Free Sadie Hart by Cry Sanctuary Page B

there soon.” He hung up before she
could ask him anything else, pressed down harder on the gas pedal
and sped down the old country roads that would take him from
Sanctuary Falls to the small, rural address she’d given him. The
trees occasionally gave way to corn fields and open stretches of
meadows, the occasional horse paddock and barns, a rocky outcrop in
the distance, but when the road turned to dirt and sloped uphill,
he knew he’d found it.
    The place was private. Secluded.
    And the place Claire Rawson had died.
    A mailbox sat at the end of a winding
driveway, and Caine turned the car down it, heading for the small,
one-story house at the end. A wire fence separated the yard from
the road. Beyond it, though, looking out into the field, he could
see the yellow Enforcement tape. His hands flexed over the
wheel.
    The Hunter had killed Claire Rawson here, in
Holly’s back yard. That was how she’d been there. The thought left
him cold. Grabbing the dead duck and note from the back seat, he
headed for the door, and barely had time to knock when an old woman
answered. Her white hair was in frizzled curls around her face.
“Hello there.”
    Wrong house.
    He glanced towards the yard, a familiar
pounding in his heart. Then he inhaled and the scent of Holly
Lawrence—the wiry fur of her dog-half, the apple scent of her
shampoo—hit him. It filled the house in front of him.
    “I’m looking for Holly Lawrence.”
    The woman smiled. “Cecily Lawrence, Holly’s
grandmother.” She winked at him. “She’s out back. Star can take you
to her.”
    The woman whistled, and a large Lassie-style
dog came barreling up to the door, tail wagging. She greeted him by
shoving her pointed nose into his hand, and then raced down the
front steps and headed around the side of the house. “Star,” the
woman called out. “You’re forgetting someone.”
    And, as if the damned dog spoke English, she
stopped. Caine blinked. He didn’t get the scent of human from her.
Just dog. Ordinary dog. The sable collie had a white blaze that ran
from her nose all the way up between her ears, spilling in a
waterfall down the back of her neck to fill out the white ruff that
circled her neck and covered her chest. Star cocked her head, tail
wagging so hard her hips joined in, and she waited.
    Damn. He had wolves who could turn into
people who didn’t listen even half as well.
    “Well, thank you.” He bowed his head at the
woman holding the door. “Caine Morgan.”
    He went to hold out his hand, remembered the
duck and blood stained paper, and cringed. Cecily just smiled at
him and shook her head. “We can shake on it another time. Go on.
They’re expecting you.”
    They’re? The last thing he wanted to deal
with was the whole pack. Squaring his shoulders, he headed down the
steps after the dog. She waited until he was at her side before
continuing around the house. Pausing every few steps to glance back
at him, her slender muzzle open in a very doggie grin. Definitely
Lassie-esque, he thought. In that way, too, she reminded him of her
owner. Not in looks. Holly changed into an Irish wolfhound, all
grizzled, wiry gray fur and long, lean body. Her dog half, if
standing on her hind legs, would stand taller than most men.
Nothing like the short, pudgy woman he knew.
    But the collie looked like a carbon copy of
the one he’d seen on TV throughout most of his childhood, though
maybe a little smaller. But it was the idea. What Lassie
symbolized—loyalty, courage, selflessness, and the need to
protect—was who Holly was. Lassie would have been damned before
she’d leave Timmy down a well. Holly was turning herself inside out
to catch a killer and hating herself when she didn’t succeed.
    “You’re a good girl,” he told the collie,
laughing as the dog turned to swipe a wet tongue over his knuckles.
“Where can I hire one of you to train my pack?”
    They turned the corner together, and he saw
the deck built off the back of the house, Holly’s