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Then again, maybe they were a third party.
Either way, he’d never trusted his boss.
Putting the key in the ignition, he wondered whether the Harley was going to start. He wondered if he was going to remember how to shift. He wondered whether he was going to have the strength required to drive it at all. He wondered—
Started on a dime. With just one jam of his leg.
And then he was leveling the Harley on its tires, kicking free the stand, and revving the engine. The smell of gas and oil brought tears to his eyes, and so did the sound of the RPMs rising and falling.
Easing things into first gear, he was petrified, like he was an eleven-year-old taking something of his dad’s.
But oh… you never forgot how to ride a bike.
As the garage door automatically shut behind him, he proceeded down C.P. Phalen’s smooth driveway, passing into the chute that was created bythe dual lineups of trees. When he got to the gates, they opened right away.
That was when he gunned it.
The powerful surge of speed took his breath away—or maybe that was the blast of wind in his face. With perfect coordination, he shifted, and with growing confidence, he added more gas. And that was when it came back. As the bright, cheerful fall sun fell unimpeded by humidity or clouds onto the winding gray asphalt strip in front of him, a wave of high-octane happiness—akin to what he’d experienced after he pleasured Lydia—flooded his interior.
Yes. Fuckyes.
This was what he needed: Out of the hospital. Away from the drugs. Not consumed with side effects.
When his eyes teared up, he told himself it was because of the rush of fresh air in his face.
But it might have been the gratitude.
Either way, what a gift.
The Wolf Study Project’s quarter-mile-long driveway was right where Daniel had left it, and as he made the turn onto the organization’s property, he was grinning and thinking of the bagel he was bringing his woman—but he was also on high alert. Yes, this was about delivering her some breakfast, andyes, he loved being back on the bike, and sure, it was terrific that he had made it this far on his own steam—yet he remained worried for her safety.
Maybe he needed to ask C.P. to send one of her guards over to the building while Lydia was on site working. They could be discreet about it—and if his woman thought it was overkill, maybe C.P. could help him talk some sense into…
As the WSP headquarters came into view, he eased off on the gas. And then hit the brakes with a sharp jab.
With the engine still purring between his legs, and his hand cranked on the brake, he stared in shock at the place where Lydia worked. Then he cut the Harley’s engine, kicked out the stand, and dismounted.
The building had never been in pristine shape, but now it was totally run-down: The gravel parking area was choked with weeds, the single-story structure looked like it was growing a beard from all the vines, and there were branches down on its roof. One gutter had even been peeled off by some storm, and the exterior light sockets were empty of bulbs.
Walking over to the entrance, he cupped his hands to the glass and leaned in. The waiting room was picked clean of furniture. From Candy the receptionist’s desk, to the chairs and sofa in the open area, to even the magazines that hadsat, faded and unread, on the coffee table… it was all gone.
He tried the doorknob. Locked.
Heading down the long side of the building, he went to the rear clinic entrance. Also locked—and the part of the facility where the wolves were treated had no windows so there was no checking what had been cleared out of that part of the operation.
The last thing he did, before he got back on his bike, was go to the window in Lydia’s office.
The venetian blinds were hanging all cockeyed, so he was able to get a look at the space. Inside… her desk was a dead zone, free of all computer equipment, paperwork, even her landline phone.
Back at his Harley, he jump-started the engine again and then looked over to the outbuilding where he’d briefly worked when he’d been fronting the role of a handyman. He didn’t bother going over and trying to open the double doors. It was either going to still be the mess of hardware and seventies-era equipment it had always been, or it would be cleaned out.
Either way, his conclusion was unchanged.
The Wolf Study Project had been closed down. For a while.
And Lydia had been lying to him about where she went every day.
THIRTY-FIVE
