Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“Sheriff?” Sellers asked. “You there?”

“Yes. Sorry. Why would timber wolves increase the crow population?”

“No one knows for sure, but the two species have always worked in tandem. The crow leading the wolf to prey, and the wolf leaving carrion for his feathered friend to eat later—like payment, although we know they aren’t so advanced in their thought patterns.”

“Birdbrains.”

“Exactly. Wolves are quite a bit smarter, of course, but I don’t think they have sufficient brainpower to account for a system of checks and balances. Of course there are quite a few Native American folktales that ascribe humanlike behavior to the beasts and the birds. I’m sure there has to be one somewhere that explains why the crow and the wolf are friends, although I haven’t found it yet.”

The slowing pace of his voice revealed he planned on remedying that lack of knowledge ASAP.

Too bad I couldn’t ask him if werewolves followed the buddy system with crows, unless I wanted to be branded a nut job. Luckily, I did have a resident expert.

After thanking Sellers, I disconnected, considered calling Malachi Cartwright, and decided to walk over. That way I’d get to see Noah.

“I’m taking a stroll around town and then stopping at the Cartwrights’.”

Sharon Brendel, the dispatcher on duty, nodded.

“You can raise me on the radio or my cell if you need to.”

“How well do you know him?” Sharon asked dreamily.

Although she was probably only five years my junior, Sharon seemed very young to me. Probably because I’d never dreamed about anything the way Sharon did. Not my future, not boys, and certainly not men. I’d learned early and often that men were not very dream worthy.

“You mean Mal?” I asked.

“Mmmm.” The girl actually licked her lips.

I had to resist the urge to laugh in her face. Malachi was way too old for her—by about two hundred years. Not to mention he was totally, hopelessly, in love with his wife. From the moment Mal had seen Claire, and vice versa, there’d never been anyone else for either one of them.

A prickle of jealousy burned just below my breastbone. I was happy for Claire. She deserved some joy in her life, as did Malachi. But I’d never realized how lonely I was until Claire had come back and then gotten married. I wanted what she had so badly I ached with it.

Out on the street the sun shone with the wattage of a nuclear blast. I slid my sunglasses from the pocket of my uniform and onto my nose. No pain. God, that balm was good.

I hadn’t gone half a block when an ambulance wailed down Center Street, pausing at a small white house only a few paces ahead of me. The paramedics jumped out and ran inside. There was no way I could walk past and not stop to see what was wrong.

Marion Garsdale appeared to have fallen asleep on her couch. It wasn’t until I got closer that I saw she was dead. I should have figured it out from the sudden lack of hustle on the part of the paramedics.

“What happened?” I asked.

They glanced up—two young men who appeared just out of high school, although they had to have had some training for this job and could not therefore be “just” out.

“Sheriff.” The dark-haired one, who must be at least a quarter Cherokee, straightened.

He was someone’s kid; I just couldn’t recall whose. My dad had always known everyone’s name, their children’s names, and their children’s children’s names, as well as their dogs’.

“She was gone when we got here.”

He seemed a little nervous, as if afraid I’d blame him for something. But what?

I stared down at the face of Ms. Garsdale. Her eyes wide open, her mouth had frozen in an equally wide o of shock. I guess no one is really ready to go, despite any hopes to the contrary.

Ms. Garsdale had once taught English at the high school. Though she seemed like a caricature of an English teacher with her white hair, flowered print dress, and thick glasses on her thin nose, she had in fact been quite the hippie.

Her hair, when unbound, reached to her waist. The flower print dress had once been the height of fashion—a seventies maxi—and her glasses, while thick, were still the same granny frames that had once been popular in her days at Berkeley. I’d always liked her.