by Jeff Strand
George picked it up and examined it. "This Jesus kind of looks like Kenny Rogers."
"Don't blaspheme in my shop, please."
"I apologize. I was just commenting on the fine production values here. How much?"
The lady thought for a moment. "Two hundred dollars."
George looked at Michele. "Is that a good deal?"
"How should I know?"
"Don't women know standard pricing on all precious metals?"
"Sorry, I don't buy a lot of silver crucifixes."
"Two hundred, deal," said George, "under the condition that you never saw us. Plus we'll take the mirror and all of the rings."
"This mirror isn't silver," said Lou, scraping his fingernail along the edge. "It's just painted."
"Stop scraping my merchandise."
"Forget the mirror," said George. "But we'll take all of the rings."
"Must be one big wedding."
"It is."
"Is that thing real silver?" asked Lou, gesturing to a very small cross that dangled from a chain bracelet on her wrist. "I mean, more real than the mirror?"
"Yes, but it's not for sale."
George snorted. "It's not for sale, or you're going to charge us a lot for it?"
"Five hundred dollars."
"We'll stick with the rest of the stuff, thanks."
"No," said Lou. "We'll take it."
The old woman shrugged, removed the bracelet, and handed it to Lou. Lou put it around his own wrist. George rolled his eyes.
"All right. Anything else you're looking for?"
"Do you sell nets?"
"You mean like fishnet stockings?"
"No. God no. Like a big net that you could use to catch a...bear."
"Sorry. There's not a huge market for antique netting."
"Thanks. Pay her, Lou."
Lou held the briefcase with the sixty-three thousand dollars they'd taken from Douglas that morning. They'd decided that leaving it unattended in a van with a broken-out windshield was not the wisest course of action. Stealing from it was probably not the best way to keep their own thumbs unbroken, but they could replace the missing money before they handed over the briefcase, and considering the extreme circumstances it seemed perfectly justified.
Lou popped open the top of the briefcase, keeping the contents hidden from the old woman's view. He snatched out a few bills then closed the briefcase.
"Are you involved in organized crime?" the old woman asked.
George nodded. "Knock twenty bucks off the price of the crucifix, and nothing happens to your business."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
More Prey
"Why'd you do that?" George asked, starting up the van.
Michele was relatively certain that she knew what he was talking about. However, she didn't want to accidentally confess to something else, so she feigned ignorance. "What?"
"You know."
"Really, I don't. And do we have time for guessing games?"
"You asked the old woman about the bathroom."
"So? Am I not allowed to pee?"
George cracked his knuckles, one at a time. Next to her, Michele felt Lou's leg muscles tighten, as if he were cringing. George drove away from the antique shop, looking extremely stern. He was good at it. "You were trying to escape."
"Did you see the place we were in? Did it look like the kind of place to have a secret rear entrance? Let me give you Women 101, George: when we go into a store, we usually have to pee."
"This guy Ricky, who sets up our jobs--he told me to lock you in the cage. I don't want to do that. Right now, we can pretend that we're business partners, but when you try something sneaky, it makes me feel that I need to take an extra level of precaution."
"You don't."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Just needed to pee. I had to go before the dogs attacked."
She was, of course, lying. The antique store might have had a back exit. If not, she would've used the opportunity to steal some kind of weapon. Unfortunately, George had kept her close during the shopping adventure, and she hadn't been given the chance.
To be perfectly honest, the cage seemed like the safest place to be. If Ivan couldn't get out, he probably couldn't get back in, and Michele was very close to raising her hand and politely volunteering to be locked in there. It wouldn't be that uncomfortable.
The problem, of course, would come when they met up with the other bad guys. If she seemed to be on relatively even ground with George and Lou, she might be able to still talk her way out of this. If she was locked in a cage while George and Lou introduced her...well, it was going to be difficult to sell the idea of them being newfound business associates.
She really did have to pee, though.
The positive side to this whole thing, and she did indeed feel that it was a positive side and not merely self-delusion, was that there was an incredible story here. If she survived the werewolf ordeal, she'd be on television twenty-four hours a day for at least the next week. Book rights. Movie rights. She'd donate a generous portion of her proceeds to the gas station attendant's family, and perhaps to the families who'd tragically lost their household pets in the dog attack, but as long as she didn't get killed and her injuries didn't go much further than the slashed-up shoulder, the danger would be worth it.
That said, she'd still try to get the hell away from George and Lou, given the opportunity. She wasn't crazy.
"We have a lot of problems right now," said George. "Please don't cause more for us."
"I won't."
* * *
Ivan Spinner sat in a tree, feeling good about life. He hadn't felt so good half an hour ago, when he climbed up this tree; in fact, he'd been pissed off and even a little ashamed. Why did he run away when that bozo Lou cut him? Yeah, it hurt, but he should have ripped Lou's heart out, stuck it on the end of his talon, and licked it like a Tootsie Roll Pop. It would've been fine to murder Lou. That still left George as his plaything.
Of course, he couldn't forget Michele. He had no ill feelings toward her, but he was certainly going to enjoy devouring her fine ass, even though he wasn't really a cannibal. He'd be romantic about it. He'd tell her he loved her first.
He reached back and touched the cut. It felt almost healed. The one on his chest had faded to a red scratch. Both cuts still hurt, but that was typical--the wounds went away before the pain.
He wished he hadn't been forced to reveal the full scope of his power. Unfortunately, though being a werewolf made his life much easier and a lot more fun and was quite honestly absolutely fucking fantastic, it did not allow him to bend bars. He'd been a little worried--not too much, but a little--that George and Lou would take him all the way to Tampa without giving him a chance to escape. Ivan didn't know much about Mr. Dewey and his crew, and though he was relatively certain that he could've gotten away even after George and Lou made their delivery, it was much better to be on the loose here.
He wondered if the werewolf element had made it into the news, or if they thought it was just a regular old human serial killer who'd cut up Diane. He loved the idea of some hillbilly being interviewed: "Why, I saw it, and that thing, it was half-man and half-beast! I ain't done seen nothin' like it in my life, even when I've sucked down a couple quarts of my county-famous moonshine!"
Ivan climbed down from the tree. Logically, he knew that he should make a run for it and move to another part of the world--again--but what was the point of being a werewolf if you couldn't terrorize people? George had probably dropped a great big loaf in his oversized underwear, but Ivan hadn't come close to being satisfied with the thug's comeuppance.
He'd loved George's expression when he slid that blade through Diane's silky neck. Fifty percent horror, fifty percent guilt, mixed into a delicious concoction of misery. George was sitting in that van right now, wailing "It was all my fault! It was all my fault!"
Yeah, George, it sure as hell was.
And this whole killing spree is going to be
your fault, too.
Ivan's shirt had fallen off completely, though his pants had held up fairly well thanks to the elastic waist. He could probably break into somebody's house and steal a change of clothing without too much trouble, but, no, it felt like the kind of afternoon where he should murder somebody just for their clothes.
Murder them slowly.
Make them die a lingering, horrible, excruciatingly painful death simply because they wore the same size shirt as him.
He sat down next to the tree. It was a pretty desolate piece of road, but three cars had driven by while he was up there, so another one was bound to approach before too much longer.
He wondered if any of his four-legged friends were around. He closed his eyes and put out the call. Nothing heavy-duty like before; just a mild little dog-call to see if any showed up.
Ivan didn't have the slightest idea how this power worked, whether he was sending out some frequency that only dogs could hear, or if one of George's guesses was right and it had something to do with his scent, or if he could control dog brain waves, or whatever. Unlike the transformations, which he'd mastered in a ridiculously short timeframe--okay, eight years, but that was damn good for a werewolf, since most of them never learned to control it--he still hadn't quite figured out the whole dog thing. It was sort of like being able to move a pencil with his mind, except that he didn't know if the pencil was going to roll across the table or twirl up into the air and poke out somebody's eye.
He sat there for about five minutes until a small gray Schnauzer walked along the side of the road toward him. No collar. He wondered if it was a stray.
He heard the engine of an approaching car. Sometimes, things just worked out perfectly.
The dog looked at him and let out a sharp bark.
"Fuck you," he told it. He continued to concentrate.
The dog walked into the middle of the road and began to happily move in the direction of the oncoming car.
Poor, poor doggie. Ivan chuckled as the dog, its tongue hanging partly out of its mouth like a complete moron, trotted along toward its doom. I think I'll name you...Roadkill.
The car, a white sedan, came around the corner. The driver swerved at the last instant, missing the Schnauzer by the length of its stubby tail, and then careened off the road.
The dog ran off.
Well, shit. He'd hoped to see the dog get creamed and to disable the vehicle. Oh well.
Ivan stood up, jogged over to the car, and opened the passenger-side door. The driver, a bald man who was too young to be naturally bald, seemed shaken up but not hurt. He'd been wearing his seatbelt. Smart lad.
"You okay?" Ivan asked.
"Yeah...stupid dog ran right in front of me..." The man sounded kind of dazed. That wasn't any good. Ivan wanted him fully aware of what was about to happen.
"Did you injure yourself?" Ivan asked. "Do you need me to seek the services of a medical professional? If you have one of those new cellular phone devices, I could probably call for assistance." He climbed into the car next to the man, who looked shocked at both Ivan's shredded pants and the fact that he was getting into the car uninvited.
"I don't need--"
"Shut the fuck up," Ivan told him, pulling the door shut. He gave him a wide smile, revealing his werewolf teeth. "Spooooooky, huh?"
The man immediately reached for his door handle. Ivan decided to go half-werewolf. The one bitch he had about his lycanthropy was that he couldn't talk as a wolfman, so he went for the not-quite-as-hairy, not-quite-as-muscular, but still clearly wolfish and scary look. It was actually kind of demonic.
The man screamed.
Ivan laughed at him, a low, sexy growl of a laugh that the ladies found ever so alluring. Then he showed him his claws. "You try to leave this car and these are going right into you."
The man kept screaming, so Ivan said it again, louder. Then he raked his claws across the man's chest. "Shut up!"
"Oh, God, please don't hurt me!"
"I just did hurt you, dumb-ass. Do you like your head?"
"What?"
"I said, do you like your head? It's not a challenging question. Yes or no. Do. You. Like. Your. Head?"
"Yes."
"Then don't make me rip it off and drink from it like a juice box, all right? What size shirt do you wear?"
"A...a large."
"I look better in a medium, but I prefer large for comfort, so that'll work just fine. What's your name?"
"What are you?"
"What the fuck do you think I am? A Martian? Come on, buddy; I know you're scared, but think before you ask stupid questions. Now apologize to me for wasting my time."
"I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted. I asked you your name."
"Dale."
"Like Chip and Dale? The squirrels?"
"Yes."
"Or Chippendales. Wow. Never thought of that before. I wonder if it was intentional."
"I...I don't know."
"That's okay. I wasn't really asking. Chip and Dale, I guess they aren't squirrels, are they? They're chipmunks. Chip the Chipmunk. That's a pretty lame name for a cartoon character when you take Dale out of it, don't you think? The Disney writers weren't having a good day. Now it's my turn to apologize to you--we're getting pretty far off the subject at hand, which is your shirt size."
"Yes."
"Yes? What were you saying yes to? Were you agreeing that I need to apologize to you?"
"No. I mean--I don't know."
"Why the hell would I apologize to you? I don't owe you a thing, Dale. How dare you? I mean, how dare you?"
"I'm sorry!"
"Oh, don't be so gullible, I'm just messing with you. Clearly my whole Chip and Dale bit was wasting your time, and I do owe you an apology, so from the bottom of my werewolf heart, I'm sorry. Now let's talk about me ripping your guts out."
Dale looked as if he wanted to say something, most likely "What?" or "No!" or "Please!" but couldn't find his voice.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," Ivan said. "You knew I was going to kill you as soon as I turned into a scary monster. Do you want to know why I'm going to do it?"
"I..."
"For your clothes. That's it. No other reason. I'm going to end your life, all however many years of it...how old are you?"
"Thirty-two."
"...all thirty-two years of it for your shirt. And I don't even like your shirt. How does that make you feel, Dale?"
Dale threw a punch at him. Ivan deflected the blow with his palm with very little effort, then used the same hand to grab Dale's wrist. Then, with the index finger of his other hand, he slashed a line across the length of Dale's entire arm, opening it up like a zipper. Dale, not surprisingly, screamed.
Sweet. Ivan had thought Dale might be too paralyzed with fear to actually fight back, so this would make things more interesting.
"Did that hurt? I hope so. That's just a sneak preview, by the way. A tasty little sample of the main attraction. I really feel sorry for you and the hellish pain you're going to endure. I'm sure glad I'm not the one sitting here in a car with a sadistic werewolf."
"I've got money!" Dale said.
"Lots?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Thousands."
"Here?"
"Not with me, but--"
"Sorry. You just failed to save your life. Any other good bribes?"
"You don't have to do this!"
"I realize that. I like that it's optional."
"I'll do anything." Dale finally succumbed to tears. Ivan had expected that part to happen a bit sooner.
"Oh, now, Dale, there's no reason to cry. You say you'll do anything. Would you...take a knife and cut out your own stomach?"
"What?"
"If I gave you a knife, would you cut out your own stomach? I wouldn't make you eat it or anything--although, come on, let's be honest, it would be pretty cool to watch somebody eat his own stomach. I'd just make you cut it out. Do that and I'll let you
go."
"I can't do that."
"Then don't say shit like 'I'll do anything' if you don't mean it. Would you slash your own throat? Would you jam a stiletto heel in your heart? Would you give yourself brain surgery? I hate it when people throw out offers that they're not prepared to honor."
Dale began to sob.
"Where were you headed?"
"Home."
"To your wife?"
"No."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No."
"Why not?
"I don't know."
"Is it because you're bald?"
"No."
"When did you last get laid?"
"I don't know."
"Liar. Somebody who looks like you knows exactly how long ago it was. Tell me."
"Three weeks."
"Hey, that's not so bad. I thought it would be six months or something like that. Was she a prostitute?"
"No."
"One of those Internet booty calls?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Details, please."
Dale sniffed. "We met online, but I'd seen her in person a couple of times."
"Gotcha. Do you need a Kleenex or something? Your nose is all snotty. You wouldn't want your hot Internet sex bunny to see you like this, would you?"
"No."
"Are you going to see her again?"
"No."
"Because you broke up, or because I'm going to murder you?"
"We weren't really together."
"She was a hooker, wasn't she?"
"I said no."
"Was she a skank?"
"No."
"Do you love her?"
"No."
"Do you love anybody?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, so you do love somebody. Well, Dale-without-his-Chip, let's discuss this. Just remember that the longer you keep me engaged in conversation, the longer you get to live, unless I hear a car coming and have to gut you. You never know, the details of your love life might be so fascinating to me that I forget to murder you. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd be walking home and think 'Oh, how about that, I completely forgot to murder Dale! How forgetful of me!' You'd enjoy that, right?"
"Yes."
