Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3

by McGregor, Tim

  “When will she wake up?”

  “Hard to say really. She might sleep straight through until tomorrow or she could wake within the hour.”

  “Can I see her?”

  LARA Mendes looked dead. A loose hospital gown had been fitted on, folded up just below the chest. Below that her torso was bandaged up. Her left arm was wrapped and elevated. She was so pale. Her eyes closed, mouth slightly parted. Gallagher reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was cool and damp. He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came.

  A figure filled the doorway. Gallagher turned to see the Lieutenant standing there. Vogel waved at him to step out of the room. Gallagher sighed. Time to pay the piper.

  They stood in the corridor, looking through the window at Mendes as Gallagher gave his boss a brief rundown of the events. The Lieutenant listened, arms folded. Unimpressed to say the least. “That's it?”

  Gallagher shrugged. “She was following a lead. Ran right into the son of a bitch.”

  “Mendes?” Vogel wasn't buying any of it. “Mendes acts alone and breaks into this place with no warrant? That's your MO, not hers.”

  “She's a quick study.”

  “Don't get cute, Gallagher. You put another cop in a sick bed.”

  “I wasn't even there.”

  “You should have been.”

  Gallagher worked his jaw but held his tongue. No choice but to eat it.

  Vogel scratched his chin. “The doctor say how long she'll need to recover?”

  “They don't know.”

  “Okay. I want Bingham and Latimer to step in. You bring them up to speed on this.”

  “No.” Gallagher's jaw worked overtime. “No way. Sir.”

  “Be practical, John. You're down a detective.”

  “She'll get better. And when she does, we will nail this asshole to the wall.”

  Vogel's eyes drifted back to Mendes. “Did you call her family?”

  “They're out of state. I'm gonna wait until I know more. No need for them to hop on a plane for nothing.”

  “Someone should be here when she wakes up.”

  “Someone will,” Gallagher said.

  Vogel exhaled through his nose. “You got three days. If Mendes doesn't pull out of this, the file goes to Bingham.” He walked away, calling back over his shoulder. “Find a bed, John. Get some sleep.”

  HE left his number with the hospital staff and asked them to call immediately if there was any change in her condition. Gallagher drove to work and went up to the Sex Assault unit. He spoke to the night shift Sergeant about Mendes, asked what friends she had in her old unit. He found Charlene Farbre, told her about Mendes and said he needed volunteers to stay with her. He'd work out a shift. Charlene agreed without hesitation, piling work into a tote bag. She'd go now, she could work from the hospital room but she had to leave at three. Charlene jotted down the names of a few other people who could help and then left.

  Gallagher made a few calls from his desk and then piled up some work to take home. He looked at the notebooks teetering on Mendes's desk. Prall's journals. He took three of them and headed for the parking garage.

  AMY WAS hurting. Her left leg was bruised blue and her elbow ached like it was busted. She pounded the alarm off and blinked at the time. Late. Dad's bark usually woke her before the alarm but not this morning. The house was quiet and still.

  She padded downstairs to an empty kitchen. No coffee brewing in the pot. Dad was on the sofa, snoring into a dented cushion. Paperwork and photographs piled up on the coffee table. A cheap looking notebook lay open on his chest.

  “Dad.” Amy shook his shoulder. Gentle at first, then not so gentle.

  His eyes blinked at her in a stupefied glaze like he didn't recognize her. He tilted into a sitting position, letting the notebook fall to the floor. “I'm up. What time is it?”

  “Late.” Amy looked at the mess of work. “Did you pull an all-nighter?”

  “Sorta.” He staggered to the kitchen and fumbled with the coffeemaker. “Hey, how'd the game go last night?”

  “What happened to Lara?” Amy leaned against the counter but the formica edge bit into her bruised hip. “Is she okay?”

  “What? Amy...” He looked over and gave her his patented disapproving-dad glare. Gallagher kept a police radio in his office. Amy had a bad habit of tuning it in and listening when she was bored. Or worried. “What have I told you about listening to the police ban?”

  “How bad is she?”

  “She's gonna be okay,” he said.

  “The dispatcher said she was mauled by dogs. Like that woman, the dead prostitute.”

  He poured water into the coffee maker, set the pot on the burner and looked at her. “That's police business, honey. Now go get ready for school. I'll make breakfast.”

  She slid off the stool. He noticed her limp. “Hey, are you hurt?”

  “Just sore.”

  “That kid walloped you good, huh?”

  “Twice. That bitch was tough.”

  He laughed even though he meant to admonish her language. She limped off for the stairs but he called her back.

  “Lara's still unconscious. She doesn't have any family nearby and I don't want her to wake up and find nobody there. We're rotating shifts at her bedside. Can you go sit with her after school?”

  “I have practice at four.”

  “Right,” he said. “I forgot.”

  “No. I mean I'll do it. I'll skip.” Amy shivered. The house was cold. “I can be there by three-thirty. Stay till seven? That means you have to cook.”

  “Done.” He smiled at her. The coffee maker gurgled and steamed, fogging up the cupboards.

  21

  GALLAGHER BYPASSED THE PRECINCT altogether and drove straight to the hospital. His gut told him to lower his expectations but he couldn't help hoping for some good news. He'd walk into the room to find Lara sitting up and wolfing down breakfast. Eager to get back to work.

  She looked exactly as he'd left her. Unconscious and unresponsive. A little paler this morning. He pulled the chair up to the bed and spoke softly to her, updating her on the case and griping over the Lieutenant's temperament. He omitted Vogel's threat to pull the investigation out from under them but added some office gossip. When he'd exhausted his news, Gallagher sat quiet for a spell. Then he squeezed her hand and said he'd be back later.

  The tired-looking nurse at the desk clicked through charts on her screen and told him there had been little change in Lara's condition. She was stable, that's all. Sorry. He walked back to his truck in the parking lot and dug out the phone number for Lara's sister, Marisol. He couldn't put this off any longer so he dialed Albuquerque.

  Marisol Sparks sounded tired when she answered, then became panicked when he explained what had happened. She calmed when Gallagher assured her that her sister was stable and someone was sitting with her at all times. Marisol was an army wife, her husband stationed overseas in Kandahar. She was home alone with their four year old son, trying to make ends meet. Marisol fretted the details, she'd have to pack her boy into the car and drive up to Oregon, there was just no money for plane tickets. Gallagher told her to stay put, there was nothing to do for Lara at the moment. It took a few minutes to convince her but Marisol finally agreed. He promised her that her sister wouldn't wake up to an empty hospital room, her friends at the precinct were rotating shifts to sit with her and he himself would call her the minute there was any change in Lara's condition. Marisol sobbed quietly and then choked up a laugh. “All this time,” she said, “I'm praying for my husband's safe return. It's like holding your breath, dreading a phone call about something bad over there in Afghanistan. Instead, I get a call about Lara. It's almost funny. Or ironic, I dunno.”

  “She's gonna be okay, ma'am.” He lied, unsure if it was for her sake or his. “Lara's pretty tough.”

  “She is. But dogs? My God, of all things.”

  “She doesn't much care for them, does she?”

  “God no,”
Marisol said. “She hates dogs. Has ever since she was little.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Didn't she tell you? When she was nine, she and a friend were attacked by dogs. This creep who lived at the end of the block, he had two pit bulls. Kept them locked in the garage all the time. I mean, all the time. The dogs had gone crazy being locked up like that, you know. Well they got out one day. Tore through the neighborhood. Went after two little girls playing on the sidewalk. Lara wasn't hurt but she saw her friend mauled by those two animals. She's hated dogs ever since. Scared to death of them.”

  Gallagher listened. Unanswered questions clicked into place and with it, a twang of remorse. Hell, he'd hate dogs too if he'd endured that. He gave Marisol the number for the hospital and the name of the doctor looking after Lara. His cell number too. He said everything would be fine and got off the phone. It was stupid to promise such things but he couldn't think of any other way to say goodbye after dumping such shitty news in the poor woman's lap. “Please,” he said to no one, thin air. “Please don't make a liar out of me.”

  HE drove to the crime scene, rain pattering the windshield all the way. Detectives Rowe and Varadero had rotated to the graveyard shift so the incident was theirs. One unmarked car was still here, parked in the gravel beside the CSU truck. Water beaded on the vehicles, the lawn soggy from the overnight rain.

  A uniformed officer stood on the porch, blowing into her hands to keep them warm. Gallagher nodded as he came up the steps. “They still here?”

  “Yes sir.” The officer stuck her hands in her pockets. “One detective is here, the other one went back. I think the CSU techs are almost done.”

  “Cold this morning, huh?” Gallagher watched her shiver.

  “I been out here since four this morning,” she said. “The dampness just seeps into your clothes, you know?”

  “My truck's still warm. Go sit inside, warm up.”

  “I'm okay, sir. But thanks.”

  The CSU tech had finished taking pictures and was packing away his camera. The casings spun from Mendes's weapon had been collected and tagged, leaving only chalk circles on the floor. Blue latex gloves were peeled off sweaty hands and tossed in a bag.

  Gallagher passed through the foyer into a tall corridor. Detective Rowe sat in a wicker chair sketching a floorplan of the scene into his notebook. A simple but elegant stick figure represented Detective Mendes, with arrows vectoring the angle of rounds fired. Rowe's face was serene as he sketched, losing himself in the simple craft of drawing. At his feet lay the carcass of another dead dog, its hide slick with jellied blood.

  “How's Mendes?” Rowe asked without looking up from his drawing.

  “Stable.” Gallagher knelt over the carcass. Like the others, the dog was big and fierce, some breed he didn't recognize. But it was mangy too, with bald patches of hide and ribs poking through the skin. “Mean-looking bastard, isn't he?”

  “Malnourished too.” Rowe set aside the notepad and pondered the dead dog. “Look at the damn ribs on it.”

  “These dogs got a sweet tooth for eating people. Guess it's a long spell between meals.”

  Rowe chuckled at that, said, “I read your reports on this guy, how he runs with a pack of stray dogs. Look at these scars.” His pencil ran along scar tissue scored on the neck and snout. “These dogs fight each other. These scars are a telltale sign of signs of some internecine scrap within the pack.”

  An eyebrow went up. “You an expert in wild dogs?”

  “Saw it on the Discovery channel.”

  Gallagher rose and eyeballed the scene. “What do you got?”

  “Well, it looks like detective Mendes had a hell of a fight on her hands. She put down this dog then spent her clip in that direction. She ran, got swarmed. See here?” Rowe waved his pencil at the blood smears on the floor. “She got taken down here, put up a fight. See the swipe pattern?”

  A red snow angel on the linoleum. Gallagher pictured it in his head, running the events in vivid Technicolor. Mendes, alone and swarmed by dogs, by the animals she feared most. He felt queasy and shook his head to disperse the looping images but they would not leave.

  Detective Rowe closed his notebook. “What did you see, Gallagher?”

  No response. Gallagher simply stared at the bloody smear at his feet. What the hell had he seen?

  “You okay, man?”

  “I saw a dog,” Gallagher mumbled. “It took her down. Not this one.” He nodded at the carcass. “Some other dog. Big one.”

  “I hear that.” Rowe stepped over the mess and hovered over a red patch further down. “Look at this.”

  Gallagher stepped over the blood to where Rowe was pointing. A paw print of blood and dirt, like the others tracked over the floor but this one was clear and it was enormous. Twice as big as the rest.

  “That is one big goddamn dog.”

  AMY liked hospitals. Which she knew was weird. She liked wandering the halls and peaking into rooms. She'd never had a serious injury or illness and so had no reason to fear them. But they were confusing and twice she had to backtrack her way, uncoding the department names and room numbers that seemed to make no sense.

  Even when she found the number she was looking for, she wasn't sure it was the right room. The woman in the bed looked nothing like Lara. A nurse hovered, changing the dressing on the woman's arm. Amy took a tentative step into the room for a closer look. It was Lara, but she was so pale. She couldn't help but look at the exposed arm. Wet puncture wounds marred the flesh, the congealed blood dark against the waxy skin. Amy could smell it from where she stood on tiptoes.

  “She a friend of yours?” The nurse didn't even look up from her task.

  “Sorta. I was gonna sit with her. If that's okay.”

  “I think she'd like that.” The nurse looked up and smiled. “Your other friend just stepped out for a minute.”

  Amy didn't know who she was talking about. The nurse smiled at her as she hustled out the door. Amy didn't move, unable to do anything but stare. How could that be Lara? She looks so small in that bed. She took a step closer then startled when she heard someone behind her.

  A woman hurried in. Black and pretty. A Fendi slung on her elbow, phone in her hand. “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Are you the relief shift?” She put her bag on the table and rummaged through it. “I had to make a call so I went outside. I always thought you weren't supposed to use your cell in a hospital but I see plenty of people yammering away on them.” She stuck out a hand. “Sorry, I'm Charlene.”

  Amy shook her hand, said her name.

  “Amy?” Charlene cocked her head, trying to place the name. “Are you a friend of Lara's?”

  “My dad is. I mean, they work together.”

  “Oh,” Charlene snapped her fingers. “You're Gallagher's kid. Lara told me about you. Nice to meet you.” She renewed the handshake with vigor.

  “Ditto.” Amy glanced at the bed. “Is she any better?”

  “She's stable. We're just waiting for her to wake up. I hope you brought a book.”

  Amy lifted her backpack. “Homework.”

  “Smart.” Charlene hooked the bag back onto her elbow. “I have to run. Shit is piling up on my desk, pardon my French, and I have to get back. You'll be okay? Who's relieving you?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “I'll figure it out. Bye Amy.” She rushed out of the room and then everything was quiet. Amy sat in the chair. She got up and dragged the chair closer. Should she talk to Lara, like they do in the movies when someone's lost in a coma? Someone zipped by the open door and she stifled under self-consciousness and kept quiet. She pulled her backpack to her knees, thinking she should start her homework but didn't feel like doing it.

  When she looked up, Lara's eyes were open.

  “Lara? You awake? It's Amy.”

  Zero response. The eyes open but there was no hint of Lara in them. No recognition, no awareness. Amy waved her hand before Lara's nose. Nothing
.

  Should she call a doctor? Did it mean anything or was it an involuntary response? Full on creepy, Lara's eyes wide like a zombie. And she didn't blink. Wouldn't her eyes dry out like that? Amy gently, gently pulled the eyelids down. There, that was better.

  The lids slit open and rolled back up.

  Amy stepped back. Screw this. Call a nurse.

  22

  LARA STARED AT THE CEILING. THE florescent light singed her eyes. She was awake. In a hospital bed. Why? What happened?

  And then it all came back. Prall, the dogs, pulling the trigger. The thing. Its teeth, the pain as it ripped into her stomach.

  She screamed and tore the drip from her arm. Off the bed and sprinting full tilt down the hallway. At least that's what she wanted to do. She remained prone on the bed staring at the ceiling tiles. Something was wrong. Her muscles didn't work, her hands stone no matter how hard she wanted to flail. No sound came from her throat. She couldn't even move her eyes.

  She heard a voice near her ear. Charlene, invisible outside her field of vision. Lara screamed for help but her lips never moved. Charlene was talking, telling her about work. Gossip. How could she not hear her? After a while, Charlene became quiet and the only sound was that of pages turning in a magazine.

  A face swam into her sightline. A nurse. Lara screamed again but nothing happened. The nurse went away.

  A new face crept into her field of vision. A girl. Gallagher's daughter. Amy's long hair swung and bristled her chin. She could feel it. Why couldn't she move? The girl's eyes were saucers of fright. Why does she look so scared? Oh god, how bad am I hurt?

  Amy, help me. Please.

  IVAN Prall leaned against a stump of deadfall, his back nestled into the soft moss. Legs sprawled before him in the pine needles. The Siberian lay coiled nearby, bedded down with its chin on its paws. The other dogs stayed close, sniffing the loam or lying sphinx-like on the forest floor.