“Detective Cody,” Hamilton said. “We have got to stop meeting like this. One would think you were stalking me.” The outlandish laughter again.
“You missed me on purpose,” Cody said. “Cliché or not, you’re a writer. You need to talk.”
This time the laugh was more like a cackle.
“You killed your lover!”
“Oh, don’t fret your handsome head about her. It was instantaneous. I couldn’t bear for her to suffer. She doesn’t want to live without me, you know. Fiercely loyal to the last.”
“She was the vampire woman in red at the Yellow Door,” Cody said.
Hamilton nodded. “Good, Micky. Now you’re thinking. She met Handley there to pick up the key and to make sure she passed muster. He was picky about his illicit rendezvouses.”
“Why Handley? Why did you pick him?”
“The town will read all about him and his sister when they find my masterpiece on Number Five’s body.”
“His sister? What do you mean, Number Five? Isn’t Victoria Number Five?”
“Read the article.” Hamilton’s life was indeed diabolical.
“Melinda Cramer was Handley’s sister, wasn’t she? The DNA match I ordered will come back positive.” He read the slightest wrinkle of Hamilton’s eyebrows as a confirmation.
“Stop the cat and mouse,” Cody said. “I know you’re going to tell me who Number Five is.”
“Jake Sallinger, my erstwhile editor at Metro,” Hamilton answered in a coy tone. “By now your boys have found his body—and my article. Alas, this is one piece I’ve written that the bastard won’t get to mark up with his illegible scrawl. They’ll decide to run it, of course, after a perfunctory wringing of their limousine liberal consciences.”
“What about Handley’s sister?” Cody pressed. “Why did you go after the two of them?”
“Victoria was right. You aren’t that good, are you? You’re a good clue man, but you stink at research. Read the article.”
“So thanks to your marksmanship, Victoria became Number Six…”
“She wanted to be the one to do you,” Hamilton said. “She always told me I get all the luck. I only wish I could have fucked with you a little more,” he added, “for all the aggravation and delays your reluctant cooperation caused me.”
“Your luck has run out, Ward.” Cody reached for the cuffs in his jacket pocket.
But his hand never got there.
Distracting the detective’s attention with the plastic lantern, Hamilton’s free hand had concealed something behind his back.
A distinctly marine odor made Cody cry out. He moved to block the man but was too late.
With a single fluid motion Hamilton lurched at him, using the arrow as a hand-held weapon, and stabbed him savagely in the leg, puncturing his pants behind and two inches above his knee.
Then he compounded the wound by yanking it back out.
Saxitoxin. Cody’s brain identified the odor, recognizing it from one of Max’s forensic pathology demonstrations. He broke into a sweat. The marine secretion was neurotoxic to mammals and caused a respiratory paralysis known as paralytic shellfish poisoning.
“Which leaves you,” Hamilton said, “as the very probable Number Seven. Though, of course, I always believe in backups.” There was the coy tone again. “Either way, I win, you lose.” His voice now sounded like a hissing snake.
Then, howling in ghoulish laughter, Hamilton watched Cody fall to his knees.
The detective lost control over his legs.
Echoing from outside the cave was Charley’s angry howl, backed by the distant chorus of the wolves.
“I’m not sure your canine pals can help you now,” Hamilton said, shoving Cody’s back against the wall of the cave and pulling his legs in front of him.
“Sit up! Sit up! That’s a good boy,” Hamilton chuckled—and disappeared into the darkness from which he came.
There must be another entrance was what Cody thought as the numbness rose through his midriff.
Δ
Cody could think of only one thing: The poison’s effects would progress upward, finally paralyzing his heart. He must cut the toxin from his body while he could still use his arms.
His fear was replaced almost immediately by action. He remembered the words of Old Man.
Do not panic or you will die. Be calm but do not hesitate. Move slow like the possum, but do not waver. Do what you must do before the sleep comes.
Charley rushed onto the scene, yapping mournfully. Fending the dog away with one arm, Cody moved resolutely but in slow motion, using his hunting knife to slice open his pants and expose the puncture wound that was already reddening and beginning to swell.
Unflinching, he leaned over, cut a v-shaped incision an inch deep, and scooped the flesh away with the sharp blade. He could smell the venom as he discarded the scoop of bleeding flesh, and sliced two long strips of cloth from his pants. His teeth began to chatter. Pain overwhelmed him. His thoughts were a jumble of images flashing through his head:
Amelie’s face as he entered her in the sauna.
Handley in his death seat.
A shaft of blue sunlight.
The rattlesnake striking in the cave.
Uncle Tony’s frozen rictus.
His Pa vomiting in the bathroom.
The beautiful Song Wiley, serene in death.
The white wolf pointing him the way.
Hamilton’s infernal sneer.
Drawing on his last strength, he leaned forward to suck the venom from the wound. But the angle was impossible even for an agile man. No matter how he tried it, he simply wasn’t flexible enough to reach beneath and above his knee.
Reading his master’s dilemma, the shepherd’s lifesaving instincts instantly took over.
Cody’s heart jumped. “No, Charley,” he grunted from his near-delirium. But it was too late.
His faithful sidekick, whose life Cody had saved long ago, was settled on his haunches beside Ka-Wan’s leg, his rough tongue licking at the wound as though attacking one of Waldo’s bones, aggressively sucking the venom from it.
Never give up hope. Hope is a test. When you think all is lost, an answer will come to you. A solution will be found. A gift from the Creator?
It was working.
Though Cody was beginning to shake, and the pain that numbed his lower legs was intense, the numbness was not climbing higher. He looked straight into Charley’s eyes. The flashing download of thoughts slowed. He began a nimiipuutimpt chant to himself, slowing the words, lowering them deep in his throat.
He felt himself recovering, felt the blood flowing in his legs again.
Charley finished his licking. He stood up, stretched his legs and shook himself. He staggered across the cavern floor, looked back at Cody, put his head back and howled, a single, sustained, note.
A few seconds passed and, off in the distance, his song was answered with the same call.
Then Charley crumpled at his master’s feet.
Helplessly Cody watched the fire flicker out of his canine friend’s eyes until they were flat and cold and still.
Charley had taken Number Seven for himself.
The howl from the outside came again, this time mournful, echoing the sorrow Cody was experiencing.
Quickly Cody did his best to bind his wound with the strips he’d sliced from his pants. Reaching down to place his hand on Charley’s head, Cody held back his tears and stumbled after Androg.
Δ
The far exit of the cave opened into a clearing in the woods. As Cody left the shelter, a flash of lightning made it clear that the clearing was empty. But his eyes instantly spotted Hamilton’s wet tracks, moving north.
Wincing at the pain of his cut leg and wobbly from the temporary paralysis, he followed the tracks till they entered the woods on the far side of the cave clearing.
Then lost all signs in the bramble bushes. Cody ducked and wove his way through, checking every inch for clues of passage. But wit
hout Charley along and his prodigious sense of smell, he was coming up empty-handed.
He’d gone half a mile when he stopped, squatting down behind a pin oak. He studied a bare circle of earth in front of him where the bushes had died out from what looked to have been a quickly-contained brush fire.
On one side was a mini-cliff, a sheer granite face dropping ten feet. If his night-vision had not been so keen he might have tumbled to his death.
Above the cliff were more tracks.
He needed to catch his breath anyway so he forced himself to be patient, studying the tracks for direction and estimating they were no older than a few minutes.
Where was Hamilton going? What kind of merry chase was his demented psyche leading him on?
Cautiously he stood up and, careful to avoid the precipice, walked across the bare circle back into the brush on the far side.
The bramble abruptly ended. A branch of the meadow was on the other side, and he could see the tracks clearly again. He was feeling stronger by the minute.
Δ
The howls came again, answered from the direction of the zoo. It was as though one of the wolves had broken free and the other was still in Dave’s compound.
The animals were speaking to him, though he couldn’t imagine how they knew where he was. The wound in his leg throbbed to remind him. Of course, they can smell my blood. He could see it was bleeding through the makeshift tourniquet.
He howled back.
And then, limping along, he navigated between their responses, as though they were his own personal GPS system, until he knew he was closing in on Androg.
Back across the meadow, back through the brambles—as the howling from both sides warned him he was almost upon his quarry.
Back to the bare circle above the cliff in the midst of the tangled brush—that was no longer empty.
The howling ceased.
Oblivious to the rain, Wade Hamilton was waiting for him, leaning against an oak tree. A flash of light illuminated the red-suited devil.
“I was going to give you another minute,” the man said in a voice that no longer sounded even remotely human. The smile he flashed at Cody was a blood-curdling glimpse into the heart of darkness. “Can’t get enough of me, hunh?” he taunted. “I thought I’d made you Number Seven back at the cave. So I guess that number is still up for grabs.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Cody said. “You killed my dog.”
“Yeah, I’m a real prick,” Hamilton said. “I figured the faithful sniffer was your only shot, but it was a helluva long shot. I congratulate you. I hate dogs.”
“You also killed your favorite Amazon.”
Hamilton shrugged. “I’m not surprised you’re not more observant. I always thought your investigatory skills were wildly exaggerated by the fawning press. She wasn’t an Amazon, dear boy, she was dressed as my private Cupid. Designed the costume herself, especially for tonight.”
“You’re under arrest,” Cody said. “You have the right to remain silent—“
Hamilton’s demonic laughter overrode Cody’s attempt to Mirandize him. “There’ll be plenty of time for silence later,” he scoffed.
Then, in a torrent of words, he rushed on to boast about Androg’s murderous exploits.
He confirmed that the original idea was for it to be a contest between them. The survivor would get to kill the ace detective—or be killed by him. Hamilton shook his head. “I’d planned it from the beginning that I would get her before she could get me. If you want something done right, better do it yourself.”
Cody had lost track of the madman’s logic but saw there were now actual tears in Hamilton’s eyes.
The writer stared at him and held out an arrow. “Turns out, I don’t have the heart to live without her either,” he said. “Please.”
“Well, I’m not about to do you any honors,” Cody said. This criminal egomaniac man needed one way or another to pay for the lives he’d taken, starting with Charley’s. “I’m taking you in.”
“Are you indeed?”
This time Cody was ready. Before Hamilton could move his hand toward his bow, the hunting knife was in flight.
Its aim dead-on, the sharp knife pierced through the palm of Hamilton’s hand and pinned it squarely to the oak.
As Cody reached for his cuffs, Hamilton howled in pain and, with his free hand, yanked the knife free. This time the sound he emitted was more like the savage grunt of a wounded bear.
Grimacing through his pain, Hamilton brandished the knife at Cody. “Want it back?” he asked, his hand dripping blood.
In a lightning move Cody whipped the cuffs toward the writer’s knife hand, causing him to wince and howl with pain as the metal connected with his wrist. Then Cody pulled the chain forward, wrenching the knife free.
It fell to the soggy ground and Hamilton bent to retrieve it.
But not before Cody made his move, head-butting him and knocking him backward.
Still reaching for the knife, Hamilton fell on his face with a grunt.
Cody kicked the knife five yards farther into the tiny clearing. Then he turned back to the supine writer, and grabbed his left hand to cuff it.
He’d managed to click shut the cuff when Hamilton, with preternatural strength, reached for Cody’s belt with his right hand and pulled himself to his feet.
He spit in Cody’s face.
Hamilton spun his body and managed to let loose a roundhouse that caught the detective square in the solar plexus.
Caught off guard, Cody doubled over with the pain and surprise of the blow.
But only for a moment.
Grabbing hold of the cuffs he wrenched with all his strength and turned Hamilton back around so his back was toward him.
Hamilton was ready for this, reached back to catch Cody’s butt, and flipped him over himself like a circus act.
Cody landed on his feet, gnashing his teeth from the pain from his wound.
Hamilton attacked, raining blows first into Cody’s abdomen then concentrating his fury on Cody’s wounded thigh.
Cody, holding on, turned Hamilton’s strength against him. He allowed himself to be backed up, inch at a time. He could hear the crack as his elbow broke one of Hamilton’s ribs.
Bellowing, Hamilton charged again—and the two men plummeted together from the cliff.
This time the surprise was Hamilton’s, and Cody had the advantage as he twisted the writer’s heavier torso so that he landed on his back—knocking the air from his lungs—but cushioning Cody’s fall on top of him.
Which further took away the killer’s breath.
As Hamilton lay gasping, Cody moved to grab the writer’s right arm and force his hand into the remaining cuff.
But Hamilton, despite his pain, was too fast. With a heroic contortion, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver and wielded it at Cody, causing the detective to roll off and keep his distance.
Before Cody could stop him, Hamilton placed the tip of the arrow into his mouth and sucked on it.
“You don’t think I’m giving you the last laugh?” he gasped. Then he stabbed himself in the side.
Well, Cody thought, in its own bizarre way, this was classic “depression phase,” the last of the serial killer’s psychological phases as defined by psychologist Joel Norris. He watched Ward Lee Hamilton’s paroxysms, making no effort to come to his assistance.
This time the howl was only yards away, making the hair on Cody’s arms stand up. But he was weyekin. He understood the language of animals.
This time it was a welcome howl.
Cody waited for the man’s paroxysms to end before he reached for his cell phone.
That was when he saw the wolf.
41
Thursday, November 1
Brother Wolf sat and watched, bemused. Then he looked up at the moon, then back at Cody and growled. Not a threatening growl, but stern.
The alpha male was crouching on its forelegs, snarling at the strangely-garbed man whose death throes he
had just witnessed. When Hamilton’s paroxysms ended, and he was no longer a threat, the wolf acknowledged Cody, who used the weyekin language to thank it for its concern.
“Hey, boy,” Cody asked, “How the hell did you get out?”
“He jumped the fence,” came the voice of Dave Runningfox, as he ran into the tiny clearing beneath the cliff.
“Jesus, Dave. What the hell’s going on?”
“One might ask you the same thing. You look like you’ve just boxed with the devil.”
“I have.”
Dave’s eyebrows rose as he stared at Hamilton’s red-clad body. “The alpha was howling for you. I couldn’t shut him up—not even with that extra bone you left the other night.”
Cody was squatting next to the animal, which seemed subdued now that he saw Cody was not in danger. “Well, he’s obviously fully recuperated,” he said. Cody nodded for Frank to use the tranquilizer gun on the wolf so he could be transported back safely to the zoo.
As the alpha male slumped into unconsciousness, Cody looked at Dave. “They got Charley,” he whispered.
“Yeah, I know. The alpha led me to him. He’s already in my van.”
Δ
En route to the morgue, Cody phoned Amelie to tell her that he was okay, but he had lost Charley.
“I am so sorry,” she stammered, knowing that anything she could say would be inadequate. “I know you loved him.”
And Cody realized he loved this woman too.
Bergman, Wolfsheim, and Annie were waiting for him, along with the corpses of the Androg duo that had just been positioned on the examining tables.
Ward Hamilton’s badly bruised body was further distinguished only by its enormous post-mortem erection.
Later, Wolfsheim would confirm that the writer’s brain was indeed riddled with cancer. “I’d have given him no more than two months to live, at most,” he judged.
Bergman had immediately identified Victoria’s perfume as the one worn by the woman in red who’d passed his table Friday night at La Venezia—two hours before Uncle Tony’s murder. He’d verified from an eyewitness that the heartless bitch had a limousine wait for her in the parking lot while she did her work inside.