Frostbitten

WENDIGO

THE MUSEUM TURNED out to be only a few blocks from our hotel, which we hadn't checked into yet. So we parked in the hotel lot and walked.

At the museum, we found the spot where Reese had been attacked. There was still blood spatter on the display, tucked back in a corner. It would be awhile before people noticed it, and then they'd likely brush it off as a nosebleed.

The location made it easy to get down and sniff. I did that while Clay stood guard.

"And?" he asked when I stood.

"It's the same scents from the woods, which I suppose is something of a relief-at least we aren't dealing with more mutts."

Clay nodded, but I could tell he wasn't relieved. His gaze kept sweeping the room, never resting on any of the exhibits, which wasn't like him at all.

"You're worried about Dennis and Joey," I said.

"I'm sure they're okay. I just… " He glanced around, shook it off, then headed out. We took another route through the exhibits, and were almost at the front when Clay stopped.

"Dennis was here."

"Dennis? I hope he didn't follow those mutts in."

"He wouldn't."

I inhaled as he turned left and headed for a separate room.

"I don't smell anything," I said. "Are you sure?"

He was already in the next room. I followed him into a display of Native artifacts. Clay was crouched in the middle. Luckily, the room was empty-not that the presence of others would have stopped him from dropping down and sniffing.

When I moved into the room, I did smell Dennis-the same scent we'd picked up outside his apartment, and just as faint, meaning it was at least as old. As for how Clay had detected it from the lobby, it only proved that as hard as he was trying to keep his perspective on this, Dennis and Joey were front and center in his mind right now.

As he followed the trail, I looked around. It seemed to be a temporary exhibit focusing on local mythology and legends. If we did have time for sightseeing later, this room would top Clay's destination list. Even now, he kept glancing at the artifacts, reading the cards.

Myth and ritual was Clay's academic field. His specialty was anthropomorphism in religion-belief systems that included man-beast hybrids or shapeshifters.

"Was Dennis interested in this?" I asked.

"Not that I knew."

And he would have known. Clay's area of expertise wasn't exactly a popular conversation topic among werewolves. Before I'd come along, he'd had two choices if he wanted to talk about it-Jeremy, who'd struggle to feign interest, or Nick, who wouldn't even try. If Dennis had been even mildly intrigued, Clay would have pounced like a starving wolf spotting a lame doe.

I peeked out the door, making sure the coast was clear, then bent and sniffed the carpet. In a public place, this is definitely not pleasant, but I've done it often enough that I can mentally filter out the less savory smells and zoom in on what I'm searching for.

"No sign of the other mutts' trails," I said. "If Dennis ducked into the museum to hide from them, that would be incredibly coincidental, although I suppose he could have been following the same logic as Reese, thinking it's the last place a werewolf would follow. We're the exceptions. Well, if you don't count Karl, but his interest in artifacts is hardly academic."

Clay grumbled under his breath as he continued untangling Dennis's trail. Clay had a lot of problems with Karl Marsten joining the Pack, but when asked to add anything to the list of concerns, he'd said only "no more stealing from museums."

When Karl heard that, he'd been a bit taken aback, this probably being the last issue he'd expect Clay to raise, far behind the fact that Karl had once helped kidnap him. But Clay's priorities were never the expected ones. He didn't give a shit about the kidnapping-that was business. But stealing artifacts? That pissed him off. They'd eventually negotiated a compromise. Karl could still steal from museums, but only jewels and only the sort shown off as historical bling with no archaeological significance.

"Can you tell what Dennis was looking at in here?" I asked.

"Everything, it seems. His trail goes all through the room, several times. His scent's especially heavy right here, though."

I looked at the collection of drawings and newspaper accounts. "Wendigo psychosis? You did a paper on that a couple of years ago, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe Jeremy mentioned it, then Dennis was visiting the museum, noticed this and slowed down for a look."

The Wendigo is one of the more popular and better known bits of Native North American folklore. During a particularly tough winter, it's believed that evil spirits possess people, transforming them into beasts craving human flesh. That sounds a lot like man-eating werewolves, which explains Clay's interest. It also, however, sounds like an explanation for cannibalism-during a very long and hard winter, the need to survive overcomes cultural taboos. Just ask the Donner Party.

That's why Wendigo psychosis interests Clay even more. It's a mental condition that apparently causes people to crave human flesh although other food sources are available. Again, the parallels with werewolves are obvious. The question is whether sufferers of Wendigo psychosis are werewolves, humans with an unrelated condition or humans with a weak strain of werewolf blood.

"I'll ask Jeremy if he mentioned my article," Clay said. "If not, remember we've got three half-eaten human bodies in the woods. Dennis had to know about them and figured he and Joey were the only werewolves around. They sure as hell didn't do it."

"So he could have been looking for another explanation. Either way, Dennis was here at least a week ago, meaning his visit doesn't seem directly connected to those mutts."

Clay nodded.

"They may have had nothing to do with his disappearance."

Another nod.

"Or if they do, his disappearance probably means they pulled the same terror tactics they used on Reese. Dennis and Joey don't strike me as the type who'd stick around to defend their territory."

"They're not," Clay said as he waved for us to head out. "But they should have notified Jeremy. Sure, they're not Pack, so technically they can't hold territory. We'd still have helped, though."

"But would they have called? Or would they slip off to avoid any kind of confrontation?"

"Dennis would leave. He's… " He trailed off, and I knew he was trying to think of a milder word than coward. "Still, whether he likes confrontations or not, this was his home."

"Maybe he didn't run. Maybe he's snowed in at his cabin, like the landlord said."

As we stepped outside, I checked my cell phone for messages.

"He's not calling back," Clay said.

I'd begun to suspect the same thing. The young landlord had seemed helpful-refreshingly so when I was more accustomed to dealing with people like Mallory Hirsch. But, like Reese, I couldn't help questioning the kindness of strangers. Maybe in his own way, Charles was blocking us as much as Hirsch, promising us an address to get us out of his face.

We turned the corner and picked our way past museum expansion construction.

"We should try to find Joey," I said. "It won't be that hard if he's using his real name."

"First, we need to check into the hotel and rest."

A protest rose to my lips, but didn't make it out. I was tired. We'd accomplished a lot for our first day. Now it was time to take a couple of hours off to sleep, eat…

"Is that a yes?" Clay asked.

"It is."

"Good."

WE GRABBED OUR bags from the car. While I checked in, Clay prowled, getting the layout of the hotel, which was even more important now when we knew there were mutts in town.

After I checked in, I took a seat in one of the big lobby chairs and started an Internet search for Joey. Not surprisingly, there wasn't a listing in the phone directory. Jeremy said Joey worked for an advertising agency, so I angled my hunt that way. In a few minutes, I had a match-a Joseph Stillwell listed at Creative Marketing Solutions in Anchorage.

I called.

I was hanging up when Clay returned. "Good news. I found where Joey works. He's left for the day, but the receptionist con firmed he was in earlier, meaning he's alive and well."

Clay only nodded, but he was obviously relieved.

We took the bags up to our room. Clay barely got through the door before he was cursing. I passed him and walked to the other side of the room, which took about five paces.

"This is the Hilton, isn't it?" Clay asked.

"Yep."

The room was decently appointed, but showing its age, and was roughly the size of our en suite bathroom at home.

"Let's just hope we don't spend much time in here or we'll go stir-crazy."

Clay threw the bags onto the bed. "All this wide-open country and they can't afford to build decent-size hotel rooms?"

"Let me call down and see if they have a bigger-"

Clay caught me around the waist. "I'm sure Jeremy booked the best they had. It'll do."

"We could switch hotels. There must be-"

He cut me off with a kiss-a hungry, fingers-in-hair, leg-around-hips, who-needs-oxygen kiss, ending only when my cell phone chirped. His head whipped toward it, eyes narrowing, and I was glad I'd left it out of his reach or I'd have been picking pieces out of the plaster.

I untangled myself from him. "Normally, I'd say to hell with it, but considering we're waiting for a call… "

He strode over, snatched up the phone, then tossed it to me. "It's Dennis's landlord."

Charles had the GPS coordinates and directions ready to text to my cell. He apologized for taking so long. His wife had stopped at a friend's after shopping and, as he said, "You know how that goes." Actually, I didn't, but I understood the concept.

He warned us not to head out to Dennis's cabin tonight-it was already dark. I thanked him and promised to call back with any news.

When I hung up, Clay was already at the door.

"Eager to be off?" I said.

"Eager to be off before I decide it can wait five minutes, and five minutes wasn't what I had in mind."

"Me neither. Let's get this trip over with, then we can call it a night."