by John Conroe
“Damn it!” he said.
“Hey, you found the missing girl, solved the werewolf problem, and have a lead on the murderer,” Caeco said. “Hold a press conference and announce that.”
“You all did those things,” he said, frowning.
“In conjunction with you and your excellent department,” Caeco said. “I will be updating my boss, but by all means deliver your news.”
“Excellent advice, Chief Clark Kent,” Omega said. “I will surveil the residents of Stonegate Road to watch for any reactions to your conference. It is possible that it may flush our quarry into the open.”
“Don’t you need to guard the world or something?” Kent asked. “Why is he helping us?” he asked the other three.
“Never mind that… your first name is Clark? Clark Kent?” Mack asked. He turned to Caeco. “You knew all along and you never said a thing!”
“Because I knew that you would treat it just like Declan would, like one of his damned Chuck Norris jokes.”
“Hey, I’ve heard all the Superman jokes there are, but there are no such things as Chuck Norris jokes… just facts,” Kent said.
“Chuck got cold once so he turned up the sun,” Mack said.
“You two can ride together,” Caeco said, waving for Jetta to get in her Bureau SUV.
“Chuck Norris can pick apples from an orange tree and make the best lemonade you ever tasted,” Chief Kent said to Mack as the two walked toward the chief’s vehicle.
“Chief Kent, you say the boys were murdered by an unknown assailant, yet you mention nothing about their manner of death. There are credible reports that they were mauled by an animal… or a werewolf!”
“Carla, you should be careful who you believe. The boys’ wounds were such that they appeared to be claw wounds, but they were not. The weapon that inflicted their wounds was made of steel, common tool steel.”
“But Chief, there have been reports of howling and sightings of a large wolf-type creature roaming the Cape?”
“Yes, that’s because there actually was a young, confused werewolf. A member of the FBI’s Special Threat Response Team and two experts on weres helped us locate and rescue the individual werewolf. She has been cleared of anything to do with the murders which, as I just mentioned, were the work of a regular human killer using a steel weapon to try and replicate what a werewolf might do. We are very close to finding the killer. That’s all for now.”
“Chief, who is the werewolf? The public has a right to know if they’re in danger!”
“Thank you. That’s all for now.”
The next morning found the three young investigators, the chief, Kristin’s mother, and Kristin all riding in Caeco’s SUV, cruising slowly up Stonegate Road. Kristin was smelling the air outside through her partially open window as they drove slowly along the street.
“Well done with the press conference,” Mack said. “We watched from the hotel. You do well in front of a camera.”
“The press is hounding me for your names,” Kent said.
“And my boss was very happy that you haven’t given them. Not all of us need the limelight,” Caeco said, her tone clearly implying something. The chief frowned at her until Mack spoke up.
“You don’t honestly think for one second that Declan wants anyone to know who he is, do you?” he asked Caeco. Jetta snorted at the idea.
“I would have said no but look how well he took to it.”
“He friggin hates it,” Jetta said, looking out the other rear passenger window.
“I can’t believe how you just toss their names around,” Kristin said.
“We all have a ton of history with them,” Mack said, grinning and very carefully not looking at Caeco.
“Hmppf,” was her only reply.
“You didn’t give them my name either, Chief,” the girl said, something in her voice a question. “They are right, you know… people should be allowed to know about the killer in their midst.”
“Bullshit,” Jetta said, leaning forward from the third-row seats to look at her. “Tell me, Kristin, how did you survive being a wolf so long? What did you eat?”
Kristin looked down at her hands, folded on her lap. “I ate a deer.”
“Did you kill that deer?”
“No, it got hit by a car on Ocean House Road. It was wounded and bled to death. Then I ate it. The whole thing.”
“You just sat and watched it bleed out?” Jetta asked, surprised.
The girl nodded, head down. Her mother shot Jetta a glare and reached over to take one of her daughter’s hands.
“Unbelievable. Is that the only thing you ate in all that time?”
“No. I killed a turkey—and I ate a chicken from one of the farms.”
“You beast, you,” Jetta said. “Honestly, you are the least killing werewolf I’ve ever met. I am glad to hear about the birds, because a werewolf who can’t kill prey at all rarely lives long. But come on. You protected Marika in the woods, then when you go to find the boys, you end up following the survivor to make sure he made it out. What the hell kind of a killer is that?”
“Jet’s right. You’re not a killer. You’re a protector,” Mack said. “More like a guard were.”
“You’re wrong… I could easily bite someone… You don’t know how angry I get!”
“Hah,” Mack said. “You’re seventeen… you get angry all the time; that’s normal. And yes, you could kill someone, either by accident if you let your anger turn into berserk rage or if you had to protect someone—like, say, your mom. But we know a lot of killers, supernatural or not, and you’re not one of them.”
“Kristin, Mack and Jetta are right, but so are you,” Caeco said, looking in her rearview mirror to catch the girl’s eyes. “You absolutely need to learn to control your new instincts. I think you have done a great job, an unbelievable job, doing so to this point, but you have to have instruction.”
“Stacia Reynolds called me last night,” Kristin said, disbelief flooding across her features. “She spoke to all of us, Mom, Dad, and me. She said the same thing that you did. She’s going to visit me in a couple of days to talk about being a… a werewolf.”
“That’s great. She’s a good teacher, a natural Alpha,” Mack said. “But Hekla, don’t feed Declan any of that lamb dish you gave me or he’ll be pestering you for the recipe. Next thing you know, it’ll be on the menu at his aunt’s restaurant.”
“He’s coming too?” Kristin asked. “She didn’t say anything about that at all.”
“They’re pretty much inseparable,” Mack said. Caeco gave him a quick glare.
“That was unnecessary, Mack,” his sister said.
“Hey, just telling it like it is. Life goes on,” he said, then looked out his own window, leaving the chief wondering what they were talking about. Hekla, on the other hand, gave a sharp look at the young agent driving the car, her expression considering.
“Oh! I smell him!” Kristin suddenly said, sitting bolt upright.
“Where?” Jetta asked.
“Um… I don’t know,” Kristin said, looking unsure.
“Yes, you do,” Caeco said as she slowed the car to a crawl. “Close your eyes. Concentrate on the scent of the killer, putting aside every other smell, every odor, one by one.”
The new werewolf closed her eyes, a furrow of concentration between them. Gradually the frown relaxed.
“Oh, you’re right! I can tell,” she said, opening her eyes and pointing at a tan ranch-style house on the opposite side of the street.
“The property is listed as belonging to Mark B. Scherre,” the car’s audio system said.
“Shit. Mark Scherre,” Chief Kent said, surprise mixed with recognition. Caeco shot him a sideways look. “He’s extremely outspoken, always protesting at Town Board meetings, always filing complaints with my department.”
“About what?” Caeco asked.
“Mostly about people on the greenbelt trails,” the chief said, eyes locked on the house.
“Is he the one that wants all the land trust property closed off?” Hekla asked.
“Yeah, he’s some kind of environmentalist—or maybe environmental activist is a better term,” Kent said.
“I have found one hundred and seventeen emails from this ISP to various state and federal agencies, municipal governments, and the land trust itself espousing increasingly virulent demands for protection of this township’s greenspaces. I also see that he has this morning been researching AirBnB properties in Halifax, Canada.”
“Hacking like that isn’t legal,” Kent said.
“You have seen the news recently where Omega took charge of government resources all over the planet, right?” Mack asked.
The chief frowned but lifted the handset clipped to his body armor and keyed the mic. “Angelo, the name for the warrant is Mark B. Scherre. Morris, make sure units are at both ends of the road. He might be thinking of running.”
“Correction,” Mack said. “He’s definitely running.” He pointed at the garage door that had just lifted and the tall man who was loading several bags into the back of a Subaru Forester.
“How sure are you, Kristin?” Chief Kent asked over his shoulder, eyes still on the suspect.
“That’s him! That’s the man who killed Ren and Lucas… I can smell him. And blood. I smell their blood.”
“She’s right; there’s blood,” Caeco said.
“You can smell blood?” the chief asked.
“Ah, not to interrupt, but he’s closing the tailgate,” Jetta said.
“Pull in behind him and block the garage,” Kent said, already unbuckling his seat belt. “Morris, roll up to my position,” he said into his mic.
Caeco pulled up behind the man, who turned quickly, his eyes narrowing at the unmarked vehicle. But as soon as the chief exited, his eyes went wide. Lights flashing, two of the department’s patrol vehicles came from opposite ends of the street.
The suspect, Scherre, took in the police cars and the chief, then suddenly bolted into his house. Kent took off after him, yelling for him to stop. Caeco unbuckled and jumped out. “You four stay here; you’re not cops,” she said, then ran around behind the house.
“I can hear him knocking stuff over inside,” Kristin said, head tilted in listening mode.
They all heard the chief yelling, then the sound of glass breaking. Caeco’s command to stop came from out back and then the man was barreling around the front of the house. The Suttons suddenly produced guns but neither made any attempt to get out of the car, just sat and watched as the man charged their way. Kristin immediately growled, her voice going much deeper than a teenaged girl should be able.
“Omega, you got this, or do I need to shoot the bastard?” Mack said, his window now down.
“I have this under control, Mack Sutton.”
The police cars screeched to a stop and three officers piled out, but they were down by the end of the driveway. Mack held his pistol low ready, the muzzle pointed at the ground a yard in front of the running man, and Kristin’s growling ramped up a notch.
Suddenly three black golf-ball-sized orbs shot into the yard from different directions, all converging on the man, whose face was contorted with fear and rage. The mini drones smacked into his torso, front and back, and immediately crackled with arcs of blue electrical discharge. Mark Scherre froze up, his body shaking for several long seconds before his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the ground.
Four hours later, the local DA and Chief Kent announced the arrest of Mr. Scherre, even releasing the fact that a modified clam rake and bloody wolf fur costume had been found in a cluttered corner of his basement. Two hours after that, the three investigators were on their way back to New York with multiple Tupperware containers of Icelandic cuisine to tide them over.
“Frigging nature guy killing kids and trying to blame an innocent werewolf,” Mack said, shaking his head, his mouth half full of pickled meat and dark rye bread.
“Just goes to show you that you can’t always judge the nature of a person by their circumstances,” Jetta said. “Kristin is a tough survivor but not a violent person. That wacko was supposed to be all for nature first, but instead he was a killer.”
“Ah, but Jetta, nature is full of killers,” Caeco said as she accelerated up the onramp and merged onto I-95 South.
“Well, it’s just lucky that we all put a quick end to that. He might have killed more, or Kristin might have been hunted and killed,” Jetta said.
“Yeah, lucky,” Caeco agreed with a smirk for her two companions.
Threefold
How do you raise a child who can bend reality with his mind?
“Declan lad, where do ye be?”
She’d found me… again. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. What is it about a six-year-old mind that thinks it is already a match for its parent?
“I am here, Mama,” I said, turning to look through the gap in the trees in time to witness the moment my mother, Maeve O’Carroll, locked her eyes on me.
“There ye are, ye wee scamp! Why did ye run off when ye knew your mother needed your help?”
I shifted on the old rock pile deep in the cool woods, turning to look at my mother as she approached. “I’m not a help,” I said. “Aunt Ash says I never get all the weeds out.”
“Aw but lad, your darling aunt is just trying to teach ya to be thorough. What have I taught ye about that?” She was close now, just a few feet away, and she leaned over, resting one hand on a big rock near my leg.
“A witch has to be sure. A witch has to check and check again.”
“Like Mr. McKenzie always says when he’s fixing things around our place. Measure twice, cut once.”
“But it’s not my fault… the weeds break,” I said.
“Of course they break, lad. They don’t want to leave our lovely garden, now do they?” she said with a smile. She reached out and touched my nose. “Why is it I always find ye here, on this heap o’rocks?”
“The forest likes me,” I said.
“Oh, it does, does it?” she asked, eyes wide.
I nodded. “Especially here, by these rocks. It even keeps the skeeters away,” I said.
Her smile slid away and she looked around my favorite spot like she was only just seeing it. “Now that’s a curious thing, it is,” she wondered, closing her eyes, her face calming. Much as I liked to see her smile, I liked it best when she listened to me like I was older and knew things.
“Well then, that’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it?” she asked, eyes opening and widening just a bit. “I ken what ya mean, boyo. It’s very calm and peaceful here, isn’t it?”
I nodded and her smile returned. “But I do need your help, laddie. Our garden needs the both of us and your tired aunt is busy cooking for the guests, now isn’t she?”
“Yes, Mama,” I said, climbing down off my rock pile. “Bye, forest… I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Still smiling, she took my hand in hers and we walked out of the woods and across the grassy yard to the big patch of dirt and plants.
“Now then, what do we do before we enter?” she asked.
“We ask for blessings and we touch the key,” I said.
“Keystone, lad, but yes. Why?”
“Because our food comes from the Earth and we want to thank her for it. And we touch the key stone to keep the deer from eating all our food.”
“Deer, wee rabbits, groundhogs, and the bane of your aunt’s existence, the chipmunks,” she agreed, gesturing for me to touch the stone.
I thought about the garden and, like my mother had taught me, imagined an invisible fence that ringed the plants with protection. When I could see it glimmer like gold in my head, I reached down and touched the rock. It was big and gray, and it sat on what Mama called the west node.
A tiny spark jumped from the rock to my finger and then back again.
“This rock is from the pile in the woods, isn’t it, Mama?” I asked as realization bloomed.
&nbs
p; “Well now, that’s true, but just how are ye knowing that?”
“It just feels like the ones in the pile,” I said.
“Oh, you’re a sharp one, Declan me boy. Now, how about I show ye a way to get the weeds to give themselves up to ye?”
“Like the bad guys to the sheriff?” I asked.
“Jest like that,” she agreed. “And if ye listen close and try real hard, after we’re done, I’ll show ye a new trick, how’s that?”
I loved learning my mother’s tricks, so I nodded and knelt down next to her by a row of beets.
“The thing about weeds is that they’ll listen to ye, lad. Ye was born knowing the Earth, and the weeds and the beets are both of the Earth. So what ye need to do is first thank the weed for growing and tell it how proud ye are of it. Then ye jest need to explain that it doesn’t need to do its growing here, next to the beets, and if it will just pop on out of the ground, ye’ll show it to where it might be fine growing.”
“You mean the yard?” I asked. The plants in my mother and aunt’s yard didn’t look like the ones our neighbor had. Instead of just straight green blades of grass, our yard was a wild jumble of dandelion flowers and other plants that Mother said had more of a right to grow there than what she called AstroTurf.
“Aye lad,” she said. “Now attend, me boy, for this is Craft.”
Those words were guaranteed to capture my attention. Crafting was everything. She knelt, folding down gracefully, and cupped her hands around a weed which I recognized as clover, a fact I now find ironic, but at six I was just excited to know its name. She whispered to the clover, her words too soft to hear but the warm tone of them familiar and comfortable. Her body glowed with soft green light to my eyes, something I had already learned that most people couldn’t see. She lifted her hands, just loosely cupped around the weed, but it came right out of the ground and she set it into the gardening basket by her side.
“Now you try,” she said.
I did. I spoke to the clover, loud enough for her to hear my words, a smile forming on her lips. “Mr. Plant, you are big and strong. Will you go to my yard?” It worked on the first try, not as smoothly as she did it, but the weed, a plantain I think, came out, roots and all.
