Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(30)

There was a short silence.

“Don’t remember him,” said Sherwood. “But my wolf is pretty unhappy about him. I’d be okay with killing him.”

When no one else said anything, Adam pulled up another face. No one knew that one.

“He has been going by the name Lincoln Stuart, though he is old and that is not his original name.”

“Was he the guy who was second to . . .” Mary Jo snapped her fingers impatiently. “A pack in Nebraska, but I can’t think of the Alpha’s name.”

“I know who you mean,” Adam said. “And no, you’re thinking about Lincoln Thorson. He’s still second in the Lincoln, Nebraska, pack—which is why everyone remembers him. This isn’t that Lincoln.”

He brought up another photo; this one was the kind of photo taken on vacations. An Asian man and woman were standing in front of what I was pretty sure was the Grand Canyon. The shot looked as though it had been taken thirty years ago. The man was smiling at the woman, who was pointing up at him with both of her index fingers in a “look what I caught” pose that was completed by her over-the-moon smile.

“Chen Li Qiang.” Carlos was not a big man, nor did he look like the badass he was. He worked for Adam, and his specialty, I knew, was de-escalating FUBAR situations. “Damn it, Adam,” Carlos said with feeling. “Damn it. Li Qiang, he’s a friend. I served with him in Korea.”

“His name is Chinese,” said Darryl. “And he looks Chinese.”

“He is,” said Carlos. “But he’s lived in the States since he came over to work on the railroad and ran into a werewolf. He worked as a translator for the USMC because his Korean is almost as good as his Cantonese and Mandarin.” Carlos rubbed his hands together and shook his head. “That girl in the photo was his wife. She died about five years ago—I went to the funeral.”

“I remember,” said Adam.

“I haven’t seen him since,” Carlos admitted. “I heard he didn’t adjust to his wife’s death well and he left his pack.”

Honey knew the next one, a soft-faced man with gray eyes and medium-brown hair.

“That’s Kent Schwabe,” she said, sorrow in her voice. “He was a good man, Adam. Ended up in a bad pack, though—I think in Florida. Charles killed that Alpha back in the 1960s, and the whole pack was dismantled. We were casual acquaintances, though, so I don’t know what happened to Kent after that.”

“He moved to Texas,” Adam told her. “He ended up in Galveston.”

“That’s Gartman’s pack,” said Warren, sitting up a little straighter.

It hadn’t been a question, but Adam nodded. “That’s right.”

Warren growled. “Some damn fool should take that Alpha right out of existence. World would be a better place.”

Adam tipped his head toward Warren. “Oh?”

“I expect you’ve heard people say he keeps the peace. That his wolves don’t cause no trouble and they never say a bad word about him,” said Warren. “I know, because I talked to Bran about that one a few times. Bran is watching him, but he can’t do anything until he gets a complaint or something happens.”

Adam said, carefully, “I understand that he’s a hard man.”

“Hell,” Warren said. “I don’t mind a hard man.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Ben, his British accent carrying through the room.

Warren gave him a roguish look—he and Ben were friends.

“Kyle aside,” Warren said—and there were a few soft laughs from the pack. “Gartman’s not hard, Adam, he’s polecat mean. Some of his pack stay with him because they like that—he allows them to be mean, too. Most of them are too afraid to squeak.”

“Good to know,” Adam said. “I hadn’t heard anything bad about him—until last night.” He changed the photo again.

This time it was a thin-faced woman in profile. No one knew her.

“This is Nonnie Palsic. She’s old. My informant—”

Charles, I thought, though officially Charles shouldn’t be giving us information since we weren’t affiliated with the Marrok. I’m sure the Marrok told Charles that, too, knowing exactly how well his son would follow that directive.

“—tells me that she’s around four hundred years old. She’s mated to this man.”

He changed the screen to show an ordinary-looking guy with a baseball in one hand and a bat over his shoulder.

Adam looked over the room, and when no one spoke up, he announced, “This is James Palsic. He is older than his mate, possibly a lot older than his mate. I met James about twenty years ago—so did any of you who were in my pack when we were in Los Alamos. He was an engineer on assignment. Worked at the National Lab down there for two months before he went back to Washington, D.C.”

When no one said anything, Adam smiled. “I have noticed that people don’t tend to remember him. I’ve been told that it’s not magic. Not sure I believe it. It is true that he is very low-key. He was one of the wolves I scented last night. Li Qiang was the other.”

“I didn’t know that you knew Li Qiang,” said Carlos.

“I’ve never met him,” Adam told him. “But I picked you up at the airport when you came back from the funeral.”