Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3

by McGregor, Tim

  Amy's mouth slacked, forming an ‘O’. She hadn't seen the connection till now. “Oh my god, it's the guy you're after. The one who killed that woman. And attacked Lara.”

  “Yeah. But now he knows where we live. That's why you're going to your mom's.” He looked up at his ex-wife's house. It was nice. “I need to stop him. Now.”

  “So go get him,” she said. “You and Lara can take care of it.”

  “She's out of the picture.”

  That was news to her. “What does that mean? You're not partners anymore?”

  “We're not anything. We've been suspended for assaulting a prisoner. Internal affairs is involved and it's gonna get ugly.”

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  He didn't answer, eyes roaming over the house. He popped his door and swung out. “Let's go.”

  He retrieved the duffel and crossed to her side. Amy hadn't moved. Hunkered down in the bucket, arms crossed. The way she did when she was little. He opened the door. “Come on,” he said. “Out.”

  “What are you going to do? Go after this guy alone? That's crazy.”

  “It's easier this way. Partners slow me down.”

  “You say that, dad, but it's not true.” She slid out of the truck. “You're not Clint Eastwood.”

  The light over the front door winked on. Amy took hold of the bag and dragged it up the interlocking brick. Over her shoulder, she said, “Call Lara.”

  “Say hi to your mom for me.”

  Amy stopped. “Do you like her?”

  “What?”

  “Lara. Do you like her?”

  “We're not having this conversation now. Go.”

  “Tell her I was wrong.”

  He looked confused. The front door opened and Cheryl stood in the doorway.

  “Just tell her. And be careful.” Amy dragged the bag up the steps and into the house. Cheryl waved and he nodded back. That was all.

  THE basement lights popped on. Gallagher crossed to a metal cabinet beside the workbench and slotted a key into the lock. He took down the Smith & Wesson and thumbed the release, ejecting the magazine. Full load. On the top shelf was a brick of 9mm rounds, a spare magazine and some oilcloth. He scooped a handful of cartridges from the box and fitted them one after another into the magazine. He set it down on the bench. A pistol and a spare magazine. It didn't feel like enough. What he wanted was an assault rifle, something powerful that would shred the thing out there. Hell, he wanted a rocket launcher for what he was hunting.

  He cast his eyes over the workbench, the tools hanging from a pegboard, the mason jars filled with woodscrews and nails. He pulled out a shoebox of blades, all exacto knives and carpet-cutters. None of it useful. Then he remembered something.

  Rifling through the crappy Ikea shelves. Dusty board games, sleeping bags and the box of Christmas decorations. Under a stack of Amy's kindergarten artwork was a long box of lacquered mahogany with cherrywood inlay. He laid it on the bench, flipped the latches and folded back the lid. The utensils lay fitted in green baize. It had belonged to his mother, one of the few things she'd left him. He never used this stuff, not even on special occasions. It needed polishing, the metal oxidizing to a dull sheen. Who had the time? So it sat down here, hidden along with all the other stuff he didn't know what to do with. There were pieces for eight place settings plus serving utensils. Fixed to the inside of the lid was the sterling carving set; knife, two-pronged fork and sharpening rod. The knife slid out and he tested the edge against his thumb. The blade was thick and almost a foot long. The ivory handle was grooved with an ornate pattern but it was too thin and too slick to get a good grip. That could be fixed. He rooted up a roll of hockey tape and wrapped it round and round the handle until it was thick.

  Gallagher tossed the tape and tested the new grip. Better, firm in his hand. He scrounged up a rag and buffed the blade to a sheen. He was fairly certain that the silver would have no effect on the thing he needed to kill but he felt better having it.

  The cell came out of his pocket and he dialed Lara's number. She didn't answer.

  31

  LARA STOOD BEFORE the doors of Legacy Emanuel, looking in at the emergency room. She ended up here after running from the church, from the horrified look in the priest's eyes. She needed help. There was something wrong within her and she couldn't deny it anymore. A full sprint here but she stopped short of the ER doors. What was she going to tell them? And even if they believed her, Lara pictured herself being poked and prodded like some alien specimen. Cut open and studied.

  “Heads up!” Two EMTs coming up behind her, guiding a stretcher to the doors. A woman lay strapped on the gurney, her teeth visible through the oxygen mask. Her eyes looked terrified and those eyes seemed to plead with Lara as she floated through the ER doors. The naked panic in the woman's eyes brought back her own hospital stay. The paralysis.

  Lara turned and walked back to the street.

  She wandered home wondering what to do next. She didn't notice the mess until she turned the lock and stood in her living room. It was a disaster. Papers were all over the floor and the coffee table kicked over. The notes she'd brought home were shredded and tossed about. Had she done this? Trashed her own place and not even remembered?

  The kitchen was just as bad. Food splattered on the floor. Broken jars and opened Tupperware flung from the fridge, the mess smeared across the linoleum. Leftover chicken was ripped from its foil and reduced to thin bones. A package of damp butcherpaper was torn open, the cut of meat ripped raw from the shank bone.

  What the hell happened?

  The question was rhetorical. She knew exactly what had happened and who had done it. She could still smell him in the room. His stink was everywhere. When was he here and what was he after?

  A noise stopped her cold. The creak of wood from the back deck. He was still here, waiting for her to come out. She had no gun, no weapon. She wasn't even wearing shoes. She stretched over the counter and slid the big Heinke knife from its block and moved to the door.

  Dark. The bulb that she never got around to replacing. Something stirred out in the yard. The dogs lay prone in the grass but now they sat up, ears swiveling in her direction.

  Prall sat on the rail with his back nestled into the post. He held a bottle of Wild Turkey, propped on his lap. It was a Christmas gift from her CO back in the Fraud unit and the bottle had gathered dust since then. Prall tipped the neck to his craw and his adam's apple throttled up and down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes went to the knife in her fist.

  “You gonna use that or izzat just for show?”

  One dog was on the deck, nestled under its master. The Siberian rose on all fours and uttered a low, sustained growl. Prall nudged it with his foot and it padded down to the steps to join the others in the grass.

  Like before, he was shirtless underneath a rancid coat. The belly exposed. Lara judged the distance between them. Was she fast enough to drive the knife into his stomach? He was fast, she'd seen him move.

  “Two paces, that's all.” He grinned. “If you're quick, you can gut me.”

  “What do you want?” Her voice sounded weak in her ears.

  “Kovacks.” He swung his legs off the rail and his boots thudded on the wooden deck. “But he's in lock up. I can't get to him.”

  “You want me to help you?” Her gut told her to back up when he came off the rail but she stood her ground. “Are you crazy?”

  “All I need is opportunity.” Prall stood the bottle on the rail. “That lock-up is too hardcore for a sick man. They'll transfer him somewhere else, a hospital or the loony ward. I need to know when and where.”

  “And then what, you kill him?”

  “You protecting that piece of shit, Lara?”

  She winced when he spoke her name. Names hold power and the fact that he knew hers made her sick.

  He kept talking. “That old prick cheated me when he gave himself up. Thinks he's safe but I've come too far to give him up now.” He t
ilted off the rail towards her. This time she backed up. “All I need is one shot. Then I'll be gone forever.”

  “And that will cure you,” she said. “Killing him.”

  “It's all I got left.”

  She took her shot, slicing the blade at his guts. He feinted back. “What about me? What do I do?”

  “I can't help you.”

  She slashed at him again, arcing the air with the blade. He moved fast, leaned out of it. The dogs were on their feet, agitated.

  “Easy,” he warned. “Anger just brings it on faster.”

  Lara stopped listening. All she wanted was to cut the leer off his face. It was simple really. To kill the wolf inside you, you had to kill the wolf that cursed you. That's all that mattered. Ivan Prall retreated, backing up against the rail. No where else to go.

  She sprang at him, aiming for the face. He dipped left, knees crashing a deck chair. Lara swung again, fast. His left hand went up defensively and the blade sliced his palm and nicked the collarbone. He grunted once and lunged.

  Sparks popped her eyes as he hit her. Fists clubbing her to the deck. She kicked out wildly but couldn't reach him. Her hair was yanked hard. He dragged her across the plank floor and threw her to the dogs.

  Lara hit the ground and came up face to snout with the dogs. They circled round, lips curling back over teeth.

  Panic stung her joints. A revulsion so deep it cooked the marrow of her bones. The dogs. Not like this. No way would she die like this.

  The pit bull went for the face but caught her arm instead. More jaws locked onto her ankle. The Siberian clamped her bicep. The animals whipped their heads to and fro, near twisting the limbs off.

  The pain was too much. Lara felt her mind shut down at its unending intensity as the dogs pulled her apart like a rag doll. And then something changed. The revulsion that iced her blood boiled into hatred, into a rage at what these filthy animals were doing to her. Something hot seared the muscle of her heart, shooting white heat into her bloodstream.

  She shook the Siberian free. She stabbed her thumbs into the eyes of the pit bull. She snarled back. She popped her jaws the way they did. She bit down on the pit, tearing its ear off in her teeth.

  The dogs backed off, tails between their legs. They sidled back and forth, confused and wary. What had she done? And where was Prall? She spotted him in her periphery, launching himself off the rail.

  He hit her full freight and Lara flattened under the impact. Everything after that was a blur.

  THE Cherokee blew through a red, forcing an Accord to brake and skid on the wet pavement. Gallagher clocked it in the rearview and sped away, putting the honking horns behind him. He wished he had cherries on the roof. All he had was the horn and the battered appearance of his truck, which told other drivers that he just didn't give a shit so get the hell out of the way. The other drivers, the ones who treated their vehicles like precious heirlooms, complied and he bullied them off the blacktop.

  He drove straight up the sidewalk, popping two wheels over the curb. Lara's house looked empty, the windows dark. He still had the ‘Police Vehicle’ sign in his truck and this he tossed atop the dashboard. Vogel could take away his gun and his shield but no way in hell was he giving up that laminated sign.

  He jackhammered the door and hollered her name. The door locked. Down the breezeway to the backyard where the gate stood open. He tried the backdoor.

  The kitchen was dark save for a dim bulb under the hood fan. A mess of food on the table and the floor. Quarter-sized spots of blood trailed out of the room. More mess in the living room, the place trashed.

  “MENDES!”

  No sound at all. The bedroom door was closed. The gun came out. He pushed the door open with his free hand. Patted the wall for the switch.

  “Leave it off.” Her voice, lost somewhere in the pitch.

  “Are you alright? Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “Stop yelling.”

  He wasn't yelling. The weak light from the hall grew warmer, allowing his eyes to adjust. Lara lay on the floor with her knees tucked into her chest, her hands clamped over her ears. Her whole frame shook with tremors.

  “Christ.” He put his hands over her as if to stop the quaking. Her skin was hot to the touch and damp with sweat. There was blood on her ankle. “What happened?”

  Her wet hair clung to her face. “Go away.”

  “Where are you hurt?” He straightened her into a sitting position, unclamped her hands from her ears. He unglued the hair from her face. Her eyes finally rose to his and he saw unnatural light humming inside them. There was blood on her chin. More of it on her teeth. And her teeth were pointed. Her teeth were sharp, the way a dog's are. Or a wolf's.

  “Jesus Christ.” It was all he could get out. Her skin burned under his hands.

  Lara winced at the crack of his voice like she'd been stabbed and covered her ears again. “Can't you hear that? They won't stop. Why won't they stop?”

  “Hear what? Lara, look at me.”

  “The dogs.” Her lip quivered but no tears fell. “They won't stop howling.”

  He heard nothing. A little noise from the street but that was all. He sure as hell couldn't hear any dogs. Gallagher felt his mouth go dry. He was in way over his head now.

  He scooped an arm under her and lifted her to the bed. He ran a washcloth under cold water and folded it over her brow. Then he went from room to room closing every window and locking all the doors. Sealing off the noise from the outside world.

  Lara had rolled onto her side. He touched her brow. Still hot. He dropped into the chair. What happens now? Would she actually change into that thing? Should he lock her up in this room until it's over? Or just put a bullet through her head.

  He leaned back in the chair. Wait and see.

  THE sky looked grey from the window. Gallagher sat up and his neck screamed from sleeping in the chair. The bed was empty.

  “Mendes?”

  He eased out of the chair and the screaming in his neck echoed down his spine. You're getting old, man. Stiff and slow to the bathroom and then the living room, calling her name. The kitchen was empty too.

  She was sitting on the back stoop watching the sunrise. Folded up with her chin on her knee. She didn't turn when the screen door creaked open. Gallagher saw the mess he missed in the dark last night. The upended patio furniture and the kicked over planter. The red drops darkening on the pressure-treated boards.

  “You all right?” He kept his voice low.

  Her shoulders rose in a shrug but she didn't turn around. “I'm like him now.”

  “He's not human.”

  “It's almost funny, you know? Of all things, dogs.”

  He went down two steps and planted himself next to her. Eyes face front, away from hers. “How come you never told me about the dogs? When you were a kid.”

  She turned to look at this time. Her eyes were puffy and red. The strange amber color was gone. “Marisol told you.” Who else would have known about that?

  He nodded. “I pushed you too hard on this thing. I'm sorry, Lara.”

  She didn't know what to say to that. Barn swallows gathered in the yard. They watched them hop through the grass. When he spoke, it was slow and cautious, the way one spoke to a jumper on a rooftop. “We have to stop him. And we have to do it now.” His mouth felt cottony. He swallowed and said what he had to say. “I can't do it alone.”

  “It's too late.” She shook her head. Can't he see that? “I can't even help myself.”

  In his head, Gallagher flipped through a catalogue of assuring words and bolstering aphorisms, stuff he'd told his daughter over the years. Anything to prop her up. It was all bullshit now. What else could make a difference?

  “He went after Amy.”

  That bit. Her fingers gripped his arm. “Is she alright?”

  “Yeah. I packed her off to her mom's.”

  The swallows flitted up to the power lines overhead and chirped mindlessly at the morning sky. Lara b
roke the silence. “We're not even cops anymore, John.”

  “I'm not talking about bringing him in.” His voice was level, resigned. “I'm talking about putting him down. Like a dog.”

  She turned it over, what he was asking. To abandon everything they vowed to do as police officers as simply kill the bad guy. Kill Ivan Prall. “He was here,” she said.

  It was his turn to clench her arm. “Did he hurt you?”

  “He wants me to bring Kovacks to him. Get him out of lock up so he can get a shot at him.”

  Gallagher shook his head. Ballsy.

  “He said he'd go away once Kovacks was dead.”

  The sun rose over the rooftops. “Good. Let's do it.”

  “What? No.”

  “Yes. We get Kovacks out, use him as bait. Prall, or that thing, comes running. We put him down.”

  “We can't just walk Kovacks out.”

  “Details.” He dismissed it with a wave. “Prall thinks he can break the curse if he kills the wolf that got him. What if it works for you?”

  Lara had a thousand reasons why that plan was the stupidest thing she had ever heard. But no words came out.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “No,” she said. “But I know where to get one.”

  32

  MIGUEL HERRERA HAD four TV sets stacked one atop the other behind the cage of Magic Man Pawn Brokers, each one cabled up to a separate DVD player. He loaded up all four machines and hit the play button. Tonight's marquee included Ass Crackers 3, Jingle Ho's and Canadian Beaver volume 5 and 6. Herrera had just opened a box of cannoli when the bell over the door rang.

  A tall dude stepped inside and held the door for the woman behind him. His mouth dropped when he saw who she was.

  “Shit, Mendes. I'm clean yo.” He chomped the end off a cannoli and turned back to his screens.