Wolfman is Back

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Not that, you ass. When is Emma due?”

  “Oh, that. Mid-December.”

  “That calls for another beer.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Late Tuesday Night

  Briscoe hadn’t slept much that day. Too hot and the images of the teen by the river came back in technicolor. Like she expected him to have stopped what happened. Like he should have done something. He’d given up on sleep by 1400 hours and went to his garage and loaded cartridges for his revolver. “Hot loads” he called them. A little extra gun powder for a bigger impact. Against regulations, but he didn’t give a shit. He lived by the motto better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. It had served him well. He supplied about fifty cops with the hot ammo.

  By 2000 hours he was dressed and ready for his night shift as the district sergeant. He got an update from the evening district sergeant before he went off shift. So far, quiet. The APB on Billy-Lou’s truck had a few calls come in, but they were either the wrong license number or the wrong type of truck. You’d think the cops would read the bulletins given out at briefings.

  Briscoe met with the night crews at 2300 hours then hit the streets. The first two hours were quiet. After coffee with a couple of crews he headed out again. He didn’t mind night shifts. It gave him time to skulk around on his own. He seemed to be able to find crime most nights. Tonight was proving difficult. He gave up on the downtown core and headed up Fourteenth Street. He drove past Annie’s apartment building and checked in with security. Nothing suspicious to report. Bored and grasping at straws, he headed into Glenmore Park.

  He backed the van into a stand of trees across from the public washroom. After midnight, the park attracted older men looking for teen boys. At least he could chase the pervs out of the park. Over the next hour or so several cars loaded with teens parked across from Briscoe. He waited until they were out of the car then walked over. He scared the shit out of them when he came out of the shadows. He could be a mean SOB, but this was a big night for the kids. He made them dump out any liquor, toss the bottles in the garbage, and sent them packing. After he chased out the first half-dozen cars, the word must have spread as no cars came for a half hour.

  Then a sedan drove in front of Briscoe and parked next to the restroom. Briscoe waited for the kids to get out, then he’d roust them. But it wasn’t kids. A big guy slid out of the car, glanced back to where Briscoe hid, then walked into the restroom.

  At first he thought he was seeing things. There were other guys as big as Wolfe. Hell, half the bikers were big and ugly. He thought about the BOLO, but it was for a truck. Still, his gut was spinning in circles—he always trusted his gut.

  He keyed his mic. “Dispatch, 401. Have units block both entrances to Glenmore Park. No one in or out.”

  “Roger, 401. What’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure yet, I’ll get back to you.”

  He radioed records. “I need a check on a license number.” He gave the information.

  “401, it comes back to a Volkswagen. That plate isn’t reported stolen.”

  “Call the registered owner,” Briscoe said. “Have them check to see if the plate is on their vehicle.”

  “Okay, standby.”

  Time dragged. Finally records came back. “The owner checked, and his rear license plate is missing.”

  “Thanks, records.” Briscoe changed radio channels. “Dispatch, 401. Connect me to Detective Coulter.”

  “Roger, 401.”

  Time dragged again. In real time it was less than thirty seconds—in his head it was minutes.

  A sleepy voice said, “Coulter.”

  “Brad, it’s Briscoe. I think Wolfe’s in Glenmore Park. I’ve got cruisers at the entrances.”

  Brad’s voice changed. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m in the park in the trees across from the restroom. A big dude, Wolfe’s size, is in the restroom. The plates on the car don’t match—they’re stolen. Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Hot damn,” Brad said. “I’m on my way.”

  Briscoe keyed his mic. “Dispatch, get Detective Devlin and TSU responding to the park.”

  “Roger, 401.”

  Briscoe waited for backup. He didn’t stand a chance against him alone. Shooting Wolfe came to mind, and if Wolfe gave him a reason —

  He tapped the steering wheel. Then pulled binoculars out of his briefcase and focused on the restroom door. The door opened and the man was highlighted by the outside light. Dark eyes surrounded by dark hair and beard peered back. Wolfe! He walked to the back of the car, lit a cigarette and sat on the trunk. Briscoe watched and listened to the radio. Both entrances were blocked. Coulter, Devlin, and TSU were all responding. Wolfe lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. It seemed he didn’t have a care. He pushed off the trunk and took a few steps toward Briscoe. Whether Wolfe’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness or something else spooked him, he tossed the cigarette to the ground and jogged back to the car.

  The engine started and the car reversed.

  Wolfe knew the cops would be searching for the girl’s truck, so he dumped it, then stole a sedan and a license plate from another downtown parking lot. A smaller car would have been less obvious, but there was no way he’d get his bulk into one. He needed a place to lie low and get some sleep. The park would do for tonight. Tomorrow he’d get everything he needed for Friday morning. Maybe a trip back to army surplus, they had good shit.

  Wolfe drove into the park and stopped by a restroom. He took care of business, cleaned up and headed back to the car. He loved the warm weather, full moon, dark sky, and tons of stars. He yawned but decided he’d have a smoke, then catch some sleep. He lit the cigarette and sat on the trunk of the car, star gazing. As he looked across the sky, he realized he didn’t know the name of a single star. He looked for the north star. He’d heard it was the brightest. They all looked bright. He lit a second smoke and walked away from the car. Maybe he’d see the stars better in the dark. As his eyes adjusted, he saw thousands of stars. Who knew there were that many? He yawned and stomped out the butt. When he looked up he saw a vehicle hidden in the trees. He put both hands on his forehead and squinted—a police van.

  Oh shit! His heart raced, his temples throbbed, and his hands twitched. He jogged back to the car. As the engine roared to life, he slid a gun out from under the driver’s seat and set it on the seat next to him. He backed out and accelerated toward the exit.

  He didn’t look back but could feel the cops following him. At the exit, two police cruisers, lights flashing, blocked the exit. A cop stood in front of the cruiser, waving for Wolfe to slow down. He accelerated.

  The cop’s arms waved frantically, then he dove to the side of the road. The car struck the front end of one cruiser, sending it spinning off the road. The crumpled cruiser came to rest against some trees.

  Wolfe continued through Lakeview toward Glenmore Trail, his front bumper dragging and sparks flying.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brad responded with Lobo howling from the backseat. They were close to Crowchild Trail when Briscoe came on the radio.

  “Wolfe crashed through the roadblock. I’m in pursuit heading north on Crowchild, toward Glenmore Trail.”

  Brad was approaching the intersection when a car blew the red light. Sparks flew from under the front of the car. A sergeant’s van followed close behind, lights flashing and siren sounding.

  Brad spun the steering wheel of the Firebird, the rear end swung around, then he accelerated. He keyed the mic. “Briscoe. It’s Coulter. I’m behind you.”

  Two clicks of the mic in acknowledgment.

  “Dispatch. 912 and 401 in pursuit of the suspect vehicle,” Brad said. “North on Crow from Glenmore.”

  “Roger, 912.”

  The car braked hard at Fiftieth and turned east. Briscoe had trouble keeping up in his old van. Brad wanted to take over the lead in the chase but couldn’t. It was Briscoe’s chase. So, he watched in frustration as the sedan pulled a
way from Briscoe.

  The car swung south on Sixteenth Street and raced south. At Thirty-Eighth Avenue he turned east and then north on Fourteenth Street where the speed exceeded sixty miles an hour in a thirty-mile zone.

  Other police cruisers joined in behind. Dispatch directed downtown units to intercept at Seventeenth or Twelfth Avenues.

  At Twenty-Sixth Avenue the car braked suddenly and Briscoe slammed into it, the back end of the van lifting off the ground. Brad swerved to avoid the collision, drove onto the sidewalk and back onto the road. He checked his rearview mirror; Lobo seemed okay.

  He accelerated. The car, several blocks ahead, crossed Seventeenth just ahead of a cruiser that skidded into the intersection. Brad veered around the cruiser, the back of his carfishtailing. Next time he got close, he’d hit the rear fender and knock the car out of control.

  Wolfe was at least five blocks ahead. Brad lost sight of the vehicle as it turned right on Twelfth Avenue.

  When Brad turned onto Twelfth, there was no sign of Wolfe. Brad slowed, and coasted down the block, checking each apartment complex parking area for the car.

  Dispatch directed cruisers into the area, closing off any escape route.

  A siren chirped behind Brad and he stopped.

  Devlin walked up to Brad’s window. “I’ve got undercover cars moving through here. We’ll find him.”

  “Yeah, well, I had him.”

  “We’ve got the area surrounded. He won’t get away.”

  “What are you wearing?” Brad asked.

  “Sweatshirt and pants. They said to get here quick.”

  Brad shook his head and pointed to the passenger seat. “Get in.”

  Devlin climbed in beside Brad.

  Lobo jumped, paws on the back of the seat, and barked.

  “Jesus,” Devlin yelled. “He scared the crap out of me.”

  “I hope you didn’t soil your nice grandpa pants.”

  “Asshole. What the heck is he doing here?”

  Brad laughed and scratched Lobo’s ears. “He likes to ride with me.”

  Devlin shook his head.

  “I want this to end tonight,” Brad said. “I hate that bastard.”

  They listened to the radio as units moved in tighter. TSU radioed they were in the area. Sounds like Steele. Brad cruised the avenues and alleys until they were back at Fourteenth Street.

  “Dispatch, 114. We’ve got him. Eastbound on Tenth from Fourteenth.”

  Brad swung his car back onto Tenth.

  “There, next block.” Devlin pointed to a dark vehicle moving in the next block. A dark Suburban, lights on and siren blaring, swung in behind Wolfe.

  “Let TSU know we’re behind them.” Brad hit the gas.

  When Wolfe started to turn onto Eighth Street, the Suburban accelerated, striking the back corner of the car.

  The car slid sideways through the intersection, through a fence, and came to rest against a telephone pole. The momentum of the TSU truck sent it farther down the block.

  As Brad stopped, the driver’s door opened and Wolfe lumbered toward the railway tracks.

  Brad jumped out of his Firebird and opened the back door. He attached a harness to Lobo, then raced after Wolfe.

  Wolfe had a good head start. Brad caught glimpses of him as they ran between the railcars. Brad spotted Wolfe a couple of railcars ahead. He glanced over his shoulder, then disappeared between two boxcars. Brad and Lobo sprinted to the railcar and jumped between the cars to the other side—Wolfe was gone. Brad listened for boots on gravel, but heard nothing. Lobo, nose to the ground, tugged on his leash.

  “You got a track, buddy?”

  Lobo barked once.

  “Okay. Seek.” Lobo sniffed the ground a few times, then jogged toward a railcar. He stopped, sniffed the ground, turned in circles, then crawled under the car. Brad called Lobo back and they jumped between two cars.

  Once over, Lobo picked up the track and sprinted down the gravel between the tracks, then stopped ten cars ahead and whimpered.

  Brad shone his flashlight under the car. The light illuminated a man crawling to the other side.

  Crap.

  They jumped between the railcars again. Wolfe was four or six cars ahead. Enough of this shit. “Lobo, sit.” Brad unleashed Lobo and said, “Take him, take him, take him.”

  Lobo bolted after Wolfe, who looked over his shoulder once, then twice. As Lobo grew close, Wolfman stopped running. His arm swung up, gun in hand.

  Oh, shit. Brad aimed his pistol at Wolfe. Before Brad could fire, Lobo leaped, and sank his teeth into the arm holding the gun. Wolfe screamed, and fired a shot harmlessly into the night sky.

  Lobo clamped down on Wolfe’s arm and swung his head sideways.

  Wolfe screamed and wildly threw punches with his other hand. The blows glanced off Lobo’s head. Wolfe grabbed Lobo’s jaw and tried to pry it open—useless. Lobo sunk his teeth deeper into Wolfe’s arm.

  Brad took his time getting to Wolfe. “Lobo, drag.” He dragged Wolfe toward Brad.

  “Get this fucking dog off me!”

  “Lobo, shake.” He shook his head violently from side to side.

  Wolfe screamed louder.

  “Lobo. Out.” He held tight. “Lobo. Out.” Brad grabbed Lobo’s collar and pulled him back.

  Realizing Lobo wasn’t going to let go, Brad grabbed the harness and said, “Out.”

  He dragged Lobo away from Wolfe.

  Lobo backed away, growling, hackles up.

  “Jeter Wolfe, you’re under arrest. Onto your knees, facing away from me.”

  Wolfe sank onto his knees. Lobo jumped closer, barking.

  Brad stepped behind Wolfe. “Hands on your head.”

  “I can’t. My arms are shredded.”

  “Do it anyway,” Brad ordered.

  Wolfe lifted both arms. His right arm dripped blood.

  “Lobo. Watch.” He ran around and faced Wolfe, growling.

  Brad picked up Wolfe’s gun and tucked it into his belt.

  Wolfe shifted on his knees. Lobo pounced, barking wildly.

  “Get that fuckin’ dog away from me!”

  Brad stepped behind Wolfe, grabbed his uninjured arm and slapped a handcuff on his wrist.

  Lobo growled, inches from Wolfe’s face.

  “Keep that dog away from me, or I’ll kill him.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen, Wolfe. You don’t stand a chance against him. Don’t move.”

  Brad pulled the cuffed hand down to Wolfe’s back, then jerked the other arm back and cinched the cuff tight.

  Wolfe yelled, “You and your dog are dead, Coulter. You hear me, dead. I’m gonna make you watch while I carve up your mutt. Then I’ll slowly cut you to pieces.”

  Brad grabbed Wolfe’s injured arm and squeezed. Wolfe screamed.

  “Get up.”

  Wolfe stood.

  “I’m going to search you. You so much as twitch and Lobo will be all over you. Understand?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Good. As long as you understand. Lobo. Watch.”

  Lobo faced Wolfe, snarling, legs coiled, ready to spring.

  Brad searched Wolfe, finding a hunting knife, a package of cigarettes, a lighter and a pocket full of bullets.

  “Let’s go.” Brad shoved Wolfe toward Tenth Avenue.

  A gunshot echoed from between the railcars.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Devlin caught up with Steele and Zerr at Wolfe’s car. By then, at least a dozen vehicles crowded the intersection, cops running in all directions.

  “Where’s Brad?” Steele asked.

  “He and Lobo took off after Wolfe.”

  “Call him on the radio,” Steele said.

  “Can’t,” Devlin said. “The dumbass left it in the car when he was harnessing his dog.”

  “No sense searching as a group,” Steele said. “Let’s split up and each take a track.”

  “Sounds good,” Devlin said, “I’ll take two uniforms and go dow
n the first track.”

  Devlin pulled out his pistol. Steele and Zerr had rifles. They jumped between two railcars and out of sight.

  Devlin followed the fence while the uniforms looked under the railcars, trailing Devlin by a half-dozen cars. In the darkness it was hard to make out any shape. He peered down the fence looking for movement. Seeing none, he walked over to the railcars. Maybe Wolfe was hiding under a car.

  He turned to a noise behind him. From a hole in the fence, three scruffy men with guns walked toward Devlin.

  “RCMP, stop right there.”

  Devlin raised his hands, still holding his pistol, and backed against a boxcar. As he was about to tell them he was a cop, a gunshot pierced the night.

  From the darkness, someone yelled, “Gun!”

  The closest guy raised his gun to Devlin, finger on the trigger. Devlin stared, transfixed on the gun. To him, the finger moved ever so slowly. This is it.

  Then a shot was fired. The burly Mountie dropped his gun and slumped to the ground. Devlin was tackled and his gun flew out of his hand.

  Then the area was swarmed with men with guns and itchy trigger fingers. Everyone was shouting. In the dark, they all looked alike.

  Behind them, Steele and Zerr, stepped out of the darkness, yelling, “Calgary Police Tactical Unit. No one move. Put your guns down.” Flashlights attached to their rifles shone over the group. Three other TSU teams came through the fence and surrounded the scruffy group.

  “We aren’t dropping our guns until you lower yours,” one of the other full-bearded men said.

  “Calgary Police, drop your guns,” Steele said. “Drop your guns now!”

  “We’re cops … RCMP. RCMP!”

  “We’ve got eight rifles pointed at you,” Steele yelled. “We’ll sort this out later. Now on the ground, assholes!”

  The leader said, “On the ground, boys.”

  “Slowly set your guns on the ground.”

  They complied.

  “Place your hands on your heads. Devlin, get over here.”

  Devlin picked up his gun and walked over to Steele.