Alien Taste

  “Any place, as long as it’s with you.”

  It earned him the slight Mona Lisa smile.

  The phone rang and she picked it up. “Agent Zheng.” She listened and then glanced up at Ukiah. “Actually, he’s right here.” She listened a moment longer. “I don’t think that makes him an expert, but I can bring him over.” She hung up the phone. “The police would like you to come look over a Pack member for them.”

  He was slightly startled. “They caught one of the Pack? Who?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  Nor did Ukiah recognize the Pack member when they arrived and were shown the two-way mirror with a view into an interrogation room. The member was a tall lanky man, grizzled long hair, and dark eyes, like so many of the Pack. He was clad in a worn pair of leather pants, high biker boots, and a leather jacket with a stylized running wolf.

  Ukiah shook his head, watching the man pace back and forth in the small dim room. “I don’t recognize him.”

  “We’d be surprised if you did,” the police captain that met them explained. “We believe he’s a West Coast member, of the Wild Wolves. He won’t admit it, won’t tell us his name, and has no ID. We were hoping you could verify if he was a Pack member or not.”

  Ukiah looked in surprise at the captain. “How would I know?”

  “You’re the only person in this building that’s actually dealt with the Pack. We’re going off mug shots and old reports. So, what do you think? Is he a Pack member?”

  Indigo was silent and unreadable. Ukiah shrugged and walked up to the glass. As if he knew Ukiah was watching, the man came to stand before the mirror, his lip curling back almost in a snarl. Ukiah studied him, looking for any clue yes or no.

  “He looks like Pack,” he finally admitted. “But he isn’t. I don’t know why. There’s some gut reaction missing. He’s not Pack.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Almost. I’ve only dealt with the Pack once. But I’m almost positive he’s not.”

  The captain turned to a plainclothes detective standing beside him. “Bring him in.”

  The detective walked into the interrogation room, caught the fake Pack member, and brought him snarling out. The fake Pack member glared at Ukiah as the detective parked the man in front of him.

  “Take a good look,” the captain said. “Are you sure he’s not Pack?”

  The man glanced at the captain, then sneered down at Ukiah. “Who the hell are you?”

  Ukiah gazed at the man. Why was he so sure that this man wasn’t Pack? He thought back to Rennie, Hellena, and Bear. There had been something about them, something he had never felt in the presence of other people, something that had gone unnoticed till now. He shook his head as he tried to place it. “No. I’m positive now. This man isn’t Pack.”

  The fake gave him a Pack-like glare for a moment longer. Then the look vanished. It was like watching an actor take off his mask. “How the hell can you tell?”

  Ukiah shook his head, still unable to pinpoint it. “You just know the difference.”

  “This is Detective Robert Cecil.” The captain perched on the corner of the table. “He’s one of our best undercover agents. He’s spent weeks researching the Pack. We wanted to run one last test before he tried to infiltrate the Pack.”

  “They would eat him alive,” Ukiah murmured.

  “Are you sure?” the captain prodded. “I’ve heard about you, that you can be downright creepy the way you can spot things. Are you sure that you’re spotting something that would slip past the Pack?”

  Ukiah considered the question. He certainly could tell things that other people couldn’t. But what about the Pack? He remembered the way he could tell what had been on Coyote’s mind, the clarity of the thoughts as if they had been his own. He shuddered and remembered too the test, the way Hellena seemed to flip through his memories, how he felt the Pack watching, experiencing it with him.

  He didn’t believe in telepathy, but there was no other way to explain the phenomenon. It was the very reason he never even questioned if the Pack had identified him rightly. The very reason, most likely, they had been so dead sure of who he was. There was a knowing down to the core of one’s being. You couldn’t deny it. Pack knew Pack. He looked at the waiting policemen. If he didn’t convince them without sounding crazy, they would send this man to his death.

  “They would know.” He wet his mouth, searching for something to add, and found it. “When Rennie Shaw first saw me in Schenley Park, he didn’t come any nearer to me than fifteen feet. It was night. There were no lights. It was raining. I was laying facedown in the mud. And he had never seen me in his life. But he recognized me as a Pack member’s son.”

  There was still doubt in their eyes and the way they held themselves.

  He found another nail and drove it home. “Everything you’ve heard about me holds true for the Pack.”

  They looked at each other, doubt still there, but no longer of what he was saying.

  Behind Ukiah, the door flew open. A uniformed policeman in his early twenties stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with excitement. “They’ve brought in a Dog Warrior! They stopped him for speeding and found one of the missing FBI agents in his trunk! It took about five officers to get him in the wagon, and they’ve got him in booking right now.”

  Ukiah was carried along with the flood downstairs. The rookie cop ran most of the trip down backward, explaining details of the arrest. The Pack member had been driving a late-model sedan and gone forty through a twenty-five mile per hour speed trap. There had been two marked cars, a motorcycle policeman, and an unmarked car manning the speed trap. One of the officers had noticed a bloody hand-print on the trunk, and they wrestled the Pack member out of the car, handcuffed him securely, and then searched the trunk. Wil Trace was in the trunk, recently dead, covered with vomit. Needle marks covered his forearms. Cans of gel fuel were tucked in around his body, and the speed trap had been mere blocks from a row of abandoned houses.

  “The coroner’s office already picked up the body, and they’re requesting police protection.”

  The captain grabbed another uniform as they hurried through the halls. “You two go to the coroner’s office and make sure nothing happens this time.”

  They came into booking. Two officers had a tall lean man between them, pressing his fingertips to the mug card.

  All the hair on the back of Ukiah’s neck went on end, and he slammed to a stop. Oh, my God! It was as if fear was poured from a bucket over him, drenching him suddenly and completely. This was the enemy. This was the one to be feared. This was the one to kill if he could. This one would kill without hesitation.

  Even as Ukiah started to backpedal, the man gave a pure howl of anger and exploded into a whirlwind of movement.

  The man caught Detective Cecil, slammed him to the wall—then frowned. “You’re not Pack!” The man snarled and flung the undercover cop aside, scanning the room. His eyes locked on Ukiah, and knowledge registered there.

  Ukiah skittered backward, half falling, half climbing over desks as he encountered them. In his head was Rennie’s warning. If the other side found out about you, they wouldn’t rest until they had you. Like an arrow of death, the man came on, straight at Ukiah, smashing everything in the way to reach him.

  Policemen leaped to tackle the killer. Even as the cops reached him, they were snatched up and sent flying, rag dolls before the man’s rage. The killer vaulted a desk in a standing jump, landing before Ukiah.

  Ukiah yipped in surprise, leaping backward. His memory told him there was an exposed I-beam above him. He caught hold of it. Momentum swung him up and back, and he kicked his pursuer full in the chest. The man tumbled backward onto the floor, and a crowd of policemen piled on top of him. Ukiah dropped down to the floor beyond the cops, jostling to pin down the man’s arms and handcuff him.

  For a moment the man seemed stopped. Then he came heaving up out of the pile of bodies, shedding policemen. There were screams of pain, the cra
ck of bones, and blood scented the air.

  “He’s got a gun!” someone shouted.

  The man held a service pistol in his hands. He turned toward Ukiah, bringing the pistol up. A dozen officers were yelling, “Put down the gun! Drop it!”

  Ukiah stepped back and found himself up against a wall. Behind the man was a ring of police officers and Indigo, all with their weapons trained on the killer. If they missed, though, they would hit Ukiah.

  The man leveled the pistol.

  A single gun roared behind the man. A hole the size of Ukiah’s fist sprouted from the man’s forehead. The bullet struck the wall a foot from Ukiah’s head. Angry blood and bits of brain sprayed him across the face. The man’s knees folded, and he fell hard onto the floor. There was smoke coming from Indigo’s gun. Her face was featureless with concentration. Everyone stood, frozen into position, and silence held the room.

  The captain broke the silence. “What the hell was that all about?” The room burst into activity again, a sudden roar after the calm. Officers surged forward to pluck the gun from the lifeless hand, check for a pulse, cringe at the spray of gore covering Ukiah.

  Ukiah slid down to sit on the floor, leaving a neat outline of himself in blood above him.

  The man sprawled dead on the floor. A neat hole punched in the back of his head and the massive wound in the front. His eyes were open, a sightless angry stare at Ukiah. There was, however, the sense of life within him. Just like there had been in Janet Haze.

  Indigo came around the desk, her gun still ready. She considered the carnage and uncocked her gun. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  She picked up a box of tissues and crouched down to wipe the blood from his face.

  “What the hell was that all about?” the captain asked, this time clearly of Ukiah.

  “The hell if I know,” Ukiah said truthfully. “He knew I was Pack and he wanted me dead—but I don’t know why.”

  Indigo glanced at the dead man and back to Ukiah. “Was he one of the ones that kidnapped you?”

  “He’s not Pack.” Ukiah closed his eyes and focused on her hands on him. “He’s part of the other gang Rennie warned me about. The Ontongard. Rennie failed to mention that this other gang could spot me in a crowded room.”

  “He knew you were in the room before he spotted you,” Indigo murmured. “He went at Detective Cecil because of the clothes, but then he realized his mistake. How did he know?”

  He opened his eyes and lost himself in her concerned and confused gaze. “The same way the Pack knew I was one of them. The same way I knew Detective Cecil wasn’t Pack. There’s something I can’t describe or explain, but you know.”

  And then he suddenly understood. Pack knows Pack. They can spot their own kind—and humans aren’t their kind. Everyone in this room was human—except me.

  I’m not human.

  It was like taking a fist to the gut. The hard truth forced the air out of him. Facts cascaded down on him, supporting this awful knowledge. His perfect memory. His tracking ability. His heightened sense of smell, hearing, taste. His ability to read people’s DNA. Even the fact that he had been raised by wolves and yet became a fully functioning member of society within a few short years.

  “No,” he whispered in denial, shaking his head. He had assumed for so long that he was different because he was raised among wolves. But he couldn’t deny the truth. People called his abilities “creepy” but what they meant was “inhuman.” There was no way a human could do everything that he did.

  “What is it?” Indigo brought his focus back to her—to her beautiful worried human face.

  If I’m not human, what am I?

  “Ukiah?”

  “I need to get out of here.” He scrambled to his feet, fighting the sudden urge to run. There’s no out-running yourself. He needed time to think. No, he needed information. He needed to know what he was. “I need to find Rennie. I need to talk to him.”

  “You’re going to try and find the Pack?” She had to run to keep up with him as he sought the door. Behind them the police captain was calling to Indigo, reminding her that as the shooter she had forms to fill out and sign.

  “I need to know what’s going on.” He gave her a half-truth, hating himself for lying even that much to her. “In a room full of cops, with a dead FBI agent in his car trunk, all that man cared about was killing me—and I don’t know why.”

  “How do you know that the Pack won’t hurt you? You said they almost killed you last time. What if they change their mind?”

  “They won’t. I’m one of them. I’m under their protection. They consider me a Pack cub.” I’m one of their children. He remembered Hellena’s wistful protectiveness after the test and almost staggered as another truth hit him. No, I’m their only child.

  They reached their bikes. He pulled off his shirt to scrub away the last of the gore before pulling on his helmet.

  “Ukiah, I don’t understand.” Indigo was picking up her helmet.

  “There’s a war going on between the Pack and the Ontongard.” He threw his bloody shirt into a nearby trashcan and pulled on his jacket. “I don’t know what they’re fighting about, but I’m stuck in the middle. Already both sides have tried to take me out. Janet Haze and Wil Trace got caught up in it, and they’re both dead. I can’t stumble around without a clue. The Pack almost killed you and Max. There’s a dozen policemen in there wounded because of it. I’ve got too much to lose. I have to know what’s going on.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You know I’m safe from the Pack, but you aren’t.”

  “I don’t know you’re safe until I see it for myself.”

  He leaned forward and placed his hand on her cheek. “Trust me, Indigo. I will be careful.”

  She kissed his palm and moved into his arms, holding him fiercely. “I guess this is what I get for not trying harder with the accountants.”

  They kissed one last time and then she reluctantly stepped away.

  “Be careful.” She controlled her face, but her eyes were sad.

  “I will.”

  He started moving and he couldn’t stop. He rode directionless for a while, panic blinding him to everything but the need to run. He finally pulled off to the side of the road and sat hugging himself.

  “Stop this!” he shouted at himself. “Stop. Just find the Pack, talk to them.”

  Yeah, sure, just find the Pack. The FBI and the police have been trying for years.

  “You’re a private investigator,” he told himself. “You know how to find people. You’re the best tracker in the state. You can find them.”

  Last known address was the place to start. He started up his motorcycle, walked in a tight turn, waited for a break in the traffic and pulled out. His directionless run had left him far east of Pittsburgh. He worked his way back to the Swissvale area. In fits and starts, he found his way to the warehouse.

  He parked in the weedy parking lot. A yellow piece of police tape fluttered on the door frame. The police had come and gone, and someone behind them. Curious neighbors? The Ontongard? Ukiah checked his pistol nervously, then stalked quietly to the dark warehouse. The door hung partially open. He put his back to the wall beside the door and pushed it open while still under hard cover as Max had trained him.

  No one fired shots through the doorway. Nothing moved inside the vast darkness. He strained to hear and caught only the far-off tinny music of the merry-go-round at Kennywood. The smell of Pack hung thick as the kicked-up dust, laced with cigarette smoke. He noticed a fresh butt by the door, crouched, and picked it up. Kraynak’s saliva tainted the end. He dropped the cigarette butt and eyed the door. Sweat slicked his pistol grip.

  He took a deep breath, tightened his hold on his pistol, and stepped into the warehouse. Moonlight dappled the floor. He stalked through the dark, filtering out the hammering of his heart, his own footfalls, the rustle of his own clothing, and listened to the pure
silence.

  He hadn’t noticed the night before, but rooms lined the far back of the warehouse. They had been offices at one time. The Pack apparently used them as living quarters. The windows looking over the river sparkled with a recent cleaning. The floors had been swept, scrubbed, and lived on. He uncovered traces of Pack hair, engine oil, and food. The Pack, it seemed, shared his passion for curried chicken. In the cracks of the wood flooring, he found an earring—a tiny gold dream catcher hoop. Traces of Hellena remained on the sharp stud part, a reminder of the Pack’s odd genetic profile. He examined it once again and found what he had missed simply by not understanding the clues—hidden under that surface layer of Hellena lay a core of alien genetics. Rennie had the identical alien soul, a different “human” veneer. It was the changing from human to alien that caused the odd fractures, the discontinuity. Janet Haze and those that killed Wil Trace, the Ontongard, had the same kind of jumbling, but they didn’t match the Pack’s.

  “I know what Prime expected to crawl out of that girl’s womb.” Rennie’s words echoed in Ukiah’s head again. “I’ve had nightmares about it since I joined the Pack.”

  What kind of monster did they expect? Was it why he was the Pack’s only child? Surely if the idea of producing children gave you nightmares, it would limit how many were born—but only one born to nearly a hundred men and women?

  He cast about for more clues but found the place devoid of information. The Pack seemed to expect someone of his abilities to search the rooms. Many of the surfaces had been scrubbed with a sterilizing solution. Here and there, Ukiah caught disturbing traces of Ontongard. The enemy, it seemed, had searched for the Pack.

  Out the back door of the warehouse, he found where the Pack had ridden off on their bikes the day before. The mud encased in the wheels took him three blocks down the rough pavement until the gang splintered, breaking into groups of twos and threes and heading out in different directions.

  He trotted back to his bike, wondering why the Pack hadn’t torched the warehouse to cover any possibilities of being followed. Perhaps, he decided, they planned to make use of it again when their enemies forgot about it. Would the Ontongard forget, he wondered, or did they share his perfect memory?