Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  Dixie’s voice gets louder, barreling down the hallway. “I was on my way home tonight when I saw a yellow van with the words ‘wash me’ on the rear window driving into my neighborhood in front of us. The guard at the gate let it right in.”

  I can only assume whoever she’s talking about must be looking for Flynn—or me. In any case, Dixie’s home is in danger and I have to act on instinct. And it has to be now.

  The window slides open easily and it takes little effort to jump outside. My hope is to make it to her house before the sun goes down. There’s only one little problem: I don’t know where I am. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I scan the terrain looking for landmarks: buildings, mountains, anything that can help me.

  The sun is still up, but just barely. It’s settling in for the night behind Red Rock Canyon which doesn’t look too far away. The top of the Red Rock Hotel and Casino is easy to see above the flat sweep of surrounding houses and shops. It’s plain that I’m on the west side of town just a few miles from Dixie’s house.

  I run, jog, and walk down sidewalks, across streets, and through parks toward my goal. My “dogs” start to ache, but I can’t let that slow me down. I keep up a steady pace, covering about three miles in short order, even with my human limitations. The sun is just a memory when I arrive at her gated community.

  A truck drives through the gate giving me solid cover, allowing me to slip into the neighborhood without being seen by the security guard. I run the remaining mile to her house, crouching behind the sparse shrubbery. The yellow van is parked in front of her house. Darkness is my friend and the black sweat suit helps.

  Wolfhounds possess an uncanny ability to see clearly at night. In fact, our sight is somewhat better than our sense of smell, and that’s saying something for a canine. But I’m not a canine now. In my human form, I have to muddle along as best I can. I run the risk of being caught off guard in the dark.

  Somehow, I’m aware of movement on her property. I squint my eyes, as if that helps, and wait for anything that might stir in the shadows.

  In a moment, from around the right side of her house a figure slides into view. The shape is formless at first, just an outline. A motion sensor light flicks on and a human silhouette freezes, no doubt startled by the sudden illumination. He’s wearing blue jeans, dark tennis shoes, and a green polo shirt; I’m too far away to get a good look at his face. He hops back out of the light and disappears into the shadows on the side of the garage.

  I formulate a plan of attack: overpower him and get information. My odds of taking him are good for two reasons—we’re both equals in the dark with poor human eyesight, and he has no idea I’m here.

  “Adam,” a deep voice calls from the other side of the house and shocks the hell out of me. Green Shirt is not alone. “Don’t do anything stupid, we knew you were coming from a mile away.” It sounds like he’s decided to stay where he is, and that’s a good thing. It fits in nicely with my brand new plan of attack.

  They might have known I was coming from a mile away, but Green Shirt will have no idea I’ll charge at him from a few feet out. I rush forward through the darkness and crash into his body, sight unseen. We tumble to the ground, me on top. It’s so dark, like fighting with a blindfold on. He puts his hands behind my neck and head butts me. It feels like a brick smashing into my noodle. Even though my eyes are now starting to adjust to the darkness, it doesn’t help much: I’m seeing double.

  I thrust my knee up and know I’ve hit pay dirt, so to speak. It feels like I smashed into a couple of ripe peaches. His squeal and sudden paralysis lets me know it’s much more painful than smashed peaches. He shudders and gasps for breath; I roll off him and stand up.

  He slithers toward the driveway on his stomach. It’s a curious crawl—a mix between a crab and a snake. The security light clicks on again so there’s really no excuse for me not seeing his leg whip out and kick me in the calf giving me an instant Charlie-horse. I answer his kick with a kick of my own to the back of his head. He’s out cold.

  Gravel crunches to my right as Green Shirt’s crony approaches. He speaks in a calm voice, “Adam, tell me what happened to Flynn.”

  He enters the light. It’s Mikael.

  “How do you know anything happened to Flynn?”

  He smiles. “She told me.”

  She? My calf muscle cramps up where Green Shirt kicked me. It tightens and sends me kneeling to the ground.

  Mikael bares his teeth in a down-turned grin. Long strands of greasy black hair above his dark eyes give him a wild, untamed look. “You always did enjoy being human, didn’t you?” He unbuttons his white shirt, slips it off, and lets it float to the ground. “She warned us about you; you and that nosy reporter friend of yours. She wants me to take care of you.”

  “Who does? Who are you talking about?”

  He kicks off his shoes and stands barefoot in the driveway, then unclasps his belt. His pants slide down around his ankles. He’s naked. His body is toned, a weightlifter’s torso standing six feet tall. “She wants you dead, Adam, but we’re brothers, and I won’t let that happen—not until you apologize for killing Flynn.” His human face shows no emotion.

  It takes me a few sickening moments to realize what he’s doing, but it doesn’t take too long to catch on. He strips the flesh from his body—transforming into a canine right before my eyes. It’s effortless, as if he’s simply removing skin as he would a set of clothes. Showing neither emotion nor pain, he emerges from his human cocoon faster than I could ever have imagined possible.

  When his transformation is complete, he glares at me through cold eyes. His muscles are even more pronounced as a wolfhound than they were as a human. The fur on the back of his neck bristles. His human teeth have been replaced by large canine razors.

  A thought enters my mind, the kind of thought that grips my heart, but in the grand scheme of things is meaningless. Humans have a name for this kind of thought: regret. I should have left Las Vegas after the first murder. How far away would I have been by now?

  Chapter Nineteen

  The high beams of a vehicle, changing night into day, catch us dead on. I shade my eyes from the glare and turn away.

  At the sound of a car door opening, Mikael growls. I glance back and see him pad toward the vehicle. A loud “pop” rings out, and the air reeks of gunpowder. Mikael veers away from the noise, sprinting off so fast it’s as if he was never there.

  Two human silhouettes stand in front of the headlights, but I can’t make out their faces.

  “Adam, are you okay?” Dixie runs up to me.

  A familiar voice shouts out, “Hey, is he wearing my sweats?”

  Neither of them says anything about Green Shirt lying in a crumpled mess near the driveway, nor do they seem to notice Mikael’s remains.

  “Marco, this is Adam. Adam, this is Detective Marco Ramirez.”

  Ramirez leans over and studies my face. “Looks like somebody hit you pretty hard. You might have a concussion.”

  “That would explain my double vision.”

  Dixie shrieks and staggers back. “Who the hell is that?”

  We gather around Green Shirt and watch as he rolls onto his back in slow motion, like an animated creature waking up from a nap. Light washes over his face.

  “It’s Bane.” Thoughts of Lucy race through my head. I want to kick him, stomp on his face, and end his life. Instead, I know he has information I need. “We have to tie him up before he changes.”

  “Changes?” Ramirez cocks his head. “Would somebody tell me what the hell’s going on? Dixie, you know I trust you, but—”

  “You know what he’s talking about,” Dixie says, “the transformation from human to canine like I told you.”

  Ramirez shoves his revolver into his holster and leans forward. “This I gotta see.”

  “No, you don’t, Detective. It might be the last thing you ever see.” I turn to Dixie. “We need to restrain him. He only needs a few seconds to transform.”

&nb
sp; Ramirez straightens up. “I’ve got a pair of handcuffs in the car.”

  “No, those won’t do any good; his paws might slip right out.”

  “Paws?”

  Dixie scampers to the garage door and presses a few buttons on a keypad. With an awful screeching sound, forcing a wince from myself and Detective Ramirez, the door rolls up.

  “I’ve got some rope,” Dixie says, “be right back.” After some banging around against some boxes, garbage cans, and a bicycle, she emerges holding a roll of twine.

  “Good girl.” I prop Bane up into a sitting position and wrap the twine around his upper body as fast as I can, then pluck it like a guitar string. I nod. “That should hold him.”

  “Steel,” Bane calls out my canine name. He grimaces and starts to struggle like a magician in a straitjacket. The more he fights against the twine the more frantic his expression becomes. “Steel, what are you doing? Let me go, cut me loose.”

  I latch onto his elbow and glance at the detective. “Help me get him inside.”

  “Not until somebody tells me what the hell’s going on.”

  “There isn’t time right now,” Dixie says. She points at Bane. “That’s who chased us out of Adam’s house yesterday. He killed Adam’s sister.”

  “So, you made that anonymous 911 call—a murder at Claremont Estates?”

  She nods and puts a hand on the detective’s shoulder. “I’ll explain everything when we’re inside, promise. But right now it’s important that we get inside. Please.”

  Ramirez takes hold of Bane’s other elbow and we haul him through the courtyard, passing Flynn’s human remains from yesterday. I notice the detective looking straight at the curious mound of dirty clothes and strips of flesh. Even though the smell is nauseating, the detective says nothing about it. I don’t think he has any idea what he’s looking at. He hasn’t yet grasped the full idea of transformation.

  He stops in his tracks. “Why’s the front door open?”

  Dixie steps inside first. “It’s a long story.”

  Bane struggles at the threshold. “You’re making a mistake. Steel, there’s more happening than you can even imagine. You’ll both be sorry.”

  Ramirez snarls back, “Shut up and keep moving.”

  Bane lunges at the detective, using his shoulder to try and knock us both off balance. Ramirez rewards him with a fist to the nose. Our prisoner goes limp, and we drag him inside.

  I just met Ramirez, but already I like his attitude.

  We stumble down the hallway, past the stacks of newspapers and magazines and dump Bane into a wooden rocking chair in the living room. Dixie wraps row after row of twine around him and the chair. When he wakes up, he won’t be going anywhere.

  “I need to go outside and park my car,” Ramirez says. “The engine’s still on and it’s sticking out in the street. I’ll call this in to the station when I’m out there.”

  “Wait.” I stop him at the door. “Mikael’s still outside.”

  “Who’s Mikael?”

  “The wolfhound you took a shot at.”

  With a snicker, “I was just trying to scare it away. If I meant to hit him, I would’ve. He’s probably in the next county by now. Besides, it looked like a coyote to me.”

  Maybe the detective’s attitude, the one I admired so much earlier, needs a little adjusting. “That was no coyote. His name is Mikael. He came here tonight with one purpose in mind: to kill. And he won’t leave until he does just that.”

  Even though it’s warm in the house, muggy and humid, Dixie shivers. “Why does he want to kill you?”

  “Not only me.” I stare at her, a little too long. My bad.

  “Are you serious? Why would he want to kill me?”

  “That’s one of the things I need to ask Bane.”

  On cue, Bane moves his head from side to side, moans, and opens his eyes. “You’re dead, Steel. You’re all dead.”

  I cup his chin in my hand and yank his head back.

  “Hold on.” Ramirez stiff-arms me away from Bane. “This is a police matter now. When Metro arrives, we’ll—”

  “No!” Dixie flat-out yells. “Please don’t call the station—not yet. Adam’s right, we’ve got to find out what he knows.”

  Ramirez peers at both of us. If I’m reading him right, he’s being more curious than cautious. Either way, I can’t wait while he decides whether or not he’s going to let me ask Bane some questions—so I don’t. “Tell me about The Convergence.”

  “How do you know about that? You were always on the outside. You act so human, you might as well be.” He says the word human as if it tastes bad in his mouth.

  “Lucy told me about it. She told me about the packs from all over the country coming to Vegas. She called The Convergence something terrible for humans.”

  Bane formed an odd smile and spit on the floor. “The bitch.”

  Whether he’s using the accepted human term for a female canine or not, the word strikes me as just plain heartless. I hit him so hard he’s out again.

  “Get away from that man.” Ramirez shoves me back. “If he’s committed a murder, then he’s under arrest. I’ll take him downtown and book him—”

  “You don’t understand,” Dixie says. “You can’t arrest him; he’s not even a man.”

  Her words cut through me. Is that what she thinks of him—of me? Is the hate I feel toward Bane an exclusive human emotion, or is it the canine in me that wants to strike out and kill him? It’s time to choose.

  In as calm a voice as I can muster, “I’m sorry, Detective; I apologize. I need to ask him some questions. It’s very important. I promise, just a few questions, that’s all.”

  Dixie puts a hand on Ramirez’s shoulder. “Please, Marco. After everything I’ve told you—after everything you’ve seen tonight—let Adam ask him a few questions.”

  “But I haven’t seen anything. You keep telling me about dog-people, transformations, and changes; so far I’ve seen a coyote, an open front door, and some piles of clothes. I wish I could believe you—”

  “Just ten minutes,” I say, “that’s all I’m asking for.”

  He sighs, a long, drawn out breath. “I must be crazy. Okay, ten minutes—under my supervision. I need to move my car first.” He glances back at Bane. “Besides, he’s in no condition to go anywhere right now.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” I join him at the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going? I can move my own car.”

  “Mikael might still be—”

  “Oh right, Mikael might be outside, yeah, I forgot. The big, bad wolf. C’mon, then.”

  We step out into the night.

  ****

  “Sir, this road is closed. You have to turn around.” The officer aimed his flashlight straight at the face of the middle-aged man behind the wheel of the SUV.

  “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  “Turn your vehicle around and go back the way you came.” With a no-nonsense expression, he motioned back to the highway.

  The driver—gray hair, beard, and glasses—shielded his eyes against the glare of the flashlight. He squinted up at the young Metro officer. “I’m almost out of gas, Officer. I’m running on fumes. I told the wife to fill it up but, of course, it slipped her mind.”

  “Didn’t you see the sign? Police Closure. That means this road is closed. Turn around and go back the way you came, otherwise you will be cited. Do you understand?”

  “I’m sorry, Officer, I don’t want a ticket. I just need some gas, that’s all.”

  “There’s no gas station down this road. Turn around and go back to the highway. Head north, and take the first exit.”

  The engine died. “Shit.” The driver slapped the steering wheel. “It’s totally dry. I told you I was running on fumes. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Stay inside your vehicle. I’ll radio for a tow truck.”

  “Thank you, Officer. I got an AAA card; I think they’re supposed to bring out a cou
ple of gallons of gas, right?”

  “Wait here.” The police officer strode back to his black and white. It was parked across the road blocking traffic in either direction—red lights flashing. Two more uniformed Metro officers joined him. They all kept their eyes on the SUV. “The guy’s out of gas,” the young officer called out, “I’m gonna radio in for a tow.”

  The middle-aged man opened his door.

  The young officer barked out an order. “Get back in your vehicle.”

  The driver sat still for a moment. Then he swiveled in his seat and cracked open the rear door.

  “Sir, keep all doors closed, I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  The rear door flew open. Two Giant Wolfhounds jumped out of the SUV and darted toward the police officers. There was no time to draw weapons, call for help, or run. Muffled screams filled the night as the hounds tore through uniforms and ripped into human flesh.

  In a few moments, the wolfhounds sat on their haunches, licking their chops. Blood and viscera dripped in sticky clots from their panting mouths.

  “Hurry now,” the middle-aged man said as he stepped out of the SUV. “Move the police car out of the way. Police closure, my ass. This road is open.”

  The canines lifted their hind legs and scratched at their shoulders in a frenzied pace. They bit at the fur around their front paws. Hair fell to the ground, in little tufts at first, then in large sections exposing human shoulders, arms, and hands. Once the hands were free, they tore off large sheets of skin. Their canine teeth fell to the ground in streams of blood. In short order, two men appeared, naked, standing in piles of the fur and flesh they’d worn as wolfhounds. They both turned and faced the middle-aged man.

  “Good.” He smiled. “Now push the police car off to the side. Hurry, there are plenty more snacks at the top of the hill.” He jumped back in the SUV and started the engine while the two men pushed the black and white off the road.

  A motor home pulled up behind the SUV, followed by a truck, then a van. Soon there were dozens of vehicles lined up on the road that had once been blocked by the Metro cruiser. Still more vehicles pulled off the I-15 from the north and southbound lanes, their headlights slicing a narrow path through the night. They formed a single column—a convoy—and began snaking their way up the hill toward Claremont Estates.