Moon Called (Mercy Thompson #1)(19)
Author: Patricia Briggs

I sighed and gave in. "All right. But be careful. If you’re going to be there, I have a parts order that should be in. Could you check it for me? I haven’t ordered from this place before, but my usual source was out."

" Ja wohl. Leave it to me."

The next call I made was to Stefan’s answering machine.

"Hey, Stefan," I told it. "This is Mercy. I’m headed to Montana today. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Probably late this week. I’ll give you a call." I hesitated, but there really wasn’t a good way to say the next part. "I had to haul a dead body in your van. It’s fine; Elizeveta Arkadyevna cleaned it. I’ll explain when I get back."

Mentioning Elizaveta reminded me of something else I needed to do. Adam’s house was on the end of the road, but it was clearly visible from the river. Someone would notice that the couch was sitting in the flowerbeds and call the police if the mess wasn’t cleaned up soon.

I had her number on my phone, though I’d never had occasion to use it before. I got her answering machine and left a message telling her there was a mess at Adam’s house, there had been a dead man on my porch, Jesse was missing, and I was taking Adam, who was wounded, somewhere he’d be safe. Then I closed the phone and put it away. I didn’t know what happened at Adam’s house, but that didn’t stop me from feeling guilty and responsible. If I hadn’t interfered last night when the two bullies came to find Mac, would everyone still be alive? If I’d sent Mac to Montana, to the Marrok, rather than letting Adam take him, what would that have changed?

Taking Mac to the Marrok had never even occurred to me. I hadn’t contacted Bran since he’d sent me away from the pack, and he’d returned the favor. I took a quick glance behind my seat at the blue tarp concealing Mac’s body. Well, I was bringing Mac to him now.

I found myself remembering the shy grin Mac had worn when I told him my name. I wiped my cheeks and fiercely blinked back further tears, but it was no use. I cried for him, for his parents and his brother who didn’t even know he was dead. Doubtless they were all sitting beside their phones, waiting for him to call again.

I was coming down the grade into Spokane before more pressing worries distracted me from grief and guilt: Adam began stirring. My fear that Adam would die was instantly overwhelmed by the worry that he’d heal too fast.

I still had well over two hundred miles to go, most of it two-lane mountain highway meandering through dozens of small towns at twenty-five miles an hour. The last sixty miles was on a road marked "other" on the state highway map-as opposed to highway or road. As I recalled, it was gravel most of the way. I figured it would take me at least four more hours.

Dominant wolves heal faster than the submissive wolves. By my rough estimate, it would be no more than two days before Adam was recovered enough to control his wolf-which would be capable of mayhem long before that. I needed Bran before Adam was mobile, and, if he was stirring already, I was going to be lucky if I made it.

When I hit Coeur d’Alene, where I’d have to leave the interstate for highway, I gassed up then drove to the first fast-food burger place I found and bought thirty cheeseburgers. The bemused teenager who started handing me bags through the service window peered curiously at me. I didn’t explain, and she couldn’t see my passengers because of the van’s curtains.

I parked in the restaurant’s parking lot, snatched a couple of the bags, stepped over Mac, and began stripping the buns off the meat. Adam was too weak to do more than growl at me and snatch the cheese-and-catsup-covered meat as fast as I could toss it to him. He ate almost twenty patties before he subsided into his previous comalike state.

The first few flakes of snow began falling on us as I took the highway north.

I drove into Troy, Montana, cursing the heavy wet snow that had distracted me so I missed my turnoff, which should have been several miles earlier. I topped off my gas tank, got directions, chained up, and headed back the way I’d come.

The snow was falling fast enough that the snow crews hadn’t been able to keep up with it. The tracks of the cars preceding me were rapidly filling.

The gas station clerk’s directions fresh in my mind, I slowed as I crossed back over the Yaak River. It was a baby river compared to the Kootenai, which I’d been driving next to for the past few hours.

I watched the side of the road carefully, and it was a good thing I did. The small green sign that marked the turnoff was half-covered in wet snow.

There was only one set of tracks up the road. They turned off at a narrow drive and, after that, I found my way up the road by driving where there were no trees. Happily, the trees were dense and marked the way pretty clearly.

The road twisted up and down the narrow river valley, and I was grateful for the four-wheel drive. Once, a couple of black-tailed deer darted in front of me. They gave me an irritated glance and trotted off.

It had been a long time since I’d been that way-I hadn’t even had my driver’s license then. The road was unfamiliar, and I began to worry I’d miss my turn. The road divided, one-half clearly marked, but the other half, the one I had to take, was barely wide enough for my van.

"Well," I told Adam, who was whining restlessly, "if we end up in Canada and you haven’t eaten me yet, I suppose we can turn around, come back, and try again."

I’d about decided I was going to have to do just that, when I topped a long grade and saw a hand-carved wooden sign. I stopped the van.

Aspen Creek, the sign read in graceful script, carved and painted white on a dark brown background, 23 miles. As I turned the van to follow the arrow, I wondered when Bran had decided to allow someone to post a sign. Maybe he’d gotten tired of having to send out guides-but he’d been adamant about keeping a low profile when I left.

I don’t know why I expected everything to be the same. After all, I’d changed a good deal in the years since I’d last been there. I should have expected that Aspen Creek would have changed, too. I didn’t have to like it.

The uninitiated would be forgiven for thinking there were only four buildings in Aspen Creek: the gas station/post office, the school, the church, and the motel. They wouldn’t see the homes tucked unobtrusively up the draws and under the trees. There were a couple of cars in front of the gas station, but otherwise the whole town looked deserted. I knew better. There were always people watching, but they wouldn’t bother me unless I did something unusual-like dragging a wounded werewolf out of my van.

I stopped in front of the motel office, just under the Aspen Creek Motel sign, which bore more than a passing resemblance to the sign I’d followed to town. The old motel was built the way the motor hotels had been in the middle of the last century-a long, narrow, and no-frills building designed so guests could park their vehicles in front of their rooms.