To see how his body would heal.
And they took notes. Schlosser and Gavin and their toadies, assistants with their own sadistic tendencies who sometimes reached in and hurt Mordred for no reason other than to see him suffer. They took notes and entered logs on flashing computer screens that lit the lab at night with their bluish, frightening glow.
Mordred shuddered and sweated, remembering the laboratories, the tables on which he was strapped, the needles with their burning injections—like liquid fire injected into his veins—and then it was the blades and their thin slits and cuts. Razorblades, standard or specially coated with a sheen of silver, with the men in the white coats writing down his actions and looking at the wounds as they healed or didn’t heal. Touching, probing, poking, and then stabbing, deeper and deeper and then far enough that he could see the sharp tip protruding from the opposite side of his body, feeling the metal sear flesh and sinew along its length, the wound healing itself but then being renewed when the people in the white coats twisted the blade and cut anew.
Mordred ripped his clothes off and curled up in a sweaty, tight ball in the corner. His body grew its fur, and he blurred into the shape of a wolf.
He whined.
Lupo
After tucking Jessie into a hotel room at the downtown Hilton, he called DiSanto. Jessie’d been acting strange since he told her about his mother, but the women had bucked the odds and had gotten along, so maybe this had hit Jessie as hard as it had hit him.
Then, his heart steeled, he met DiSanto and drove to the meet he had called with Geoff Simonson.
It was time to end this.
First, their road trip—a quick run up to Minocqua to check the Wolfpaw lab the local cops had no reason to do much with. Bakke had laughed at DiSanto’s request for a chopper and kicked him out of his office. Lupo’s name hadn’t come up, and Lupo’s swift but brief appearance in the squad room had at least quieted the lieutenant’s unpredictable anger.
“Told you so,” Lupo said to DiSanto. “I got somebody I want you to meet.”
“Lead on.”
“You okay?”
The younger cop nodded, not quite convincingly.
He’d prepared DiSanto for Geoff Simonson, explaining that he was an ally in the Wolfpaw situation—whether or not it was separate from the three “wolf” murders—and, since he couldn’t tell his partner all the details of his own Georgia compound recon, he used Simonson as the witness.
DiSanto recognized him.
“You’re the guy outside the liquor store.” He didn’t seem ready to trust the ex-soldier.
“Yeah, I was trying to hook up with Lupo here,” Simonson said, shaking hands. “I knew we could work together, since we both knew things. Nick tells me you now know more things than before.”
DiSanto nodded uncertainly, clearly still uncomfortable with the whole shapeshifter concept.
Simonson detailed his military career and his many gripes with Wolfpaw while DiSanto mostly listened.
Later, Lupo and DiSanto drove in the Maxima, and Simonson followed in his rented, nondescript Toyota.
Lupo hoped like hell there’d be no wolf-related murders in Milwaukee while he was gone.
Later he dialed up some Leonard Cohen, a recent addition to his tastes, and listened to the melancholy voice, letting his mind wander over memories of his mother. Even though he dreaded making the arrangements, he had already started making phone calls. There would be no funeral—his mom had insisted on cremation and a tiny service for her son and girlfriend and partner and a friend or two. The Lupo family would be no more, unless Nick Lupo changed his mind on procreation. But there were too many issues he had to address, too many complications.
The drive was long, and he chased the Cohen with some atmospheric, theremin-laced Reverend Wolf, and then his standard “up north music” from the Alan Parsons Project, music he and Jessie had shared as special from the start of their relationship.
It brought a lump to his throat. Many of his major life moments related directly to music, which was both a blessing and curse as far as he was concerned.
They made good time, and soon they were following DiSanto’s Googled map and directions to the Minocqua PD, where the lead investigator—a jovial fisherman-type named Carver—gave them crime scene photos from the fire and murders and a copy of the posted suicide note, then detailed the stalled investigation, including the fire-damaged World War II weapons found in the secret compartment.
“Looks like German guns,” DiSanto said.
“Yeah, that’s a P-38,” Lupo tapped the paper. “And that toggle action was on a P-08, a Luger.”
“Weird stuff all over that house,” Carver said. “Looks like there were some old flags and tapestries too. Nazi paraphernalia. Medals.”
“Collector stuff?”
He thought. “Maybe, but then why hide it? Just looks like someone who couldn’t go public with his interests.”
“Definitely suicide?”
“The fire didn’t cover up enough, so we’re pretty sure Dr. Gavin committed suicide after killing his family. Not sure who set the fire.”
Carver drove them to the lab at which Gavin worked. It was a locked-up blockhouse facility carved out of the woods south of Highway J. A tall, square, barbed-wire-topped Cyclone fence surrounded the building, Caution and No Trespassing signs dotted along its length.
“Looks almost like a military set-up,” Lupo said. “Can we get in?”
“Technically, no. It’s owned by a company called WP Enterprises, listed as a medical research facility. It’s private, but I do have the keys. Gavin apparently fired everyone who worked here in the days before his, uh, breakdown. The place is lined with these huge cages, and autopsy slabs, operating rooms.” He shuddered. “Everyone who’s seen it’s been sayin’ it looks like a torture chamber for animal experiments. We had PETA callin’ last week, they got wind of it.”
“You said technically no, we can’t get in?”
“Not supposed to open up for anyone except company personnel. But this is still a crime scene, and you’re law enforcement personnel with an open case interest. I’m making an executive decision.”
He reached for the padlock on the gate and had barely touched it with the key when the blockhouse exploded, and a great gout of fire reached far above the collapsing roof.
The four men were flattened by the blast, their eardrums nearly shattered. Hot, flaming debris rained around them.
DiSanto
He picked his head up from the ground, his ears ringing, and saw Carver rolling around, his coat on fire. Simonson looked unconscious. He blinked and watched the flames whooshing into the sky. He staggered to his feet and patted down the fire on Carver’s back. Lupo had leaped up next to him to help.
Concussed, he couldn’t hear what Lupo was saying, only see his lips move. He shook his head and shrugged.
A figure flashed past, highlighted by the raging fire.
Then Lupo was sprinting away, giving chase.
Despite his distressed ears and the headache that was rapidly jabbing his skull, DiSanto stared.
Lupo shed his clothing as he ran, and then he blurred and DiSanto’s eyes caught him in mid-leap as a black wolf.
He was chasing a man who had also become a wolf.
“Jesus!” DiSanto screamed. Carver and Simonson seemed okay but still out of it. DiSanto drew his Glock and loped off after Lupo—now the pursuing wolf—and saw that they were headed to where a dark sedan was tucked into a corner of the woods.
Up ahead there was vicious snarling, and then the two wolves clashed.
Lupo
When he recognized Wilcox flashing past in a dead run only seconds after the lab blew up, Lupo gave chase. Wilcox was the only survivor of the casino takedown Alpha Team. Wounded, he had eluded Lupo’s search and disappeared.
Lupo’s ears hurt from the concussion and his body ached from being battered by the blast. But as soon as visualized himself going over and his DNA realig
ned, the Creature took over—and his physical wounds began immediately to mend themselves. At full strength, his wolf was on the Wilcox-wolf in seconds.
Wilcox was big, but Lupo was bigger, and his paws ate up ground quicker. He caught Wilcox long before the bastard could reach his getaway car.
Lupo ceded control to the Creature. The wolf was close enough to Wilcox’s galloping legs that his open snout caught fur and muscle and bit down hard, sending the fleeing wolf into a crashing heap well short of the car.
Wilcox recovered and turned to face his opponent.
Then the wolves squared off and went for each other’s throats.
Lupo feinted to the left. Wilcox went for it with his deadly fangs missing Lupo because he was already not there. Lupo’s fangs clamped on the enemy wolf’s neck and in one violent tear ripped his throat to shreds in a shower of blood, fur, and flesh.
He tore in again and again, destroying the other wolf’s neck and severing his head. Then he shook his muzzle and staggered off to the side, tired. On the ground, the wolf’s broken body became that of Wilcox.
When Lupo once again looked out through his human eyes, DiSanto was there, half-sitting on the hard ground, his gun held uselessly in one hand.
Heather
At the wheel of her Hyundai, she watched the Milwaukee skyline retreat in her mirror.
She’d be back.
Count on it, Nick Lupo.
She wasn’t done here, not by the proverbial long shot.
But she had plans on which to follow through, and she was expected, so there was this trip to make. She could have flown, but there was more than an even chance that her name would pop up on a flagged list. It was safer to drive, even if it would take longer.
She needed to be there before Lupo and whoever he wound up taking with him. Maybe he’d take his lady love. She could take care of herself, handle a gun as well as any man, but Heather figured he’d have found a way to protect her. No, it would be down to Geoff Simonson and his unresolved issues, and maybe DiSanto. She wondered if the younger cop was clued in—or was Lupo still sheltering him?
Well, she’d know soon enough, after she dialed his number. But first she had to rack up some miles.
She blended into the thickening traffic on the road east, where the endgame awaited.
Lupo
They’d left Carver with a whole new investigation and a headless body—care of the strangely-timed animal attack—and not much else to go on. Lupo knew this was going to take some major smoothing over, but it would have to wait.
Simonson’s concussion seemed mild, and he had staggered to his car and followed, but now they were turning into a truck stop and parking off to the side to compare notes and pound down coffee and donuts for fueling purposes.
DiSanto had been driving the Maxima, and he went to buy the supplies.
Simonson dug into the trunk of his rental and came out with a cherrywood box, almost like a finely crafted gun presentation case.
“What the hell?” said Lupo.
“I figure it’s time to show you this.” Simonson was looking worse than Lupo’d ever seen him. The explosion had awakened his post-traumatic stress, Lupo guessed.
Christ, as if Jessie’s problems and his own weren’t enough.
Simonson laid the wooden case on the trunk and opened it, stepping aside so Lupo could see.
The sheathed dagger inside the case was almost an exact twin of the one Lupo had strapped to his ankle, down to the strange markings on the old wood. The empty indentation where the other dagger belonged told tales.
“Where did you get this?” Lupo growled.
“I took it from the hidden compartment in the murder house. And I’m the one who set the fire.”
“Christ, Simonson, what game are you playing?” Lupo looked for DiSanto, but he was still in the truck stop. He felt his muscles tighten in preparation for self-defense. He studied Simonson’s face but saw no threat.
“Look, I wanted to cover the whole Nazi connection. The fire should have done the trick, but I didn’t catch on that there was so much cinderblock.” He wiped his face with one large hand as if it were a washcloth. “I knew what they were doing, see? The guy was the lead scientist at that fucking lab where they tortured—people like you. People with the wolf gene.”
“You had to know they’d find the lab.” Where was DiSanto?
“Just luck on their part. Everything that made the connection from the guy to the lab was saved along with the Nazi stuff, but it shouldn’t have been. I should have hung around to make sure.”
“Okay. What do you know about the blade that’s missing?”
Lupo wondered about DiSanto. How long to buy donuts and coffee? Did he trust Simonson?
“I can tell you that I pulled it out of your chest not that long ago and left it on your desk.”
“You?” Lupo’s mouth hung open and he closed it with a snap. “That was you?”
He’d agonized and then decided to end it all, cliché of clichés, but someone had stopped him. He’d suspected Jessie might have done it, but couldn’t ask without admitting he had sought suicide. And it was likely she would have been too emotional to keep the secret.
And he doubted Ghost Sam could have done it.
“Why? Why get involved? And why are you here?” Lupo shook his head. “I don’t get it.” But maybe he did.
“I needed an ally. Against Wolfpaw. Who else could I hit up but the one guy who’s been a thorn in their side?”
DiSanto was approaching, his arms full of greasy bags.
Fuck.
Now Lupo would have preferred DiSanto wasn’t in the line of fire. But Simonson seemed relaxed, unthreatening.
“Does he…?” Simonson asked.
“No. Don’t spread it around.”
“I’m not looking for credit for keeping you alive, no worries.”
Lupo nodded as DiSanto reached them.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing at the wooden case.
Lupo sighed. It was a long story.
During another rest stop about halfway to Milwaukee, Simonson convinced him their next step had to be the council meeting about to take place at the D.C. compound.
“It’s the only way to take them down, man. You can’t go to the feds. You can’t go to the cops. You got to just do them like the monsters they are.” The rage made his voice tremble.
Ghost Sam stood next to Lupo, so when he turned the old Indian leaned in.
“Judge, jury and executioner, eh?” said the ghost.
Lupo ignored him.
“Not sure I would recommend this course of action, Nick.”
Go away, go away, go away!
Lupo’s scream was entirely in his head. But when he looked for Ghost Sam, the Indian was gone. As always, no one else had seen him. How to silence the haunting? He would have enough trouble with his own conscience after what he’d done with Killian and Marcowicz.
He knew he was sliding in deeper over his head, but what choice did he have? His obsession with the sinister Wolfpaw was going to cost him everything if he wasn’t careful, everything including Jessie. Now that his mother was gone, the feeling of being an orphan was starting to set in, and here he was, doing his best to ruin every life he came into contact with, including Jessie’s and DiSanto’s.
But there was the argument that said he had to finish it now. He had an ally, so why not do what Simonson said and take them out, once and for all?
Simonson said, “The council meeting is tomorrow, Lupo. You got to be in or out. There’s no other way. I’m flagged on airline lists so I’m driving, so there isn’t any fucking-around time. You go, or you stay.”
Lupo said nothing for a long moment. Did he have the balls to follow through?
He’d lost too much to leave it alone.
The cost had been too high.
Once back in the Maxima and heading for Milwaukee, Lupo had a long talk with DiSanto and laid out his plan.
DiSanto didn’t like it, b
ut Lupo was convincing.
Next stop, the capital.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Giovanni
1944
The reunion between mother and father and son at the shelter was joyful, though tempered by the loss of two good men who had given their lives to bring it about.
The partisan brigade leader Corrado had flown into a rage when informed that the mission had cost two of his best, most experienced men, but a sober look at the condition of Giovanni’s blood-splattered clothes caused him to reconsider. Plus the fact that he had not lost the Vatican dagger redeemed the situation somewhat.
“I have seen the dagger’s power with my own eyes,” he told Corrado, as he held hands with his son and wife, “and I’d like to be its guardian.”
He didn’t tell anyone he had been wounded in his life-and-death struggle with the wolf.
He didn’t have to, because the wound had disappeared by the time he changed into a borrowed shirt and jacket.
In the coming days, Corrado’s men met German patrols made up of humans less frequently, while their encounters with the supernatural members of the Werwolf Division increased. They had been designated rear-guard, and while Hitler’s ground forces retreated through Northern Italy and met up with those retreating from Normandy, the last-ditch Werwolf Division took over the duty of harassing the partisans who paved the way for the Allied forces advancing from the south.
And in the coming days, Giovanni Lupo became Corrado’s best werewolf fighter. In his hand, the Vatican blade became a scythe that mowed down every wolf who dared attack him.
Father Tranelli noted that Giovanni seemed to have become feverish and reckless in his encounters with the monsters. “He is on a mission,” the old priest said. “A holy mission, perhaps. But he may not see the end of this accursed war if he doesn’t watch himself. What of his wife and son?”
Wolf's Edge (The Nick Lupo Series Book 4) Page 28