Ray Lieberman sat up in bed, his skin pale and his face gaunt with extreme dehydration and malnourishment. His wife, a small, pear-shaped woman with a basketball-sized baby pooch for a belly.
“My sister is watching our children,” she said, grasping Lieberman’s hand as if it were the only thing tethering her to the ground. “Thank you so much, Agent Taylor. You and Agent Tartan have given me back my life.” She began to cry. “My life.”
“Bunny,” Lieberman said softly. “Don’t cry. I’m okay. I’m safe now.”
She sniffed hard then nodded.
“Mister Lieberman, I need to ask you a few questions. I’m sorry it has to be so soon after you’ve been reunited with your wife, but every minute we wait gives your abductor the opportunity to cover his tracks,” Dominic said. “This guy has been ten steps ahead of us the whole time.”
“But not tonight,” Lieberman said. He gave us a faint smile. “Ask your questions.”
Dom looked at the man’s wife. “Mrs. Lieberman, would you wait in the hall until we’re done?”
“No,” she said with such emphatic determination. “I’m not letting this man out of my sight. Not for a solitary second.”
“It’s okay, ma’am.” I gave Dom a nod. “You can stay.”
“Can you describe the man who took you?”
Lieberman closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them back up, he gave a slight shake of his head. “He wore a hood. I never saw his face.”
Dom passed me a look of disappointment. “Anything identifiable? Height, weight, hair color, eye color, scars, tattoos, anything.”
“His eyes,” Lieberman said. “They were strange.”
“Strange how? Overly large. The color? Shape?”
“The color. They were really light, almost colorless, but not the pink-white of an albino. I have a cousin whose albino, and this was different.”
Weird, almost colorless eyes? Dom and I both said, “Lark.”
I nodded. “It makes sense. He has access to the compound, and he has the hallmarks of a psychopath.”
“He struck me from above. I managed to see his shadow on my steps, so I’d ducked and turned.” He touched the bruised and cracked bridge of his nose. “Whatever he had hit my nose. I tried to fight, but he managed to get his hand around my mouth and nose. The rag he put over my face smelled like chemicals, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It had kind of sweet scent.”
“Ether, maybe,” I said.
Doctor Smith joined us in the room. He gave his patient a sympathetic look. “How are you feeling, Ray?”
“Better. The salve you put on the cuts has made them feel a lot less painful.”
Everyone in these parts knew the secret to the doc’s ointment. It was lycanthrope spit. Apparently, the saliva of a lycanthrope had industrial strength antibodies that not only numbed pain but also sped healing exponentially. There wasn’t a home in Peculiar that didn’t have a small tin of his wonder-drug.
The doc looked at Dom and me. “Can I talk to you both in the other room for a moment? I think Ray and his wife could both use the break.”
We followed the tall werewolf back to his office. He closed the door behind us. “I can tell you both, now that I’ve been able to examine one of the Little Piggy victims, that the person who tortured Ray Lieberman is the same person who killed Lloyd Evans. The cuts were made with the same kind of blade.”
“Are you sure?” Dom asked.
“Yes. There is a small defect in the blade that causes a small, jagged tear at the starting point. It’s the same on Lloyd’s defensive wounds and the slashes across his torso.”
“Then our guy is scared. Evans must have stumbled onto him somehow,” Dom said.
“Or,” I added, playing Devil’s advocate, “Evans was the unsub’s partner in crime, and he killed him to tie up loose ends.”
“Maybe.” Dom crossed his arms. “We need to ask Lieberman what he can remember and see if there was more than one person involved. It could be crucial. If Evans was in close contact with the killer, it points even more to Andy Lark.”
“Is there anything else, Doc?”
The silver-haired wolf nodded. “The toothpick you found. It matches Lloyd’s teeth marks. I think when and if the DNA arrives back from the Springfield lab, it will confirm that Evan’s was down in that room.”
Dad had served the warrant on the compound after we’d found Lieberman. They didn’t find any weapons, but they did find the room exactly where we’d told him it would be. “I wonder if the forensics will find DNA of the other victims down there.”
“Only time will tell.” The doctor looked tired. “You two go talk to Lieberman. I’ve got a few more things to do before I call it a night.”
When we walked back into the patient’s room, Lieberman’s wife had crawled into bed next to him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you both are tired, and you’re ready for this whole nightmare to be over, but we have a few more questions.”
“I’ll tell you what I can remember. Unfortunately,” he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, “or maybe, fortunately, I can’t remember a lot of the first couple of days. The man kept saying something about me having a bad reaction to the drug he gave me.”
“Was he saying it to you or someone else?” Dom asked.
“I...I’m not sure. There could have been someone else.”
“It’s important.” Dominic took a step toward him. “The man who took you, we think he might have been working with someone else. If it’s true, we might be able to make more connections.”
I put my hand on Dom’s arm. I didn’t want him planting memories that didn’t exist in Lieberman’s head. Victims were often susceptible to confabulation, or false memories, especially if there were gaps in their recollections. Their brains would grasp at the solutions offered and use that to fill in the blanks. We needed the real story, not one that we invented.
“If you don’t remember anyone else, that’s fine,” I said gently. “We’re going to find this bastard either way, and we will make sure he never hurts another soul.”
“I wish I could remember more. I promise if I recall anything else I will tell someone immediately.” Ray put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I’m really tired.”
“We’ll let you rest,” Dom said. “Thank you for your time and patience.”
Ray looked up at us, his dark blue eyes shining with a tear. “Thank you, both of you, for saving my life.”
WE DROVE STRAIGHT TO the Sheriff’s Station, managing to beat Dad back from the compound. We parked and waited outside for him to arrive with Andy Lark in cuffs. I couldn’t wait to get justice for his victims. How long had he been killing? How many more victims besides the four we knew about? Andy was probably in his sixties—young for shifters, but a long time all the same, especially for a murdering bastard like Lark. There was no way the recent victims were his first kills. Either he practiced his sick art elsewhere, or he’d changed his MO. Why? I hoped we would find out before therian justice was handed down. Unfortunately, some psychopaths never revealed their secrets. It was another way to continue taking pleasure in their victims’ pain long after they left this life.
I saw my dad’s truck and patted the hood to get Dom’s attention. “There they are.”
Dom let out a noisy exhalation.
“Oh, stop worrying. It’s not like Dad’s going to arrest you for defiling his daughter.”
Dom quirked his head at me. “Then maybe I didn’t do it right.”
I smacked him. “You can try again later.”
He chuckled but sobered quickly when Dad got out of the driver’s seat, opened the back door and escorted Lark, hands cuffed behind his back, out of the vehicle.
Lark’s expression was smug, his colorless eyes as cold as a glacier. It was clear to me that he considered this whole thing one big joke. It galled me to no end that a psychopath who couldn’t feel empathy or guilt had no problems feeling joy. He could take pleasure in the pain of others. To him, victims were no more than toys—and when he was done, they become broken objects to be discarded like so much trash.
“Every time I see that guy I want to beat the shit out of him,” Dom said.
I thought the same thing. “He is the epitome of douche-nozzle.”
“You have a magical way with words.” He nodded toward my dad, who was walking behind Lark toward the station. “We better catch up.”
My ankle hurt even less than the night before, so I barely limped. Dad glanced back at me. His eyes softened for a moment. I smiled. Maybe my father wasn’t too upset about Dom and me.
Andy Lark began to shake and flail. Dad tried to hold on to the prisoner, but Lark sprouted huge wings full of brown, white, and black feathers. The cuffs shattered, dropping to the ground as the creature rounded on my father.
Dad didn’t let his surprise overcome his training. He immediately tried to unlatch his gun.
Too late.
“What the hell is that?” Dom shouted. We were both running toward Dad and his assailant, guns drawn.
Lark had completely shifted into the biggest owl I’ve ever seen. He rose into the air, huge talons aimed at Dad.
My father didn’t have a chance.
Horror welled in me as the nightmare unfolded in slow motion. The bird’s sharp claws embedded into Dad’s chest—and the massive bird beat its wings, using the momentum to tear open flesh. With one final slash at Dad’s neck, Lark screeched in triumph. Dad fell to the ground, his shirt in shreds, his face and chest bloody.
So much blood.
“I don’t have a shot,” Deputy Thompson shouted. He was behind the truck, pistol pointed toward the birdman.
I heard my own shouts as if I were listening to them through water. Lark launched himself into the air. As if outside my body, I saw my arm fully extend as I discharged my weapon at the winged creature. Mine wasn’t the only shots I heard. Dom and Thompson shot at the escaping prisoner as well, and we didn’t stop until our guns were empty.
Feathers floated around us like ugly snowflakes. Lark screeched and tumbled to the ground. He gave one last gasp before he stilled. He was dead, but I damned sure wished I could kill him again. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. My ears throbbed from loud reports of the gun. And my heart wanted to punch out of my chest.
The mind fog lifted, and I focused on my dad’s limp body. “Dad!” I screamed. I didn’t feel the pain in my ankle as I ran and dropped to the ground beside him. Thompson was kneeling next to Dad holding pressure over the wound on my dad’s neck. Deep, long gashes marred my Dad’s chest, and blood flowed like rivers down his side, pooling on the ground.
Panic made my whole body shake as I grabbed my father’s hand. Dad’s eyes were closed. There was some mercy in my father being unconscious. “Did it hit his artery?” I asked Thompson.
“I don’t know.” His face was haunted, and for the first time, to me, he looked impossibly young.
Dom put his hand on my shoulder, and I heard him talking on the phone. “We need you here now,” he said. “The sheriff is badly injured. We can’t move him—he’s not stable enough. Hurry, Doc.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Doctor Smith is on the way, Nic.”
“Please, Dad,” I begged. “Stay with me.” His respirations were shallow and rapid. Little gurgling sounds escaped as bubbles formed on dad’s chest. “Dom,” I said, saying his name like a last prayer. I didn’t know what I expected him to do, but I knew his presence was the only thing keeping me from losing my shit completely.
“I’ve seen this before. He has an open pneumothorax,” Dom said. He ran to the car and grabbed one of the rain ponchos. When he returned, he used a small pocketknife and cut a square in the plastic. “Here, put the hole over the area with the bubbles. It will occlude the wound and stop blood from getting sucked into the chest. We have to hold it on down on three sides.”
I nodded, snot and tears running down my face. Dom knelt next to me and used his shirt to wipe my nose. Then he pressed on two sides of the poncho. I pushed on the remaining one. Thompson had both of his hands clamped over my dad’s neck.
“The doctor’s coming, Nic,” reassured Dom. “Your dad is strong. He’ll make it.”
Dad didn’t look strong. Not right now. He looked like a dying man. Not my dad, I thought. Not him. He’s Superman. Indestructible.
It took seven minutes for Doctor Smith arrived with his fiancé Chavvah. It had been the longest seven minutes of my entire existence.
Doc and Chavvah worked together to stabilize my dad for transport.
“You can let go,” said Chavvah gently. “We’re going to put an occlusive bandage on his chest. It’s designed for this type of wound.”
I hadn’t even noticed that Dom had already moved his hand from the poncho. For some reason, I couldn’t get my hands to move. My sensitive fingertips could barely register the plastic because they were so coated with blood.
Dom placed his hands over mine, and I let him help me release the poncho.
While Chavvah worked on my dad’s chest, Doc Smith had taken Thompson’s place and was wrapping some kind of bandage under my Dad’s armpit and then over his neck. “It’s an Israeli pressure bandage,” he explained, his voice kind. “Thompson, bring me the neck brace.”
After Doc stabilized my dad’s neck, we all helped move Dad onto the spine board.
They loaded him into the back of Dad’s truck, and I got in, too. Before they shut the doors, I said, “Call my mom, Dom. She has to know. He can’t...” I shook my head. “She needs to know.”
“Consider it done.” He looked torn, and I understood why. He needed to call in Lark’s death and handle the scene. But I could see he was ready to chuck it all just to be with me. The idea that he cared about me more than he did the job was something of a balm.
“Stay,” I said. “I’ll call you with updates.”
“I get there as soon as I can.” He shut the doors, and Doc Smith pointed the truck toward the clinic to be the longest drive of my life.
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT the clinic, my mother stood in Doc’s parking lot, her face as pale as a ghost’s. The deputy helped Doc Smith get my dad onto a gurney and get him inside. Mom held Dad’s hand but stayed out of the way. I felt numb. Nothing about this was real. Nothing.
When the doc took him back for emergency surgery, my mom’s shoulders slumped. She turned to me. “Your dad is a fighter,” she said. “He’ll be okay.”
“I know.” I took her hand. “Let’s go sit down somewhere.”
Chavvah greeted us in the small waiting room. “Why don’t y’all come into the house? I’ll make you all some coffee or tea, whatever you’d like, while we wait.”
My mom looked down the hall to the door where Doc had taken my father. “I don’t want to leave him.”
Chav put her hand on my mom’s back. “And you won’t be, Jean. Let me take care of you while Billy Bob takes care of Sid.”
My mom’s stoic expression cracked. She nodded. “Okay.”
I took a staggered breath trying to stop more tears and cast Chavvah a grateful look.
Mom and I huddled together on the couch for two hours, dying with every minute that passed. The time gave me a chance to reflect on the Sunny’s predictions. So far, there had been the gunshot with the yellow man, the crack that tripped a trap door, the skipping stones that alerted us to Lieberman, and now Andy Lark had transformed into a gigantic lying owl. But her predictions hadn’t stopped there. She’d also predicted something about glass breaking and death at twelve. I looked at the clock. It was ten-thirty in the morning. If the doctor kept my dad in surgery past noon, I was storming damn the clinic.
It was half an hour later when the doctor finally came into the house, his face grave.
I scooted to the edge, waiting with fear and trepidation.
“It was touch and go,” Doc said, “but Sid is one tough son-of-a-gun. He’s going to make a full recovery.”
“Jesus, Doc,” I said with no small amount of exasperation. “Don’t bury the lead.”
A noise that sounded like a wounded animal startled me to my feet. I looked at my mom as her shoulders heaved forward, and she began to sob. “Thank you, Doctor Smith. Thank you.”
I put my arms around Mom. I suddenly realized when the crisis was in full swing, she’d done what she always does—put on a brave face to protect me. Here she had been, her husband, her great love possibly dying, and instead of falling apart, she had kept it together for me. The realization made me proud of her and ashamed of myself.
I turned to the doctor. “Can we see him?”
Doc nodded. “Yes. He’s not awake yet, but it will be good for him to see family when he does.”
“Thanks, Doc.” To Mom, I said, “You are the bravest woman I know,” I told her with a fierceness I felt to my core. “You are my hero.” I gave her another squeeze. “Now, let’s go see my other hero.”