Dayton turned off the TV and grabbed the small attaché case. Putting aside the grizzly crime scene photos and mountain of information on werewolves, he found the yellow notepaper with contact names. He scanned the list and stopped at Detective Marco Ramirez, lead investigator of the task force.
He placed the list on the writing desk and lay on the bed. Even though it was relatively early, Dayton knew the only sure remedy for jet lag was a full night’s sleep. He’d contact the detective in the morning. Until then, a pleasant dream involving a certain Major Jean Ransom would be nice.
Chapter Seven
Flynn races around the corner of Dixie’s house at full speed, running straight for me. I bang against the side window of the Hummer and finally hear the lock mechanism click. Flynn crashes against the door, slamming it shut with me inside.
Dixie turns the ignition. The engine whines until she lets go of the key. She throws it into reverse, launching us backward into the middle of the street. Before the Hummer stops, she grinds the gears, and we drive away on screaming tires. Flynn tries to keep up, but his image fades in the rearview mirror.
“Thanks for letting me in the car. I didn’t think you would.”
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the road. The wide pavement is firm and smooth. We streak past well-spaced houses on oversized desert landscaped lots. The street is deserted, everyone either at work or indoors.
“Flynn’s always had a mean streak, but he’s never attacked me like that—”
“Why the hell was he at my house?”
“I can only guess he was commanded to kill me.”
“Commanded? Like sit, roll over—kill?”
“Exactly. We obey The Alpha, whatever he commands us to do. The Alpha is our Supreme Ruler. We must do what he says.”
She peeks in the rearview and eases up on the accelerator. “What in the hell are you talking about? I don’t understand.” She brakes hard, pops a tire over the curb, and throws open her door.
“Where’re you going?”
“To be sick.” She barely gets the words out.
I feel bad for her. I want to put my hand on her back and tell her everything will be all right, but I don’t. I’m tired of lying.
She slams the door shut and faces me. I feel twice as bad, but not for her. Her eyes are wide, examining me—judging—like I’m some sort of problem to be solved. Or worse, like I’m some kind of monster.
It’s time to try and make her understand. “Dixie, listen to me. I was born a Giant Irish Wolfhound with the ability to transform into a human being, as you see me now.”
“And that other guy? The one you called Flynn?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Your brother? Another dog?”
“We prefer canine.”
“Don’t get all superior on me.”
I don’t know if she understands what I’m telling her, my instincts are numb. It’s time for the truth, no rehearsed lines; no practiced speeches. “I’ve watched you on TV. In your reports, you used the term Werewolf Killer, as if you knew there was something more to these murders than anyone else suspected. Like there was something the public wasn’t being told. I assumed you had a connection on the task force. When I asked you about it, you said you didn’t, but I don’t think you were telling me the truth.”
She scowls. “The truth? Oh, that’s good; everything you’ve told me has been a lie.”
“I had to fabricate a few truths to gain your trust.”
“Stop right there.” Her scowl turns into a grimace. “You used me for…for what? What do you want from me? Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I can’t go to them. I don’t know anyone on the police force, not like I know you.”
“You don’t know me. You think you do just like everyone else in this city. I’m on TV, it’s my job, but you don’t know me.”
“Look, if I went to the police and started asking questions about the Werewolf Killer they might suspect something. They might lock me up, and if I transformed in jail, well that wouldn’t be so good. So I decided to come to you for help. I need to find out who the Werewolf Killer is, even if it turns out…even if it turns out to be me. And you can help, on their level.”
“Their level? But I’m not a police officer I’m just—”
“Human. You can help me as a human. You know people. You have connections. You have abilities I could never hope to have. Please, I’m begging you.”
Her expression changes. She grunts. “You’re a dog, and you’re begging.”
“What do you mean by that?”
A loud thud grabs our attention. Flynn has caught up to us and paws at the rear window, smearing slobber on the glass. He jumps forward and snarls through Dixie’s window. She screams and hits the gas.
“We’re a mile away from my home,” she shouts over the roar of the engine, “how in the hell did he find us?”
“He’s a hunter. A good one.”
“He’s more than that; he’s a killer. You said you don’t kill on command, right?”
How can I answer that when I’m just not sure? “I must be wired different.”
“Then I’ve got news for you: you’re not the Werewolf Killer.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “He is.”
Something I’d already considered. With Flynn’s lack of conscience and total contempt for all things human, he’d make a perfect killing machine. But Flynn never acts on his own; he never does anything without clear instructions. His commands come from The Alpha. From here on out, I must assume I am, indeed, wired differently from the rest of the pack and take matters into my own hands.
She has to stop at the exit gate. It creaks open in slow motion. She presses the gas pedal and kisses the gate on the way out then speeds up.
I buckle my seat belt. “Drive me home.”
“No way, we’re going straight to the police.”
“I need to get to The Alpha. I’m sure he’s behind the killings. I have to stop him now, while I’m human.”
Her tone changes. She surveys the rearview mirror and eases off the accelerator. She seems a little more confident, more in control of the situation. “Tell me about this Alpha person.”
“He’s hard to explain. I don’t know much about him, but I’m certain of one thing: he ordered Flynn to kill me.”
“Why would he order your brother to kill you, or kill eleven other people for that matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think you should find out before you confront him?”
“I can’t take that chance. I don’t want eleven to become twelve.” After a few quick turns, we head east on Charleston Boulevard. She stops at a red light. “Please drive me home.”
It takes her a few moments to answer. “Okay, but I need to make a call first.”
“No. Don’t call the police.”
“No, no police, I promise. I’m going to call a friend of mine. He’ll meet us there.”
“Who? What friend?”
“He’s with the station.”
“No, Dixie. You can’t report—”
Flynn paws at the car again. He caught up to us faster than even I would have thought possible.
Dixie mashes down the gas pedal. “What dog can run that fast?”
“Flynn can, and he won’t stop.” I weigh the options. There aren’t any. “Let me out, I’ve got to face him.”
“Are you crazy? He’ll tear you apart.”
Maybe. “Stop the car.”
I rip open the door and scramble onto the sidewalk before the Hummer stops moving.
“Get outta here.” My last round with Flynn exhausted me, but chasing us had to weaken him as well. It might be an even fight this time. Dixie speeds away.
Flynn is on me at once. His jaws snap and drool splatters in all directions. He knocks me to the ground and goes for my throat. I roll away and kick at his soft underbelly. He yelps. With my back on the ground and my hands around his throat, I feel his reso
lve—he means to end me.
I use my knee to jab him in the ribs. He’s dazed, giving me a chance to kick him into the street. The screech of tires and deadening thud happens in a split second. Flynn tumbles out in front of Dixie’s Hummer.
I drag his body off the road, smearing the pavement with a trail of blood. Vehicles slow down, drivers craning their necks to sneak a peek.
It takes all my strength to climb back into the Hummer.
“Is he dead?”
I lean back in the seat and nod.
“I doubled back, and he was just there. I hit the brakes, but—”
“Don’t feel bad.”
“I don’t. I couldn’t very well let anything happen to you.” She opens the center console, slams it shut, and riffles through her purse. “Damn. I left my phone back home.”
“What do you mean ‘let anything happen to me’?”
“You’re a once in a lifetime story, Adam.”
“This is more than a story.”
“You’re right. You, my friend, are a worldwide exclusive. Let’s go back to my house and I’ll call the station—”
“You don’t get it. The Alpha needs to be stopped before someone else is murdered, maybe tonight.”
She sits still, a worried look crossing her face. “But your brother, Flynn, he was the Werewolf Killer, right?” Her brow furrows. “And he’s dead.”
Once again, is honesty the best policy? “There are five more siblings in my pack.”
****
Colonel Jon Dayton made himself comfortable in Detective Ramirez’s chair, strumming the top of the desk while twirling a black pen embossed with gold letters: LVMPD. The flurry of activity in the task force bull-pen energized him. Metro officers answered phone calls, jotting down information as fast as they could; police cadets scampered by with sticky notes, relaying them between desks.
One desk in particular, manned by an animated lieutenant, seemed the hub of it all. The lieutenant directed the movements of the cadets like an orchestra conductor, pointing, waving, and shouting out orders: “Hand up at station six, see what he needs.” “Bring that note over here.” “C’mon, keep it moving people, hustle up now.” The sound of telephones ringing, cell phones buzzing and keyboards clicking lent an electronic soundtrack to the movements of the conductor.
Dayton liked the vibe; the behind-the-scenes investigative work few people ever see. As far as John Q Public knew from watching countless action films and television dramas, heavily armed SWAT teams and high speed chases solved crimes. Sometimes, maybe. In the real world, Dayton knew information took criminals down; the hard-working people in rooms like this caught the bad guys.
“Cadet,” the lieutenant shouted, “take this to the map, hustle up now.”
The cadet took a slip of paper and darted across the room to a large map of the Las Vegas Valley. He handed the note to a sergeant who read the information and thrust a pin into the map. The sergeant gave the note back to the cadet and said, “Take this to station six. Let’s go, move it.” Perspiration streaked down the cadet’s face as he ran across the room to station six and handed the note to an officer. The officer studied the note for a few seconds, then picked up a phone, dismissing the cadet with a wave of his hand. The cadet ran back to the lieutenant’s desk and stood by for new orders.
Dayton panned his gaze across the other cadets—dozens of them—performing similar duties, scurrying from one desk to the next, carrying bits of paper containing tips, leads, possible sightings, confessions, intelligence, follow-ups, and complaints. There was excitement in their movement, optimism so palpable it was contagious; a clear belief the very scrap of paper they carried might be the one bit of crucial information that would lead to the arrest of the Werewolf Killer. Here, in this room, lay the hope of a troubled city.
The over-sized map held hundreds of pins; a tapestry of yellow, green, black, blue, and red. Dayton knew from experience the red pins were the most significant, tending to indicate major incidents. In this case murder. He counted the red pins: eleven.
“Colonel Dayton,” Detective Ramirez approached the desk. “This is Special Agent In Charge Ed Miller of the FBI.”
Dayton and Miller shook hands. “Sorry I missed you this morning, Agent Miller. Detective Ramirez filled me in on the particulars. It’s quite an undertaking.”
“Interesting choice of words. I didn’t know the NSA had a dog in this fight.”
“I’m awfully sorry, but that information is classified at this time.” Earlier, Dayton flipped through his collection of IDs, choosing to pose as a member of the National Security Agency, a cover he’d used before while in the states—the secretive nature of the organization itself precluded questions.
“An NSA agent from across the pond?” Agent Miller said. “Have we run out of home-grown patriots?”
Dayton smiled, then deadpanned, “How perceptive of you, Agent Miller—so unlike the FBI. In that case, I suppose I’d better come clean: I’m really a United Nations intelligence officer sent here with orders to track down a werewolf.”
Both Detective Ramirez and Agent Miller grinned, then chuckled.
Ramirez pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Excuse me, I’m gonna try Dixie again.”
“Still not answering?” Miller said.
Dayton chimed in, “Is there a problem, Detective?”
“A friend of mine, Dixie Mulholland. She’s a reporter with a local television station, and I haven’t been able to reach her all day. Probably nothing, but it’s not like her to not return my phone calls.”
“Ah, yes,” Dayton said, “The Werewolf Killer reporter.”
Ramirez smiled. “She’d shake your hand if she heard you say that.” He kept his ear to the phone for a few moments, then tucked it back into his pocket. “Still not picking up. I’m sure she’ll call back.”
Dayton excused himself and strolled to the big map, hurried cadets weaving their way around him. He studied the array of pins trying to visualize some type of pattern, design, or shape. The colorful markers were scattered across the map like a Magic Eye 3D image from the 90’s. But just like those infuriating illusions, Dayton could not bring a clear picture into focus.
It seemed the only way of solving this crime would be to know where the next attack was going to take place, like knowing for certain where lightning would strike.
Chapter Eight
Dixie drove east on the 215. She kept her gaze cemented on the road, guiding the Hummer between the white lines, and the speedometer closer to eighty than seventy. The highway was fairly crowded in the early evening, but she had no trouble powering around slower traffic with ease. Although her eyes concentrated straight ahead, and Adam had told her what exits to take, her mind zig-zagged in all directions.
Was the world ready for Adam Steel? What were the ramifications of a story like this? She had to consider the bigger picture: the scientific, religious, even political consequences had to be weighed before going public with such an earth-shattering story. Was it even her place to bother about such issues?
This was the biggest discovery of all time, but the even bigger question kept gnawing at her: Was she ready to tell the story?
She drew in a deep lungful of chilly conditioned air and concentrated on silencing the doubts. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, what every reporter dreamed of: a worldwide exclusive with living proof sitting right next to her. In the long run that meant, no more fighting for air time, no management approvals for her stories, and a free pass to the all-boys club. This was her ticket to the big show—the networks.
And it wasn’t as if she chased Adam down and forced him to tell her the truth. The story came to her, like a story that insisted on telling itself.
She grunted and whispered, “Look what followed me home.”
“What was that?” Adam said.
Yes, she was up for it. She was ready to tell the world about Adam Steel.
“Adam,” she said in an easy, off the cuff manner�
�after all she didn’t want to spook him; he trusted her, but who knew how long that trust would last? “When did you know you were able to turn into a dog?”
“Canine,” he said, stepping over her last word. “And I’m not getting all superior on you. Call me a snob, but I prefer canine. I’m not a house pet; I’m a Giant Irish Wolfhound. And, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t turn into a canine. I am a canine who transforms into a human. It’s something that’s happened to me all my life. Canine, human—human, canine—back and forth.”
“Do you have any control over it?”
“None. It happens when it happens. Sure, I get a little advanced notice, like the night we had dinner. I knew it was about to happen. That’s why I had to run away.”
“That was two days ago. Is that common, two days on, two days off?”
“No. Sometimes I remain in human form for weeks, sometimes for just a few days. Like I said, I have no control over it.”
“How does it feel? You know, how does it feel being a dog?”
“Canine. I don’t know. I have no recollection of what I do as a canine, and that scares the hell out of me.” He pounded on the dash. “If I knew, if I had any clear memories at all—”
“Calm down, Adam. Tell me why you think this change happens to you.”
“It happens to all my brothers and sisters, and we don’t know for sure. There’s talk about a curse—they’re just rumors really.”
“You mean like a spell, or whammy, or something?”
With a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “I guess.”
“You guess? You must have some idea why this happens—”
“I don’t, okay?”
“All right, all right, don’t get mad. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this, that’s all.” She shook her head and furrowed her brow. “It’s just that…that—”
“What are you trying to say?”
“You just seem so normal. You speak perfect English, look like a typical man, and you carry on a good conversation. If I didn’t know, I would never be able to tell. How do you pull it off?”
“I’ve worked hard at it all my life. I listen to people and try to imitate them. I’ve even sat in on a few open lectures at UNLV. But to be honest, there’s no substitute for watching old movies on TV. Television is the best instructor. And, let’s face it, without TV I would never have met you.”
Sin City Wolfhound Page 6
