angry. Then she smiled, her face softening.

"Thanks, Courtney. It's nice to be asked. I just . . . I don't want to be difficult, but what does that mean exactly? You know, with pay and hours and all that?"

Courtney laughed. "Straight up? It means more hours on some shifts. If, by rare chance, none of us is on duty, I'd expect you to stay until closing. Tim already has a key and all the security system info. I'll get one for you, Wendy, but that's not going to happen very often. On the other hand, when you're on duty, like I said, I'd expect you to handle issues that arise, particularly between employees, disputes with customers, urgent orders that need to be filled. Whatever it might be.

"There
would
be more money, but not nearly as much as I wish I could give you," she finished. Then she leaned forward and folded her hands on the table, studying Wendy. "What do you think?"

Wendy took a breath, let it out, and then shrugged, a sweet sort of smile on her face. "I'm in. And thanks."

Abruptly, almost as though the business at hand had been forgotten the moment Wendy said yes, Courtney grabbed her cane and stood up. Then she turned to face them again.

"It's a relief to know that we can count on you. I'll talk to you all individually tomorrow, work on the details on your pay increases. I'm going to post an announcement on the bulletin board tomorrow morning, but consider the promotions effective immediately."

Though she claimed to be relieved, all the lightness and good humor went out of Courtney then.

"Molly," she said. "Come upstairs with me. I want to go over some things with you."

With that, she turned and hobbled away on her cane, and Molly had a moment to think how much older Courtney looked when she couldn't see the light in the other woman's eyes. When all she saw was her handicap. Molly congratulated Tim and Wendy, then slid from the booth and started across the restaurant after Courtney. Together they went up the staircase that led to the apartment above the pub. As Courtney worked the key in the lock, Molly nudged her.

"You could have warned me."

A flicker of a smile whispered across Courtney's face. "What would have been the fun of that?"

Then the key clicked in the lock and Courtney pushed it open. It was dark inside — Jack was still out with Bill — and the older woman turned the lights on while Molly locked the door behind them. Both of them stood very still a moment, listening to the sounds of the apartment, wary from painful experience of anything that might be out of place. After a moment they let out a collective breath and Courtney led the way into her bedroom.

If not for the bed, the room would have passed for an office. Courtney had always lived simply, but in the months since Molly had moved in with the Dwyers, what little personal flair had gone into decorating the small space had been overrun by bulletin boards tacked with newspaper articles and computer printouts. When there was no more room there, Courtney had begun tacking them to the bare walls.

The computer was on.

"What is it?" Molly asked, as the tiny twist of unease that had been woken in her downstairs now grew into a dark dreadful weight in her gut.

Courtney rested her cane against the wall and slid into the desk chair. She stared at the computer screen and hesitated a moment. Then she turned to face Molly again.

"Are we serious about this?"

"About what?"

"See, if we were serious, you wouldn't even ask me that," Courtney replied sharply.

Molly sighed. "All right. I'm sorry. Yes, we're serious. I just . . . it isn't exactly pleasant."

"No. No, it isn't." Courtney slid the computer's mouse across a blue pad and then clicked it, and a moment later the printer hummed to life on the desk beside the monitor. She stood up and went to the nearest bulletin board, limping badly without the cane. With her weight against the desk, she pointed to an article pinned to the board.

"Doug and Arlene Rausch. On the way back from eloping in Niagara Falls. Both in their fifties, both on their second marriage, the elopement wasn't a secret from anyone. They have grown children who thought it was sweet, romantic, all that sappy crap. But Doug and Arlene never got home. Last they were seen was in a book store just off Route 87, a couple of hours south of the Falls, where Doug used his credit card."

Molly frowned. "That could be anything."

"True." Courtney pointed to another piece of paper. "Jared Wilkes, fifteen year old runaway, found in the woods at a rest stop on Route 87. All torn up. You don't need the details, but they'd sound familiar."

"All right," Molly said. "We know the signs. It was probably a Prowler, but sad to say, one killing doesn't give us enough to go on. It could be a drifter, or an isolated incident. No way to track the monster just on that."

When Courtney smiled, Molly shivered. The older woman used the wall to steady herself and then indicated a magazine article that looked to have been pulled from
Time
or
Newsweek
. There were several pages taped to the wall. The piece was about the safety record of the long-distance trucking industry.