Wolf's Clothing Page 3

  For instance, now that he was sneakers-on-the-ground in Oregon, it occurred to him that he should have phoned Logan—or at least figured out how to find him—before jumping on the first plane out of Rhode Island.

  Trent hoisted his backpack farther up his shoulder as he followed the rest of the crowd from his flight to their designated carousel. The week Trent’d checked into the loony bin, barely coherent and half-convinced he’d hallucinated the whole rescue, Logan had called the house and left a ton of messages, although Trent’s family hadn’t told him about them until months later. He’d wanted to call back. He’d thought about it every fricking day since. But whenever he mustered the courage to approach his father’s assistant and ask for Logan’s number, he’d remember the suspicion in the cops’ eyes as they’d questioned him—none too gently—about where he’d been and who he’d been with. Even though the case was technically closed now that he’d returned, Trent didn’t want to point attention at Logan, the only person who’d tried to contact him.

  Nobody else had ever called. No one from high school. None of his old legend-tripping friends. Nobody he’d known in his short time at PSU.

  Why should they? Seven years was a freaking long time when you were nineteen, when your life was measured in school-related blocks: four years in high school, four in undergrad, another two or three in graduate school. But once those little time boxes were blown open by graduation, the coincidental ties disintegrated.

  Trent had jumped out of the PSU box before it had expired, so it was unlikely anyone would remember him—just another guy who’d bailed freshman year.

  But Logan had called. So Trent hadn’t called back. Unfortunately, the calls had been on the landline, so he had no idea what Logan’s phone number was. Or where he lived. Where he worked. In fact, did he even live in Oregon anymore? Maybe Deborah-the-shrink was right. His impulse control was truly shit-tastic.

  Trent fingered the new iPhone in his hoodie pocket, which he hadn’t gotten the hang of—although he hadn’t really tried. He’d held on to his old phone, a Nokia flip phone that had been the height of cool the year he became a ghost, because it was something he understood. But it had finally died as he was shoving clothes into his duffel in his desperate rush to escape the old homestead.

  He’d had the cab stop at the nearest cell phone store on the way to the airport. The clerk had laughed at his old phone and called the other clerks over to poke at it and laugh some more. They’d insisted the latest model iPhone was what he wanted.

  It wasn’t. But if he didn’t want to be a fossil forever, he needed to start somewhere. So he’d bought a new laptop too. Thank God and his father’s image-consciousness for American Express Black, and the card he’d bestowed on Trent “for emergencies”—because if getting away from home wasn’t an emergency, then Mount Hood was an anthill.

  The red light over the baggage carousel flashed, accompanied by the harsh blare of an alarm, and the belt jerked into motion. Trent stood near the far end of its serpentine path, because what was the hurry? He had no fucking clue where he was going. Maybe he should go back upstairs and book a return flight to Rhode Island.

  “Mr. Pielmeyer.”

  Trent whirled, clutching the straps of his backpack. Fuck. Bishop, the detective who’d questioned him in the hospital and later at police headquarters, was sauntering toward Trent, his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.

  Trent plastered on a cheeky grin. “Detective Bishop. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  “Is staking out airports new on your dance card? I don’t recall ever seeing you outside of that lovely interrogation room. Oh, and on camera of course, costarring with my parents in all those awesome press conferences.” Trent winked. “Love the new haircut too.”

  Bishop’s dark skin didn’t show a flush, but given the way his jaw tightened, Trent’s old powers of irritation hadn’t atrophied. It helped that he’d had so much practice with his father lately.

  “On that account, I can’t say the same for you.”

  “You don’t like the new do?” Trent flicked his bangs with a finger. Actually, he hadn’t had a haircut since he’d gotten out of the sanitarium. They’d shaved his head there, the bastards, with his father’s permission. “I think I’ll start a trend.”

  Come on, baggage handlers. How long can it take to unload the fucking luggage? Half the passengers on his flight had already snagged their bags and split, lucky devils. Where the hell was his duffel?

  “What’s lured you away from the comfort of your Newport mansion, Mr. Pielmeyer?” Bishop nodded at Trent’s hoodie. “Your timing’s a bit awkward for a visit to your old stomping grounds. Isn’t the yachting season about to begin?”

  Trent licked his lips and edged away. “I wouldn’t know. Never got into that scene. Besides, the old man’s yacht was a casualty of hurricane what’s-her-name.”

  “Sandy?”

  “If you say so. I’ll check when I go back to Newport.”

  If he ever went back. Though he hadn’t a clue what his next step should be, he’d felt as if a giant boulder had rolled off him as soon as the plane had lifted off the tarmac. He belonged here. Or at least he belonged away from there.

  He glanced past Bishop’s massive shoulders at the exit, and a shiver chased up his back. Was he ready to face Portland again? Sure, he’d had a short, happy time here—but then the shit had kicked in. Should he have picked another destination? Hawaii, say, or Fiji, or Tierra del fucking Fuego.

  But even as he considered other options, he axed them. None of those places held unfortunate memories, true, but they also didn’t hold Logan.

  Bishop took a step into his path, blocking his view. The fluorescent overhead lights gleamed on his shaven head. Looks waaay better on him than it did on me. Kinda hot, actually, and—

  Shit. What am I thinking? Trent was here to reconnect with Logan, not perv on the detective who’d never believed a word of his story.

  His overstuffed duffel finally emerged from under the rubber flaps onto the carousel, Thank you baby Jesus. “Oh look. There’s my bag. As lovely as it was to see you, Detective, I really must be off.”

  “In so much of a hurry you can’t spare me a few minutes?” Bishop’s deep voice turned coaxing, and he neatly blocked Trent’s access to the conveyer belt. “I’d like to chat.”

  “What’s the point, Detective? Isn’t the case closed if there’s no victim anymore?”

  “There’s a victim, all right. You. And if your kidnapper did it once, he could do it again. Do you want anyone else to go through what you did? Some other college kid? A woman? A child?”

  “Trust me. The same thing will never happen to anyone else.”

  “Why not? What do you know? Come on, Trent. I’m on your side.”

  “Is that so?” His duffel slid by and disappeared. Crap.

  “Someone held you against your will. Hurt you.” Bishop pointed to the rope welt scars at the hinge of Trent’s jaw. “In my book, that’s wrong.”

  Fucking great. Deliver me from righteous cops on a crusade. Snark-deflection worked much better against anger and suspicion than against concern. Trent hitched his sweatshirt hood higher to shield his scars, and broke out the assitude.

  He tilted his chin and fluttered his eyelashes. “All this attention is very flattering, Detective. Are you sure you’re not after my ass?”

  Bishop barked a laugh. “Not the way you think. My boyfriend wouldn’t stand for it.” He took a step closer, the laughter disappearing from his eyes. “Not everyone comes back, Trent, but you did. After seven years. How?”

  “I . . . Just lucky, I guess.”

  “I don’t believe in luck. Something you did, or some quirk in your captors, made it possible for you to survive. To escape. I— We need to know everything. So the next time someone goes missing, we stand a better chance of finding him sooner. You can help us understand.”

  Bishop’s voice was a caress now, his dark ey
es intent, as if he were trying to hypnotize Trent into blurting his darkest secrets.

  Trouble is, it was working.

  Resist, damn it. Trent shook the hair out of his eyes. “How’d you know I was here? Last I checked, Rhode Island wasn’t under the jurisdiction of the Portland Police Department.”

  “There are other ways to follow up, other connections I can tap. If a case interests me, I pay attention. Your case interests me.”

  “Obsesses, more like,” Trent muttered.

  Bishop’s gaze shifted to the bags rolling by on the carousel—which included the second coming of Trent’s duffel. “We could learn so much from you, like why they targeted you in the first place. Don’t you want to help?”

  Almost within reach. “I’d like to, but I can’t. I really have to go.”

  Bishop rocked back on his heels, studying the reader board over the carousel as if Delta Flight 289 was a coded message he had to decipher.

  “Logan Conner.”

  Trent froze, his fists tightening on the straps of his backpack. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The commissioner’s kid. He was your roommate at the time, wasn’t he? Other witnesses claimed he might be more. We thought he must at least be an accessory, maybe the perp himself, but his father swore up one side and down the other that the kid was with him the night you went missing.”

  So that’s how Logan stayed off the radar. His father’s political agenda was actually useful for once.

  “His behavior changed radically after you disappeared. He turned transient, never sticking in one place for long. But he showed a hell of an interest in Forest Park. Visited that derelict building by Balch Creek every night for a year, and every anniversary after that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was my case.”

  “It’s closed. I’m back. The end.”

  “Is it? Kind of a coincidence Logan would be in the same spot when you showed up again.”

  Trent’s palms were damp against the backpack straps. “Coincidences happen.”

  “Do they? You wouldn’t be heading to Stumptown Spirits, would you?”

  “I— What?” Trent let the duffel slide by. “What’s that and why would I go there?”

  Bishop pushed his trench coat aside and shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Stumptown Spirits, the bar owned by your old pal, Logan. Which he conveniently inherited after you showed up in Forest Park last October.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” Trent tried not to let the huge swell of relief that flooded his chest show on his face, although judging by Bishop’s raised eyebrow, he wasn’t particularly successful. But Jesus fuck. Bishop had just given him Logan’s whereabouts. He didn’t have to flail around trying to find him with an incomprehensible phone.

  The duffel made another appearance on the conveyer belt, and this time Trent strolled over to meet it. He grabbed its strap and slung it over his shoulder. God, the thing weighed a ton. Should he have been a little more selective about packing? Nah. Too much work. He’d sort it out at the hotel.

  Bishop caught up with him in two giant strides. “Come on, Trent, help me catch the guy who did this. Help me catch the next guy. You haven’t told us the whole story. I can feel it.”

  With Bishop looming over him like the hangman who haunted his sleep every night, Trent’s momentary relief faded. Sweat broke out along his hairline.

  He couldn’t hate Bishop for wanting to find an alleged kidnapper. If he really had been kidnapped, he’d probably kiss the guy’s feet or fling himself against his massive chest. But Bishop was too smart, too good at his job, and too intent on seeing justice done. And he clearly wasn’t about to give it a fucking rest until Trent gave up something.

  Keep this guy far away from Logan. Bishop wanted the truth, but he was the last person in the world who’d believe it.

  So maybe he’s the only one I can actually tell it to.

  Trent dropped the duffel and stood on top of it, so he was eye to eye with the giant detective. “You want a story? Here’s one. Once upon a time, in a park in a city very like Portland, a whole cast of ghosts acted out the same story night after night. Betrayal. Murder. Capture. Punishment.” He punctuated his words with pokes at Bishop’s massive chest. “Every. Single. Night. Whether anybody could see them or not.” The back of Trent’s throat burned and his voice turned hoarse. Hold it together, damn it. “Then, this dumb-ass college kid got the brilliant idea to join the party—for kicks, for thrills, for adventure. Because he wanted to be the goddamn fucking star. Only problem was, he forgot to read the fine print. You can check in to the ghost war, but you can’t check out. Not until someone takes your place. And who’d want to take the place of the guy who gets hanged? Every. Single. Night.”

  Bishop’s frown was a scary thing. “Christ on a crutch, Pielmeyer, make up an original lie at least. You stole this one from that bogus TV show. The one that was filming in Forest Park when you returned.”

  Trent shrugged, trying to recapture his don’t-give-a-shit act. “You asked for a story.” He jumped off the duffel and hauled it across his shoulder. “That’s the best I’ve got. See you around.”

  He turned away and headed for the exit, keeping his gait even and unhurried, although the panic welling in his chest was urging him to run, the way he ran every time his memories of the ghost war threatened to overwhelm him. But in the glass exit door’s reflection, he could see Bishop watching. He couldn’t afford to appear guilty, and he couldn’t go directly to Logan’s bar.

  Hotel first. Shower. Dress like an adult. Then tonight he’d hit Stumptown Spirits. If Bishop’s “connections” could find him in an airport, the bar was probably under surveillance too, so Trent would have to be sneaky. Trent flipped his hood over his head, the better to mask his face. A quick in-and-out—get Logan’s digits and arrange a private meet up later.

  Not too much later though, because he’d dreamed of this—of how Logan’s familiar grin would dawn when their gazes met across the room. He’d laugh then. God, Trent had missed Logan’s laugh. Trent would hold his arms open and Logan would rush across the bar and— Whoa. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Pielmeyer. Logan had never gone in for PDAs—he’d always been terrified of pissing off his politico father.

  Maybe that’s changed too. Trent could only hope. Because nobody had touched him with real affection for over seven years, and the one thing he wanted more than anything was for someone to give him a fucking hug.

  When Christophe arrived at Stumptown Spirits, the bar owned by Riley’s fiancé, he apparently became part of a mob. The bar was packed, every table filled, every barstool occupied. He hesitated just inside the heavy front doors. Was there some peculiar festivity or sporting event today that he was unaware of? Even after years spent in the Pacific Northwest, he occasionally missed the specific triggers of herd behavior.

  After all, he was a lone wolf himself.

  He scanned the crowd until he caught the familiar glint of Riley’s rectangular glasses. Riley was standing at the end of the bar, in earnest conversation with a tall woman with curly blond hair. Christophe edged through the crowd to stand behind Riley’s shoulder, waiting for him to conclude his conversation.

  “Logan owes me, Rile. If it weren’t for him, I’d have touched a real ghost. A whole posse of real ghosts.”

  Riley shuddered visibly. “Trust me, touching a ghost isn’t all that great.”

  “I don’t care.” The woman crossed her arms. If she didn’t have such a determined jaw, Christophe would have classified her expression as a pout.

  “God, Jules.” Riley sighed. “You’ll never let it go, will you?”

  “Never. Unless the two of you agree to do the special. ‘Witch’s Castle: Where Are They Now?’ It’ll be great.” She dropped her militant pose and her tone turned wheedling. “Please? Come on, Rile, you know you can sweet-talk him into anything. If I can prove to the Haunted to the Max producers that I can deliver the same buzz as the first Witch’s Ca
stle episode, they’ve promised to listen to my next pitch. If you guys won’t sign on, they’ll make me use Max fucking Stone, and the show’ll tank for sure.”

  “Don’t pretend you can’t wrangle Max into shape without breaking a sweat.”

  “That’s beside the point. I’m trying to get away from that guy. It’s bad enough you invited him to the wedding.”

  “Hey, that was Logan, not me.”

  She snorted. “Right. Logan hates Max.”

  “You’d think. But he says Max grows on you. Like mold.”

  “Then sign me up for mold remediation, stat. Because the show got way more traction with you and Logan front and center—hell, Logan’s gotten traction too. I mean, he must be raking in the bucks. Last fall, you could throw a cat through the place and not hit anybody.”

  “I think he preferred it then.”

  “Bullshit. Look around you. How much fun is this?”

  Riley followed her instructions, scanning the room. “Ask Heather. If Zack hits on her one more time—” Riley froze as his gaze met Christophe’s, and his eyes widened.

  Christophe grinned. “Hello, cher.”

  “Chwistophe?”

  Ah. Riley’s charming little speech impediment still manifested when he was flustered then. It was one of the things that had attracted Christophe to him when they first met. He hugged Riley and kissed him on both cheeks.

  By the time they disengaged, a wide smile had replaced Riley’s astonished expression. “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it.”

  “I would never miss your wedding. You look wonderful, cher. Incipient matrimony suits you.”

  Riley blushed furiously. “Well, you know. Happiness. What can I say?”

  “You need say nothing, except perhaps to introduce me to your charming companion.”