“And Evans—”
“The last I saw he was sitting in the car. You’d have thought he would have locked the doors. I guess he didn’t think of it in time.”
“They opened the doors?” Becky asked.
Wilson shrugged. “What’s surprising about that?”
He was right. It was just hard to accept, even with all she had seen. Somehow you just couldn’t see animals behaving like that. But then, they weren’t animals at all, were they?
They had minds, that qualified them as… something. You couldn’t include them as part of humanity. They were fundamentally our enemy. It was in their blood, and in ours.
Although they were intelligent they couldn’t be called human. Or could they? Did they have civil rights, duties, obligations? The very question was absurd. Despite their intelligent nature there would be no place for them in human society.
Except as hunter. There was a very definite place for the hyena in wildebeest society, for the leopard in baboon society. Their presence was respected and accommodated because there was no choice. No matter how hard they tried, the wildebeest and the baboon were never going to defeat their predators. So the social order reflected their presence. Baboons protected the young, exposed the weak. They hated it but they did it.
You would too, in time.
Ferguson was the first to speak after absorbing Wilson’s explanation. “It fits,” he said.
“That’s a very clever plan. They must have been amazed that you got away.”
“Unless they’re playing games.”
“Not likely. You’re too dangerous. Can you imagine how it must feel, knowing that your way of life is about to be destroyed by just two human beings? Hell, they probably knock off one or two people a day for food. Hunting you down must have seemed easy at first.
No, I don’t think they’re playing games with you. You’re damn hard to get, that’s all. Like all predators, when they come up against competent members of the prey species they have a hard time. They aren’t equipped to deal with determined resistance. Among animals, this nets out to a trial by strength. The young moose kicks hell out of the wolf.
With us it’s wits—ours against theirs.”
Wilson nodded. Becky noticed that what Ferguson was saying was having a good effect on him. And her too, for that matter. It didn’t change the fear, but it added some perspective. You began to get the feeling that the werewolves were almost omnipotent and you were like mice in a trap, just waiting there until they got tired of toying with you.
But maybe Ferguson was right. After all they had thus far defeated the werewolves every time. They could go on defeating them. But then another thought came to her, an ugly one that had been hiding in the back of her mind untouched. “How long,” she asked, “will they keep up the hunt?”
“A long time,” Ferguson said. “Until they succeed —or get talked out of it.”
Becky pushed hard at that thought, got rid of it. They couldn’t afford an ambivalent attitude. “OK, kids, let’s hit the road. We have work to do.”
Herbert Underwood was troubled. He was sitting in the Commissioner’s outer office.
The last cigar of the day was in his pocket but he resisted the impulse to smoke it.
Commissioner didn’t like cigars. Again Herb went through his mind, touching each point of the case, weighing it, trying to see how it could be used to strengthen his position and weaken the Commissioner’s. Word from Vince Merillo, the new mayor’s first deputy-to-be, was that the Commissioner still had an inside track to reappointment. That would mean that Herbert Underwood would reach retirement before he reached the top job. And he wanted that job bad. Wanting the next job up the ladder was more than a habit with him. He deserved the promotion, he was an excellent cop. A good man too, good administrator. Hell, he was a better man than the Commissioner. All he needed was a nice, ugly embarrassment for the Commissioner and Merillo would start mentioning the Chief of Detectives as successor. He was sure of Merillo’s support. The guy owed him.
Merillo was into a bank in a very ugly way and the Chief of Detectives knew it. The DA didn’t—and wouldn’t as long as Merillo played on the right side of the net.
“Come in, Herb,” the Commissioner said from the door of the inner office. Underwood got up and went inside. The Commissioner closed the door. “Nobody here but us rats,” he said in his singsong voice. “I got two mayors screaming at me. I got reporters hiding in my file cabinet. I got TV crews in the bathroom. Not to mention the Public.” He added in a more clipped tone, “Tell me what happened to Evans.”
“Oh come on, Bob, you know I’m up against a brick wall.”
“Yeah? I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry. Because it may mean I’ll have to replace you.”
Underwood wanted to laugh out loud. The Commissioner was crashing around like a wounded elephant. The pressure from upstairs must be hell. Bad for him, very bad. “You mean that? It’d be a relief.” He chuckled.
The Commissioner glared at him. “You know, our new mayor is a very smart man.”
“I know that.”
“And so is Vince Merillo, your good buddy.”
Underwood nodded.
“Well, here is what the Mayor and his first-deputy-in-waiting think about this case.
Want to hear?”
“Sure.”
“They have got the Wilson theory on their brains. I mean, essentially the Wilson theory. The DiFalco mess, the Bronx mess, the bloody bench, the gutted patrolmen and Evans—”
“All the work of hybrid wolves. I know. I’ve talked to Merillo.”
“So what’s your position?”
“The theory is total bullshit. I’ve known Wilson since we were kids and I think he’s pulling a fast one on us, trying to get us to buy bullshit so we’ll look like fools. Especially me. You I don’t think he gives a damn about.”
“OK. So what else are you working on?”
“I just organized a special squad. They’re going to be under Commander Busciglio of the Fifth Homicide Zone. Goddamn good guy. Good cop, lot of smarts. They will be investigating the three incidents that happened today in Central Park. We’ll be working on the assumption that these incidents are entirely separate from the Bronx case and the Brooklyn case. I think that makes sense. It’s not out of the question that they’re all related, but it’s very farfetched. That enough to keep me from getting fired?’
“You know I’m not gonna fire you, Herb. Hell, you’re the guy slated to kill me off. If I fire you it’ll look like sour grapes to the Mayor.” He laughed. “Can’t let that happen.” He had been standing in front of Underwood, the two men in the middle of the office. Now he went over to a leather chair and sat down, motioning the Chief to follow. “Herb, you and I, we’ve been buddies a long time. I gotta tell you though, I’ve been hearing some things about you that’ve made me very sad. Like, you’re trying to get me dumped, to put it bluntly. Why are you doing that, Herb?”
The Chief smiled. He had to hand it to the Commissioner, the man didn’t play around.
“No, sir, I’m not trying anything of the kind. In fact, like on this case, I’m doing everything I can to strengthen your position. I think we’ll get a good solution very quickly. It’ll help you and because of that it’ll help me. That’s as far as my ambition goes.”
Now it was the Commissioner’s turn to smile. He turned on a crinkly, jolly one, wore it for a few seconds, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. He spread his hands in a gesture of meekest assent. “OK,” he said, “just keep up the good work. Glad you’re still on the team.”
Underwood left after further protestations of loyalty, capped by a solemn handshake.
The Commissioner watched him go. Hell, with technique like that the guy would make a damn fine commissioner if he won out. Good projection of sincerity. Handles himself well.
But he ain’t gonna fuck me. He must think I’m some kind of schoolboy. He closed the door behind Underwood and stood there a long moment. Soon the C
hief would be blown so high and wide he wouldn’t have a political future of any kind. So the son of a bitch wanted to kill off Bob Righter. Fine, let him try! Now the Commissioner’s face set. He leafed through a report on his desk. It was titled “Project Werewolf. Eyes Only.” It had been seen only by Merillo, the new mayor, and the current mayor. It had been written by Bob Righter, in longhand.
This was the only copy.
He opened it, reading to review. He had written it three hours ago, had taken it to the Mayor and then to the Mayor-elect. There had been a meeting and it had been agreed that not one word of the report would be made public unless absolutely necessary. The Commissioner started to say his thoughts aloud, then stopped, the words unspoken in his throat. How often do I talk to myself, he wondered. Getting old. But not tired, dammit.
Let Herb Underwood realize that once and for all. Not tired. Underwood was going off on a hell of a wild-goose chase. That stinking Wilson had been much closer from the start.
Brilliant but a creep. A good cop after his fashion. A good cop with a good partner… Becky Neff… no matter how old you get, you’d still like to get into something like that. Hell, stay clear. Her husband was bent—maybe she was too for that matter…
He dismissed them from his mind and returned to the matter of the report. It was the first time in his career that he had written something so secret, and kept its contents so close to the top. In a position like his a man gets into the habit of using advisers, conferees, administrative assistants. He becomes not an individual but an office. He identifies himself as “we.” Not in this case, though. There was too much here to entrust to staff members. It was not only a horrendous crime, it was also a priceless opportunity to completely outdistance Underwood, to crush him. “Herbie’s gonna love me,” he said, this time without realizing he had spoken aloud. Now that he had the endorsement of both his current and future bosses he would begin to draw together the team that would solve the real Werewolf case. He pulled out a yellow legal pad and put it down beside his report. He drew a box at the top, and put the letter C in the box. That’s me, he thought. Then he drew a dotted line to the Chief of Detectives and put a U in that box. And that’s as far as he goes. All alone in his box with his Goddamn U. Now another box, with a full line to the Commissioner. Call him Deputy Assistant for Internal Affairs. DAIA. OK, now give him a staff. Three more boxes under him, all Police Commanders. Now a team. Three squads under the three Commanders, All high power. Now assign a Tactical Patrol Force Group to the Deputy Assistant, the grunt-work department so all these officers don’t have to get their hands dirty. Very nice. About two hundred men. The Mad Bomber had commanded a crew of two hundred and fifty. Son of Sam had tied up three hundred. The Werewolf Killers would be more economical with just two hundred.
Now he pulled a small cassette recorder out of his desk drawer. He rewound the cassette and played it again. Voices, confusion, then a whispered word, unintelligible.
Then more. “Mama… hey look out (a sob)… there it is… (Voice: what is it, Jack?) Dog…
somethin’ weird… don’t don’t get it… hey… oh, wow that was—oh, hey it cut, cut my uniform… ouch… aaaAAHH! (Voice: Jack, you need more? The doc’s gonna give you more painkiller.) Yeah… OK, there was a dog… big motherfucker… weird, like a human face… a couple of others standing nearby… face, not like a person… you’ll never get it…” More whispers. (Second voice: the patient is expiring.) Tape ends.
The patrolman hadn’t given them much to go on, but it was more than they had gotten before. Enough for a good start. M.O. was established. This added a rough description. He read the first sentence of his report: “The Werewolf Killers are a group of twisted individuals utilizing an extremely skillful disguise…” That was where Underwood was falling down: he didn’t realize that there was a whole group, or that they were disguised.
Outside the museum tension was building. The sun had moved far down the sky. The first, faint smells of cooking were coming into the afternoon air. When the subways stopped beneath the street the sound of more and more feet were heard getting off.
Man’s afternoon ritual of moving back to his nest was under way. And this would also be occurring to the hated ones inside the building. There would be no need to take the risk of going inside after them. Soon they would want their food and their nests, and start their movement. Then the moment would come, not so long from now. Waiting like this made your heart soar, knowing that relief and success lay as the reward for patience. Soon they would come out, very soon.
Garner had returned to the scene of the Evans murder and picked up Rich Fields, the photographer the paper had sent to join him on the story. “We’re gonna take some pictures of a couple of cops,” he said to Fields.
“What for?”
“Nothin’. Don’t even waste film. Just flashes. I want flashes.”
“Great. Makes good sense. Keep convincin’ me.”
“Shut up, Fields, you’re too dumb to understand.”
They got into Garner’s car and rattled out of the park, back up to the Museum of Natural History. Garner felt full of vitamins. There was a Goddamn good story in here and these two detectives were the exact center of the whole little cyclone. Ah, a beautiful story, had to be. Let the Times send fifty gentlemen downtown to worry the Police Commissioner, Sam Garner was going to stick right close to these two detectives until he got the story. He parked his car directly in front of the museum and settled back to wait.
“Want me to start shootin’?”
“Shut up, Tonto. I’ll tell you when. And make it fuckin’ good if you don’t mind. I mean, run up and flash at ‘em. Make ‘em mad.”
“You payin’ my hospital bills, honey?”
“The Post’ ll take care of you, darlin’. Just do your thing.”
He stared at the huge edifice. Sometime soon the two cops would appear in the doorway and start down. Fields would get after them with the camera. No words, no more questions. Those two cops were scared already. This would panic them. If they were hiding anything interesting the little picture-taking session would make them think the Post was on to it. So next time Sam Garner got to them maybe they’d start trying to save their own asses by doing a little singing.
It had happened before. Pressure breeds information. The first rule of investigative reporting. Make ‘em think you know enough to hang ‘em, then they’ll give you what you need. Visions of delicious headlines went through his head. He didn’t know exactly what they said, but they were there. The way it felt, he had a good week of dynamite on his hands. The boss would love it. It must be something really horrible. Whatever was going on, somebody had seen fit to tear the Medical Examiner apart. Not just kill him, but actually tear him apart. The skin had even been pulled down off the skull, the face nearly separated from the body. The throat was gone. The stomach was pulled open and the body severed so completely that the legs fell to the floor of the car when the orderlies tried to move the body. It had been a vicious murder, particularly so, unusually so. A monstrous murder. Hell of a bad thing. All of a sudden he felt kind of chilled, sick inside, like he was going to throw up. “Hurry up,” he muttered under his breath. A drink lay just the other side of this little assignment and he needed it very badly.
“I got some good stuff on Evans,” Fields said. “I mean—that was some mess.”
“I just been thinkin’ about it. Doesn’t make much sense, does it? Whoever did that must have hated the hell out of the guy. And right in broad daylight, right in the middle of the park. Strange as hell, weird as hell, you ask me.”
“Look close, boss. The doll and the old guy?”
“That’s them. Get moving.”
Fields opened the door of the car and walked forward to the base of the statue of Teddy Roosevelt that stood before the museum entrance. In this position he would be concealed from Neff and Wilson until they came down the steps and were beside him.
They were moving quickly. Another man, hunched, tall, his
hands folded before him, walked just behind them. There was something familiar in the way they moved. And then Fields realized why: in ‘Nam, people under fire had moved like that.
As they came nearer he could hear their footsteps crunching on the snow. He stepped out from his position near the statue and started shooting. The flash popped in the gray afternoon light, and the three figures jumped away startled. Almost before he knew it there was a pistol in the hand of the old guy. The woman was also pointing a pistol at him.
This all happened in the same strange slow motion that things had happened in the war, when an attack was going on. The closer you got to action, the more events separated into individual components. Then an end would come, usually violent, the roar of a claymore going up, the black arcing shapes against the sky, the screams and smoke… “Goddamn, they have guns and all I got is a camera.”
Something else moved and the old guy’s pistol roared. “Don’t shoot!” But it roared again, sending out sparks. The tall man shrieked. Now the woman’s pistol roared, kicking back in her hand, and roared again and again. But there, off in the snow, something black was skittering along—two things. That’s what they were firing at, not him. Then the three of them sprinted toward Sam’s car. “Come on,” the woman shouted over her shoulder,
“move or you’re dead!”
Rich moved damn fast, diving into the back seat right across the lady cop’s knees. She pulled the door closed and extricated herself. “Step on it!” the old guy snarled at Sam,
The Wolfen Page 18
