Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)

Basically the same time as Michael Sanders’s appearance. Coincidence? Probably not.

“Does Mary Elliot still work for Silhouettes?”

“She retired five years ago. She currently resides at the Greensborough Home for the Aged.”

If she was in a home, then the odds of her remembering anything of note were not good. Still, it was worth a chance. Sam grabbed her handbag and placed the photo of a young Rose Pierce inside. “Book me a car, Iz. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be with Mary Elliot.”

GABRIEL GLANCED AT THE CLOCK for the umpteenth time. He hated stakeout duty. Hated sitting alone in a car watching a dark apartment—especially when there was a murderer at large who could easily slip through their carefully laid net.

Jeanette Harris had been spirited away to safety. In her place was an SIU agent, a multi-shifter who’d assumed Jeanette’s form. The apartment itself was wired, and no one would get in or out without raising an alarm.

Yet he had a vague suspicion it wouldn’t be enough.

He scratched the back of his neck and looked around. A paperboy pedaled slowly down the street, flinging papers haphazardly at each house. Sometimes they landed near the front door, but more often than not, they la

nded deep in the bushes. The kid gave him a cheerful grin as he passed, and the next paper soared over the front fence and rattled against a window. The faint sound of curses could be heard. The kid chortled as he pedaled away.

Gabriel smiled and glanced back at the apartment building across the road. Nothing had moved. The black dog still sat guard near Jeanette’s front door, and the sparrow hawk was lost amongst the shadows within the branches of the gum tree. Two more SIU agents, in human guise, watched the back.

If the murderer was a cop, she’d know of the precautions taken both here and with the remaining adoptees. If she had any sense, she’d back away and bide her time.

But something told him that wouldn’t happen. The increasing urgency and violence in each successive murder pointed to a killer well aware that the SIU was closing in on her.

His wristcom beeped twice into the silence. He flicked the answer button. “Stern here.”

Stephan appeared onscreen. “Did you read the file from Sam?”

Gabriel pressed a button and saw the second call was from her. “It’s just arrived.”

“Apparently the only request for information on the adoptees, outside yours and hers, came from one Michael Sanders.”

Sanders. The State Police officer with the strange eyes. “Have you requested that he come in for an interview?”

“Yes, but he’s off duty and not home. I’ve got a team watching his apartment.”

“Good.” He glanced at the rearview mirror and frowned. The paperboy had disappeared. Odd, given that this was a cul-de-sac and the only way out of the street was the way he came in. “Call you back, Stephan. I’ve got to check something out.”

He hung up and climbed out of the car. For a moment, he stood still, listening to the sounds of the morning. The wind was chilly and thick with the scent of rain. The flow of traffic from the nearby Western Freeway was a steady hum, as were the usual morning noises as people woke and readied for work. The only thing missing was the trill of birds waking to greet the dawn.

Given the early hour, they shouldn’t be silent. And usually, the only reason they did fall quiet was that there was a predator near—or something that looked like a bird but wasn’t. Gabriel reached again for his wristcom. “Briggs, Edmonds, keep alert. Something’s happening.”

“Will do.”

He headed down the court. Two houses from the end, he found the kid’s bicycle, thrown under a large tree, with papers scattered everywhere.

The house, a two-story, slab-style building, showed no sign of life. The windows were dark, and he couldn’t hear any movement. Frown deepening, he walked down the driveway and around to the rear of the house. Again, nothing.

He scratched the back of his neck irritably and returned to the street. Jeanette Harris’s apartment block looked undisturbed and silent. He shifted shape and rose skyward.

To his hawk senses, the wind was a rich plethora of smells and sound. Toast burned two houses down, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee and the almost-too-powerful scent of rotten meat from the overflowing rubbish bins in the house just below. A mouse ducked for cover as he flew over some bushes, the creature’s shrill shriek music to his ears. Beyond that came the startled cry of a budgie from a nearby tree.

Budgies—wild budgies—didn’t actually live in suburbia. He circled toward it.

Blue feathers exploded from the tree as the budgie rose skyward, wings pumping frantically. He circled. If this budgie was the hybrid they were after—or even the missing Dr. Francis—then its sudden flight didn’t make sense. All it had to do was sit quietly in the tree and he probably wouldn’t even have seen it. His hawk sight was keen, but he wasn’t capable of seeing past the thick, dark canopy of the treetop.

He watched the budgie’s flight for several more seconds, then slowly winged after it. Every sense he had suggested this bird was a changer, and therefore more likely Dr. Francis rather than their hybrid—just as everything suggested this sudden retreat was a setup that smelled worse than Stephan’s gym shoes in summer.

Still, he had little option but to follow. He’d tried once before to catch a felon in his claws and had almost killed the man. Hawk claws were meant to rake and kill, not gently capture. Of course, killing might be considered justifiable in this case, but he wanted answers as well as her death. He needed to know why she was killing people like Miranda—people who had done nothing more than being born.