The next afternoon, Kas steered the decrepit Jeep around a curve and entered Cold Creek. She sighed wearily. Between the slashes on her back and ribs, the bite on her shoulder, her aching knee, and the various blows she'd taken from Dwayne …well, maybe she'd felt worse the day the house in Baghdad was bombed with her in it, but not by much. God, she hurt.
She hadn't even gotten to beat the hell out of the assholes—that really burned.
Her head felt hot and gritty, like it was filled with desert sand. She probably should have tried to get more sleep, but Seattle didn't feel safe. Not with who-knows-who looking for her. Hopefully they'd stay too busy for a while to focus on her. After her anonymous phone call to the police, the bad guys should be scrambling to cover their tracks. And wasn't that hopeful thinking—they'd probably just abandon the place and the dead woman.
Oh shit. Was she brain-dead or what? That woman and others had died because Landon bit them. 'Landon bit me.'
The good news: with him gone, no more victims would die. At least until they caught another cat-thing. Bad news: 'I might die too.'
Her chest felt hollow. Dying for something so stupid wasn't how she'd planned to go. If she had to check out, it was supposed to be in a blaze of glory, saving her buddies or a bunch of civilians. Not shivering and puking from being used as a feline chew-toy.
Go to a hospital? She shook her head. Dwayne would watch for someone admitted with an animal bite. She might call Smith for help, but he'd expect the whole story. 'Yeah, see, I got bitten by some shapeshifter thing?' She herself barely believed people could turn into animals, and she'd seen Landon do it. The old man dealt in cold, hard, provable facts. He'd figure she'd gone bonkers and put her in a padded cell. So, no hospital.
The suit had thought the bitees died because they were in poor health to begin with. 'I'm not weak, not poorly nourished. And fuck this shit, I'm not gonna die.'
She gripped the wheel tighter and concentrated on driving. Already the sun was setting, sending its fading rays across the valley and turning the snow-capped mountains a bloody red. The traffic had dissipated after leaving Seattle. Not much going on in Cold Creek, according to the realtor. The town ordinances kept it from growing or even having a McDonald's. The realtor had sounded positively disgruntled.
Kas's smile grew as she drove through the downtown, maybe four blocks long with nary a stoplight in sight. Apparently, the residents had spent their money on the trees and plants in the center island and on antique streetlights. People were strolling into the stores, sitting on wrought-iron benches in the shade.
"Toto, I think we're back in Kansas," Kas murmured, unsure if she was pleased or appalled. The peacefulness increased when she turned onto a small street with arching maple and spruce trees, brightly colored flower gardens, white picket fences, and wide front porches. It was all very civilized until she looked upward to the dense green of an untamed forest. One mountain, then more and more, piling up on each other like blocks scattered by a child. Made sense that werethingies would hang out close to big forests and mountains, right? The thought sent icy fingers up her spine.
She pulled her gaze away and concentrated on following the realtor's directions. A block from Main Street, the sidewalks disappeared. There—House for Rent, Cold Creek Realty, See Sarah White. The sign was stuck next to a distinctive mailbox in the shape of an outhouse. Outhouse…she could sure use one of those. That swing through Starbucks had been a poor tactical decision.
The rental was a small olive green house with white trim and a wide porch. Unlike the other houses on the street, this place boasted no flowers. Instead, short bushes marked the property lines, and a widely branching oak tree dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn.
Looked peaceful enough. A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.
And she'd have to be discreet. Did the bad guys know Landon came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn't survive long if they found her. The suit had shown no remorse over what he'd done to the kid, and Dwayne had reveled in it.
She turned off the ancient Jeep—the only decent car in the cheapo car lot—and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Kas out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She'd lost too much blood, taken too much damage. Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn't defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Dwayne.
Come to think of it, she wouldn't know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn't going to leave. Landon had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.
God, she'd rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O'Flannagan's parents had? Or be like Shanna's. Her best friend's mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Kasumi's words.
Why did people have to die?
At the memory of Landon and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. 'Dammit, stop.' She could almost hear the drill sergeant's cutting voice, "You gonna break down and bawl, Watson? Pick up your weapon and act like a Marine!" She sucked in a breath and straightened her shoulders.
On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.
Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open—just calling to her. Really.
She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. 'Dammit, haven't I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?'
Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and—dammit—her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A. She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh. 'Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?'