“Right here.” The head of MHI entered the morgue. He walked up next to Gretchen and studied Franks. He had no shirt on under his leather jacket, and his chest was still covered in dried blood. He’d been too busy to clean up. Harbinger appeared to be emaciated, which was expected given the amount of energy necessary for a werewolf to regenerate with that much damage. He also seemed very angry. “Give us a minute,” he ordered.

Anderson and the orc hurried out of the cold room. Once they were gone Harbinger pulled a stainless revolver and stuck the muzzle against Franks’ forehead. He appreciated that Harbinger was a straightforward man who would not waste time with bluffing or foolishness.

“I doubt you had them save me just to kill me,” Franks stated.

“I didn’t. I kept you alive because I want answers. Did you kill Heather Kerkonen?”

“No.”

Harbinger’s face was a mask of barely controlled rage. At least he was too exhausted and spent to be in any danger of turning. “Did you hurt her?”

“It was a fair fight.”

Franks watched the cylinder rotate right in front of his remaining eye as Harbinger cocked the hammer. “That’s the wrong damned answer.”

“I could have killed her.” Franks’ one eye narrowed. “I spared her.”

“Why?”

“So she could expose Stricken. I told her about Nemesis.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t care enough to lie,” Franks explained.

Harbinger exhaled. His finger was on the trigger. The gun wasn’t even quivering. Franks could tell he was mulling it over. Harbinger could justify either decision rather easily, but Franks didn’t look away. He didn’t so much as blink.

After several tense seconds, Harbinger lowered the gun. “Julie and Owen told me your story. God help me, but I think you’re telling the truth. Stricken told me you’d killed her.”

“That’s dumb.”

“You’ve got to admit, it sounded plausible. You’ve got something of a reputation, Franks.”

“Still dumb.”

“Damn it. Stricken played me. He wanted to put MHI on your trail too and have me do the dirty work for him. He told me something I’d believe, knowing exactly how I’d react.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. From where Harbinger was standing he could look down into Franks’ open chest cavity. He paused in his reconstruction of events long enough to ask, “Does that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good . . . If you didn’t kill her, I’ve got no way of reaching her to find out if she’s okay. She’s either dead or somehow out of the picture . . .” It didn’t seem possible, but Harbinger suddenly appeared to weaken as that realization sunk in. “Stricken wouldn’t lie to me, then leave her alone, because if I found out you hadn’t hurt her I’d go after him instead. He probably . . . he probably killed her.”

“Maybe not. A werewolf like that is valuable.”