Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

The same fucking campus where Walter Thackery taught until five years ago, when his wife was turned into a Halfie and he began his long trek toward crazy.

“Are you shitting me?” I said.

Baylor scrutinized the map. “The university?”

“He’s hiding them in plain sight. He probably assumed we’d never think him dumb enough to go back to his old stomping grounds.”

“He was obviously right,” Reilly said.

“So the other Lupa are living somewhere on or around the campus?” Baylor asked.

“That’s certainly one interpretation.”

“How else would you interpret it?”

“He could want you on that side of town when he does something elsewhere.”

“No.” I shook my head, positive this wasn’t just some long con on Thackery’s part. “These sightings took place over the last two years, long before everything started coming undone. He’s damned smart, but even he couldn’t have thought two years ahead.”

“You think the wolves are there,” Baylor said.

“I think they live somewhere in the direct vicinity of the university, yes. Doesn’t mean that’s where Thackery is, though.”

“Because that would be too easy,” Paul deadpanned.

The waitress returned and plopped down three plates of pancakes, each topped with a mound of melting butter and whipped cream on the side. I stared at mine, debating the intelligence of testing a bite or two. Baylor reached for one of the syrup pitchers and poured blue goo all over his.

“They look like kids, not old enough for college so they can’t be living in the dorms.” I punctuated the thought by ripping a piece of butter-free pancake off the mound. “What else is close by?”

Paul took the map and squinted at the streets of Uptown. “Couple of condominiums, a neighborhood of historic homes, and two apartment complexes are all within a few blocks.”

“Apartments and condos offer less security, more visibility. The historic neighborhood is a good place to start. Trees, backyards, things like that.” I popped the piece of fried batter into my mouth. It was moderately sweet, done as well as a pancake could be, and went down easily. Not bad.

“I thought you might say that.” Reilly tapped the pages remaining in the manila folder. “I did some digging on your behalf. Two of the homes are registered landmarks, one is a highly regarded bed and breakfast, and eighteen of them haven’t changed family hands in decades. Twelve are possibilities.”

I grabbed the pages and shuffled through the lists of addresses. Some had photos, printed in black and white, and all had been on the market in the last six years. “I don’t suppose we could be lucky enough that Thackery took out a mortgage in his own name.”

“Unfortunately not. No leases, either.”

“This is a good head start, though. Thank you.”

Reilly smiled over the rim of his coffee mug. “You’re welcome, Ms. Stone.”

10:15 A.M.

Twelve houses didn’t seem like a lot to investigate at first. After twenty minutes sitting in the van listening to Autumn and Sandburg pretending to be a lost couple looking for grandma’s house, I was ready to climb out of my skin. Even Baylor, normally the picture of burly calm, seemed agitated by the slow going and lack of results.

We’d picked up Sandburg, Autumn, and Carly after they followed the Lupa scent trail from the vacant lot to eight blocks away where it ended in a public parking lot with no video surveillance. A dead end, and Phin still hadn’t seen movement on the construction site. So we had Autumn and Sandburg and their heightened senses of smell walking around the historic residential district of Uptown, which they both declared carried the faint odors of Lupa and money.

The money I could agree with. The stained glass windows in some of those homes probably cost more than I’d have made in six months with the Triads (which wasn’t a lot to begin with, but still …).

“House number seven,” Autumn said, obviously bored even over the earbud she wore. “You do the talking this time.”

Sandburg muttered something unintelligible. The van was parked a block away under a majestic old oak tree, idling quietly while they did their thing. Our next stop was several blocks farther, if this house didn’t turn up anything useful. We had about forty-five minutes until I had to leave to meet the gremlin across town.

I shifted in the hard bucket seat. Two squirrels darted into the street, ran in circles, and then dashed up a nearby tree.

A doorbell gonged faintly. Hinges squealed.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you this early,” Sandburg said, affecting a perfect (and hilarious) southern accent. “Um, my girlfriend and I were looking for 756 Cherryvale Lane. An old roommate of mine is getting married, but I don’t think you’re him.”

“Oh, no, dear,” replied someone who could only be an elderly woman. “This is 756 Cherryvale Court. I don’t know where Cherryvale Lane is.”

“Well, drat.”

“Should have known, honey,” Autumn piped in, playing along with the accent. “You told me Walter had a bunch of younger brothers, and my goodness, your house is beautiful. I can’t imagine a bunch of teenage boys tearing around in there.”

“No, no, we haven’t had boys in this house for many years,” the old lady said. “Our grandchildren live with their parents in Europe. We don’t get to see them but once every few years.”

Autumn cooed sympathy. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes, but my James and I get along just fine. We have some neighborhood boys who tend the yard and fix what needs fixing.”

I sat up a little straighter, my full attention on the cell phone spilling out the conversation. Even Paul and Carly shifted forward between the seats.

“That’s wonderful,” Autumn said. “It’s so nice when children help out their neighbors.”

“Oh, no, deary, they are young men, the lot of them. Should be in high school, but one told me they’re taught at home. Good boys, very polite.”

“It’s good they live close by.”

“Yes, somewhere close. I never did get their street, but one of them always seems to know when we need help. Good boys, especially that Danny. He’s the oldest of the bunch.”

Danny. I thought of Wolf Boy, the one who’d been working so closely with Thackery last month. The one I’d killed at Boot Camp. Logic suggested he was the oldest, to have been Thackery’s right hand.

“Well, thank you so much for your time, ma’am,” Sandburg said. “We’re sorry to have bothered you so early.”

“Posh, I was awake. Can’t sleep past the sun at my age. You two kids be safe, you hear? Some strange things happening in this city lately.”

I snickered.

“Take care,” Autumn said.

The door creaked shut. Several long moments passed, punctuated by the faint sounds of breathing.

“Well, that was actually useful,” Sandburg said. “Teenage boys who are all homeschooled, and live close by.”

“Thanks for the recap,” Baylor said. “What about scent?”

“Nothing fresh that we can follow. And ‘nearby’ could be this street or several streets in any direction.”

“There was no way to acquire further information without arousing her suspicion, I think,” Autumn said. “More direct questions would have seemed strange.”

“No, you did good,” Baylor replied.

“That’s sweet, boss.”

He rolled his eyes. “Keep going with the list while I text an update to Astrid. Maybe change the story this time—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re looking for a neighbor who a friend said does good yard work, I got it.”

I liked Autumn. She thought fast and improvised well.