Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  She smiled. “You said your family lives in Las Vegas. Were you born here?”

  Adam turned to her with a cold stare. “You’re interviewing me, aren’t you?”

  Dixie swerved onto the I-15 at the last minute, cutting off a smaller vehicle in the process. “Whoa, almost missed the exit.”

  “Answer me. This is an interview, isn’t it?”

  “I’m just asking a few questions. I mean, it isn’t every day that you meet a…whatever it is you are.”

  “I’m a canine…and you’re a reporter.”

  “C’mon. It’s my job to ask questions, and you came to me because of my job, remember? We can’t very well change our stripes, can we?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We are what we are. I report the news, and you, my friend, are definitely news. What do you expect me to do with that, huh?”

  “I came to you for help, to find out what’s going on.” He lowered his head. “I had to find out if I was the Werewolf Killer. But this isn’t on me anymore, Flynn convinced me of that. This is about that psychotic old man, The Alpha, who thinks he has the power to make us do anything he wants, terrible things. Well, it ends today.”

  “And then what? After it’s over, I mean. Are you going to disappear into the background? Fade from the radar and find a safe place to hide?”

  He nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  Dixie choked the steering wheel. “But the whole world needs to know about you and your kind—”

  “My kind?” His voice rose a few decibels. “So they can examine my kind; study my kind? I’m not a lab rat to be tested and analyzed.”

  “I never called you a lab rat.”

  “You know what they’ll do—they’ll dissect me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Am I? Listen, you said yourself you couldn’t tell there was anything different about me. And there isn’t. I’m just someone who happens to live in two different worlds, and I choose being human over being canine, that’s all. I love being free, exploring new things, and meeting new people. I enjoy art, and movies, and eating good food; I love seeing the world in color, and reading and drawing—”

  “You draw? Can I see them?”

  “Would you stop being a reporter for just a minute? You don’t know how lucky you are to be human. I swear, you and your kind take it all for granted.” The drone of the Hummer’s tires begged for him to speak up, to shout, but instead he lowered his voice, “Please promise you’ll keep my secret, that you’ll find a way to change your stripes.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “Then I’ll lose everything.”

  “Hold on, this is the exit.” She whipped off the freeway and drove through a red light. “Where do I go? How do I get to your house?”

  “Keep in the right lane, the turnoff is coming up. Right there.” He pointed. “Turn here.”

  She turned the wheel, and they skidded onto a rundown road with no street sign. They sped past shrubs and cactus, blurred images of a barren desert.

  “Slow down,” Adam said. “The road leads up that hill.”

  “What road?”

  “Turn right just past the sign.”

  “What sign?”

  ****

  Claremont Estates—1965

  The sign is weathered: faded paint, sunbaked, and cracked. The only reason I see it is because I know where it is, having passed it hundreds of times before. Like I said, I look for signs from the universe—I hate this sign.

  Claremont Drive is a gravel road winding up a small hill just south of Las Vegas. The dozen or so ranch-style homes on the hill were built in the late sixties; oversized lots offering perfect views of The Strip. Unfortunately, the sixty-plus years of desert sun have cooked the structures into uninhabited ruins. Built before post-tension requirements, most of the foundations are cracked and unstable. The homes are now abandoned, condemned by the city, and keeping with the tradition of Las Vegas, scheduled for demolition.

  Pine trees, cactus, and shrubs cover the hillside. Miles of chain link fence jigsaw back and forth defining the ancient property lines of Claremont Estates.

  At the top of the hill is 7711, a six-bedroom maze of rotting plywood and patches of stucco. Peeling, sun damaged paint gives the house a faded mix of rusty browns and muted tans. The ever present chain link fence defines a huge backyard consisting of nothing more than caliche and sand.

  A dog house, the size of an enormous oven, sits in the middle of the backyard. That’s my house. I avoid it like the plague and prefer to lay in the shade of a pine tree near the house, away from the backyard. I’ve never made a drawing of this place in my sketchbook—my drawings are for things I want to remember.

  Dixie parks the Hummer at the bottom of the hill, and I jump out. She rolls down her window and wipes a hand across her brow.

  “I wish I had my phone,” she says. “I’d feel better if I knew the cavalry was on the way.”

  “I’m glad you don’t. I don’t want any more people in danger because of my family. Give me some time, then drive to Metro and tell them what’s going on as best you can.”

  “What do you mean as best I can?”

  “I mean don’t tell them about me. They’re more apt to believe you if you say it was an anonymous tip. Hopefully, it’ll be over by the time they get here. And don’t go back to your home tonight, not until it’s safe.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “Why wouldn’t my home be safe?”

  “Flynn has been there, and that means The Alpha knows where you live. He’s a very powerful man. Don’t underestimate him.”

  “But you said he only has power over your pack, and only when you’re dogs, right?”

  “Listen to me, Dixie, my family is extremely dangerous. We’re not puppies, doggies, or pooches; we don’t fetch and we don’t play Frisbee. We’re Giant Irish Wolfhounds, and we were trained by The Alpha. And once again, we prefer to be called canines, not dogs.”

  “All right already, I’m sorry.”

  A dry, hot wind blows across the hill whipping up dust devils. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m taking everything out on you, and I shouldn’t. There’s something about this place that stresses me out.”

  “You think?”

  I smile at her. “Thank you, Dixie Mulholland.”

  “For what?”

  “I came to you for help, and you have helped, more than you know. Without you, I wouldn’t be here right now; Flynn would have made sure of that. Now, go tell Detective Ramirez everything, almost everything. That should give me enough time to deal with The Alpha.”

  “But—”

  “Go.” I turn and jog up the road. The tires of the Hummer chomp on the gravel as it pulls away. All of a sudden it grinds to a halt.

  “Adam…be careful.”

  Maybe she told me to be careful because that’s what humans say when they’re afraid and don’t know what else to say, but it doesn’t matter; I believe her. I feel recharged, encouraged by the knowledge I’ve found someone—a human—who knows me, the real me, and she’s okay with that. Of course, I know she’s using me to further her career, but that doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I know from experience stripes are hard to change.

  She’s on my side. I’ve never had that before—ever.

  I watch the Hummer disappear around a corner, knowing Dixie won’t be speeding back to help me, not this time.

  Trudging up Claremont Drive is a hike. I stay low and use the overgrown brush along the side of the road as cover. By the time I reach my house, the sun starts to fade behind the Spring Mountains in the west. With only an hour or so of daylight, I’ve got to act fast; as a human, I have poor night vision and an even worse sense of smell. I wouldn’t stand a chance getting into the house undetected at night.

  There’s no movement in front of the house so I edge toward the mouth of the driveway. The shade under a pine tree gives me much needed cover from prying eyes. I lean against the tree and scan the area.


  Our yellow van is parked in the driveway. That means the caretaker is home. The van is covered by a mist of dust and some joker has written “wash me” on the back window. I smile, remembering the joker was Ivan, my brother. Ivan makes me laugh, and we might have been friends under any normal circumstances. But my family is anything but normal. Ivan ran away from home a few weeks ago.

  Next to the van is The Alpha’s expensive black sedan. The difference between the two vehicles is striking. The Alpha’s way of making a statement I guess, reminding us of how wealthy he is next to our beat-up, overcrowded cattle car.

  I don’t know how or where The Alpha gets his money, but he makes no excuse for it, not to us. The den, his lair, is the nicest room in the house. He drives a luxury vehicle, and wears very expensive clothes. I have no idea why he would choose to mastermind a series of murders. He may be a sociopath, but with the rumors of a curse on my family, I hope that’s all it is.

  I guess to anyone who doesn’t know him, The Alpha would appear to be just an old man: short gray hair, tall and stocky, good health, but all and all harmless. As canines, we see a different man: our lives are controlled by him. Everything we do as canines, every action, emotion, and movement is by his command. He is our god.

  My senses are on high alert as I follow the path up the driveway to the front door. I turn the knob and try to lift it as I open it so it doesn’t rub and squeak against the surrounding woodwork like it usually does. So far, so good. I shut the door, but only enough to keep out the light. It’s still open just a crack.

  My siblings usually nap at this time, if they’re all in canine form, something I have no way of knowing. They tend to gather as a pack in one of the bedrooms in the east wing, the coolest part of the house. I take cautious, careful steps through the living room.

  Thoughts of how I’m going to kill The Alpha play out in my mind on the long trek down the hallway. If I catch him off guard, I’ll sneak up and choke him. If he sees me coming, I’ll sucker punch him, then choke him. Either way, choking sounds like the best method. It’s quiet.

  My mind is so involved in the details of murder I don’t notice someone behind me. I become aware of that little detail just before something crashes down on my head. I fall to the floor, limp, seeing shades of red and black. My eyelids are heavy, and my head feels wet. I have just enough strength to roll onto my back and see Bane standing over me holding a rather large rock in his hand. I always thought Bane and I were on good terms.

  The Alpha rushes out of his den and stares down at me. He grins and gives Bane a nod. “Lock him in the basement.”

  Chapter Nine

  It’s dark, blackout shades—midnight in the desert—scary movie-type dark. My head pounds like a kid using it for a birthday bouncy house. I know where I am even without being able to see: in my home, down in the basement, locked in a cage.

  The cage is small, flat, and square complete with rusty wire and sharp edges. It’s so small I can’t even move my hand to feel the bump that’s sprouted on top of my head. Maybe that’s a good thing depending on the size of the bump. I’ve been bent and folded into the cage, and my legs start to cramp. By wriggling my feet, I check the gate to see if it’s latched closed. It doesn’t budge, but it makes a clanging noise.

  “Adam.” The voice is soothing, calm, and familiar. “Adam, are you awake?”

  “Lucy?”

  “Thank God, I thought you might be dead. What are you doing here?” she says, like in one of those old gangster movies I watch where the cons ask: What are you in for?

  “I came to kill The Alpha.”

  Upbeat and enthusiastic she says, “Good for you.” After a while and a little more subdued, she asks, “So what happened?”

  “Bane hit me with a rock. How about you, what are you in for?”

  “‘Cause The Alpha’s a bastard. He knocked me out with a punch. I woke up just in time to see Flynn lock me up. Can you believe it? Flynn.”

  There was a time when Flynn and Lucy were close; we all were—we’re family. When we were pups, we played together every day, wrestling and exploring the world. Life was fun and always full of adventure. Then the transformations began, we were two years old—fourteen in human years, and some of us—Lucy, Ivan, and I—were fascinated by everything: walking on two legs, learning to speak, seeing the world in color! We loved every second of it. The others, not so much. From their expressions, I realized they found it humiliating, practically degrading. All they worried about were the two legs they gave up and didn’t even consider everything they’d gained becoming human.

  Of course, I don’t have any clear recollections of those happy times, but it’s funny; I can recall the puppy days more than anything about my last transformation. It’s like my mind blocks out what I do as an adult canine.

  I haven’t spoken to Lucy in a long time, and I’m dying to find out what she knows. “Have you heard about The Werewolf Killings?”

  “Sure,” Lucy says, her voice light and innocent. “Mikael talks about it a lot.”

  Mikael: as much opposed to the human world as I embrace it. He groans and moans, puts up a big show whenever he transforms. He’s always borne me ill will for being first born, as if it were my choice—luck of the draw.

  The first born has a natural responsibility to the pack: to watch over them, keep them away from harm, and lead the way. But as soon as the transformations began, I turned my back on the pack. I still feel guilty about neglecting my duties, but I had no choice. I no longer consider myself part of that world—I am human.

  Mikael labeled me a traitor, insisting the only true self we have is canine. I neither agree nor argue with him. I could care less what he thinks; if he wants to spend his life on all fours, so be it. I don’t.

  “The Alpha is using us,” I say. “He’s turned us into human-killers.”

  “Not me,” Lucy says in a hurry. “I’ve never killed a human.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t you think I’d remember a thing like that?”

  “How? Can you remember what you do as a Wolfhound?” This is called a rhetorical question: one that needs no answer.

  “Yup, as a matter of fact I do.”

  Did I hear her right? “How is that even possible?”

  “Don’t know, just do. I remember everything—running outside at night, chasing rabbits and cats, barking at the moon—everything. Don’t you?”

  “No. Do any of the others remember?”

  “Ivan does, and maybe Mikael. He doesn’t talk to me much. I guess we’re all different.”

  The cramps in my legs squeeze without mercy, but that’s not what makes me cry out. It’s the sudden realization of what Lucy’s just said: we’re all different.

  Lucy and Ivan remember things they do as canines; Flynn transformed easily at Dixie’s house, in fact, he initiated the change. Mikael is just plain mean, a natural born killer. And me? I want nothing more than to live as a free human being.

  We’re all different.

  I always assumed my experiences—uncontrolled transformations, relying on instinct, and not remembering what I do as a canine—were true for all of us. Maybe I was wrong to throw myself completely into the human world when there are still so many things yet to learn about being a canine. And I can think of no better teacher than Lucy.

  “Can you transform at will?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Most of us can, except for you. And Ivan—he can’t. I’ve tried to teach him, but he says he can’t stand the taste. Go figure. A strong, healthy hound like Ivan, and he doesn’t like the taste of it. Oh well, to each their own.”

  “What are you talking about? The taste of what?”

  Lucy giggles. “Meat, silly. The key to controlling the change is to eat plenty of meat—red and raw, yum. A good steady diet of that and you can pretty much change whenever you want. I guess Ivan is what they call a veginarian.”

  “Vegetarian.”

  “Right. Not only that: the more
red meat you eat, the less pain there is when you change. That’s why Flynn is a little…uh…bulky? He hates the pain, so he eats meat all the time. That way he changes super-fast with no pain at all. He’s really good at it.”

  I debate whether to tell her Flynn is dead, but decide against it. I need to keep her talking—I need to learn more. “And that’s all there is to it?”

  “Well, there’s a little more to it than that, but not much.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’ve got to have an attitude about the whole thing; not just wanting to change, but really, really wanting it—decide what you want and stick to it.” She giggles. “The humans have a funny word for it: stick-to-itiveness. I heard that on TV. That’s a really funny word, isn’t it?”

  Lucy is not as dedicated to her human side as I am. I read books, figure things out. She’s more of a free spirit and plays it by ear. I love that about her. “It’s hyphenated.”

  “Hyphenated?”

  “Words that are stuck together with dashes.”

  She giggles again. “Stuck-to-itiveness.”

  It’s clear why The Alpha imprisoned her. She would no more kill a human than I would. It’s not in her nature.

  She laughs, a deep throaty sound. “Hey, how about Vegi-tanarian. I just hyphenated veterinarian and vegetarian.”

  I love her innocence, but I need to keep her on track. “Does Mikael kill humans?”

  “Sure, he brags about it. So does Nina. Mikael says something big is coming, and we’re on the front lines. He says it’s coming soon.”

  “What is it?”

  “He calls it The Convergence. I think that’s one word.”

  The pain in my legs vanishes; there’s no feeling in them at all. They’re numb. “Yes, it is, but what does it mean? What’s The Convergence?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but Mikael talks to Bane and Flynn about it all the time. He says other packs from all over the country are coming to Las Vegas.”