They swarmed up the path howling, saw the female, who growled and leaped to make sure, then ran into the underbrush. The dogs were hot behind her when the rest of the pack dropped out of the trees onto them. Their bodies writhed, the howls of excitement changed to shrieks of agony, and then nothing. The carcasses were hurled deep into the brush and the pack moved quickly on.
They went in the direction where the smell of man was the least, coming out onto a snowy roadway and moving to the stone wall that surrounded the park. A short trot down the wall was where they had made their kill the night before. Already it was afternoon and their minds were turning to food. But they would not kill anywhere near their last hunt—that might awaken man’s understanding. Best to spread the kills far apart, as far as possible.
As one the pack stopped. They raised their muzzles and inhaled deeply. Across the street was a large building with a statue in front of it. And in the air was the faintest whiff of… the two.
Had they passed by here recently or were they just possibly inside that building? It was hard to tell by the quality of the odor, it was too faint. Just the slightest trace, not enough to tell even whether the body was hot or cold, indoors or out.
They crossed the snowy street and went into the grounds around the building. Yes, that scent was now a little stronger. Caution! These creatures were not dumb and they knew that they were being hunted. Better be very slow and careful. They trotted around the building, three in one direction and three in the other, easily leaping the small balustrades that surrounded the place. In this way they identified by scent which doors were in use and which were not. Without even needing to converse they came together again, then spread out to watch the doors that might be used. They hid themselves wherever they could, crouching along fences, curling up in the small clumps of bushes, lying behind stone retainers. And the scent hung here, that distinctive sweet smell that went with the woman, the denser smell of the man. And there was another familiar odor, lighter and more salty: one they had smelled near the two before.
Each human’s distinctive odor separated him from all the others, and the pack separated these three from the great mass of odors around them. And they settled down to wait. Waiting was easy for them. It added the excitement of anticipation.
Sam Garner pulled his car to a stop in front of the Museum of Natural History. He got out, relying on his press ID in the window to ward off the tow-away patrol. He paused before the imposing building, looking up at the statue of Teddy Roosevelt. The Great White Hunter with a guilt complex. Sweet guy. Sam trotted up the stairs. Two detectives were in there whom he wanted to see. He didn’t know exactly why he wanted to do this.
He didn’t especially like detectives, and it hadn’t been easy to track these two down. But here he was and here they were, and he wanted very much to find out how they would react when he gave them a certain piece of information.
He had it planned. He would say, “You understand that Medical Examiner Evans was mauled to death in the park this morning.” They would say yes to that. Then he would say, “The incident occurred in your car.” He was very interested in watching their reaction to that. Somewhere along through here there was some kind of a story, maybe big. And these two just might have some idea what it was.
Chapter 9
Carl Ferguson’s phone rang. He picked it up, then handed it to Wilson. “For you.
Underwood.”
Wilson took the phone. “Jesus, Herb, how’d you know I was here?”
“Lucky guess. Actually I’ve made about six calls. This was a last resort.”
“That’s accurate. What’s on your mind?”
“Evans. What killed him?”
“You know perfectly well, Herbie-boy.”
“Wolves?”
“Werewolves. Same as killed the other six.”
“Six?”
“Sure. The bloody bench we found this morning was all that remained of number six.
O-negative blood. No ID as yet beyond that.”
“Look, I gotta tell you there’s a hell of a lot of press out pounding the pavements on this one. We’re crawlin’ with ‘em down here, plus the park’s full of ‘em . Reporters from every damn where—Evans was a famous man. So far nobody’s made the connection between his death and the other murders. I mean, obviously there’re similarities. So don’t, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I won’t. I haven’t got enough proof so it might not embarrass you as much as it should. There’s a cake, but I ain’t got icing.”
“Like what?”
“Like evidence that will convince even you. When I’ve got that, I’ll go to the papers, but not before. That much you can count on.”
“Goddamn you, George. If it weren’t for Old One Forty-seven I’d sign your fuckin’
walking papers.”
“Well, Herbie, now what can you expect? You were a dumb kid and you’re a dumb grown-up. You should have given in a long time ago, when you first knew I was right.”
“Which was?”
“The first time you heard my story. It’s dead right and you know it. You’re just too damn stubborn to admit it, or too dumb. Probably both.”
This was followed by a silence at the other end of the line that lengthened until Wilson thought that Underwood had hung up on him. Finally he spoke. “Detective Wilson,” he said, “have you ever considered, if your story is true, what kind of public reaction it will cause?”
“Panic, mayhem, blood in the streets. Plus heads will roll. The heads of the people who didn’t do anything about it when they could.”
“My head. You’d sacrifice this city for that? Can you imagine the economic loss, the destruction? Thousands of people would pour the hell out of the city. Mass exodus.
Looting. This is a great city, Detective Wilson, but I think that would break it”
“Yeah. And you along with it. People will come back when they realize that the werewolves aren’t just a local attraction. But you won’t come back, Herbie. You’ll be completely retired.”
Underwood’s voice was bitter. “I must say, I hope to hell you’re wrong. Right now I can’t think of anything that’ll give me more pleasure than kicking your ass off the force.
Now that would be a hell of a good feeling.” This time Wilson was sure that he had hung up because of the bang the phone made.
“Good God,” Becky said, “what in hell ever possessed you to talk to him like that!”
“He’s a jerk. He was always a fuckin’ jerk. Hell, he was a jerk when he was runnin’
around in a dirty bathing suit half the summer. A fuckin’ two-bit jerk.”
“That doesn’t give you the right… I mean, I know you grew up together and all that…
but my God, you’ll destroy both of us!”
“What in the world are you two talking about?”
They turned, surprised at the strange voice. A small man in a cheap raincoat stood there smiling more than he should. “Name’s Garner. New York Post. You folks Detectives Neff and Wilson?”
“Come back later. We don’t want any right now.”
“Oh, come on, Wilson, let him—”
“We don’t want any now!”
“Just one question—how come Doctor Evans was murdered in your car? You have any comment on that?” His eyes watched them. Of course he didn’t expect a straight answer.
It was how they looked that counted. One way, he would know there was a story. Another way, he would know zip.
“Get the hell out of here!! Whassamatter, you deaf! Move!”
He scurried away, down the hall and up the stairs, smiling from ear to ear. He loved it!
There was going to be a damn good story! As soon as he got back to his car he called in for a photographer. A couple of pictures of them as they left the museum wouldn’t hurt. Nice pictures, come in handy later.
“Sometimes I think maybe we should tell them something,” Ferguson asked when the reporter was gone. “I think it’ll help us if we
got more people involved.”
“You tell them.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I haven’t got enough—”
“Evidence. Neither have we, and that’s why we can’t tell them either. We’ve got to wait until we get that clincher. Once we have it, we can blow the story from here to Moscow for all I care, but I’m certainly not going to break it early. Can you imagine—detective alleges werewolf killed M. E.? Underwood would dearly love that.”
His own voice made Wilson suddenly very tired. The long night ahead was bearing down remorselessly; he felt a knot growing in his stomach. Already the light in the room had changed. This time of year the days were quick, the nights long. And tonight moonrise would be late. Despite the lights of the city there would be shadows everywhere in just a few hours. The world around him seemed to be frowning, looming down at him, revealing within its softness a savagery he had never suspected. You think that the world is one thing, it turns out to be another. What appeared to be a flower is actually a gaping wound. The fact that time was passing ate at him, drove him closer and closer to—the truth, and the truth was they were going to die. Soon he would feel it, he knew it. He would feel what Evans had felt, the sensation of those things pulling him apart with their teeth. And Becky too, that beautiful skin torn open—he could hardly tolerate the thought He had always had a knack for prophecy—now he had a premonition. He was standing in the middle of Becky’s bedroom when one of them jumped out of the curtains and buried its head in his stomach. As the sheer pain killed, he saw its tail wagging.
Then something hit him.
“Come on! Good Christ, kid, what the hell’s got into you?” Becky? Becky was shaking him.
“Now, now calm down—here, sit him down. It’s a stress reaction, that’s all. Call his name, don’t let him get away.”
“Wilson!”
“Wha—”
“Call a doctor, you jerk! What the hell’s the matter, he acts like he’s made of rubber!”
“Stress did it, extreme stress. Keep calling him, he’s coming back.”
“Wilson, you motherfucker, wake up!” In response he pulled her down to the chair and clumsily embraced her, held her against him. A choked noise started in his chest. She felt his stubbly beard rub against her cheek, felt his dry lips come into contact with her neck, felt his body trembling, smelled his sour, rumpled jacket. After a moment she drew back, pushing at his shoulders, and was immediately released.
“God, I feel awful.”
Ferguson gave him some water in a little paper cup, which he spilled at once. “Hell, I—”
“Take it easy. Something happened to you.”
“It was a stress reaction,” Ferguson said. “It’s not uncommon. People in crashing planes, burning buildings, trapped people, experience it. If the situation isn’t terminal, the condition passes.” Ferguson was trying to smile but his face was too pale to make it seem very real. “I’ve read about it, but I’ve never seen it before,” he added lamely.
Wilson closed his eyes, bowed his head and put his fists to his temples. He looked like a man shielding himself from an explosion.
“Goddamn, I wish to hell we were out of this!” He had shouted it so loud that the faint hubbub beyond the tiny office came to a halt.
“Please,” Ferguson said, “you could cause me problems.”
“Sorry, Doctor, excuse me.”
“Well, you have to admit—”
“Yeah, yeah, save it. Becky, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry too.” His eyes pleaded up at her, and she met them with what she hoped was a look of reassurance.
“Don’t think about death. You thought about death. Think about—our camera. Tonight we’ll get our pictures and then things’ll start to move. All the evidence, plus the pictures—nobody will be able to deny it.”
“And we’ll get some protection?”
“Damn right. Whatever the hell happens, it’ll be something. Better than this, God knows.”
For the first time Becky allowed herself to imagine it What form would protection take? A cold stab of realization went through her—about the only thing that would help would be virtual imprisonment. At first it would mean a good night’s sleep, but then it would get stifling, finally unendurable, and she would give it up—and every moment outside would hold danger, every shadow the potential to kill. It was hard to turn her mind away from this train of thought. And now death flashed into her own imagination—how does it feel to be ripped to pieces: will there be desperate agony or will some mechanism of the brain provide relief?
She couldn’t think about that either. Think about the next moment, not the future.
Think about the camera. Men in battle must do it that way, keeping their minds fixed on the next shell hole, shutting out the deadly whisper of bullets, the groans of the unlucky, until they themselves…
She turned her mind from it again and said in a tired voice, “Dick probably has the camera by now. It’s nearly three. What say we get over there and plan the stakeout? It’s gonna be a long night.”
Ferguson smiled a little. “Frankly, I think it’ll be exciting. Obviously there’s danger.
But my God, look at the magnitude of the discovery! All of history mankind has been living in a dream, and suddenly we’re about to discover reality. It’s an extraordinary moment.”
Both the detectives stared at him in amazement. Their lives and habits of thought emphasized the danger of the quest, not its beauty. Ferguson’s words made them realize that there was beauty there too. The presence of the werewolf, once proven, would completely change the life of man. Of course there would be panic and terror—but there would also be the new challenge. Man the hunted—and his hunter, so skilled, so perfectly equipped that he seemed almost supernatural. Man had always confronted nature by beating it down. This was going to require something new—the werewolf would have to be accepted. He wasn’t likely to submit to a beating.
Becky felt her inner resolve strengthening. She knew the feeling. It often came when they were confronting a particularly rough case, the kind of case where you really wanted to find the killer. The ones where a drug pusher was knocked off or some other scum—those you didn’t really care about. But when it was an innocent, a child, an old person— you got this feeling, like you were going to make that collar. Vengeance, that’s what it was. And Ferguson’s words had that effect. It damn well was an extraordinary moment. Mankind was already in this situation and didn’t know it, and had a right to know. There might not be much that could be done about it, not at first, but the victims at least had the right to see the face of their attacker. “Let’s call Dick, make sure he’s ready.
No point in moving through the streets until we have to.” She picked up the phone.
“Make sure he’s got walkie-talkies,” Wilson rumbled. “Civilian models. I don’t want them on the police band.”
Dick answered on the first ring. He sounded grim. His voice was subdued as he answered Becky’s questions. Unspoken was the fact that he also had heard of Evans’s death and knew what had killed him. She concluded the brief conversation and put down the phone. “He’s got the camera. The radios he’ll pick up this afternoon. A couple of hand-held CB’s.” Becky had felt something new when she heard Dick’s voice. There was a strong warmth in her, a sensation of closeness that she never remembered, not even when they were first married. If he had been here she would have embraced him just to feel the solid presence of his body. Too bad for Dick, he was a better human being than he was a cop. Too good to tough out life on the force, that was Dick. God knows it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to the Board of Inquiry when it came along, but there was a hell of a lot of justice to shaking down organized crime to help an old man in an honest nursing home. His old man. It was going to be hard when he got his Board, Goddamn hard.
Wilson was now staring off into space, vacillating between competent involvement and numbness.
“Come on, George, snap out of it!
You’re a million miles away. If we’re gonna organize a stakeout we’d better get it together. We need to take sightings with that camera, set up observation points that are damn well covered, all of that. We’d better go over there and do what’s gotta be done before it gets dark.”
Becky hadn’t allowed herself to think about all that had to be done because it meant leaving the momentary safety of the museum and facing the streets. But it looked like nobody was going to think about it if she didn’t. Wilson sure as hell better hold up his end later, when it was going to count.
“I hadn’t realized we were so close to leaving,” Ferguson said. “There are some things I want to know from you two. A couple of things I don’t quite understand. I’d like to get them cleared up before we move. It might be important.”
Becky raised her eyebrows. “So OK, shoot.”
“Well, I don’t quite understand the sequence of events this morning. How exactly did Evans get killed?”
Becky didn’t say so, but she would be glad to hear Wilson’s explanation as well. The werewolves were obviously superb hunters, but how exactly they had accomplished their feats this morning was still fuzzy in her mind.
Wilson replied, his voice a monotone. “It must have started when we were at Central Park West and Seventy-second investigating one of their homicides. Obviously, they had us under observation at that time.” A chill went through Becky, remembering the morning, the crowd of men and cars, the blood-soaked bench. All that had saved them was the presence of so many other cops. Wilson went on. “They knew that they couldn’t get to us easily unless we were in a more isolated situation. So they arranged a lure. It’s a technique human hunters have used for generations. And it worked beautifully in this instance. They went into the park, found an isolated patrolman beating the bushes for evidence and wounded him. The fact that he died later made no difference to them. In Africa hunters tether wildebeest to lure lions. The wildebeest might think it’s unfair, but they aren’t expected to survive. Neither was our lure. As soon as our car pulled up, the werewolves must have started creeping toward it. When we returned to it they would have been underneath, jumped out and—two dead detectives. I guess I got it figured just in time.” He fumbled in his pockets. Becky handed him a cigarette. Something seemed to be coming over him. For a long moment his face kept getting grayer and grayer, then he took a deep, ragged breath and continued. “I was lucky, but them leaving that guy half-killed just didn’t add up. Then I figured it. We were in their trap. That was when I told Becky to take off on the scooter.”