by Tony Urban
The wolf pulled at his wife’s neck with its blood-soaked jaws.
Mitch yelled as loud as he could, a primal bellow that left his throat raw and pained. He slammed the branch across the wolf’s back, trying to beat it away from his poor, bleeding wife.
Yet the wolf seemed to stand even taller. It stared Mitch down with ferocious eyes. Eyes that said, I’m the alpha. You can’t stop me.
Mitch hit it again, bringing the branch down across the animal’s crimson muzzle. But the wolf accepted the blow. It never flinched. Never yelped. Never moved.
Gina continued to wail in pain and saw blood soaking into her shirt. A long tendril of flesh had been torn away from her neck, past her collar bone, then snaking down to her breast.
With the wolf distracted by Mitch’s arrival and feeble attack, Gina scooted herself backward. Her pants were around her ankles, but that was the last thing on her mind.
Mitch hit the wolf again, that time across its neck. And again, aiming for its eyes but connecting with its snout. The wolf growled at Mitch, then turned back to Gina, unworried over the man’s presence.
Gina’s eyes widened as she turned to her husband, pleading wordlessly with him to help her. To save her.
He didn’t know how to stop this, but he knew he must do something. He lunged forward with the branch. Using it as a bat had proven useless, so he decided to use it as a spear.
Mitch plunged the sharpened end into the wolf’s side, somewhere between its shoulder and ribs. That got its attention.
The animal snapped its head toward Mitch, snarling, teeth bared. Saliva mixed with Gina’s blood oozed from its mouth. Then it spun toward Mitch, the makeshift spear still jutting from its side, and loped toward him.
The wolf hit Mitch like a train, knocking him backward and into a boulder. The wind left him in a stunned oof, then the wolf was on top of him. He could smell the spicy musk of the fur, like pine needles mixed with pungent fish. Its rough coat pricked and itched against his skin.
Mitch flailed, trying to grab the branch, to sink it deeper into the wolf’s torso and puncture something vital. Something that would kill it and end this nightmare.
But he couldn’t get a grip on it. The wolf spun its head and gnashed its teeth at Mitch, nearly snapping off his nose. In response, Mitch screamed out and bit down hard on the wolf’s neck. He tasted the wild forest, the dander and sweat of the animal, then its blood as his teeth cut into the wolf’s flesh.
The wolf yelped and bucked in startled panic. Mitch fell to the side, landing in the wet puddle of his wife’s urine that had created a patch of mud. Gina was far away, still on her backside, but able to pull her pants up. She cried and screamed for help that was never coming as the wolf turned its full attention toward Mitch.
Mitch, who was unarmed and vulnerable.
He wished, prayed, for the animal to run away, but something in its eyes let Mitch know that he was in for the long haul. That this wouldn’t end until one of them was dead.
The wolf bared its teeth and growled, then let out a low bark, just before it lunged at Mitch. He raised his right hand, trying to block the wolf from sinking its teeth into his neck and ripping his throat out. It worked, but instead he felt the sharp fangs of the animal pierce the flesh of his forearm.
As it bit down Mitch grabbed at the animal’s mouth with his free hand. But it was too strong. The power of the beast’s jaws was unmatched, and instead of opening, it continued to chomp down harder.
Mitch felt his skin shredding. He heard the crack of the bones. He endured the searing hot pain of the wolf’s teeth cutting deeper and deeper, until his whole hand was somehow both numb and on fire.
Mitch swung his free hand at the wolf’s head, punching and punching to no avail. The wolf finished clamping its jaw shut. Then it whipped its head furiously side to side.
The last bits of tendon and sinew connecting Mitch’s hand to his arm ripped apart, then tore free.
Blood pumped from the stump of his forearm. He screamed but the sound didn’t seem to come from inside him. It was like he was watching a movie unfold from the character’s perspective.
The wolf dropped Mitch’s severed hand in the dirt, then it came for him again.
Out of instinct, Mitch raised his left arm, offering up his remaining hand as a last means of defense. But the wolf wasn’t going for his hand that time. It was going for his face.
The animal’s jaws closed over Mitch’s forehead with crushing pressure, but after a few agonizing moments, there was no more pain. Every sound was muffled and dull. Somewhere in the distance his wife was screaming. He could hear the wolf growling and snarling. But it was like he was listening to it all through a pillow.
He still had his sight, but all he could see was the interior of the wolf’s mouth. It was dark and wet in there. There was the smell of a rotting tooth, the high pungent aroma of decay. And raw meat. His own or his wife’s, he would never know.
The pressure dug deeper and firmer against his head. Blood drained down his face, spilled into his eyes, turning the darkness red. Then he heard a crunch so loud his entire body quivered. The vise around his head seemed to lessen, but he was a doctor, and he knew what that sound was.
His skull had just cracked.
He would be dead in a matter of minutes. Hell, maybe seconds. But Gina had gotten away. She’d be running for help, running for her life, and as long as the wolf was focused on him, she was safe.
He could die content knowing she would live.
And just when he felt the jaws squeeze one more time, the weight of the wolf, one hundred and fifty pounds at a bare minimum, fell on top of him.
He reached his left hand out slowly, pushing the mouth of the beast away from his head and he could see the scarlet night sky through the trees again.
There stood Gina, her upper body drenched in her own blood. She dropped to her knees next to Mitch and the dead wolf.
“What happened?” Mitch found himself asking through a near delirium. Then he looked to the beast and saw the branch had been pushed not only deeper into its torso but all the way through, skewering the animal like a kebab.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Gina said, scrambling with her belt.
Mitch watched her with a dazed smile, all the while still thinking that she looked beautiful. Even covered in blood and gore and injured. Maybe even more beautiful.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he said, reaching out to her face with his remaining hand. “We’ll get you to a hospital. It’s just a flesh wound.” He suddenly felt very tired and heavy, and his eyes fluttered closed.
“Mitch, you need to stay awake! Do you understand?” she shouted in his face.
She grabbed what remained of his right arm and immense pain seized him. She clamped the belt around his arm and tightened it as far as it would go.
“Mitch! Mitch!” she screamed. Then she slapped him, again and again, until finally, he opened his eyes fully.
But he couldn’t see well. Something was in his eyes. Something thick and wet. No matter how much he rubbed his eyes, he couldn’t get rid of it.
Gina grabbed under his arm and helped him to his feet, but he could barely stand. It felt like he had gone to the dentist and been gassed for a filling. But Gina was with him, and she helped him back to the campsite.
“You stay awake,” Gina ordered as she set him by the dwindling fire. “I’m going to the tent for our phone. You stay awake until I get back. You promise?”
Mitch gave a weak, lopsided smile. “Anything for you.”
Then she was gone. He stared at his reflection in the silver shell of their coffee pot. Only then did he realize the extent of his injuries.
His scalp had peeled off his forehead, hanging down over his cheek. It blocked part of his vision, but he felt no pain. I’m in shock, he realized. I’m a doctor after all, I should know that. He wished for a needle and thread, believing he could stitch his wounds shut, but he knew the First Aid kit carried little more than bandages and
peroxide.
He grabbed at the flap of skin and hair that dangled over his face, trying to push it back where it belonged, but it tumbled down with a wet smack. So much for that.
Then he looked at his right arm where Gina’s belt wrapped tightly around his bloody stump.
An old joke came to mind. ‘Doc, will I ever play the piano again?’
Nope, Mitch thought. No more piano playing in your future. He let out a breathy laugh.
Then he closed his eyes for a long, long time.
Chapter 50
The smell of a too-pungent floral scented candle burning at the reception desk was strong enough to turn Carolina’s stomach. She supposed it was to drown out the odor of accidents scared pets left in the lobby of the Hopkins Veterinary Clinic, but she found herself wishing for Hank’s allergies so she wouldn’t have to endure it.
The receptionist faked being busy for a few moments before gracing Carolina with her attention. She was in her fifties with a frizzy perm and bad dye job and chewed gum like her jaw was dislocated.
“May I help you?” she asked, smacking her Dentyne.
Carolina had her Private Investigator license ready and displayed it to the woman. “I need to talk to one of your veterinarians about a case I’m investigating for the sheriff’s department.”
The woman’s slack jaw gaped open for a moment, obviously not used to dealing with anything more challenging than fielding phone calls and swiping credit cards. “Um, you got any certain one in mind? We have four on staff.”
Carolina didn’t have a name for the vet who treated the wounded beagle, but she had the owner’s name from the incident report. “No, but the pet was owned by Dan and Kayla DiPaulo.”
The receptionist typed that detail into the computer, then spoke again as info came up on her screen. “And the pet’s name?”
“It doesn’t say. It was a female beagle.”
The woman nodded. “That must have been Rosebud. She passed a few months ago, though.” She gave Carolina a is that all you need look.
“It’s not so much about the dog as an injury it sustained last year. She needed surgery and the report said it took place here.”
With a sigh the receptionist returned her eyes to the screen and smacked her gum a few more times. “That was Dr. Mitch.” She pointed to a door to the right with the number three stenciled on it. “If you go in there, I’ll send him in.”
Carolina’s foot tapped as she sat in the waiting room. She hated doctor’s offices, always had. This being an animal doctor, not one who treated humans, didn’t allay her anxiety.
The walls were covered with medical diagrams and posters advertising things like heartworm medicine, flea collars, pet vaccines, and deodorizing shampoos. A small rack of informational pamphlets sat on a table and Carolina was reaching for one when the door opened with a hard metallic clang that caused her to flinch.
Mitch stepped into the room, hands in his lab coat pockets and a smile on his face. “Did I scare you?”
She smiled back, a nervous one. The man had the right number of wrinkles for his age, and his shoulders showed that he took care of himself without being a gym rat. He wasn’t her type, with long hair and a wooly beard, but he was handsome enough. Or maybe the white lab coat combined with years of television viewing made her associate doctor with dreamy.
She skirted the thought away and shook her head. “Sorry, I just get jumpy in doctor’s offices.”
That seemed to make Doctor Mitch smile wider, but she noticed he kept his mouth closed and she wondered if he might have crooked teeth or some sort of dental issue that made him self-conscious. Suddenly, the beard made more sense. Men were lucky to be able to camouflage their faults.
“It’s natural,” he said. “I heard you had a question about a former patient of mine? Rosebud?”
“Yes. It’s about a case I’m working with the sheriff’s department. You’d be doing us a big favor if you could lend your expertise,” she said.
That piqued his interest. She knew that adding expertise would do it. Stroking the ego of these professional types, making them think their knowledge could break a case wide open, always worked. Maybe it was the true crime buff that lurked inside of most people. Thank God for the ID Network to sensationalize her job.
“Oh?” he said, leaning casually against the wall. “Do tell.”
She pulled out the files Leigh had given her and the photos of the beagles. “Do you remember when Rosebud was attacked?”
Mitch nodded without hesitation. “I do. God, that poor thing was in such rough shape when they brought her in. She wouldn’t have lasted another hour without surgery.” He gave a sad, empathetic shake of his head.
“This might be a bit of a stretch, I’ll admit, but she wasn’t the only animal that was attacked around that time. There were several others that died… badly. The sheriff’s department theorized that some people were responsible.” She hesitated to add any further details.
“That’s rather vague.”
Carolina sighed, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “Apparently they thought a satanic cult was killing these animals as part of a sacrifice.”
Mitch did a bad job of stifling a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m not keen on the theory myself.”
“I don’t know about any other pets, but Rosebud and her mate, Orson, were attacked by an animal, or multiple animals. Most likely coyotes. If memory serves, it was late winter when food would have been scarce, which might explain the unusual aggression.”
“Coyotes?” Carolina asked. “I thought they only went after chihuahuas and yorkies. Little dogs.”
Mitch shrugged. “The DiPaulos’ beagles were on the smaller side, and both advanced in years. You’d be surprised how aggressive hungry predators can become.”
“So, you don’t think it’s possible a person did this?” she asked, extending the photos to him.
Mitch reached out with his left hand and accepted them. After a long review, he pointed to the large, shaved area on the dog’s side where several wounds had been sutured shut.
“Right there, these were both animal bites. And there were deep claw marks near her haunches.”
Carolina accepted this information but wasn’t satisfied yet. “Coyotes don’t really have claws though, right?”
Mitch’s brow furrowed as he considered it. “No, they don’t. But like a dog, or a wolf, they use their toenails to help tear away the flesh. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a canid feasting on prey?” He paused for her response.
Carolina gave a quick shake of her head.
“It’s very violent. Very aggressive.” He returned the photo to her. “Quite the spectacle, really.”
“I can only imagine.” She thought she was done and found herself disappointed that what she thought was a fine lead had been so easily squashed.
“May I ask you a question?” Mitch asked.
“Of course.”
“Have more animals been attacked? Should I make clients aware of the situation so they can be on alert?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, pets aren’t the ones in danger right now.”
“Oh, that’s good to know. No one wants to lose something they care about.”
Later, in hindsight and with a gun aimed at her head, Carolina remembered seeing a glint in his eyes. A secretive pride.
Chapter 51
After Mitch’s encounter with the woman, he needed to eat something. A quick trip to the butcher two blocks over had satisfied that hunger. A quarter pound of raw ground beef hit the spot just right and he was able to think with a clearer head.
He was still uncomfortable with the woman’s intrusion. And he felt a stab of paranoia regarding her questions about the killed animals. That had been so long ago, he was certain they’d been forgotten and believed they could never be connected with him nor his latest prey. Yet there was this bitch, poking her nose into his business.
Who was she anyway? A friend of
Leigh’s. Someone working with the sheriff’s office. But she wasn’t a local police officer. And he didn’t even take her for a cop. She didn’t carry that scent. She smelled dangerous and wild.
She smelled like a predator.
But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be.
He stepped to the small sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed some on his face. It shocked him back to his senses and he let his eyes fall shut, focusing on the cool wetness ebbing down his face. Trying to forget about the woman and her questions.
After all, if she became a problem, he’d simply add her to his kill list. She’d be a formidable opponent, but one he would enjoy consuming. And how would she react to being hunted rather than the hunter?
He felt a smile crossing his face, his row of fangs being freed from the shroud of his lips. He slithered his tongue across them, pressing hard, feeling their sharpness. Feeling his true self.
All was right again, until he opened his eyes and saw Carlene’s reflection in the mirror. She was lurking behind him, creeping into his space.
Mitch lost his smile and spun to the woman.
“I didn’t hear you--” he said before her words severed his.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded.
He cleared his throat, tasting a drop of blood rise from his gullet. He wiped his hand over his mouth and looked at it, seeing a thin red smear and licked it away greedily.
“I had to eat something. My blood sugar was low and I was starting to get the shakes,” he lied.
“Are you kidding me right now? It’s not even ten a.m. You can’t waltz in and out at your leisure,” she said.
He shrugged. “Sorry.” It came off as insincere as he felt.
Her face turned the color of the raw beef but looked far less appetizing. “This is unacceptable. You show up late, leave early, dip out randomly.”
“Carlene, I think you’re focusing too much on something that doesn’t concern you,” Mitch said. “I know you don’t like me, that’s been obvious. But I’m the doctor here and--”
