The pale lobo jerked free and dove through the wreckage of the door and bounded away. The grey wolf thundered after it.
Gallagher lurched to the crumpled door and looked out into the darkness, the gun useless in his sweaty grip.
There was only the empty avenue and the sound of the wolves trailing off into the dark streets of Portland.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE DOG CAME back, limping gamely through the hedgerow to heel at Gallagher’s feet. He patted the Siberian down. It winced and lifted its hind leg. A splotch of blood but he couldn’t see the damage in the dark. He told it to stay and ducked back into the garage.
Amy remained curled into a ball against the cinderblock, her face a chalked-out blank with saucer-sized eyes. He had to coax her up to her feet, rubbing her back and repeating softly that it was all over. When her eyes finally wheeled up to meet his, she stammered. “Dad? Lara, she... she...”
“It’s okay. Just breathe, honey.”
“But that thing went after her.”
“Can you walk?”
He led her outside. The dog limped to Amy’s knee and licked her hand. Voices bellowed in the darkened street. The neighbors stepping onto their porches and grousing about the racket and the power outage. For the moment, Gallagher was grateful for the extinguished streetlights.
“That other one, the wolf,” Amy chattered through her teeth. “It went after Lara. We got to help her.”
“I need to get you somewhere safe first,” he said. He recognized their neighbor’s voice across the street. Julie, a single mom who used to babysit Amy way back when. “You can stay with Julie, okay? I’ll go after Lara.”
“No.” She wouldn’t budge.
“This isn’t the time, honey. I gotta go after her.”
“We have to.” Amy opened the passenger door on the Cherokee. “Let’s go.”
“Amy...”
“We don’t have time, dad. Trust me.”
No time to contest the point. Gallagher opened the back door and snapped his fingers. The husky hopped in and laid down on the backseat. He fished something out of the back, jumped under the wheel and tore out of the driveway in the direction the wolves had fled.
“Which way did they go?” she asked.
“There.” He pointed west and then reached over and dropped something in her lap. “Take this. Keep it down but be ready.”
Amy looked down at the thing in her lap. The nine millimeter. She ran her thumb over the safety catch to ensure it was on and laid it across her lap.
“Roll your window down,” he said. “Keep your ears open for their sound.”
North on 22nd with the cold air blowing through the open windows, Gallagher gunned up block after block without seeing any sign. Amy leaning one elbow out the window, ears cocked for any sound.
“Do you hear anything?”
She shook her head then leaned further out. Then her hand went up. “Stop the truck.”
He pulled to the curb and killed the engine. Looked at her.
“Can you hear that?” she said, all but falling out the window. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”
“Roll down the back window and watch the dog. He’ll show you which direction.” He rolled forward while Amy watched the dog crane its neck out the port side window. The husky snuffed and then darted for the starboard side.
“East,” she said.
He took the next left, swinging onto Killingsworth. The dog slung its head out the window, nose twitching. Twenty yards on they could see the path of the wolves before them. Two cars lay crumpled like squashed soda cans, the wheels of the Cherokee crunching over the spray of glass on the pavement. The front windows of three, now four shops blown inwards as if hit by a truck. A man darted into the street, screaming holy terror and then vanishing between the parked cars.
They followed the path of destruction, weaving around an overturned dumpster knocked flat in the middle of the street. Amy raised her hand again and he stopped and they all listened. The noise was close, the sound of crunching metal and glass and above it all the awful noise of the things themselves.
“Scooch over. Get behind the wheel.” He shifted into park and swung out of the cab. Throwing open the tailgate, he fished something from the duffel and stuffed into his pocket and came back. Amy slid behind the steering wheel. “Turn this around,” he said, “and go back to the next block and wait. If those things come back, you get out of here and drive straight to the precinct. You understand?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. This whole area will be overrun with uniforms in about two minutes. Go on.” He stepped back and watched his daughter wheel the Cherokee around and trundle away. Then he turned and ran towards the sound of mayhem.
Two people were screaming inside the doors of a Min-Mart. The windows on the one side lay gaped in shards. A silver Audi lay dead in its tracks with its roof squashed in. A man in a Seahawks jacket lay face down on the street. Gallagher collided into a parked van, eyes on the downed man. Nothing lies as still as the dead and he knew within moments that there was nothing he could do for the prone Seattle fan. A car alarm was blaring and Gallagher strained his ears to hear anything beyond its insistent racket.
He ran, the gun locked in both hands. Two cars zoomed up behind him, the driver of one gawking at the destruction in the street but driving on nonetheless. Gallagher hollered at it to stop but his voice barely rose above the pulsing car alarm.
Coming on his left, a blur of red lurched into the street. A man in a filthy Santa Claus suit tottered and reeled, singing loud and out of tune. Auld Lang’s Syne. Idly, Gallagher wondered if this Father Christmas had missed the date for the Santa Rampage or if he’d been rampaging the streets ever since. The thought was cut short when the first werewolf bounded into the intersection.
The pale lobo sprang out of nowhere, its ivory hide spackled with blood. The thing hammered directly into the path of oncoming vehicles. Horns blaring and brakes slamming, the cars swerved and fishtailed and crashed into other vehicles parked at the curb. The dull thud of metal on metal.
The second wolf, the grey, lunged after the first, deftly leaping over the crashing cars. It too was covered in blood and gore, its maw opening as it collided into the pale wolf. The monsters twisted and snapped, curling around and tumbling into cars. Each one chomping at the other’s throat. The guttural roar of them was awful to hear, an abhorrence to nature and reason alike.
Gallagher swung the gun up, elbows locked as he drew a bead on the grey wolf but no clear shot materialized in that storm of clashing lobos. And then Santa man lurched forward directly into his line of sight. The man held onto his belt with one hand to keep the oversize red pants from falling down and blinked stupidly at the beasts before him.
A distraction. The wolves broke off and separated and Gallagher would have had his shot if it weren’t for the man in the red suit. Saint Nick raised the glass in his hand as if in salute. The grey wolf swung round its head and lunged. A blur of red, the cheap red felt and the blood, as the grey lobo chomped down on the reveler and shook him violently to pieces. A flailing crimson doll in the jaws of the monster, the great wolf’s head jerked and ticked as if trying to swallow Father Christmas whole.
Gallagher yanked the pin from the stun grenade and tossed it clattering over the pavement at the lobo. The pop of the flashbang only enraged the monster. It snarled and shook the man harder. There was a loud snap as his neck broke. Saint Nick’s head was cleaved clean off and it rolled and tumbled through the slushy pavement towards Gallagher. He swung back to avoid touching the thing.
The pale wolf had vanished and the grey swung about looking for it north and south before it pointed its massive snout back and charged full bore at the man with the gun. Gallagher cursed, the thing steamrolling at him, hands raising the 50 cal too slow at the beast. It lunged and he fired. The round singed the razored back of the thing and blew out a shop window. The lobo sailed over and before he could tap off a
nother round, the wolf bounded west down a side street.
With his heart clanging inside his ribs, Gallagher felt his legs give out and he sunk, one knee dropping to the dirty slush as he panted and blew. He scanned over the mayhem of the street. The glass eyes of Santa’s head wide on him and he rose up and walked away.
Homicide detail was quiet after the shift change, the night crew settling in while the day shift drifted out. Charlene Farbre lingered at her desk, scrutinizing the case file involving the death of Lieutenant Mike Vogel and another file about the disappearance of Detective Lara Mendes. The strange sighting of Lara and Gallagher’s bizarre denial had eaten at Charlene’s guts all day but she hadn’t had a chance to open the file until now. Not that there was anything new to learn. She had assisted the primaries in both cases and contributed much of the material herself.
She clicked off the file and pushed away the murder book. She had debated the idea of bringing it up with the Lieutenant but held off. Accusing a fellow officer of misconduct was a can of worms no one in their right mind wanted to open. The blowback could be devastating.
Stretching the kink in her lower back, she spotted Wade still at his desk. Charlene bit her lip then crossed through the bullpen. “Hey Rueben. Got a minute?”
“For you Charlene, always.”
She nodded towards the empty cubicle beside his. “Where’s your partner?”
“Keeps his own council these days,” Wade shrugged. “Said he’s got some family stuff to deal with.”
“Has he been acting cagey with you lately?”
“Define cagey.”
“I don’t know. Out of character. Dismissive or secretive.”
Wade leaned back and regarded her. He pulled up the spare chair and nodded for her to sit. “What’s going on, Charlene?”
She sat, took a breath and sketched it out as briefly as possible. Her encounter with missing detective Lara Mendes (or her emaciated twin) and Gallagher’s troubling dismissal of her questions.
Wade listened patiently. “You think he’s lying to you?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Three months ago I wouldn’t have even considered it but Gallagher hasn’t been the same since that incident.”
“But why would he lie about something like that? He’s spent every spare moment looking for Mendes. Long after everyone else gave her up for dead. If he found her, why keep it a secret?”
All Charlene could do was shrug. “I know it doesn’t make sense. Do you think I should talk to the Lieutenant?”
Wade shook his head. “That’s dangerous. Why don’t you talk to Gallagher again?”
“I can’t even get him on the phone. Have you even seen him today?”
“Nope.” Wade leaned forward. “Do you really think he’s lying to you?”
“I know he is.” Charlene squared him up with a hard look. “I want to go to his house, talk to him there. He might be more inclined to talk outside of the office. And I’d like you to be there.”
“Charlene...”
“We’re just checking in with him,” she said. “To see if he’s okay.”
Wade frowned, not liking the idea at all but before he could answer, two detectives ran past the desk. Charlene stood up and saw Detective Varadero pulling on his coat. “What’s going on, Ray?”
“Real shitstorm up on Alberta. Some kinda dog attack. Two people down.”
Wade rose out of his chair. “Dog attack?”
“Crazy, huh?” Varadero nodded at the TV screen suspended on the wall. “Fucking newsies are already on the scene.”
The detective ran for the door and Charlene went to raise the volume on the TV. The news footage was an aerial shot of North Killingsworth, two cars steaming from crumpled hoods and the windows of storefronts destroyed. A figure on the ground. It looked like a war zone. The newscaster’s voice boomed up.
“...conflicting reports of a pack of dogs attacking people. Unconfirmed reports say two people are dead. We also have reports of gunfire in the area...”
“Holy shit,” sputtered Wade. He looked back to Charlene but she was already running for the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE WOLVES HAD vanished, leaving no sign of their escape nor any track to follow. Gallagher had driven through block after block of empty streets, Amy watching shotgun, and doubled back for a second, third sweep. He had gotten out and trekked on foot with the dog, cutting for any trace of the monsters but found nothing. Of Lara, there was no sign at all, not even a hint from the husky. They had driven home, hoping she had returned on her own but the house was empty. Amy ran in for a spare set of clothes for Lara and they resumed their search. Amy had hung in there until close to four AM when her chin kept dipping. She laid down on the back bench to sleep while he drove on until he too gave up and sat parked on a low rise with the engine killed and the cold creeping into the cab.
The eastern break over the skyline was already graying in that eerie stillness before dawn and he looked at his watch and rubbed his eyes. He had lost her again. And to what this time? Had the grey wolf killed her? Was she injured and transfigured back into human form, slowly freezing to death in some ditch? Or had the pale wolf simply bolted for higher country like last time?
His daughter stirred, turning over in the backseat. He watched her sit up with that dazed look of the barely awake. She yawned.“What time is it?”
“Five-thirty. Go back to sleep.”
“I’m freezing.” Amy patted the dog beside her then looked out the window. “No luck, huh?”
“Nope. How’s Tonto?”
“Who?”
“The mutt.”
“Sound asleep.” She ran her fingers through his fur and cast her gaze to the window. Snow, industrial buildings, a few trees. “Do you think she went back home?”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s go home.”
His fingers folded around the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it over. Going home meant giving up. Meant that Lara Mendes was gone again and finding her a second time would be a miracle.
“Dad?” Amy leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “Sitting out here isn’t helping anyone. Let’s go home.”
She squeezed his shoulder and he came to his senses. Sometimes he forgot how smart his kid was. Intuitive but sober for such a young person. He fired it up, slid into gear and turned for home. Then he stomped the brakes.
A figure stood in the middle of the road, clad in what appeared to be a tattered blanket. Her hair was wet, the lips blue.
Amy bolted out the door and the dog barked. Gallagher rushed out to help his daughter bring Lara into the backseat.
Killingsworth Street was a disaster zone. Uniformed officers taped off the area and assisted the detectives combing every square inch of pavement in an effort to unravel one simple question; what in the name of Jesus went down last night?
The skid marks of the crashed cars told a tale of slammed brakes but the statements of their owners was confused and contradictory. The civilians found cowering inside a Mini-Mart were similarly unclear and could confirm no part of any other story.
It was a giant dog.
It was a pack of pitbulls.
It was Bigfoot.
Detectives Lidia Summers and Trevon James were on rotation for active calls on the nightshift and therefore primaries on scene. Charlene and Wade worked support along with four other detectives; two from the Homicide Detail and two from Assault. Together they worked the scene while more uniforms showed up to assist and the forensics van rumbled under the yellow tape and the techs got to work. Detective James examined the body of the Seahawks fan while detective Summers, drawing the short straw, sifted through the red costume of the decapitated Santa.
A uniformed beat cop named Martinez found the blown out shell of a concussion grenade. She circled it with a length of chalk and informed Detective Summers of her discovery. Summers cursed, wondering how much more effed-up this crime scene could get. Detective James sauntered over not a
minute later to relate that the techs had dug a slug from a storefront. The crumpled shell fragment was, to the tech’s estimate, a round from a 50 caliber output. At that news, Summers threw up her hands and declared quietly to her partner that she had no goddamn idea what had just happened here.
Standing well back from the string of yellow police tape lingered one onlooker who could have answered the detective’s questions. Edgar Grissom cocked an ear to hone in on the police banter above the murmurs of the crowd. He smirked, watching the police grapple to form some cohesive chain of events that led to the mayhem. Bullshit piled atop road apples.
As stupid and impetuous as it had been to tear after the pale wolf out in the open like this, to cajole and fight and sink his teeth into her in the wide open streets of this city, Grissom knew he was safe. The little that he had observed from his short stay in the city of roses, he concluded that two out of three citizens were either batshit crazy or willfully, gleefully deranged. His full-fledged lycanthropic battle on the streets of Portland would garner no more than a shrug and a declaration of ‘whoa dude...’ from the average citizen. Even the tired looking police investigators seemed nonplussed at the statements stammered out by the shellshocked witnesses. Portland, Edgar Grissom concluded, was perhaps the safest city for a lycanthrope to call home. Set next to the precociously strange and the doggedly indifferent, a werewolf could settle in without fear of alarming the neighbors.
He hopped onto the hood of a parked Saab and knocked the slush from his boots and sat watching the street. His plan, simple as it had been, had not worked and he was now forced to recalibrate his approach. The woman was under the protection of a family and he had to work around them or eliminate their protection before he could get to the female. Murdering them outright would be messy and lead to trouble. Especially since the man was a police detective. Simple plans wouldn’t work. Grissom scratched the raw scab on his throat left there by the pale wolf’s teeth and wondered if there wasn’t some way to use the family against Lara Mendes. He looked at the blood on his fingertips.
Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3 Page 45
