Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Your flight leaves Northolt early tomorrow morning. Here’s the file.” Admiral Garrison scooped up the photos and tucked them into a small attaché case. He slapped the top of the case with a meaty paw. “You’ll find contact names, background information, all the usual, as well as a complete primer on werewolves.”

  “A primer on werewolves? Where does one even find something like that?”

  “Assembled in-house, of course. I suggest you use tonight wisely and study up.” He pushed the case across the desk, past a green-shaded lamp, and around an engraved plaque: Admiral Reginald T. Garrison, United Nations Paranormal Activities Division.

  Major Ransom waited near the door to her office, just down the hall from the admiral’s. A smile played on her lips as Dayton approached. “Werewolves in Las Vegas, Colonel? Such an interesting assignment.”

  “One shouldn’t eavesdrop on top secret meetings, Major.”

  “Eavesdrop? How pedestrian.” She put a hand on his arm and led him into her office. “I envy you, you know.”

  His gaze wandered across her office to a bookshelf filled with supernatural volumes, both fictional and research. He glanced at her desk where a book lay open to an illustration of a large wolf’s head. “A woman with true paranormal skills envies me?”

  “Traveling the world in search of all things…different. Zombies, vampires—and now werewolves. It’s got to be exciting work.”

  Dayton rolled his eyes. “Oh it is, Major.” He traced his finger along the shape of her ear. “And every time there’s a reasonable explanation for it. The zombies in Peru turned out to be a tribe of cannibals. The ghost in Australia was a well-orchestrated hoax. And the aliens in France? Let’s not even discuss that plumb assignment.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “C’mon Jean, you’ve read the reports; you know what I’m talking about. Believe me, there’s nothing exciting about any of it, nor paranormal.”

  “And this werewolf?”

  He frowned. “You know the bloody Yanks; probably just another sociopath—an average, run-of-the-mill serial killer on the loose.”

  “The admiral’s interest seems piqued.”

  He lowered his voice. “If you ask me, the old man is a little too keen on the whole operation, as if he wants to find a monster in the wardrobe. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “He wants to make a difference, to be prepared just in case. That’s why he brought you on board: the best of the best.”

  “Sure, at fighting real enemies, not tabloid fiction.”

  “How can you be so negative? This is a well-funded division of the United Nations. The council sees a need for our services and so do I.”

  “Don’t worry, Major. I’ll go to Las Vegas and do my best to find out what’s really going on. Beyond that…”

  “Are you thinking of cashing it in?”

  He leaned into her. “Suppose you tell me what I’m thinking? That is, after all, your area of expertise.”

  Major Ransom grinned. She closed the door and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Colonel Dayton, you should be ashamed of those thoughts.”

  “Oh I am, Major.” He slipped his arms around her waist. “Dreadfully ashamed, yet, surprisingly undeterred.”

  She put her lips to his ear. “The admiral did suggest you use your night wisely.”

  He pulled back and grinned. “Do you really think I’m the best of the best?”

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  Chapter Six

  “Flynn.” It’s all I can mutter before he pounces on me.

  My brother is a large and powerful canine, but as a human he’s clumsy and slow—almost uncoordinated. This fact doesn’t seem to bother him, nor does it make the fight any easier. He knocks me to the ground with little effort, pinning me under his weight. My ribs ache, and it’s hard to breathe. He lets out a snarl and leans in.

  I put my hands around his throat and squeeze. He does the same to me. His eyes are blank, empty slits. He grunts like an animal, bares his teeth, and tries to bite at my arms. I feel raw energy coursing through his body, like a feral beast out of control. He lunges closer, snapping at my face. I choke harder, but it has no effect, if anything, it only enrages him. Even though he’s in human form, he’s not just fighting like a canine he’s got the mentality of one, too. Giant Irish Wolfhounds don’t back down.

  I move my head, dodging his teeth as slobber splatters around me. With one kick to his groin, I shove his neck forward and send him flying over me. There’s a loud bang as his head crashes into Dixie’s front door. His body goes limp.

  Her door is my line in the sand. I don’t know what Flynn wants, but I’m not going to let him look for it inside.

  He’s dazed, but soon recovers, jumping back on top of me. My fist connects with his nose and he yelps. I throw a right and hit his jaw. He growls and flails his arms, using them like giant clubs against my attack. I manage to throw a fist past his blockade, rewarded by a painful bite on my wrist.

  He’s pummeling me now, using his fists like meaty paws. My head shakes from side to side with each punch. I throw my arms up and cover my face, but it does little good. Everything moves in slow motion. This fight is over.

  Before I black out, I look behind him—past his vacant eyes—and see a vision.

  There’s an angel dressed in white hovering over us. The angel is not smiling, in fact, she seems angry that we’re fighting in her presence. I know we’re upsetting the angel, but there’s nothing I can do about it—I’m too busy being killed. The angel raises her arms and a lightning bolt flashes out of her fingertips.

  Everything turns bright white, then goes black.

  “Wake up.”

  My eyelids rise like a curtain. Objects drag into focus as my consciousness comes back on line.

  “Wake up.” The angel’s lips move and I hear the words a split second later, like a film that’s out of sync. I’m in Dixie’s house, sitting in the hallway just inside the front door.

  “Where’s Flynn?” My throat is sore and my voice cracks. “Where’s the other man?”

  “I tased him.”

  “You tased him? Where is he now?”

  Dixie speaks in a quiet voice. “I heard a bang on my door and looked out the window. That man was killing you, so I used the Taser and dragged you inside.” She closes her eyes and wobbles a little, looking like she wants to find a landing spot on the ground. “Then he…”

  I help her down, feeling her fear in the form of tiny tremors under her skin. I’m sure it’s not me she’s afraid of anymore—she’s found a new fear.

  “Where did he go after you tased him?” Again, she’s silent. “Where did Flynn go?”

  “Who the hell is Flynn?”

  “The other man. The one I was fighting with outside.”

  “He…uh…” She turns her head and stares at me, right through me, with cold, unseeing eyes. “He…ran away. He…uh…he.”

  I stand up, slower than planned, but finally manage to find my balance. With one glance out the window at the pile of skin and blood in the courtyard, I know what Dixie saw, and what she’s trying to say. She struggles for words—trying to explain what, for her, is impossible to describe. She witnessed the transformation.

  I watch her face when I say, “He changed into a canine.”

  There it is: the reaction I wanted when I first told her about me. She winces, shakes her head, and trembles. Her eyes find mine. She tries to stand using the wall for support, but only manages to stumble back down to the floor. I offer her my hand, but she goes out of her way to avoid me. After a couple of false tries, she finally gets up under her own power.

  “Dixie, it’s important. Where did he go?”

  “I dragged you inside—I don’t know why—and I locked the door. He was killing you.” Her voice is shaky, her brow twisted. “Why was he trying to kill you?”

  “Dixie, listen to me, it’s important.” My head aches, but I force the words out, “Where did the other man g
o?”

  “Everything you said is true. I looked out the window and…he changed into a dog—a really big dog. I think he’s still outside.” Her breathing is heavy and forced.

  I take another quick glimpse through the window. There’s no sign of him.

  “He turned into a dog. How could he do that? No one can do that.”

  I try to speak in a calm reassuring voice, but it’s difficult. Her fear has rubbed off on me. “I want you to think very carefully, please. Where did he go after he changed?”

  “I think he ran around the house, to the backyard.”

  Right on cue, I hear frenzied scratching at the back door. Dixie turns toward the living room, but I grab her arm. “Where’re you going?”

  “To call the police.”

  “He’ll be inside before you dial. Get your keys. We gotta get out of here.” She’s still confused and stands frozen in place. I shout at her, “Get—your—keys.”

  I tear the front door open and we bolt outside, running across the courtyard. She slows down, staring at the pile of flesh and clothes on the ground. I have to put my hand on her back, pushing her past Flynn’s human remains.

  The thump-thump-thump of padded paws, sounding like a race horse in the stretch, terrifies me. Flynn must have caught our scent. He rounds the corner of the house and charges at us.

  Dixie hops inside the Hummer. Whether she’s forgotten about me, or decides to subject me to another beating and sure death, I don’t know. The Hummer door remains locked.

  ****

  Colonel Jon Dayton’s military jet landed at Nellis Air Force Base at eight-forty PM local time. He’d spent the last ten hours in a seat designed to transport a man much smaller than his six-foot-four frame. His legs were numb, and his neck begged for mercy. Despite the physical discomfort, the ten hour flight had given him more than enough time to study the information in the attaché case Admiral Garrison gave him in London.

  The struggle to pry himself from the cockpit was rewarded by a blast of 100 degree heat outside the aircraft, quite a change from the drizzly conditions he’d left behind. He climbed down to the tarmac and stamped his feet on the hard surface.

  Dayton glanced back at the modified Tornado F3 and saluted the pilot.

  A sedan eased forward, stopping near the wing of the European jet. The driver got out, giving Dayton a friendly nod and a wave. “Colonel, Paul Cuthbert at your service. Welcome to America.”

  “Mr. Cuthbert—”

  “Cutty.” The driver was lively, a young man’s spirit in a thirty-something body. The long strands of bright red hair accentuated his friendly nature. “Everybody calls me Cutty. You can put your flight suit in the trunk, Colonel.”

  Dayton pulled down the zipper of his suit. The t-shirt and jeans he wore underneath were damp with perspiration. He tossed the helmet and suit into the trunk.

  Cutty gave Dayton a toothy grin. “Ready?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cutty. I’m at your disposal.”

  “Hey, love the accent, but it’s just Cutty. Next stop: The world famous Las Vegas Strip. Ever been?”

  “First time.”

  Cutty held the door open for him, and he slid into the backseat of the black sedan.

  Dayton expected a quiet ride to the city. He knew Cutty, parenthetically a member of UNPAD, had been told nothing about the details of the mission. The man’s orders were simple: keep a low profile and assist when ordered. Apparently, Cutty had his own definition of “low profile.”

  “I hope the flight didn’t drive you crazy. Ten hours of sitting in that tiny seat. Man, I’ve been there before; like wearing a straightjacket in a phone booth, am I right? Wow, it’s hot. Why can’t the UN afford to get the damned air conditioning fixed in this car? I mean, world peace, global warming—all worthy causes—but you got to have A/C in the desert. I mean it’s a no-brainer, right?”

  Dayton quietly suffered Cutty’s chatter, but soon agreed with him about the heat as sweat snaked down his face and breathing became a labored chore. He felt like the guest of honor in the back of a hearse. “This is ridiculous,” he chimed in, “is it always this hot?”

  “I know, right? I mean, with all the money the UN’s got, how about a little maintenance budget for us worker bees?”

  “What do you recommend? Window up or down?”

  “Pick your poison: hot air furnace or sauna.”

  Dayton slid the window halfway down, deciding on a little of both, and tried to relax. He surveyed the neon glow of hotels on The Strip as darkness began to blanket the valley.

  “Won’t be too much longer, Colonel. About a half hour down the 15 to Trop. I got you a sweet deal at the MGM—practically had to sell my soul to get it, too. Big fight weekend coming up and everything’s sold out. Anyway, the air is so cold there you’ll wish you brought a coat.” Cutty’s laugh was true and honest, almost an onomatopoeic effect of “yuk-yuk-yuk.”

  “Good,” said Dayton. “I want to rest-up and get started first thing tomorrow.”

  “Yes sir, Colonel. Pick you up before the rooster’s awake. Yuk-yuk-yuk.”

  Blessed A/C enveloped him as he entered the lobby of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. He was finally able to breathe without a struggle. Cutty handed him the plastic room key and a standard issue suitcase containing suit and tie, casual wear, and sundries.

  He soon settled into a comfortable suite on the fifteenth floor of the massive complex. His window faced the Statute of Liberty across the boulevard welcoming the huddled masses to the New York New York Hotel and Casino. He shut the curtain and flipped on the TV.

  The bathroom was spotless, like a surgical suite prepped for use. He undressed, started the shower, and stood under a cool stream of water for several minutes. After cranking off the faucet, he heard a baritone voice in the bedroom; a TV newsman demanding attention.

  “The latest on the Werewolf Killer, as well as my exclusive interview with Sheriff Gale Hendrickson, next on Six At Ten.”

  Dayton returned to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and another thrown across his shoulders. He plopped down on the bed and faced the flat screen panel on the wall.

  “Now, news you can trust from people you can trust, this is Six At Ten with Peter Hudson.” The jingle that followed was heavy on drums, a little xylophone thrown in for good measure, and finished with a flourish of snare and bass.

  “Good evening.” The station logo under the stoic figure behind the anchor desk read Peter Hudson—Six At Ten, while the graphic behind him and to the right depicted the black silhouette of a snarling wolf’s head, reminding Dayton of the book on Major Ransom’s desk. “We start our newscast tonight with my exclusive interview of Sheriff Gale Hendrickson. The topic? The Werewolf Killer. The interview was taped earlier today and will be shown in segments throughout tonight’s broadcast.”

  The image changed from Peter Hudson at the anchor desk to a close up of a man in uniform. The background was stark, black, and forbidding. The uniformed man sat in a stiff-backed chair under the glare of harsh spotlights.

  “Sheriff Hendrickson, thank you for being here.” Peter Hudson gave just the hint of a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Sheriff Hendrickson nodded. “My pleasure, Pete.”

  “Sheriff, I’d like to start by asking you about the progress in the so-called Werewolf Killer investigation. What’s the latest on the case?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Well Pete, as you know, Metro does not recognize that particular term. I believe that name was fabricated by someone in the media, and I, for one, think sensationalizing this crime is wrong. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I understand, sir, and I couldn’t agree more. Now, can you tell our viewers about any progress you’ve made in the investigation?”

  “Of course, first and foremost, our hearts go out to the victims and their families; that goes without saying. This investigation is our top priority. Metro is using all available resources and examining every bit of evidence.
We’ve been joined by experts in all fields of criminology, on both a local and national level.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up. Now, according to sources close to the investigation, we hear an expert from the Department of Wildlife has been—”

  “Let me stop you right there.” A vein in the middle of the sheriff’s forehead pulsed. “We have not asked for help from the Department of Wildlife. Again, that is a rumor, and rumors do not help the investigation. I can tell you this: we’re dealing with a very sick individual, plain and simple. This crime will be solved, and the person responsible will be brought to justice.”

  “What can you tell me about the current morale of your officers?”

  “Our morale remains high. My office is confident in the work of the task force. Tonight, my men are working with extreme diligence to protect the community, and we feel very confident in our ability to do just that. All patrols have been doubled, additional units added, and every lead is being thoroughly investigated.”

  “Sheriff,” Hudson paused, drew in a deep breath, and looked directly into the camera, “are we any closer to an arrest?”

  The sheriff took a moment before answering. “What I can say is this: to the individual responsible for these crimes, it’s only a matter of time before you are apprehended. However, it is in your power to do the right thing, right now. Turn yourself in to any police officer, any sub-station across the valley, and avoid a confrontation with my officers. That confrontation will not end well for you. When you surrender, you’ll be treated fairly and with due process. This I can promise with no hesitation.”

  Hudson stared again into the camera. “Sheriff Hendrickson, what people want to know tonight is: are the streets of Las Vegas safe?”

  The camera zoomed in on the sheriff’s face. The extreme close-up shot revealed the purple vein pulsating in the middle of his brow.

  The scene switched back to Peter Hudson live at the anchor desk. “That, of course, was Sheriff Gale Hendrickson in an exclusive interview taped earlier today at the Channel Six studios. When we return, more of my exclusive interview with Sheriff Hendrickson. You won’t want to miss it.”