The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  ACCOLADES FOR THE FRENZY WAY

  “The Frenzy Way is an awesome blend of police procedural and bloody werewolf action. It’s easily Lamberson’s best novel—and I loved his first two!”

  —Jeff Strand, Bram Stoker Award nominated author of Pressure and Dweller (December 2009)

  “A werewolf serial killer whodunit with real teeth, The Frenzy Way is a razor-sharp read from beginning to end. Lamberson’s tale is a police procedural, werewolf historical, good old-fashioned monster movie mash up, a winning mix to be sure, but what really makes the narrative shine are its deft characterizations. Even the tiniest bit players seem alive, vital, a crucial part of the puzzle, making this wild-in-the-streets werewolf hunt all the more tense. Highly recommended.”

  —Michael Louis Calvillo, Bram Stoker Award nominated author of I Will Rise and As Fate Would Have It (December 2009)

  “The Frenzy Way is a grinning, snapping chainsaw of a novel, so grab some heavy gloves and eye protection and hang on for a fast, fun ride.”

  —Jeff Jacobson, author of Wormfood (December 2009)

  “From the opening paragraph, Greg Lamberson’s The Frenzy Way sinks its long, dark claws into you, refusing to release you until your shaking fingers have turned the very last page. There is a chilling seduction to the intelligent, gritty crime noir style in which this distinctive take on the werewolf myth is delivered that is exquisitely terrifying, breathtakingly harsh, and beautifully brutal. The Frenzy Way is horror at its absolute best!”

  —Gabrielle S. Faust, author of Eternal Vigilance (December 2009)

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated, with love, to Tamar

  Published 2010 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2010 by Gregory Lamberson

  Cover design by Tommy Castillo and James Tampa

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-160542107-0

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Christopher Aiello, a.k.a. “Chris the cop,” for serving as my technical advisor on this book. A retired NYPD detective, he has spared me considerable embarrassment in my depiction of the NYPD and its hierarchy.

  A mighty thanks to Jamie LeChance, proofreader extraordinaire; Jeff Strand, for serving as my first reader (again) and for suggesting this book’s title; and Chris Hedges for making invaluable editorial suggestions.

  Thanks, as always, to the team at Medallion Press for their continued support: Helen A Rosburg, Ali DeGray, Adam Mock, Heather Lewis, James Tampa, and Paul Ohlson.

  And thank you for following me into hell once more. I hope we can do it again soon.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Quotes

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part 2

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Alone in the wilderness I roam

  With much hardships in the wilderness I roam

  A wolf said this to me.

  —Sitting Bull

  “Never before in all history were so many large wild animals slain in so short a time.”

  —Theodore Roosevelt

  PROLOGUE

  John Stalk awoke with a sudden jerk, his fingers clawing empty air for the M-4 assault rifle he hadn’t held in six months. In that same instant, he expected to see clouds of mortar erupting from the grimy walls of sun-bleached buildings, machine gunfire strafing dusty streets, and figures in bulky uniforms scattering among panicked civilians. Instead he saw pale blue moonlight seeping through the windows and glinting off knotty pine walls. Kindling burned in the stone fireplace across the main room.

  Not in Fallujah, he thought, the thick comforter falling away as he sat up on the futon. His father’s cabin. As a boy, he had come here with Chief Dan to hunt and fish. Now, after being stateside for half a year, the dreams of Fallujah persisted with unyielding clarity, the dead men from his unit calling to him with silent mouths. Jameson. Pillman. Raeckel. The list went on.

  The sweat on his forehead cooled. What had awakened him? He wondered if he would ever be able to sleep through common background noise again. The forest surrounding the cabin had always been serene. If he couldn’t relax here …

  Then he heard it: a long, high-pitched wail descending from the mountaintop, piercing the night with its stark loneliness. The howling rose and fell in a melody, the pitiful singing filling him with inexplicable sadness. For reasons he did not comprehend, he felt instant kinship with the beast crying in the night.

  A wolf, he thought, his heartbeat quickening. Then he dismissed the notion. Wolves had not been reintroduced to New York as they had been in other states. Oh, a gray wolf could conceivably have wandered down from Canada, but that would have caused quite a stir at the border. Must be a coyote.

  Climbing out of bed, he dragged the comforter after him. Clad in long johns and thick socks, he padded across the rugs on the wood floor to the nearest window. Falling snow flickered in the moonlight like fireflies, obscuring the tree line at the property’s edge. The massive silhouette of the mountain towered over him, blotting out the slush gray sky.

  The howling resumed, rolling over the treetops. He rubbed his arms beneath the comforter. Standing transfixed for several minutes, he tried to pinpoint the creature’s location on the mountain. The lonely song echoed around the terrain, seeming to come from several directions at once. He shivered. Withdrawing from the window, he added fresh kindling to the smoldering fire, then laid down on the futon and c
losed his eyes. He fell asleep to the sound of the animal’s melancholy voice.

  That’s no coyote, he thought.

  Gunfire awoke him: sharp reports that split the night asunder. Fixing his eyes on the crossbeams in the cathedral ceiling, Stalk thought he had been dreaming of combat again. But a shrill yelping followed the third and final shot, followed by silence. His body turned rigid.

  The wolf!

  Flinging back the comforter, he ran to the window and staredthrough the falling snow. He waited there for several minutes, hearing nothing, then returned to bed. Someone had killed the wolf, but who? He supposed the animal had disturbed the occupant of one of the cabins that peppered this side of the mountain. That was easier to imagine than some hunter tracking a creature by moonlight.

  But aren’t wolves a protected species?

  Out here in the Adirondacks, in the middle of the night, who could enforce such laws? Lying down once more, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.

  Stalk didn’t know how long he had been asleep when the scratching sounds woke him. Propping himself on his elbows, he scanned the cabin’s dark interior, trimmed with orange light from the fireplace. Outside, the snow had stopped falling, leaving a black void beyond the cabin windows. The clawing sounds continued, and Stalk’s gaze moved through the darkness to the door. Was that a husky moan he heard on the other side?

  Something’s out there, he thought, heart palpitating. Trying to get inside.

  Without hesitation, he leapt from the futon and lifted the Winchester rifle from the hand-carved wooden rack on the wall. He crossed the room in three generous strides. Twisting the locks, he threw open the heavy door, stepped back, and aimed the rifle at the rectangle of darkness as frigid air swept inside, chilling him like wine. Shifting the barrel downward, he gaped at what he saw.

  Moonlight rippled across smooth flesh. Dark hair splayed over the snow. The woman lay facedown on the ground, her left arm, folded beneath her breasts, supporting her torso while her right hand reached out toward Stalk. Her right leg extended straight behind her, while her left leg was bent, its knee touching her elbow. Her nude body quivered in the cold.

  Lowering the rifle, Stalk blinked in astonishment. The air stinging his nostrils told him he was not dreaming.

  Blood streamed from a bullet hole in her left hip, and her shadowed features twisted with pain. “Help … me …”

  As he stepped outside, feet pressing snow, Stalk’s mind raced. Something awful had transpired on the mountainside: the woman had been shot in the burst of gunfire he had heard earlier. She must have fled the scene in a state of blind panic, thinking of nothing but survival. In his mind, he replayed the yelping he had heard; she must have owned a dog. Bending over, he scooped her up in his arms, his right hand still clutching the Winchester. He didn’t care if he got her blood on his long underwear, because whoever had shot her probably lurked nearby.

  Domestic dispute? His mind still worked like a cop’s.

  The woman wrapped her arms around his neck and bowed her head against his chest, barely conscious. Carrying her inside the cabin, he kicked the door shut with one heel, leaned his rifle against the fireplace, and draped her over the futon. A moan escaped her chapped lips, and she turned her head, hair covering half her face. Stalk pulled the comforter around her. First he’d warm her; then he’d dress her wound. Returning to the door with his socks soaking wet, he bolted the locks. In the kitchenette, he removed disinfectant and gauze from a cupboard; his father kept the cabin stocked with emergency supplies in case of a hunting accident or some other life-threatening mishap.

  Setting the medical supplies on the bedside table, he brushed the woman’s hair out of her face. She had closed her eyes, snow melting in her long lashes. Her cheeks curved down to full lips, vaguely ethnic. She scrunched her features in deep concentration, sweat forming on her brow. In the warm golden firelight, Stalk thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  He pulled back one flap of the comforter, exposing her naked body, then bunched up the other end of the cover to hide the strip of black hair between her legs. After he used the first flap to wipe the bloodfrom the curve of her hip, he pressed a wet cloth against the wound. Removing the cloth, he frowned. He stepped to one side, allowing the firelight to shine directly on her hip.

  Impossible.

  The wound had vanished. He was certain he had seen a bullet hole when he first set eyes on her, and he had seen countless bullet wounds in Iraq. The woman’s flesh was unmarked. He studied her face. Her features now appeared relaxed, and her body had stopped quivering. She lost consciousness.

  Stalk stepped back from the futon. What in God’s name had just happened?

  A sudden howling outside interrupted his thought process.

  The wolf?

  Fear inched up his spine. A wolf, yes, but not the same one he had heard earlier. This creature’s voice sounded deep and commanding. Menacing, even.

  Moving to the window, Stalk froze. Outside, in plain view, an immense black shape streaked with gray sat on its haunches in the snow, staring straight at him. Tilting its head back, it howled again, calling out to an invisible audience.

  Another howl answered it. And then another. And another after that. Soon an entire chorus sang at the cabin.

  Heart pounding, Stalk ran to another window. He glimpsed a similar shape, as black as midnight, against the stark white snow. This one stood on all four legs, pacing in a circle. With the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end, Stalk rushed to the kitchenette. Through the window there he spied another wolf, this one standing as still as an ice sculpture. Like the first two, it stared at him. He ran into the bedroom, which his family never used in the winter because it didn’t receive enough heat. Through the last window, he squinted at the darkness outside, where the moonlight failed to reach. Two dark shadows separated from the blackness.

  Jesus! Stalk sprinted back into the main room and seized the Winchester from the fireplace. Staring at the unconscious woman on the futon, he pulled back the bolt. Then his body jerked as the window closest to the futon exploded in a shower of glass and the first wolf landed on the floor, its eyes blazing with fury and its lips pulled back to reveal fangs jutting out from its gums.

  PART ONE

  FEEDING GROUND

  THE VILLAGE

  A crackling sound came over the car radio, followed by the female dispatcher’s voice: “Five Charlie, what’s your status? Over.”

  Brandt glanced at Penrose, behind the wheel of the moving vehicle. Halfway through a busy midnight-to-eight tour, they wanted nothing more than a hot meal.

  Eyes drooping, Penrose shook his head and blew air from his cheeks. As the radio car cruised Christopher Street, city lights arced across his dark features.

  Brandt eased her hand radio from its resting spot on the seat between her legs. “This is Five Charlie,” she said, studying the West Village hipsters that prowled the sidewalks. “We’re available. Over.”

  “We have a possible 10-34 on Bedford Street.” A 10-34 identified a violent assault in progress, and their sector included Bedford.

  “Ten-four. Over.” Brandt set the hand radio down again. “Must be a full moon tonight.”

  Grunting, Penrose activated the siren.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “The Original People worshipped Sun, who loved a Crow woman. When an evil Crow man raped Sun’s wife, she committed suicide. Angered, Sun banished the Crow people from their land and threatened to kill them. White Wolf took pity on the Crow people and secretly provided them with food. When Sun learned of his servant’s disobedience, he forgave the Crow people and made Wolf an outcast instead.”

  —Native American Religion, Terrence Glenzer

  The cell phone’s piercing ring caused Tony Mace to stir in the darkness. Rolling over, he blinked at the digital alarm clock as he clicked on the bedside lamp: 4:40 AM, almost an hour before he had planned to rise. Beside him, Cheryl pulled a pillow over her head. Ma
ce picked up his phone and squinted at its display, which flashed Night Watch Command. The detective bureaus closed their doors at 1:00 AM, when Night Watch responded to their calls. He pressed the phone against his ear. “This is Mace.”

  “Sorry to wake you, Captain,” a female voice said. “This is Sergeant Evans with Night Watch Command. One of your detectives, Willy Diega, is requesting to speak to you from a crime scene.”

  Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Mace set his mind to military time. The detective bureau closed shop at 0100 and reopened for business at 0800, four hours from now. The only time Night Watch summoned on-call detectives during that period was in an extreme situation requiring immediate attention. He and his lieutenant, Ken Landry, took turns being on call to supervise their detectives in such situations, and Mace was up at bat. “Put him through, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” A click, followed by a beep. “I have Captain Mace on the line, Detective Diega.”

  “Thank you,” said Willy Diega, detective first grade.

  “You’re welcome.” Another click as Evans hung up.

  “Go ahead, Willy.”

  “Captain, we’ve got a real bag of shit in the Oh-Six. The biggest bag of shit I’ve ever seen.”

  The Sixth Precinct, Mace thought. “Who’s the primary?”

  “Patty.”

  Mace understood the concern in Willy’s voice. His partner, Detective third grade Patty Lane, had proven herself to be a sharp-eyed Murder Police, but she had not yet headed a major investigation. “Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Bring your accessories. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The first officer puked.”

  Shutting the phone off, Mace clambered out of bed. In the shower’s hot spray, he soaped and rinsed his muscular arms. Because he stood only five-seven, he had compensated for his lack of stature by working out on a regular basis for most of his adult life, and at thirty-nine he was in better condition than most men half his age. Returning to the bedroom, he saw that Cheryl had gotten up, and he felt guilty for waking her. He dressed in a tailored black suit and combed his short dark hair.