by DD Barant
I shake my head. I can’t argue with him, but his explanation still doesn’t ring true. I let it go for the time being. “All right, let’s say the Impaler is losing his marbles—”
“That one I find kinda offensive,” Charlie says. I shut him up with a look.
“—he’s still what we call an organized killer. He plans very carefully, even though his thought processes may be based on delusional thinking. If he’s operating on a timetable, I don’t know what it is; there was a nine-day period between the first two killings, and an eleven-day gap between the second and the third. A killer like this, I’d expect him to stick to a rigorous schedule or the gaps between murders to decrease—neither appears to be true. Which means that though he’s almost certain to strike again, we don’t know when; could be two weeks, could be two months.”
“But at least we know who we’re looking for,” Gretchen says. “I can generate a list of known associates and past sightings. Perhaps one will lead us to our quarry.”
“I may have a lead,” Eisfanger pipes up. “The drug used on Keiko Miyagi—I have a list of pharmaceutical distributors in the U.S. It’s a lot of data, but maybe I can cross-correlate to something else.”
“I know some guys with connections to the FHR,” Charlie says. “We’ll go talk to ’em.”
“Good,” Cassius says. “Let’s get going.”
That signals the end of the meeting and we all stand up. Once again, Cassius says, “Jace? Just a moment.”
I glance at Gretchen, but she just gives me a bland smile; somehow, that says more than a raised eyebrow could.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Just want you to have this.” He pulls a small vial out of his breast pocket and hands it to me. The others are filing toward the door, but Eisfanger is hanging back.
I take the vial and examine it; it’s got a few ounces of a yellowish fluid inside. “What is it?”
“Wolf pheromones. Dab a little bit of this anywhere you have hair; it’ll make you smell like the alpha female of a Siberian pack.”
“And I want to smell like a Russian wolf why?”
Eisfanger steps forward. “It’ll get you in certain places you wouldn’t be able to otherwise. And a certain amount of respect.”
I scowl at the little vial. “I thought my badge was supposed to do that.”
“Only to a point,” Cassius says. “Especially when dealing with wolves. Pack structure is very important to them, and even the lowest-ranking wolf will be treated better than a human.”
Great. The olfactory equivalent of passing. I slip the vial into my pocket. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want you to be careful. Let Charlie do his job and keep you safe. You’re no good to us dead.”
“No?” I say as I head for the door. “Thanks for letting me know—I forgot to check my contract for a zombie extension clause.”
“Talk to the receptionist on your way out. She’s got details on your accommodations and some paperwork for you.”
While Gretchen works on her list, I take some time to get settled. The receptionist hands me an envelope with a key card and a cash voucher in it; apparently I’ve already got a place to stay within walking distance of the office. I half-expect Charlie to tag along when I say I’m going over there to check it out, but he just nods and says he’ll see me later.
I find it with no problem. Concrete high-rise, security entrance, reasonably sized one-bedroom on the third floor. Furnished with bland, motel-style furniture and a double bed, even a few pots and plates in the kitchen. I’m not crazy about staying there for any length of time—it has all the earmarks of a safe house, which means it’s probably bugged out the wazoo—but it’ll do for now. The fridge is empty, which I’m grateful for.
Then I do some shopping. I could probably sign a car out of the motor pool, but there’s a mall a few blocks away. I make my first foray into the big bad world of supernatural commerce, taking care to dab on some wolfy underarm charm first.
Seattle seems to have a pretty even mix of pires and thropes. It’s evening by now, so I see both kinds out and about. It’s often hard to tell them apart; the paler ones are probably pires, but that’s hardly definitive. The thropes that are in full-on hairy mode stand out, of course, but there are fewer of them than I expected. I guess it’s just more convenient to stay in human form, since it’s the base model for both races. Lowest common denominator rules.
I see more wolf children than anything else—running around, sniffing everything, yelping and snapping at each other. It’s unbelievably cute. Here I am on the Planet of the Monsters, and it feels more as if I’m stuck in a remake of 101 Dalmations done with wolf cubs. Makes me wonder what their version of Disney World is like.
I find myself thinking about Tanya and what she would make of all this. She’s a tiny blonde with a big goofy smile and a habit of sleeping with married men. “Keeps the complications to a minimum,” she says, and then finds herself in the middle of some huge family drama that usually winds up in a bitter divorce and a restraining order. She seems to thrive on it.
Yeah, she’d probably like it here. In fact, the hardest decision she’d probably have to make is which one to pick, thrope or pire. Pire, probably. She’d never have to worry about gaining weight again.
Thinking about Tanya makes me a little melancholy. I decide to splurge on some music—you can’t enjoy a good funk without a sound track—go into the first music store I see, and head for the blues section.
Where I get smacked in the face by a cultural difference that makes perfect sense in retrospect. I don’t recognize any of the artists. Technology and even history can evolve along parallel lines in different worlds, but music is a cultural artifact—and the cultures I’m dealing with are very different from my own. I listen to a few samples and some of it’s very good, but I’m not in the mood to experiment. I want something familiar, dammit.
Most people would have a ton of music stored on their laptop, but I have a rule about using mine strictly for work—no games, no tunes, no time wasters. I spend the next two hours looking through every CD in the store. I wind up with a bunch of classical—it figures the further back I go, the more similarities I find—one jazz recording, the National Anthem, a country-and-western album, a collection of novelty songs and a movie sound track. Not exactly consistent, but it’s a start.
Then I get some clothes, some food, some bedding and towels and toiletries. The money has way too many pictures of full moons on it, but the clerks take it happily enough.
I go back to my new residence—and find Gretchen waiting for me.
“Uh . . . hi,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Nothing on the case, I’m afraid. I simply thought I’d come by and say hello. Let me help you with those.” She grabs a few of my bags as I fumble for my keys.
“Thanks.” We go inside, and she follows me onto the elevator.
“I have to say, Jace, that you seem to be taking all this extremely well. If I were in your shoes, I’m not sure I could.”
“Well, it’s not like I have a choice. When I catch the Impaler, I’ll take my frustrations out on him. Until then, I’ll just shoot Cassius. You know, to stay in practice.”
The elevator stops and we get off. “Yes, I heard about that. Still not entirely clear on how your weapon works, but at the very least you got his attention.” Her grin tells me I’ve got hers, too—or at least her amusement. “I wish I’d been there to see it.”
“Yeah? The next time I shoot him I’ll tell him it was a personal request.”
I unlock my door and we go in. I put my bags on the kitchen counter, and Gretchen helps me transfer things to the fridge. “The Impaler,” I say as I stuff some TV dinners into the freezer. “I’ve been thinking about his name. Any relation to Vlad?”
“As in Dracula? No, I’m afraid he’s strictly fictional here. Popular, though.”
“I’ll bet. So I’m guessing he acquired the title from what he’s done to pires.”
“And thropes, though he doesn’t stay with that one particular method. Nicknames are a funny thing—once one sticks, it doesn’t seem to matter what you do afterward.” She pauses, then says, “You have one already, you know.”
Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. “Which is?”
“The Bloodhound.”
I frown. “There’s at least three different ways to take that, none of them terribly flattering. But it could be worse, I guess. I’m going to pretend it’s on account of my tenacious nature and tracking ability.”
“What else could it be?” Gretchen says with a knowing smile. Yeah, I definitely like her.
She tells me she has to get back to work, but makes sure I have her cell-phone number in case there’s anything she can help with. I was going to check out some TV, but after she leaves I realize I’ve got the beginnings of a headache; I decide to take some painkillers and go to bed instead. Curious as I am, seeing the vampire equivalent of Seinfeld reruns can wait.
And then my cell phone rings.
“Jace? It’s Cassius.”
“Hi. What’s happening?”
“Nothing in particular. I just wanted to see if your new accommodations were all right.”
“They’ll do, I guess.”
“How are you feeling? Dr. Adams said you were having some trouble with RDT.”
“I’m fine. The stuff he gave me works like a charm. Symptom-free.” I wonder if he’s about to bust me on the subject of Tanaka—a boss like Cassius always knows what’s going on—but he doesn’t.
“And the wolf pheromone? Have you used it yet?”
“Yeah, I put some on before I went shopping. Nobody tried to take a bite out of me, so I guess it works.”
“Good, good.”
“Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about. What happens to my life while I’m gone? I mean, what am I supposed to tell people about where I’ve been?”
“That won’t be a problem, Jace. Because you’re from an alternate reality, we can do things with time as well as space. We can put you right back on the night we took you.”
“Really? That’s a relief; I was starting to think I’d have to make up some kind of alien abduction story.”
“I hope I’ve put your mind at ease.” He pauses. “Well then, try to get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” He hangs up.
That was a little strange. Was he just checking up on me, or—
Hmmm.
A good night’s sleep does wonders—too bad I don’t get one. My headache lingers for far too long, and it’s still nagging me in the morning. I go on the offensive, clubbing the damn thing with aspirin and then finishing it off by drowning it with coffee. It helps a little.
Walking to work improves my mood further. It’s a wonderful day, blue sky and bright sun, the air crisp and cool. It smells better than most cities, too—but then, a large proportion of the residents have very keen noses.
Something shoots past me in the street, and for a second I think it’s one of those couriers that bounced off the car when Charlie was driving. But it’s moving even faster and in a straight line; my second impression is that it must be a motorcycle, except there’s no engine noise. By the time I figure out what it is, it’s almost out of sight.
Sure. I’ve seen bears ride bicycles in the circus. Why not wolves?
It was more quad than bi, with four pedals and a long, low-slung seat—more of a harness, really. He didn’t seem to be wearing a helmet, but I guess safety is less of an issue when you can heal from pretty much anything.
I find a corner kiosk and get some more coffee before heading into the office. Tony the were-guard gives me a gruff nod, and I nod back. It all feels weirdly normal. They haven’t assigned me a cubicle yet, so I just head for Cassius’ office and knock on the door.
“It’s open.”
Cassius is behind his desk, studying something on a laptop screen. He barely glances up when I enter. “Jace. Get down to Intel Analysis; Gretchen’s got that data you wanted.”
“Sure. Where—”
“Third floor.” His voice is brisk, and he goes back to working on his laptop immediately.
I take the hint and do an about-face, then pause with my hand on the door. “Uh, I’m going to need a desk at some point—”
“Talk to Reception. They’ll assign you one.”
Right. Guess my assumptions last night were off-base. Or that’s what I would think, if I were in high school. . . .
Please. The old attentive-one-minute, distant-the-next routine? That’s the very first lesson in Bad Boys 101 or How to Act Like a Dick and Drive Jane Crazy. Well, I don’t need any more crazy at the moment, thanks. I head for the third floor and hope for some good news.
Intelligence Analysis is a large, bustling room, full of desks, monitors, and people with intent looks on their faces. There are no windows. Though everybody seems to be talking—on the phone, on a headset, to each other—they all seem to be using low, calm voices, giving the place a kind of subdued intensity.
I spot Gretchen in a corner, talking to a bearded Middle Eastern man wearing glasses. Something about him is unusual, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s the glasses. Nothing odd about the specs themselves—but he’s the first person I’ve seen actually wearing a pair. Not a lot of astigmatism in the supernatural set.
Gretchen notices me and waves me over. “Good morning, Jace,” she says. “This is Agent Mahmoud. He may have discovered something useful to you.”
Mahmoud nods. “Hello. I believe that your subject may have had some dealings with a gang known as Los Colmillos del Demonio. They mainly distribute Bane, but lately they’ve been branching out into other areas.”
“Bane?”
Gretchen nods. “Street drug used by lycanthropes. Wolf-bane cut with PCP—heightens aggression, reduces sensitivity to pain, impairs impulse control. Nasty stuff.”
“Yes,” Mahmoud continues, “and also highly profitable. But it’s only one market, and Los Colmillos have apparently decided to expand into another. Four members were arrested last week with a significant amount of Cloven in their possession.”
“Garlic-infused methamphetamine,” Gretchen says. “Also called Stinkfoot, Devil’s Hoof, and Sicilian Speed. Administered to a pire, it causes euphoria, mania, and increased bloodlust. Quite addictive, as well.”
“What’s the connection to the Impaler?”
“This.” Mahmoud hands me a sheet of paper. “The FHR funds many of their activities through the smuggling of drugs. We got a tip that they’re the ones supplying Los Colmillos—and according to our source, the one who set up the deal is someone very high up in the FHR chain of command.”
I read the sheet. It’s a transcription of a recorded conversation between an anonymous informant and an NSA operative, detailing what Mahmoud just told me. “The source seems to think the drug push is to finance some kind of large-scale project,” I say. “Could be what we’re after.”
“There’s just one problem,” Gretchen says. “All known FHR members have gone to ground. We don’t have eyes on any of them. If we want to track the Impaler through the Resistance, we’ll have to find them first.”
“So we take one step back,” I say. “If we can’t find the wholesaler, we talk to the retailer. Los Colmillos del Demonio.”
I hand the sheet back to Mahmoud. “My Spanish is a little rusty. What’s that mean?”
“The fangs of the Devil,” he says.
SIX
I sit down across from the thrope and regard him levelly. He’s in wolfman mode, six and a half feet of black-furred, fanged, clawed muscle. His gang’s symbol is dyed and shaved into the fur on his back, letting people know he stays in this form all the time. The heavy iron collar around his neck is chained to a secure bolt in the concrete floor, and other than the chair I’m sitting in, there’s no furniture in the room. He growls at me, letting me know my alpha female status doesn’t mean
squat to him.
It’s taken us three weeks to nail this guy. Three weeks of chasing down leads, shaking down his pack, staking out thrope bars. His name is Eduardo Hermano Lopez, and he’s the leader of Los Colmillos del Demonio.
Charlie’s watching on a video monitor—one-way glass uses too much silver, so it’s not that common. He’ll step in if I bungle the interrogation, but it’s important to me to try to do it on my own. The growling hairball doesn’t make me nervous—as far as I’m concerned, a bad guy in a cage is exactly as dangerous as an angry hamster—but this is my first time.
I flex my fingers and begin.
You big leader no more, I sign. You my puppy now.
My presentation is still a little shaky, but my comprehension’s good. I will rip your throat out and feed your tonsils to my pack, he signs. I feel absurdly proud that I remember the sign for “tonsils.”
No. You go to kennel twenty-five years. Having, selling drugs. Unless you make deal now.
What kind of deal?
FHR.
What’s that mean? Female Hair Removal? He makes the snorting equivalent of laughter.
Funny. You know what me saying. Your supply giver, I want.
Me not heard of supply giver. Me think you stupid in head. It’s surprising just how well sarcasm comes across in sign language; I look forward to trying it out myself when my skills are better. What’s wrong with you, anyway? My five-year-old cub signs better than you, and he’s only got eight fingers.
I ignore the question. Why protect them? They only humans. Sheep. Dumb, weak, slow. Not pack, not gang. You not owe them loyalty.
He considers this. True. But no one trusts a traitor. Bad for business.
Me not hunting business. Hunting one human only. Give him, you go free.