Chapter Text
Sheriff Travis Hackett sighs as he kills his engine, closing his eyes against the bright midday light. His aching head relishes the silence as the motor dies away and he sits for a moment, just breathing. It's becoming a habit, a bad one, to pull into work like this but when the alternative was no sleep at all, or a worse sleep with nightmares (Chris tearing through Bobby's throat then smacking ma and pa's head in like it wasn't worth the effort of his teeth, Ryan blowing a hole through his brother two seconds too late), he found he could deal with a little discomfort during his shifts. It was a good distraction, kept him from thinking too much.
He glances in the rear view and sucks his teeth, tsking at his reflection. The shadows under his eyes hadn't been that bad a month ago. A month ago- no, he isn't doing this. He exhales sharply through his nose and leaves the cruiser.
“Morning Sheriff,” Benson says absently, barely glancing up as he enters the North Kill County Sheriff's Office.
“Morning,” he grates back, keeping the exhaustion from his tone. He intends to continue past to his office but she keeps talking.
“Holt's up north dealing with a car wreck near Newcomb, Munroe has a fire down in Thurman. Couple messages, most from someone claiming not to be journalist wanting to talk to you about the Quarry.” Her tone says she's disbelieving and tired of dealing with the damn reporters that keep sniffing around. “Notes on your desk, sir.”
“I'll handle it,” he states flatly, headache pounding. If it was those two from that damn Bonafide podcast again he really was going to start legal action against them.
He strides to his office, grunting as he throws on the too bright fluorescent lights. Technically the investigation into the massacre at Hackett's Quarry is ongoing. A horrible tragedy where a bear had broken into the Hackett mansion, killing his parents, brother caught in their efforts to defend themselves. It had tried to do the same to the lodge where the unfortunate counselors had been trapped due to a faulty car. In the chaos of the night his niece and nephew had been shot as well. Travis wasn't pressing charges and no one else had died, so while the investigation isn't technically closed yet the official aspect of it had quickly petered to a end.
Now if only the damned reporters would let it alone.
He settles into his chair, flicking through the stack of papers. A reminder that the mayor wants to speak to him about the upcoming fall festival, several case reports to read through and verify, Mrs. Micral on 3rd was complaining about her neighbor's dogs again, and the note that Ryan Erzahler is trying to get in touch with him about the Quarry.
Travis swallows as his headache pulses, a lead weight settling in his stomach. He purses his lips at the note. Why would Erzahler be reaching out? The less they spoke the better, especially while the investigation is still open. He thinks about ignoring the message but the kid had called three times already this morning and that was sure to turn heads if he kept it up. Travis unclenches his jaw, an older bad habit, and dials the number.
“Hey, this is Ryan.”
Travis tsks. “Mr. Erzahler, this is Sheriff Hackett,” he says, using his best 'annoyed cop' tone. “You've been trying to reach me.”
“Oh, yeah, hey, Sheriff. Look, I know you said we should be keeping a low profile but there's kind of a situation.”
Travis' stomach clenches. He doesn't know Ryan well but he'd seemed to be able to keep his cool well enough under pressure. That he sounds anxious now bodes ill. “What kind of situation?” He asks, suspicious.
“The um, the kind where we need to borrow the Quarry next full moon?”
Shit. Travis finds his brain refusing to work, his hangover thundering in his skull. “'We?'” He keeps his tone cool. “How many?”
“Um, all nine of us, we think? We don't all have the same symptoms.”
Nine. All nine of them. He stares at the wall, eyes darting to the calendar that still has 'Full Moon' circled on it, just four days from now. A cold chill creeps its way up his spine to grab the base of his skull. How could there be nine of them? Silas was dead and he burned the body himself. “What symptoms?”
“Uh, well, Nick and Dylan had weird eyes. Emma had to toss all her perfume. Jacob keeps breaking door knobs.” Ryan's silent for a moment where he might have been shrugging. “It's just the ones that never changed seem to be fine. Me included, but uh, probably better safe than sorry.”
Travis is frowning now. This didn't make sense. That doesn't make sense. Chris had never had symptoms like that, had kept wearing the same god awful cologne that Amelia liked without issue. He'd been no stronger than before. Travis finds he's rubbing his forearm where Laura had bit him, the flesh still tender and only recently closed, skin still raised in shiny pink as the scars formed. This isn't how it was supposed to work.
This was supposed to be over.
“Yeah,” he says to the phone, distracted. Then he shakes his head, focusing. “The investigation's about done and I can let you on the property. Worst case we can use the Hackett property, there are still chains there.” And the old precinct where he'd kept Laura and Max for two months and dammit he doesn't want to do this again. Nine of them!
Maybe ten, he thinks as he rubs his arm again.
There's a sigh of relief through the phone. “Hey thanks, man. We didn't know who else to call.”
“Sure. I'll handle it,” Travis replies and he hasn't decided yet if that means sheltering nine werewolves or ending them.
“Was, uh, was Chris ever like this? I don't remember him ever acting weird.”
Travis shakes his head, frown still in place. “No.” No, the Hackett wolves never had symptoms till the day of. This was...new. He licks his lips, then says, “Make sure you're all down here a day early. I'll meet you there at noon.”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem.”
He debates a moment, then rattles off a phone number. “That's my personal cell. Don't text, that can be recorded.”
“Right, can you say that again?” Travis repeats the number, reiterates meeting early, and then hangs up.
The quiet of his office consumes him and he shuts his eyes against the lights.
This wasn't over.
He was going to have to make more silver shells.