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 by the 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. Fuck yes.
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, and yes, 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 had sat, 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
DANIEL HAD TO go into the Walters town center to get gas before he could keep going. As he drove into the tiny constellation of businesses, the bank, grocery store/diner combination, and private-branded pump station were the same as before—which seemed like a miracle, although that made little sense. Only his world, not the larger, commonly held one, had been upended since the spring.
Since ten minutes ago.
And of course, as he went by the diner, he glanced at the lineup of customers having breakfast in the windows—and thought about how he and Lydia had met up there by chance after his interview with her.
He had lied to her at the beginning of their relationship.
She was lying to him at the end of it.
But why?
At the station, he pulled into a pump and was distracted as he filled up, his mind whirling as he tried to keep his emotions in check. When he was finished, he twisted the cap back on his tank and knew where he was going to next—assuming he remembered the way.
Back on the county road, he followed the twists and turns, but the magic was gone. He was simply about getting himself from point A to B now.
When he came up to the house that Lydia had rented, he pulled off onto the shoulder, but didn’t go down the driveway. No reason to. There were children’s bikes in the front yard and a swing set off to the side. A minivan was parked by the back door, and a black Lab who was thick as a couch cushion got to his or her feet and started barking at him.
Well, guess she had given up her lease. He’d assumed she was still getting her mail there and that that was where she had gone when she’d brought her fall and winter clothes over.
Maybe she’d moved out then.
Hitting the gas, Daniel kept going, even though he wasn’t sure where to head next. That issue was solved quick. Candy, the WSP receptionist, had a small house just out of town, and even though he couldn’t remember her last name, he knew where her place was. Cutting the acceleration as he came up to her mailbox, he didn’t bother with a turn signal as he piloted the way onto her drive—
Another short stop.
Lydia’s car was in the driveway. Which might have been good news—the kind of thing that suggested the WSP had lost some funding but was still a going concern working out of Candy’s home—except he’d been told the sedan had been totaled when his woman had hit a deer.
The vehicle looked very structurally sound, not a ding or a dent on it.
Footing the bike forward, he left the engine at an idle, got off, and walked around the front of the car. Nope, no catastrophic damage. No obvious repairs—and besides, given that she’d told him it had been totaled, there should have been no way that kind of shit could have been fixed in a week or ten days, especially out here in the sticks.
The town’s mechanic only worked when he felt like it.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
At the Brooklyn accent, Daniel looked over to the front door of the cottage. Candy, last name chemo-brained and forgotten, was leaning out, and yeah, wow. Her hair was the color of a pumpkin, an orange that had absolutely no foundation in the natural chromatics of human follicles. The sixty-year-old was wearing a knitted sweater that had a Santa scene on it, the reindeer racing over her shoulder, the big guy in the red suit with the white beard perched on her hip. The yarn’s knotting was such that there was a sculptural quality to the depiction.