Ben locked it down tight. His voice didn’t waver when he said, “If you kill that wolf, he’ll turn into a person, won’t he? Like the guy that killed your dad.”
Cormac nodded, wondered what he was going to do. Wondered if Ben’s fear was right: that he would just as soon let his cousin die.
“Cormac, you have to let them go. He’s just looking after his family. Like you.”
Cormac almost lost it then, because Ben was wrong. Cormac wasn’t looking after anything. He didn’t care, didn’t they see that? This was pure, meaningless revenge, because Ben was right, he’d already got the one that had killed his dad. And if he’d been faster, been less afraid, more ruthless, he might have been able to save his father. He should have been able to save him.
That would always be true, no matter how many monsters he killed. This wasn’t about looking after family. Cormac should have done better, should have known better. Dad should still be alive. He’d know what to do.
Ben knew what to do.
Cormac lowered his rifle.
A heart-stopping moment later, the stranger lowered his. Cormac wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d shot them all. That would have been the safest, most ruthless thing to do. “Come on, Michael,” he said and backed away.
The wolf picked up the meat and trotted off. His brother followed him to the trees.
Ben got to his feet. His breaths wheezed a little, and Cormac remembered he’d mentioned asthma. Kid shouldn’t have come along. Cormac shouldn’t have let him. He should have helped him up off the ground. He thought about it too late.
Maybe he’d remember next time.
The wolf and the stranger disappeared into the trees, and Cormac’s heart clenched. He’d missed his shot. His father would be disappointed.
* * *
At first, Ben wondered how he was going to keep his cousin from shooting—push the rifle away, yell at him, chase off the wolf, anything. He’d start a fight with Cormac, he didn’t doubt that and didn’t doubt that he’d lose badly—and that would get Cormac in trouble all over again with his folks. Wolves were endangered, he knew that much about them. Shooting one would bring down a lot of grief on Cormac, which he didn’t need since his father died.
Then the stranger showed up, and he was the only one who’d walk away from this, Ben was sure.
Ben wondered at the story behind the pair: How did the brother get this way, and how long had they been doing this? How could someone be so devoted to a brother that he’d follow him into this?
How could Cormac be so devoted to his father that he’d follow him into this?
Ben had no doubt Cormac would let it happen. He only cared about killing the wolf, even if it meant they all died for it. Ben wondered if he could make a run for it. His lungs were already hurting. The stranger had hit the tree from farther off. He’d shoot Ben easy. No running away from that, even if his lungs could take it.
Cormac looked at him. His gaze was stony as ever, and the hard look didn’t seem right on a smooth-faced kid. Ben didn’t know if he stared back at a cold killer, or the cousin who shared his room. They couldn’t possibly be the same person. Cormac had to pick one or the other.
Pick me, Ben pleaded silently. He didn’t remember what he said—probably begging for his life like a snot-nosed kid.
Then it was over. The guns were lowered, and the stranger and the wolf—his brother—went away.
Ben started to get up. Hours must have passed, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stand again, he was so stiff with cold. He managed it, his muscles creaking, his hands shaking.
“I should have shot him,” Cormac said, clenching his rifle.
The pain of memories filled Cormac’s eyes. Now that he’d seen the kind of reaction he’d wanted, Ben wished he could make it stop. Cormac was the strong one.
“Come on.” Ben put his hand on Cormac’s shoulder to turn him around. “Let’s go home.”
They walked in silence until the house came into view. No lights were on. They hadn’t been discovered.
Off-handed, Cormac said, “Know how to shoot?”
Ben considered him. Something was different. He couldn’t say how. Cormac still had that cold, rigid stance that made everyone so careful around him. But Ben didn’t think times in the house would be so quiet and strained anymore.
“Course I do. Dad taught me.” Couldn’t live on a ranch with rifles and not know how to shoot. Everybody knew that.
“Maybe we could go hunting sometime.”
Ben looked sharply at him.
He shrugged. “You know, coyotes. Or deer or something.”
“Real hunting?”
“Yeah, sure. I mean, I know you can go out in the cold, even if your folks don’t.”
Ben bit back a grin. Couldn’t let Cormac think he was excited or anything.
The moon set behind the hills.
GOD’S CREATURES
Cormac waited in the cab of his Jeep, watching each car that pulled into the rest area on I-25 north of Monument. So far, none of them looked like the one he was waiting for. A lot of truckers stopped here, with a few road-trippers thrown in, all shapes and sizes. McNeill would stand out, when he made his appearance.
Forty-five minutes after he was due, the aggressively souped-up pickup truck veered off the freeway and came up the lane. It had oversized tires, lights on the roll bar, a gun rack—empty for now—in the back window and a Confederate flag sticker on the bumper. McNeill was that kind of asshole.
Cormac stepped out of the Jeep; McNeill saw him and swerved to park a couple of spots down. The guy climbed out of his truck and dropped to the ground. He was tall and stocky, wearing worn jeans and a flannel shirt over a white tee. He shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended he wasn’t cold in the winter air, but he was shrugging and tense, trying to keep warm. Cormac waited for him.
“You’re supposed to be keeping your head down,” Cormac said flatly, prodding on purpose, knowing it would piss McNeill off.
“What? My head’s down.” He looked around, frowning, appearing smug because there weren’t any cops in sight. “What’s your problem?”
“Registration sticker on your plate’s expired. That’s like waving a flag at the cops,” Cormac said, nodding toward the back end of the truck.
“And I don’t give a fucking cent to an illegal government.” He pulled himself straighter, like he was daring Cormac to make a big deal out of it.
Yeah, McNeill was one of those. Didn’t seem to care that the cops wouldn’t get you on the weapons stockpiles or the conspiracy charges. They nailed you on back taxes and traffic violations. You covered your ass on the little things as the price of doing business. But that was why McNeill was a go-between and Cormac did the heavy lifting.
“What’s the job?” Cormac asked.
He’d gotten a call two days ago. A rancher he’d worked with before had had some trouble—Cormac’s kind of trouble. They both knew McNeill, who spent a lot of time traveling around the state, so he sent McNeill with the details you didn’t talk about over the phone and the down payment. McNeill didn’t know what exactly Cormac did. He probably assumed he was some kind of hit man.
Which was mostly true.
McNeill went back to his truck and returned with a manila envelope, which he handed to Cormac. He only took a brief look inside, finding a page of description and a business-sized envelope, thick with cash. There’d be ten hundred-dollar bills. He wasn’t going to count it out in the open, but he did pull out a bill and hand it to McNeill for payment.
“Thanks,” McNeill said, shoving the hundred in his pocket. “Good luck, man.”
Cormac had already turned back to the Jeep.
* * *
He arrived at Joe Harrison’s ranch in Lamar early the next morning. The old man was waiting for him on the front porch of the ramshackle house. The two-story building was probably close to a hundred years old. It needed a new roof and a coat of paint at the very least. But with a place like this,
any extra money the family earned went right back into the ranch. The barns and fencing would get repairs before the house did.
“Thanks for coming,” Harrison said as Cormac left the Jeep, and walked down to shake his hand. The rancher was in his sixties, his face furrowed and weathered, tough as leather from spending his life raising cattle out here. The kind of guy who was more at home with barbed wire and baling twine than a comfortable chair and a TV set.
“Let’s take a look,” Cormac said.
Harrison opened a gate in the fence, and they rode in Cormac’s Jeep, straight across the prairie for about three miles. Harrison navigated by landmarks, pointing to show Cormac the way.
“There, it’s right there,” Harrison said finally, and Cormac stopped the Jeep.
Harrison led him to a spot where stands of scrub oak followed the contour of the hills, bordering the open plains. A carcass lay here, partly sheltered by the wind, flattening the grass. About a week old, Cormac guessed. The steer, a typical rust-and-cream-colored Hereford, had been savaged, its gut ripped open from sternum to tail, its face and tongue torn out, its throat flayed. Scavengers had been through since then—scraps of hair and bone radiated out from the remains. Most of what was left was leathery skin and hair over a ribcage and a leering, ragged skull.
“The second one’s about a mile that way,” Harrison said, pointing again. “And we had another one just last night.”
They returned to the Jeep and drove east a mile or so. Cormac didn’t need directions this time; he spotted the vultures circling overhead. When he pulled up near the spot, a pair of coyotes ran off, then hunkered down in the long grass, waiting to return to their meal in peace.
The other carcass had been dried out and picked over; it hadn’t smelled like anything. The rotten, bloody stink of this one hit Cormac as soon as he left the Jeep.
“The others looked just like this one?” Cormac asked Harrison, who nodded. The rancher winced, turning his face away from the stench.
This one had been gutted like the other. Savaged, but not eaten. Guts and organs spilled out, pink flesh glistened on bones. The scavengers had had a meal handed to them. The weather was too cold for flies, which would have been swarming.
This was why Harrison had called him. They weren’t dealing with a predator that killed because it needed to eat. This was a pure killer, and it was only a matter of time before it attacked someone. Cormac had seen this pattern before. A beast like this might start out with the best of intentions. It might flee to distant wilderness where it would kill a few rabbits or maybe a deer with no harm done. But then it would start to slide. It couldn’t stay away from civilization forever. It would still have the bloodlust, but it wouldn’t bother fleeing. Inhibitions would fail; it would struggle to keep from hurting anyone, but someday it would slip. It would attack livestock. Then it would finally give in to instinct and kill the human beings it hated because it was no longer one of them.
Cormac had to find the thing before that happened. Full moon was still a week off, but that didn’t matter when one of them went bad. They could change anytime they wanted, and did mostly when they lost control.
“You have any idea who’s doing this? Anybody notice any strangers around here? Someone who might be camping out? Or has someone in town started acting funny?”
“If I had any idea who it was I wouldn’t need to call you,” Harrison said, frowning.
Cormac stepped around the kill, looking for tracks, for the pattern of wolf pads as big as a man’s face, with the matching puncture marks of claws. The winter had been dry so far, the ground was rock hard. He might not have found anything among the carpet of dead grasses, but werewolf claws were sharp and he found the little holes in the ground, as far apart as his spread hand. He threw his keys to Harrison. He’d left his rifles in the vehicle, but had a semiautomatic handgun in a shoulder holster, hidden under his leather jacket. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“What did you find?”
“Give me the afternoon, I’ll let you know.”
Harrison drove off in the Jeep, and Cormac followed the tracks.
The wolf could have run for miles. Cormac might be hiking all day—or at least as long as he could keep following his quarry. But for the first couple of miles the trail was clear; he found prints from one stride to the next, and on. The thing was headed in a straight line. Straight for home.
He reached the edge of the property, where Harrison was waiting at the Jeep. Cormac waved at him and kept going. The immense wolf tracks followed the ranch’s dirt driveway, then paralleled the highway, back toward town.
So it was someone from town. Not some recluse cut off from civilization. That made it worse. This was civilization gone amok. A werewolf could only follow instinct, which would drive it back home, wherever that might be. A monster might kill its own family and not even know what it did. Cormac had to find it first.
Brick-dry prairie along the highway gave way to empty, weed-grown lots, dirt roads, then cracked pavement, then sidewalks. Weeds gave way to lawns and welcoming rows of houses with porches, screen doors, and family cars outside. This all gave Cormac a sense of foreboding, because he was still following the same tracks, sparse now but sure in their direction: the puncture marks of claws in garden soil, torn up tufts of grass. He’d lose the trail on pavement, but find it again after hunting along the margins of lawns. The trail was straight enough that he wondered if he’d find a man at the end of it, staring back at him with a wolf behind his eyes.
What he found, when the prints and claw marks ended, was an oblong of pressed earth against an old brick building—the kind of shape a person might have made if he’d curled up and went to sleep right there. The building was big, three stories, probably built around the turn of the last century. It might have been a schoolhouse. Why had the wolf come here?
There were no human footprints to follow—the distinctive claw marks had disappeared. Finally, he lost the trail.
He expanded his search, took in the area—the tall brick building seemed to be the center of a complex. One of the other buildings was definitely a school, like the kind built in the 1960s—low, one story, a flat roof, a grid of windows. Construction paper artwork hung in the windows in one classroom.
Across a lawn stood another antique building, this one with a high, peaked roof—a steeple with a cross on top. He went around to the front and read the stone marker there: Saint Catherine’s.
This was a Catholic church and school.
* * *
He preferred the jobs where the wolf was an outcast who fled to wilderness—no witnesses.
At the end of this, he’d have to kill someone. There’d be a body, and the cops didn’t take “He needed killin’” as an excuse. He could try to tell them the thing was a werewolf, but the end result wouldn’t be much different. Prison, psych ward, same thing.
The fewer people saw him lurking around, the fewer people he talked to, the better. He needed to keep it so that the people who did spot him wouldn’t be able to point the cops at him. When the body turned up, Harrison wouldn’t turn him in—Harrison understood.
Cormac walked along the street, passing the school’s grounds and trying to get a feel for the place. He only walked by once, normal, like he had someplace else to be. Several buildings made up the complex, including a couple of homey brick blocks that seemed to be dorms. Around back was a sports field, and a group of girls in matching gray sweatshirts and green sweatpants played soccer. Maybe aged fifteen to seventeen. So, a girls’ boarding school, high school. It was a Saturday; they wouldn’t be in class. There looked to be a couple of adults out with them, women in sweatpants and jackets. During the week there’d be teachers as well, and priest and staff for the church. They’d live on campus, too. In fact, behind the church he spotted what must have been the rectory, a small, square clapboard house attached to a meeting hall.
The werewolf could be any of them. A hundred possibilities, at least. He didn’t know where
to start.
When he was done with his quick survey, he cut back a couple of blocks, made his way to the highway again, and returned to Harrison’s ranch. Dusk was falling.
Joe Harrison must have seen him coming through a window, and met him on the porch.
“You get it? Is it dead?” Harrison said.
Cormac didn’t nod or shake his head, didn’t say yes or no. “I’m working on it. Wondered if you could tell me anything about the Catholic school up the highway.”
“Saint Catherine’s? It’s a reform school. All girls. Full of troublemakers.”
“Really? I didn’t see any fences.”
Harrison chuckled. “Look around. Where are they going to run off to?”
“I tracked your killer there,” Cormac said.
“You think it’s one of them kids?” The rancher donned an eager, hungry look.
Cormac frowned, hoping it wasn’t. He didn’t want to have to go shooting a kid. “I guess I’ll have to find out.”
Harrison shook his head. “Wouldn’t that just figure?”
“You know about any rumors, any suspicions about anyone there? Hear about anything odd?”
“They’re Catholics,” he said with a huff, as though that explained everything. “You know somebody’s always talking about the priest there, if you want rumors.”
Cormac rubbed the back of his neck and looked to the distance, to the flat horizon. The sky was deep blue, turning black with the setting sun. “That’s not a lot of help.”
“I’m just telling you what you asked for. Hey, how long’s this thing going to take? When am I going to be able to let my herd graze again?”
“I’ll let you know when it’s done. By the full moon for sure.”
“That’s a week away.”
“Sure is. But I’ll finish when I finish.” He turned away.
“I wish Douglas was here working on this,” Harrison called after him.
Douglas was Cormac’s father. Harrison had known him—that was how he’d known to call Cormac.