“That’s pretty twisted.”
“Jess, none of this sounds rational. But people do irrational things all the time. They don’t see themselves as irrational, that’s the point. Convince yourself you’re right and you don’t back down.”
She bristled. “I don’t think that way.”
“I’m a cop, Jess. I’ve seen three-time losers figure the same old behavior—like an armed bank heist—will result in some new outcome, like being able to retire on a tropical island. They’re a dime a dozen, the self-deluded.”
“So now what?”
“If we could get Eagleson and Smith and Davison and their families here, we could protect them. But if we can’t, then I think we need to hit these bastards hard.” His eyes were cold, as cold as she’d ever seen them.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then she said, “What about Tom? Can’t we bring him into it?”
“Sure, he’d believe the whole werewolf thing.”
“I did.”
“You saw. You had no choice but to believe. You needed to believe to survive, Jess.” He softened his tone. “It wasn’t my choice to share it with you. None of it was my choice.”
She avoided his tender trap. “You want to go it alone? Even as a group, we’d be nothing but vigilantes. There’s another word for us then. Murderers.”
“Judge, jury, and executioners, maybe. But with good reason.”
“Everybody who does bad things thinks they have a good reason.”
“Shit, Jess, you saying I’m one of the bad guys here? These rogue wolves are killing your people. Something’s going on beyond our understanding. I’m just trying to be practical.”
“Practical? That’s what you call it?” Her lips formed words without her brain’s collaboration. “Is that what your friend Heather Wilson would call it?”
He appeared genuinely hurt at the jab. “What does she have to do with it? She’s just a careerist out for a boost. Nothing to do with this. Maybe she’s in too deep herself, come to think of it.”
“Can’t have that.”
“Jess, be rational.”
“Rational!” she snapped. “Rational? You just said it’s irrational. What part of this is rational? Are you calling murder rational?”
“Putting down rabid dogs is not murder. It’s a favor to all their victims, past and future. I doubt we can drag these guys into court, let alone whoever’s pulling the strings. Plus they’re very good. Got to be trained, probably by the military. It was a miracle I caught the one with his guard down, and he still almost had me.”
“I don’t agree with you.” Sadness swelled in her breast. They’d never seen things so differently. This was more than a fight, it was a philosophical difference she’d never expected. She was no vigilante.
“If we explained it to Arnow,” Nick said, “I bet he’d agree with me.”
“I don’t believe it. Tom’s a man who upholds the law.”
“The law never expected to deal with monsters.”
“Again you want to label yourself a monster!”
“I have to go, Jess. No one else can keep an eye on these guys. They might go for us here, or try to get the others.” He began to strip.
“Then why not stay?”
“I know when I’m not wanted,” he said coldly. Moments later, he was bounding for the woods.
She let the tears roll down her face untouched.
Tannhauser
They found him on his back porch, puffing a long pipe like an Indian cliché.
Stalking him, they had both caught the scent of fragrant woodsmoke and followed the swirling clouds that bobbed and weaved through the railing. He seemed to be offering himself up.
Tannhauser approached from one side of the porch while Tef came at him from the other. Both wolves snarled and leaped up and over the railing simultaneously.
Daniel must have been named “Bear” because of his size. He was not intimidated by the two beasts that approached him with their fangs bared.
Tannhauser’s inner alarm jangled even as he stared the human in the eye. There was a wild determination there he hadn’t expected. Was he off his game since seeing Schwartz maimed?
The human growled like his namesake. Instead of backing off, he ignored Tef behind him and attacked the larger wolf.
“I’ll have your pelt, you fucking piece of wolfshit,” the human screamed before lunging like a drug-crazed berserker.
Tannhauser had overcommitted.
His paws scrabbled for purchase on the slick planks.
He was closer than he expected to be to this not-so-helpless prey and—too late—he saw the glint of metal in the man’s hambone grip.
Some kind of knife…
The blade scraped through Tannhauser’s top layer of skin and raked fire along the cut’s edge. His flesh parted like warm lard under the blade, causing his blood to gush, boiling, from the slit. The wound was screaming agony.
The knife—treated with silver?
Daniel Bear Smith was a formidable opponent. To humans. He was extraordinary even to a werewolf, but he was no match for two. Tannhauser retreated to nurse his wounds, but Tef lunged from behind, caught the big man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him down before he could do any more damage.
The knife skittered away into the bushes.
Snarling savagely, Tef tore through the thick cords of the human neck and bathed in the great gush of hot blood that met his snout. The human’s fists beat uselessly at his nose, then grasped his neck and squeezed. But the strength was going out of him, and Tef’s jaws closed on one wrist and ripped it to pieces.
By now Tannhauser had recovered.
The human could no longer keep the two wolves from tearing him apart piece by piece. He went down on one knee and tried to fend them off with one hand. Tef’s jaws took the Indian’s fingers off and swallowed them like dog biscuits.
Prey: Daniel Bear Smith
His veins grew cold in a rush as the blood drained from his shredded neck.
His last thoughts were of the great arrogance Eagle Feather had shown in giving him the sacred knife, requesting that he attempt to stop the beast plaguing their tribe.
“You’re the only one of us able-bodied enough to get this bastard,” Eagle Feather said. “And to think we used to think of him as a defender. What romantic crap. The knife has been in its place since that so-called shaman loosed the disease on us.”
Daniel Bear might have laughed his booming laugh now.
This beast was not the defender of the tribe.
In all his wisdom, Eagle Feather had not figured on more than one monster. And Daniel Bear Smith had sacrificed his life for absolutely nothing.
His dying scream was cut off by his attackers’ jaws and teeth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lupo
“Goddamn it!” He swore vehemently and the Creature growled in response, affected by his tone, not the words. He steered the Creature back, hoping to catch the three suspects at home.
Were they suspects?
No, the cop in him agreed, they had to be the wolves who’d come to town to kill elders. No more evidence needed, no juries, no legal system. Execution was the only answer.
He crept through the woods near the house at the far end of Hemlock. Water lapped at the piers below the slight rise that hugged the house’s foundation.
Maybe he could do it tonight, himself.
But no, first they had to be home, and second they had to have their guard down. There was no way he could take on three experienced wolves and survive. He needed the silver slugs, and he didn’t think he could wield them himself, no matter how much he wanted to.
The house was dark. Lupo directed the Creature to follow his earlier footsteps. Inside, he couldn’t see much that looked different, but he sensed a presence. It wasn’t exactly a scent, but he would have been hard-pressed to say what it was. A scent, a feeling, a hunch, some instinct—all rolled into one.
A light went on i
n a back room, and the Creature shrank back into the shadows. His nose twitched. He caught a faint trace of disease, the sickening smell of burned skin and flesh.
The wolf he and Sam had cornered. And gravely wounded. It had to be. Was it the Altima driver?
Perhaps the others were probably out stalking the safe house even now. Divide and conquer, sure, but how to be certain they were divided?
He faded into the woods. Quiet on his paws, treading on the pine needle forest floor, he nearly backed into a human who faced the house and had not heard the wolf approaching.
Now, what’s this?
The beefy guy wore ragged camouflage and emitted no scent the Creature could discern. He wore what Lupo recognized as a slightly outdated night-vision unit on his head, and seemed to be intently training his gaze on the house Lupo had just stalked.
Lupo avoided a loud scuffle. He pulled the reins on the Creature, with difficulty, and they soft-footed past the distracted human.
He ran the Creature through the woods, giving it the chance to expend pent-up energy after feeling the chafing harness of Lupo’s will.
Later, when he checked his cell, there was a message from Arnow telling him that Heather Wilson’s camera crew was looking for her. Had he seen her since earlier? He reversed the call and left a message saying no. Why would Arnow call him about Heather? He shook his head. Lupo’s head was spinning. Arnow seemed to be interested in Jessie, and Jessie seemed to think Lupo was interested in Heather. Heather was mired in some kind of relationship with the weird kid, whom Lupo suspected of being a wolf.
He sighed. Maybe Jessie was right. Maybe they needed Arnow to legitimize the vigilante action.
The moon’s influence grew and the thirst hit first, then the lust. He drove back to the safe house.
Jessie
He woke her gently and gestured at the door. Groggy, she shook her head. He nodded, smiling, bringing a finger to his lips and gestured more insistently. She rolled out of the hallway bunk and made her way to him without creaking any floorboards. In the tiny bedrooms and in the loft, the Grey Hawk clan slept. Sam was on watch in the living room.
“What?” she whispered breathlessly in his ear.
“Let’s take a walk,” he whispered back. “Talked to Sam already, so he won’t shoot us.”
“That’s good to hear.” She reached out for his hand and found something else. “Hm, Nick Lupo, you’re a beast!”
He cleared his throat comically.
“Leave the silver behind, okay?”
Her hand left him. “Dammit, Nick!”
“Kidding,” he said. But the mood was slightly broken.
He led her outside past her minor resistance, and they climbed into his car.
“Sorry,” he muttered, while he nuzzled her neck. “I’m not being a jerk on purpose. There’s a case back at home that’s causing me trouble, and I expected to come here to get away. Not find myself in the middle of some sort of war. And I didn’t expect to run into others…like me…ever.”
She caressed his face, hoping he wouldn’t sense the tears forming in her eyes. When his lips found hers, she felt his loneliness and the desperate need. She felt the lust the Creature so often brought with it. And she felt her own body responding.
“Nick,” she muttered, and then she was climbing on top of him and they were ripping cloth strategically, exposing flesh here and skin there. He took her breasts in his mouth one at a time, licking her stiff nipples, and then they maneuvered patiently until he could take her from below as she straddled him, the steering wheel digging into her back.
Pent-up passions, conflicts, and fears fed their lovemaking until their rhythm hit a fever pitch, exploded, and then slowed as they melted together in a comforting afterglow.
Later, he told her about the camouflaged and night-vision equipped watcher at the Hemlock house.
“His scent was familiar?” she asked.
“That’s just it, he didn’t have a scent.”
“Neutralizer. Hunters use it.”
“That’s what I thought. But earlier I caught a familiar scent. Brought to mind the whole Stewart thing again. I think it reminded me of that thug, Wilbur—”
“Klug?”
“Yeah. He have any relatives?”
She thought, then snapped her fingers. “A cousin, I think. Maybe other family. You think a relative’s scent would be similar to your memory?”
“Not so much mine, but the Creature’s.” He started rearranging his clothes. “Why would Klug’s cousin be watching the wolves’ house?”
“Nothing makes sense anymore.”
“We’d better get inside before Sam sends out a search party.”
They kissed once more, and she tasted the night on him. She both feared and adored the way he made her feel.
PART THREE
TOCCATA (CON FUOCO)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Julia Barrett
When the few, more imposing redbrick cubes of downtown New London disappeared from her mirror, she admitted to herself finally that her obsession had taken over.
She was taking the scenic route, following the twisty state highway through town. Fortunately, the weekday traffic was light and she didn’t have to grip the wheel with her usual sense of imminent doom. Which was a good thing, because she was distracted, ruminating about her dear Detective Lupo and putting puzzle pieces together over and over in her mind.
The detective was a thorn in her side.
She had been treating him long enough to have formed some sort of bond, but instead she had come to despise him even more. She didn’t even kid herself. It had been a sort of benign antipathy from the beginning. His quiet, serious demeanor had angered her for some reason. Then something had happened between him and Don Bowen, something she still hadn’t figured out, but it had led to Bo-wen’s escape from his life. From her. She would figure it out someday, she swore.
Then there had been Lupo’s “lost weekends,” days during which—even in the middle of a case—Lupo would simply disappear. His partner always covered for him. Old Sabatini did it for years. Now Lupo was her case file, and DiSanto was covering for him. She’d mapped it out, spending long hours with payroll records and squad room assignment logs. Lupo dropped off the face of the earth for something like a weekend a month. Like he’s done since the very beginning.
It was odd. Her first guess had been a girlfriend, of course. A logical guess.
The highway outside the city opened up in front of her, and she nudged her Lexus to the speed limit, watching the farmland slowly start to turn to forest in patches.
She had tried to get to the bottom of the whole strange terrorism case in which Lupo had been involved up to his neck, but somehow he had been able to pull strings and throw a blanket over the whole thing. What CNN and other news outlets eventually reported smelled like dog shit to her. She knew a cover-up when she saw one, and her low-key efforts to get at the truth had been stymied.
Lupo did have a girlfriend, the reservation doctor, but by all accounts, they had not been so close before the suspicious events. His trips up north went back as far as his earliest police work, long before he’d paid the Hawkins woman rent money.
Barrett wondered what his scam was. She had tried to worm it out of him during their sessions, but he resisted deftly. She watched him. She watched him very closely. She had seen him limp, and then not limp, on his prosthetic foot. She knew he was connected with the tribe up there, but wasn’t sure how. All her inquiries met with silence or flat refusals.
She had tried the Vilas County Sheriff’s Office, but they had been in disarray following the death of Sheriff Bunche and the new man, Arnow, had apparently moved her requests from a “maybe” pile to the round file.
Now there was something else going on in Vilas County. Word was just filtering south about a series of violent murders. Was it a coincidence that Nick Lupo was also there?
This was just too much. Barrett decided to learn something for herself. She coul
dn’t have Don Bowen back, that was a given. He had retired and moved away, leaving no forwarding address. She couldn’t reignite the flame she had only shared with one man. But she could have revenge on the one who had cheated her out of everything good in her life. If he was into something else up here, she wanted to catch him at it.
She heard the quiet roar of the Lexus engine under the hood and would have been surprised to see that she was smiling widely, a little crazily. She glanced at the passenger seat, where her purse sagged with the weight of her Glock. Don had made her an expert, and she was grateful.
Speeding up to pass slower traffic, she felt the wheels dragging her closer to the secret at the heart of Dominic Lupo’s life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lupo 1977
The Creature hit the road but didn’t follow its usual path of side streets to the expansive park it considered its own territory. This time the Creature was motivated by feelings beyond itself, beyond its simple needs of flesh and blood for sustenance.
Its four paws followed a certain road it remembered from somewhere. A certain street. The scents were familiar. The houses dark, the streetlights progressively less reliable, broken, simply dead, but the Creature felt no fear. Dogs barked and whined as it passed, but it paid no heed. Occasionally it raised a leg and marked, knowing his domesticated cousins would cower at the scent. He howled once and the others fell silent, afraid.
Suddenly a hated scent filled its nostrils. Hate exploded in its brain and threatened to consume it from within.
It padded softly behind the structure in front of which it had halted. There was no mistaking this scent. The Creature growled. It reached the flat, grassy area behind the structure and saw:
A wide, wooden table used as a bench by two humans huddled so close together they might have been one.
A female, fear and hate radiating from her in waves. A male—the Hated One—dipping a spade like hand beneath the female’s clothing and inside her birth canal.
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