"Adam was hurt," I said. "The people who did it took Jesse."
"Tell him not to let anyone else know," said Samuel.
"Who was that?" Warren's tone was suddenly cool.
"Samuel," I told him. "Bran's son."
"Is this a coup?" Warren asked.
"No," answered Adam from the backseat. "At least not on Bran's part."
"Excuse me," I said. "But this is my phone call. Would you all please pretend that it is a private conversation? That includes you, Warren. Quit listening to the other people in my van."
"All right," agreed Warren. Having heard Adam, his voice relaxed into its usual lovely south Texas drawl. "How are you today, Mercy?" he asked sweetly, but as he continued his voice became gradually sharper. "And have you heard the startling news that our Alpha's house was broken into and he and his daughter disappeared? That the only clue is the phone message left on the damned Russian witch's phone? A message that she has refused to let anyone else listen to? Rumor has it that the message is from you, and no one can find you either."
Samuel leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and said, "Tell him you'll explain when we get there."
I smiled sweetly. "I'm doing better all the time, Warren. Thank you for asking. Montana is nice, but I don't recommend a November vacation unless you ski."
"Haven't put on skis for twenty years," murmured Warren, sounding a little happier. "Has Adam taken up skiing during this jaunt of yours to Montana?"
"He has skis," I said, "but his health wasn't up to it this time. I brought back a doctor, but the two of us found out that we need to go out tonight and were wondering if you were up for a little nursing."
"Glad to," said Warren. "I don't work tonight, anyway. Did you say Jesse's been kidnapped?"
"Yes. And for right now, we need you to keep it under your hat."
"I drove by your houses on the way back from work this morning," Warren said slowly. "There's been a lot of activity there. I think it's just the pack watching, but if you want to avoid them, maybe you all ought to spend the night at my place."
"You think it's the pack?" asked Adam.
Warren snorted. "Who'd call and talk to me about it? Darryl? Auriele called to tell me you were missing, but without you, the women are mostly left out of the business, too. The rest of the pack is supposed to be keeping their eyes out for you-all three of you-but that's all I know. How long do you need to keep them in the dark?"
"For a day or two." Adam's voice was neutral, but the words would tell Warren all he needed to know.
"Come to my house. I don't think that anyone except you and Mercy even know where I live. I've got enough room for all of you-unless there are a couple of people who haven't spoken up."
Each of the Tri-Cities has its own flavor, and it is in Richland that the frenzy of the dawn of the nuclear age has pressed most firmly. When the government decided to build weapons-grade plutonium here, they had to build a town, too. So scattered over the city are twenty-six types of buildings designed to house the workers for the nuclear industry. Each kind of house was given a letter designation beginning with A and ending Z.
I don't recognize them all, but the big duplexes, the A and B houses, are pretty distinctive. The A houses look sort of like Eastern farmhouses-two-story, rectangular, and unadorned. B houses are single-story rectangles. Most of them have been changed a little from what they once were, porches added, converted from duplexes to single-family dwellings-and back again. But no matter how much they are renovated, they all have a sort of sturdy plainness that overcomes brick facades, decks, and cedar siding.
Warren lived in half an A duplex with a big maple tree taking up most of his part of the front lawn. He was waiting on his porch when I drove up. When I'd met him, he'd had a sort of seedy I've-been-there-and-done-everything kind of look. His current lover had coaxed him into cutting his hair and improving his dress a little. His jeans didn't have holes in them, and his shirt had been ironed sometime in the not-too-distant past.
I was able to park directly in front of his home. As soon as I stopped, he hopped down the stairs and opened the van's sliding door.
He took in Adam's condition in one swift glance.
"You say this happened night before last?" he asked me.
"Yep." His accent is thick enough that I sometimes found myself falling into it-even though I'd never been to Texas.
Warren stuck his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on the heels of his battered cowboy boots. "Well, boss," he drawled, "I expect I ought to feel lucky you're alive."
"I'd feel lucky if you could see your way to helping me up," Adam growled. "I wasn't feeling too bad this morning, but this thing's springs leave a lot to be desired."
"We can't all drive a Mercedes," I said lightly, having gotten out myself. "Warren, this is Bran's son, Dr. Samuel Cornick, who has come down to help."
Warren and Samuel assessed each other like a pair of cowboys in a fifties movie. Then, in response to some signal invisible to me, Samuel held out a hand and smiled.
"Good to meet you," he said.
Warren didn't say anything, but he shook Samuel's hand once and looked as if he took pleasure in the other man's greeting.
To Adam, Warren said, "I'm afraid it'll be easier to carry you, boss. There's the front stairs, then the flight up to the bedrooms."
Adam frowned unhappily, but nodded. "All right."
Warren looked a little odd carrying Adam because, while not tall, Adam is wide, and Warren is built more along the lines of a marathon runner. It's the kind of thing werewolves have to be careful not to do too often in public.