Blood Trail

says that if you want the wood, it's yours."

    "Good, good. You tell your uncle, I get it when heat breaks." Frederick Kleinbein swiped at his dripping face with the palm of one beefy hand. "So, I have late raspberries that rot because I am too fat and lazy to pick; you interested?"

    The twins turned to Vicki, who shrugged. "Just don't ask me to help. I'll stay here in the shade and talk to Mr. Kleinbein." And as Mr. Kleinbein very obviously wanted to talk to her. ...

    "So," he began a moment later, "you are visiting from the city. You know Heerkens for long?"

    "Not long at all. I'm a friend of a friend. Do you know them well?"

    "Not what you call well. No." He glanced over to where Rose and Peter were barely visible behind a thick row of raspberry canes. "They keep apart that family. Not unfriendly, distant."

    "And people respect that?"

    "Why not? Farm is paid for. Kids go to school." The finger he waggled in her direction looked like a half cooked sausage. "No law says got to be party animals."

    Vicki hid a smile. Party animals - now that was a concept.

    He leaned forward, his whole bearing proclaiming he had a secret.

    Here it comes, Vicki thought.

    "You stay with them so you must know."

    She shook her head, fighting to keep her expression vaguely confused. "Know what?"

    "The Heerkens ..."

    "Yes?"

    "... the whole family ..."

    She leaned forward herself.

    "... are ..."

    Their noses were practically touching.

    "... nudists."

    Vicki blinked and sat back, momentarily speechless.

    Frederick Kleinbein sat back as well and nodded sagely, his jowls bobbing an independent emphasis. "They must keep clothes on for you so far." Then his entire face curved upward in a beatific smile. "Too bad, eh?"

    "How do you know this?" Vicki managed at last.

    The sausage ringer waggled again. "I see things. Little things. Careful people, the Heerkens, but sometimes there are glimpses of bodies. That's why the big dogs, to warn them to put on clothes when people come." He shrugged. "Everyone knows. Most peoples, they say bodies are bad and go out of way to avoid Heerkens but me, I say who cares what they do on own land." He waved a hand at the raspberry bushes. "Kids are happy. What else matters?
    Besides," this time the smile carne accompanied by a decidedly lascivious waggling of impressive eyebrows, "they are very nice bodies."

    Vicki had to agree. So the surrounding countryside thought the Heerkens were nudists, did it?
    She doubted they'd have been able to deliberately create a more perfect camouflage. What people believe defines what people see, and people looking for flesh were not likely to find fur.

    And it's a hell of a lot easier to believe in a nudist than a werewolf.

    Except that someone, she reminded herself, feeling the weight of the second silver bullet dragging at her bag, isn't following the party line.

    Although his nephew's jeep was still in the driveway, Mark himself appeared to be nowhere around. Carl sat down at the kitchen table and leaned his head in his hands, thankful for the time alone. The boy was his only sister's only son, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, and the only family he had remaining. Family must be more important then personal opinion.

    Was it a sin, he wondered, that he couldn't find it in his heart to care for Mark? That he didn't even like him very much?

    Carl suspected he was being used as a refuge of some sort. Why else would this nephew he hadn't seen in years suddenly appear on his doorstep for an indefinite stay? The boy - the man
    - was a sinner, there was no doubt about that. But he was also family and that fact had to outweigh the other.

    Perhaps the Lord had sent Mark here, at this time, to be saved. Carl sighed and rubbed at a coffee ring on the table with his thumb. He was an old man and the Lord had asked a great deal of him lately.

    Should I ask Mark where he goes at night?

    Do I have the strength to know?

Seven
    "These are our south fields, this is the conservation area, Mr. Kleinbein lives here, and here's old man Biehn's place." Peter squinted down at his sketch, then dragged another three lines into the dirt. "These are the roads."

    "The Old School Road's crooked," Rose pointed out, leaning over his shoulder.

    "There's a rock in the way."

    "So do it here ..." She suited the action to the words, smoothing her palm over his road and drawing in a new one with her fingertip. "... and you avoid the rock."

    Peter snorted. "Then it's at the wrong