Chapter 5
Chapter five
Luna
Ipush through the double doors to the treatment area, my arms loaded with bags from the feed store and pharmacy, plus the mail I grabbed from the post office.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on my shoulders from this morning’s errands, and all I want is to get these supplies sorted and maybe steal five minutes to myself.
The familiar antiseptic smell hits me, mingling with something else, something sweet and chemical that makes my nose wrinkle.
Nail polish?
“What do you think?” Maren holds up two bottles. “Hooker red or bashful blue?”
I stop dead in my tracks, blinking at the scene before me. What the hell?
She’s sitting on a stool in front of the main treatment table, while Ricky sits in front of her with what looks like an iced peanut butter pop clutched in one paw, picking at the eye of the stuffed monkey I gave him last week with the other.
I squint at the treat. “Where did he get that? We were out of pops after Tate’s attempted bribe the other day.”
“I had some bananas on my counter that had gone too soft, so I picked up some natural peanut butter on my way home last night and made them.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest despite my fatigue. “I had the same idea! I picked up bananas and peanut butter today too. When I told him what they were for, the produce manager at the store in Estes gave me a bunch that were turning at a discount.”
“Good. Half of what I made is already gone. Zorro’s had two, I had to give Shadow and Ghost each two, Winston had one, and this is Ricky’s second.”
I set the bags on the opposite counter, watching in amazement as Ricky continues his methodical destruction of his toy while enjoying his treat, his usual chaos replaced by focused concentration.
For once, he’s not making grabby gestures at Maren’s chest or lunging forward with his usual manic energy.
The distraction monkey is actually working.
“What are you doing?”
“Trimming his nails. But I want to paint them, too.”
“You can’t paint a raccoon’s claws.”
“Why not?” She examines the polish bottles with serious consideration. “Raccoons should look pretty, too.”
“The chemicals in that are dangerous, and he’s just going to scratch and bite it off.”
“Don’t worry, it’s the kid-friendly kind. Non-toxic.”
My brain stutters for a moment. “Wait a minute. Hooker Red is kid-friendly?”
Maren snorts in a way that always means trouble. “Eh… that’s just what I call it because it looks like the color a prostitute would leave around a john’s dick.”
Jesus Christ. Sometimes I forget how crude she can be until she drops bombs like that in casual conversation.
I reach for the bottle. “Let me see it.”
Maren offers it with a dramatic sigh. “Can you believe this, Rick? She doesn’t trust me. I’m hurt.” He chatters back as if he understands the entire conversation, his little tongue struggling with the sticky peanut butter as he licks his pop.
The corners of my mouth twitch upward, fighting a smile as I read the ingredients. They all look safe enough if he chews on his claws. I hand the bottle back to her.
“Okay, fine, but use the blue because Ricky is a boy.”
“So sexist. I think the red would bring out his eyes.” She sets the red polish aside and pulls his paw from his monkey. “Come on, Rick, Mom said we can do this.”
Ricky looks up and then lifts his hand to wave his pop at me, and my smile widens.
I busy myself unpacking the bags. Raccoons, as a rule, don’t appreciate getting their claws trimmed.
Their fight-or-flight instinct kicks in on the spot.
Zorro needs to be sedated before we can go anywhere near his claws, but Ricky came to us as a baby, barely a few weeks old, when a car killed his mom, so he’s always had his trimmed.
Even the sound of the little Dremel tool Maren is using doesn’t faze him.
I lean my hip against the counter, sorting through the mail.
Bills, supply catalogs, donation letters—the usual mix.
My bank statement sits at the bottom, the envelope already torn along one edge.
I slide my finger under the seal, expecting the usual thin balance after grant payments trickle in and expenses drain out.
One hundred thousand dollars.
I blink hard, certain my eyes are playing tricks on me. But the numbers don’t change. My hands shake, and the paper trembles between my fingers. It’s more than I’ve ever seen in my account at any one time.
“Maren.” My voice comes out strangled.
“What?”
“Look at this.” I thrust the statement toward her.
She glances over, and her eyes widen. “Holy shit. What the fuck is that?”
“I have no idea. I need to call the bank.” My fingers fumble with my phone, nearly dropping it twice before I manage to pull up the number and hit dial.
Hold music drones through the speaker while Maren abandons Ricky mid-manicure and crowds beside me, peering at the statement over my shoulder. After what feels like hours, a voice cuts through the synthetic orchestra.
“Ms. Foster? Yes, I can see the deposit you’re asking about. It came in by wire transfer from an anonymous donor.”
Air rushes from my lungs in a ragged burst. “Is it from the same anonymous private trust that handled my previous transactions?”
Keys click through the phone speaker as she searches. “No. It’s a different tax ID. Also, I see there’s a message here that says it’s for ‘bobcat enclosure.’”
“Thank you.” I end the call before she can say more, turning to face Maren’s stunned expression.
“What the actual fuck, Lu? Who the hell knows about Titus’ enclosure?”
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
“Do you think it could be Damien?” Her face mirrors the confusion spinning through my head.
“I don’t know.”
Apparently, that’s all I’m capable of saying at the moment.
My mind races, trying to make sense of this. I told him about Titus when I showed him around the sanctuary, but that was almost two months ago.
Should I call him? What if it wasn’t him? That would be awkward as hell. Heat crawls up my neck at the thought of that conversation. Him thinking I’m fishing for money, or worse, expecting it.
“You know what?” Maren drops back onto the stool in front of Ricky.
“Who the fuck cares who donated it? Titus is getting his enclosure, and with that kind of cash, we can build him a bobcat palace complete with heated rocks, a fucking waterfall, and maybe even a disco ball for when he wants to get his groove on.”
I give her a look like she’s lost her mind. “A disco ball?”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve seen a bobcat dance. I bet Titus has some moves.”
I’m grateful for her humor, but my mind keeps spinning. Could Damien have done this? But why hide behind anonymity? The questions pile up like puzzle pieces that don’t fit, though underneath the confusion, relief floods through me. We can build Titus his enclosure.
The last of Ricky’s popsicle disappears with a satisfied pop of his lips. He wipes his sticky palm on his fur before seizing his monkey, his claws working to separate one of the arms from its fabric body.
“At least the monkey seems to be working.” I nod toward Maren’s chest. “I need to order more of those. Maybe a whole case.”
“Yeah, he’s hardly noticed my boobs at all today. It’s almost insulting.” She captures another of Ricky’s paws for trimming.
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside. Then, Sarah, one of our young volunteers, pokes her head through the door. Her usually cheerful expression looks strained.
“Luna? The sheriff is here to see you.”
Maren scowls. “I’m over her showing up here unannounced all the time.”
“You and me both.” I turn to see Karen standing in the doorway behind Sarah.
Shit.
I need to remind the staff of the visitor protocols, but given recent events, Karen showing up unannounced has become the norm.
“Hey, Karen. What’s up?”
Her gray eyes take in Maren’s nail polish operation with amused bewilderment.
“Luna. Maren. Sorry to just drop by and interrupt… whatever this is.”
“Just Ricky’s spa day.” I rest the bank statement on the counter and lead her into the hallway. “How can I help you?”
“Have you ever had a case that dealt with Vance Krueger, an animal abuser down in Walsenburg?”
The name sends a chill down my spine. Vance Krueger—even his name sounds like something that would crawl out from under a rock.
“No, Walsenburg is outside my jurisdiction. There’s a sanctuary in Trinidad that’s closer, but I’ve heard of him. A friend in animal services down there told me about him. Why?”
“He’s disappeared. Didn’t show up for a parole hearing. Been missing for weeks now.”
I process her words, bewilderment giving way to a creeping sense of dread that makes it hard to breathe.
“What does that have to do with me? Criminals failing to show up for hearings happens all the time.”
“It just got me thinking. About the bodies that were dropped here on your property and around the county. We have absolutely nothing to go on in our investigation. So I started looking into other cases of animal abuse in the state.” Karen’s voice shifts to the animated tone I often heard growing up, when she’d tell Grandpa about cases she was working on.
“Over eighty suspects have gone missing in the last two years. So, I went wider and checked nationally. In the past four years, over three hundred animal abuse suspects nationwide have disappeared without a trace. And that’s only the ones that were reported. ”
Blood drains from my face, taking with it all the warmth. Could my wolf have killed all of them? No… that’s impossible. Isn’t it?
“That’s unbelievable,” I force out, my voice sounding distant. “But I still don’t understand what it has to do with me. You’re not here to question me about Damien again, are you?”
“No. Something still doesn’t sit right about his arrival coinciding with all these bodies, but there doesn’t appear to be any connection I can find.”
Relief hits me hard. Her previous suspicion of Damien had turned my blood cold, because he’s not the killer. My wolf is.
“Okay, so, again, what does Krueger’s disappearance have to do with me?”
“Can I get a list of every perpetrator you’ve dealt with on all your cases, whether or not they went through animal services or the courts? I know some come in without county or law enforcement involvement.”
My pulse hammers against my throat like it’s trying to escape.
“Why?”
“I want to see if there are any missing persons who have a connection to your sanctuary so I can get a sense of the bigger picture.”
Karen’s request sends panic shooting through me.
“I understand why you’d want that information, but I’m obligated to keep patient records private unless there’s a valid legal reason not to.”
Karen’s brows furrow. “Luna, animal medical records are not subject to HIPAA laws.”
“You’re right, technically, but they are subject to state privacy laws. Veterinary-patient-client privilege exists in Colorado, unless it’s in connection with an investigation of animal cruelty.”
“It is an investigation of animal cruelty.”
“Karen, with all due respect, no, it isn’t. Your investigation concerns missing persons.”
Her face hardens, displeasure written in every line as she realizes I know the statutes.
“Luna, this could help solve multiple murders. Why wouldn’t you want to share something that might save lives?”
“It’s not that.” I just don’t want you to catch him. “You’re asking for personally identifiable information about the animals’ owners.”
“I can have them subpoenaed, but I really don’t want to go through that hassle.”
My arms cross over my chest as her threat settles in the space between us. “There’s no need for that, Karen. Let me talk to my attorney and find out what I can legally give you.”
The hard edges on Karen’s face soften. “Thank you. Now, have you felt anyone watching you again? Any sense that someone’s been around the property?”
Only my wolf.
“No. Nothing.”
“Good. Stay diligent and call me if anything changes.” Karen’s expression opens up. “Luna, please get in touch after you consult with your attorney. I really could use your help on this.”
Karen leaves, and Maren and Ricky emerge from where they’d been eavesdropping, Ricky’s nails now trimmed but bare of polish.
“Well, that was intense.” Maren cradles Ricky against her chest, and true to form, one of his paws is clutching her breast while the other yanks on the tail of the stuffed monkey tucked under his arm.
“What happened to his blue nail polish?”
“Lost interest. Your conversation was far more fascinating. Though it’s batshit crazy that she seems to suspect Damien of running some kind of nationwide animal abuser death squad. Or that it’s tied to you and the sanctuary.”
The truth claws at my chest. It is tied to me. Not through Damien, but through my wolf. Could he have killed them all? The scope of it makes my head spin.
And now Karen won’t let this go. She’ll keep digging, keep pushing, until she uncovers the truth. Until she finds him.
The thought of him being caught and caged sends a wave of panic through me. What does it say about me that I’m more worried about his safety than the hundreds of missing people who might have died at his hands?
Ricky chitters, reaching for my hand as if sensing my distress. I let him take my fingers, and his warm paw grounds me, pulling me back to the present.
Even as I focus on his touch, dread settles in my bones. Karen’s getting too close and asking too many questions.
And somewhere out there, my wolf is still hunting.