The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  “You saved my life, Father. I’ll do anything to repay the debt.”

  Tudoro drove him to the ruins of an ancient church. “It’s time you learned the identity of our sworn enemy.”

  At last, Pedro thought.

  Inside the ruins, Tudoro led Pedro to a locked door. He handed a skeleton key to his servant. “You must make this journey alone.”

  Nodding, Pedro unlocked the door. In the darkness ahead burned a torch mounted on a stone wall. As he entered the cool, dank corridor, the door slammed behind him. He proceeded to the torch and removed it from the wall. Peering ahead, he saw another torch beckoning to him in the distance. He moved through the darkness to the second torch and discerned a wide, curved stairway leading below. Following the stone steps, he froze when he heard what sounded like a wild animal growling. In that moment, he recalled the hours he had spent studying European mythology and superstitions. With his heart slamming in his chest, he descended the remaining stairs.

  At the bottom he again heard the growling, low and menacing, coming from the floor. Holding the torch before him, he saw the wrought-iron bars of a cell door set in stone. Inching closer, he peered through the bars at a dense silhouette. He raised the torch. The enormous shape hurled itself at the bars, its great muzzle snapping powerfuljaws at his face, and tried to rake him with its claws. He recoiled but stood his ground and gazed into a pair of hate-filled eyes.

  Outside the steel door, he emerged from the darkness and faced Tudoro. Bowing, he said, “I understand, Father.”

  Five years later, Pedro kneeled on the floor of a guest bedroom in Queens, New York, with no one to rely on except for a priest barely connected to the Brotherhood. He had spent half a decade serving the Brotherhood, carrying out secret missions for his Lord. But he had neither seen nor slain any creatures like the one he had witnessed in the darkened prison beneath those church ruins, and executing such demons was his stated purpose.

  Hearing a knock at the door, he crossed himself and rose, then admitted Father Hagen. The priest carried a long, narrow box into the guest quarters, and Pedro closed the door.

  “This was just delivered by personal courier,” Father Hagen said. “It’s from Rome.”

  Pedro made a slight smile. Monsignor Delecarte had fulfilled his promise. “Thank you.” Pedro took the package from Hagen and laid it on the table. Producing a pocketknife, he slit the strings and paper wrapping on the package. The pine box bore a cross engraved in its surface. “Do you have a hammer?”

  “Right here.” Hagen opened a kitchenette cabinet and returned with a hammer, which he handed to Pedro. Using the hammer’s claw, Pedro pried the lid open. Then he removed the packing materials, revealing the contents to Hagen, who stared down with awe in his eyes.

  “Tomorrow,” Pedro said, “we save your city from the Beast.”

  CHARTER THIRTY-NINE

  By commandeering half a dozen desks, clearing them, and shoving them up against each other, Mace, Landry, and Willy converted the squad room into a command center. Maps, file folders, scattered reports, and numerous photographs littered the oval shape they’d constructed. They permitted each detective stationed in the bull pen to retain one corner of his desk, along with his chair and landline. With their jackets off, their sleeves rolled up, and their ties loose around their necks, they coordinated the investigations of twenty pairs of detectives and interfaced with Operations and Dispatch to arrange increased patrols in Lower Manhattan.

  Mace had returned from Sing Sing with a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. He felt more certain than ever that Gomez was somehow connected to the Manhattan Werewolf, but he was no closer to figuring out how. Chu was so grateful to have him back in the line of fire that he hadn’t even questioned him about his field trip before he left. Mace had showered in the locker room and changed into a fresh set of clothing.

  Now he glanced at his watch: 1600 hours. The day shift was ending, but with all the overtime he had assigned, it didn’t matter. One shift would bleed into the next without depleting manpower. Despite the effort and expense put forth by the department, no real progress had been made. The Imaging technicians had created a startlingly photorealistic representation of the killer’s face based on the night-vision footage taken during Patty’s murder, and they were dispersing copies through every possible outlet. But no new leads had developed, and Mace felt the clock ticking on his career.

  A man and a woman dressed in crisp black suits entered the squad room. Their rigid posture and serious expressions cried FBI to Mace.

  “Think they’re taking over?” Landry said.

  “We can only hope.” He stepped over to the newcomers. “I’m Captain Mace. This is my lieutenant, Landry. Can I help you?”

  “Special Agents Norton and Shelly, Captain.”

  “I’m Norton,” the woman said. She wore her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that reminded Mace of Patty.

  “Which makes me Shelly,” the man said.

  Mace shook their hands.

  “Can we speak in your office?” Norton said.

  “Certainly. Right this way.” Mace led them to his office, opened the door for them, and followed them inside. Closing the door, he said, “Now what’s this about?”

  “We’ve brought the results of the bureau’s tests on our crime scene evidence,” Shelly said. “Your forensics lab shipped samples to Quantico.”

  News to me, Mace thought. “I haven’t seen either of you around before.”

  “I’m based in Virginia,” Norton said.

  “And I live out of a suitcase,” Shelly said.

  Norton handed a file folder to Mace. “This is eyes-only, print-only material. There are some things we don’t like to save on hard drive for obvious security reasons. Even the bureau’s computers aren’t completely safe from hackers, and we wouldn’t want to start a panic if certain sensitive information got out.”

  Mace looked at the folder in his hands.

  “Consider the information in that folder classified, Captain. Divulging that material to subordinates or leaking it to the media would constitute an act of treason against the United States.”

  Are you kidding me? Mace stared at the agents, then opened the folder. The scientific jargon he read was gibberish to him. “I couldn’t remember half these terms if I wanted to divulge them.”

  “Let me simplify things for you,” Norton said. “The blood, saliva, and hair samples found in the apartments of your first three victims, the car of your murdered detective, the subway station, and that veterinarian’s home office are identical. There’s no question it was the same perp.”

  Closing the folder, Mace held it out. “That’s classified? Respectfully, Special Agents, that information has already been deduced by the media and this department.”

  “Speculation. I’m confirming it.”

  “There’s more,” Shelly said.

  “None of the samples came from a human being,” Norton said. “Nor did the semen we found in Lee and Harper.”

  Mace swallowed. He did not just say that.

  “All the samples are wolflike in nature.”

  “Come on,” Mace said. “How the hell could an actual wolf have done half the things our perp has done?”

  “I didn’t say it was a wolf. I said the samples are—”

  “‘Wolflike in nature,’” Mace finished. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “They’re 98 percent similar to the DNA of a wolf.”

  “Which is the same similarity that human DNA bears to that of a chimpanzee,” Shelly said.

  “The truth is, we haven’t been able to match this DNA to any known species.”

  “That’s not all,” Shelly said.

  Mace glared at them. “I can’t wait.”

  “This string of murders you’re trying to solve is longer than you realize.”

  Mace narrowed his eyes.

  “Over the last two years, similar murders have occurred in seven different U.S. cities.”


  “Similar in what way?”

  “The victims were decapitated and dismembered with no indication of weapons, and their heads were missing.”

  “Which cities?”

  “L.A. Seattle. Dallas. Houston. Denver. Orlando. Baltimore. The number of victims murdered in each city ranged from one to five. In all, we believe the same perp murdered over twenty people before he came to your fair city.”

  “Perp. As in human.”

  Shelly smiled. “Well, that’s the real question, isn’t it?”

  “Last I heard, animals weren’t writing graffiti on walls in human blood—in multiple languages.”

  “There was no graffiti in the other cities. Or semen traces. The perp made an effort to operate in secret, and the respective city governments and local law enforcement agencies were more than happy to conceal his activities as much as possible. Our boy seems to have let his hair down, so to speak, when he moved to Manhattan.”

  Mace stared at the two FBI agents. “So you’re here to help us, right?”

  Norton nodded at the folder in Mace’s hand. “We have helped you.”

  “That’s it? Surely there’s more you can do. Manpower, tactical, profiling? Where’s this interdepartmental cooperation we’ve heard so much about since 9/11?”

  Shelly gave him an apologetic smile. “I’ve been working this case for two years, with little to no success. Due to circumstances, you and your people have gotten farther than me in a week. Clearly, you’re the man best suited for this job.”

  Mace felt the back of his neck turning red. “Clearly, you intend to dump this bag of shit on me and cut out.”

  Shelly offered Mace his business card. “We were told you’re in chargeof this operation. We respect your jurisdiction. If you need any advice or if we can help in any way, feel free to contact me at this number.”

  Mace took the card and read it. “Long distance?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “This is bullshit.” Rising, he crossed the office and opened the door, which the agents filed through. Then he deposited the folder into a drawer, which he locked.

  Landry knocked on his open door. “Here’s the ballistics report on the shells and bullets we found in Dr. Santana’s office. They were definitely fired from the PO’s gun.”

  “I’m taking an early dinner,” Mace said. “Or a late lunch. You decide.”

  “Where are you really going?”

  “To find Stalk and get some real answers.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  When the only customer in Synful Reading had paid for his purchase—a treatise on Aleister Crowley—Angela flipped the Open sign to Closed, then slipped behind the counter, put on her black raincoat, and stepped outside. Humidity hung in the air, and she glanced up at the cloudy gray sky. Perhaps rain would finally fall. Using an iron pole with a claw on its end, she tugged the security gate partway down. Then she set the pole inside the shop, locked the door, and pulled the gate down until it met the sidewalk with a metallic clang. After kicking the slide bolts into place and snapping the padlocks shut, she surveyed her surroundings.

  She scanned the faces of the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Teenagers skateboarding after school. A pair of nuns out strolling. A couple of college students clasping hands. A meter maid writing a ticket for some unlucky driver whose parking meter had expired. A Mexican man wearing a white apron sweeping the sidewalk in front of a small Italian restaurant.

  No Berserker.

  And yet the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Was it justthe static electricity in the air? Sniffing, she detected no Wolf in her immediate surroundings.

  Sliding her hands into her pockets, she turned to the right, passing the stairway that led to her apartment. She just wanted this crisis to end so she and Stalk could disappear. She’d always wanted to visit the south of France.

  As she crossed the street toward the deserted building the wind shifted. Her nostrils flared as she caught the Berserker’s scent behind her, and she dug her fingernails into her soft palms.

  He’s following me, she thought without turning around.

  Janus Farel watched Angela hang the Closed sign on the door of Synful Reading. The schedule posted on the door said the shop would remain open until 11:00 PM, but it had also opened a half hour late, and Angela had closed it for three hours shortly thereafter. Irregular hours at best, he thought.

  When he had returned to the city, his first task had been to stake out the various counterculture bookstores, tattoo shops, and curiosity shops. The Greater Pack of New York City, just like packs in other cities and states, operated at least one commercial establishment designed to attract visiting Wolves to its doorstep, the same types of businesses that appealed to other individuals hiding in the shadows. By process of elimination, he had already ruled out a number of antiestablishment businesses when he had set foot in the bookstore this morning. His senses had tingled immediately, and he caught the scents of two Wolves—a bitch and an elder. As soon as he had laid eyes on Angela, he knew they were of the same breed. And then he had recognized her: his childhood crush. When they’d known each other, they hadn’t known their true nature. As he spoke to her, he wondered if she recognized him too, and he imagined himself mounting her from behind. But he had other priorities, and as he exited the shop, her feeble attempt at learning his identity tipped him off that she at least knew he was the rogue stalking the city.

  Positioning himself around the corner, downwind of the shop, he had watched two male Wolves in human form arrive in a van and get out. From their scents, he knew the men were related to Angela. Gabriel and Raphael. His boyhood friend and his younger brother. He resisted the urge to taunt them face-to-face.

  A few minutes later, the brother Wolves departed the bookstore and descended a flight of steps behind the sidewalk to a basement level. For a moment, Janus wondered if he had found the pack’s meeting place.

  No. Meeting halls are always temporary locations. They wouldn’t choose a location right below their beacon—too risky. They’re here for another reason.

  Soon the brothers came up the stairs carrying a large canvas bag, stuffed full and heavy, which they deposited inside their van. Janus realized they were disposing of a Wolf carcass, and then he detected the scent of the old Wolf he had smelled inside the bookstore. Angus, leader of the pack. Watching them get into the van and drive off, he debated following them but decided to wait for Angela instead, even if that meant waiting all day.

  It didn’t. She locked up the store and left less than an hour later. Seeing her get into a taxi, Janus did the same. At least that way she could not detect his scent. The driver of his taxi wore a turban, and the vehicle reeked of body odors belonging to the driver and his previous passengers. Janus instructed the driver to follow the cab that had just passed them, and the man glowered at him before shifting his car into gear. During the drive, Janus rolled down his window. He preferred breathing in smog and gasoline fumes to the human stench inside the cab. His driver occasionally spoke Arabic in low tones to his dispatcher or other taxi drivers, and Janus remained alert.

  Angela’s taxi pulled over to a curb at East Twenty-first Street.

  Janus ordered his driver to pass the other taxi and double-park near the corner ahead. Looking over his shoulder, he watched Angela get out of the yellow cab and enter a building.

  A police station. This intrigued him. No Wolf would cooperate with human law enforcement or go to them for help. What was this bitch up to? He paid his driver, and as Angela’s taxi passed them, he got out. Moving downwind of the police station, he waited.

  Thirty minutes later, Angela exited the building with a human male, tall and approximately thirty years old. They were familiar with each other, if not intimate, and a uniformed police officer accompanied them. Janus narrowed his eyes. The policeman escorted Angela and the man to a squad car and opened a back door for them. As the squad car pulled out of the parking lot, Janus decided against following them. He would simply wait for t
hem near Synful Reading.

  Sitting in the café across the street from the bookstore, he passed the time reading a newspaper. His ego derived great satisfaction from seeing a computer-enhanced sketch of himself on the front page. It didn’t look accurate enough to cause him concern, and he took secret delight in the headline: Police Release Image of “Werewolf” Suspect. When Angela failed to return, he decided to leave. Paying his bill, he noticed the cashier, a pretty Greek girl, maybe nineteen years old, studying his features.

  “Excuse me, but are you a movie star?”

  Curling the newspaper in one hand he said, “Not yet.”

  “But I have seen you on TV, haven’t I?”

  He smiled at her. “Probably.”

  Stepping into the glass foyer, he froze when he saw a Jeep park at the curb ahead. He had seen that vehicle before: on the sidewalk on Eldridge Street, where Janus had disemboweled the Chinese woman. Then the man he had seen Angela leave the police station with got out, and she joined him. As they crossed the street and descended the stairs to the apartment below Synful Reading, Janus went outside. Passing the Jeep with his hands in his pockets and a casual expression on his human mask, he took a deep breath, committing the man’s scent to memory.

  Circling the block, he took his position at the opposite corner from which he had first staked out the bookstore. An hour later, Angela and the man came up to the sidewalk. Her hair looked somewhat tussled, and Janus saw their hands meet. His heart beat quicker. They kissed, long and with passion, and he nearly vacated the contents in his stomach. The bitch was kissing a man! He had no doubt they had just been copulating, and revulsion twisted his insides. He vowed to pump his own semen between Angela’s legs before making her his first Wolf victim.

  Angela and her lover separated. They gazed into each other’s eyes, unclasped their hands with obvious reluctance, and walked in opposite directions.

  Glaring at the man from a distance, Janus suppressed his deep animal rage and resisted the urge to dismember him right there. Because the wind blew downwind of Angela, he followed her instead. For twenty minutes he kept pace with her, stopping occasionally to admire some storefront display or work of architecture if she came to a halt. Then, on West Third street, she disappeared. Uncertain if she had spotted him or detected his scent, he paced the street, hoping to pick up her trail again. But she was gone.