really wasn’t anywhere to hide. The helipad sat behind a metal rail, and the tall palm trees dotting the landscape didn’t provide much in the way of shelter.
“Wait,” she ordered, stopping the orderly in his tracks. “The man can barely walk. I was inside for under five minutes. He really can’t have gone far.”
“Is that him?” He pointed to the covered bus stop near the road.
A lone figure sat on the bench. A quick calculation revealed that maybe, just maybe, Jake Cassel could have made it to there.
“I think so,” she said, letting her excitement show in her voice. “He’s wearing the same color shirt. Come on, help me go get him.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” The orderly appeared apologetic. “I’m not allowed to leave the ER grounds.”
Of course he wasn’t. The way this day was going, she’d begun to wish she’d never set eyes on the beat-up human. “May I borrow the wheelchair?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Clearly wavering, he looked uncomfortable. “I’ll get in trouble if you steal it.”
“I won’t,” she assured him. “I just need to retrieve that patient.”
“I think you might be too late,” he said, pointing. “The bus is coming. Your guy might not be able to walk too well, but he apparently doesn’t want to go to the ER. I’m guessing he’s getting on the bus.”
Calculating, she knew even if she started running, she’d never make it in time. Instead, she watched as the bus pulled up and as Jake, doubled over in pain, managed to climb on board.
Cursing, she turned and sprinted back to her car instead. She knew the bus would continue down Avenue D to 22nd Street, where he’d have to get off and switch buses or ride back to the hospital. She planned to be there either way.
Because what he’d done didn’t make sense. Jake Cassel had been severely beaten. He needed X-rays and possibly stitches, definitely pain meds. He wouldn’t have fled unless he had something to hide.
And Maddie had never been able to resist uncovering the answer to a good puzzle. The trait was what made her such a doggedly good PI.
She managed to catch up to the bus after its first stop. She watched as the two elderly women who’d gotten off slowly crossed the street.
Next up would be the 9th Street stop. The bus slowed, but continued on. It made several more stops, but he didn’t disembark. Finally, at 22nd Street, it turned into the new downtown terminal. Her heart sank. If he got off in a crowd, she’d never be able to tell if he got on a different bus. She could only hope his slow and painful movements would help her locate him.
As she drove past the terminal entrance, her luck held. There. Jake. Arms still wrapped around what had to be an aching middle, he shuffled down the sidewalk as the bus rumbled off.
Where could he be headed? If he’d driven to Broken Chains and parked, his car was in the opposite direction. It would have been much easier to reach from the hospital. Perhaps he had friends in this area or, even better, lived nearby himself.
Instead of immediately confronting him, she decided to follow him and see where he went. She hoped his destination would give her some answers.
She got caught at a streetlight. While she waited, she kept her eyes on him, aware that at his pace he wouldn’t be able to get too far ahead of her. There were only two cars coming from the cross street. One continued past, but the second—an older model black Lincoln with dark, tinted windows—pulled up alongside him.
Jake lifted his hand in greeting and carefully got in.
The Lincoln took off, past City Hall, making a left on Avenue M. It disappeared in traffic before her light changed. Though she drove as fast as she could, by the time she got to heavily congested Seawall Boulevard, she had to concede that he’d lost her.
Worse, she realized she’d stood up Carmen. They’d agreed to meet at Broken Chains to discuss strategy for their next Shadow Agency case. Maybe she wasn’t too late. She swung the car around and headed toward Harborside Drive. Most likely, Carmen was still there.
* * *
Earlier that night, when he’d been in the alleyway by the door that wouldn’t open, Jake Cassel hadn’t seen the two large men until he turned and saw them right behind him. Since the alley was a dead end, they must have come through that door. He cursed silently, moving aside to get out of their way.
But instead of pushing past him, they stopped. Too late, he saw the anger in their faces. Hostility radiated from the jerky way they moved to their clenched fists.
“I mean no harm,” he began, about to offer them his wallet and his watch, whatever they wanted. But when one of them punched him, followed by the other, raining down blows so swiftly he barely saw them move, he realized this was not a mugging. No, this was a beating, and he’d be damn lucky to survive.
Though he could hold his own in a fair fight, not only was this two against one, but they were built like linebackers. So he curled himself into a defensive ball and tried not to make a sound, hoping eventually they’d leave him for dead and he wouldn’t be.
The next thing he knew, the redheaded woman was tripping over him. She let out a little scream as she fell, the sound letting him know he’d somehow survived. He must have lost consciousness, because the last thing he remembered before that was the two men whaling on him. They’d even gotten in a couple of kicks, catching him right in the ribs.
He wasn’t sure he could breathe, never mind stand, but somehow, he managed to push himself to his feet. This woman had been here before. He’d watched the alley for weeks, and she’d visited at least twice. Maybe three times. Since he could only watch the entrance to the alley, he assumed she’d gotten the door to open for her. Because she’d gone into the alley and hadn’t come out for hours.
He’d observed all kinds of people heading into that dead-end alley. From suit-wearing business types, to hipsters, to the grunge-slash-metal crowd. They never came out immediately. Whatever they were doing in there, behind that mysterious door, had to be interesting.
The wondering consumed him. Every single journalistic instinct he possessed kicked into overdrive. Whatever went on behind that door had to be a story. A big story. Not just mildly interesting.
Because one night when he’d been staked out watching the alley, he’d seen a man emerge, unsteady on his feet, clearly inebriated. The guy had walked to where the alley met the street, looked left and right and, right there on Jake’s cell phone video, began to shimmer. His form had wavered, too, changing from human to something definitely wolf-like, before going back to human once more. Then, the man shook his head, adjusted his clothing and walked away.
Not believing his own eyes, Jake had watched the video several times. He’d uploaded it to the cloud, knowing he couldn’t take a chance of losing it, though he kept the copy on his phone.
This, if he could prove it, would be the story of the century. Because based on what he’d witnessed, he just might be able to prove to the world that werewolves truly existed.
If he could manage to live through this investigation, that is.
A groan slipped from his lips as he attempted to take a step after standing. She came to him then, using her slender shoulder to brace him, uncaring of the fact that his blood would stain her pretty dress. As she helped him move toward the street, she muttered under her breath.
“Did you just say ‘Damn humans’?” he asked, careful to hide his excitement.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice cross. “If I can get you to the sidewalk, we can call for an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” he insisted.
“We need to get you to the hospital. How else do you propose we do so?”
“My car is parked over