Full Moon Bloody Moon

by Lee Driver

  “You Chase Dagger?” The driver asked.

  “Who wants to know?” Dagger barked.

  “I’m Sergeant Marty Flynn with the Indianapolis P.D.” He gave a nod toward his passenger. “This here’s Professor William Sherlock of Purdue University. Padre said we should talk to you.”

  Dagger chuckled at the name. “How do you know Padre?” Dagger could read lips halfway decent and shit just crossed the older man’s lips. “Hang on a minute.” Shit just crossed Dagger’s lips as he grabbed his cell phone and called Padre. Padre would never tell anyone where he lived without running it past him first.

  “Padre,” Dagger said when the cop answered the phone. “Forget to tell me something?”

  Shit crossed Padre’s lips and he explained, “I know, I’m sorry. Shoulda’ called but I’ve really been busy and when Marty stopped by with this theory of his I just knew there was no way I could let him loose in this precinct much less in this town with that viper of a reporter we have lurking. What he has to say is right up your alley.”

  Dagger stared at his cell phone after hanging up. A little voice in his head said if he let these guys in he was going to regret it. But his thumb pressed the OPEN button and he watched on the monitor as the gate swung free. It closed as the dark sedan lumbered through.

  The professor was much taller than Dagger had expected. The image on the monitor had appeared smaller in frame. He still wasn’t quite as tall as Dagger and he had strange-looking streaks of white running through his hair. Wire-rimmed glasses befitting a scholarly professor rested on his nose.

  Sergeant Flynn gave new meaning to the word disheveled. If they were staying in a hotel, they obviously hadn’t checked in yet. His trench coat barely survived the ride from Indianapolis, the back all bunched and wrinkled. It was difficult to tell that they had ridden together since the professor looked wrinkle-free, as though he had stood up during the entire trip.

  The sergeant gave a quick cop’s once-over at Dagger’s appearance, his gaze sweeping the length of Dagger’s tall frame and settling on the ponytail, the diamond-studded earring, the wolf head pendant hanging from a leather cord around his neck, and the clothes better served on nighttime reconnaissance. They exchanged niceties and Marty explained that he and Padre had met at a one-month FBI training session at Quantico several years ago. They stripped out of their coats and Dagger tossed them on the backs of the barstools.

  Marty and Dagger sat at opposite ends of the couch. Professor Sherlock laid claim to the loveseat and cocktail table, opening up his laptop, and spreading papers next to it.

  “Padre said you had a theory about the murder this morning?” Dagger said.

  “We’ve been tracking a killer, or I should say, I’ve been tracking a killer since March of ninety-eight,” the sergeant replied. Sherlock here,” he tossed a quick nod toward the professor, “has been tracking him much longer.”

  “Same guy?” Dagger leaned back into the corner of the couch, curiously watching Sherlock jam a disk into the computer.

  “Not exactly,” Sherlock said.

  “We had a string of murders in Indianapolis in ninety-eight. They were brutal, escalating by the hour. Thought it was a damn mountain lion escaped from the Indianapolis zoo.” Marty looked over his shoulder toward the bar.

  “I have coffee brewing now,” Dagger said, “but I can get you something stronger.”

  Marty’s hand swiped across his mouth, like an alcoholic salivating for his next drink. “I’d love it but unfortunately we have to keep a clear head. We don’t have much time.”

  Dagger caught Sherlock checking the clock on the wall by the desk. The professor was jumpy. Hell, they both were jumpy. Padre probably hurled these two at him just to get them out of his hair.

  “Little more than three days. That’s all we have left.” Sherlock went back to the laptop. Click, click. His long fingers flew over the keyboard.

  “Three days?” Dagger had just about all he could take of this cryptic dialogue. “Okay. Exactly what happens in three days?”

  Sherlock looked up from his keyboard. “Have you ever heard of a shapeshifter?”

  A loud crash reverberated near the door to the aviary. Sara stood, her arms raised as if her fingers still clutched the serving tray. On the quarry tile in front of her were broken cups, saucers, and carafe, the shards lying in a pool of coffee.

  Dagger ran to her aid and grabbed her arms. Her eyes were unblinking as she stared at Sherlock. Dagger’s voice was low and he had to force a smile, still trying to digest what Sherlock had said. “Sara, look at me.” Finally, she tore her gaze from their guests. “Sara, I want you to go upstairs and put some shoes on. I’ll clean this up. Go.”

  Marty helped by placing the broken cups and carafe on the tray and carrying them to the kitchen. By the time Sara returned, Dagger had mopped up the floor, pulled back the area rug so it could dry, and brought out more coffee and cups.

  Sara wanted to hide in the kitchen where she could eavesdrop, but then the professor said, “You’re Native American, aren’t you?”

  Sara nodded and looked to Dagger for direction. He motioned to the chair next to him as he explained to the two men, “Sara Morningsky is my assistant.” He watched as the two men looked from Sara to the surroundings. Dagger was getting tired of explaining his and Sara’s living and working arrangements. Even when he went through the legitimate explanation that he rented office and living space from Sara and that they had a business relationship, people would look at him with a “who are you trying to kid?” expression on their faces. So he just gave up trying.

  Sherlock told Sara, “I guess what I said frightened you. Can we ask you some questions?”

  “I just hadn’t heard the term in a long time,” Sara replied as she slid onto the chair, tucking her legs under her. She accepted the cup of coffee Dagger had poured for her.

  Sherlock sifted through his notes and continued. “Members of the Lewis and Clark Expedition have entries in their diaries referring to what their Indian guides called a beast-man, or manitou. These manitous supposedly could change themselves into wolves.”

  Sara’s hands shook as she brought the cup to her mouth. Dagger’s piercing gaze was a gesture of warning. She willed her hands to stop shaking, set the cup down and clasped her hands in her lap.

  “We just thought of them as fairy tales, like your people would tell ghost stories. We never thought it was something real,” Sara explained.

  Dagger leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Wait a second, gentlemen. You’re going to tell me the cop this morning was killed by some guy who changed into a wolf and ripped her throat out? I take it you haven’t read the report. She was found twenty feet above the ground in a tree.” He walked over to the bar and poured scotch into a glass of ice and added a splash of water.

  Marty explained, “The damn thing can change into a bird.”

  Sara jerked her gaze back to Dagger as he returned to the couch. Her hands started trembling again and one knuckle found its way to her mouth as she started to nibble frantically on it.

  Marty stared at the liquor saying, “Just want you to know, you are really going to need your wits about you.”

  “I think real good on a shot of scotch.” Dagger took a swallow and winced, chased it with a sip of coffee. “Let me see if I have this straight. We need to find an Indian who is changing into a wolf and…” he looked at the two men finding it difficult to keep the smile from spreading across his face, “what kind of bird?”

  “Anything he wants.” Sherlock stopped typing and gathered up some papers. “But he isn’t Native American. And he can’t change at will. Only when there is a full moon. And that will be in a little more than three days. Three-fifty-four on Friday morning to be exact.”

  “And he’s particularly brutal when it falls on a Friday the thirteenth,” Marty added.

  “So now we’re looking for a modern day wolf man.” Dagger chuckled, leaned back against the cushions and stared up at the catwalk. W
ith a shake of his head, he said, “Remind me to thank Padre for this one.”

  CHAPTER 10

  October 9, 11:15 p.m.

  “You better start at the beginning.” Dagger set his empty glass aside, wondering how soon he could get rid of these two nut cases. He refilled his coffee cup and glanced quickly at Sara, her young eyes wide, like a startled deer.

  Sherlock rubbed his eyes and shoved the sleeves up on his cable knit sweater. There was a slight tremble in his fingers as he reached for a stack of papers. He gulped his coffee, a substance Dagger had a feeling he had been living on for far too long. Over the rim of his cup, Sherlock’s gaze took in his surroundings, as if assessing the safety of the house.

  “I witnessed the murder of my family when I was six years old,” Sherlock started. “My brother, Joey, who was twelve, was babysitting me.” He took his time, staring vacantly as if seeing the entire scene replaying in his mind. “My brother and I were playing hide-and-seek when my parents came home. My mother thought they had been followed. I could hear the fear in her voice. Before I could come out of my hiding place, someone…something broke down the door.”

  Dagger studied Sara who seemed captivated by the story, as if she were still the child listening to scary stories told by the elders.

  “I was hiding in a toy box about the size of a small hope chest. The sides were made of some kind of sturdy pegboard. It had small holes in it but I could still see.” Sherlock glanced over at Dagger. “I say something because it changed. It was a man and then it was this animal, wolf I think, but it walked upright.”

  Dagger’s gaze shifted from Sherlock to Sergeant Flynn. The cop was the image of a man ready for retirement. There was grease under his nails and Dagger guessed he was a car buff who did his own repairs and oil changes. His shoes were polished which clashed with the wrinkled attire so Dagger guessed him to be married to an adoring wife who made sure her husband’s suits were cleaned and shoes polished. It was what the sergeant did to the clothes once they were on his body that told Dagger volumes.

  Sergeant Flynn was someone who was more interested in his cases than his appearance. Professor Sherlock had handed him a puzzling case in ninety-eight and the sergeant just couldn’t retire until he had it solved.

  But the sergeant also seemed to have his head on straight, not chase outrageous theories. So why travel three hours chasing something completely preposterous? And why wasn’t Dagger throwing them both out? Why was he sucking it all up, engrossed as much as Sara? Maybe he had been hanging around Skizzy too much. Or maybe he had been living with Sara too long.

  Finally, Dagger asked, “Professor, exactly what do you teach at Purdue?”

  “Astronomy and Human Behavior.”

  “Astronomy? Not Astrology?”

  “That, too, somewhat.”

  Dagger chuckled.

  “He’s had those streaks of white in his hair since he was six years old. Now will you let him finish his story?” Marty barked, brushing a hand across the damp hair clinging to his forehead.

  “I was in shock for several weeks,” Sherlock continued. “Didn’t remember anything for the longest time. Then I started to have nightmares in my early twenties. Large wolves who walked on their hind legs, predators with razor-sharp teeth changing into winged monsters.”

  “Let me guess, repressed memories.” Dagger’s comment brought another sharp glare from Marty.

  Sherlock stared at his computer screen, clasped his hands together until the fingers started to turn white. He looked over at Sara, then to Dagger. “My family died on November 13, 1970. A Friday and a full moon. Ten years ago I started researching similar occurrences. My research took me to Philadelphia, Trenton, Rochester. Naturally, police records were incomplete. If there were any eyewitnesses, they are dead. After all, we’re talking about the year 1919 and earlier.”

  “Wait,” Dagger uncrossed his legs, sat up, his eyes curiously drawn to the stacks of papers. “I thought you said the killings were current?”

  “There have been twelve instances of a full moon on a Friday the thirteenth since 1800. I had run into a brick wall, given up. Until the murders at Purdue in 1987. I called with only one important question. I asked if the victims’ watches had stopped at one-twenty-eight in the morning. I ended up being dragged in as a suspect.”

  Dagger would definitely have to call Padre and thank him for dumping these two guys on his doorstep. No wonder Padre didn’t have time for this. No wonder he didn’t want the press to catch wind of Sherlock’s theory.

  “The watches HAD stopped at that exact time,” Marty chimed in.

  “How did you hook up with the professor, Sergeant?”

  “Back in 1998, week of March 9, we had a number of brutal killings. Claw marks, bodies ripped apart.”

  “I thought you said it was specifically on the thirteenth?” Dagger could feel himself being pulled in. The only way to keep them from talking was to keep from asking questions. But he just hadn’t learned when to shut up.

  Sherlock said, “There are several killings during normal full moons. I believe he remains in human form. Can’t shift until the combination of a full moon on a Friday the thirteenth. Then, during those rare occasions, the murders escalate leading up to the thirteenth, as the killer is becoming more creature and his thirst for destruction more intense. And right after the official full moon, it stops.”

  “In Indianapolis,” Marty continued, “a woman had her throat slashed, claw marks left on the back of the seat. Then a bus driver, ripped stem to sternum. Scratch marks on the back of the bus.”

  “Could have been a hoax. Something to throw you off. And a wound from talons would have left more than one cut wound,” Dagger said.

  “He thinks like a human,” Sherlock said. “Use one talon, let the authorities think it’s a human. Throw them off track. He’s very cunning.”

  “Just as the professor said,” Marty further explained, “the closer it got to the exact time of the full moon in 1998, the more brutal the attacks. Wiped out a cleaning crew working the late shift at a local fast food joint.”

  “Anyone check a local zoo?”

  Marty grabbed some of the papers from one of the stacks and handed them to Dagger. “Yep, did that. All the large animals were accounted for.”

  Dagger stared at glossy eight-by-tens of each of the victims. The first two could have been killed by any number of weapons. But it was the last picture of the three bodies in the cooler at the fast food restaurant that got to him. It was as though someone had taken a fabric doll they no longer wanted and ripped it to shreds. Body parts had been strewn about, like parts of that doll. But unfortunately, these couldn’t be sewn back together.

  Marty pointed at the last picture. An African American woman, eyes wide in horror, slash marks across her body. “Chiffon also cleaned one of the schools. Nice lady. Just before she died she told me she saw IT.” Marty stared at Dagger, wanting to make sure he had heard him. “She said IT changed into a bird and flew away.”

  Click, click. Sherlock’s fingers started to dance on the keyboard. Dagger glanced again at Sara, her eyes like huge blue orbs. She had remained silent throughout the entire story. Her body never flinched. So it surprised Dagger when she finally spoke.

  “Can it regenerate?” Sara asked, her voice barely audible above the clicking of the keys.

  Sherlock peered up, surprise on his face, a look reserved for prize pupils who easily understood his theories. “Why, yes. And it can only be killed in human form.”

  Sara reached for the pictures in Dagger’s lap. “May I?”

  “I don’t think you want…” Dagger saw the determination on her face. She kept her hand outstretched until he handed them to her.

  Sara swallowed hard and winced at the crime scenes. She thumbed through them slowly, hoping there was some other explanation. When she came across a picture of what looked like a littered floor, she held it up. “What’s this?”

  Marty leaned forward. “The techs found f
ur and feathers at the crime scene. Both were from unknown species. Definitely not synthetic.” The cop stared intently at Dagger, as if making sure he had his total attention. “All of the victims’ watches had stopped the exact time of the full moon on March thirteenth. They wouldn’t have found identical samples at your morning crime scene. But check again on the thirteenth.”

  Dagger felt a knot slowly creep up his spine, like a foreign object seeking a way out. The last thing he needed was to find an ounce of truth in what they were saying. He didn’t want to believe, couldn’t believe. But there was something in their voices. Call it fear, conviction, whatever. He tried to keep some logic in his thinking.

  “You seem to have gone through a lot of research, Professor.” Dagger stared at the stacks of file folders, the reams of reports. “But I’m sure you have heard of Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, the Abominable Snowman, all just rumored sightings with no concrete evidence.”

  “There are many things in life we can’t explain. But one thing is certain…I know what I saw.” The professor held up the crime scene photos from two years ago. “And this should be proof enough that there is a vicious killer out there.”

  Dagger glanced at Sara and held her gaze. A year ago no one would have convinced him shapeshifters existed. Then he met Sara. But she was an anomaly, a one-of-a-kind. He can only deal with one anomaly in his lifetime.

  To Sherlock, he said, “I thought it didn’t shift totally until the day of the full moon.”

  Sherlock pushed the laptop away, checked the clock on the wall again. “It’s the degree of shifting and how long he maintains it that I believe is controlled by the energy from the full moon. I mentioned we have had twelve full moons on a Friday the thirteenth since 1800. This will be the thirteenth one. I believe he will be more powerful than he has ever been. And with each generation, the evil is becoming even stronger.”