Werewolf Sings the Blues

by Jennifer Harlow

  The motel’s gotten busier in the last few hours with double the cars in the lot and even a line at the gas station across the street. Two clean-cut men in baseball caps walk out of the room next to mine, eyes glued to me. They probably know I was the one screaming. I don’t care. I barely give them a second glance. I throw the suitcase in the backseat and slam the door shut. I start moving to the driver’s side. I should at least leave a note: “Going rogue. See you never.” He’ll be fine. He’ll steal another car, drive—

  “Vivian Frances Dahl?”

  “What—”

  Fuck. The men in caps are bridging the ten-foot gap between us, the one in front holding a pistol down to the ground but holding it none the less. The second man, a step behind, has his hand on his belt, no doubt reaching for a gun as well. Shock and utter fear squeeze my throat shut, so I can’t even draw breath. This is it. They’ve found me. I die in the parking lot of a flea-bag motel in Ohio. The first man raises his gun. “Drop the key and step away from the car with your hands above your head!” With trembling arms, I do all he orders. “All units move in. A and B. Now! Now!”

  Those words ratchet down my fear to a reasonable decibel. Oh, thank God. I’ve never been so relieved to be under arrest. A flurry of activity occurs all at once it’s difficult to focus on one. With the gun still on me, the second man approaches, pulling out his cuffs. At the same time, sirens ring out as two cruisers barrel out of their hiding spots from the side of the motel near the manager’s officer and McDonald’s on the other side. The officer grabs my wrists and yanks my arms down while reciting Miranda. The handcuffs cut into my flesh as four more officers leap out of their cruisers, guns pointed right at me as I’m patted down. “Do you understand these rights as I’ve presented them to you?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  Holy shit, this is really happening.

  The cop pushes me toward one of the cruisers as the rest siege my room. Jesus Christ my life has changed from horror movie to porn to an episode of COPS all in one day. This realization makes me laugh out loud. “What’s so funny?” the officer asks.

  “Nothing,” I chuckle. I’m still laughing as I’m forced into the backseat of a Crown Victoria.

  “… officers in need of assistance at Burger King, 18976 Ring-rold Road,” the radio in front says. “Two officers down, repeat two officers down. Suspect is Gavin McHale, 6'4", blonde hair, approximately two hundred fifty pounds wearing blue jeans and black t-shirt, last seen running fast west on Route 57. He is armed with a knife and police officer’s gun and is extremely dangerous. Proceed with caution.”

  West. The opposite direction from here. Still, a huge wave of relief warms my amped body. He got away. Thank God. Thank you, God. The rest of the officers, having cleared the room, sprint out to their cars, I assume to chase Jason. Poor men don’t stand a chance.

  “Ambulance en route. Nature of injuries?” the dispatcher asks.

  “Um, possible dislocated shoulder on Officer Kopek, and I think I broke a rib. Guy’s strong and real fast. He may be high on something.”

  “Copy.”

  The officer who slapped the cuffs on me opens the car door. “Where did he go?”

  I keep my mouth shut tight. I learned the first time I was arrested to just remain quiet. Don’t even ask for a lawyer unless absolutely necessary. The officer glares at me for a few seconds, seething, but when that doesn’t work slams the door shut again. Just pissing men off right, left, and center lately. It is my greatest gift.

  The officers exchange a few more words outside that I can’t hear before my officer rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat. “I’m taking you to the station,” he says, starting the car. He scowls back at me in the rearview mirror. I mimic Jason’s usual expression, blank. “Looks like your boyfriend ran out on you.”

  “Karma is a bitch.”

  nine

  Since I’ve been arrested three times before—underage drinking, possession, DUI—I know what to expect. Fingerprints, mug shot, strip search, not fun. This station is small with the holding cells actual old school bars just down the hall from the bullpen and interrogation rooms. I’m one of three women in residence, one attempting to sleep off a hangover in between vomiting in the communal toilet and the other tweaking out of her gourd. She spends an hour just scratching at her arms to kill the imaginary bugs. We all ignore one another, lost in our own bullshit.

  My bullshit involves eavesdropping on the officers down the hall. I only hear bits and pieces of conversation, but it seems the hotel manager ratted us out. Called in the police with our “suspicious behavior.” There was a nationwide bulletin sent by Donovan with the Accord’s make, model, and state stolen from. We should have changed the plates again when we left Utah. Or I should have. An oversight that probably just cost me my damn life.

  Since the car was linked to a federal fugitive, the locals were told to just surveil until Donovan arrived. When Jason took his walk they followed him. But it was when I came out with a suitcase they figured I was leaving, and the officer who held the gun on me decided it’d be smarter to apprehend us before we left the jurisdiction. The whole station heard his boss ream him out for jumping the gun. Good. That bastard signed my death warrant. I hope they bust him down to crossing guard.

  So I sit, listen and wait. No rescue this time. No storming the police station. I don’t have Agent Price’s phone number or Frank’s, not that they could do much. Neither could a lawyer. I know because I asked. I can get one when I’m in “Federal custody.” I can’t see Donovan following that particular protocol. The locals don’t even ask me questions. The only contact is when the guard spits on my bologna sandwich. You don’t make friends with police when your alleged boyfriend beats up two of their fellow officers. I just eat the apple.

  Hours pass, each slower and more painful than the last. Waiting for your execution, knowing it’s coming but not being able to stop it, it’s downright torture, no question. By hour five my fingernails are down to nubs and not even pacing helps alleviate the stress. I’m as jittery as the tweaker, jerking at every cough and ringing telephone. The guilt weighing me down like a lodestone doesn’t help. The “if only’s” cycle through my head. If only I hadn’t insisted we stop. If only I’d switched the license plates. If only I hadn’t seduced him. If only I had begged him to stay. If only I hadn’t decided to abandon him. That’s the one that haunts me. It’s my fault, it’s only my fault. I should have stopped it. Gotten out of the bed. Pushed him off me. I just wanted him so badly. I don’t blame him at all for abandoning me to the wolves. God knows I was about to do it to him. All for pride. Just to punish him. Guess he wised up, saw me for what I am. No good. At least he got away. I didn’t drag him down with me this time.

  After my thousandth lap around the cell, the guard who brought me lunch returns with cuffs in hand. “Dahl, back up against the bars with your hands behind you.”

  Guess my executioner’s arrived. About damn time.

  After slapping the cuffs on again, the officer leads me down the hall toward the grinning Donovan. Bastard. He looks from me back to the man in a suit he was speaking to before. Donovan signs a piece of paper on the clipboard the suit’s holding. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate all your department’s hard work on this,” Donovan says.

  “Glad to be of help,” the suit says. “We still have officers combing the area for McHale. We believe he may have stolen a car from a Wal-Mart parking lot. There’s a BOLO out, but he’s probably long gone.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Donovan says as he hands him the clipboard. “Extradition warrant, signed and sealed.”

  “Thank you.”

  The guard removes my cuffs only to push me toward Donovan who pulls his own out. “Hello, Miss Dahl. Always a pleasure.” He closes the cuffs so tight I wince. Donovan’s all smiles though. “Lieutenant, thank you and please thank the officers who were injured. I hope they
make a speedy recovery.”

  “I will. And if we find McHale, you’ll be our first call.”

  “Appreciate it. Have a nice day.”

  Donovan tugs on my cuffs to lead me out. I could scream. I could fight. I could tell the police the truth, but there isn’t a chance in hell they’d believe me. All I can do is attempt to maintain dignity. Not let the fucker know how shit scared I really am. How I manage to keep my legs from giving out, hell if I know.

  “You are a major pain in the ass, you know that, right?” he asks as we step outside into the hot soup of the day. “I have used up every favor, ever inch of clout I had trying to track you and keep this thing under wraps. You also owe me the deposit on the rental car you destroyed.”

  “Gee, sorry I made it so hard for you to kill me. I’ll try and be more considerate next time,” I say in a monotone.

  He yanks me toward a Lincoln town car where another officer with a clipboard closes the trunk. “All the evidence we recovered from the car and motel is in the trunk, sir. Just need you to sign this chain of custody form.”

  “Excellent. Someone else from the Marshal’s service will be by to retrieve the car,” Donovan lies. “Let me just secure the prisoner.”

  “He’s going to kill me,” I blurt out. “Help me. Please don’t let him take me.”

  The men glance at one another, the young officer confused but Donovan cool as ice. That is until he breaks into a laugh, the officer joining him a second later. “Oh,” Donovan chuckles, “that’s a new one. Usually they accuse me of framing them.” He shakes his head. “Oh, I needed a laugh.” The bastard opens the back door behind the driver’s side.

  “Please!” I plead to the officer as I’m shoved into the car.

  Deaf ears. Donovan unlocks one cuff to thread through the thick plastic door grip, then resecures me to it. He shuts the door before moving to the officer, using all his good old boy charm on the man. Patting his back, cracking jokes as they both laugh. The car thief/serial killer’s accomplice doesn’t garner a second glance. My stomach clenches as the officer walks away. Donovan waves with that sickening saccharine smirk, which drops as soon as the officer’s back is turned, morphing into a hard glare when he pivots my way. I throw one right back at him.

  Donovan climbs into the driver’s seat. “Nice try.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I barely get out the second word before out of nowhere he spins around and backhands my cheek. The force knocks me sideways into the corner. My temple collides with the door, and I taste blood as I bite my lip. The throbbing pain from both is instantaneous.

  “That was for Wyoming. I’ll give you your real punishment for making me look bad in front of my Alpha when we get to the house. I’ll let the others have a go too.” After a cruel, twisted smile, he revolves back around and starts the car.

  God, I wish I had a lamp to smash over his head like the last time a man hit me. Instead, I have to lie here, letting my cheek and mouth pound in time to my racing heartbeat hard enough I worry my eyeball is about to pop out. Just keep your mouth shut, eyes open, and brain on, Viv. If I see an opening, I’ll take it. Grab for his gun, get him to crash the car, whatever it takes.

  Because if I am dying today, by God I’m taking this fucker out with me.

  We pull out of the parking lot and start toward my place of demise. In a minute or two the throbbing fades enough so I manage to sit up and watch the town go by. My kidnapper doesn’t admire the view. Every thirty seconds Donovan’s gaze whips up to the rearview mirror. By the time we reach the interstate, a large smile stretches across his face. When I glance back, I see nothing but cars. I was hoping a tank or a horde of zombies were coming to my aid.

  Donovan pulls out his cell phone. “Seth, it’s Phil. Yeah, I got her. No problems.” He’s quiet. “I think I spotted him. He’s trailing us as I thought he would.” I glance back again. The same cars from before remain, one a white Civic three behind. Jason. All the pain and terror is momentarily replaced with beautiful relief. I actually feel lighter, like I don’t have to struggle to breathe. He didn’t leave me. Of course he didn’t. How could I have ever believed he would?

  Donovan’s cruel grin brings me back to reality. “Yeah,” he says before listening again. “No, I think I’ll be safe. He won’t risk her getting caught in the crossfire. He’ll just follow.” More silence. “Really? Well, that makes things a hell of a lot more interesting. The others know?” Quiet. “We know what kind of firepower they’re bringing?” Silence. “No, I have the guns they got in Kansas. He might have one on him, I don’t know.” How the hell does he know we stopped in Kansas? “Four hours without stopping. Everyone will be there by then?” Donovan listens. “Yes, sir. Keep me posted when you receive more information.” Silence. “I appreciate your confidence in me, sir. I won’t let you down again. Bye.” He hangs up and lets out a long sigh. “Why is life never easy?”

  “Karma.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “You know, it’s not too late. You can pull this car over. Surrender. Join the good guys.”

  “Yeah, no thanks,” Donovan says.

  New tactic. “You’re an officer of the law, sworn to protect people, not kill them.”

  “You know what I’ve learned from thirteen years on the job? Despite what the movies may want you to believe, the bad guys win. I may slow them down a little but they get right back up and out there doing what they do, and making a shitload more money than I ever will. All I’ve got to look forward to is a pension my ex gets half of that I can’t live on.”

  “You’re doing this for money?”

  “There’s millions in the pack account. I’ve been promised fifty grand to start. Plus, once we get the East settled, Seth promised we’d try for the Central. I’d get to be Alpha. The boss. Costs a few people?” He shrugs. “That’s the life of a werewolf. I’d tell you to get used to it, but I doubt you’ll survive the night.” He stares at me in the rearview with a chilling grin. “And from the way things are shaping up, it is gonna be a fun one.”

  Yeah, the bait always has a ball right before it’s slaughtered.

  ten

  More waiting. At least this time I have something prettier to look at than a tweaker. We drive. And drive. And drive some more all along my old friend, I-70. Donovan barely acknowledges my presence the entire ride. He’s too busy keeping track of Jason and answering phone calls. From what I piece together, they’re constructing a massive trap at someone’s house in Pennsylvania, a trap Jason is driving right into. I’m sure he knows this. Still he follows mile after agonizing mile. Him and his stupid honor. They’re gonna massacre him.

  Part of me is joyous that he’s here, that there’s a glimmer of hope trailing behind me in an Accord. But the other 90 percent is literally praying he’ll wise up. Turn that damn car around and not look back. There’s no reason for us both to die. It’s just stupid. Stupid.

  If I could only move, I’d crash the car. Donovan never drives below seventy, and my hands aren’t free. I can’t kick him because I’m behind him. The cuffs are so tight I don’t think breaking my thumbs would even work. For a second I consider flinging the door open, but even that doesn’t work. The child lock must be engaged. From every angle, this is hopeless. After an hour, I just give up. I slump against the door, collapsing from exhaustion. The cat naps help, but I seem to jerk awake whenever he takes a phone call. The sun begins to set, and when I wake for the third time only a little orange remains behind us in the west. I don’t think we’re in Ohio anymore judging from the signs. I sit up and glance at the clock. We’re been driving for four hours.

  “I have to pee,” I say.

  “Almost there. Keep being a good girl and maybe I’ll give you a lollie.”

  Ten minutes later, we pull off the interstate onto a two-lane road heavily wooded on both sides. Trees soon give way to a field, then more trees. It’s beautiful. D
esolate. No one will ever hear me scream. About two miles down, Donovan turns onto a dirt road. We follow it about half a mile before rolling through a wooden covered bridge badly in need of more red paint. I glance back, but the Accord has vanished.

  My 10 percent selfishness rears its ugly head. My body locks from fear as I stare at the empty road. He wised up. He’s left me. Perhaps that wasn’t even him. I keep my eyes glued behind us, waiting with bated breath for the Civic to materialize again. No joy. A quarter mile of nothing but thick trees later, we pull into a small field with a tall, middle-aged man holding a shotgun standing by the road. Donovan slows, and I face front. A farm house. I die in a farm house. Not even a nice one. Like the bridge it’s badly in need of paint, the shutters on the second story are literally hanging by a nail. The barn farther down the clearing is in the same sorry state. If not for all the lights on inside and out, three cars on the lawn, and a man on the porch, also with a shotgun, I’d think the place was abandoned. No such luck.

  Donovan rolls down the window to speak to the first guard. “Everyone here?”

  “Yeah. No sign of anyone else. We’ve done two sweeps.”

  “He probably just got into position now. I figure a minimum of an hour. Keep vigilant anyway.”

  “Wish our guy was with them, huh?”

  “Can’t have everything.” The guard nods before we continue toward the house. The moment the car shuts off, stinging bile rises up my throat. If it wasn’t closed so tight, I’d barf all over the car. This is literally the end of the road for me. No more miles to save me. I die here. It’s so … final. My breath escapes in short spurts through my nose like a pig. Bacon. I’m bacon.