Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3

by McGregor, Tim

  The bar grew louder. Patrons shuffling in after the shift change. Gallagher glanced over his shoulder and clocked Latimer and Bingham settling into a sixtop with a crew from other details.

  Shit.

  “Two pitchers, Stephanie.” Bingham leaned an elbow on the bar and nodded to Gallagher. “How ya doing, John? Hey, you wanna come join us?”

  “Nope.”

  Gallagher drew circles with his glass, widening the little puddle on the bar. Bingham waited for his order, idly fiddling with a coaster. An awkward pall creeped down the bar. Bingham spoke up, needing to fill the void. “It's not fair, man,” he said. “Vogel can be a real dick. Let me buy you one, huh?” Bingham waved his cash at the woman pulling draft. “Get the detective another round too, yeah.”

  “Screw you, Bingham. And your drink.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bingham shrugged, fronting. “I'm not the bad guy here, G.”

  “No, you're the weasel who snookered the case out from under me.”

  “You think I wanted this? I got better things to do than fix your mess.”

  Gallagher came off the stool in a snap. Itching for a fight and any excuse would do. “Like what? Beg the Lieutenant for a reach-around while he's pegging you to the headboard?”

  Half the cops in the bar were on their feet, sensing the brawl about to spill open. Bingham felt all those eyes on him, he couldn't walk away now. “You're drunk, Gallagher. Go home before you embarrass yourself— “

  The snap came. Gallagher plowed him against the rail and stove Bingham's face into the bartop. Hissed at him. “You think you can collar this guy?”

  A rush to the bar. Hands grabbed Gallagher to pull him off but he would not let go, barking into Bingham's face.”He will eat you alive!”

  An arm shot round his neck and choked him backwards. Gallagher punched out blind, looking to hit anyone. Everyone. The off-duty detectives hauled him off and pummeled him senseless with elbows and knees. Threw him out the side door. When he hit the alley, the fight had gone out of him and Gallagher slumped against the chain link fence. Of the four detectives who wrestled Gallagher outside, all knew what had happened to him and Mendes. Not one took it personally, not one got angry. Someone flagged a cab and they piled the sonovabitch into it and told the driver to take him home.

  THE drive home was hellish. Twice Lara had pulled over fast to hurl but nothing came. She drove like a senior citizen the rest of the way home and crawled to the bathroom. Passed out with her forehead against the cold tile floor.

  When her eyes opened again, the nausea was gone. In its place was a pulsating headache. She slid her phone from a pocket and blinked at the time. After ten. She'd been out for four hours straight.

  Easing off the floor, she rifled the medicine cabinet only to find an empty bottle of Tylenol. Damn. She closed the cabinet and her face swung into the mirror. Yikes. She looked like the butt end of a three day bender. Puffy eyes and sallow cheeks. This is what meth heads look like.

  There were no more painkillers in her purse. She'd have to go out because the knocking in her brainpan was getting worse. She peeled out of her work clothes and rooted for something comfortable. Anything would do, even the sweats Amy had leant her. She slipped on a pair of flip-flops and locked the door behind her.

  The night was cool but the chill air did nothing to dampen the fire in her head. The streetlights hurt her eyes and the traffic stung. North two blocks to the corner store where she bought Tylenol and water and downed two pills right there at the counter. Back onto the street and six doors down, the painkiller kicked in.

  Something wasn't right. Vertigo swam up and knocked hard, tilting her too far one way and then the other like she was drunk. Her ears stung. Every noise became too loud and too intense, like God had suddenly turned up the volume on everything. A couple passing by, yelling at each other. A car horn broke her eardrum. A dog tied to a post barked yipped at her, each bark snapping thunderclaps at her. Her palms stoppered both ears, running along in the stupid flip-flops.

  Everything was too loud, too piercing. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. There, at twelve o' clock stood a church. One bare bulb glowed over the arched door of St. Patrick's Church of the Redeemer. She slid out of the flip-flops, gathered them up and ran for the doors.

  Slipping through the heavy oak door, pushing it closed. The din outside muted to almost nothing as the door latch clicked. Soft light cast a jaundiced sheen on the wooden pews. Votive candles trembled beneath a gilded painting of Saint Patrick. Eyes cast heavenward. His hand held a crooked staff and at his feet were thousands of serpents.

  Lara slid into a pew and exhaled. The church was quiet. She was still cognizant of the racket outside but it was tolerable. The smell of wood polish and wax was heady, bringing up memories of the church of her childhood. When was the last time she had even entered a church? Four years ago, when she'd flown down to Albuquerque for her nephew's baptism. How her mom would have disapproved. To her, a lapsed Catholic was one straw away from an ignorant heathen. Or an Anglican.

  The click of metal as a door opened. She didn't bother turning around. Some other penitent looking for peace, shuffling reverently up the aisle behind her.

  “Hello.”

  Lara flinched. For one tiny millisecond, she expected to see Ivan Prall. A priest stood in the aisle. He looked too young to be a priest. Her own age or maybe even younger.

  She nodded, her hair falling loose over her face. She still held her flip-flops in her hands. Barefoot in a church. Her mother would have been mortified. “I'm sorry. I just needed a minute.”

  “That's what we're here for.” His voice echoed softly in the enormous space. “Lots of people come in just to sit. Gather their thoughts.” He sat at the far end, the whole length of the pew between them. Folded his hands in his lap. “We could talk, if you like. About anything. The weather, or what's troubling you.”

  “Who says I'm troubled?” Her voice cut sharper than she'd meant but the priest either didn't notice or didn't take offense.

  “No one comes in here at night if they're content.” He leaned back, resting an elbow on the back of the pew. “But we'll stick to the weather. I think we're in for a storm soon. You can feel it in the air pressure.”

  She dropped her footwear to the floor, slipped them back on. “I shouldn't even be in here. I can't remember the last time I went to mass.”

  “I'm not a stickler for attendance. I like to see new faces in the church, anytime of the day.”

  “You must get a lot of crazy people in here.”

  “No, just troubled people. Folks with a lot of worries and heavy hearts.”

  Lara felt the tension in her shoulders loosen. The urge to run dissipated, her mortification sharp. She looked at the priest and wanted to ask a question but didn't know how to frame it. It just sounded so stupid.

  “Do you believe in the supernatural?” She whispered it, as if lowering the volume made it sound better.

  “Of course.” He matched her whisper. “The Lord is supernatural.”

  “Of course. But beyond that, I mean. I...” Her voice trailed off, unable to finish.

  “You're asking if I believe in ghosts and stuff,” he said, picking up her thread. “Then no. Those bogeymen are human inventions. Projections of fears and hatreds, our bigotries made manifest.”

  “I see.” Lara kept her head down. The numbness in her left hand returned and she flexed her fingers to ward it off. “What if I said there really were such things. Monsters. And that I saw one.”

  He didn't react, like he heard this all the time. “I'd be very interested to hear that.”

  Maybe he did hear it all the time.

  “There's a man,” she began, “who claims to be a werewolf. I assumed he was just psychotic and disturbed. He isn't. He was telling the truth. I saw the monster. It attacked me.” She raised her injured arm, as if it was all the proof she needed.

  The priest nodded softly, as if agreeing with everything she'd just said. “Go
on.”

  “You know how the story goes, right? If you're bitten then you too become a monster. You become the wolf.” She kept her eyes on the kneeler before her.

  “I think you've been through a very traumatic experience. Physically and emotionally. What you knew of this man has colored your own thoughts. What you are experiencing now is spiritual trauma, and that is what brought you here.”

  “That's what I thought too. But something is happening to me. And I'm scared.”

  “What's your name?”

  She told him her name. He rose and came down the pew to sit next to her. “Lara, there is nothing wrong with you. Nothing supernatural. Look at me.”

  She straightened up and pushed the hair from her eyes, folding it behind her ear.

  “I promise you there is nothing— “ His words choked off.

  “What?”

  “Your eyes.”

  They were amber. Incandescent around the pupils with an unnatural light.

  A rictus of disbelief rippled across the priest's face.

  She turned away. The look in his eyes answered her questions. She staggered to the door. He called after her, told her to wait but the oak door clicked shut behind her.

  30

  CARLY FARINO COULD ROT IN HELL. That was the conclusion Amy arrived at walking home from practice. She had confronted Carly about all the lies she'd been spewing about her. Carly denied it. Amy had shoved her hard to the ground and Carly's friends had jumped to her defense, hitting and kicking at her until Amy stormed away.

  She had always hated her dad's temper. Hated it more when it bubbled up in herself.

  But Carly. They used to be friends. Through middle school until high school, then they drifted. Where Amy played basketball, soccer and even field hockey, Carly was pulled into the sphere of the poser kids. The ones who made their own comic books and constantly formed bands and broke up said bands to form new ones. While Amy was put through drills by the coach, Carly was in someone's basement practicing on an imitation Fender bass. They had little to talk about anymore and by tenth grade they all but ignored each other.

  A week ago, Amy learned of a number of nasty rumors going around. That she routinely screwed the older guys on the basketball team and blew doormen to sneak into clubs. Her friends told her to ignore it, everyone got their turn being rumor-slut of the week but Amy wouldn't let it go. She bullied and grilled everyone for the source of the bullshit and learned it was Carly. Carly denied it. Amy shoved her so hard, Carly flew off her feet and hit the grass hard. Shoved back and booted by Carly's loser friends, Amy walked away. She didn't look back when Carly screamed names at her. Bitch, backstabber, phony, cunt. She didn't let herself cry until she was safely out of sight of school. She walked home.

  Her tears dried halfway home and it was hot so she peeled off her jacket and tied the arms round her waist. She worried about what she'd find when she got home. Dad had come home drunk yesterday and made a quick dinner of grilled cheese and Doritos and they barely spoke through any of it. He said he was just tired. Later that night she found him back on the porch, sitting in the rocker. He just grunted the same crap about a neighborhood watch and kept rocking. The grip of the gun peeking out from a pocket. She said goodnight.

  Over breakfast, he was grumpy and his eyes were dark. He'd been out there all night but denied it when asked. Said he just hadn't slept well is all. He said he'd be home more now. He was taking time off work and maybe they could catch a Trailblazers game or go to the movies. Shoot some baskets.

  None of it sounded right to her ears. Dad didn't just take time off work but he wouldn't budge when she asked why. Everything was fine, he said. Finish your breakfast.

  Did he get fired? Did something bad happen, forcing him to take a leave? It would have to wait till tomorrow. She was too hot and too fed up to worry about anything else today. She just wanted to get home and curl up on the sofa with some bad TV.

  Amy shifted the weight of the bag on her shoulder. Leaves rattled across the sidewalk and hit her ankles. The street was quiet. No cars, no pedestrians. Just the dog.

  It sat on the opposite sidewalk, a big Siberian Husky, white with grey flecking. It sat straight, mouth closed and alert, watching her. Amy knew most of the neighborhood dogs but this one was new. No collar.

  She walked on. Looked over her shoulder. The dog trotted across the road and sidled after her. She wondered if it was lost, if it would follow her home. She'd always wanted a dog but her dad never gave in. Amy turned back to see if it was still there.

  There were three dogs. Two big brutish-looking dogs trotted dutifully behind the Husky, all following behind her. A fourth dog slipped out from behind a hedge and fell in line at the end.

  Okay. This wasn't funny. The dogs weren't running and playing like normal, they followed her with a weird intensity. Tracking her. She picked up the pace. Don't panic, don't look back. Just get home.

  Another glance over her shoulder, she couldn't help it. Five dogs now. And all of them getting closer.

  Amy ran. And Amy was fast. She bolted across a yard and over a hedge. The dogs charged after her. She dropped the bag and ran faster.

  Her house was round the next corner but she knew a shortcut, through the McNiven's backyard and the old man's tomato patch. Then a dead heat to her own backdoor. She could hear the dogs panting behind her but didn't look back.

  One thought repeated in her head. Please let it be unlocked.

  GALLAGHER hauled in the grocery bags and dropped his keys into the bowl. He checked the shoes scattered at the front door. Amy wasn't home yet.

  He still felt like crap. He considered going to bed after Amy went to school but knew he wouldn't sleep. He made a to-do list, all those annoying little jobs he never had time to do and drove to the Home Depot. He replaced the rotting downspout in the front yard and cleaned out the clogged eaves. He made a grocery list and drove to the Safeway. He didn't listen to the news, didn't look at a newspaper. He'd kept himself busy but now he was home and the house was quiet and all the bullshit of the last two weeks started roiling up in his head.

  A loud thud scattered his thoughts, something hitting the backdoor. And then a voice screaming for help. Amy.

  She was on her knees in the mudroom, locking the backdoor. Amy scrambled away, backing into the washing machine. Her face flushed and terrified.

  “What's wrong?” He took hold of her, felt her quaking. Too winded to speak, too petrified to spit. He told her to catch her breath, take it slow.

  “Dogs,” she finally said. “They chased me.”

  He didn't see anything in the window. He told her to stay put and unlocked the door.

  “Dad, don't— “

  He stomped outside. Scanned the yard but there was nothing. No sound.

  They materialized all at once. Dogs sklathing through the hedgerow, skulking in from the next yard. He counted six of them. Eyes locked on him, fanning out through the yard. Surrounding him.

  His hand went to his gun, a reflex movement. It wasn't there.

  The pack trotted through the grass, crossing each other's path. Traversing the yard in half-arcs. Watching him.

  His eyes darted around for a weapon. A shovel or brick, anything. The Siberian passed right before him, taunting him. It snorted once then suddenly turned and ran. The rest followed, rattling the dry stalks of the hedge. In a flash, they were gone.

  He heard the door click open. Amy ran out, clutching a Louisville Slugger in both hands. He coaxed it from her grip and wrapped a hand round her shoulders. Led her back inside.

  THE pack raced into a culvert, splashing footfalls off the corrugated metal. Back into the daylight and further down a gulley to a stand of small trees. Where the alpha waited.

  Prall sat on the ground and the dogs trampled round and nosed his hands. The Siberian trailed up last, dragging something in its jaws and dropping it at Prall's feet.

  Prall scratched the husky's withers and whispered into its ear. He took up the schoolbag a
nd dumped the contents onto the ground. His hand sifted through the papers and pens and clothing, spreading it all out before him. These he studied, as if divining some meaning from them the way a seer foretells the future from dove entrails. Their meaning eluded him so he scattered it away save for the clothing. He scooped up a shirt still damp with sweat and put it to his nose. He discarded this too and lifted the shorts to his face and breathed in their scent. This he tucked away into a pocket. The bag was hurled into the brambles. After a while he rose and quit the place, the dogs falling in line behind him.

  AMY slouched in the passenger bucket, her feet on the dash. Her duffel bag was on the backseat, hastily packed. Clean clothes tossed in with the dirty. Her backpack, along with her homework, was lost. They had scoured the neighbor's yard for it but came home empty-handed. Then her dad decided to get rid of her.

  Gallagher maneuvered through traffic, past all these turtle-paced drivers who clearly were in no rush to get anywhere. He glanced to the passenger side but Amy was still angry and would not look at him.

  “You all right?” He tried.

  “I'm not a kid anymore, you know. You can be straight with me.”

  “I know. It's just… It's not safe. Okay?”

  “They were just dogs.” She finally looked at him. “Why do I have to go back to mom's?”

  “Humor me, okay. I'll come get you when this is all over.”

  Amy wanted to scream. She hated when he got vague on her. The more vague he became, the more important the issue. “When what is over?”

  “Did you pack everything? The clothes in the dryer?”

  “DAD!”

  That got his attention. He looked at her.

  “Don't talk down to me. What is going on?”

  He turned onto Delaware and swung into the double-wide driveway of Cheryl's house. He killed the engine, shifted in his seat to face his daughter and came clean. “There's a guy out there. A dangerous guy with some nasty dogs. The dogs that chased you? Those were his.”