Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3

by McGregor, Tim

  Most of the houses on the block were dark and quiet. A single window lit up on this house or that. A few homes were permanently dark, shuttered in foreclosure or short sale with a realtor's sign on the lawn. Further down, a rutted laneway ran the breezeway between a tidy craftsman foursquare and a colonial with broken windows. He followed it down where the lane ended at a rough service road behind the neighborhood. On the far side, the ground dropped to a wallow of hemlocks tangled in morning glory.

  He cut the engine, left the headlights on and got out. Looked down the seepway. They could have come through here, trailing the path of what was basically a wide ditch. A run-off path for the spring thaw. It was dark and most of the homes it buttressed had fences up, blocking it from view. Like a freeway for psychos. Or monsters.

  He walked the edge, past reeds and dried up bulrushes. Nothing more. What was he expecting to find? Prall sitting on the bank casting a line into the dirty water? Just fishing, hoss.

  He headed back to the glare of the Cherokee's headlights. Something scuttled across the parked truck, winking out one headlamp then the other.

  Gallagher stopped. Could have been a neighborhood dog, sniffing out the truck disturbing its territory. Another shaped passed before the lights, tail up, and then another. Three dogs, at least what he saw was three. He squinted against the headlights, picking out the dogs around his truck. A pit bull brindled with black stripes and a Husky with a white belly and black topcoat. The third animal was thick and muscular but Gallagher couldn't place the breed. Satanic was his guess.

  Two more animals appeared. None of them made a sound or charged at him. They trotted back and forth across the headlights and circled the truck. One by one, the dogs lifted legs and pissed on the tires. Marking territory.

  Gallagher's palm pivoted on the butt of his Glock. How much trouble would he land in if he drew and simply shot down every last one of them? Of course, at this angle he'd shoot the hell out of his ride too.

  The dogs kept trotting round the truck, watching him. Their heads up, tails high. That meant something in dog language but he couldn't remember what. The big Siberian ambled towards him and Gallagher tightened his grip on the gun. The dog turned back and leaped clear onto the hood of the Cherokee. Nails scratching the paint, it looked at him and pissed all over the windshield.

  Okay. Gallagher understood that language. Dog speak for ‘go to Hell’.

  “Screw you too, Rover.” He drew his weapon and leveled a bead on the biggest animal, that satanic-looking one. At this range he could put down one or maybe two without puncturing his truck. What he should do is call for back-up. If the dogs were here, then Prall had to be close by. To hell with it. Ivan Prall would be a lot less dangerous if he culled half the pack right here, right now. He thumbed the safety off.

  The dogs bolted.

  Like they knew what he was thinking. Maybe it was the sight of the gun. They were lightning fast too, already to the wallow and splashing through the reeds. He walked to the truck, the piss still steaming off the windshield. The whole thing stank to high heaven.

  DEE counted the money again. One hundred and sixty and some change tinkling around in the bottom of the satchel. His patience with the sick man had paid off. Now the crazy bastard was gone and he had the hovel to himself. And this, cash in hand. He dug through his plastic bags, all he owned in the world, and came up with the bottle of Canadian Club he'd found three nights ago. Three fingers left sloshing inside the bottle and he was saving that but tonight was special. He unscrewed the top and toasted his fortune. Tomorrow he could buy more.

  On the second pull, he heard the door thunk. He'd latched it shut when Reggie left but now someone was outside. Did the nutjob change his mind and come back? He craned an ear.

  It wasn't him. Scratching at the door, nails clawing the wood. A dog wanting inside. Dee went to the window but saw nothing. The scratching at the door went on and then stopped.

  He lifted the latch and eased the door back no more than an inch. A snout dove into the breach and popped the door back, knocking him on his ass. The dogs poured in and Dee crabwalked away. The dogs nudged him with their snouts, knocking him this way and that. They stood on him, pressing down with heavy pads.

  They tore the shack apart, rooting through everything. They shook his bags to ribbons. Frenzied, darting back and forth like they smelled a cat hiding in the mess. They zeroed in on the jugs in the corner, knocking them over and scratching until the lids popped off and rank piss spilled out over the floorboards. They went crazy.

  The floor shuddered under him and his eyes went to the door. The dogs lowered their tails and got out of the way.

  It filled the doorframe, whatever it was, ribs scraping the jams. The weight of it shaking the tinderbox shack, bottles dropping from the window sill. His mind shut down at the sight of it. It was too big, too scary to be real. The outsized teeth and yellow eyes, like something out of a storybook he had as a child.

  It slammed into him, pushing him whole across the floor, crumpling into the wall. He felt its teeth in his belly and opened his eyes to see the other dogs moving in.

  24

  LARA OPENED HER EYES. THE LIDS didn't curl up involuntarily like before. She could blink them at will. Panic rose up like bile. Another cruel dream or could she move? She tried her hand, felt the bedsheet on her fingertips. She could move.

  She lifted her head but pain shot hot through her stomach. Every limb was jelly and her spine creaked. Take it slow. She rode out the pain, focused on her breathing. She took a gulp of air, bore down and sat up. The room swam, the equilibrium in her ear all out of whack. She fought down the urge to vomit. Okay. Everything's okay.

  “Lara?”

  She flinched at the voice, unable to find it with her eyes. Who was it? The dizziness evened out. There, in the corner.

  Amy Gallagher unfolded herself from of the chair, dropping a book to the floor. “Ohmygod. You're awake.”

  Something touched her hand. Lara looked down to see Amy's hand folding over her own. She blinked, still skeptical it was all real.

  Amy dipped her head, trying to find Lara's eyes. “How do you feel?”

  Her mouth was cotton, the words gurgling out slow. “How...how long have I been out?”

  “Three days. You had us scared. Thought you weren't ever going to wake up.”

  The number rattled around Lara's head like a roulette ball that wouldn't slot. Three days? She felt Amy's hand squeeze hers. Why was Amy here? Where was Gallagher? She looked at the girl sitting on her bed, saw the backpack and books piled on the floor. She swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dad wanted someone here when you woke up. We've been taking turns.”

  “Taking turns?” Lara blinked. Nothing made sense.

  “Your friend Charlene too,” Amy said. “A couple of other people from work. Detectives, I guess. I think even your boss, Lieutenant whatshisname.”

  “Vogel.”

  “Yeah him. The big guy.”

  Lara looked at Amy and her heart dropped. The girl had come to sit vigil in a crummy hospital while she laid there like a vegetable. “Amy. I can't believe you're here. Thank you.”

  “No biggie. I'm just glad I was here when you woke up.” She put her hand to Lara's brow. “Jeez, you're still kinda feverish. Are you okay?”

  “I feel awful. But I want out of this bed. Where are my things?”

  “Bagged and tagged. Evidence I guess.” Amy slid off the bed and got her backpack. It was stuffed with clothes. “I brought these. They're just sweats and stuff. Figured you'd need something to wear home.”

  Lara smiled and pulled the t-shirt out. A grey V-neck with an orange tiger logo. “This is your basketball team, isn't it?”

  “Lame, I know.”

  “No. I love it.” Lara smoothed the shirt over her knee, admiring the logo. A small twinge of pride swelled in her ribcage. Silly. But still. Something buzzed around in her head. Words.

  Who's that little girl who come
s sits with you?

  Prall. He'd been here, been in her bed while she lay comatose. Everything crashed back, a riot of sounds and pictures. It was no dream, he had been here. He had seen Amy. She swung her legs down and the cool floor hit her feet. It was bracing but felt good. Solid.

  “Whoa. Take it easy, Lara.”

  She gripped Amy's bicep and squeezed. “You shouldn't be here. Go home.”

  Amy startled, confused. Lara felt a tug on her arm. An IV drip taped to the inside of her elbow. She stripped back the tape and pulled the needle out. Blood welled up in the little hole.

  “Hand me those clothes.”

  “What are you doing?” Amy looked scared. “You need to rest.”

  “I'm fine.” Something righted itself inside her head and the vertigo receded. The pain running down her back faded. “I feel great actually. Are you gonna hand me those or no?”

  Amy chewed a lip, gripping the backpack in her hands.

  THE cab ride home made her seasick. The driver kept glancing at her in the rearview, ever wary of fares losing their lunch in his backseat. As they turned onto her street, she was relieved to see her car parked neatly outside her front door. She wondered who drove it here.

  Climbing out of the cab was slow and she eyed her reflection in the window. Her arm in a sling, dressed in a teenager's sweats. Ridiculous.

  A figure sat perched on her stoop. Elbows resting on his knees, watching her come up the walkway. “You're supposed to be in the hospital,” Gallagher said.

  No ‘hello’, no ‘how are you?’ She stepped past him and slotted her key into the lock. “You're supposed to be hunting our suspect.”

  He followed her inside without being asked and looked the place over. It wasn't what he expected. Artfully decorated with nice things but there was no mess. No clutter, no tangle of shoes to trip over at the front door. Neat and organized, the way the homes of people without kids are. Gallagher envied the orderliness but it puzzled him.

  “I don't get you,” he said. “Your desk is a complete disaster but this,” his wave sweeping the room. “This looks a model home.”

  She went on into the kitchen without answering or even looking back. He followed, leaning up against the doorframe. Like the living room, it was organized and clean. A cup and spoon in the sink, waiting to be washed.

  “Amy called you?” Lara rooted the fridge for a carton of orange juice.

  “She was worried about you.”

  “I'm fine.”

  He watched her struggle to pop the spout on the carton. He didn't offer to help, just nodded at her slung arm. “Yeah, you're in great shape.”

  The spout popped and she drank from the carton. “You want coffee, you can make it yourself.”

  He pulled out a chair. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little. It's mostly just numb.” She wiped her chin with the heel of her hand. “Did you talk to the Lieutenant?”

  “Yup. Rowe and Varadero caught this one. They'll want to talk to you.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  He stretched his legs, crossed one foot over the other. “Told 'em Ivan Prall sicced his dogs on you.”

  She looked at him, her face stone. “Did you see it?”

  “I saw something.”

  Lara chewed her lip, considering what to say next. “It wasn't a dog.”

  He blew out his cheeks, shrugged. “I didn't know how to type that up in the incident report. ‘Monster’ sounded too vague and ‘wolf’ sounded too batshit crazy. I settled for ‘dog’. He felt her eyes bore into him but didn't look up. He smoothed his palm flat against the table top. “I don't know. I dunno what I saw.”

  “Well I do. I saw it up close.” She let her eyes drift to the floor. “It's crazy, I know, but why not just come out with it? Why keep it to yourself?”

  “Vogel is itching to yank us off this. You were down for the count and he's looking for any excuse to shitcan me. What was I supposed to tell him?”

  The question hovered there like a bad smell in the room. Lara wrapped a hand round her stomach and lowered slowly into a chair.

  “You okay?”

  “Just tired.”

  “Go lie down.”

  “In a minute.”

  Gallagher sat up, creaking the chair under him. “Okay. What now?”

  “We go back to work,” she said. Like there was any other answer. “We find him. And we stop him.”

  “You sure? You look like hell.”

  “Thanks. Asshole.”

  “Atta girl.” He smiled up at her. She cracked a smile back, unable to stop it. “So. You know where we can find some silver bullets?”

  “That's fairy tale stuff. We just need enough firepower to bring it down.”

  “Don't make it personal, Lara. Vendettas get messy. Clouds your thinking.”

  “Are you for real? All you do is make it personal. It's like, your schtick.”

  “It's not personal.” Gallagher got up, opened the fridge. “I just like stomping shitbags.”He tossed stuff onto the counter. Cheese, cold ham, lettuce.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making a sandwich.”

  “Are you ever not hungry?”

  “It's for you, dumbass. Amy said you hadn't eaten anything. Go lie down.”

  DETECTIVE Charlene Farbre sat on the bench in the lobby of Central Precinct, waiting. The shift change had come and gone and she should have been gone with it but her phone rang just as she was wrapping up for the day. A good portion of her week had been eaten up trying to track down a witness in a sex assault in Alimony Flats. A young woman had been assaulted by three men at a house party. Over seventy people crammed into this house but not a single one admitted to seeing anything. The victim had identified one of her assailants and Charlene had uncovered the names of his three friends also in attendance at the party. Charlene had tracked the two who participated but the third one was dodging her. James Molliner had not been part of the assault but he was there. If she had any hope of nailing the other three, she needed to get to Molliner but the kid was slippery. Charlene had appealed to Molliner's mother two days ago. Two hours earlier, Molliner had called, said he'd come in to talk to her.

  Here she was sitting in the lobby, eyes on the door. Ninety minutes in and tired of it. James Molliner wasn't going to show. She'd give it another half hour, then go on home.

  The front doors whooshed open and Charlene looked up, hopeful, then sunk back down. This wasn't Molliner. The man that staggered in was ragged and sickly looking. Homeless. The threadbare blanket around his shoulders was wet, even though it wasn't raining.

  Bored, Charlene watched the man as he stood dripping on the floor. He looked confused, unsure of whether to go on or turn around and leave. This wasn't unusual, crazies walked in all the time to annoy the desk staff with their crazy-ass nonsense. Charlene leaned back when the man's stink hit her. She knew the tang of BO and street-living but this was different. The funk was noxious and sharp. Not exactly pump grade gasoline or even diesel but it was fuel. Combustible. Kerosene. The man was dripping with kerosene. And he was shuffling towards the front desk.

  Charlene sprang, hollering to wake the dead. “Get down! You, get down!” The two officers at the counter jolted up, caught off guard and confused.

  “He's drenched in gas!” Charlene's hand instinctively reached for her belt but her sidearm wasn't there. She'd clipped off the holster and locked it in a desk drawer.

  The man in kerosene-soaked rags raised his hands, palms out, but he didn't drop to the floor. His voice broke into a coughing jag. The two officers leaped over the desk, both drawing weapons and barking at the man to hit the floor.

  “Wait,” he croaked. “I want to turn myself in. Please.”

  Charlene glanced at the two officers. They looked back, just as confused. The sickly man waved his hands in surrender, gesticulating that he was no threat.

  “I'm turning myself in. See? My name is Ronald Kovacks.”

  25

 
; LARA COULDN'T SLEEP, BONE TIRED as she was. The effort of leaving the hospital, coming home and dealing with Gallagher used up the little strength she had. After losing three days in a hospital the last thing she wanted to do was go back to bed but she could barely move. Get some sleep, she told herself. Start fresh tomorrow.

  But every time sleep crept in, she saw the wolf.

  The attack was a cobweb of images and sounds, incomplete and out of order. She remembered the pentagram on the wall, the panic when the dogs tore into the house. The small relief when she shot the dog bearing down on her. The rest was spotty and unreal. The teeth. Pain. The weight pressing down on her and the gamey smell.

  The wolf. It had other names but she couldn't bring herself to say any of them. Not out loud, not even in her head.

  But she saw it. Up close. She smelled it and she touched it. The fur that stung her hands like nettles, like armor. Beneath that, muscle. Ferocious power. She knew in that moment she was going to die, that she was powerless to stop what was happening. It was the most sickening feeling she had ever experienced.

  Not like this, she kept thinking. I don't want to die like this.

  Her skin bristled and goosed under the bandages. The chafing gauze aggravating the itch and all she wanted to do was scratch and scratch and scratch.

  Her bag was on the kitchen table. Someone at the hospital had cleaned the blood off of it for her. She scrounged up the painkillers and antibiotics and chased them down with a mouthful of tap water. The scissors were in the utensil drawer. She took them into the bathroom and cut away the irritating gauze.

  The metal was cold. The flesh of her belly pale and oxygen-starved. The puncture wounds were angry red dimes surrounded by grey lifeless flesh. God, was it infected? She scratched at it, scraping off the patchwork of scabs. Release oozed all the way down her knees.

  She cut into her bandaged arm, hacking the gauze like a paper doll. More red craters puckered round by dead flesh. Was it gangrene? What did gangrene even look like? She ran the cold water and doused her arm until it was numb.