Page 51 of Hunted Mate
After that scintillating conversation with one of the two people I can still probably trust in the world, I hang up.
I have to wait a day or two for access to my money. It’s going to be different when I get it. I’m going to buy a very fast car. I’m surprised I didn’t do that already. I’ve had a lot of money for a very long time. I haven’t had a lot of fun. I’ve been grieving for a long time.
Red and blue lights are flashing in my rearview. I pull over and keep driving so they can get past me. Must be an emergency somewhere. It surprises me when they tuck in behind me all snugly.
What are they doing?
I wind the window down, stick my arm out, and wave them on.
But they don’t go around.
Alright then. Guess I’m the escort. I floor the accelerator, creating a big cloud of dust and gravel on the side of the road as I careen back onto the tarmac, across the center line, and then right up and off-road. I used to do this in video games all the time, back when life was carefree enough that I had recreational activities.
Bump. Bump. Crash. Bump.
The terrain at the side of the road is rough as hell, so I swerve back onto the road. Just makes sense. I’m starting to feel hungry again, so I start rustling around in the bag of stuff I bought from a gas station. I got a whole lot of candy. I never used to eat candy. I was worried it would change the shape of my body.
I laugh hysterically at that, at how hard I fought to keep my body generally the same size, but now others are trying to make it massive and furry. I saw the notes when I was dealing with the people who held me in the lab. I know they were trying to make me a shifter.
I don’t know if they succeeded.
Gray
I am in a small police station in rural Louisiana, speaking to two men whose dueling mustaches are locked in a battle for dominance. They’re not kissing; they’re just both very good at growing facial hair. They could be related. They look very similar. They might also not be related at all. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. A father–son team maybe. I wonder what it’s like to work with a father who isn’t constantly undermining you.
“Heard there was an incident with a vehicle this afternoon,” I say, opening the conversation without preamble, speaking in a brisk tone that’s not too officious, but makes me seem like I know what I’m doing. I slide an ID over the polished wood counter of the station desk. Neither of the officers bother to look at it.
“Yep, she drove like a bat out of hell. Don’t know how she managed not to flip, but we don’t have enough cruisers or enough mechanics to be pulling those kinds of moves out here, so she got away.”
These officers had a run-in with my mate, so I believe based on chatter from their scanner. I am using all the techniques I have learned over the years, along with all the resources available to me. It’s not that it is hard to find Callie’s trail. It’s just almost impossible to catch up with her, let alone try to predict what she might do next.
She has proven to be an almost impossible quarry. I am torn between some kind of pride and very real concern for what willhappen if I don’t get to her before the full moon—which is just days away.
The scientists at the laboratory, or should I more accurately say, the survivors, are sending me information that indicates her escalating behavior is probably linked to the waxing of the moon. When it becomes truly full, we are all in trouble.
“So this is your lady friend, you reckon?”
One officer drawls the question at me in an unhurried and some might even say unbothered tone. Rural places see a lot of chaos of various kinds. They’re not as quiet as you might think, especially when it comes to vehicular misadventure. Bored youths find ways to entertain themselves in cars that would make a lot of city people scratch their heads and ask why.
“I’m Federal Agent Ramses, and my wife is experiencing a medical event,” I explain. “She’s not herself at the moment. We need to get her back into treatment as quickly as possible.”
“Crazy wife, huh, buddy?” The older of the two men is immediately sympathetic to me. It’s sexist as hell, but it’s working in my favor. We can have a feminist discussion about mental health issues later.
I believe Callie is sane. She’s always been very logical and rational, even in the face of world-class gaslighting.
“Not crazy,” I say. “Unwell.”
“In that case, her driving was so… unwell, we had to abandon the chase. She was going to get somebody killed, and we don’t have helicopters out here to follow in the sky,” the younger cop says.
“She was lucky,” the older man says.
“She’s gotta be brought in. She’s a real danger.”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to catch up with her.”
“You said you’re a federal agent.”
“I did say that.”
