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"Not that I knew."
And he would have known. Clay's area of expertise wasn't exactly a popular conversation topic among werewolves. Before I'd come along, he'd had two choices if he wanted to talk about it--Jeremy, who'd struggle to feign interest, or Nick, who wouldn't even try. If Dennis had been even mildly intrigued, Clay would have pounced like a starving wolf spotting a lame doe.
I peeked out the door, making sure the coast was clear, then bent and sniffed the carpet. In a public place, this is definitely not pleasant, but I've done it often enough that I can mentally filter out the less savory smells and zoom in on what I'm searching for.
"No sign of the other mutts' trails," I said. "If Dennis ducked into the museum to hide from them, that would be incredibly coincidental, although I suppose he could have been following the same logic as Reese, thinking it's the last place a werewolf would follow. We're the exceptions. Well, if you don't count Karl, but his interest in artifacts is hardly academic."
Clay grumbled under his breath as he continued untangling Dennis's trail. Clay had a lot of problems with Karl Marsten joining the Pack, but when asked to add anything to the list of concerns, he'd said only "No more stealing from museums."
When Karl heard that, he'd been a bit taken aback, this probably being the last issue he'd expect Clay to raise, far behind the fact that Karl had once helped kidnap him. But Clay's priorities were never the expected ones. He didn't give a shit about the kidnapping--that was business. But stealing artifacts? That pissed him off. They'd eventually negotiated a compromise. Karl could still steal from museums, but only jewels and only the sort shown off as historical bling with no archaeological significance.
"Can you tell what Dennis was looking at in here?" I asked.
"Everything, it seems. His trail goes all through the room, several times. His scent's especially heavy right here, though."
I looked at the collection of drawings and newspaper accounts. "Wendigo psychosis? You did a paper on that a couple of years ago, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe Jeremy mentioned it, then Dennis was visiting the museum, noticed this and slowed down for a look."
The Wendigo is one of the more popular and better known bits of Native North American folklore. During a particularly tough winter, it's believed that evil spirits possess people, transforming them into beasts craving human flesh. That sounds a lot like man-eating werewolves, which explains Clay's interest. It also, however, sounds like an explanation for cannibalism--during a very long and hard winter, the need to survive
overcomes cultural taboos. Just ask the Donner Party.
That's why Wendigo psychosis interests Clay even more. It's a mental condition that apparently causes people to crave human flesh although other food sources are available. Again, the parallels with werewolves are obvious. The question is whether sufferers of Wendigo psychosis are werewolves, humans with an unrelated condition or humans with a weak strain of werewolf blood.
"I'll ask Jeremy if he mentioned my article," Clay said. "If not, remember we've got three half-eaten human bodies in the woods. Dennis had to know about them and figured he and Joey were the only werewolves around. They sure as hell didn't do it."
"So he could have been looking for another explanation. Either way, Dennis was here at least a week ago, meaning his visit doesn't seem directly connected to those mutts."
Clay nodded.
"They may have had nothing to do with his disappearance."
Another nod.
"Or if they did, his disappearance probably means they pulled the same terror tactics they used on Reese. Dennis and Joey don't strike me as the type who'd stick around to defend their territory."
"They're not," Clay said as he waved for us to head out. "But they should have notified Jeremy. Sure, they're not Pack, so technically they can't hold territory. We'd still have helped, though."
"But would they have called? Or would they slip off to avoid any kind of confrontation?"
"Dennis would leave. He's..." He trailed off, and I knew he was trying to think of a milder word than coward. "Still, whether he likes confrontations or not, this was his home."
"Maybe he didn't run. Maybe he's snowed in at his cabin, like the landlord said."
As we stepped outside, I checked my cell phone for messages.
"He's not calling back," Clay said.
I'd begun to suspect the same thing. The young landlord had seemed helpful--refreshingly so when I was more accustomed to dealing with people like Mallory Hirsch. But, like Reese, I couldn't help questioning the kindness of strangers. Maybe in his own way, Charles was blocking us as much as Hirsch, promising us an address to get us out of his face.
We turned the corner and picked our way past museum expansion construction.
"We should try to find Joey," I said. "It won't be that hard if he's using his real name."
"First, we need to check into the hotel and rest."
