Despite the impression he gave, Chris hated police stations. Entering one felt too much like being trapped, and he always had the irrational fear an officer was going to try to handcuff him.

Part of his fear was caused by the understanding that much of what he did was outside the law. Most cops who saw hunters taking care of rogue werewolves wouldn't think of it as defense, but as murder since werewolves didn't look evil when they hid their fangs and claws. They owned homes, had neighbors, businesses, ties to their communities, and for an average cop, that gave them the same rights as humans. He didn't want to try explaining to a cop that the new father he had just bisected wasn't human. That way lay jail cells or padded rooms, and Chris had no desire to experience either.

Of course, some cops were completely on board with killing werewolves. Gerard used them on his hunts whenever he could. They'd join in the hunt and happily cover up the execution. Unfortunately, those cops were often the same cops who'd kill people of color with the same enthusiasm and self-righteousness. Chris didn't like using them. He judged people on their actions. He didn't give two goddamns about the color of their skin. It was part of the Code, part of what kept them on the side of the righteous. Hunters protected humans—all humans—from supernatural monsters, just like the police were supposed to protect humans from each other regardless of skin color. Victoria called him naïve. Maybe he was.

He still didn't like going into police stations.

The Beacon County Sheriff's Office was a low, brick building, maybe 30-years-old and showing its age. There was a free-standing metal detector on the outside door, and the front desk was in the open reception area, not behind glass. He already had his carry permit out before walking through it.

He'd actually talked to the sheriff about installing additional security for the reception area, but Stilinski had only sighed. Apparently, he'd been requesting a refit for nearly five years, but the county and the town were looking at constructing a whole new building and so wouldn't put out the money to do anything to the old one.

"It'll take a disaster," is what Stilinski had said and he'd looked worried. Chris understood: a disaster in this instance meant cops being killed.

He walked over to the desk. Instead of the usual female officer, there was a male deputy on duty. Young, white and skinny, he had on glasses and was scribbling furiously on a yellow, legal notepad. Chris didn't need to see his name tag (Lassiter) to know that they'd never met, which could make it harder to get into the back area. Small towns like Beacon Hills were always more willing to bend the rules for a familiar face.

"Hiya," Chris said, keeping his smile low-key and casual. The deputy barely looked up. "I'm Chris Argent," he said mildly.

Lassiter's head jerked up and he stared at Chris. "Argent?" Lassiter straightened. He pulled the legal pad down, out of sight, trying to be casual about it. Chris realized the kid had been writing up his report on Kate's arrest.

"You have my sister in holding." Chris could almost hear the kid wondering if he'd known what Kate was up to. The look in Lassiter's eyes already had him half-condemned as a monster. He made his smile rueful. "I'd like to see her."

"Uh right. Umm," Lassiter hummed apologetically.

Chris didn't let himself sigh. "Is the sheriff here?" he asked instead. "You can ask him if it's okay."

"Sheriff Stilinski is still on scene," Lassiter answered. "But Deputy Graeme… Tara'll know the protocol." Lassiter picked up the phone. Then he looked at Chris as if waiting for him to move away from the desk to give him some privacy. Chris smiled acceptance even as he backed away to let the kid—Chris refused to consider him a real adult—contact his supervisor.

Chris looked at the information boards (useless), picked up a magazine (boring), and paced (frustrating, because the space was too small). He resisted staring at Lassiter knowing it would just make the young deputy nervous and maybe suspicious. Thankfully, it didn't take long before a short, African-American woman, wearing a senior deputy's uniform and a no-nonsense attitude came out from the back.

This one, Chris did know. His hopes went up. He stepped forward, a more honest smile in place and his hand out to shake. "Deputy Graeme, we've met—"

"I remember you," she interrupted. "Weapons demonstration couple months back. You argued for open carry." Her tone was polite rather than friendly. "Are you carrying right now, Mr. Argent?

Chris dropped his hand and his smile "I am. I have my permit, of course."

"Of course you do." Her tone was dry. "What can I do for you, Mr. Argent?"

"I'd like to speak to my sister. Or failing that, Sheriff Stilinski." Deputy Graeme lifted an eyebrow. Chris softened his request. "When he gets here, of course." Graeme looked at Lassiter who gave a squirmy little shrug in apology. It reminded Chris of some scuttle-butt he'd heard about Deputy Graeme having been a middle school teacher before becoming a cop. His hopes for getting any information out of the police fell.

She turned back to Chris and her expression was professionally polite. "The sheriff has not authorized the release of any information regarding this case," Graeme stated. "As you are not your sister's lawyer, we are under no obligation to allow you to speak to the suspect or to tell you the charges. If you object to these actions, you are more than welcome to wait for the sheriff's return."

"How long will he be, do you know? It is rather urgent that I talk to him."

Her expression didn't shift. "I don't set the sheriff's schedule, nor does he let civilians set his priorities."

"As a public servant, isn't it his job to respond to civilian emergencies?" Chris couldn't help but snark.

"If this was an emergency, then we'd be responding," she replied, still completely unimpressed with him. "Is it an emergency?"

Chris was forced to admit that, no, it wasn't.

"Very good, sir," she finally smiled at him—a professional quirk of the lips. "If you'd care to have a seat. There's coffee on the table over there." She nodded at the far end, away from the door and the desk.

"No thanks," Chris said. "I've had your coffee before."

She shrugged, gave Lassiter a sharp nod that had the young deputy straightening, and left the room. Chris waited until the door to the back area was fully closed.

"That is one tough woman," he said with a rueful chuckle.

Lassiter joined him. "Definitely. I mean... She's really nice off the job," he hastened to assure Chris. "And she's taught me a lot." He cleared his throat. "The sheriff trusts her."

"I can see why." Chris smiled, gauging it perfectly so that Lassiter relaxed. "She was on scene with him tonight?" Lassiter tightened back up. Chris changed his expression to rueful amusement. "I think my sister is doomed."

Deputy Lassiter relaxed, but not enough. Damn, Stilinski had trained his people well.

Chris pulled his cell phone out, and waved it towards the door behind him. "Speaking of tough women, I need to update my wife…"

"Oh yeah, sure," Lassiter agreed hastily. "If Sheriff Stilinski comes in while you're outside, I'll let him know you're waiting."

"Thanks, Deputy…" Chris made a show of looking at the guy's badge. "…Lassiter. I appreciate it."

.o0o.

Sheriff Stilinski was glad to be out of that creepy basement.

It turned out the bars to which Hale had been chained predated the fire. Why would the Hales—upstanding citizens as they appeared to be—need a room with bars that would make a regular prison look weak? Unless the werewolf thing was true and they needed a cage to prevent bloody rampages during full moons?

He stopped by his patrol car.

God, he hoped the werewolf thing wasn't true, but there'd been Derek's face when they'd opened the door. And Dr. Willard had found blood on the floor right where he'd been chained up. Fresh blood, but there'd been no cuts, no damage, not even bruising, on Hale at all.

He scraped a hand through his hair, hoping it would help order his thoughts. It didn't.

He radioed in to the station to let Tara know he was heading back in. If he was going to be confused he might as well be warm. The station might be old and hopelessly outdated, but the central heating system worked just fine.

It was late. He was tired and spooked. It took fierce concentration for him to not let his mind wander from safely driving 5000 pounds of vehicle through the night. Stiles would never forgive him if he crashed, and he'd never forgive himself if he hurt anyone because he was distracted by the idea of werewolves in his county.

A werewolf would explain all the recent "animal" attacks.

Except, as far as the sheriff knew, the first couple attacks pre-dated Hale's return to Beacon Hills…

Except, he only had Hale's word for when he'd left New York. It was possible he'd arrived months ago and started revenge killing…

Starting with his sister? That didn't make sense…

Stilinski was halfway to town when he remembered there was another Hale in Beacon County.

Peter Hale had been badly burned in the fire, but if Derek Hale could heal whatever damage Kate Argent and her friends had inflicted on him, then perhaps Peter Hale could've healed his burns. Being in a vegetative state would be the perfect cover for a revenge-seeking serial killer.

Tomorrow, after they'd processed Argent, he'd head out to the hospital. Check their security tapes and see if Peter Hale was healthier than he let on.

.o0o.

Peter Hale wasn't quite ready. He wasn't quite healed enough, wasn't quite strong enough. However, his time had run out. It had to be now, before the law took her away from him.

Perhaps, he should collect Derek from wherever he was stashed in the hospital. Derek had liked him once, had looked up to him even. Surely family bonds would drive Derek to back him up at the station.

Of course, there was the inconvenient fact that Peter had killed Laura in order to become the Alpha.

Maybe it would be better to wait a bit to reel Derek in. Once their revenge was complete, once the Argents were dead, he could devote all his time in convincing his nephew that he'd killed Laura in a fit of burn-enhanced insanity; that he'd been driven by his need to obtain justice for the deaths of their family. It was certainly better than the truth.

If only the boy—Scott—had joined him. Even a pack containing only one pathetic, teen-aged beta was better than nothing. Calling the boy out hadn't worked, but there were always other options. It might be easier to convince the boy to join him if someone he loved was already in the pack. There was his delicious mother—Peter definitely wouldn't mind having her as his beta. There was Scott's obnoxious friend—smart, annoying, but less cautious than the mother.

Either one of those would probably be enough to pull Scott into the fold. If only it weren't too late to grab one of them tonight.

Ah well. The police would've disarmed the bitch, and he could be very resourceful. He'd do this himself, and build his pack afterwards.

.o0o.