He pulled a brown leather wallet from the strays back pocket and thumbed through the contents: two credit cards, a few folded receipts, a single wrinkled twenty, and at least two dozen crisp new one-dollar bills. Marc slid a drivers license from its plastic cover and passed it up to me without even glancing at it.
I looked at the photo, and immediately wished I hadnt. Until I saw his face, Bradley Moore had just been a body, a nameless corpse to be disposed of quickly, so I could get on with my night.
But now that Id seen his license, I knew that Moore lived in Cleveland, Mississippi, and was licensed to drive a motorcycle. Hed just celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday, was six foot two and a half, and weighed two hundred and twelve pounds. And he had the most beautiful, hypnotic bluish-gray eyes Id ever seen.
Do you smell that? Marc asked.
Smell what? I slipped the license into my front pocket and knelt beside him, eager to forget Mr. Moores haunting eyes.
The killer, I assume. I smell another cat on him. On his clothes, and here, on his neck. He bent to sniff where hed indicated, and my stomach churned. I understood his sympathy for the unknown stray; I really did. And after seeing Moores face, I couldnt help but share it. But three months earlier, Id had to rip out a tomcats throat in order to free myself and Abby, my kidnapped cousin. And impractical as it might sound, considering my line of work, Id had no plans to ever again share such intimate contact with a corpse.
I could handle wrapping the cadaver in plastic and dumping it in a hole in the ground, though that might have been easier if Id never learned the victims name. But sniffing a corpses neck went way past my definition of decorous behavior. It was macabre, and disturbing.
I can smell it from here, I said. Marc hadnt asked me to come closer, but I wasnt taking any chances.
Does it smell like a stray to you?
I inhaled deeply, mentally sorting through the smells I already knew. The strongest was Marc. Musky and masculine, his scent was as familiar as my own. It was also blended with mine, the result of every kiss and embrace wed shared since my last shower. Which wed also shared, come to think of it.
Next, I filtered out the scents from the field around us, so pervasive I barely noticed them without conscious effort. I identified trees, grass, dirt, fresh dew, and several small rodents, mostly rabbits and mice.
On the body itself were several more scents, including Mr. Moores cologne, the oppressive stench of cigarette smoke, and a strong, minty breath spray. What was left after Id sorted out all of those smells was the one Marc meant. It came from the stray, but was not his personal scent. It was something else. Something definitely feline, and rich, and pungent. Almost spicy
Shock jolted up my spine, cold and numbing. Terror ripped through my chest. For one long moment, my heart refused to beat, and I could do nothing but stare at the corpse. I knew that scent. One aspect of it, anyway.
Well? Marc asked, staring at me as I stared at the body, my eyes narrowed in concentration.
Foreign cat. I stood and stumbled back a step, too horrified to form a complete sentence.
What? Marc glanced up at me sharply, then back down at Moore. No. It cant be. Luiz is long gone. We would have heard about him by now if he were still around.
Luiz was one of a pair of jungle strays whod invaded our territory three months earlier, kidnapping and raping at will. Id fought him once, and won, but he got away and we hadnt heard from him since, a fact that scared me more than I was willing to admit out loud. And fucking pissed me off.
Its not Luiz. I was certain of that much. The scent was very faintmeaning the murderer had only briefly touched the victimbut I knew two things without a doubt. The scent was not from a native cat, and it did not belong to Luiz.
Theres barely a trace of a scent. Marc shook his head slowly, but his stare never left Moores neck. I dont see how you can tell a damn thing about it.
I can tell. Id only met Luiz once, but that was plenty. If I lived to be two hundred, Id still remember his scent on my deathbed. It was permanently imprinted on my brain, alongside such innocent memories as the taste of my first kissMarcand the flavor of my first snow coneblue raspberry.
Fine. Marc nodded, glancing up at me. It isnt Luiz. But is it a stray?
Against my better judgmentand in spite of an irrational urge to run, or at least find a weaponI knelt for a stronger whiff of the scent. It didnt help. I dont think so. Theres somethingweird about the smell. Its a foreign scent, but its alsomore. If that makes any sense.
It doesnt, Marc said as I stood and backed away from Moores corpse. But youre right. He still knelt by the body, looking at it rather than at me as a light breeze ruffled tall blades of grass against his jeans. Theres an element to it that I cant quite place. He leaned back on his heels, frowning in frustration. Whats his name?
Bradley Moore. I slipped my hand into my pocket, feeling the slick surface of the plastic card, now warm from my own body heat. Hes from Mississippi.
Marc nodded, as if hed already known that last part. It wouldnt be too hard to guess. Mississippi was the nearest free territory, unclaimed by any Pride. And because it had the mildest climate of any of the free territories, it was home to the largest concentration of strays in the country, mingling with the human population like the proverbial wolves in sheeps clothing.
We were less than forty miles from the Mississippi border, where interstate travelers were welcomed across the state line by a seedy-looking strip club, at which Moore had no doubt planned to spend the bundle of ones in his wallet. At least that much of his plan for the evening was clear. Unfortunately, a stack of one-dollar bills did nothing to answer the other questions pinging around my brain like the little silver balls in a pinball machine.
Well, lets get going. Marc stood and brushed his palms against his legs, as if he could wipe the feel of dead flesh from his hands like road dust. I knew exactly how he felt. Its a shame the son of a bitch didnt have the courtesy to give him a decent burial, he said. We do that much even for trespassers, and this asshole couldnt be bothered to bury a friend.
I blinked at Marcs tone, so low and gravelly. And angry. Then his meaning sank in. You think Moore knew whoever killed him?
How else could the killer have gotten so close to him?
I thought about that for a moment, still rubbing the license in my pocket as I stared at the ground near poor Mr. Moores head. No defensive wounds, I said finally. I took another deep breath, again searching with my sensitive nose for any sign of blood. I still found none. No blood beneath his nails or in his mouth. He didnt fight back. Marc was right. Theyd probably known each other. But how was that even possible? How could an American stray have become friends with a foreign cat who had no business in the United States, much less in the southcentral territory? And what were they both doing on our land?
Marc nodded again, interrupting my silent confusion. A hint of a smile showed me he was pleased that I understood what he was getting at.
I wasnt pleased. I didnt want to understand death and murderers. Unfortunately, what I wanted mattered no more then than it ever had. Alphas arent big fans of free will. In fact, our social and political structure is more of a monarchical system, in which the monarch is invariably the strongest male in the territory. Power passes not to one of the Alphas several sons, but to the tomcat who marries his only daughter. This son-in-law and future Alpha must be strong enough to lead, protect, and ultimately control the entire Pride, or the entire system falls apart. And the systemalong with the continuation of the species itselfmust be protected at all costs.
My father was a bit of a rebel among the other Territorial Council members, Alphas of each of the nine other territories. Rather than passing the south-central Pride on to my future husbandMarc, if my parents have any say in the matterhe wanted to hand the reins over to me. That very concept was sending shock waves of anger and impropriety throughout certain elements of the Council. If my fathers scandalous scheme ever came to fruition, I would someday have an opportunity to change the system from the inside.
It was the inside part that bothered me.
A chill went through me at the very thought of ever being in my fathers position, and Marc mistook my shiver for one of sympathy for the dead stray.
He probably never saw it coming. Marc shook his head in disgust. The bastard just reached over and snapped his neck from behind.
My phone rang into the silence following his words, rescuing me from the fact that I had no idea what to say next. I fumbled in my right front pocket, digging for the phone. Squinting at the tiny display screen, I was relieved to recognize the number for my fathers private line. Its my dad.
Marc nodded and bent to pick up the roll of black plastic in the grass at his feet.
I pressed the yes button as he spread the plastic out on the ground beside Moores body. You rang? I said into the phone, turning away from Marc as he prepared to flip the corpse over.
Did you find it? my father asked.
Yeah. I grimaced at the heavy thunk and the crinkling of thick plastic at my back. I think we need to look into this one. Marc went silent behind me, and I knew hed frozen in surprise. He would never have voiced such a request.
Faythe A chair creaked in the background as my father leaned back. You know we dont have the resources to investigate every stray who dies in a brawl. Wed just be chasing our own tails. Bury him and come on home.
I exhaled slowly, wondering whether I was trying to satisfy Marc or set my own mind at ease. Its a little more complicated than that.
How so?
Theres a scent on the body. Its very faint, and its only on his neck, so were ninety-nine percent sure its the killer. I hesitated when the next words seemed to catch in my throat, threatening to choke me. Then, finally, I spat them out, grimacing at the bitter taste. Its a foreign cat.
A sharp, near-silent inhalation was my fathers only reaction. He was as worried and pissed off as I was at the news of an outsider in our territory. Thank goodness.
Are you sure? he asked, his voice frightfully calm as Marc went still again behind me.
Completely.
Silence stretched out over the line, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Id come to recognize that particular pause over the past three months; everyone close to me lapsed into it often enough. He was thinking about Miguel, debating whether or not to ask me if I was okay. Like the rest of my family, my father was afraid of upsetting me with reminders of the bastard whod kidnapped, caged, and beat the living shit out of me. Apparently he thought I was sturdy enough to chase down intruders and bury dead bodies, but too delicate to withstand the assault of my own memory. Go figure.
What my father didnt realize, what none of them seemed to realize, was that just reporting for work every morning reminded me of Miguel, the jungle stray whose disregard for personal liberty and a womans right to say no had changed my life forever. Id agreed to work for my father in exchange for the opportunity to go after Miguel. To take my pound of flesh from the sadistic bastard whod murdered one of my childhood friends and raped my teenage cousin. And whod tried to sell all three of us as personal property to a jungle Alpha somewhere in Brazil.
Though no one seemed willing to believe it, thinking about Miguel didnt so much upset me as inspire me. It reminded me of my new purpose, of why I was willing to forgo a weekend with my boyfriend to kick the shit out of one stray and bury another. And every now and then I really needed that reminder, so I wished my father would quit stalling and just spit it out. And finally he did.
Miguels dead, Faythe. Hes not coming back.
Damn right. But I shivered in spite of the balmy breeze. Marc laid a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder, clearly having heard both sides of the conversation.
Are you okay? My fathers voice was hollow-sounding, the way it got when he cradled his head in one hand, in spite of the telephone.
In the distance, a whip-poor-will sang, unconcerned by our presence. Yeah. Im fine. And if Im not now, I will be soon. Really, I added, before he had a chance to ask if I was sure. Lets just get this over with.
Good. Over the line, he cleared his throat and tapped a pen against his desk blotter, and I couldnt stop a smile. My father was gone; the Alpha had arrived. Okay, so youre pretty sure the killer is foreign. Is it a jungle cat?
I inhaled again, but was rewarded only with frustration. I dont know. Its too faint to tell for sure, but thats a definite possibility. And theres something weird about the scent. Its definitely foreign, but its alsomore. If that makes any sense.
Not much sense, Im afraid, he said. Would you recognize it if you smelled it again?
Absolutely. I nodded, though he couldnt see me.
Me, too. Marc bent to pick up a shovel mostly hidden by tall grass. I didnt bother passing his answer along; my father could hear him just fine.
Good. Thats a start.
Any word yet on who called it in? I asked, shuffling my feet in the long grass.
Were still working on it, without much luck. Metal springs squealed and I pictured my father leaning forward again in his desk chair. The only thing we know for sure is that the caller was male.
That was pretty much a given. Female catstabbieswere few and far between, and we were never unattended for long enough to stumble across a dead body in an empty field.
And that he isnt one of ours, my father continued. He sounded young, but that isnt specific enough to be of any help. Owens compiling a list of strays living closest to the Arkansas border.
Did Bradley Moore come up on your list? I asked, glancing over my shoulder to see Marc sliding a pair of scissors through the plastic, on which Moore now lay faceup.
Just a minute Papers shuffled and my father cleared his throat as my gaze slid back toward the trees. Yes. Bradley Moore. You have reason to suspect him?
Nope. From behind me came a dull ripping sound as Marc tore strips from a thick roll of duct tape. I have a reason to cross him off your list. Hes dead.