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Clay told him what Dan Podrova said.
"Well, that mutt's a liar," Joey said. "Big shock there. That's another problem with torturing someone--eventually they hit the point where they'll say anything to make you stop. No, I don't have a deal with a pack of thugs and I didn't send them to your hotel room. Now take your wife, Clay, and go home."
"We'll leave as soon as I'm done talking to you."
"I mean, go home. Back to Stonehaven. There's nothing here you need to concern yourself with. Take your pretty wife, go back to your Alpha dad and your kids, whom I'm sure are just damned adorable. That's your life. This is mine. Now leave me alone."
WE LEFT HIM alone. For now. But we knew he was lying. Was he colluding with a gang of gun-runners, hoping to make us leave before we poked our nose in too deep? Clay didn't think so, but he had to consider the possibility, and we had to keep doing what Joey didn't seem to want us to do--digging for the truth.
FASCINATION
LYNN NYGARD LIVED in a neighborhood in west Anchorage, one with winding lanes and thick trees, sparsely dotted with eclectic homes that ranged from cottages to sprawling McMansions. Hers was one of the smallest ho
mes--a tiny A-frame chalet. I'd called her again after we'd confronted Joey, and she'd said to come right over. Clay drove me, but stayed in the truck.
I must admit that when someone said "paranormal enthusiast," I pictured a tiny, dimly lit apartment, smelling of canned stew, the walls covered in yellowed newspaper articles. It could be a stereotype. Or it could just be that I've met too many who conform to it.
The neighborhood and the house were not what I expected. Neither was Lynn Nygard. She looked like a school teacher--small and slender with sleek white hair. She ushered me in as she tried to wrap up a phone conversation, mouthing an apology to me and rolling her eyes.
"I haven't forgotten. I'm getting old, not senile. Now I have a guest..." A pause. "Yes, dear, I'll make all the arrangements." She waved me into the living room. "But right now..."
The person on the other end kept talking. A male voice. Judging by her tone, I was guessing a son.
"I really have to let you go, dear. There's a young woman here who wants to talk to me about the wolf kills." She widened her eyes. "Well, no, I didn't plan to mention my theory on the Ijiraat, but now that you mention it..."
A pause.
"No, that is an excellent idea. I'm so glad you brought it up."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief as her son's protests grew louder.
"Yes, dear, I promise to behave myself. But if something goes wrong, you will come visit me at the psychiatric hospital, won't you? Loosen the bindings on my straitjacket? Wipe the drool off my chin?"
She laughed at his reply, signed off, then turned to me.
"Do you have kids, Ms. Michaels?"
"Two."
"Well, eventually you reach the point where they aren't sure whether they're the children or the parents. One minute my son needs Mommy to arrange his wife's surprise party, the next he's trying to make sure I don't embarrass myself in front of strangers." She set down the cordless phone. "Coffee? Green tea? Red wine?"
I noticed an almost full wine glass on the kitchen counter behind her and said I'd have wine.
"So you work with Hope Adams?" she asked as she got down a glass.
"When she needs me. Otherwise, I freelance. Do you know Hope's work?"
"I'd be a poor paranormal fanatic if I didn't. With Weekly World News stopping tabloid production last year, True News--and Ms. Adams's column--is the only game in town for those of us who like the occasional vampire story with our daily doom and gloom. Not that Weekly World News was much competition. I stopped reading it back when they added a disclaimer that it was for entertainment only. Seemed like a license to give up even trying to uncover any truth."
She handed me a glass of wine. "Now, Ms. Adams? She's a professional. She doesn't take herself too seriously. After all--" She winked. "--we are talking about the paranormal, not world politics. But you get the feeling she really is looking for the truth. She strikes me as a young woman I could have a coffee with." She raised her glass to me and smiled. "Or a glass of wine."
The phone rang again. "The machine can get it," she said.
"No, go ahead."
It stopped ringing.
"Good. Now you wanted to know--"
