place was pin neat - the bed made, the kitchen pristine. Damien's clothes were still in his suitcase.
Because he planned to leave in a hurry? Or because he was Felix Unger in a hot, studly body?
I opened his suitcase. I'd been right. He owned nothing but black. I guess that cut down on any clothing confusion.
There were no papers, no books, no notes - in the room or in the suitcase.
"Stranger and stranger," I muttered.
Only people who were trying to hide something had nothing.
Too bad I didn't think to lift his wallet.
Another trick I was very, very good at. If I ever lost my job as a Jdger-Sucher I could make a pretty good living as a thief.
I slid my hand under the chairs, the couch, the bed. All the usual places to hide interesting, incriminating evidence. The only thing I found was a .45 taped behind the toilet tank.
Odd, but not too odd. People who lived out of their suitcases, their cars, often carried guns. Who knows what you might meet on the road? Living in the backwoods, working in taverns or worse, having a gun wasn't an issue. Not having one would be.
I left the revolver right where it was, shut off the light, put the curtains back where I'd found them. I glanced out the window and my heart slammed into my throat.
A white wolf stood between the cabin and the tavern.
I was running for the bathroom before I knew it. I fell to my knees, crawled a few inches, and yanked the gun from the back of the toilet. Tense, shaking, I waited for the sound of the window shattering. That it didn't only made me shake all the more.
I crept back into the front room, checking the gun as I went. One bullet. Damn. I'd have to make sure it counted.
Too bad I didn't carry silver bullets in my shoes. But even if I had time to get them from my bag, the bullets for my Glock wouldn't fit into a .45.
I'd just make do with what I had. A lead slug would slow him down, which would give me a chance to plunge my knife into his evil, murdering heart. I'd dreamed so often of having his blood on my hands; it was the only thing I lived for.
My breath rasped loudly in the dark, silent room. I inched to the window, looked out.
The yard was empty.
Dizziness passed over me in a sickening wave. I nearly fell to my knees.
"He was there," I assured myself. "He was."
I'd never seen the white wolf again after that night. Unless you counted my dreams.
I pinched myself. Yep, I was awake, in Damien's house, holding Damien's gun.
I opened the door just as a howl rose toward the half-moon. The howl was answered by another, then another. I followed the sound into the woods without a backward glance.
Ahead I saw the flash of a tail - white against the darker shade of the trees. Hatred welled within me, acrid at the back of my throat, a stinging tightness in my chest, a burning in my eyes.
I'd dreamed of killing him and now I had the chance.
It was foolish to run into a strange forest alone, with a gun I wasn't accustomed to - a gun that held one useless bullet. Even more foolish to think I would ever catch a wolf on foot. But I followed him anyway. I could do nothing else.
The .45 was heavy. My shoes slid in the mud. My shirt became wet with sweat, as did my hair, my face.
I ran until I couldn't run anymore and then I ran farther. I'd lost sight of the white tail long ago. It didn't matter.
At last I stumbled, fell, lay with my hot cheek against the cool earth.
I don't know how long I stayed there, mind numb, heart racing. Eventually I got ahold of myself enough to admit I might have imagined the white wolf.
"Why would he be here?" I asked aloud. "Why now?"
Those were very good questions. Almost as good as the one I asked myself every day of my life.
"Am I losing it again?"
Hard to tell. Talking to myself wasn't helping. Besides, if I was losing my mind, I'd hardly be the first to know.
I flipped over. A huge black wolf crouched, ready to spring from the bushes near my feet. I couldn't see his eyes, couldn't discern any white. It was probably just a wolf, but when he lunged, I shot him anyway.