The Frenzy Wolves

by Gregory Lamberson

  She looked at Elias. “The FBI has an informant for the Brotherhood, and his information has allowed them to track your movements and connect a lot of the dots in the laptop we recovered in Newark. Your picture is going up in every airport, train station, and bus depot in the country, so your days are numbered.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Elias said. “I’ve eluded authorities all over Europe. It’s my specialty.”

  Karol turned back to Raphael. “Thanks to Rice, everything is going to spiral exponentially. It’s just a matter of time before the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security take over this whole situation and the task force is shut down. Then I’ll be out of the loop.”

  “Can you get us files?” Elias said. “Copies of files? E-mails and memoranda with the names of high-level officials calling the shots?”

  “No way. I won’t even do that for Gabriel. The minute anyone but Mace suspects I’m working both sides, I’m finished.”

  “There’s the female FBI agent too,” Elias said.

  “So far, they’ve both got my back.”

  “We should have killed her along with Mace and his wife when we had the chance,” Elias said to Raphael.

  “That kind of talk will get you nowhere. If you go after any of them, I’ll come after you, and I won’t be using chloroform. We’re done here.” Karol moved around the two men and walked toward the entrance. Then she stopped and turned. “Where’s my phone?”

  “We broke its memory card and threw it away,” Raphael said. “We didn’t want it used to track you if we had to keep you here longer.”

  Karol rolled her eyes. Now Rhonda couldn’t reach her. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, forget it. Just get the hell out of here while you can, if it’s not already too late.” She resumed her walk to the door.

  “Man fucker,” Leon said as he got out of her way.

  Karol opened the door and stepped outside into the bright sunlight.

  Waiting for his breakfast to be served, Carl took out his cell phone at the booth in the diner and checked his messages. He sipped his coffee, then called Colleen.

  “Where have you been all morning?” Colleen said in a flustered tone.

  “A pair of the city’s Gestapo agents took me downtown for questioning,” Carl said.

  “Without a lawyer?”

  “Do you know how expensive lawyers are?”

  “The station could have provided you with one. Where did they take you?”

  “I was sitting in the heart of werewolf central, and it wasn’t much. Me and Mace watched the mayor’s press conference.”

  “He didn’t do either of us any favors.”

  “Are you feeling the heat?”

  “I’m getting third-degree burns. I need to see your copy and have it approved by the station board members before you go on the air.”

  “Sure, sure, no problem. But I want to do a remote from that community center.”

  “Taped, not live.”

  “Whatever makes it easier for you.”

  “And that’s conditional upon your copy getting a green light.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that.”

  “What have you got up your sleeve?”

  “I’ve got information on the new star of the FBI’s most wanted list.”

  “Michalakis?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Not just yet. But if what I have pans out, it will not only match last night’s victory—it will remove your bottom from that hot seat it’s on.”

  “I really hope you’re right. If I lose my job over this, I’ll never work again.”

  “I should go on at four thirty, not six. That way all the big boys will have no choice but to cover our coverage at five and six.”

  “You’d better be right.”

  The server set his breakfast on the table.

  “Ciao.” He hung up and smiled at the server. “Thank you.”

  The young woman stared at him. “Are you that reporter who was all over TV last night?”

  “I certainly am.”

  She lowered her voice. “Oh, my God, can I have your autograph?”

  Carl experienced a moment of holiday cheer. No one had ever asked him for his autograph before. “Of course you can.”

  The server tore a page from her order pad and handed it to him along with her pen. “Could you date it too? I want to show that you did this the day after that broadcast.”

  “Whatever you like. What’s your name?”

  “Melanie.”

  Carl wrote, For Melanie, the prettiest waitress on the West Side on the back of the page, then signed and dated it and handed it back with the pen. “Have a nice day.”

  “Thanks. You too.” Melanie walked away.

  Carl forked polish sausage into his mouth, then made a second call.

  “It took you long enough to get back to me,” Kerry Jones, his editor at Winchester Publishing, said.

  “I’m pretty busy these days, sweetheart.”

  “I can just imagine. You looked great on TV last night. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “I’m a late bloomer.”

  “Can we talk business?”

  Carl shoveled more sausage into his mouth. “Always. What do you have in mind?”

  “Clearly, a third book is in order, covering the Brotherhood of Torquemada, Rodrigo Gomez’s escape, and however you got that story last night.”

  “Clearly. And there’s more to come, so keep watching the skies.”

  “How soon can you deliver a manuscript?”

  “If you’re expecting it in six weeks, forget it. And if you’re expecting me to sell my soul for a ten-thousand-dollar advance, forget that too.”

  “You sold your soul a long time ago. What do you want?”

  “Six figures, all of it up front, 25 percent royalties, and I want a hardcover deal.”

  “Sixty thousand, half up front, and we’re not in the hardcover business when it comes to our true crime line.”

  “It’s time to get in the Carl Rice business, or I’ll shop this story elsewhere. Something tells me I won’t have to go far, and I expect my phone to start ringing any minute.”

  “Don’t hold a gun to an old friend’s head.”

  “I haven’t forgotten how you treated me over the Manhattan Werewolf book.”

  “You didn’t have an ending.”

  “Well, I do now. Do we have a deal or not?”

  “I’ll e-mail you a contract by the end of the day.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting too long. We haven’t shaken hands yet.” Carl hung up and focused on his breakfast. Everything had turned around for him.

  Candice opened the passenger door to Grant’s SUV and climbed into the front seat.

  “What are you doing?” Grant said. “This wasn’t the plan.”

  “It’s cold outside. Besides, Carl’s eating in a diner two blocks from his apartment. He’s obviously going there when he’s finished.”

  Grant frowned. “You’re not very disciplined.”

  “Discipline is something I do to my kids.”

  “Maybe you’re not cut out for police work.”

  “Says who? You?” She sucked her teeth. “Please. I’ve been a police since before you went to prep school. I know a lot more about it than you do, and I walk the same way in my street clothes that I do in my PO clothes.”

  “I’m sure they’re one and the same.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t ground you.”

  Grant smiled. “All right.” He straightened in his seat. “There’s our subject now.”

  Carl emerged from the diner and lit a cigarette.

  “He’s a human being, even if he is on the sleazy side.”

  Carl stopped at a newsstand, and with his cigarette clenched between his teeth, he gathered a stack of newspapers one foot thick.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t take every copy,” Grant said.

  After Carl paid for the newspapers, he started to wa
lk away. Then he stopped and turned in the direction of the SUV.

  “He made us,” Candice said.

  Carl leaned forward, as if peering into a cage at a zoo, raised one hand, and waved.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Grant said.

  Grinning, Carl proceeded toward his apartment building.

  “Those are strong words for you,” Candice said. “It doesn’t matter. Our assignment’s still the same, to make sure that sorry son of a bitch stays among the living.”

  Grant shifted the SUV into gear and merged into traffic. He followed Rice at a distance. Rice tossed his cigarette butt away and entered his building.

  “Now what?” Grant said.

  “Find a place to park. It doesn’t matter if he sees us. He can’t send us home.”

  Carl whistled as he walked through the corridor to his apartment. If he hadn’t been lugging the stack of newspapers, he might have danced a jig. It was a glorious day: after years of scrounging around in the muck, he had secured a television gig, a newspaper column, and a book deal all in the span of twenty-four hours. His mother would have been proud of him if she was still alive. His father was alive and wouldn’t give a damn.

  Holding the newspapers at shoulder level, he used his free hand to take out his keys and unlock his door. Carl stepped on the mat, kicked off his shoes, and entered the dining area. He dropped the newspapers on the table, peeled off his scarf and then his coat, which he draped over a wicker chair.

  As he made his way toward his computer, he rubbed his arms. His apartment almost never got so chilly. He moved to a window and opened the blinds, allowing sunlight in.

  “Hello, Carl.”

  Carl jumped so high the floor shook when he landed. “Jesus!”

  Pivoting on one heel, he saw a figure detach itself from the shadowy mini-kitchen.

  “Where have you been all morning?” the man said.

  It took a moment for Carl to recognize Rodrigo Gomez.

  Twenty-Nine

  Carl froze. “You’re naked.”

  “You noticed,” Gomez said. “Very observant. No wonder you’re a reporter.”

  Carl swallowed a lump of fear. “There are two cops downstairs protecting me.”

  Gomez moved closer and stood toe to toe with him. “They won’t do you any good down there.”

  Carl felt himself shaking. “Please . . .”

  “Please what? Please don’t kill you?”

  With tears forming in his eyes, Carl nodded.

  “You must own a voice-activated recorder, right?”

  Carl sniffed. “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my coat pocket,” Carl said, gesturing at the table.

  Gomez leaned so close Carl smelled his breath. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  The Full Moon Killer walked barefoot to the table and searched Carl’s coat pockets. He took out the small recorder and switched it on, then set it on the table next to the stack of newspapers. He picked up a copy and caressed it.

  “Very impressive,” he said. “I read the online edition on your computer. Who knew all that about the Brotherhood of Torquemada? Just Terrence Glenzer, I guess. Anyway, congratulations on your newfound success. You’ve really made the big time.”

  “What do you want?” Carl said, stammering.

  “I want the same thing you do.” Gomez raised his arms like Christ on the cross. “I want to be famous. Or infamous.”

  “You already are.”

  Gomez crossed the room and clasped Carl’s shoulder. “Thanks to you. You really made my name with your first book.”

  Sweat dripped into Carl’s eyes, stinging them. “I tried to paint an accurate picture—”

  “You made me look like a goddamned psycho,” Gomez said in a raised voice that caused Carl to squeeze his eyes shut and look away. “That’s a term applied to humans, and I’m not human. I’m superhuman.”

  “I can see that,” Carl said.

  Gomez grunted. “You see nothing.” He paused. “But you will.”

  “What do you want, money? I don’t have any right now, but soon . . .”

  “I’m a Wolf, but you’re a jackal—a hyena. You pick at the bones of the weak and the dead, and you feast on their carrion. You make me sick with your weakness.”

  Carl’s bladder betrayed him, and hot urine ran down his thighs.

  Gomez stared at the stain spreading in the crotch of his prey’s pants. “I was in your second book too, wasn’t I? Only there was no new material about me. You just regurgitated the same information. Tony Mace captured the Full Moon Killer. Tony Mace gave riveting testimony at Gomez’s trial. Tony Mace visited Gomez in Sing Sing at the height of the Manhattan Werewolf’s murder spree.”

  Carl’s gaze darted from side to side. Was Gomez jealous that he wasn’t featured in The Wolf Is Loose: The True Story of the Manhattan Werewolf? “The second book was about the Manhattan Werewolf. Mace was in charge of the investigation.”

  “I killed three men when I escaped from prison,” Gomez snarled. “I killed three more people for the hell of it and an old lady yesterday. What did I get for my trouble? One stinking day of front-page coverage.”

  “I’m not an editor. I have nothing to do with what goes on the front page.”

  “You bumped me the next day with that story on Gabriel and Raphael Domini.”

  “I’m sorry!” Carl swallowed. “I’m sorry. But you’re still in the news.”

  “I’m front-page material.”

  “I just made a deal today to write a third book. You’ll be prominently featured, I swear. It will tie the other two together and—”

  “You didn’t even cover my escape. Do you expect me to believe you’ll give it the same attention as you will that video you shot of those guys turning into werewolves? A picture is worth a thousand words. A moving picture is worth a fucking book.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do, how to make it better.”

  Gomez’s smile stretched so wide that Carl expected the corners of the man’s mouth to tear and spill blood. He pointed at the computer in the far corner. “Fetch your camera.”

  Carl didn’t want to go to the computer. He wanted to go closer to the front door in the opposite direction. It seemed to take forever to reach the desk. For the first time in his life he wished he owned a gun. He picked up the camera. Turning, he faced Gomez.

  “Turn it on,” Gomez said.

  Carl switched the camera on and opened its flip screen. The camera focused on Gomez’s nude body and shook in Carl’s hand. “I’m recording.”

  “Go up and down my body,” Gomez said.

  Carl started at Gomez’s feet and tilted to his head.

  “Now do a close-up.”

  Carl fumbled for a button, and the camera zoomed in on Gomez’s face. He went back down to his feet, doing his best to ignore the man’s dangling penis.

  “Now, go wide, so you can see as much of my body as possible.”

  Carl reversed the zoom. “Got it.”

  “How much of me can you see?”

  “From your knees to the top of your head.”

  Gomez held one hand a foot above his head. “Do I have head room?”

  “No.”

  “I need head room. Give me about a foot.”

  Swallowing, Carl adjusted the frame to give Gomez the requested space above his head. “Okay, got it.”

  Gomez held up one finger. “Am I in focus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, now, watch carefully.” Gomez drew in a breath and clenched his fists. The irises in his eyes expanded until there was no white in them. His body trembled for an instant, then his feet grew longer, forming leg extensions that made him stand a foot taller; claws burst out of his toes and fingers; a canine muzzle emerged from his face; his ears grew pointy; and a coat of black fur spread over his muscles. The entire process lasted only seconds.

  Flinching, Carl dropped the camera. As terrifying as Gomez had looked on the camera’s flip screen, h
e looked even worse standing ten feet away and seven feet tall, a ferocious beast with jutting fangs, a pointed snout, and saliva dripping from his curled lips.

  The monster bounded forward, and Carl pivoted on one heel. He was willing to dive through the window and take his chances on the fall rather than face Gomez’s wrath. He took but a single step before long claws seized the back of his shirt collar. A moment later he flew through the air and crashed into the table on the other side of the room. The table tipped over, and he slid to the floor with a pained cry.

  Then Gomez charged forward on all fours, and Carl released a scream before fangs and claws tore into his flesh and black fur filled his vision.

  Norton stood at Mace’s desk, showing him a printout of names. “We can’t find Minjun Kim, the owner of that Korea deli, anywhere. He’s vanished. So have his wife and daughter. Also, we’ve been unable to locate Mildred Ramirez who worked at the community center.”

  Mace gave her a solemn look. “I guess you’d better add their names to the list.”

  “I already have. I’ve also notified Missing Persons to relay any new cases that come their way.”

  “Right.” He felt more than ready to ditch the charade.

  “Tony!” Landry raced into the office, his eyes wide. “Get Channel 2 News on now!”

  Mace switched the channel from Manhattan Minute News to Channel 2 and raised the volume.

  An ashen-faced newswoman sat at the anchor desk. “We’re waiting for confirmation from police regarding the authenticity of this video footage.”

  “Go to YouTube,” Landry said.

  Mace keyed the name of the website into his browser. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Gomez just killed Rice.”

  “What? Holy hell!”

  Norton seized the remote and changed the channel back to Manhattan Minute News, where a weather forecast continued. “If that’s true, MMN has been scooped on its own story.”

  Mace typed in Carl Rice, and a page full of news clips appeared. His phone rang.

  Landry pointed at a clip. “That one. Rice’s own YouTube channel.”

  Mace clicked on the link and answered the phone.