Watcher: Based on the Apocalypse (World of Darkness : Werewolf)

by Charles L. Grant

  “The police,” Crimmins said calmly.

  “Nothing. Zip. No prints anywhere, the ground’s too hard and the grass too short. No weapon. No prints or anything else in the blood Gellman left behind on the blacktop. Because the gate was locked, they figure the killer had to have come over the wall that extends on either side of that castle thing in front, but they can’t find out where. He sure as hell didn’t climb up the bluff.

  “As for the alleged assailant, it has been suggested to the papers that this could be a unique case, nothing more. A Florida panther migrating north because he’s been squeezed out of his habitat. Or a wildcat spooked out of the Smokies, looking for new territory.” He emptied his glass. “Or maybe some twisted maniac who’s got himself a set of slice-and-dice fingers like Freddy Kruger.”

  “Kruger, Mr. Blanchard?”

  Blanchard rolled his eyes again, wishing his employers would take a look at the real world once in a while. It would make his life a whole lot easier. “A guy in the movies, sir. Kind of a monster who has knives stuck to his fingers.”

  “I see.”

  I’ll bet, Blanchard thought and yawned silently.

  “And do they believe it?”

  Blanchard nodded, glad Crimmins couldn’t see how smug he looked. “Yes, sir, they sure do. Sort of.” He glanced at a copy of the Chattanooga Times on the bed beside him. “The TV says it’s a maniac. The papers say it’s an animal. They have experts on both sides coming out of their ears.”

  “My congratulations, Mr. Blanchard. An interesting bit of confusion. Well done, indeed. How do you think they will resolve it?”

  “My best guess? It’s been eleven days, so probably they’ll come down on the maniac theory. Gellman wasn’t eaten, and there were no parts missing. Plus, barring any other sightings or attacks, it’s probably going to die down to just some editorials by the weekend, back page by Monday. They’ve still got conventions coming down here. Thanksgiving tourists, things like that. I don’t think anyone wants to stir that particular pot again.”

  “Ah.” Nothing else for a moment until, “Please wait.”

  Blanchard crossed his legs at the ankle and stared at the ceiling. As always, from the sound of it, the man was on a speaker phone, and right now he’d be conferring with whoever else was in the room. Wherever that was. Blanchard hated this part. The waiting. He had long ago stopped trying to second-guess his employer; he hadn’t yet been right, and once it had nearly gotten him killed. He only hoped they wouldn’t want him to take care of the kid. She seemed really sweet, a real innocent. And from what she had seen, and from what he had learned of her reaction and current condition, she’d probably be back in an institution anyway before the year was out. Traumatized for life, or something like that.

  “Mr. Blanchard?”

  “Still here, sir.”

  “After you check on that poor child’s drawings, we would like you to stay down there for a few days more. Say, at least until Thanksgiving weekend. Look around. Keep the media … distant. Be aware.”

  Blanchard frowned. “Sir, no offense, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve been down here for nearly two weeks already. I’ve been all over that damn mountain, and I haven’t found a thing except rocks and bushes. There just isn’t anything there. Besides, nobody’s seen anything, nobody’s heard anything, nobody knows anything. The girl is a joke, and Gellman’s dead. If I keep snooping around without good cause, somebody’s bound to get suspicious.”

  “Your … kit isn’t reliable?”

  He glanced at the compact makeup chest on the dresser, and at the small drawers beneath it where the rest of his tools were. “I don’t want to sound immodest, Mr. Crimmins, but you already know I’m pretty damn good at what I do. But I have to remind you, sir, that I’m not a miracle worker. This may not be … where you are, sir, but these people aren’t stupid. I’d like to suggest that the last thing you want me to do is to have to leave town in a hurry.”

  A pause before: “I’ll think about it. Be available tomorrow night.”

  The connection broke, and Blanchard immediately unhooked the scrambler, dropped the receiver onto its own cradle, and packed the scrambler in a small padded carrier he placed in a suitcase kept in the room’s closet. He did this all without thinking. It wasn’t until he had made sure the telephone was still working that he aimed a kick at the dresser.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  He snatched up the bottle of Southern Comfort from the floor beside the bed and nearly flung it against the wall, catching himself just in time.

  Damn them, he thought, rage tightening his chest; why the hell don’t they come down here for a while? Why don’t they spend some time in this two-bit burg with nothing but college basketball games and a fucking fish house to kill time with? Why don’t they stay in a place where the fucking bar closes at midnight?

  Jesus H. on a—

  The telephone rang.

  “What?” he demanded, taking a pull straight from the bottle.

  “Is this Miles Blanchard?”

  A woman, her voice deep and husky, and he blinked several times before he realized who it was.

  He swallowed quickly, nearly choking himself. “Yes, it sure is.”

  “This is Delia speaking. We spoke earlier this evening? I tried to reach you before, Miles, but the phone was busy.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, the bottle between his legs. “Sorry, darlin’. Unfortunately, business never stops in my line of work.”

  “This late?” Honey and velvet now. “My, my, you Northern boys don’t rest at all.”

  He sighed heavily, loudly. “I know. It’s a crime, but what are you going to do?”

  “So … are you still up for some company?”

  “Oh, yes. Now more than ever.”

  “Wonderful. I have to ask you a question, though, before I come over. Please don’t take offense.”

  He waited.

  “Are you a cop?”

  He gaped at the receiver, grinned at his reflection in the long mirror over the dresser, and said, “Darlin”, believe me, the last thing in the world I am is a cop.”

  And the first thing he did after hanging up was take his gun from the nightstand, slip it into its holster, and put it all into the bottom dresser drawer, beneath his white shirts.

  The last thing he did was utter a quick prayer that he wouldn’t have to kill this woman who called herself Delia.

  The autumn leaves were long gone, and the blue of the sky over the Capitol had shifted from hazy summer soft to clear winter sharp. Shortly after sunset, whitecaps rose and sprayed ahead of a strong wind that gusted down the Potomac. Flags snapped like gunshots, and automobiles trembled when they were caught broadside at the city’s wider intersections. Light from streetlamps and Christmas decorations in store windows, looked brittle and slightly hazed.

  The Mall was nearly deserted.

  A few scraps of paper tumbled across the short, browning grass, and a long, brown cat raced for the leeward shelter of the Metro station.

  A man, his hands burrowed in black topcoat pockets, watched the cat from the steps of the Air and Space Museum, and smiled to himself as it briefly, vigorously, attacked a candy wrapper that skittered ahead of it, before sitting calmly, only its tail twitching.

  It looked in his direction only once. And when it did, he saw the eyes gleaming narrow, and sensed the soft warning growl deep in its throat before it decided to take a moment to preen its whiskers.

  He laughed without a sound and left the museum behind as he angled between parked cars and crossed the street, pausing on the opposite sidewalk while he checked his watch, for no reason at all.

  Up to his left, the Capitol building seemed inordinately small despite all the spotlights, hunkered down against the cold black of the early-evening sky.

  A siren called, somewhere to his right.

  On the wind rose scents he ignored—gasoline and warm metal, cooling stone and exhaust, a young man hurrying east on t
he far side of the Mall, an old woman lying asleep, wrapped in rags and newsprint, dying.

  He shivered when the night air slipped down his upraised collar, and he hunched his shoulders before moving on, watching his streetlight shadow slip ahead of him, and swing behind. He had no clear idea of where he wanted to go, or where he would end up; for the moment, just being outside, being able to breathe fresh air, was good enough.

  The wind died.

  He walked on, paying little attention to the traffic or the occasional pedestrian. He heard only the sound of his heels on the pavement, looked up only when he wanted to cross another street. He supposed he should head for home, but he knew he would be just as restless there, and more confined. He’d only end up going out again.

  He rounded a corner into a small, upscale shopping district and had to sidestep around a sidewalk Santa Claus packing up his gear while talking to a little girl who kept giggling and glancing shyly up at her mother.

  It was a scene straight out of Hollywood, and he couldn’t help a grin as he glanced back in time to see the child and Santa solemnly shake hands. The handshake was a promise, and he hoped someone would keep it.

  Fifteen minutes later he paused in front of a newsstand looking ready to close up for the day. A low bench beneath the window held picked-over stacks of out-of-town and foreign newspapers; in narrow racks that flanked the bench were magazines that were, in the main, concerned with news and opinion; the foreign ones here were mostly fashion and sports.

  He didn’t see anything to spark his interest.

  All right, he told himself; this is getting ridiculous. Make up your mind.

  His problem was not boredom, nor any particular malaise. It was a lovely evening, the decorations were cheerful, and aside from the persistent restlessness, his own mood was close to buoyant.

  It was hard not to break into a run, just for the sheer joy of it.

  The problem was an uncommon but not unfamiliar situation: at present he was involved in no active assignments, urgent or otherwise, and as far as he could tell from the reports he received, there didn’t seem to be anything coming up anytime soon that would require his attention, peripheral or otherwise. Which left nothing but those same reports to be read, studied, and, the chances were, burned or shredded and summarily stashed in the circular file.

  He had, at the same time, plenty to do and nothing to do at all.

  He also knew that the holidays would soon take care of that. The lull before yet another storm.

  The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were potentially explosive. Depression and psychoses tended to build during these few weeks as daylight shortened, the cold deepened, and some people were reminded by the season’s excess of all the things they didn’t have, or believed they didn’t have—family, money, expensive gifts, connections with others. By tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, there would undoubtedly be a flurry of kidnappings, murders, and suicides; then he would have more work than he would have time to complete.

  Reading. Studying. Looking for the clues that would lead him to his prey.

  It was out there; it always was.

  He knew it; he just couldn’t see it yet.

  But that was tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

  Right now, he was … monumentally bored.

  He laughed at himself as he walked on, absently pushing a long-fingered hand back through dark-brown hair lightly flecked with silver and curling slightly toward his shoulders. A block later he turned into a residential side street whose lighting was nearly nonexistent, most its illumination owed to electric candles in townhouse windows and colored lights around the doors. Brick and polished granite facades, swept stoops and sidewalks, plus waist-high, black iron fencing in front of each building, attested to the modest affluence of those who lived inside. Traffic was swift here as automobiles took shortcuts from one thoroughfare to another.

  An elderly couple passed him, arm in arm, shopping bags in their free hands, chatting softly to each other in French.

  He nodded to them and moved on, thinking that maybe, before he completely exhausted himself, he would give it up, go home, get some sleep.

  Tomorrow, remember, he told himself; or the next day, or the day after.

  A soft, sudden cry cocked his head, and he glanced over his shoulder. The shopping bag couple stood with their backs to him and a narrow-bored tree, facing someone taller and much heavier, a kid, whose features were in shadow. He instantly stepped to one side, blending his own dark form with that of a curb-side tree. It didn’t take but a few seconds to understand that the kid posed a threat, and, by the way the old Frenchman slipped a protective arm around the woman’s shoulders, a dangerous one as well.

  A swift scan of the area showed him no signs of Metro police, nor were there any nearby pedestrians he could call on for assistance.

  The kid leaned forward, a clear menace, and the couple cringed.

  The man knew this wasn’t his affair, but there was fear down that street, and very likely death if the kid was spooked or didn’t get what he wanted; he wasted no more time.

  He unbuttoned his coat, grabbed a cellular telephone from his pocket, and as he headed back down the sidewalk, put it to his ear. He spoke just loudly enough to be heard, while he gestured extravagantly and impatiently with his left arm. He was a man clearly absorbed in his conversation, the rest of the world nonexistent.

  The kid stiffened as the man approached, turning his back slightly to the nearest townhouse, blocking easy view of whatever weapon he held.

  “I don’t care,” the man in black snapped. “The senator wants it done tonight, so make sure that you do it. Screw up and it’s your ass, not mine.”

  He could see the victims’ eyes pleading, could see the Frenchman’s mouth open, could see a shift in the kid’s stance which immediately stifled any call for help the others might have made.

  “Whatever you have to do,” he demanded as he passed them, noting the way the potential assailant had his right hand tucked into his coat at chest level, “lust make the calls, all right? lust make the damn calls.”

  A single step past them, and in one swift motion, he jammed the phone into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun, turned, and placed the barrel hard against the kid’s nape, to make sure he knew he wasn’t bluffing.

  “FBI,” he said, the first thing that came to mind. “Drop it, get to your knees.”

  It always happened: that eternal split second when the target had to make a decision whether or not he had a chance of escape or retaliation. A subtle tension, a subtle shift of balance, sometimes a held breath—all the signs, and no infallible way of reading them.

  The man pressed the barrel harder against the kid’s neck, just a little and leaned closer, just close enough for the man to hear the deep guttural snarl.

  “All right, man, all right,” the kid said wearily, shoulders slumping in defeat, “lust take it easy, okay? No problem. Ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

  “Drop it,” he insisted.

  The right arm lowered slowly, and he saw the glint of a blade just before he heard it strike the pavement near the curb. “Down!” he ordered, as his right foot kicked the knife out of reach.

  The kid slumped obediently to his knees and sat back on his heels, his hands already behind his back without having to be told.

  The man in black wasted no time—as he bound the wrists with handcuffs, he asked the woman to knock on the nearest door and have someone call the police; she didn’t need to be asked twice. Then he stopped the old man in the act of reaching for the blade. “The police will take care of it. You just relax, catch your breath.”

  Once the kid was secured, he had him sit against the trunk of the tree, legs splayed. He was young, thin, wearing nothing but a T-shirt under his coat. A sketch of a mustache darkened his upper lip.

  “Thank you,” the old man said.

  He smiled. “My pleasure. Believe me.”

  “Comment vous appellez-vous,
monsieur?”

  “Turpin,” said the man. “Richard Turpin.”

  The old man nodded to the weapon. “He would have killed us, I think.”

  The blade was long, two-edged, and by the gleam of it, freshly sharpened. It wasn’t a stabbing knife; it was a slasher, meant to open arteries no matter how it was whipped at the intended victim.

  “I didn’t want to kill nobody,” the kid grumbled behind a scowl.

  “You will go to jail,” the old man said.

  “Fuck you,” the kid said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “You got lucky, that’s all. Fucking angel here, you oughta kiss his ass.”

  Without a word, Richard gestured to the old man—wait for your wife by the steps—and squatted in front of the still grumbling kid, surely, Richard thought, barely out of his teens. He stared until the kid met his gaze.

  “You have a name?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You have a name?”

  The kid looked away in disgust. “Fuck off.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  The kid sighed heavily and looked back. “Chris, okay? You got a problem with that?”

  Richard smiled, barely. “Tough dude like you, you’re called Chris?”

  The kid sneered. “Dude? Dude? You some kinda joke, man?” He laughed and looked at the street. “Dude. Jesus Christ.” He laughed again.

  Richard leaned closer, his voice lower, his back to the old Frenchman. “Tell me something, Chris—do you want to live until morning?”

  The kid rolled his eyes … and looked.

  Richard knew exactly what he saw—an ordinary man somewhere in his thirties, lean, clean-shaven, with eyes that tucked up slightly at the corners; a hint, some thought, of the Orient there.

  He also saw the face shimmer, saw the green that filled those eyes; not emerald, but green fire.

  He saw the teeth.

  It lasted no longer than a blink.

  It was enough.

  “Oh, man,” the kid said hoarsely, pushing back as if he could force his way through the trunk to the other side. “Oh man, what the—”

  Richard patted his cheek once, not lightly. “Be a good boy, Chris. Watch your mouth.” A smile, a shimmer, a hint of teeth again, more like fangs. “And watch your back, son. Nights are long this time of year.”