Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  Once she heard Adams’ voice on the other end, her mind cleared and she knew exactly what to say. “Adams, it’s Davis. Listen, I got some new information from our tipster.”

  “Great,” he replied. She heard rustling papers. “Go.”

  “Okay. Check out reservations for an ice fishing excursion made at the Winter View Lodge and Spa three years ago January. The report probably says a guide and two of the guests were attacked and killed by an animal. I need all the background information you can find on the guests who were attacked. I mean everything. Get permission to open their minor records, if there are any.”

  “That’s going to be tough, Davis. You can’t just go peeking into sealed records.”

  “That’s why you’ll need permission. One of the guests was the Butcher. I know it.”

  He sighed. “All right. I’ll look into it. Are you okay?” he asked, concern deepening his voice.

  “Couldn’t be better.” She smiled at Ryan who moved to take the trays into the kitchen. “I’m great. Give me a call if you get anything. I’m going to do some digging of my own from here.”

  “A reporter, Davis. Really?”

  She delighted in hanging up on him.

  From the kitchen, Ryan asked, “So what do you want to do now?”

  She stood and sauntered to the counter. “Later, I need to get online to see what I can learn.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I have other ideas.” She grabbed his shirt, getting a sexy, throaty laugh from him as a reward, and pulled his lips to hers.

  • • •

  Henson tapped on the chief’s door. He waited, shifting folders from one hand to the other. He needed to report on a domestic homicide, but he also needed to discuss the pictures he held in his hands. It was time to make his case against Davis. Perhaps if he knew what kind of woman worked for him, the chief might remove her from such a sensitive case.

  When he heard the chief’s bellow, he opened the door and stepped inside. Tread carefully. Be sensitive. After all, she probably slept with him, too, and who would want to get rid of his piece at work? That’s why the pictures were so important. Henson covered his smile with a cough.

  “Henson,” the chief greeted.

  Nice enough, dullard. Too bad such a worthless cripple ran the department. If a real man ran the precinct, the whore would have gotten fired long ago.

  “Chief, got that report for you on the domestic homicide. Wife poisoned the husband because he was cheating with the babysitter.”

  Fairweather took the file and glanced over the report. “Good work.” He waited a beat, and when Henson remained still, asked, “Is there something else?”

  “As a matter of fact, sir, there is.” He passed Fairweather the other file. “Sir, regarding Detective Davis. It is my opinion she is not fit for duty. She doesn’t conduct herself with the dignity required for a detective on such a high-profile case.”

  Fairweather flipped through the photographs. With each one, his face turned a deeper shade of red. That’s it. Enraged that his piece is getting it somewhere else. Henson fought the sneer that threatened to take over his face.

  “What is this?” the chief demanded, glaring. “Did you follow on the op last night?”

  Henson’s mouth dropped open. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

  “You followed her, took pictures of her undercover, and are now trying to push them on me like she’s unfit? She’s undercover,” he said slowly, pronouncing every syllable. “That’s something you’re familiar with. Right, detective?”

  “Ah yes, b-b-but … ” Henson stammered. Didn’t he see what a slut she was? “Sir, if she hadn’t been cavorting with that reporter, she would have caught the Butcher.”

  “That so? Apparently you were there. Where were you? As it was, she was the only one of you officers that kept up with him.”

  “She lost him,” Henson argued.

  “We found traces in the sewer. She got us a lead.” Fairweather leaned back in his chair, fury draining from his face. “Henson, you are not on the Butcher case. You are to keep away from Davis, and from any of her evidence.”

  Henson stepped toward the door.

  “I know you are attempting to undermine Detective Davis. That behavior is not acceptable in my department. If you continue to intercept her reports, you will be suspended. Am I clear?” The deep voice cracked like a whip.

  “Yes, sir,” Henson said and backed out of the office entirely. Once he’d moved a safe distance from the door, he muttered, “Tattling bitch.”

  Chapter 18

  Adams worried for Lydia when they disconnected. Not for Detective Davis. She could handle herself. No, he worried for Lydia, the woman. The one who had few friends. The one who took almost everything to heart, even if she didn’t show it. In the years they’d worked together, he’d never known her to be serious about anyone. Sure she dated, but just brief liaisons. More often than not, the guys she left reeling from a breakup came to him for advice. Invariably, he told them to move on.

  This time, she seemed head–over–heels for a hotshit reporter. Adams wanted happiness for his friend, but with all the stress, he wondered if she could really think clearly. Especially with some guy coming in and sweeping her off her feet.

  Although he found Detective Davis attractive, Adams never thought of her that way. Sure, he had made a pass at her to keep up appearances. However, if she’d said yes, he would have found an excuse, and quickly. He just couldn’t date a woman who seemed more like a sister.

  His mother met Davis once at a precinct picnic. She took to Davis instantly. Since then, his mother constantly hinted they were both single, attractive adults. He spent hours explaining the idea was impossible.

  He settled into his home office to start the search. He could go to the precinct, but the tech guys had come over and installed all the latest security and data search tools. So instead of driving, he crossed the room to his desk in ratty sweat pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt.

  He checked his notes, then pulled up info on the Winter View Lodge in Vermont. The first picture on the lodge’s website was a money shot of the log exterior in winter against the mountain view at twilight. Windows glowed orange, welcoming and warm. He snorted. Should be on a postcard. Probably is.

  The cat, still without a name, jumped onto the desk and bumped his head against Adams’ hand. Not to be distracted, he scratched behind the cat’s ears with one hand, exploring the site with the other.

  Luxury rooms … spa services … Aha! Outdoor activities. Another list showed cross-country skiing, carriage rides, ice skating, ice fishing. He checked his notes again and selected ice fishing. The screen changed, listing guided day trips onto Mixon Lake. Writing the phone number for excursion registration, he decided to leave the site and look for news reports on any tragedies at the lodge or on the lake.

  More than a hundred articles appeared — everything from hypothermia to drowning. “This needs to be pared down a bit,” he muttered to the cat as his fingers tapped the keyboard. On the desk, the cat pricked an ear, and then turned to lick himself.

  “Yeah, I see how interested you are,” he said to the back of the cat’s head.

  The screen changed and new search results appeared. The very first article, “Ice Fishing Tragedy, Only One Survivor,” appeared promising.

  “On Mixon Lake early this morning, rescue crews arrived to a grisly sight. In what appears to be an animal attack, two tourists and their guide were brutally mutilated. Names are being withheld until next of kin have been notified.

  “One survivor has been found nearly five miles from the scene of the attack. In shock and dehydrated, the man managed to lead a rescue and retrieval team to the general area where he and his group had been fishing.

  “The survivor, Ryan Williams, a sports reporter, routinely
participates in and reports on extreme sports. He is receiving medical treatment and is said to be in good condition.”

  Adams’s mouth dropped open. Well, well. Our mild-mannered reporter is a survivor of a tragedy that took the lives of three people. Did Davis know about this? He fought the urge to call her and insist she spend the night at a hotel.

  He needed more information. Could be Williams actually was a victim. “I need to see the police report,” he said to the sleeping cat as he picked up the phone.

  A brief call and a little charm had the primary investigator faxing the info to him. The case had been closed, but the investigator hadn’t sounded totally convinced an animal had perpetrated the murders. After scanning the report, he called Davis.

  When she answered, she sounded breathless and energized. Covering the receiver, he turned to the cat. “Wonder what she’s been doing.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just got the police report for the attack of the ice fishing crew.”

  “Great. Go,” she ordered, all business now.

  “Okay, according to the report, the only evidence they found led to a large animal. Black bear or mountain lion they assume, although the report notes that the carnage was excessive for an animal.” She grunted in his ear, but he continued. “A search for the animal lasted several weeks and turned up nothing.”

  “I believe that.” She snorted. “Okay, continue.”

  “The report lists the victims’ names and a general summary for each.

  “Martin Baker, fifty–nine, guide for Winter View Lodge and Spa for twenty years. Last residence listed as the Winter View Lodge. Highest level education, high school diploma. Survived by a brother and sister, both currently living in Montana. Victim confirmed using dental records.

  “Edward Turner, forty-seven, credit services officer for Erintown Bank and Trust for ten years. Last resided with wife in their home in Erintown, Pennsylvania. His highest level of education was a Masters in Financial Management. Victim confirmed visually by wife.

  “That would have had to suck,” he added.

  “Next.” She sounded impatient.

  “You know Ryan was there.”

  “Yes, damn it. I know that!” He heard deep muttering on her end. “Right.” She took a deep breath. Adams could tell she wasn’t talking to him. “You’re right.” She sighed. “Adams, I need to know the fourth.” Her tone sounded measured, her words clipped. “Who was the other guy there?”

  Normally with her this frazzled, he would find it almost impossible not to razz her. This time, he couldn’t do it. “Robert Cooper, forty-two, no employment on record. Victim does have an extensive criminal record for drug possession and distribution. No record of finishing high school or GED. Get this: last known to live with his mother, Margaret, at 2352 Finch Street. Same neighborhood as the fire and Ms. Lenz.”

  “Good work. I want to interview the mother. We’ll meet for breakfast and head over there together in the morning.” Her voice moved away from the phone. Adams knew she spoke to Williams.

  “Will do.”

  After hanging up, he lifted the summary for Ryan Williams. Only a couple things he didn’t already know. College degree in journalism. Mother and father resided on a farm in upstate New York with their youngest son and daughter. Nothing about the reporter read false, yet Adams knew something wasn’t right.

  • • •

  Lydia set the phone down and flashed Ryan a grin before reaching for his robe. Flinging the terry cloth over her bare shoulders, she strode from the bedroom for a victory snack.

  “There’s some leftovers in containers; I didn’t put it all out,” Ryan said. Music to her ears.

  Quiet steps sounded behind her while she dug for the tub of leftover tartare.

  “We have a lead and a name.” She wriggled a little as she dipped two fingers into the meat and licked them clean.

  “A name?” He reached a finger into the container only to yank it back when she growled.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Watch who you growl at.”

  She chuckled and offered him some off her own finger. “Robert Cooper, a local with a rap sheet for drug possession and distribution.” She sucked another gob from her fingertip. “There was a meth lab in that abandoned house. I should have looked closer at the drug angle. We might have had him by now.”

  “You followed the relevant evidence.”

  “I don’t need your platitudes,” she snapped, tossing the empty container in the sink. “Twice I should have caught this bastard. I was within arm’s reach. If I’d done my job better — ”

  “You thought you did get him, remember?”

  “Yes.” That was true, of course, but —

  “You had no idea he escaped the burning house.”

  She closed her eyes. Rage bubbled, and she longed to take it out on him. “I know you’re trying to help. And I’m trying not to be irritated with you, so let’s just drop this.”

  He moved aside, but fixed her with a look that made her blood boil. Not trusting herself not to snap, she stood in the corner until she quieted her pounding heart. Breathing slowly, she focused on her toes until finally she felt calm enough to speak.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going to meet Adams for a quick breakfast, and head over to Margaret Cooper’s house. The mother. Question her, see if she has an idea where or what her son is. You’re welcome to come.”

  In fact, she wanted him there, but she couldn’t order him along. For the last few days, he’d followed her like a shadow. A glance to her side, and there he had waited. Protecting her, and all those around, from the beast inside her.

  Technically, he had no business going. Reporters didn’t ride along on an investigation. Hell, spouses didn’t ride along. She could lose her badge by including him this way. Last night, she could explain away his presence as a cover. But his involvement should have ended there.

  Still, she wanted him along. Leaving him behind was like leaving behind a limb. He had become part of her. She needed him. Needed him like she’d never needed anyone or anything before.

  Suddenly her throat started to close and a weight settled over her. Tears filled her eyes as she gripped her chest to try to ease the throbbing. Drowning. Lost. Colored fog waved before her eyes. The room spun and she whimpered as she dropped to her knees.

  Like a light in the darkness, Ryan came and eased aside the pain and pressure. “Shh.” He cradled her against his chest. “You’re not alone. I’ll go with you.”

  “Can’t,” she managed to gulp out.

  “Even if you didn’t need me, I couldn’t let you do this alone.”

  “I could get fired.” The room started to swim. “I’m good at what I do. I help people.” Too simplistic a comment. She’d helped hundreds of people by doing her job, and had the opportunity to do so much more good. She couldn’t risk that. It wasn’t just about her.

  “Then we’ll think of some other way to bring justice.”

  She peered into his eyes, and had no doubt they would find a way.

  Rising, she nodded. “Okay.” The weight lifted and the fog cleared. Instantly she experienced a comforting surge of energy. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk about how we can take this bastard down.” She paced to the window and back. “Is the whole silver-bullet thing real?”

  Ryan pulled books from his sack by the door. “I picked these up on the way home, in case you wanted to do some research.” He opened one and started flipping. “The general consensus is that silver will kill a werewolf. There are several ways that it is theorized a werewolf can be turned back human. In my experience, none of these work.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like saying the werewolf’s true name three times. I tried an experiment with my mother.” He grinned. “I put a box of live toads on her counter then ran. She called
after me, using every name — Ryan Michael Williams. She called three times before she screamed and ran after me.”

  “Ran after you?” Lydia glanced up from the index of a particularly large book.

  “Yeah, one of the toads hopped out of the box and into her dish water. It took half an hour to round up all the toads and get them back outside.”

  Lydia smiled, shaking her head, and returned her attention to the index. She noticed an entry. Killing. She turned to the page and read aloud.

  “Silver is the most common way to kill a werewolf. However, several sources, blah–blah, say it is possible that the term silver was mistranslated and could mean quicksilver, or mercury. Beware, mercury is very toxic to humans.”

  She scanned the next page and read again. “Werewolves have tremendous healing capabilities. So once you have disabled it with your silver/quicksilver bullet or spear, you then need to crush the brain and impale the heart with a wooden stake.” Bewildered, she paused.

  Ryan looked up. “Some people say that once you kill a werewolf, if you don’t destroy the head and heart, the being will rise again as a vampire.”

  “There are such things as vampires?”

  His face became pained. “Are you really asking me that?”

  “Have you met one?” She couldn’t help getting excited.

  “Yes. There’s an underground club for all us supernatural beings. I really should take you there.” He ducked as she tossed a couch cushion.

  “Smartass.”

  “If we exist, who knows?” He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s true, though. Jacobs didn’t turn into one … that we know of.”

  Her eyes widened as she grabbed the phone and called the coroner’s office. “Dr. Hoodam’s office,” she requested when the receptionist answered.

  “Doctor. It’s Detective Davis. I’m following a lead. Can you tell me if Hank Jacobs has been released for burial yet?”

  “In the morning, he is to be transferred to the funeral home.” An odd clanging sounded in the background.