“Longer than recorded history and you want us to bring you a head! Let’s get out of here, Detective Neff, we’ve got work to do.” He got up and left.
“Just one more thing,” Becky said as she was leaving, “just one thing I’d like you to think about. If they are following us, they probably know we came to see you.” She went out behind Wilson, leaving the scientist staring at the door.
Wilson didn’t speak again until they had passed back through the nearly empty museum and were in the car. “That was bullshit you fed that schmuck,” he said. “He won’t believe us no matter how close to home you try to take it.”
“Maybe not. It sure would help us though, to get a Ph.D. behind us. Think of what would happen if that guy went to Underwood and said these two cops might have a point.”
“Don’t, Becky. It isn’t going to happen that way.” They rode on in silence for a few minutes. “Maybe we’re spooked,” Wilson said. “Maybe it was just our imagination last night.”
“Our?”
“I saw something too.” He said it as if he didn’t want to. “Something watched me from a fire escape when I was on my way to my rooming house. It was a damn strange-looking dog. I only got a glimpse and then it was gone. I’ve never seen a face like that on a dog—so intense. In fact I’ve never seen a face like that before except once, when I collared a maniac. He looked at me like that. It was because the bastard was about to pull a hidden shiv on me.”
“Why didn’t you say something about this earlier?”
“I was wishing it was my imagination. I guess we’re in trouble, Becky.” This last he said softly, almost in awe of the words. They both knew exactly what the stakes were.
Becky felt sick. Wilson, sitting beside her as solid as a statue, had never seemed so frail.
She found herself wanting to protect him. She could imagine the thing on the fire escape—she could picture the eager, intent eyes, sense the frustration at the crowds on the sidewalk, imagine the silent anger it felt as Wilson went unmolested on his way, protected by all the unsuspecting witnesses.
“George, I just can’t believe it. It’s so hard to make it seem real. And if it isn’t totally real, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to deal with it.”
“It’s happened before, Becky. There are even legends about it.” She waited eagerly for more but he seemed to see no need to continue. Typical of him to lapse into silence after making a leading statement like that.
“So go on. What are you driving at?”
“I was just thinking—you remember what you said to Rilker about werewolves? You might not have been too far wrong.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not really. Say they’ve existed throughout recorded history. If they really are as smart as we think, people in the past would have believed that they were men turned into wolves.”
“Then what happened? Why did the legends die out?”
He braced his knee against the glove compartment and slumped in the seat. “Maybe the reason is that the population of the world grew. Back in the past their hunts were noticed because there were so few people. But as the population got bigger they started concentrating on the dregs, the isolated, the forgotten—people who wouldn’t be missed.
Typical predators in that respect—they only take the weak.”
She glanced at him as she drove. “I think that’s a hell of an idea,” she said. “I don’t think it’s very good news for you and me, though.”
He laughed. “We’re not weak. That probably means they’ll be very careful. There also isn’t any knowledge about them at all, which must mean that they’re very thorough about covering their tracks.”
He means that they hunt down people like us, Becky thought as she guided the car through the traffic. It was like being in a bad dream, this feeling of being hunted. Her mind kept going back to the shadow on the ceiling, the shadow on the ceiling… the patient shadow waiting for that single, perfect instant when it could destroy the woman who knew its secret. The world was whirling around her, around her and Wilson, a world of lights and voices and warmth—except for the darting shape, the shadow leaping in pursuit.
“It’s a shame nobody believes us,” Wilson said. “I mean, it’s a shame the… things are wasting their time hunting us down, seeing as how we couldn’t reveal them even if we wanted to.” He rubbed his face. “Except maybe to Rilker and Evans. Even Ferguson if he’ll quit worrying about what they’ll say in Science News. But we just might be able to convince Rilker and Evans—hell, I don’t care what they decide is after us, I just want them to know we’re in danger and give us a hand!” He turned his head, looking at her with a haggard face. “You know, that Ferguson was a prize jerk. I think he was attracted to you.”
He’s jealous, she thought, and he doesn’t even know it. “I could tell he was a jerk from the first moment I saw him,” she said; “he looked like one.” There, Wilson will like that.
True to her expectations he put his arm out along the seat.
“I like it when you wear that smell.”
“I’m not wearing any perfume.”
“Must be your deodorant then. It’s very nice.”
“Thank you.” The poor man, his best efforts were so terrible. She felt a twinge of sorrow for him; his loneliness was becoming more and more obvious to her. “You’re very sweet to say that,” she heard herself say, but the words sounded false.
Apparently they did to him, too, because he didn’t say anything more. When they reached Police Headquarters Becky pulled the car to a stop on a crowded nearby street rather than risk the big, empty garage beneath the building.
“We’ve got to try and get Underwood to assign a special detail,” she said when they were back in their office. Wilson nodded. He sat down at their desk and shuffled through the papers heaped on top of it: a day-old Times covered with coffeecup rings, a copy of the New York magazine crossword, half a dozen departmental memos.
“Nobody ever calls us,” he said.
“So let’s call Underwood ourselves. We’ve got to do something, we can’t just let ourselves rot.”
“Don’t say that! It does bad things to my gut. Why don’t you call Underwood? Hello, this is the Detective with a capital D. You know the one? Well, please assign me a special protective detail. You see, I’m being chased by these werewolves. That’ll get action.”
“An invitation from Psychiatric Services and a little confidential note in the old personnel file. I know. But we don’t want protection, we want to eliminate the menace!”
“You think we can, Becky?”
“We’ve got to try.”
“So we’ll call Evans and Rilker and try to get them on our side. And maybe even the scientist will put his two cents in if Rilker pushes him. Stranger things have happened.
Maybe we’ll at least get a scratch squad together, enough men to uncover some positive evidence.”
Becky didn’t feel particularly confident but she got on the phone. Wilson didn’t even offer to lend a hand; they both knew that his services were, at best, counterproductive in the area of convincing people to give him help.
Evans listened to the story.
Rilker said he had suspected something like that.
Ferguson was willing to attend the meeting as long as absolutely everything was off the record. Becky considered offering him the loan of a false beard and dark glasses but let it go.
“Three hits,” Wilson said, “they can’t resist you.”
“Now, now, don’t get jealous. All that’s left is for you to get an appointment with Underwood.”
Despite his lack of skill with people, there was no way that Wilson could avoid being the one to call Underwood. He was senior man on the team, and their mere connection with the Chief of Detectives was a major disruption of the chain of command. Officially Neff and Wilson weren’t assigned at the moment to any particular division. The Chief was keeping them in cold storage until he was sure the DiFalco case held no further surp
rises.
Obviously he wasn’t completely convinced that his quick closing of the case had been wise. With Neff and Wilson apparently still assigned to it he could keep them from uncovering embarrassing new evidence and also cover himself if that happened some other way, because he could always say that the department had kept a special team active on the case the whole time. He didn’t want the case reopened, but if it was he was prepared.
For him it was a very economical solution to a problem. For Neff and Wilson it was agony—they didn’t know where they stood and neither did anybody else. This meant that they could get nothing done. The resources of Manhattan South were not theirs to use—except for a dingy office. And the Brooklyn Division considered them off its roster.
So they had only each other, and whatever help they could get outside the department.
It wasn’t going to be enough, that had become very clear.
Underwood was polite, when Wilson finally got through. He set a meeting for three o’clock and didn’t even ask what it was about And why should he—he knew that there could be only two topics of conversation. Either they wanted to reopen the DiFalco case or they wanted to be reassigned. And he had one simple answer for both questions. It was no.
“We’ve got a couple of hours, we might as well go up to Chinatown for lunch.”
Wilson glanced out the window. “Looks like plenty of people in the streets. I guess we can go.”
They took a cab. Despite the crowds it seemed the safest thing to do. Pell Street, the center of Chinatown, was cheerfully crowded. They left the cab, Becky feeling a little more at ease, Wilson nervously studying the fire escapes and alleyways. Becky chose a restaurant that was neither familiar from her courting days with Dick nor one of the dingy chop suey parlors Wilson would have selected. He liked to eat lunch for under two dollars.
And when he was treating he would go even cheaper unless his victim was very alert.
Becky was very alert. During lunch they spoke little because he was pouting at the cost. Or at least that was what she assumed until he finally did speak. “I wonder what it’ll feel like.”
“What in the world makes you say something like that!”
“Nothing. Just thinking is all.” She saw that he was ashen. In his left hand he held his napkin pressed against the middle of his chest as if he was stopping a wound. “I can’t get that damn claw out of my mind.” Now his lips drew back across his teeth, sweat popped out on his cheeks and forehead. “I just keep thinking of it snagging my shirt, grabbing at me. God knows you couldn’t do a thing once something like that was in you.”
“Now wait a minute. Just listen to me. You’re getting scared. I don’t blame you, George, but you can’t afford it. You cannot afford to get scared! We can’t let that happen to us. They’ll move right in if it does. I’ve got a feeling the only thing that’s kept them from doing it before is the fact that we haven’t been scared.”
He smiled his familiar sickly smile.
“Don’t do that, I expect you to take me seriously. Listen to me—without you I haven’t got any hope at all.” Her own words surprised her. How deeply did she mean that? As deep as her very life came the instant answer. “We’ll get through this.”
“How?”
It was an innocent enough question, but under the circumstances it exposed a weakness she wished wasn’t there.
“However the hell we can. Now shut up and let me finish my lunch in peace.”
They ate mechanically. To Becky the food tasted like metal. She wanted desperately to turn around, to see whether the doorway behind her led to the kitchen or to the basement. For Wilson’s sake, though, she did not. There was no sense compounding his fear with her own.
“Maybe that claw is what we need. When the Chief sees it maybe he’ll figure things more our way.”
“I didn’t even remember to ask Ferguson to bring the damn thing.”
“But he will. He’s very proud of that claw.”
“I don’t blame him. He can carry it instead of a shiv.”
Wilson chuckled and sipped the last of his tea, his fears seemingly forgotten. But the napkin was still clasped convulsively against his chest.
As soon as they got back to headquarters they went to Underwood’s office. It was actually a suite of offices, and in the outer office was the kind of policewoman Becky most disliked, the typist in uniform. “You’re Becky Neff,” the woman said as soon as the two of them came in; “the Chief of Detectives said you’d be coming up. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too, Lieutenant,” Becky muttered. “This is my partner, Detective Wilson.” Wilson stood uncertainly staring past them. There was nothing on the wall he was staring at except a hunting scene. “Wilson—you’re being introduced.”
“Oh! Yeah, hiya. You got any cigarettes?”
“I don’t smoke, the Chief doesn’t like it.”
“Yeah. What’s he doing? We’re supposed to see him at three.”
“It’s only two forty-five. He’s still in his other meeting.”
“Still at lunch, you mean. Why don’t you let me sleep on that couch he’s got in his office. I gotta sleep off about three pounds of chicken chow mein.”
The lieutenant glanced at Becky, but continued without a pause: “No, he’s really in there. He’s got some people from the Museum of Natural History and Doctor Evans—”
They went in.
“Sorry we’re late,” Wilson growled. “We got slowed down by your house genius.”
“Well, you’re not late. Still fifteen minutes to go. But since these men were all here, I thought we’d get started. Everybody knows everybody?”
“We know them,” Wilson said. “Anybody in here smoke?”
“I don’t have any ashtrays,” Underwood said firmly. Wilson pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, and sighed.
There was a silence. The silence got longer. Becky looked from face to face. Rigid, expressionless, Evans a little embarrassed. She felt herself slump into the chair. This silence could only mean that they didn’t believe. These men thought of the two detectives as being a little off their rockers. Two famous detectives driven a little crazy. Worse things have happened, more unlikely things.
“Apparently you gentlemen don’t know what it is to be hunted,” Wilson said. Becky was amazed— when he was up against the wall he revealed hidden resources. “And since you don’t know, you can’t imagine the state me and Neff are in. We are being hunted, you know. Sure. By things that have claws like this.” With a swift motion he picked it up. “Can you imagine how it would feel to get one of these in the chest? Rip your heart right out.
Hell, you might look at the sunset out there and think it’s beautiful. And it was for us too, until last night. Now we don’t look at a sunset that way anymore. We look at it the way deer and moose do—with fear. How do you think that feels, eh? Any of you know?”
“Detective Wilson, you’re overwrought—”
“Shut up, Underwood. I’m maybe making my last speech and I want to be heard.” He waved the claw as he spoke, and measured his words with uncharacteristic care. “We are being hunted down by whatever has these claws. They exist, don’t forget that! They have for thousands of years. We have seen them, gentlemen, and they are very ugly. They are also very fast, and very smart. People used to call them werewolves. Now they don’t call them anything because they’ve gotten so damn good at covering their tracks that there are no legends left. But they’re here. They damn well are here.”
The two who had to be killed were hard to find. They had been scented clearly as they walked through the house where the pack had been feeding. Their car had been seen as it left, and seen again a few days later, this time far down Manhattan toward the sea.
Patience had been needed. The man was watched as he went through the streets, and his house was finally discovered. The woman also was followed, and her scent traced into a building with many stories. It was watched until they knew that the bedroo
m behind one of the balconies must certainly hold her.
They were not rightful prey, but they had to be taken. If their knowledge of this pack spread, all the race would suffer. First, the many packs in this city would be hurt, then others nearby, and finally all everywhere. Better that man not know of the packs. If the numberless hordes of men knew of the many packs that thrived on them, they would surely resist. Essential that man not know.
Whenever man came close this was done. It had always been thus, and that was the first law of caution. For many years they had roamed free in the world and they had prospered. There was so much humanity that packs were growing through the world, in every one of the human cities. When they were occasionally glimpsed by man the pack passed as a group of stray dogs. Normally they hunted at night. By day they slept in lairs so carefully concealed—in basements, abandoned buildings, wherever they could find a spot—that man never realized they were there. Dogs also posed no problem. To them the scent of the packs was a familiar part of city life and they ignored it Now these two humans had to die else they go among all the human cities and warn them of the presence of death in their midst.
So they had followed the scent of the two humans, they had followed this scent through the streets, tracked it until it entered a great gray building in lower Manhattan. When it came out again and separated they split up, following both parts.
The man’s lair was easy to find. It was close to the ground, in a house with weak outer doors and an easily accessible basement. But the man’s own room was locked and barred, with gates on the windows. The whole place stank of fear. This man lived in a fortress.
Even the chimney leading to his fireplace had been blocked up long ago. It was pitiful to see one so sick and full of fear, sitting his nights away in a chair with all the lights in his room on. Such a one needed death, and the pack longed to take him not only because he was potentially dangerous but because he was in the condition of prey. He needed death, this one, and they all hoped to give it to him.
And they had found a way to move against him.
The woman lived far up in her building. Not all of the pack were adept climbers, but some were and one of them climbed. He moved from balcony to balcony, grasping with his forepaws, hauling himself up, doing it again and again. Below him the rest of the pack stood in the black alley longing with their hearts to howl their joy at his heroism, at his true love for all of his kind. But they kept their voices still. It was unnecessary anyway—even as he climbed he would scent the respect and gladness of those far below him.