Running Free (Woodland Creek)(6)
She rolls her coffee-colored eyes but takes my card. “I’ve slept with the big, bad wolf and you’re not him. I can handle myself. But Acey… ” she trails off. Her eyes drag over to the window and she sighs sadly. “Just find him.”
Her almost black hair is wild all around her and I frown when I see some pine needles in it. Picking up her phone my ass. She was in the woods.
My gaze settles on a tattoo on her thigh. A barcode is branded into her flesh and I’m curious as to what the hell it means. I want to stay and ask her more questions — or just f*cking look at her — but she’s back to glaring at me.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I grunt and retreat, heading toward the front door. “But I’m serious. I’ve only been in this town for a few months and a lot of weird shit goes down. Be careful.”
She nods and waves me off.
With a defeated groan, I saunter out of the bar and climb back into my Tahoe. The night is quiet so as I roll out of the parking lot, I lower my windows and listen. Back in Chicago, I was known for being the perceptive one. The detective who discovered clues that were under everyone’s noses. And when it came time to piece the puzzle together, I wasn’t afraid to go in, all guns blazing, hence the nickname Gun.
Yapping and howling in the distance causes me to slow to a stop. Out past the pond, I can hear a pack of wolves going hog wild. I don’t necessarily want to go traipsing through the woods where the f*ckers could eat my ass but there’s a missing teen out there and I’d feel really damn bad if I let him get attacked by wolves because I was too much of a * to get out of my vehicle. With a sigh, I shut off the car and grab my shotgun from the back.
A hunting we will go.
I push my door closed in a soft way, careful not to draw any attention my way and begin trudging through the brush in the forest toward Woodland Pond. Yipping and growling echo through the trees which means I’m nearing a pack of those f*ckers. My fears are confirmed when I emerge from the trees and see three large wolves circling a crumpled body near the water.
Shit.
One of the animals leans forward and licks the person’s forehead and I know it’ll only be a matter of time before they eat his ass — if they haven’t started already. By the looks of it though, he may be past saving.
Doesn’t mean I won’t try anyway.
Cocking my shotgun, I stride toward the wolves. “Git!”
The largest of the three jerks its massive head in my direction, baring his gnarly teeth at me. His grey eyes, almost humanlike in nature, seem to peer inside of me in a creepy-as-f*ck way. Ignoring the shiver creeping up my spine, I aim my shotgun at him.
“Get out of here before I shoot your ass,” I threaten.
He growls but much to my surprise backs away from the person. The wolf must be the alpha in his pack because he barks out in an authoritative manner that has the other two trotting after him. They make a quick retreat into the forest and I exhale with a rush of relieved breath. I’m not sure why they backed off but I’m f*cking glad.
As I near the body, I lower my gun. A teenager who resembles the one I was shown a picture of earlier this evening, lies sprawled out on the muddy banks. His belly has been gutted. My initial reaction is to assume those wolves had at him but I know better than going with the easiest answer. The crime scene reeks of foul play and I intend on uncovering what the f*ck happened to the poor kid.
Yanking out my phone, I call the other detective on duty. “Fitz, bring the medical examiner and any uniforms working tonight,” I bark out. “I found the body of what I’m pretty sure is that Larson kid.”
He curses into the phone and I listen to him ramble out orders of his own to others in the station. Kneeling beside the body, I notice all sorts of huge animal footprints, most likely the three wolves. Scattered amongst those, are smaller indentions, almost like that of the Doberman I saw earlier. But what causes my hackles to rise is the partial bare footprint beneath the wolf prints.
Dirty feet.
Pine needles in her hair.
Frankie Aleen was here. I can feel it in my bones.
“Fitz,” I interrupt. “Pull up what you can on a Frankie Aleen. Young, maybe twenty-five years old, dark brown hair and brown eyes, barcode tattoo on her outer right thigh.”
The line goes quiet for a moment. “Frankie from the bar? Otis’s Frankie?”
Disappointment, for some f*cking odd reason, courses through my veins at hearing she belongs to another man. I hadn’t seen a ring on her finger but that doesn’t mean shit these days. Hell, Carla had a goddamned ring for nearly ten years and it didn’t mean a thing to her.
“Yeah, find me what you can. She may be a suspect.”
“External examination concludes the manner of death was homicide,” Craft County coroner, Ronald Jeffries, states. “He bled out from being disemboweled.”
I quirk a brow up in question. “You don’t say, Ron. What’s the time of death? I need a timeline.”
He flips through a few pages on his clipboard, the headlamp on his forehand shining a dancing light on his work, before turning to regard me and in turn blinding me. “My initial findings indicate between seven and nine this evening. Of course we’ll know more when I can thoroughly examine the body in the lab. I bagged a hair. It’s short and coarse — probably an animal but that’ll be determined for sure under the microscope.”