The Wolfen

by Whitley Strieber

  Not a trace, not even the rustle of a foot in the snow. They had moved! Goddamn, he hadn’t counted on speed like that. Then he was running too—as fast as he could out of the alley and into the middle of the snowy street, running frantically, feeling like an old, old man as he wheezed along, running toward a lighted window, an all-night deli, and then through the door.

  “Jesus, don’t scare me like that, man!”

  “Sorry-sorry. I—I’m cold. You got coffee?”

  “Yeah, comin’ up. You runnin’ your ass off out there. You in trouble, man?”

  “Just trying to keep warm is all. Trying to keep warm.”

  The counterman held out the coffee—and held on to it. “You got fifty cents, daddy?

  That’s fifty cents in advance.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” Wilson paid him, took the hot coffee cup in his hands, moved it to his face, and sipped.

  Great God I’m alive! I got that Goddamn gun out f-a-s-t! One second later and they would have had me, the s.o.b.’s! It was exhilarating—it might have felt slow but he had drawn that gun Goddamn fast. Fast enough to save himself from them and they were fast beyond imagining.

  He sipped again, noticing how his hand trembled. That had to stop. Long ago he had learned how to overcome the special fear that came with the close proximity of death.

  Now he went through the routine, a system that had been taught to him by his first partner, back in the forties when he was a rookie cop. There was a man—shot dead by his oldest son in ‘52. Now wait a minute, Wilson thought, you’re digressing. You’re shocked.

  Come on now, policeman, snap out of it! Relax shoulders, let them fall. Let your gut hang out. Slack your lips. Breathe deeply… one… two… and think about nothing, just let it roll over you.

  Now when he sipped the coffee he tasted it, and for the first time noticed that it was black and unsweetened.

  “Hey, I said light, this coffee’s black.”

  “You need it black, man. You don’t need no light coffee. You drink that, then I’ll give you a light.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I’m not drunk.” The counterman laughed softly, then looked straight at Wilson. “I wouldn’t say you were. You scared. You the scaredest motherfucker I’ve seen in a good long while. Maybe that coffee’ll help you get it back together, man.”

  “Well, it is back together, man. And I want a light coffee. I can’t drink this stuff.”

  “Sure, you got money I’ll fix you a carbonated coffee if you want it. I don’t give a damn. But don’t say you can’t drink what you got.”

  “Why the hell not! What are you, some kind of a nut? I said I wanted light. I can’t drink this junk.”

  “Look in the cup, man.”

  It was empty. He hadn’t even been aware of swallowing it! He shut up, returned to his thoughts, to how incredibly fast they had been. It was almost as if they had vanished; but he had glimpsed flashes of running bodies. Then it occurred to him that if they were that fast they would have gotten past his defenses before he had even realized they were there.

  Why hadn’t they? For some unknown reason this particular gold shield had been allowed to live. The M-11 still felt good in his pocket but it had been no protection at all.

  None at all. It certainly hadn’t been the speed of his draw that had scared them away.

  Something, then… almost but not quite like a memory. He almost knew why they had run, then—he didn’t. “Shit.”

  “You ready to go, mister?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you notice we ain’t got no chairs in here. This is a deli, not no coffee shop. You got to buy and go in a place like this, that’s the rules.”

  “So what if I don’t go?”

  “Nothin’. Just I feel like you got trouble all around you. You gonna bring it in here with you.”

  Wilson debated whether to go back outside or to flash his shield. What the hell, outside probably wasn’t the healthiest place for him to be right now. Whatever had stopped them before might not again. So he flashed. “Police,” he said tonelessly, “I’m stayin’ put.”

  “Sure enough.”

  “There a back room, some place I can bunk out? I’m tired, I’ve just been in a bad spot.”

  “I’d have to agree, judging from the way you look. We got a storeroom. It’s good, there’s plenty of place to lie, and it’s pretty warm. I get a little back there now and then myself.” He showed Wilson into a low-ceilinged room, obviously a shed attached to the rear of the old brownstone building that housed the deli. There was one window, barred, and a triple-locked door. Very good, very cozy, very safe until the morning brought crowds back to the street and he could safely go out. As he settled back he reviewed his strange, terrifying failure. Obviously they were way, way ahead of him—fast, smart, in complete control of the situation. There was only one reason that he wasn’t dead right now—they wanted him alive a little longer.

  When he closed his eyes he saw them, their steady, eager eyes, the cruel beauty of their faces… and he remembered the moose and the wolves. What did the spent old moose feel for the ravening timber wolf—was it love, or fear so great that it mimicked love?

  When they realized who was concealed in the alley they were full of glee. He had come to protect the female, just as the father had said he would. The father knew man very well and could detect nuances of scent that the younger ones could scarcely imagine. And Father had detected the fact that the man who had seen them loved his female coworker.

  Father had said, we can move against them both at the same time because the male will try to protect the female. And Father had selected the place and time: where the female was most defenseless, when she was most vulnerable.

  And they went and there he was. Asleep! The second-mated pair prepared for the attack, moving into position across the street. They were just about to move when the man raised his head and looked at them. The pack froze and smelled it all at the same time: sweat from the hand that held the gun.

  It was a hard decision, instantly made by Mother —we leave; we do not risk moving so far against the gun, we get him another time.

  Now the pack ran, rushing through the streets to the ruined building where they would spend the day. Each heart beat with the same agonizing knowledge: they live, they live, they live. And they know about us. Even as the sun rises they must be telling others, spreading the fear that the old legends speak about, the fear that would make life among men hard and dangerous for future generations.

  The second-mated pair was especially anguished: in the spring they would litter, and they did not want to bring forth children if man knew of the hunter.

  Not that they feared anything from single individuals, or even groups. But endless numbers of men could overwhelm them or at least force them into furtive, tormented lives unworthy of free beings. As they moved warily through the deserted streets one thought consumed them all: kill the dangerous ones, kill them fast. And it was this that they talked about when they reached their sanctuary, a long, intense conversation that left them all shuddering with a furious urge for blood, all except Father, who said, we have won. Soon he will give himself to us as men did of old, for the death wish is coming upon him.

  Wilson opened his eyes. The light coming in the window was yellow-gray. A steady tapping against the windowpane indicated that it was snowing again.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  A man was standing over him, a fat man in gray slacks and a white shirt. He was bald, his face pinched with the long habit of unsatisfied greed.

  “I’m a cop. Wilson’s the name.”

  “Oh Christ almighty—why’d you let this damn bum in here, Eddie? Throw the fucker out, he’ll get weevils in the Goddamn bread.”

  “He got a gold shield, man. I’m not gonna say no to a gold shield.”

  “You can buy a Goddamn gold shield on Forty-second Street. Get the jerk out.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I was just leaving. Thanks, Eddie, from t
he NYPD.”

  Wilson left to a snort of scornful laughter from the white guy, a disgusted stare from the black. Sleeping over in storerooms was pretty unorthodox behavior for a cop. What the hell, he didn’t give a damn.

  It was still pretty damn lonely on the street. Lonely and snowy too. This was practically a blizzard, must be five or six inches by now. He started to walk back by Becky’s building, then stopped himself. It hit him like a haymaker—they had come when they did because they knew he would be there. They were hunters, for Chrissake, they knew damn well where he’d be. Oh, they were beautiful! They had him figured from way back. It was probably exactly what one of them would have done—protect the one he loved.

  What the hell, the bitch was beautiful. Fair cop too—but so beautiful. Becky had creamy skin, Irish coloring. Wilson was partial to that kind of coloring. And she had those soft, yet piercing eyes. He thought of looking into those eyes. “Becky, I love you,” he would say, and she would open her mouth slightly, inviting the first long kiss…

  But not now. Now it was cold and he was hungry. He trudged toward the Lexington Avenue subway to ride down to headquarters. His watch said six-thirty. The Merit Bar was open by now, and they served up a fair breakfast. Then he felt the M-11. You didn’t go into Police Headquarters with a loaded M-11, you just did not do that. He’d have to stop by his rooming house first and exchange it for his regulation piece.

  The subway wasn’t much warmer than the street, but at least it was well-lighted and there were a few people around. Not many at this hour, but enough to keep the things away from him. They were after him and Becky because they had been seen—certainly they wouldn’t attack except when their targets were alone. But you can be alone enough for just a few seconds. That he had to remember.

  He got off and returned to his rooming house, entering this time by the front door. At the top of the stairs he carefully removed the putty he had left in the fire escape lock and returned to his room. He dropped off the overcoat containing the M-11 and put on the one containing the .38. That was all. The way he kept his place locked, he wasn’t worried that a burglar would rip off the pistol, or anything else in his apartment for that matter.

  He double-locked his door, tested it, and left the building as quickly and quietly as he had come. And as he did it he laughed at himself. There was no need to be so quiet, it was just that it was second nature to him now. Unless he was acting the part of an unconcerned civilian he was always wary, always stealthy. He walked the short distance from his place to headquarters the same way, like a thief or someone tracking a thief.

  He went through the quiet, brightly lit corridors of Police Headquarters until he got to the little office occupied by him and Neff. When he opened the door, his eyes widened with surprise.

  There sat Evans.

  “Hiya, Doc. Do I owe you money?”

  Evans wasn’t interested in bantering with Wilson. “We got another one,” he said simply.

  “What’s the story?”

  Evans looked at him. “Call Neff. Tell her to meet us at the scene.”

  “Anything new?” Wilson asked as he dialed the phone.

  “Plenty.”

  “Why didn’t you call Neff yourself?”

  “You’re the senior man on the case. I tried you first. When you didn’t answer I came over. I figured you were on your way in.”

  “Emergency, Doctor. You could have called Neff when you didn’t find me.”

  “I have no emergencies. My line of business only concerns emergencies after they’re over.”

  Somewhere out there the phone was ringing. Dick was subvocalizing a few choice curses each time the bell burst the silence. Ring and curse, ring and curse. “It could be for you,” Becky said.

  “Nah. I’m burned, remember. It ain’t for me.”

  “Then it’s for me.”

  “So answer the fucker. One of us has gotta do it.”

  She picked up the receiver. Wilson didn’t waste hellos. “Oh, Christ. OK, see you there.”

  She hung up. “Gotta go. Homicide in the park.”

  “Since when are you assigned uptown?”

  “Evans called us in. He says it looks like our friends got hungry again.”

  “The big bad wolves.” He raised himself up on his elbow. “What about our picture-taking expedition, will it be on?”

  “I hope. I’ll call you.”

  “OK, honey.”

  She was dressing as quickly as possible, but the gentleness in his voice made her stop.

  They looked at one another. The delirious, unexpected intensity of the night before was written in Dick’s face. She saw clearly: he was grateful. It touched her, made her think that maybe there was still something left after all.

  “I—” The words seemed to die in her throat. They were so unfamiliar, so long unsaid.

  Dick had come to her wordlessly, in the dark, just as she was falling asleep. He had embraced her, his body hot and trembling, and had awakened in her a painful rush of feeling. Maybe she did care—so much that she just couldn’t face it. Maybe that was the true source of the wall that was being built between them. And realizing that she had responded to his intensity with passion of her own and had enjoyed the violent insistence of his body, finally crying out with the pleasure.

  “What, Becky?”

  “I don’t know. Just wanted to say good-bye.” But not I love you, not that again, not yet. And she felt like a heel for holding back, a selfish heel.

  “Don’t make it sound so final.” He chuckled. “The worst I’ll get is early retirement. If the shooflies are real good they might give you a five-day. Don’t let it bug you, darling.

  And by the way, there’s something else I want to say to you before you go.” He rolled over on his back, throwing off the covers, exposing his naked body and erect penis with delightful lack of modesty. “You still remain one of the great American lays, darling.”

  And she was beside him, bending over him, kissing his smiling face. “Dick, you silly fool, look at you. You never get enough.”

  “I’m a morning man.”

  “And a night man and an afternoon man. I wish I didn’t have to go! I’ll call you when I get the chance.” She drew herself away from him, full of a confusion of emotions. Why couldn’t she make up her mind about this: did she still love Dick Neff or didn’t she? And what about Wilson, what did her feelings for him mean?

  She rode the elevator down to the garage level and got in her car. As soon as she started driving her mind closed around the case. The night with Dick receded, as did the welter of emotions she had been feeling. Like a murky, ugly fog the case rose and recaptured her. Wilson hadn’t said much over the phone, not much. But he had sounded uncharacteristically upset. Evans had been with him at Police Headquarters. She glanced at her watch: seven a.m. An early hour for Doctor Evans. She stepped on the accelerator, racing across Seventy-ninth Street in the snow, heading for the point of rendezvous, Central Park West and Seventy-second.

  The streets were empty as she maneuvered the car around the corner at Seventy-ninth and CPW. She was now in the 20th Precinct. Ahead she could see the flashing lights, the dismal little crowd of emergency vehicles that always marked a crime scene. She pulled up behind a parked radio car. “I’m Neff,” she said to the lieutenant on the scene.

  “We got a funny one,” he intoned. “Anticrime boys found this bench covered with frozen blood about an hour ago. We took it to pathology and sure enough it’s human.

  O-negative, to be exact. But we got no corpse, nothin’.”

  “How do you know it was a murder?”

  “There’s evidence enough. First off, too much blood, whoever lost it had to die. Second, we can see where the body was pulled across the wall.” Her eyes went to the indentations in the snow that lay along the wall. More snow had fallen since the murder, but not enough to completely obliterate the signs. “By the way, Detective Neff, if I may be so blunt, why are you here?”

  “Well, I�
�m on special assignment with my partner, Detective Wilson. We’re investigating a certain M.O. When the M. E. finds a case that seems to fit he gives us a call.”

  “You take your orders from the M. E.?”

  “We were instructed by the Commissioner.” She hadn’t wanted to pull rank, but she sensed that he was needling her. He smiled a little sheepishly and strolled away.

  “Lieutenant,” Neff called, “is this blood all you have? No body, no clothing, nothing?”

  “Hold on, Becky,” a voice said behind her. It was Evans, followed closely by Wilson.

  The two men came up and the three of them huddled together under the curious eyes of the men of the 20th and Central Park precincts. “There’s more,” Evans said, “there’s some hair.”

  “He’s examined some hairs that were stuck in the blood.”

  “Right. This is my interpreter, Detective Wilson. I found hairs—”

  “That match the hairs found at the DiFalco scene.”

  Evans frowned. “Come on, Wilson, lay off. The hairs match the ones we’ve found at every scene.”

  “They’re pretty voracious if they only left blood,” Becky said.

  “They didn’t. Don’t you see what happened? They hid the remains. They’ve learned that we’re on their tail and they’re trying to slow us down. They’re very bright.”

  “That’s for certain,” Wilson said. Becky noticed how haggard he looked, his face waxen, his jaw unshaven. Had he slept at all? It didn’t look like it. He cleared his throat. “Are they searching for the corpse?” he asked the Lieutenant, who was standing nearby.

  “Yeah. There’s some sign of something being dragged, but the snow covered most of the evidence up. We’re just not sure what happened.”

  Becky motioned to Wilson and Evans. They followed her into her car. “It’s warmer here,” she said, “and the Loo won’t overhear us.”

  Evans was the first to speak. “Obviously they were hiding behind the wall when somebody sat on the bench. Judging from the blood it happened five or six hours ago.

  They must have jumped over the wall, killed fast and dragged the corpse away.”