No! Julian thought, sitting up as his bedroom door opened and the hallway light slashed the darkness.
The overhead light came on, and his mother stood there, a look of concern on her delicate features. “What is it, Julian?”
The creature had vanished, leaving only a lopsided baseball uniform draped over the desk chair in its wake.
“There was a monster at my desk,” Julian said in a squeal.
His father appeared behind his mother. He had removed his necktie and held a glass of red wine in one hand. “What’s going on?”
“Your son is seeing monsters again,” his mother said in an accusatory tone. “No more horror movies for him.”
Entering the room and pointing at the uniform draped over the chair, his father said, “Here?”
Julian nodded.
“If you’d put your dirty clothes in the hamper these monsters would stay away.”
Julian heard his mother’s disapproval in her voice. “Robert …”
His father sat on the bed. “All right, all right. There’s no such thing as monsters. You know that, don’t you?”
Julian nodded. “Yes, but—”
“No buts. You just saw your uniform in the dark, and your imagination got carried away. From now on, put your dirty clothes away and everything will be fine. Okay?”
Julian felt defeated. Why didn’t they ever believe him? “Yes, sir.”
His mother gathered the dirty uniform and kissed his forehead. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She took the uniform with her as she stepped into the hallway.
“Now lie down,” his father said.
Julian obeyed.
He switched off the light and turned in the doorway. “Good night, Son.”
“Good night.”
His father left the door halfway open, and Julian listened to his footsteps recede.
Monsters do exist, he thought, shifting his gaze once more to the chair.
Julian sat in the viewing room’s front row, eyes locked on the two matching caskets displayed on pedestals side by side. Closed caskets, one bearing a framed photo of his mother, the other of his father. Two months had passed since the attack.
“Goddamned terrorists,” he heard one of his parents’ friends mutter to another behind him. Nearly one hundred people crowded the parlor, many of them wealthy Manhattanites. His parents had been popular.
Aunt Erica whispered in his ear, “Please come into the other room and say hello to a few people, sweetie. I promise you can come back in here.”
Julian slid off his chair and followed her into the crowd. She and Uncle Franklin had taken good care of him since his parents had been killed.
I wish I could stay with them forever, he thought. But they had explained that was not possible for legal reasons.
He trailed her into the crowded parlor, where he felt everyone staring at him in pity, which he disliked. Then he spotted Gabriel, his best friend, standing with his brother, Raphael, and sister, Angela. The triplets of Angus and Dawn Domini. He had seen little of them since moving in with Aunt Erica and Uncle Franklin, and as he made his way across the room to join them, he felt less self-conscious about wearing his suit. Gabriel and Raphael wore matching suits and Angela a black dress.
“Hey,” Julian said to Gabriel.
“Are you okay?”
Julian shrugged.
Raphael said nothing, which Julian actually preferred. He disliked the sneaky boy as much as he liked Gabriel.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” Angela said.
“Thanks.” Julian felt himself turning red, and he averted his eyes from Angela’s. He’d had a crush on her for more than a year and had experienced wet dreams after thinking about her late at night, but he lacked the courage to express his feelings to her.
The room quieted and the mourners separated, providing space for a newcomer. The grizzled old man moved with great deliberation, measuring the faces around him.
Julian’s body tensed. Oh no.
The old man made eye contact with him, and there was no doubt in Julian’s mind. His fear turned to embarrassment. Although the old man had combed his untrimmed white hair, it looked out of place plastered over his scalp, and the coarse whiskers of his beard masked his cracked lips. He wore a field jacket over a plaid shirt, jeans over weathered boots. Only his tie indicated that he had made any effort to show respect.
Julian swallowed as the old man stepped before him. They stared at each other without recognition but sensing their kinship.
“Julian,” Aunt Erica said, “this is your grandfather.”
Then the old man kneeled before him, staring him straight in the eye, and sniffed the air around him with disapproval.
They barely spoke a word on the flight to Boulder. Julian thought about Aunt Erica, Uncle Franklin, Gabriel, Raphael, and Angela and how he would probably never see them again. In the airport parking lot, Jedediah Harris led his grandson to a scratched and dented red pickup. He threw the boy’s suitcases into the truck’s bed and climbed into the front seat.
Over the next forty minutes, Julian stared out the window at the bountiful trees as his grandfather drove high into the mountainous terrain. Looking into the side mirror, he saw a haze of pollution hanging over the city below them. In the green hills, they passed a number of cabins before reaching Jedediah’s house, nestled on acres of land surrounded by woods. A corral surrounded the property, which had a dilapidated barn and two toolsheds in addition to a two-car detached garage.
A flock of geese flew overhead as Julian climbed out of the truck. The air smelled different than in New York City: purer. His heart pounded faster, and his sense of smell seemed to increase. Growing light-headed, he feared he might pass out. He had experienced similarbursts of overstimulation in Central Park back home and on a trip to Bear Mountain but never to this degree.
Paying no attention, Jedediah unloaded the suitcases, left one for Julian to carry, and took the other two inside the single-story house. Curling his fingers around the handle of the remaining suitcase, Julian followed, the luggage banging against his hip.
The interior of the house smelled funny, like grease. The walls needed paint, and the furniture and rug looked old. Hearing footsteps behind the living room wall, Julian carried the suitcase to a narrow hallway and followed his grandfather into a small, musty smelling bedroom.
“This was your mother’s room growing up,” Jedediah said. “It’s yours now. We eat dinner at six o’clock sharp. I expect you to do chores to earn your keep. Get settled in now.”
And he left.
Julian unpacked his bags, arranging his clothes in the dirty pink bureau that had been his mother’s. If the living room smelled like grease, this room just smelled old. He set a framed photo of his parents on the bedside table and another photo of Uncle Frank and Aunt Erica on the bureau. Then he put the suitcases in the closet, which contained linen and old clothing. His mother’s?
For dinner, Jedediah cooked beef stew, and Julian had to admit it tasted just fine. The old man glanced at the boy from time to time but said little.
After dinner, Jedediah finally said, “You can wash these dishes,” which Julian did. Then Jedediah sank into his worn chair in the living room and switched the TV on to a nature documentary.
When Julian had finished with the dishes, he excused himself and went to bed early. He lay there for several hours, listening to the crickets outside. It was a different sound than he was accustomed to hearing in New York City, but he quickly learned that everything here was different than in New York.
As exhaustion set in, he found himself dreading the possibility thathe might have a wet dream. Lately he had been experiencing all kinds of uncontrollable urges, and he feared how Jedediah might react to the situation. With that in mind, he did his best not to think of Angela, but it was no use. Finally, he drifted asleep. He awoke to a melancholy wail that filled the night. The lonely singing came from outside and filled him wi
th sadness and fear at the same time. Creeping from his bed, he padded barefoot across the hall and knocked on his grandfather’s door. When he received no reply, he knocked again and opened the door. “Grandpa?”
An empty bed faced him. Outside, the animal continued to howl.
Swallowing, he glanced at the open door to the bathroom, then walked through the dining room to the kitchen.
Empty.
He backtracked to the living room, where he unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Standing in the doorway, he gaped at the great gray wolf that sat on its haunches, not ten feet away, staring at him.
With calmness, the wolf raised its head to the night sky and howled.
The next morning, Julian picked at his scrambled eggs with his fork. Jedediah served himself, then sat opposite the boy and sipped black coffee. They made fleeting eye contact, and the boy looked away. Raising his eyes once more, Julian saw that his grandfather continued to stare at him.
“You got something you want to say to me?” Jedediah said.
Julian shook his head.
“You sure?”
Julian nodded.
“’Cause you look like you’ve got something on your mind.”
Julian held the man’s gaze, then said, “I saw you last night.”
Jedediah leaned closer. “I know you did. I wanted you to see me. That’s why I called for you.”
So many questions to ask, but the words lumped in Julian’s throat.
“I’m a Wolf, boy. So was your mother. And your father. So are you. We’re a special breed. A superior breed.”
No! Julian thought. He’s crazy.
“I know you’re surprised. That’s because your ma and pa wanted to live in that city, with all its finery. It dulled your senses. But they’re awakening now, aren’t they?”
Julian nodded. This much was true.
“You came to live with me just in time.”
Julian said nothing. He’d rather have been in the city, with his parents or Aunt Erica and Uncle Franklin. But since he was here …
“You want me to teach you what should come natural, don’t you?”
Julian thought about it, his emotions wrestling with his instincts. “Yes.”
Jedediah smiled, and for the first time Julian felt comfort in his presence. “Good. We’ll start tonight.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mace returned to the squad room with a weight on his shoulders the likes of which he’d never felt before. It had been hard enough to discuss Patty’s murder in operational terms at One PP, but now he had to wear a stoic mask and lead his team when all he wanted to do was scream at the sky. He knew he needed to put all career considerations aside and take whatever risks were necessary to apprehend the killer stalking his city.
Willy sat staring at Patty’s desk with a morose expression on his face. He hadn’t shaved, so stubble shaded his scalp, and his bloodshot eyes suggested a hangover or lack of sleep or both. A jar with Patty’s name scrawled on a piece of masking tape sat on her desk, already overflowing with cash donations for her family. Grim-faced detectives crisscrossing the bull pen nodded at Mace, signaling to him that they were ready to do whatever he required of them. One of their own had fallen, and someone had to answer for it.
Watching Gibbons juggle phone calls in the CO’s office, Mace rapped on Willy’s desk. “My office.”
Leaving his door open, he sat at his desk and flipped through astack of handwritten messages, ignoring the deeper stack of reports related to the disastrous previous night. Willy closed the door behind him.
“You look like shit,” Mace said.
“Yeah? Maybe you’d like to send me home.”
“You need a personal day?”
Setting his hands on Mace’s desk, Willy leaned forward. “I need to catch the scumbag who killed my partner, and I can’t do that warming the bench.”
“I’m not going to get into a pissing contest with you. I’ve just had this whole mess dumped in my lap. I’m on a short leash here, with limited time to deliver results.”
“So put me back in the field where I can do you some good.”
“I couldn’t do that if I wanted to, which I don’t. I need you here too much.”
“To be your personal secretary? I’m a murder police.”
Mace sat back in his chair. “I have to go out for a few hours. I need you to help coordinate things with Landry here when he gets in. Understand? I need you to help take charge of this operation until I get back.”
Willy’s posture relaxed. “Yeah, I understand.”
“Go shave and fix yourself up, or this isn’t going to fly.”
Willy nodded, and as he turned to leave, Gibbons entered.
“Tony, Stalk’s got a visitor. A woman he used his phone call to contact. She confirms he’s staying with her. Should I let her see him?”
Leaning to one side, Tony glimpsed a woman standing in the waiting room: brunette, five feet tall, hands stuffed in the pockets of a black raincoat. Something about her looked familiar, but he couldn’t ID her from his angle.
“Just let him go, but make sure we have her contact info. Have a car take them to the impound lot to get his vehicle if that’s what they want.”
“Okay.”
“Don, I have to step out for a few.”
Gibbons looked surprised.
“It’s case related. Willy’s going to call in every extra body he can and coordinate them. Do you mind sticking around until Landry comes on?”
Gibbons cast a sideways glance at Willy. “I’d planned to stick around for a while anyway.”
“Thanks. We’re going to run three overlapping ten-hour shifts, fully manned. I want you to get started on the schedule.”
“You got it.”
The three men exited Mace’s office, and Gibbons returned to the CO’s office while Willy headed into the men’s locker room. As Mace passed the waiting area, he made eye contact with the woman who’d come for Stalk. She seemed to recognize him too, although she made no move to speak to him. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the stairs leading to the street that he remembered Angela Domini—if that was her real name—from Synful Reading. What possible connection could she have to Stalk? He was tempted to turn back and question her, but he expected Chu to arrive at the squad room any minute, and he didn’t want to risk being ordered to remain on-site. He had a task to perform that couldn’t wait.
Thirty-five minutes later, he had just merged onto I-87 north, heading toward Albany, when his cell phone rang. Without needing to check the display to know who was calling, he pressed the speaker button. “Mace.”
“Tony, it’s Louis Chu. I’m standing in your squad room. Where the hell are you?”
“On my way to Ossining.”
“Sing Sing?” Chu was silent for a moment while he added two plus two. “Rodrigo Gomez. Please tell me what bearing he has on the massive bag of shit you just inherited.”
Mace wanted to say, I need to reawaken my hunting instincts, but didn’t see that washing with Chu. “I’m just following a hunch. Something I needto eliminate from my list of possibilities. Don’t ask me why, but my gut says he ties into all of this.”
“I’ve seen nothing to support that theory,” Chu said with stronger emphasis than usual.
“Let’s just say I’m thinking outside the box and leave it at that.”
“This sounds like a waste of time to me, and time is not a luxury you have.”
“I’m already halfway there. Willy is reporting to me every half hour, and Landry will be there in ten minutes. I’ll be back before you know it. I’ve already arranged the interview. Please don’t tell me to turn around.”
More silence preceded Chu’s response. “All right, but I don’t like it. Consider that on the record.”
“Understood.”
Chu hung up, and Mace followed the Hudson River into Ossining. A century earlier, when prisoners from New York City had been ferried to the new prison, named after the Sint
Sinck Mohegan Indian tribe that had once occupied the land, the phrase “sent up the river” had been coined. Mace drove through the quiet town, thirty miles north of New York City, in Westchester County. As he passed a library and a single mini-mall, he told himself that the prison, which contained fifteen thousand inmates, served as the town’s primary industry. Up to five thousand civilians worked at the facility each day.
The winding road took him away from the Hudson and up a hill, then back toward the river. An American flag on a pole came into view and then the prison’s upper level. Three long rows of buildings descended the opposite side of the hill, facing the river. He followed a fork in the driveway to a restricted security booth used by employees and visiting officials. Buses transporting visitors followed the other drive. At the security booth, he presented his ID to a dour-faced corrections officer. A moment later, cyclone gates topped with coiled razors parted, admitting him. Driving to the visitors’ center, he glimpsed fortified guardtowers manned by officers with machine guns. He scanned the self-contained community, taking in a fire station, a hospital, even a museum.
It had taken him a total of fifty minutes to reach the maximum security prison for men closest to New York City. Before the state had banned capital punishment in 1971, the prison’s electric chair had claimed numerous individuals, among them Louis “Lepke” Buchalter, the head of Murder, Inc.; serial killer and cannibal Albert Fish; and convicted spies Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. In another time, Rodrigo Gomez would have faced the chair. Now he served life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.
Mace sat behind the Plexiglas partition, which rose four feet from the counter. He had parked in a garage and had checked his Glock and the .38 he wore strapped to his ankle at the security desk. Grateful to have been admitted with a minimum of fuss, he had nevertheless observed the usual assortment of mothers, wives, and children undergoing the admission process required for visitors.
A door on the other side of the glass opened, and he experienced an involuntary shudder. A guard walked a short man in an orange jumpsuit toward him. Inmates wore street clothes inside but had to change into jumpsuits to face visitors. Gomez had grown his hair long, and thick whiskers covered the lower half of his face. He might have resembled the classic interpretation of Jesus if not for his dark, almost black, eyes.
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