Hair of the Wolf

by Peter J. Wacks

  Throw in an actual jail right off downtown, and yeah, the officers in that area tend to be just a tad overworked. So no, they wouldn’t have really had any breakthroughs on the case. But I was still pushing for information before I made a decision.

  More information is exactly what I got, too. “Look. Travis is …” she trailed of, obviously trying to choose her words carefully “Travis is twenty three years old. He does a lot of partying, and has a record of substance abuse. He’s been in rehab before, and has a couple of arrests. We … we think that the detective in charge of the case is biased against him. He seems to believe that Travis is just on a bender and will show back up. But he never vanishes for more than a day or two. At least, he hasn’t before.”

  Talk about alarm bells ringing. There was an insincere tone to what she was saying, which naturally put me on my guard. Not to mention the case itself making me even more wary.

  Can you blame me though? Look at it like this. Junkie kid vanishes, I try to find him. Who knows where a trail like that could lead? Odds are I’d be snooping around a drug dealer’s turf while trying to track this kid, and they don’t play nice when an outsider starts asking around.

  But I’m a P.I. Who is going to help this family find one of their own if not me? It’s all part of the job I have to do. So here I am, trapped between a rock and hard place, with a case that has a high likelihood of getting me a one-way ticket to the morgue.

  I looked at the distressed woman sitting in front of me and sighed. “I charge two fifty a day plus expenses. Anything beyond daily expenses, like distance travel, I will call you for approval on. I would need a two day retainer to get started for you.”

  She flashed that winning smile again, and this time I got the sense that it was the real deal, instead of a show. Then she reached forward and dropped a stack of cash on my desk. “Here is a thousand. Four days, Mr. Stone. Will that be sufficient for you to prioritize this case?”

  I leaned back, not touching the cash yet. “Yes. But before I accept that there are a couple things you need to hear, so I can make sure we are clear on them.”

  She nodded in response. “Okay.”

  “First,” I drew a deep breath. “Considering that the police are already on it, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make a lot of headway on the case. I will also probably have to duplicate a lot of the investigating they have already done, okay?”

  She nodded again. “I understand. What else?

  “Alright, the second thing. Considering the circles he associates with, again, I might not be able to make a lot of headway. Social groups that do illegal things tend to be very secretive when outsiders start poking around in their business. While they are far more likely to open up to me than a police officer, it still doesn’t guarantee anything.”

  “That also makes sense.”

  I nodded this time. “Lastly. It’s been two weeks. Assuming that he was actually abducted, not that he just split town, then there’s a very small chance that he is still alive.” This was the hard one.

  Most people can’t deal with the idea that a missing person could be dead. They tend to break down, emotionally. And I learned from the first case I had—which ended up with me tracking a corpse—that you tell them ahead of time. If you don’t … well, that first case they blamed me. They thought if I’d been faster it wouldn’t have happened. And then they tried to sue me.

  She flashed that winning smile at me again. A bit odd considering what I had last said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Stone. We believe you will do your best, and that is good enough for me.” She pulled a small manila envelope out of her purse and slid it across to me. “Here are photos and all the information I could think of that might help.”

  I picked it up, ripping the seal, and slid out a fairly comprehensive file. Photos, phone and DMV information, and a list of hangouts and friends were included. I raised an eyebrow. Impressive. And a little odd. Seven years as a P.I. and this was the first time a client had a file fully prepared that was actually useful. Hmm.

  Despite my gut reaction that there was a lot more that this woman wasn’t telling me, I went ahead and pulled out my standard contract, scribbled in a couple of specifics about her case, and held it out for her to read and sign. Finally, she left.

  I stood up and thoughtfully walked over to the mini-fridge in my office. Popping it open, I grabbed the ice tray and the pitcher of water I keep hidden behind the two bottles of whiskey. I’m actually not all that big of a drinker, but I do have that hard-boiled image thing to think about. You know how it is.

  Anyway, I poured myself a large glass of ice water and walked back over to my desk. I mentioned before that it had been a couple years since there was a woman in my life, right? But I also mentioned that I valiantly won the battle with my hormones. Well, I lied. I lost.

  So, since I’m not a saint, and a beautiful woman can still have a profound effect on me, I went ahead and poured the glass of ice water over my head. The ice cold water washed over me, shocking my system. Much better. I could think rationally again.

  The first rational thought that came to me was something Amber had said. “We believe you will do your best.” That implied a lot of research on me, or someone else being involved. Just who had she meant when she said ‘we.’ And I hadn’t pushed further to dig into that little gem. Well, crapsticks. I’d just have to be very careful.

  ***

  Amber the Werewolf

  Amber frowned as she left the investigator’s office. It was strange that Tabitha would want a mortal investigator tied into this vampire hunt. Amber wasn’t yet anywhere near making the decisions a pack leader made though.

  Warmth washed over her as she left the building and stepped into the sunny afternoon. Tabitha and the rest of the pack were waiting for her at a coffee shop six blocks down. Despite the waiting pack, she took her time, kicking off her shoes and opting to walk barefoot through the grass next to the sidewalk. Between the sun and grass, she was in a little nirvana world of her own.

  Ten minutes later she reached the shop and spotted her pack sitting around a table outside. Grinning, she strolled up to them. “Nice day. What are you lot doing at a two bit java joint like this?”

  Andrew, the eldest of them aside from their pack mother Tabitha, looked at her expectantly. The others were playing cards and ignored her. “Well, Amber? Did you hire him?”

  “I did.” She nodded. “Five hundred bucks for two days. I gave him a grand for four.”

  “Ow.” Josh looked over from the game of cribbage. “Suckage.”

  Tabitha cleared her throat and played a card. “Now, now, cubs. It is the right decision. We need help and Robert said that this is our guy.”

  Drew looked frustrated. “But he is a mortal.”

  “Mortal or not, as I said, Robert says he is the one who will find him for us.” Tabitha glanced at Drew. “And I trust my contact.”

  Amber plopped into a seat and sniped a sip of Jenna’s Frappuccino. “You mean that spooky Crowley guy?”

  Tabitha nodded.

  Josh shrugged, focused more on the cards than the conversation. “I just hope we aren’t wasting our money on this private eye guy.”

  Amber cocked her head to the side. “I dunno … He seems pretty sharp.”

  Tabitha smiled enigmatically. “We will just have to see what he does, now wont we?”

  ***

  Elizabeth Bathory

  Elizabeth sipped from a champagne flute filled with blood. She sprawled on the sofa, wearing only a terrycloth bathrobe. The penthouse was luxurious. Whoever had invented blackout curtains should have been awarded with a life immortal. The outside world may be a vicious pit of instant day-death, but in here she was safe and comfortable.

  “Tony, I need you to deal with the mortal detective. The wolves should not have dragged him into this and risked the involvement of mortal authorities. Hiring him is one step shy of breaking the treaties and just calling the police themselves. It would seem the Magyari family has not
changed.” She looked at the minion standing by the television.

  Like all of her followers, he was wearing an outfit that complimented her normal wardrobe. She viewed her goons as fashion accessories. In his case, this meant an outfit consisting of tight slacks and a wide-collared blue shirt. An unlit cigarette hung from his lips.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes as Tony patted his pockets. Reaching over to the end table, she grabbed a pack of matches and tossed them to him.

  “Yes, Mistress.” Tony snagged the matches midair. He glanced at the Capitol V.D. on the cover of the matchbook and tried not to laugh. Elizabeth Bathory was not one to forgive uninvited emotion outbursts. He lit the cigarette. “How do you want I should deal with him, Mistress?”

  “Really? I’m an immortal blood-sucking Goddess of the Night. How do you think I want him dealt with?”

  “Yes, Mistress. I just figure that usually you likes to go out and, you know, do them yourself.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the puzzle box that hid the shears of Fate. She and Vlad had taught the sisters the lesson to never expose yourself when weakened. If a god could be killed just being in the wrong place when weaker …

  “Creating one of those beasts weakens me, Tony. Part of my power is invested in creating a newborn. Either the power grows back, which can take years, or the newborn dies and my power snaps back to me. Right now, though, I’ll not risk exposing myself. Should I fall, none of you will ever get your reward.”

  “I understand, Mistress.” Tony pulled a deep drag off the smoke and walked towards the door. “I’ll kill the Dick.”

  ***

  Ian Stone

  Ian tossed his Burberry trench coat into the passenger seat. He mopped some sweat from his brow, then unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt.

  Tossing the notepad on top of the coat, he started his Jeep then blasted the fan.

  He sighed happily as the air started circulating in the Jeep, and pulled out his digital recorder. As he started the drive back to his office, he hit “resume file” and talked, recording his day …

  ***

  It took a few to find parking on the Hill. Luckily, my beat up early ’80s Jeep can magically fit into parking spaces that I’m pretty sure a Mini Cooper couldn’t. Mind you, part of that is my willingness to get behind double-parked people and push them forward. Consider it my own little crusade to gently nudge people into social consciousness. Or at least into parking better.

  What? Don’t look at me like that. You know you’ve always wanted to, I just went ahead and started doing it. So I walked a block up to the corner of Thirteenth and Logan, where Travis’ truck had been found, pulling out my notebook while walking. When I got to the corner, I built a mental map of the area and started scanning it, thinking through what would be in easy walking distance and what wouldn’t.

  With a quick sketch, I had my target area. If I haven’t mentioned it before, there are times—many times—when the life of a Private Detective is one of sheer mind-numbing boredom. This is one of those times. Now that I have a target area based on where he was parked, I get to walk it to investigate the potential nightlife and attempt to piece together where he was when he went missing.

  So, let’s assume that he would comfortably walk about six blocks or so from where he parked, then assume that he had to push it on a club night out to eight blocks. So our target area runs eight blocks in each direction. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? Think again. Maybe sixteen square blocks doesn’t sound too bad, but that’s 256 individual blocks that yours truly was going to have to walk to check for likely spots.

  I know, why wasn’t I just using Google maps, right? Well, a lot of the seedier dive bars don’t necessarily show up on Google maps. Especially not the type that switch locations every few months because their clientele have trashed the previous one.

  The second reason is the naked eye. There’s a lot of things that you can’t, or don’t, notice when you’re just sitting on a computer. An actual visual spot check will pick up on those things. I needed those nuances of subtlety if I was going to have a chance at figuring out where this kid vanished.

  So off I set, walking the streets like a grid, hunting for likely hangouts for a 23 year old junkie. And here we have the fundamental reason that the human eye, and brain, beats the computer every time. Take the bar Bent. Sounds like a guy going on a bender, right? Or maybe something a little worse than that even. Party central for the right type of person, yeah? It’s actually a country themed beer bar. In fact, it has a giant picture of Johnny Cash on the side of the building. Not really a good place for a young stallion to find his mare.

  On I continued, walking. After several hours, I had it narrowed down to just a couple possible bars. We have, amongst the illustrious candidates on our finishing list, the following gems.

  One, the Cathedral. Built out of the remains of a 19th century church, it was remodeled into a vast den of supposed depravity, catering to the dark side in everyone (that has an extra hundred bucks to drop on a night at the club.) Dark yes, but come on, they serve sushi there.

  Next on our list is the Cave. This dark den of iniquity is a basement club mostly filled by Goth and emo kids bemoaning their tortured dark lives and threatening to end this existence, all while watching pretty lights flash. Beware, you are likely to hear the word ennui bandied about a lot here.

  Lastly, we have The Viper’s Den. It’s a Goth and raver club (gravers). It has lots of light shows, fog machines, and bouncers who are renowned for an inability to notice fake I.D.s.

  Of all the clubs within walking distance of where Travis was parked, my gut was telling me it was one of these. All three clubs had huge parties the night that Travis vanished, all three had the club kid vibe, and all three of the managers were not only uncooperative, but downright hostile to my questions.

  So I did the traditional P.I. thing and leaned on all three managers until they kicked me out of the clubs. I have a fairly good contact network, but I don’t have the power that the cops do to just pull the information I need out of a system. So one of my tactics is to lean on people until someone retaliates, which points me in the direction I need to be going.

  So, where to proceed from here? Back to the office to start checking the Social Networks for Travis’s list of friends. If I can start putting faces to names, then I can go check the clubs and see where he was most likely hanging out. Maybe even get some questions answered. Since people are so likely to answer questions random P.I.s ask, you know?

  Anyway, time to head back to the office and start doing all my corroborative research. Exciting life, right?

  ***

  Travis Blake

  Sunlight burned its skin, puncturing the dark passage from a small hole in the ceiling. It scurried back a bit, clinging to the shadows. Shadows meant protection.

  It clung to the walls, claws slicing into the concrete like butter, moving around the deadly light, eyes fixed hungrily on the man working there. Licking its lips the creature inched forward. Food was there, just out of its grasp. It howled in frustration.

  The sanitation engineer froze. What the hell was making the blood curdling noise?

  “Hello?” He quietly asked the darkness.

  Flicking on his flashlight, he gazed down the passage, barely lit by the Maglite. He flicked it the other way. The weird howl had sounded like it was right next to him, but you could never tell in these tunnels. Echoes bouncing around the Machiavellian maze of sewage and pipeworks had a way of distorting sound.

  He shuddered, then clipped the light back on his tool belt. “Dispatch, this is Martinez, I’m at the site.” He spoke into the mic clipped to his shoulder.

  Travis pounced. The sunlight immediately burned its skin as it darted through the patch of brightness. Knocking the engineer off his feet, the two bowled back into the shadows and Travis immediately started shredding the prize with its claws. Like a bloody Christmas present, it tore at the clothes and skin till the food stopped moving.

  Onc
e it was prone beneath him, he bent over hungrily, lapping up the blood.

  “Martinez. This is dispatch. Are you there? Hello?” The radio squawked forlornly.

  ***

  Loki the Coyote

  Loki shifted the ParcelExpress cap and tucked the package under his arm. Whistling, he strode casually down the office hallway. The building was older, at least so far as modern constructions went, and he could see micro-fissures and age seeping along the walls.

  He held up a thread, studying it carefully. Pearlescent shimmers radiated from it as he rotated it between his fingers. Looking closely at the life thread, he muttered under his breath. Technically speaking, no one was supposed to have these but the Sisters. The entire basis for the power trade game was that Divinities couldn’t access the threads of Fate. Loki grinned. Tricksy bitches shouldn’t have tried to poach his man. The second she did, he had been able to sneak onto the great pattern and snake away a couple of threads. He had to be careful not to overuse them outside of emergencies.

  The thread pulsed. Loki nodded to himself. He wasn’t an expert at reading these things, no one but the Sisters were. But that pulse … for just a moment it seemed like there were two threads. One that ended here, and one that kept going.

  Time.

  Stepping forward, he knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  Frowning, he knocked again and loudly stated, “ParcelExpress! Delivery for Mister Stone.” He jammed the thread under the lid of the box and waited.

  The door creaked open an inch, a suspicious eye barely visible in the crack. “What you want?”

  Loki gave his most charming smile. “Package for Mister Stone. Can you sign please?”

  “He ain’t here.” Replied the man behind the door.

  “Not to worry. It’s an office delivery, anyone can sign.” He pushed the box forward.

  “One second.” The man sounded upset. The door opened another foot, just enough for Loki to shove the box through.