At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(62)

From outside, a roar of laughter infiltrated the Jeep’s windows. At least in regard to annoying his neighbors, Helskin had decided to continue his old ways.

“Stop breathing so much,” Addie said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re fogging the windows.”

“I’m not breathing hard. I’m shivering. I forgot my long underwear and my insulated snowsuit.”

“Think of the cold as a way to get inside the killer’s mind. Like you do when you’re creating a profile.”

“I fail to see the connection.”

“Vikings had to be impervious to the cold, right? Or at least used to it. And these creeps clearly aren’t bothered. Now focus and tell me what you see.”

“Trouble,” he said. “Beyond that, I can hardly see them.”

She grumbled something at him about using his God-given eyes. As she shifted in her seat, Evan noticed her high-heeled shoes—a shimmering green contrivance designed for a runway model.

“Nice shoes,” he said. “They go well with the sweatpants.”

Her glare could stop an army in its tracks. “Shut up.”

He looked at his own shoes—sensible sneakers readily visible because his feet didn’t reach the floor—and was struck by the realization that if he were a woman, he’d almost certainly spend the day tottering about on high heels, just for the pleasure of a few more inches.

And also for the fact that while stilettos were unquestionably designed as instruments of torture, they turned a woman’s calves into a gentle invitation for a closer look. At least to the lecherous mind of the healthy male animal.

Call him shallow. Sometimes, it was true.

They both resumed staring through the windows.

The men visible in the firelight were heavily built. Most sported beards. Some of them had shaved heads while others wore their hair long. The amount of ink on their exposed skin—faces and necks and hands—was a tattoo artist’s wet dream. Or at least a ticket to early retirement. The men reminded Evan of the toughs who’d lived in a neighborhood a mile from his childhood home. Throughout his youth, he’d had nightmares about accidentally stumbling into that stretch of streets and meeting a scarcely imaginable fate at the hands of men who were opposed to the idea that the meek—or the different—were entitled to any patch of earth whatsoever.

If those teens had caught him, they’d have eaten him as a bit of teatime pastry and used his bones to clean their teeth.

Now Evan shifted miserably in his seat. Watching the sheer brawn and coiled energy of the men in Helskin’s front yard made those old nightmares feel fresh. Only the hair and the tattoos had changed. The simmering violence remained.

Focus on the matter at hand, he told himself.

The chairs pulled around the fire were a motley assortment of folding lawn chairs, kitchen stools, and beat-up recliners. Four men waved cigarettes around as they talked; two more passed a bong back and forth. Everyone held plastic cups they kept filled from a keg on the porch. A flag with the image of Thor’s hammer was nailed to the front wall under a dim porch light, and the mailbox boasted what might be a Viking Valknut reflector decal.

“Do you know what’s criminal about these men?” he asked Addie.

“Their very existence?”

“They give Vikings a bad name. The Viking Age culture. The Viking people. Their intricate and deeply developed spiritual beliefs. These men ruin all of it.”

She nodded. “Too bad cultural misappropriation isn’t an arrestable offense.”

Two dogs clipped to heavy chains trotted restlessly at the edge of the firelight and now and again added their voices to the din, barking in excitement. Whenever they did, someone kicked them, evoking a yelp and a retreat to the porch.

The dogs looked to be barely smaller than well-fed cougars. Addie would be a light meal to them. Evan a mere kipper snack.

“Creeps,” Addie murmured to herself.

“Are they dire wolves?” He had Odin on the brain. Or rather, Odin’s wolves, Geri and Freki.

“They’re American pit bulls.” She let loose a puff of air. “Why are they so keyed up?”

“Because they smell human flesh?”

“Something’s going on. Don’t you wonder why Helskin and his creepy friends are partying in the front yard?”

“Because they can?”

“If it weren’t for the trees around the back, we could take a look. But I’ll bet you ten to one they use the backyard as a dogfighting pit. Or a place to pen the animals when they aren’t fighting. The dogs are probably expecting mortal combat.”

Evan frowned. Maybe it was paranoia, but one of the men seemed to be staring at them, as if he’d just noticed Addie’s SUV. If they drove away right now . . . He wondered if pit bulls had the canines and jaw strength necessary to puncture tires. He looked it up on Google. The answer was no problemo.

“We should come back tomorrow,” he said. “With agents from animal control. So we can rescue the poor dogs.”

“We?”

“Well, you. And Patrick, of course. And the agents.”

“You need to learn to relax.”

Evan rarely pointed out the obvious, but now seemed like a good time. “One of these men might be a killer. Or even several of them. My nascent profile could be completely wrong.”