Blood Trail

makes you think I just started searching now?"

    He could see the lighter slash of her smile. It didn't look friendly.

    "You drive all the way from Toronto, you barge into a strange house at 11:30 at night, you have me roused from sleep and dragged from bed, and I'm supposed to believe this is information you've had for months? Cop a plea, Celluci, the evidence is against you."

    "Look," he turned to face her, "your friend isn't what you think he is."

    "What do I think he is?" This didn't sound good.

    "Oh, I don't know." Celluci drove both hands up through his hair. "Hell, yes I do. You think he's some sort of exotic literary figure, who can wine you and dine you and offer you moonlit nights of romance ..."

    Vicki felt her jaw drop.

    "... but he's got holes in his background you could drive a truck through. Everything points to only one answer; he's got to be deeply involved in organized crime."

    "Organized crime?" Her voice came out flat, no inflection.

    "It's the only solution that fits all the facts."

    She sputtered. She just couldn't help it. She just couldn't hold it in any longer.

    Celluci leaned toward her, trying to read her expression. When she got over the initial shock, she'd want to hear what he'd found.

    Vicki managed to repeat organized crime one more time before she lost it.

    He watched her laugh and wondered if he should smack her. He could always use hysteria as an excuse.

    Finally, she managed to get hold of herself.

    "Are you ready to listen?" he asked through gritted teeth.

    Vicki shook her head, reached up and brushed the long curl of hair back off his forehead - she didn't have to see it to know it was there. "Leaving aside your reasons for the moment, you couldn't be more wrong. Trust me, Mike. Henry Fitzroy is not involved in organized crime. At any level, of any kind."

    "You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

    So much for his reasons. You are mine resonated over, under, and through that question.
    Unfortunately, she couldn't deal with his archaic perceptions right now; this was too potentially dangerous for Henry. "What does that have to do with this?"

    "You wouldn't be willing to believe. ..."

    "Bullshit! I'm perfectly willing to believe that you're a chauvinistic, possessive bastard and I sleep with you." So much for good intentions.

    He hadn't intended to be so loud, but his voice practically echoed in the confines of the car.
    "Vicki, I'm telling you, beyond a certain point, Henry Fitzroy has no. ... What the hell was that?"

    "Was what?" Vicki peered out the windows but couldn't see past the night. She shoved her glasses up her nose. It didn't help.

    "Something ran past out there. It might have been one of those big dogs. It looked like it might be hurt."

    "Shit!" She was out of the car and racing toward the house before the final explosive "t" had passed her lips. The darkness was absolute save for the faint square of light that was the kitchen window. It's a big building. How can I miss it? Then she remembered Henry warning her the first night about the curve in the path. Too late. She stumbled and fell, burying her hands in the loose dirt of the garden.

    "Come on." Celluci heaved her to her feet and kept a tight hold on her arm. "If it's that important, I'll be your eyes."

    They pounded through the kitchen door together, just in time to see a massive russet shape crash to the floor, the fur on its chest a darker, more deadly shade of red.

    "Too big to be Storm," Vicki panted, fighting free of Celluci's grip. "Has to be. ..."

    And then there wasn't any question as outlines blurred and blood began pumping from an ugly gash across the right side of Donald's ribs.

    Vicki and Nadine hit the floor beside the wounded wer at roughly the same time. Nadine, who had grabbed a first aid kit from over the kitchen sink, was expertly pinching the torn edges of flesh together and wrapping them in place.

    "We do most of our own doctoring," she said, in response to Vicki's silent question.

    All things considered, it made sense. The presence of Dr. Dixon didn't carry much weight against an entire history with no physicians. "Doesn't look like a gunshot wound." Together they got the gauze around Donald's neck. "Looks like he got hit with a chunk of flying rock."

    Nadine snorted. "Comforting."

    "I thought," Vicki grunted, holding Donald's weight while Nadine continued to wind the gauze, "that you'd all agreed to stay out of those fields."

    "It isn't that easy to overcome a