by Marc Daniel
A few minutes after waking up, Sheila had recovered enough to slip back into the clothes Ezekiel had warmed up for her. Michael morphed back into his human form and put his own clothes back on before turning towards his friend. “Why did you get involved, Ez? You know what—”
“I did not get involved,” interrupted the wizard.
“What do you call the force field you placed around me when I was at the wolves’ mercy?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” answered Ez, and Michael knew his friend was telling the truth. “After you rejected my assistance, I decided to stay as a simple spectator. I just wanted to see how the battle would turn out. At no point did I interfere in any way during the fight.”
“Who did it then? Who placed that shield around me?” asked Michael, turning a suspicious eye towards Sheila.
“It wasn’t Sheila either,” answered Ezekiel calmly. “You will find the man responsible for saving your life under those trees.” He pointed towards the edge of the clearing where Bill Thomason’s body lay slain.
**********
The bulk of Michael’s body had been swallowed by the trees on the opposite side of the clearing and Sheila was left in Ezekiel’s company. She still felt exhausted, but she was now warm again and she had recovered enough from her ordeal to break the awkward silence and ask the obvious question. “Who is hiding under these trees? Who saved Michael’s life?”
“Bill Thomason.” The wizard’s eyes were still fixed on the edge of the forest where Michael had disappeared. “But he is no longer hiding. He is dead.”
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” asked Sheila, suddenly worried.
“Of course I didn’t kill him! The wolves did! Why would I do such a thing?!”
The journalist did not answer Ezekiel’s rhetorical question. She wanted to ask him why Bill had been killed, how he had saved Michael, how the bears had known to come to Michael’s help, and a myriad of other things, but she wasn’t sure how long Michael would be gone and there was one thing she wanted to know above all.
“Did you know Michael’s wife?” she asked after an instant.
The wizard’s eyes dived into her own, an intense gaze, uncomfortably piercing, and she felt as if he could read her soul.
“No. Isibel died a long time before I met Michael,” he answered finally.
“How did she die?”
“She killed herself… attached a stone to her feet and threw herself into the river. Not the way I’d choose to do it, personally, but I suppose if you reach that point, the way you go doesn’t matter much anymore.”
Sheila stood silently for a moment. This wasn’t the answer she had expected, but it explained why Michael seemed gloomy every time he thought of her.
“Why did she kill herself?” she asked.
“This is something you should ask Michael,” answered the wizard enigmatically. “And I would suggest you pick the right time to ask your question,” he added very seriously.
“What do you mean? Why should there be a right time?”
“Because he won’t like your question… and you won’t like his answer.”
Chapter 118
It was the time of the month where Detective Edward Salazar caved under the pressure of his partner’s disgusted expression and finally cleaned up his desk. The files scattered across the entire surface of the large metallic desktop were coated with a thin layer of a mixture of dust and powdered sugar. The powdered sugar’s decorative touch, easily traced back to Salazar’s weakness for fried dough delicacies, nicely complemented the detective’s coffee-ring collection proudly displayed on the cover of most manila folders.
“You’re a pig, Sal! I have no idea how your wife puts up with you,” said Lewis, observing her partner expertly blowing the grime away one file at a time, before placing the folders on a quickly growing pile on the floor.
“My wife loves me as I am. She doesn’t mind my mess, she just cleans up after me,” replied Salazar, not the least offended.
“I knew love was blind, but apparently it has no sense of smell either…” said Lewis ironically.
“The word is anosmic.” Salazar wiped the empty desk surface with a wet paper towel.
“What?”
“Anosmic! Someone deprived of the sense of smell… If you spent less time criticizing people, you’d have more time to educate yourself,” answered Salazar with a triumphant grin, which Lewis pretended to not notice.
“I’d forgotten about that one,” said Salazar, holding a folder labeled The Serb, before Lewis had a chance to retort.
“What is it?” enquired Lewis.
“The Serb… Were we in charge of that case?”
“I guess…” Lewis thought it over for a minute. “But this whole wolf story took priority over everything else. And to be honest, the disappearance of a scumbag bookie does not affect my sleep much…”
“You sleeping like a baby is beside the point, Lewis. The guy was working for Ivanov, wasn’t he?”
“I believe so… yes,” replied Lewis contemplatively.
“The Russian mob seems to be somehow tied to our wolf case, so maybe the disappearance of Danko has something to do with it as well…”
Lewis stared at her partner in silence for an instant. He was a slob, but a slob who could use his brain when needed.
“You may have a point,” she conceded finally. “We should probably take another look at his file. Maybe we’ll find something interesting.”
Chapter 119
Isabella had a really upset look on her face when she opened the door, and discovering Detective David Starks on her front step did not improve her mood.
David knew that showing up at the Houston pack den alone and uninvited was not the smartest thing he could do, but he didn’t think Clemens would chance hurting a cop on official business knocking at his door. The Alpha was smarter than that.
“What do you want now?” asked Isabella, not trying to hide her irritation.
“I would like to ask your husband a few questions.” David stepped forward to try and get a better peek at the inside of the house. The angle wasn’t great but he could still see a good part of the living room, and he counted a half dozen individuals there. They all looked upset and the detective knew full well the reason for their distress. He smiled internally, but his face showed no sign of emotion.
“My husband already answered all your questions. So unless you have a warrant, get the hell off our property. You’re trespassing!” Isabella slammed the door in David’s face.
“That went well…” thought David, getting back into his car. The Clemenses had ten cars in their driveway, but David didn’t think there had been many more than ten wolves present in the house. The detective knew about the unfortunate turn of fate the pack had suffered in Yellowstone, and he had knocked on Clemens’ door as much to assess the damages withstood by the pack as to enquire about the disappearance of the Ferguson brothers.
He drove off the Clemenses’ property without noticing Andrei still perched in his tree on his spying mission. Although he did not fully understand its necessity, the low-level mobster kept religiously applying the scent neutralizer Ivanov had given him.
David stopped his car a couple miles down the dirt road and parked it between trees a few feet away from the road. He got out of his car and started heading for the location from where the Fergusons had dialed 911.
After almost an hour of painstaking searching, David found a small clump of human hair trapped in the bark of a tree. He placed his find in an evidence bag and shoved it in his pocket before resuming his search.
Chapter 120
Michael and Sheila had just gotten back from Bill Thomason’s funeral and were sitting at Michael’s kitchen table, the only table in the small cabin.
The ceremony had taken place on the shores of Yellowstone Lake, in the heart of the park. Bill had never married, and only a dozen friends and remote family members had attended the service. Following the deceased’s desires
, his ashes had been scattered over the lake.
Although Michael had not directly involved Bill in the events that had led to his death, he could not help feeling guilty. He was the only reason the pack had come to Yellowstone in the first place, and Bill had died trying to protect him…
At first Michael had scolded Ezekiel for involving Bill in this mess, but Ez had vehemently denied any connection between him and the ranger. Bill had acted on his own, not following anyone’s influence. When Michael asked Ez if he had known about Bill’s magical powers, the wizard had simply replied that it wasn’t his job to keep track of every solitary witch on the planet, and that he had never actually met Bill in person before his death.
Later, Michael had remembered the day a few years back where he had suspected his boss and friend of being a sorcerer after discovering crow remains in his trashcan. His suspicions hadn’t been far off…
Sheila, for her part, couldn’t help feeling relieved after the scalding defeat Michael and the bears had inflicted upon the Houston pack. Some wolves had survived the battle, but they were few, and she didn’t think they would come back after them anytime soon. Clemens had learned his lesson.
She felt sympathetic towards Michael who hadn’t been himself since Bill’s death, however. He had been speaking even less than he usually did and had only been eating twice as much as her, a definite sign something was off.
Although the epic battle against the Houston pack had finally boosted their relationship to the next level—a level where they no longer had to choose who slept in the bed and who was left with the couch—Michael still had a hard time opening up to Sheila and mostly kept his feelings for himself. For her part, Sheila wanted nothing more than to ask Michael about Isibel, but Ezekiel’s warning still echoed in her head and she was afraid of what the question would do to their burgeoning relationship.
“Why don’t we take a look at this list of yours to see if something jolts our deductive powers?” she said, hoping the exercise would distract Michael from his melancholic state. He looked up at her as if not understanding the words for an instant before finally getting up. He walked to the bedroom and rummaged through the pockets of several pairs of pants that lay scattered on the floor before finding the folded sheet of paper in the back pocket of some jeans. He came back to the kitchen, list in hand, and set it on the table in front of Sheila who started reading the list aloud to force Michael to focus on the task at hand:
1) Deputy Chief Sullivan and his two Rottweilers were killed at home by Wolf-A, who escaped through a window. Window broken from the inside indicates escape point and not entry way.
2) Two guns were found on the floor in Sullivan’s living room, but only one set of paw prints.
3) Steve and Marge Harrington were killed in their home by Wolf-B, who too escaped through the window. Same observation as above for the window.
4) David Starks attacked at home by Wolf-C, who was shot repeatedly by the detective but managed to escape…
5) There is an active Wolf pack in Houston whose association with the mob is likely.
6) I was attacked by the mob shortly after visiting Peter Clemens, the Alpha, at his house in the forest. Possibly the pack headquarters.
7) At least one wolf has infiltrated the local police, possibly more.
8) Sheila was attacked by Ivanov’s henchmen after writing an article hinting at a connection between the mob and the wolf attacks.
9) Clemens keeps a file with my name on it in his desk.
10) Clemens sent his Wolves to try and kill me.
11) Wolf-A was killed by me while trying to kill Sheila. He had previously assassinated a known associate of Ivanov, presumably sent to kill Sheila as well. Strangely, Wolf-A morphed back into his human form after his death and the wolf scent had completely disappeared from the body.
“Do we have any new points to add to this list?” she asked after completing her reading.
Michael contemplated the question for a minute before saying, “I still wonder how Clemens found us at your house. I hadn’t told anyone about my intent to visit you.”
“That’s strange indeed,” concluded Sheila. “It’s probably worth writing it down, even though it may be completely unrelated to the wolves’ murders in Houston. It’s also strange how quickly they found us here in the middle of Yellowstone…”
“They’re definitely well informed. I just wish we knew who’s giving them their intel.”
Sheila added point number twelve at the bottom of the list:
12) The pack has an uncanny way of finding out about our every move even when no one is entrusted with our plans.
“Anything else to add to the list?” she asked, still holding the pen an inch above the sheet of paper.
They thought about it silently for a few minutes, but neither of them came up with anything else worth committing to paper.
Chapter 121
The phone rang, and the Alpha picked it up.
“He’s dead! The Chemist is dead!” said Axel Thompkins’ voice on the other end of the line.
“How do you know? What happened?” asked the Alpha, mentally analyzing the implications of this unexpected piece of news.
“I had been looking for him ever since we got back from Montana. I still needed to drop the last load of plants. I’ve been carrying them around in my car for a week now…”
The Alpha did not point out the danger of being caught by their enemies with a trunk full of unprocessed plants, but his silence was remonstrance enough, and Axel knew it.
“Anyway, since I could never catch the Chemist at home, and since he never gets out, I started worrying about it. I called Fanning and Maxwell to see if the cops knew anything about it and they didn’t. But Maxwell called me back ten minutes ago. Houston PD found our friend Victor Grey floating face down in the bayou late last night. He looked pretty beaten up... According to the coroner’s office, the Chemist had been in the water between twenty-four and thirty-six hours by the time the cops fished him out. They also think he’d been dead no longer than eight hours prior to being dumped in the bayou.”
“This is not good for our plans,” stated the Alpha in a controlled voice.
“I know. What will you have us do?”
“We will have to move to the next phase a bit earlier than we had anticipated. We cannot afford to run out of the drug while the threat has not yet been neutralized.”
Chapter 122
Steam was rising from the mugs of freshly brewed tea and Sheila had her hands wrapped around her cup. What Michael referred to as the toasty 62 degrees inside the cabin was not nearly toasty enough for the native Houstonian who, wrapped up in two sweaters, kept moving her chair closer to the hearth where small flames were working lazily on a mostly consumed log. Michael, apparently unimpressed by the raging blizzard outside the cabin, had not bothered throwing a jacket over his thin, taupe-colored ranger shirt before walking out to the firewood shed located at the back of the house. He had come back a couple minutes later covered in snow, carrying a dozen logs. After laying the logs in a neat pile beside the fireplace, he had gone back to his seat at the kitchen table, and Sheila had reluctantly given up her spot by the fireplace to join him.
They were now once again staring at Michael’s list in the hope of finally finding a pattern or at least a connection between the apparently unrelated facts Michael had scribbled down on the page.
“OK Michael, let’s go over our current theory one more time,” said Sheila in a matter-of-fact voice. “Your friend Steve was killed because he was working on the wolf-assassin case, and his wife was unfortunate collateral damage.”
Michael nodded and Sheila continued. “The same reason also explains why David Starks was attacked. He, too, was working on the case. The fact that the pack has not gone after him since the case was reassigned to Detectives Lewis and Salazar seems to confirm our hypothesis.”
“But if working this case was the sole reason to go after Steve and David, why haven’t Lewis
and Salazar been targeted so far?”
“Maybe Steve and David were onto something without knowing it. Maybe they were getting close and Clemens couldn’t allow them to dig any deeper…” answered Sheila after a second of reflection.
“Maybe…” Michael sounded unconvinced. “Assuming Clemens is truly behind all this.”
“Who else could it be? Who else could readily send werewolves on killing sprees on Clemens’ turf?”
Michael didn’t answer. He had no other name to suggest.
“In addition, Clemens most likely came after you because you started working this case.”
Michael pulled a face clearly expressing his skepticism. “Clemens came after me as soon as he learned of my existence. I am pretty sure he would have done the same if I had been in Houston on a trip to visit the space center. The wolves and my kind are hereditary enemies; we don’t need reasons to tear each other apart. The feud has been branded in our genes over millennia of violent clashes between our two species.”
He could still remember his first confrontation with werewolves in a frozen forest of Markland. He had met very few wolves in his early life—given its historical werebear population, Norway had not been a place for werewolves—and it wasn’t until the early 1300s that he had faced off his first hostile pack. He had been living in Markland for two hundred years by the time the Thules had arrived from western Alaska. The indigenous Dorsets had been stronger than the Thules but poorly armed. In the end, the invaders’ superior weapons, their dogs, and their werewolves had prevailed over the skrælings who had become extinct two centuries later.
Michael had not waited that long to leave Markland and migrate south to the werewolf-free Great Lakes region, where he had finally settled in the state now known as Michigan in 1323.
“OK, fine,” replied Sheila, effectively drawing him back to present time, “but that doesn’t invalidate our hypothesis in anyway.”