by Jason Starr
“You a religious man, Mr. Burns?”
“No,” Simon said. “I mean not really.”
“Then why the hell do you think I care whether you swear to God or not?”
As calmly as possible—which wasn’t very calmly at all—Simon said, “Look, I didn’t kill two people last night, okay? That’s just flat-out ludicrous. I’m not a killer, okay? I’m a father. I’m a husband.”
Rodriguez seemed to be studying his reaction. Simon had a feeling he was getting through to her.
“Look at it from my point of view,” she said. “On Tuesday you were questioned by the Jersey police because a man thought he saw you near Tom Harrison’s house on the night he was killed. Then tonight the man and his wife are killed. You’re going to tell me that’s a coincidence?”
Or maybe he wasn’t getting through.
“Yes,” Simon said. “It has to be.”
“So you want me to believe you’re telling the truth and you didn’t go to Jersey tonight.”
“I am telling the truth.”
“But maybe you hired somebody to go to New Jersey for you.”
“What do you mean, hired somebody?”
“Like a hit man,” Rodriguez said.
“Oh come on, give me—”
“What about the night Tom Harrison was killed? You’re going to deny you were there that night too, even though Alan Freedman said he saw you there.”
“Alan Freedman made a mistake,” Simon said.
“Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe you got a wolf to kill your old boss, thinking it was the perfect way to get away with murder, but you didn’t count on somebody seeing you there.”
“That’s not true,” Simon said. “I’m telling you, I wasn’t in New Jersey.”
Rodriguez was looking at him differently now; could she tell he was lying? Did she have the shoe? Was she just holding back this information to try to get a confession?
“I understand you were with a friend the night Tom Harrison was killed,” she said.
“So you did talk to Dorsey,” Simon said.
“Is there anybody else who can vouch for your whereabouts that night besides your friend?”
“No,” Simon said. “It’s just my friend.”
“So you have your friend as your alibi for one murder and your wife for another murder. Is that right, Mr. Burns?”
“I want a lawyer,” Simon said.
“Lawyer or not, it’ll make it a lot easier if you give yourself up,” Rodriguez said. “Look at it this way, you’re going down no matter what, so why not save us all some time and confess?”
Simon felt like the room was getting smaller. Everything was closing in. It was hard to breathe.
“I want a lawyer,” he said again.
Rodriguez got up, made it to the door, then turned back.
“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Burns.”
This was it—they had found his shoe. If they had his shoe, he was through. There was no way he’d be able to deny he was at Tom’s house the night he was killed, and they’d wind up somehow pinning the other murders on him as well.
“Do you know a man named Dave Doherty?”
Simon let out the breath he’d been holding and said, “No.” It was true—he had no idea who Dave Doherty was.
“You sure?” Rodriguez asked.
Simon racked his brain—was Dave Doherty the father of one of Jeremy’s friends? Was he the husband of one of Alison’s friends? Somebody he went to college with?
“I honestly have no idea who he is,” Simon said. “Wait, don’t tell me he was killed too.”
Simon was being completely facetious.
“Last year his body was found in Howard Beach, Brooklyn.”
“Jesus Christ, I was kidding,” Simon said.
“You think murder is funny, Mr. Burns?”
“Not kidding like that, I just . . .” Simon suddenly realized he was being accused of another murder. “Wait a second. If you’re trying to say—”
“Doherty lived in Manhattan. Actually not too far from you. Hell’s Kitchen. He was married, had a son. How old is your son, Mr. Burns?”
“What diff does—”
“How old is he?”
“Three,” Simon said reluctantly.
Rodriguez smiled out of the corner of her mouth.
“Funny,” she said. “Doherty had a two-year-old son. He would be three now. Same age as your son.”
Simon was going to ask her if she thought murder was funny but had a feeling it wouldn’t go over very well. Instead he said, “I told you, I’ve never heard of Dave Doherty. Why do you think that has anything to do with me?”
“Maybe it has something to do with the wolf bites on his body.”
After glaring at Simon one last time, Rodriguez left the room.
Simon was left alone in the white, brightly lit room, thinking, Did this just happen? The whole situation—being questioned for three murders, two of which he definitely hadn’t committed—had been completely bizarre, but Dave Doherty was the topper. Who the hell was Dave Doherty? Was Rodriguez seriously implying that Simon might have had something to do with a fourth murder, or was it just some kind of interrogation strategy to try to screw with his mind?
Simon was dizzy and claustrophobic. He started pacing the room, feeling like a wild animal in a tiny cage. Then he realized they were probably watching him in the two-way glass and that appearing nervous and agitated probably wasn’t the best idea. So he returned to his chair and tried to stay as patient as possible, acting like he had nothing to hide, but the reality was he had something huge to hide. He’d been in denial about it for days, but he couldn’t hide from the truth any longer—he’d definitely killed Tom. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d been in New Jersey that night, and Alan Freedman hadn’t made a mistake. The blood on his jeans was Tom’s blood, and it was probably like the police said—when he blacked out he’d somehow gotten a wolf and brought it to Tom’s house. But what had happened to the wolf? And had Michael actually killed Freedman and his wife? It was hard to imagine that Michael would actually kill two innocent people. Then Simon shuddered, realizing that his only alibi for Tom’s murder might be a total psychopath.
It was hard to judge how much time had gone by, but Simon felt like he’d been sitting, waiting, for at least an hour when Rodriguez finally returned and said, “You can go.”
“Thank you,” Simon said. “I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it in.”
“No, I meant you can leave,” she said.
“Are you serious?” Simon was in shock; he couldn’t believe he was actually going to walk out of here. A few seconds ago he’d been convinced he’d never be free again.
“Yeah, but don’t worry,” she said ominously, “we’re not through with you yet.”
On his way out of the precinct Simon saw Dorsey, the detective from New Jersey. Instinctively Simon smiled and waved, but this wasn’t the friendly, laid-back Dorsey who’d visited him the other day. This was an angry, all-business Dorsey whose icy glare was clearly meant to send Simon a message.
Simon needed to clear his head and relax in a big way, so he jogged back home to the Upper West Side. It was almost dawn, the first light of the day turning the sky a very dark blue. The effect of physical activity on his psyche was amazing as hope quickly returned. He managed to reconvince himself that maybe it was a bizarre coincidence that he had been at Tom’s house that night, and that maybe the blood on his jeans wasn’t Tom’s blood, and the murders of Alan Freedman and his wife had also been a bizarre coincidence that had nothing to do with him or Michael.
It was great to be back at his building, to be walking past James again as a free man. But when he entered his apartment he immediately knew something was wrong. In the vestibule he inhaled deeply. Yeah, something had definitely changed.
In the dining room he smelled ink, maybe from a Sharpie. Then he saw the note on the table in Alison’s handwriting:This isn’t what I want. I’m sorry.
&nbs
p; Frantically he checked the bedrooms, shouting their names, but he knew it was hopeless.
His family was gone.
TWENTY-TWO
Olivia opened her eyes expecting to be in Cuba. She’d been dreaming that she was having sex on a beach—not the drink, actual sex on a beach—with some ripped Cuban guy, but instead she saw Michael looking down at her.
Then she realized she was in Michael’s Tribeca apartment. She was too tired, and too in Cuba, to fully process any of this.
“I thought I’d have to bury you in the woods,” Michael said.
She tried to sit up. Jesus, her head felt like there was a bowling ball attached to it. “Oh, God, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this. What happened to me?” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them suddenly and said, “What day is this?”
“You must rest,” Michael said.
“Is today Thursday? Is it? Is it?”
“You can’t go anywhere. You’re not ready.”
“What time is it?” She looked around for her pocketbook, managing to lift her head more than she had the first time. “Where’s my bag? Where’s my iPhone?”
“You have everything you need,” Michael said.
“Oh no, it’s Thursday, isn’t it? Is it morning? Is it still morning?”
Olivia managed to wake up, realizing she was fully dressed in the same clothes, including the boots, that she’d worn last night. Oh God, it was Thursday.
“You won’t leave,” Michael said.
“You don’t understand,” Olivia said. “I have work to do. A major client’s coming in from Japan to meet with me today. Where’s my pocketbook?”
Olivia spotted her pocketbook on the dresser across the room. As she stood Michael grabbed her shoulders, trying to push her back down, and she pushed him back, much harder than she intended, and he fell backward, actually leaving his feet, and slammed against the brick wall.
“Oh my God,” she said, “I’m sorry.” She had no idea how that had happened. Michael probably weighed two hundred pounds; yeah, she was in a hurry, but how did she have the strength to push him so far?
“See?” Michael said; he seemed fine. “I told you you aren’t ready. You don’t know how to control it yet.”
Olivia went to her pocketbook, fished around for her phone. “Okay, it’s eight fifty . . . I still have ten minutes to get to my office.”
“You can’t leave my sight,” Michael said, now standing between her and the exit in a slightly crouched, ready position, as if he were expecting her to charge and he’d have to defend himself.
“Please get out of my way,” Olivia said. “I can’t be late for this meeting.”
“You don’t want to go to a meeting,” Michael said.
“Yes, I do want to go to a meeting, so can you stop all this ridiculousness, I really don’t have time for this right now.” She realized her clothes were disheveled and dirty. “Oh my God, what happened to me?”
“I had to dress you,” Michael said.
Suddenly it came back—the double date, the bizarre trip to New Jersey, having sex with Michael in the woods, the way his face had appeared as the face of an animal.
“You look normal now,” Olivia said. “You look . . .” She was confused. Her head felt extremely heavy again, and she was aware of other strange pains in her gums and hands and feet especially. “God, what the hell happened to me? I must’ve blacked out, and I never black out. Did you slip me something at the bar? I mean, I don’t see why you’d . . . or when you’d . . .” She had another memory—him giving her that massive hickey, biting into her neck. She felt the area, and it felt sticky and stung a little. There was definitely a wound there, which was a relief because it at least seemed to confirm that she wasn’t going completely insane.
“The site will heal completely within a day,” Michael said. “From now on all of your injuries will heal faster. It’s one of the many gifts I have given you.”
“Did you actually bite me?” Olivia said.
“Yes,” Michael said.
Touching the wound again, wincing, Olivia asked, “Why did you bite me?”
“Sometimes during sex I lose control and I can’t help it. But it should have killed you. Everyone I’ve ever bitten has died, including my son’s mother. There is only one explanation for why you survived.... You are my soul mate.”
“Wait, let me get this straight,” Olivia said. “Last night you were threatening to kill me if I revealed your secrets, and now you think we’re soul mates?”
“Yes,” Michael said.
“Are you out of your—” Olivia cut herself off, thinking about her meeting again. “An iron. Do you have an iron?”
Blank stare.
“Of course you don’t answer, why would I expect anything else?”
“I told you, you’re not ready—”
“Will you please—”
“You feel the change.”
“I feel like I have a bad hangover because you must’ve slipped me a roofie or something.”
“You’re just not aware of what is happening yet. You’re not human anymore. You have wolves’ blood now like me.”
“Wolves’ blood?” She had to laugh, then said, “First you’re a hit man and now you’re a wolf. You have some imagination, don’t you? Well, I have to get to work.”
Olivia shoved Michael out of the way, knocking him hard to the floor.
“Oh my God, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
From the floor Michael said, “See? You don’t know how to control it yet. I must teach you everything.”
She realized something strange was going on, but she didn’t have time to give it much thought or discuss it. She left the room and headed through the loft toward the exit.
Michael came running behind her, saying, “Your body is altered for eternity. You’re not human anymore.”
He caught up with her and grabbed her from behind. She was about to shove him away again when she saw Michael’s father—several feet ahead of her, in front of the elevator. He was with a boy, maybe three years old, and they were holding hands.
Olivia and Michael stopped, and his father seemed extremely angry at him for some reason, but that was just his natural expression. The boy looked like a mini version of Michael, minus the gray hair. They had similar-shaped faces and practically identical eyes.
“Hi, I’m Olivia,” she said to the boy. He didn’t answer, and then, the bizarre awkwardness of the situation setting in, she added, “and I should be going.”
She got on the elevator. She expected Michael to try to stop her, but he remained there, as if mesmerized by his father, and let her go. She recalled Michael telling her about how his father didn’t want him to have lovers and wondered whether it had something to do with that.
Whatever, she thought.
Outside, Eddie wasn’t waiting with the Lexus.
“Damn it,” she muttered, and stepped out onto the cobblestone street, hoping to hail a cab. People’s stares reminded her that she looked like hell. One woman on the sidewalk whispered to the guy she was with: “Someone’s taking the walk of shame this morning.” Olivia didn’t care, but as she walked on she wondered how she’d heard what the woman had said. After all, she’d been a good twenty feet away and the woman had clearly been whispering.
Olivia’s attention was diverted when she spotted an empty cab stopped at a red light on Warren Street.
“Taxi!” Olivia shouted, and sprinted to the cab. She was surprised how fast she’d gotten there—almost instantly, and in boots with threeinch heels no less.
“Fortieth and Sixth,” she said.
Luckily there wasn’t much traffic on West Street, and they were making good time. Olivia couldn’t help noticing how many sexy men there were in Manhattan. Bike messengers, UPS delivery guys, drunks on street corners; she really used to complain that it was hard to meet guys in this city? Attractive men were everywhere, but, okay, what was up with her hormones? She could
n’t remember ever being this horny. Even the thin, bearded, sweaty cabdriver didn’t look so bad. Or smell so bad. He smelled pretty good, actually—raw and pungent, with no deodorant getting in the way of his natural scent. She could smell other guys in the cab as well, probably previous passengers. Their scents were lingering in the air and had seeped into the material of the backseat.
They hit traffic crossing east, so Olivia had the driver drop her at Thirty-seventh and Seventh. She walked quickly and then started running toward her office, weaving in and out of pedestrians. It felt great to run, as if she’d been caged for years, and she was hyper-aware of her surroundings. Every odor, honking horn, voice, car engine, cough, and sneeze seemed clear and amplified. When she focused she could hear individual conversations—a woman across the street complaining to her friend about the bad service at a restaurant they’d eaten at last night, a guy in a suit talking on his cell phone about a woman—“Tellin’ you, bro, she’s so into you.” Was she really hearing all this? How was it possible? And what was up with her sense of smell? Pollution from the traffic was the most dominating odor, but despite this she could detect urine, dog feces, and cigarette smoke. She could also smell people’s unique scents and the scents of many perfumes and colognes, and when she ran past a deli the odors of bacon and sausage were especially prominent and caused a surge of hunger. Although she was already very late for her meeting, she couldn’t resist going into the deli and ordering bacon and eggs to go. As she watched the bacon sizzle on the skillet, it looked so enticing that she said, “Can you make that a double order of bacon, please?” Then it seemed like it was taking forever for the bacon to cook, so she said, “It’s okay, I’ll take it like that.”
“But it’s not done yet,” the guy said.
“I don’t care,” she said.
She took the order of eggs and half-cooked bacon and scarfed it up, standing on the sidewalk outside the deli. As she was finishing off the last couple of strips, she thought, I’m seriously eating bacon? She usually avoided fatty, salty meat, but the taste was so satisfying and the food seemed to give her a jolt of energy and make her stronger and more alert. She wanted more—the ten or so strips she’d eaten had barely satisfied her—but she had to get to her meeting, so she rushed around the corner to her building.
