Beauty & the Beast: Some Gave All

  She scrabbled fast, gaining ground—and saw stars as her head collided with something hard. Wall.

  She went down again, surrounded in her mind by monsters and demons and beasts. Hundreds of them. Pinpoints of light danced behind Cat’s eyelids and then something advanced slowly, stealthily. It was coming for her. It was going to tear her apart and eat her.

  The beast. Oh, God, it’s here!

  Gun. She reached for her holster. Empty. Fighting down wave after wave of fear, she tried to replay the attack in the kitchen to account for her gun. When he’d knocked her with the pot, had her gun dislodged? Was it down here in the icy dark? Upstairs in the kitchen? She would have to search for it.

  While the beast was searching for her.

  The idea paralyzed her. She told herself not to be afraid, but it was no good. Her teeth chattered with fear and cold; she pressed her hands against her chest in a vain attempt to slow her heartbeat. If she couldn’t get her autonomous nervous system under control, she was going to die of fright. Meantime, she had to look for her gun. If she could even distract the monster, startle it long enough to escape…

  Stairs! she recalled. A way out.

  And at the top, a door, and a madman. But if she had her gun, she could kill him.

  In the ice-cold blackness, she made a vow: I will kill anything in my way. Then the fear overtook her and she fell to her knees, panting.

  * * *

  Vincent was circling the city. Closing in, but not fast enough. In his desperation, he allowed more of the beast out, and then more. He kept his gloved hands in his pockets and his ball cap down low, and all the feelings of anxiety and caution sleeted over him with the downpour. Walking these streets, these mean streets filled with people who would kill him if they knew what he was. Who were the beasts then? Who was inhuman? Anger surged through him.

  And one of them has my mate…

  No. Catherine was a person. And he was a person. Stress was doing this to him. And this awful new experiment… that shape… bioluminescence… would they never stop?

  “Hey, man, you okay?” asked a guy seated against a wall. He was wearing a worn army jacket, jeans, and half-gloves that revealed blue fingers. He had a sign indicating that he was a homeless veteran and a golden retriever was sitting next to him. It cocked its head at Vincent and let out a low growl. Big dogs did not like him. “Buddy?” the guy persisted.

  “They did this to you,” Vincent rasped.

  “Who?” the man asked. “Oh, you mean the army?” Ruefully, he shook his head. Then with great effort, he got to his feet. The dog whined and the man reached down a hand to scratch it behind the ears. “No one did this to me except me, man. Got out, had a few rough patches, started with the drugs. But no one put them in my mouth.” He narrowed his eyes. “But I’m doing okay. I’m getting it back together. What about you?”

  Vincent regarded the man, shivering on his pencil-thin legs, comforting his companion. He said, “It’s cold out here. You should be at a shelter.”

  “They won’t let me bring Dudley. He don’t go, I don’t go.” The dog wagged its—his—tail. Vincent repressed his impulse to give the dog a friendly pat. Instead, he took off his jacket and draped it around the man’s thin, trembling shoulders. On him, the jacket was enormous, more like a cape. The man caught his breath and looked down at himself as though he had been magically transformed into a king.

  “Oh, hey, no.” He shrugged and grabbed the sleeve in an effort to pull the jacket off. “No, man. You got places to go.”

  “So do you,” Vincent said. “You and Dudley. You need to get him off the streets.”

  The dog studied Vincent and lifted a paw, then set it down on top of the old man’s instep, just not quite able to connect with the scary stranger.

  “It’s okay.” The man’s red, rheumy eyes welled. “It’s what it is, you know?”

  “But you’re getting it together. For Dudley. So he can have a yard. And a doghouse.”

  The man’s lips parted. He needed dental work. And better nutrition. In other words, he needed help.

  “Is this your corner?” Vincent asked. “Your territory?”

  The man nodded. Dudley chuffed.

  “Okay, then I’m going to come back and see you,” Vincent informed him. “I’m going to make sure you don’t sell that coat.”

  “You should take it back now,” the man said anxiously. “Just in case.”

  “I’m going to come back and visit you. But I have to go now.”

  “You have places to go.” He pressed his back against the wall and tried to slide down to the sidewalk, but his legs quivered. Vincent wrapped his hands around the man’s forearms and gently eased him to a sitting position. Then he pulled the jacket around the man. Dudley sat down too and put his head on the man’s knee. Without missing a beat, he gave his dog another loving scratch behind the ears.

  “Yes. I have to leave,” Vincent said. He tipped his ball cap to the man and brought it down low again. Then he melted into the crowd, his anger quelled, his fear tamped down. Helping the man had brought him out of himself. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in beast-intense drives. And of the hundreds of people around, they did not fear him. They feared monsters and things that could hurt them. That was as it should be.

  The snow came down harder and he was about to blur when his phone buzzed. It was Tess.

  “Wilson’s mom called,” she said. “I have an address for you.” She gave it to him.

  “Send a squad car?” he said.

  “I was thinking along those lines. But if something else is happening…” She trailed off, and he knew she meant beast activity. “Get there as fast as you can and call me back.”

  It was a compromise, one he wasn’t very happy about, but he said, “Got it,” and hung up. Then he blurred into the snow, around the crowds. He didn’t need a map; now that he had a general direction to go in, he flew. The snow fell harder, as if trying to match his pace. Traffic bunched up and pedestrians hurried toward the subways.

  He was many blocks away when he caught her scent. Sky Wilson’s, too. Putting on a burst of speed, he reached a two-story brownstone. Catherine’s car was parked in front. The smell of fresh blood was overpowering. The front door was locked; he forced it open and ran inside. In the kitchen there was a broken pot on the floor and Catherine’s blood. No sign of Sky Wilson. And a door…

  …behind the door… Catherine…

  He jerked and stumbled away from it, suddenly terrified. He rotated in a slow circle, feeling the fear seeping into him. And then he remembered the ATM and the bioluminescence, and he talked himself back out of it. It wasn’t real; it didn’t matter. And Catherine was in there.

  “Catherine!” he called, and turned the knob. Locked; he kicked it open. It took less than a second to process that in the deep black void there were stairs… and that Catherine was lying halfway up them.

  He raced down and found her. Blood and bruises mottled her face, and she was barely conscious. A doctor, he feared moving her because of possible spinal injuries. And then he felt her trembling, and heard her heartbeat. She was rocketing past fear into possible catatonia.

  Holding his breath and praying that he was doing the right thing, he picked her up in his arms, carried her through the kitchen and into the living room. He laid her on a Victorian settee and chafed her hands. She opened her eyes and half-sat up.

  “There’s something in the basement,” she said, and then she stopped. “Wait. I don’t think there is.”

  He smoothed her hair from her forehead and checked her pupils. Then he felt under her jaw and took her pulse again. It was slowing down.

  “How’s your back?”

  She twisted left and right, and gave him a nod. “I’m good.” Using his shoulder as support, she got to her feet. He caught her hand.

  “Easy, Catherine.”

  “We have to find Sky. He’s completely out of control.” She touched her holster. “I think my gun is in the kitchen.”
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  Vincent helped Catherine up and through to the kitchen. She stood at the open back door, gulping in the snowy air. Vincent picked up her gun and she holstered it.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m not going to be running any marathons. Ow.”

  He was examining the cut caused by the pot. It wasn’t too bad, as cop injuries went. Catherine hated to be coddled. There was a reason she was a police detective, and it wasn’t to avoid getting hurt on the job.

  “It’s bloody,” he said.

  She reached over to a paper towel dispenser, grabbed a paper towel, turned on the faucet, and dampened it. She blotted the back of her head.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” she told him.

  He went back into the living room to retrieve her coat and hat, and shoved the front door deadbolt into place, securing it. He helped Catherine on with her coat, but she was doing pretty well under her own steam. Still, as they clambered down the kitchen steps, he could tell she was holding back a little.

  The snow was a few degrees away from turning into a storm and the wind was fierce. He was without a jacket… but glad that he had given it to the old man. He should have looked for one of Sky’s.

  “I have his scent,” Vincent half-yelled to be heard. “He hasn’t gotten very far.”

  “Then he’s probably not the beast,” she yelled back.

  “Doesn’t seem so.”

  The snow was thick and wet. They took each other’s hands as they lifted their legs up out of the drifts.

  “Where’s your jacket? You must be freezing,” she said.

  He was. Beast he may be, but he had to get out of this weather. The faster they found Sky Wilson, the quicker that would happen. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Then, as he opened his eyes, he saw a thermal flare behind a row of trashcans, and heard a thundering heartbeat.

  Two quick taps on Catherine’s shoulder and a gesture in that direction, and they cautiously approached. She said into his ear, “He’s probably armed. I didn’t see him take off his holster when we entered his house.” As she spoke, she drew her gun.

  By unspoken mutual consent, they each took an end of the line of trashcans. Vincent circled right and Catherine took the left. A galloping pulse increased in volume as Vincent approached. He gestured to Catherine, but he was certain she couldn’t see him through the heavy curtains of snow.

  Tuning out the rush of the wind and traffic, Vincent heard Sky muttering over and over:

  “Just stop. Just stop it. Don’t come near me.”

  It was almost a chant. Then the telltale snick of metal warned Vincent that Wilson was about to open fire. He leaped over the nearest trashcan on a trajectory with the distraught man and the two skidded backwards. The can tipped over and trash cascaded over Vincent’s shoes and the backs of his legs.

  In an instant he had Wilson’s gun, which he handed to Catherine as she approached. Through the near-blinding snow, she kept her weapon trained on Sky as the man fought against Vincent and, defeated, curled into a fetal position, whimpering.

  “We think something’s been manufactured,” Vincent told her. He was trying to be discreet, even though he doubted Wilson was listening to him. “To induce fear. J.T. is on it.” He looked at her. “And we’re assuming that our new friend is, too.”

  Catherine gazed down at Wilson. “I doubt a hospital could help him. The place where Aliyah’s being kept sure isn’t helping her.”

  “Then we take him to J.T.,” Vincent said. “We could meet him at his lab at Northam.”

  “Too unprotected and too far away.”

  “Agreed.”

  Vincent stood and hoisted Wilson to his feet. He said to Catherine, “You drove here, right? It’ll be slow going but we’ve got to get him contained.”

  They began to walk back toward the brownstone. The whimpering subsided and Wilson obediently trudged between the two of them. Vincent sat with him in the back of the car as Catherine drove. New Yorkers were struggling on the roads and sidewalks.

  “At least this bad weather will cut down on the protests over the homicides,” Catherine observed. “Give Tess some breathing room.”

  They arrived at J.T.’s. When they walked in with Wilson, J.T. took an anxious glance at his bank of computer screens and got to his feet. Tess moved protectively in front of the screens. Vincent steered Wilson to the couch and Wilson buried his face in his hands as he sat.

  “What the hell?” Wilson muttered.

  “What’s going on?” Tess asked.

  “I attacked Detective Chandler.”

  “What?” Tess cried.

  “And tried to shoot her boyfriend,” he added.

  “Well, we’ve all been there,” J.T. said.

  Wilson held out his hands. “I’m ready to submit to arrest.”

  “Not so fast,” J.T. said. “First I want some blood.”

  “We think you’ve been subjected to some kind of hallucinatory drug,” Vincent said, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not sure how you ingested it, but J.T. would like to test for its presence.” That was basically accurate.

  “J.T.?” Wilson said, gazing at J.T., who was putting on some gloves. “I’m sorry, but who are you? Why don’t we go to a hospital?”

  “Okay, here’s the deal.” Tess sat down on the arm of the sofa. “We think this drug is behind this rash of ultra-violent homicides. And we also think that someone in the precinct may be involved. We’re not sure who so we’re keeping our investigation on the down low. Dr. Forbes is a biochemist who’s consulting with us.”

  Wilson wearily leaned his head back on the sofa. “And I’ve been in the way. This is why you’ve been acting so resentful towards me,” he said, turning to look at Catherine.

  “Yeah,” she replied, startled. “Caught me.” She flashed him a weak smile.

  “Have to say, you were a suspect when you showed up early,” Tess told him.

  “See, I didn’t,” Wilson replied. “Captain McAllister said you needed me as soon as possible.” A shadow crossed his face. “You know, I try to be positive about people, give them the benefit of the doubt. But if you know something about why this job offer came my way, I wish you would tell me.”

  Tess cleared her throat. “That’s official business between you and the department, and best discussed privately. In my office.”

  “Okay, I’m going to take your blood now,” J.T. announced. “Can you roll up your sleeve?”

  Wilson complied, unbuttoning his shirt cuff. “She said it was just a drink.”

  Catherine and Tess traded looks, and Vincent raised a brow. J.T. wrapped a blue tourniquet around Wilson’s bicep and began to tap for a good vein. Wilson made a fist.

  “But after that, I started getting crap assignments. It’s obvious to me that she’s punishing me…”

  “Detective Wilson,” Tess cut in. Her heart rate was picking up. Vincent was sure she was hiding something. Covering up for Wilson?

  “…for turning her down,” Wilson finished. “Ouch,” he said to J.T.

  “Sorry. You’d think I’d be super-good at this. I do it so often,” J.T. mumbled.

  Catherine and Tess looked at each other again, then at Wilson. Tess frowned.

  “Captain McAllister. She… approached you?” Tess said carefully.

  “Hey, no.” Wilson grimaced. “Please forget I said that. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not myself. I’m NYPD now and I wish her all the best.”

  “But she did approach you,” Catherine repeated. She looked at Vincent and he knew that she wanted him to listen to Wilson’s heartbeat and tell her if he was lying.

  A vial filled with his blood. J.T. stoppered it and set it in a tray on the floor.

  “Yeah.” Wilson sighed. “She started coming to work all dressed up, taking lots of calls with the door shut, and her lunch hours got really long. I figured she had a new boyfriend. A few weeks went by and she asked me to come into her office to discuss a case. She pulled out a bottle of scotch and a couple of glass
es. I mean, we all drink with the boss now and then, yes?”

  Both Catherine and Tess nodded. Vincent listened intently. The man was nervous and upset, but so far he was telling the truth.

  “Her dress was low-cut, inappropriate for the office, I thought, but again, I’m about positive energy. But her aura was a swirling mass of lust combined with duplicity. She put her hand on my knee and really started coming on to me. But I could see in her aura that while she was attracted to me”—he couldn’t help an egotistical little grin—“she was trying to manipulate me. Get me to make a pass.”

  “Why?” J.T. asked.

  “So she could accuse you of sexual harassment,” Tess said slowly, “and move you out of the department.” She looked a little green around the gills. Vincent was bewildered, but he dutifully kept listening to Wilson’s built-in lie detector.

  “Yes, I think so.” Wilson looked grateful to Tess for giving voice to the words that he didn’t want to utter. The things he was saying were damning; he was speaking to his new superior, and if they got back to his old captain, she might consider suing him for slander. At the very least, she could mess him up if he needed future references.

  “Do you know why?” Catherine asked.

  “I got to thinking about the phone calls and the long lunches. And I figured that the new man in her life was jealous of me. He wanted her to get rid of me.”

  A sour, bitter grin flashed across Tess’s face. Sotto voce, she said, “Or she wanted to give her new man a job.”

  Catherine looked grim. Vincent still wasn’t following and he had the feeling he might never know what was going on. It wasn’t necessarily his business unless it had something to do with the beast situation, and he didn’t think it did.

  “All done,” J.T. announced, slapping a bandage over the puncture area. He looked at Vincent as if to say, Now what?

  Right. What were they going to do with Wilson?

  Tess said, “I don’t think you should go back to your place tonight, Wilson. I can authorize a hotel or take you to a safe house. Either way, you’re not going to be alone tonight. I’ll stay with you, keep watch.” Her gaze remained steadfastly averted from J.T.’s line of sight. Something was way up. Something personal. But of the four of them, it made the most sense for Tess to guard him. J.T. had serious work to do on all the leads they had gathered, including the two vials Vincent and Catherine had brought him. Vincent himself could be put to far better use investigating the brownstone and the crime scenes of the other murder victims.