Kyle forced himself to remain calm; Serena clearly wanted a fight. But if he made a move against her, the rest of the pack would tear him apart. Quelling his anger, Kyle said, “He was clearly the best one suited for the task.”
Serena sat back and smiled, thinking she had cowed Kyle. “And that is?”
“Cleaning up Ziegler’s mess,” Kyle said, confidently.
“Good, at least something will be accomplished tonight.”
“What’s our next move?”
“Send a team to find Thorpe, then go and find the Professor, personally.”
Kyle executed a slight bow and started to turn, when Serena spoke again, “And Kyle, don’t come back without him.” Kyle only nodded his head, then left the chamber.
CHAPTER SIX
Chad leaned close to the lens, gently adjusting the magnification of the microscope. The samples from the latest murder lay under the glass. Chad had found these specimens even more astonishing than the Booker case.
The blood from Agent Dorsey’s body was a paradox, in that canine and human cells resided therein, each jockeying for control and in a constant state of unrest. Canine cells would attack and assimilate human ones, then a new group of human cells would counterattack, retaking the lost cell and incorporating it into their own. The cells didn’t seem to work together and neither was parasitic, though, so he ruled out endosybiosis. It looked to Chad as if two separate immune systems had been placed inside Dorsey’s body to see which one would be the victor. He could spend years studying the one slide of blood.
Chad heard the door to the lab open and close. He glanced over to the entrance and found no one there. Looking back through the lens, he adjusted the slide and began to study it some more, when a shuffling from behind caused him to spin around suddenly. Standing a few feet behind was Harden, a blank expression on his face. Turning back to his work, Chad said, “You scared the hell out of me, Jamie. I suppose you’re here for the lab report. It’s over on my desk.”
Harden did not reply.
Feeling his gaze upon him, Chad glanced back to Harden. He was still standing there, glaring at Chad. “Did you hear me? It’s over on my desk.”
Harden said nothing.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do, I don’t have time for games.”
Harden took a step forward.
Something felt wrong. A prickly sensation rose on the back of Chad’s neck and a ringing alarm sounded in his ears from Harden’s brutal silence. Chad got up and backed away. “Hey, come on, Jamie, if this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny.”
Harden stalked closer, but not the easy swagger Chad was so used to seeing him use. This was a predatory stride almost like a jungle cat getting ready to spring.
Chad moved back, putting the desk between him and Harden. He looked for something to defend himself with.
Closer.
Chad backed into the wall-length counter, the entrance to the lab was a few feet to his right.
Harden moved to the front of the desk, and stopped.
He felt helpless. He wondered if he could make it to the door before Harden made his move.
Harden smiled, then began to laugh. “Scared you, didn’t I?”
Chad breathed a sigh of relief, then he laughed also. “Damn, who put you up to this? Marla, I bet it was Marla,” he said.
Then, Harden’s eyes began to glow. The smile on Chad’s face disappeared, replaced with a look of horror. Harden jumped on top of the small desk and loomed over him. In a deep, guttural voice, he said, “No, it wasn’t Marla.”
Chad was terrified, however his instinct for survival told him to go for the door. He did.
Harden’s transformation slowed his reaction to Chad’s attempt at escape. Chad got almost halfway to the door before he leapt on top of him, and ripped him to shreds.
The screams were horrific, but in the basement, at the late hour, no one heard Chad’s pleas for help.
The Moonlight Cafe was a greasy spoon on the corner of West Bay and Lathrop Avenue. It had seen better days, the long formica counter was pockmarked and scratched. Once white tile flooring was now dingy and gray. The high back booths, with their burgundy leatherette coverings, were ripped or shredded, some with the stuffing hanging out.
Behind the counter Joe, the owner, flipped burgers. His tee shirt was covered in grease and his paper hat had a sweat mark along the edge where it met his hair. Tammy, the waitress, sat at the counter, a cigarette jutting from her mouth with a three-inch ash. She counted her meager tips over and over, as if they would magically multiply with each tally.
Alex sat at a booth in the back, milling over the day’s events. The fight at the garage wasn’t the creature’s style, usually preferring to operate from the shadows. The Professor must be close, he thought. He couldn’t allow Silverman to fall into their hands. If the Professor was studying the text, and Alex was sure he was, then who knows what he had become.
Kyle’s words kept echoing in his mind, Serena said to bring you to her. Why, all of a sudden, would Serena want him? In the seven years he had pursued them, she never wanted him captured, just dead.
Alex glanced through the filthy window beside him. Outside, three delinquents stood near a street lamp, passing a joint amongst themselves. Alex happened to make eye contact with one. The youth, clearly seeking to impress his buddies, mouthed the words, “Fuck you,” and grabbed his crotch. Alex looked away, not wanting to provoke the punks.
Alex saw Marla enter through the front door; she stopped just inside and surveyed the small diner. Spotting Alex, she hurried toward the booth and took a seat. “Good evening, Detective,” Alex said.
“Doctor,” she replied.
Marla looked around at the tiny restaurant, and said, “This doesn’t seem like your type of hangout.”
“And what exactly is my type, Detective?” Alex replied.
“Oh, I don’t know, sterile. I thought you’d be used to Five-star hotels and restaurants, what, with your father’s money and all.”
“Ah, I see that you’ve done some checking. Is my presence keeping you up at night?”
“No, I just like to know who I’m working with. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Marla Shaefer, formerly Marla Friedman, daughter of Clinton Friedman, renowned author and murderer. You probably became a detective to make amends for your father’s crimes. Don’t look so shocked, if you know my background, then you must know I have friends in high places,” Alex said in rapid-fire succession.
Marla’s initial reaction was shock, then anger. Thorpe had violated her privacy. The file on her father had been sealed by the court, to protect her identity after she became a ward of the state. Thorpe was right, though, Clinton Friedman had been a world-renowned author. The accounts of brutal murders, depicted in his novels, were critically acclaimed. His genius for constructing sympathetic killers in his work had earned him numerous awards and a string of best sellers.
No one knew he was actually writing about his own psychotic adventures. Until an eyewitness had identified his rental car as being in the vicinity of where a victim was found. To everyone’s surprise, Clinton freely admitted to the murder, and to dozens more, including Marla’s mother, who was found when Clinton was supposed to be on a business trip. The media hype was tremendous, the press eagerly awaiting the trial. But Clinton had other ideas and hung himself in his cell, robbing the world and Marla of any answers. Marla was remanded to the state, until she was eighteen. She then inherited her father’s estate worth over forty million dollars.
Marla glared at Thorpe a moment, expecting a smug look from the confident doctor, but was surprised with one of empathy.
“Touche,” she said, opening the file in front of her.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No, not with you,” she said, not looking up from the file.
“I can probably help…” Alex began.
“Look…” she said, pointing a finger at him “…you’re not my doctor. Whate
ver you think of me is better kept to yourself. We have a job to do and the quicker we find the killer, the sooner we can both go our separate ways. Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Thorpe.”
Alex did not reply, Marla obviously still had some deep emotions to contend with, but it wasn’t his place to dredge into them. Stupid, shouldn’t have brought it up, he thought. He was about to apologize when Marla spoke again. “Now, I’d like you look at this lab report, Captain Greaves seems to think you can make something of it.”
She slid the file across the grimy tabletop to Alex. He picked it up and flipped through the file slowly, stopping frequently to glance at her. When he was finished, he closed it and handed it back to her.
“Looks to me as if the samples were mixed up with another set. I’d think about firing the pathologist.”
“The samples weren’t mixed up and the pathologist is a very capable man. What I’m thinking is that you know more than you letting on,” Marla said, barely able to contain her anger.
“And what makes you think I would be holding back from this investigation?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know, call it cop instinct, but you’re hiding something. By the way, did you know there was another murder in the Chase building tonight?”
“No, of course not. When did this happen?”
“A few hours ago. The curious thing is that the victim was stabbed to death.”
“What’s so curious about that?”
“Nothing, except the blades found in the body were a titanium-silver alloy that no one’s ever seen before and the guy was totally naked. We ran his fingerprints through the computer and found out his name was Paul Dorsey, an FBI agent who died eight years ago. Now tell me Doctor, how does a naked dead man manage to get inside a building in a busy downtown area, without anyone seeing a thing.”
“You’re asking me?” Alex feigned amusement.
“I know you’ve worked on a lot of bizarre cases. What would silver be used to kill?”
“I have no idea,” he said.
“Well I would,” Marla produced a scrap of paper from her pocket and handed to Alex.
“I pulled this off the internet while I was waiting for the lab report. There’s a bunch of crazy websites dedicated to this shit. Anyway it says that silver is only used to kill werewolves.”
Alex looked at the paper, then back to Marla. “And that’s what you think this man was, a werewolf?”
“You’re the expert, you tell me,” Marla said.
“I asked if you believe in this theory,” Alex pressed.
Marla and Alex regarded one another for a moment; the tension between them was stifling. Marla sighed. “I guess not, I just wanted to see what your reaction would be. I guess you’re not the geek I thought you were, an asshole, but not a geek.”
“Why, thank you, Detective. You’re not so bad yourself.”
They shared a laugh.
Alex downed the last of his coffee and stood up. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, but thanks for meeting me tonight.”
“All right, then I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait, I’ll walk with you,” she said, collecting her things.
The pair walked toward the exit. When they reached the waitress, who was still counting her tips, Alex handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.
“Gee thanks, hurry back now,” Tammy said, graciously.
Alex smiled and hurried to catch Marla.
Carl Hensley rested comfortably on his bed of soiled garments, a half empty bottle of Mad Dog gripped in his hand. The packing crate, which had served as his home the past few months, smelled of urine and vomit. Carl didn’t mind, he always smelled that way. His own ratty threadbare clothes were deeply soiled from rummaging through the garbage. Bits of food and dirt matted his unkempt shaggy hair.
The alley he had found the crate in was occupied by only one other resident; a portly gentleman, always dressed professionally and carrying a briefcase. The entrance to his neighbor’s home lay just outside Carl’s crate. Carl had positioned it so he would be able to see the man come and go, asking for change when he did. Carl took a sip from the bottle, savoring every drop of his rapidly diminishing supply. When it was gone, he’d have to panhandle an entire day to get enough money for a fresh bottle.
Carl had once been a highly respected army officer, but after eighteen years of service, his family’s hereditary gene of schizophrenia overcame his good sense, causing him to sink into fits of paranoid delusion. He resigned his commission sixteen months before retirement for life on the street. Content to deaden his mind with cheap wine, the only way he could escape the horrible thoughts that plagued him.
A clicking sound came from the alley. Carl rolled over and pulled the plastic cover back that served as his door. The alley was dark, however a nearby lamp provided some light. Carl peered into the darkness. From the south end of the alley, he could make out three figures moving with exceptional stealth. He let the plastic fall back and became afraid, Oh no, it’s the phone company, they’ve found me, he thought.
Carl had told his shrink at the Veteran’s Administration hospital the ‘company’ had been looking for him since he left the rat race eight years ago, sticking them with a $6.25 bill, but the man didn’t believe him. Carl wished he were here now, to see them first hand.
Carl peeked through the small opening left when he let the plastic fall. The three figures that came into view were even more frightening than his delusional stalkers from the phone company. One was a tall, thin man with glowing eyes, but the other two looked like dogs walking upright. Carl’s doctor would say he was just having an episode, so he tried the exercise he had been taught. Closing his eyes and counting to ten, expecting the nightmares to recede, however when he opened them once more they were still there.
As Carl watched, the tall man grabbed the doorknob to his neighbor’s door and ripped it off with a flick of his wrist. The man turned and growled at one of the creatures behind him, then went inside with the other beast. Carl was frozen with terror, what could they want with his neighbor, he felt as if he should do something so he took a quick swig from the bottle and continued to watch.
A few minutes passed, then a bright flash came from the doorway accompanied with a bloodcurdling cry. The other creature rushed inside when the commotion started. Carl could hear the hushed voices, then another scuffle. Then silence. The creature reemerged a few moments later carrying his neighbor, followed by the man. Where was the third one, Carl thought, and what was that bright flash?
He watched as the two figures moved deeper into the shadows of the alley, then let out a sigh and took a long pull from the bottle in his hand.
Marla walked with Alex over to where his car was parked. He unlocked the door, and said, “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a fairly thick skin. I started it anyway by bringing up your father,” Marla said.
“Well, goodnight, Detective. I’ll see you in the morn…” Alex’s sentence trailed off as he saw one of the thugs from earlier, grab Marla by the hair of her head and stick a knife to her throat. The two other punks stood on either side of the first one and looked menacingly at him.
“Well, what do we have here? This is your lucky night, babe, me and my boys are looking for a little action,” the lowlife said, playing the knife over Marla’s blouse.
“Let her go,” Alex said, reaching toward him.
In response, one of the other thugs landed a crushing blow to Alex’s mid-section, knocking him to the pavement. They laughed as he slowly got to his feet.
As Alex got to his feet he noticed that the punk holding Marla was busy dragging her kicking and screaming into an alley, leaving him to contend with the other two. “Take care of the hero, guys, while I get her warmed up,” he said.
The two remaining men turned and watched their friend a moment, leaving Alex unattended. With their backs to him, Alex moved with lightn
ing quickness, reappearing behind them as they turned from the alley. Not seeing him, one said, “Hey where’d he go?”
“Right here,” Alex said. When the first one turned, Alex hit him squarely in the face. Blood erupted from his mouth and nose, an audible crunch heard when the blow landed. The punk fell to the ground, whimpering.
The other one swung a lazy punch at Alex. He caught the thug’s fist in mid-flight and snapped his wrist like a matchstick. The man howled in pain and fell to his knees. Alex took the opportunity, kicked him in the face, and sent him flying into a big blue postal drop box, nearby.
Alex looked to the first man and saw that he was running full speed in the other direction.
Alex headed for the alley.
Halfway down the alley, Marla managed to get free of the man. But he tripped her up before she got far, then grabbed her by the hair and forced her to stand. “Hate to damage that pretty face, but…” he said, finishing his sentence with a brutal jab to Marla’s jaw, knocking her in between two trashcans.
He started toward her, when a dark figure slammed into him, throwing him against the wall. When he regained his senses, he saw Alex standing in the middle of the alley.
“Don’t know how you got past Jerome and Freddie, but you’re gonna be sorry you did.” With that, he lunged at Alex with the knife. Alex stood impassively waiting for him. At the last possible moment, Alex grabbed the hand wielding the knife, stopping the punk in his tracks.
The man looked into Alex’s now glowing eyes, “Wh-what the hell are you?” He forgot his question when a searing pain shot up his arm. The sickening sound of bones snapping was heard as Alex crushed the younger man’s hand. The boy let out a high-pitched scream and began frantically digging in his jacket pocket with his free hand. He ripped a .25 caliber pistol from the pocket, brought it up and fired it point blank into Alex’s chest. With a flick of his wrist Alex knocked the gun from his hand and threw him into the alley wall, the thud of his skull bouncing off the brick wall filling the alley. He didn’t get up this time.
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