"We could not know if he had read them! We could not know what he knew. And he was Foster Marlin's friend. Perhaps the man's only friend. And he knew of the book. He confessed as much before we killed him."
"And what have you accomplished?" the Alpha asked him. "Two men killed and left where they could be found. The postman's murder was in the newspapers, Desmond. I've had phone calls from Hartford, Boston, and New York. You have compromised us, and we are no closer to discovering who now holds the book.
Until it is safely back in my hands, the secrecy, and thus the safety of the pack of our sanctuary, is in jeopardy. Now that you have set us upon this path, we may have to kill again before it is through. We may once again be forced to abandon this place, our pack's original home upon this continent. The sanctuary we provide to others. And you are to blame."
There was a weight to his words that was unmistakable. Worse, though, was the low growl that began to emit from his throat when the last of his words had been drowned in the rain, stolen by the wind.
Desmond's eyes were wide. "No."
"You have shamed me. You have endangered the Pack," the Alpha declared. The single word that followed, a low and guttural sound, was spoken in a language more ancient than humanity.
Desmond tried to flee, his cowardice another example of his shameful behavior. He did not get far before the others dragged him down and tore him apart.
Unnerved by what lay hidden in the chest in the back of his Jeep, Jack never drove more than five miles per hour above the speed limit on the trip to Buckton.
Though normally the drive would not have taken more than four hours at the outside, the heavy rain that had enveloped all of northern New England slowed them down even more.
All along the way, as they went north on Route 93 into New Hampshire and then continued northwest on Route 89 right up into the mountainous heart of Vermont, Jack did his best to keep Molly's mind off their destination. Though there was no way she would have let him go up to Buckton without her, that did not mean Molly was not nervous. Quite the contrary. It was clear in the way they both talked around the subject of Prowlers that neither of them was free of anxiety, even fear, as the site of the murder of Phil Garraty drew ever closer.
Molly also seemed reluctant to talk about her mother, and the conversation she had had with the woman right before they left Boston. Not that Jack minded, however. He preferred not to speak about Molly's mother at all. The woman's behavior toward her daughter, and the way she seemed to have flushed her own life down the toilet, were inexcusable. And yet, for all the pain her mother caused her, if anyone else spoke against her, Molly was just as likely to defend her as she was to join in. That was something Jack had learned the hard way.
So they talked about the few friends Molly still kept in touch with from high school, and who was going to what college, and what Yale might be like for her in the fall. Jack was surprised at the reticence in her voice, as though Yale were yet another subject she would rather not discuss. They did talk about it, though, and he found himself, despite the errand they were currently occupied with, hoping that the six weeks left of summer would crawl by.
When fall came, and Molly left for college, nothing would be the same for him. It was unsettling how vital a part of his life she had become. Whatever mystery or trouble they were traveling into now, there was a thrill for him in just being with Molly. Though their conversation dissipated to almost nothing by the time they were halfway across New Hampshire, and though the rain continued to darken the sky ominously, he knew that there was something about this trip that was precious and newly formed, and might never come again.
As they passed through White River Junction, just over the border in Vermont, Jack glanced over to see that Molly had fallen asleep, her leggy form curled up tight where she leaned against the door. His eyes ticked toward the passenger side door, and he was reassured when he saw that it was locked. It wouldn't do to have her tumbling out onto the highway.
He smiled to himself and punched the buttons on the radio until he found a soft rock station, something soothing. With the forbidding nature of their destination and the contact she had had earlier with her mother, Molly's dreams were likely to be of dark and perilous things. Jack hoped the music would soothe her.
Keep the predators of the mind at bay.
The bruise-dark sky made the long July afternoon seem more like one in midwinter. Even though it was only beginning to edge toward dinner time, it was as though night had come already. Traffic had thinned as they continued northwest, until there were only a handful of cars on his side of the road. The rain began to let up when they were twenty miles or so from the tiny dot on the map where Buckton was supposed to be.
That was when Jack saw the first ghost.
He frowned and narrowed his gaze at the figure standing alone on the side of the highway. A man, he thought. Hands up, he waved his arms at Jack, who began to slow the Jeep. Someone in trouble. Scenarios flashed through his head of accidents and cars off the road in the storm. A Volvo station wagon behind him honked loudly and sped past in the next lane.
Jack squinted as he peered through the rain-spattered windshield, the wipers squeaking back and forth as they dragged across the
