Either way, Landon had asked Tate to come up here and see what was going on. Even though they were already familiar with the place, Landon couldn’t send Trevor and Alina for obvious reasons. For one thing, they were still in London. For another, if either Ashley or Mahsood were involved in this, they’d recognize Trevor and immediately bolt. Landon wanted Ashley and Mahsood in custody, not on the run again.
Besides, Landon didn’t want Brannon and Hamilton knowing what they were up to. That meant sending someone who wasn’t currently on their radar. Since Tate didn’t have a teammate, he was perfect for the job. As far as Brannon and Hamilton knew, Tate had decided to take a little time off while the organization tried to find him a partner.
Tate opened the door and walked in, expecting to find the sheriff waiting for him. Instead, he was met by a tall, skinny man in a dark-gray suit who had to be the funeral home director. Either that or the Crypt Keeper. No joke. With the lank, thinning hair, lifeless eyes, and sallow complexion, the guy could easily be mistaken for the lead character in Tales from the Crypt. Tate had seen enough episodes on Netflix to know.
Tate pulled his badge from his pocket and flashed it at the man. “Tate Evers, Homeland Security.”
“We’ve been expecting you.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Silas Arnold, director of this facility.”
Tate wasn’t sure if it was the man’s choice of words or his flat, emotionless baritone that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Damn, this guy took creepy to a whole new level. As Tate shook Arnold’s hand, he had to resist checking for a pulse just to make sure the man was among the living.
“I’m supposed to meet the sheriff here and see the victim’s body?” he prompted when the man continued to gaze at him in a way that suggested he wasn’t used to dealing with people in the vertical position.
Arnold nodded stiffly. “Follow me.”
Turning, he led the way down a long, dark hallway. A little voice in the back of Tate’s head shouted that he shouldn’t follow Arnold. This was exactly how your average B-grade horror flick started. But he ignored his inner movie fan and started after the man.
At the end of the hallway, Arnold turned into a room on the right. Tate squinted as the bright fluorescent lights assaulted him, and it took a second for his eyes to adjust. The space looked a lot like something you’d find in a morgue, right down to the two porcelain pedestal tables in the center of the room. Counters lined two walls with cabinets above and below. A big sink took up a good portion of a third wall.
Tate ignored the decor and focused on the two police officers standing near one of the tables. It wasn’t until they turned his way that Tate got a glimpse of the body laid out there. A sheet covered the man from the waist down, but one look at the slashes crisscrossing his torso told Tate this was the victim.
The older of the two men stepped forward and held out his hand. Judging by all the brass on his collar and the number of service stripes on the arm of his long-sleeve khaki uniform shirt, he had to be the sheriff. “Agent Evers, I take it?”
Tate nodded. Like Arnold, the sheriff had a thick Maine accent. “Sheriff Bowers, sorry for making you wait. It took me a bit longer to get here from the airport than I thought it would. I appreciate you arranging for me to see the body tonight.”
The sheriff nodded before gesturing at the officer with him. “This is Deputy Chase York. He was the responding officer who discovered the body.”
York was about Tate’s height with green eyes and short blond hair. Tate couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the deputy screamed former military.
“Thanks for coming, Deputy York,” Tate said, shaking his hand. “I read your initial report on the flight, but I wouldn’t mind hearing your account firsthand.”
Tate didn’t necessarily need to hear the deputy’s thoughts, since York probably couldn’t tell him anything that hadn’t been put in the written report, but he’d always found it was a good idea to treat the locals with as much respect and deference as possible. It went a long way to smoothing over ruffled feathers.
“I don’t mind you talking to my deputy.” Bowers regarded him thoughtfully. “But I’d appreciate a little clarification on exactly how this case involves Homeland. Things so slow in DC that your bosses have you out investigating animal attacks now?”
Tate knew this question would be coming, so he’d prepared an answer before he got here. Well, kind of. “So, you’ve confirmed it was an animal attack?”
The sheriff motioned at the dead man on the table. “I think that’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Tate didn’t reply, instead moving closer to the table to examine the corpse. He ignored the big Y-shaped incision left behind by the coroner’s autopsy, focusing instead on the scratch marks. No way was this a normal animal attack. The guy had definitely been clawed to shreds by something, but if you knew what to look for—and Tate did—it was clear he hadn’t been savaged by a wild animal. There were a few swipes thrown in here and there to make it look good, but there wasn’t a single bite wound. Moreover, the claw marks were almost surgical in nature. Clean, precise, and controlled, the killer had sliced deep into nonvital areas that would produce the most amount of pain with the least amount of life-threatening damage.
Tate had seen these kinds of wounds before. One of the primary jobs he and his former team had done for the DCO was tracking down shifters who’d gone rogue and
