“Like he could forget he was wearing a gun,” I said to Ben. “You can smell him, he’s not wearing a gun.” That was another thing about Cormac that had changed, along with the tired expression; I was used to Cormac smelling like firearms. Gunpowder and oil. Now he smelled like soap, clean human, and the leather of his jacket. As antsy as his old collection of weaponry made me, he smelled like something was missing.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t seen you without a gun since high school,” Ben said. “I’m still getting used to it.”
“I’m still getting used to it.” He slumped back into his chair and took a sip of his coffee.
Cormac was a convicted felon on parole. Legally, he couldn’t carry a gun. Technically, he could carry a gun—he just couldn’t get caught with it by his parole officer or the cops, or they’d lock him up again. So he didn’t carry a gun. Once upon a time, Cormac might have taken the risk. The preprison Cormac would have been confident in his ability not to get caught. But something had gotten to him.
Ben and I slid into chairs across from him. I had a weird sense of familiarity, Ben and me sitting side by side, looking at Cormac across the table from us. This was how we’d sat when we visited him in prison. Then, we’d had a Plexiglas wall between us.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Ben said. “How do you feel about a little PI work? PI work that doesn’t involve carrying a gun.”
Cormac looked away, frowning. “You don’t have to give me a job because you think I need the work. I’m doing just fine without any charity.” His parole officer had gotten him a part-time warehouse job—it may have been the first aboveboard job he’d ever had. He even had his own apartment. He was determined to be independent.
“Cormac, I’m not asking you to do this because I feel sorry for you. I’m asking you to do this because you’re the most qualified person I know for the job.”
That got his attention. He straightened a little. Ben looked at me to do the explaining.
“For the last couple of years I’ve been hearing weird stories about the Speedy Mart chain,” I said. “Supernatural goings-on, all over the country, and all of them at a Speedy Mart. Usually at midnight. Vampire clerks, satanic rituals, intersecting ley lines. Think of every crazy supernatural angle you can, and there’s probably an anecdote about it happening at a Speedy Mart.”
Cormac looked thoughtful. “That vampire, the one you had me go after while you were doing the show—what was that, three years ago? Four?”
“Estelle,” I said. I hadn’t forgotten Estelle.
“She was hiding out in a Speedy Mart.”
“Yeah, exactly,” I said.
“That’s stretching it even for you,” Ben said. “It’s coincidence.”
I said, “Each of these stories don’t mean anything by themselves. It’s when you put them all together things start looking weird. I need to know if there’s anything to it.”
The bounty hunter—former bounty hunter—gave a nod, lips pursed. “All right. I’m interested. I’ll see if I can find anything.”
“Stop by my office tomorrow; I can give you what I’ve been able to dig up so far,” I said.
Business concluded, Ben looked around, craned over his shoulder. “Hey, isn’t the service around here usually better than this?”
It was; if Shaun was here, he usually stopped by our table himself first thing. Ah, there he was, hiding out behind the bar. He was a hip twenty-something, short dark hair, brown skin, laid back and sensible in a T-shirt and jeans. When he saw all three of us looking over, he finally came over.
“Took you long enough,” Ben said.
Shaun wilted, hurt and puppylike. “I wasn’t going to interrupt whatever powwow you have going on here. You look like you’re planning the takeover of a small country.”
“It’s not that serious. Do we look that serious?” Ben said.
“It’s the body language, hon,” I said. “We look like we’re hunting.”
“Uh, yeah,” Shaun said. “But if you’re all done with that maybe I can get you something to drink.” He looked hopeful.
We gave him our order, and Ben tried to be nice to make up for making Shaun nervous.
“Huh. Werewolves,” Cormac said, shaking his head.
CORMAC STOPPED by the KNOB offices at noon the next day. I met him at the lobby and brought him upstairs.
“Déjà vu a little, isn’t it?” he said.
I glared at him, unamused. The first time Cormac and I had met, he’d been stalking me at the studio in the middle of my show, intending to shoot me. Very uncool.
“No comment,” I said.
My office was more like a closet, just enough room for the desk and a couple of chairs, but it was mine. Inside, Cormac took the seat I offered while I sorted through the papers on my desk: the map, the notes, the news articles printed off the Internet that verified some of the stories. I really didn’t have very much when I put it all together.
“It’s not very impressive,” I said by way of apology. “Ben’s right, there’s probably nothing there. Maybe we can settle the lawsuit out of court.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he said, leaning forward to start reading.
I’d never seen him so studious. He usually—at least before he went to prison—cultivated this air of indifference. Not quite apathy as much as a sense of apartness, like he wasn’t interested because he lived on a different plane of existence. It would have been almost Zen-like, if it hadn’t been so creepy. Now, he really seemed interested. Fascinated, even. Hand on his chin, he chewed his lip.
He even smelled different. Slightly, bookishly different. Paper and ink. But this was Cormac, and I didn’t have anything to worry about. Right?
The office had become so still that when he spoke, I flinched.
“I need to do some checking, but I have some ideas,” he said, looking up at me, calm and steady. He was all Cormac again.
“Really? Like what?”
“Not sure,” he murmured. “Maybe ritualistic magic. Maybe something else.”
I was never going to find out just how much Cormac knew about the supernatural. When we’d first met, he knew more about werewolves than I did, even though I was one. He’d hunted them for half his life, after all.
“How long do you need?”
“I’ll let you know,” he said, standing, rolling the pages up and tucking them in the pocket of his jacket. Preoccupied, he walked out without a word or second glance. I stared at the open doorway for a minute or so, wondering if he really was okay.
Chapter 3
I COULDN’T DO much else about the lawsuit business, at least not for a while. The wheels of justice were turning, and it was in the lawyers’ hands. There’d be response, counterresponse, deal making, and all I had to do was stand aside and look innocent. What were the odds?
Or maybe Cormac would come up with something interesting, in which case there might be fireworks. I didn’t know which outcome to wish for more.
During my office hours the next day, I tried to stay focused and avoided calling Cormac, even though I wanted to, to see if he’d learned anything yet. It had only been a day. This would take time. My phone still sat on my desk, taunting me, luring me.
When it actually did ring, I jumped out of my chair to pounce on it. The voice on the other end wasn’t Cormac’s.
“Kitty, this is Elizabeth Shumacher, from the CSPB.”
That was Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher, who headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, the research clearinghouse for all things supernatural that was part of the National Institutes of Health. I’d had a long and not always wonderful association with the center, but I liked Dr. Shumacher. The center had become much more rational and useful—rather than clandestine and paranoid—with her at the helm.
I sat back down and calmed myself. “Hi, Doctor. What’s up?”
“I’m afraid . . . well, there’s no good way to put this. We have something of a problem, Kitty. We ne
ed your help.”
I recognized the tone of voice; she sounded like someone calling into the show. “Who’s we? Is it something with the lab?”
“We—” She sighed. “I guess you could say it’s the U.S. government.”
Okay, that sounded heavy. My impulse was to vehemently deny that I could possibly be of any help whatsoever. Then hang up and refuse to pick up the phone when her number showed up on caller ID. Then maybe flee the country so she could never find me again. That might have been an overreaction. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“It would be much easier to explain this in person. Would you be willing to meet with me? The sooner the better. Today, if possible.”
“I’m not sure I could get out there on such short notice,” I said.
“I’m not in D.C. right now, Kitty. I’m at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs.”
About eighty miles away, in my backyard practically.
“What are you doing there?” I said.
“I’d rather explain it all in person.” Clearly spoken in a tone of bureaucratic stubbornness.
“Is this a werewolf problem?” I said, fishing.
After a hesitation, she said, “Yes.”
Color me intrigued. “It’ll take me a couple of hours to get there, but I think I can make it.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, clearly relieved.
I agreed, and she gave me directions about getting to the huge army base south of Colorado Springs, then what to do when I got there. I had the impression she’d set up a temporary office at the hospital there. This made me think that her problem was military in nature—or maybe she just felt more at home at any government installation, whatever the flavor.
THE NOONTIME drive to Colorado Springs was crisp, wintery, and clear. I managed to miss rush hour.
I didn’t spend much time in the Springs. It had started life as a quiet, respectable enclave for the state’s nouveau riche a hundred-plus years ago, and since then had turned into an almost Lovecraftian behemoth of urban sprawl. It’s also home to something like half a dozen major military bases and even more fundamentalist Christian organizations, which established a rather dubious reputation for ultraconservatism, giving the place a weird vibe. A couple of our pack members lived here, and it marked what we considered the southern boundary of our territory.
After pulling off the freeway, I wound my way along side roads to the main gate at Fort Carson, which looked simultaneously innocuous and aggressively military. Chain-link fence strung with barbed wire, then tall black fences, lined the street. But behind the fences lay normal-looking suburban tract housing. The gate looked like a toll plaza, but the attack helicopter parked on display outside it indicated that this wasn’t so ordinary.
Dr. Shumacher had given my name to the security guards on duty. I still had to hand them my ID and car registration, and they inspected my car’s trunk and undercarriage. I supposed it was comforting, but I still felt twitchy. There didn’t seem to be any problems, though. The guy handed my driver’s license back, gave me helpful directions to the hospital, and ordered me to have a good day.
Very carefully, I pulled away. Five minutes of driving on a long, winding road brought me to a modern building of tan brick and narrow windows. Again, I might have mistaken the area for a typical suburban hospital and neighborhood, except that in the parking lot, a lot of the cars had “Army” and “Infantry” stickers in their windows.
Dr. Shumacher was waiting for me outside the building’s glass front entrance.
She looked like a scientist, in a cool way. In her fifties, she was short and brisk, her dark hair going gray, cut in a bob around her ears, and had smart wire-rimmed glasses. Her gaze was intense, her expression serious. She wore a dark fitted sweater, a skirt, and sensible shoes.
When she saw me, she smiled. “Kitty, it’s so good to finally meet you in person.”
“Likewise.” I offered my hand for her to shake.
Inside, she guided me down a hallway to a windowless conference room, with a tile floor and off-white walls, white boards, signs of AV equipment, and a table. Nothing too sinister yet, except maybe the guy sitting at the table. He wore a crisp green army uniform, with all the bells and whistles, lots of insignia I didn’t know the meaning of. He had eagle pins on his shoulders. He was tall, broad, with short cropped hair and a drill-sergeant stare. He stood when we entered the room. His stance was aggressive, shoulders back, spine straight, ready to leap. He was probably never anything but aggressive.
“Kitty, this is Colonel William Stafford. Colonel Stafford, this is Kitty Norville.”
As I had with Shumacher, I reached my hand for him to shake before he could decide not to offer me his. He studied me hard, assessing me, and seemed skeptical. Worried. But maybe he wasn’t worried about me.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Norville,” he said, firmly and politely, and some of the tension left me. He sounded genuine. We all sat at the table.
“I’m happy to help, but what is this all about?” I said, my curiosity becoming overwhelming.
They glanced at each other, the confident scientist and assured colonel, and looked chagrined. As if they were debating over who was going to explain it. As if they were embarrassed. The colonel fidgeted with the corner of a manila folder in front of him. I waited. I could stare them down.
Dr. Shumacher started. “You remember Dr. Paul Flemming, don’t you?”
“As much as I would like to forget about him, I remember.” Dr. Flemming had been Shumacher’s predecessor at the CSPB and one of my least favorite people ever.
“I believed that none of his projects had advanced past the conceptual stages. My intention had been to start the center on a clean slate, with complete transparency. Do some real science instead of Flemming’s secret project version of it.” Her half-smile was too pained to show real amusement.
I waited, keeping my mouth shut. What monster had they discovered frozen in some forgotten NIH closet? My imagination failed me.
Shumacher continued carefully. “You remember that Flemming was particularly interested in military applications, and whether the military could effectively utilize soldiers possessing paranatural traits?”
I might not have figured it out if Stafford hadn’t been sitting next to her looking guilty. But the pieces fell into place. Shumacher was talking about nearly indestructible werewolf soldiers, immune to gunfire, physically strong, possessing immense stamina and wicked killer instincts. When the CSPB went public, Flemming had been disgraced before Congress and vanished. All his secret projects had supposedly been shelved. That had been my understanding. Weaponized werewolves were such a bad idea.
I tried not to be furious. “Are you telling me Flemming’s lycanthrope soldier program went forward?”
“No, it didn’t,” Shumacher said quickly. “At least, not officially.”
“But unofficially?” I said. I was starting to understand the looks of chagrin.
Colonel Stafford pulled a five-by-seven black-and-white photo from his manila folder and slid it across the table to me. Looking like a snapshot that had been cropped and blown up, it showed a youngish man, maybe thirty, supremely confident, his shoulders square and solid. He looked at the camera lens with an adventurous glint in his eyes and a curl on his lips. He wore a beret, a dark T-shirt, and camo fatigue pants. The colonel didn’t have to tell me—this was one of the army’s best and brightest. The photo radiated it.
“This was Captain Cameron Gordon,” Stafford said. “Top five percent of his class at West Point, went on to Special Forces—Green Berets.”
“And he did it all while infected with lycanthropy. He was a werewolf,” Shumacher said.
“How did he manage that?” I said, in awe of the man. Sometimes I barely managed to keep my life functioning, my werewolf and human identities working together, without running screaming into the woods. Captain Gordon must have been superhuman.
Stafford answered. “Near as we can figure, a lot o
f careful planning. He always had favors to call in so he could get time off on nights of the full moon. People covered for him, he never got caught. He was careful. And he was too good for the army to let him go the time or two he did screw up.”
I could also speculate that Gordon had been infected with lycanthropy young, as part of a well-adjusted, functional pack where he learned a high level of control. He’d known exactly how to handle his werewolf side.
Shumacher picked up the story. “When Flemming was exploring . . . possibilities . . . regarding lycanthropy and the military, he recruited Captain Gordon. I don’t know how Flemming knew about him, but he did. I believe the two worked together until Flemming was forced to go public. By that time, Gordon had deployed to Iraq. You know that Flemming destroyed many of his records. I’ve been trying to reconstruct what work the two of them did, but I haven’t had much luck. Then Colonel Stafford called me.”
I said, “So Flemming really did it. He really did put werewolf soldiers in the field—”
“That’s just it,” Shumacher said. “Flemming didn’t have anything to do with this. He never authorized any implementation of his plans. He never did anything but interview Captain Gordon—but that put the idea in Gordon’s head. Captain Gordon did everything else on his own. He independently created his own squad of werewolves, without authorization.”
Stafford pulled out another photo, this one showing seven men, including Gordon, all fully decked out in badass army gear—helmets, backpacks, rifles, boxes of ammunition—posing as a group for the camera. They were all fit and strong, holding rifles in assured grips; a couple of them smiled confidently. If I hadn’t known they were all werewolves, I might have missed some telltale signs, or attributed those signs to their military background. But studying the picture, I could tell: Gordon was the only one standing, putting him in the position of dominance—he stood like an alpha. The others crouched, knelt, or leaned around him. A few of them didn’t look at the camera at all. They instinctively didn’t stare, which is an expression of challenge among wolves. I could almost smell them.