Thomas cocked his head. “What the hell is that?” He was pointing at a small, bloody sack-like thing made of some sort of clear tissue. The sack was the size of a golf ball, but it was misshapen, its form reminding Thomas of a mango. Attached to it was a very thin cord made of a yellowish clear tissue, perhaps a foot in length.
Delmar frowned. “Looks like a damned placenta.” He paused, looking at the ground, away from where they stood. “This has to be where he changed.” He pointed to some nearby tracks. “It definitely is. Look, those are human tracks.”
Thomas nodded. “I see them—and that’s not placenta…”
Delmar shook his head. “No shit.” He prodded the thing with his rifle barrel. “Fucking nasty.”
Thomas set the big rifle down and threw the daypack from his shoulders. He scrambled around inside and came up with a large, sealable clear plastic bag.
“You aren’t really thinking of taking that damned thing, are you?” Delmar protested with a grimace.
“Why not,” Thomas said as he knelt down. “We have this, we might have something to prove the story—and that would help us figure out what the hell to do from there.”
Delmar grunted. “Well, then hurry up with your specimen collection, doctor Devereaux. We need to move.” He stood over what he thought was the exact spot that the beast had lay, rolling, twisting, turning as it changed back into human form—into Alastair McLeod. The snow was packed down hard in that spot. Where did the rest go? Delmar thought. He shook his head, disgusted, and then tried to stifle a sharp stab of fear as it rose into his throat—a fear that he might undergo just such nightmarish transformation in the future. It was all crazy.
“You okay, Hero?” Thomas asked.
“What?” Delmar looked over, as if suddenly awakened from sleep. “Oh. Oh yeah—I’m okay. Just looking at all of this…shit.”
Thomas put a hand on Delmar’s shoulder and shook the big man. “We are going to get him, and we are going to find out how to take care of you.” He slapped him hard on his arm. “WE. It’s we, and it will always be.”
“Thanks,” Delmar muttered. “So, let’s go and find him.”
Thomas nodded. “The son of a bitch can’t be far, now. What say we not only find the bastard, but that we help to ensure that he breathes his last breath? What say we make him talk—then we show him out of the world of the living?”
“Indeed,” Delmar nodded. He pointed to the human tracks leading west. The difference in size and shape in comparison to those of the werewolf was astonishing. The tracks were like those of a child. “He’s this way.”
* * * * *
The interview was not going well for Alan Tucker. Snow had done his best to act as a stand-in for a real friend—a stand-in for someone who really could lend support, but it appeared that he wasn’t needed. Alan had been more than happy to answer all of Deluth’s questions, and slowly but surely the cunning officer turned the young man’s words against him.
Deluth began by asking Alan to tell the whole story, from start to finish. The hard-nosed officer apparently had a hard time sitting and listening through it all—he fidgeted and moved around, looked away—as if the end could not come soon enough. When Alan finished, Deluth took a new tack, breaking the story down bit-by-bit, hour-by-hour, hell, almost minute-by-minute.
Deluth kept going back to Alan’s original claim that he was now a werewolf—that he had been bitten by the attacker(s) and was now certainly cursed with lycanthropy. Alan tried to explain what the doctors had said to him—that sometimes the mind blocks all memory of a horrible incident, but then what comes back when the gates begin to reopen isn’t real at all. The memories that leak back through the gates are jumbled with fantasy or hallucination.
Even Snow began to go along with that reasoning; right up until Deluth began passing large glossy photographs to Alan.
“See that one?” he’d say to Alan. “That is a clear print of whatever attacked the horses. It’s not a bear track, is it, Alan? Ever seen a bear leave such a track?”
Alan said nothing, other than to remind Deluth that he had seen those tracks already. The next set of photos contained images of tracks from the area near the helicopter crew’s bodies. “They are the same tracks, see? The same. Not a bear.”
Alan frowned at Deluth, and Snow tried to intervene. “It almost sounds like you are trying to convince the boy that he really was attacked by a werewolf,” Snow interrupted.
Deluth ignored Snow’s comment and instead asked Alan to remove his shirt, which the young man reluctantly did. Though Snow had seen the scars before, he still gasped at the horrific site. Deluth stood up and leaned over to look at them.
“You said that these were injuries that you sustained the night of the attack. You first said that a werewolf attacked you, and yet another werewolf saved your life…or at least distracted the first werewolf long enough for you to run away. Isn’t that right?”
Alan nodded.
Deluth looked at the scars again, focusing on what appeared to be a pattern of teeth marks. He slowly reached out. “May I?” he asked.
Alan nodded. Deluth touched several of the small scars. “Bite wound. Large canine shape, but a bear can’t be counted out in my opinion. It will take an expert and a close examination.”
Snow could not wait any longer. “Captain Deluth, you cannot be seriously entertaining the idea that there really was a werewolf, right? Please tell me that you are not trying to give that impression, and that it is just coming out that way.”
* * * * *
Deluth stepped back and turned to glower at Snow. He held up a finger as a mother would to an over talkative five-year old child. He turned back to Alan.
“I think that you don’t have one single memory of a bear. I think that no matter what you try or what you have been told, you could not describe it as a bear.” He leaned forward, clutching the aluminum bed railing in both hands while looking into Alan’s eyes. “This is important, son. I want you to take yourself back to the moment you laid eyes on the attacker. I want you to tell me exactly what you saw—even if everyone on the planet has told you that it simply cannot be.” He paused. “Don’t use the word, werewolf. Don’t use the word, bear. In fact, don’t use any animal for comparison, not even a dog. Describe it as if you have absolutely nothing to compare it with—like it was totally new to your eyes. I need every detail, son. The color of its eyes, the color of the fur, the size, the shape, the weight—even the temperament. I need it all. Can you do that for me?”
Alan’s face was as white as a sheet. He glanced over Deluth’s shoulder to look into Snow’s eyes. Snow caught the look and sighed. He nodded slightly. Alan seemed to take comfort in that. “I can try.”
With Deluth’s careful and amazingly gentle guidance, Alan described the creature. Snow’s skin crawled more and more with each passing sentence, with each newly described feature. By the time that Alan was finished, Snow was completely terrified of the image that the young man had put forth. The beast was now very clear in his mind, and the thing was terrifying.
Deluth pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and sat down near Snow, staring at Alan the whole time. He let his head drop into his hands and he ran his fingers through the thick black hair. He looked up and nodded at Alan. “Thank you, son. That’s what I needed to hear.”
Alan stammered, “Am I crazy, then? Am I completely out of my mind?”
Deluth shook his head. “No, son, you are not—either of those things.”
He stood up and walked back to Alan, put a hand gently on his wrist. “It’s going to be alright, Alan. Everything is going to be just fine.” He smiled, and Snow caught a glimpse of it, and knew that the expression was a prelude to disaster. Snow began to feel that this whole interview had taken a turn that Deluth had dreaded, and that now he was lying to the boy’s face—everything was not going to be okay.
Deluth walked over to Snow and gestured for him to get up. He turned to Alan. “I’ll be right back. I’
m going to check with my team on how the investigation is going.”
Alan nodded, and Deluth ushered Snow out of the room and shut the door behind them.
Outside the room, Snow quietly tried to ask what in the hell had just happened in there, but Deluth held up a hand and turned to his men. Kaley, it’s a go. Huth, you know what to do. Sorret, you’ve got damage control and vehicle backup.”
The men nodded. Only Kaley remained with Snow and Deluth. Huth and Sorret scrambled away in different directions, holding radios to their lips and murmuring orders.
“What is….”
Deluth cut Snow’s question. “I chose you, lieutenant, because you can fly both helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft—and because you have a reputation for an open mind along with a heavy dose of practicality. Those two things don’t often go hand in hand.”
Snow pointed and tried to speak, but Deluth would not allow it. “There is no time, lieutenant. None. You are now under my command and what I need from you is to steel yourself for what is about to happen, and to be prepared to follow my orders. I promise that, within the hour, every question you have will be answered. I need you, lieutenant. I can’t complete this mission without you. You are local, you know the people, and you have rare talents. I’m not giving you a choice. I am ordering you. However, I know that you could simply fail to obey, or try to thwart this operation if you begin to get squeamish, so I have to tell you the penalty.”
Quick as lightening, Deluth produced a handgun from a concealed holster. “I will shoot you, lieutenant. I need you to be very clear. You will follow my orders, or you won’t make it through this day.”
Snow’s mouth stood open as he registered everything Deluth was saying.
Deluth put the weapon away. “Right now, you need to remain right here at this door. Do not move. Within a few minutes, no one will be left in this wing but us, but in the rare case that someone approaches, just yell.”
Snow had yet to say a word. He merely nodded. This was way above his pay grade. Apparently, the events on the mountains rated actions comparable to one of the Jason Bourne films—and Snow was right in the middle. He was the bystander who just happened to be in the wrong place—the local cop who gets pulled into a deadly game of espionage and intrigue.
Kaley poked Snow lightly in the shoulder to get his attention. Snow looked up into the man’s eyes. Kaley was smiling from ear to ear and the long scar on his face contorted into a softer, less frightening l-shape.
“Welcome to the team, lieutenant.”
Snow saw that Kaley had extended a hand—a hand covered with ugly scar tissue. Although Snow was thoroughly frightened and completely bewildered, he took the hand and shook it. He had expected a grip that would send him to his knees, but Kaley’s handshake was mild—even friendly. Kaley poked him again, chuckled, picked up the huge case, and then waited for Deluth to open the door.
The captain shook his head and gestured for Kaley to go first. Deluth turned back to Snow. “Remember, stay right here. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t let anyone in.”
Snow nodded, wondering just how he would keep the bad guys out, if they should appear—whoever they were. He pictured half a dozen evil looking men, all dressed completely in black, wearing thick turtlenecks and carrying some nasty Russian automatic rifles.
The door shut behind Deluth and Kaley.
“Shit,” Snow muttered. “Shit.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They walked quietly, ignoring the awkwardness of their silence. What more could be said right now? The past night’s events…indeed the past days events were enough to silence anyone. Thomas found himself wondering what good could come of keeping the strange sack-like specimen. Would it help them prove they weren’t insane when it was time to tell this crazy story? Would it contain DNA that proved a half-man, half-beast could exist after all? How would they tell the story if they did manage to survive? What would happen when they did? What if the government had known all along that these creatures were real? Had they covered it up to avoid panic? Did they have some special werewolf team that tracked and killed the beasts…covering up the evidence along the way?
What about the supposed ‘Beast of Bray Road’ in Wisconsin? Had it once been real, only to have been found and killed, the evidence suppressed? What of the stories of old, especially those from Europe? Stories of werewolves stealing children or devouring entire villages, leaving no trace of its existence? Could there be a worldwide in this time of instant communication, instant cameras—instant everything? How could the existence of these creatures have been suppressed?
And what would they do? Would they walk into the Royal Canadian Police headquarters with Delmar, Thomas explaining that his friend was a werewolf, while Delmar stood and nodded expectantly? Would they hold up the plastic bag with its gory contents and declare that this was werewolf placenta? Thomas shook his head.
Delmar noticed the movement but said nothing.
A half an hour later they picked up their pace. The tracks had continued, but rarely did they change direction. Alastair’s tracks told the story of a man who was going at great lengths to protect his feet while he walked in the snow—choosing to step on anything that protruded from the icy ground. Thomas was surprised that the man had made it this far, but Delmar was not. Delmar was convinced that Alastair would somehow make it to shelter.
Delmar was vindicated when, after half an hour or so, the two men came upon a large, plastic trunk that had been pulled from a hiding place under a rock facing. Alastair’s tracks were all around the trunk. Inside the container were three large, thick, plastic bags and two empty water bottles. Next to the empty water bottles were leftover food and wrappers from an MRE. Alastair had ripped the heavy plastic open and taken out the main meal packets, throwing the rest back into the trunk.
Jack sniffed among the remains. His fur was almost completely white, now—the black patches covered by clumps of sticky snow. His muzzle was white, ice hanging from his whiskers He pawed through the remains of a flavor packet, then licked red powder from the opening.
Thomas could not help but smile, seeing the dog’s tongue turn an incredibly bright red. He turned to Delmar. “Clever bastard, with the caches,” he said.
“The son of a bitch is well-prepared. We can assume he has a weapon, now.”
Thomas nodded. “There were two rifles and a handgun in the cache near the cabin.” He wondered just how often the caches were needed. Did Alastair’s affliction leave him stranded in the snowy mountains on every cold morning? The moon had not mattered…there was no moon on the horizon last night…which meant that Alastair changed with or without it. Was it every night? Could the man control it at all? He shook his head, clearing away the thoughts.
“Well, this has just turned ugly.” Delmar groaned. “We’ve gone from hunting someone who should be dying of hypothermia—to hunting a well-clothed and potentially well-armed bastard.”
“And he has the high ground,” Thomas replied, noting that the tracks rose over a large, rocky hill to the West.
“We can’t go up that damned thing. The bastard could have a bead on us right now.” Delmar shook his head in agreement. “No…flank and hope he’s there when we come out on the other side.”
They stepped back into the wood line and began to cautiously trek around the base of the hill. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief when they saw that the hill sloped down again on the opposite side. If it had continued upward, they would have likely met up with a cliff or steep wall of rocks, whereas Alastair would be on top, moving farther and farther away. The downward slope that they now faced was covered with large rocks and boulders. They moved slower—carefully and cautious and found Alastair’s tracks again, out in the open. The tracks were along the base of down-slope, in parallel. Delmar shrugged as if to say they had no choice but to expose themselves in the open, then walked over to the tracks and began stepping in their prints.
The snowfall increased and the wind picked up—but the tracks cont
inued. Amazingly, so did the steep, rocky wall to their right. What had been a hill had changed into something resembling the strange natural slate walls found in the desert southwest of America. The two men had little choice but to walk on the rocks and boulders—the area they were in was inundated with them—and it was easy to catch a heel in a hidden gap between two snow-covered pieces of the stone slate. They hadn’t said much since they came into the open area, and now it took all their concentration to look for Alastair while trying not to break an ankle in the worsening landscape of slate. Jack had no problem navigating through all of the rocks and boulders, hopping elegantly among them even though still tethered to Thomas’s belt via the long leash and D-ring.
They believed that Alastair was likely far ahead of them, now. If the man knew this area, and was used to the boulders and slate, then he would undoubtedly have moved much faster through it all.
Powerful gusts of wind blew stinging snow into their faces and eyes, and both men cursed Alastair, vowing to kill the man. But, if the snow became any worse or if they did not find Alastair soon, they knew they would lose the man’s trail for good. Delmar stopped without giving warning, and Thomas almost fell as he slipped on a slick, snow and moss-covered slate—doing his best not to run into his friend. He hadn’t noticed how closely he followed the man.
Delmar held up a closed fist, then pointed his rifle toward a large opening in the side of the high rock facing. It was perhaps eight feet up the steep incline and easily large enough for a man to enter. Thomas immediately saw a vague set of tracks leading from the bottom of the slope, up through the boulders and rocks on the incline. The tracks would soon be invisible, covered by new snow.
Deluth stepped around Kaley and gestured to Alan. “Doctor Kaley, this is Alan Tucker. Alan, meet Doctor Kaley.”
Beneath a Winter Moon Page 37
