Blood Trail

dropped his shorts on Rose's head. "Don't look too hard," he instructed, then changed and barreled out the door, heading at full speed up the lane.

    * * *
    Mark had intended to just drive by the farm, to see if he could spot any of these alleged werewolves and get a good look at their pelts, but when he saw the shape sitting by the mailbox it seemed like a gift from God.

    "And as I have been assured, God is on our side."

    So he stopped.

    It didn't look like a wolf, but neither did it look quite like a dog. About the size of a small German shepherd, it sat watching him, head cocked to one side, panting a little in the heat. Its pure black coat definitely appeared to have the characteristics of a wolf pelt, with the long silky hairs that women loved to run their hands through.

    He stretched an arm out the open window of the car and snapped his fingers. "Here, uh, boy.
    Com-ere. ..."

    The creature stood, stretched, and yawned, its teeth showing very white against the black of its muzzle.

    Why hadn't he brought a biscuit or a pork chop or something? "Come on." Pity it was black; a more exotic color would fetch a higher price.

    And then he saw a flash of red coming up the lane, When it reached the mailbox, he realized that the black must only be about half grown. The red creature was huge with the most beautiful pelt Mark had ever seen. Long thick hair shaded from a deep russet to almost a red-gold in the sunlight. Every time it moved, new highlights flickered along the length of its body. Both muzzle and ears were sharply pointed and its eyes were delineated with darker fur, giving it an almost humanly expressive face.

    He knew people who would pay big bucks to own a fur like that.

    It studied him for a moment, head high, ignoring the attempts of the smaller one to knock it over. There was something in its gaze that made Mark feel intensely uncomfortable and any doubts he might have had about these creatures being more than they seemed vanished under that steady stare. Then it turned and both creatures headed back down the lane.

    "Oh, yes," he murmured, watching them run. "I have found my fortune." Best of all, if anything went wrong this time, crazy Uncle Carl and his high caliber mission from God would take the rap.

    First on the agenda, a drive into London to do a little research.

    It didn't take long for Vicki to discover the attraction Henry's BMW held; low on the dashboard, discreetly out of sight from prying eyes and further camouflaged by the mat black finish - on everything including the buttons and the digital display - was a state of the art compact disk player. She was perfectly willing to admire the sound quality, she was even willing to listen to Peter enthuse about woofers and tweeters and internal stabilization somethings, but she was not willing to listen to opera all the way into London, especially not with the two wer singing along.

    They compromised and sang along with Conway Twitty instead. As far as the wer were concerned, the Grand Ol' Opry ran a poor second to grand old opera, but it was better than no music at all. Vicki could tolerate country. At least she understood the language, and Rose had a hysterical gift for mimicking twang and heartache.

    They cut through the east end of the city, down Highbury Avenue - Highway 126 - heading for the 401. The moment they hit traffic, Rose reached over and turned the music off. To Vicki's surprise, Peter, reclining in the back with his head half out the window, made no protest.

    "We don't see things quite the same way you do," Rose explained, very carefully changing lanes and passing an eighteen wheeler. "So we have to pay a lot more attention when we drive."

    "Most of the world should pay more attention when they drive," Vicki muttered. "Peter, stop kicking the back of my seat."

    "Sorry." Peter rearranged his legs. "Vicki, I was wondering, how come you're going to see the OPP on a Sunday? Won't the place be closed down?"

    Vicki snorted. "Closed down? Peter, the police don't ever close down, it's a twenty-four hour a day, seven day a week job. You should know that, your brother's a cop."

    "Yeah, but he's city."

    "The Ontario Provincial Police are police just like any others ... except no one keeps messing with the color of their cars." Vicki liked the old black and whites and hadn't approved the Metro Toronto Police cars going bright yellow and then white. "In fact," she continued, "in a lot of places they're the only police. That