“Old Archie,” Jigsaw said. “It’s one of his horses. Or what’s left of it.”
“That’s worse than the last one. Torn up like this. Jesus.”
Roy flicked his cigarette away. “Damn thing barely left anything at all this time.”
“This thing is getting nastier.” Jigsaw prodded the carcass with his boot. “Or hungrier.”
McKlusky knelt down for a closer look, holding his nose against the stench. The brutality of the attack was what struck him, the ferocity. He’d seen kills before; goats taken down by coyotes and such. They ate what they could and left the rest. But this thing, it was like it was personal, the way the horse had been ripped completely apart. He looked up, across the meadow to where a decrepit looking house stood with smoke billowing from the chimney. “Damn things getting bolder too. Not fifty yards from Carthew’s place. Shit.”
Roy shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then turned away from the damned thing. “What do we do? Call the rangers?”
“What are they gonna do?” Jigsaw spit onto the snow-dusted ground. “Issue it a fine? We need to take care of this thing ourselves. We bait it, lure it in. And then we kill it.”
Roy remained skeptical but felt the glaring pressure of his compadres. He nodded in agreement with a caveat. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
NINE
A DUFFEL BAG flopped onto the bed, clothes tossed in. Cold weather gear, extra sweaters and long johns. Gallagher zipped it up and dragged it downstairs. Rummaged through the hall closet for the green parka he never had use for. It would come in handy now. He hauled it out to the Cherokee and tossed it into the back. The husky followed at his heels and circled the truck. Ears up and tail wagging, the dog picked up on Gallagher’s frenetic packing. Something was up. It followed him back into the house.
In the garage, he pulled out a camping tent from the rickety shelf where it had lain unused for the past three years. A sleeping bag and the box of dented pots and pans. He tried to remember the last time they had gone camping. Tofino, back in 2008? Amy used to love camping and he scolded himself for skipping out on it for so long. The dog sniffed about the corners as he scrounged up any other camping gear he could find. The kerosene lantern, the Coleman stove.
He was hauling the rest of it into the truck when Amy came home. The husky ran to her, circled her and leaned into her knees to be petted.
“We going camping?” She looked into the back and saw the gear. “Bit cold for that, isn’t it?”
“I have to go out of town for a few days.” He closed the rear door.
“What for?”
Gallagher looked at the dog nuzzling his daughter’s hand. He could tell her it was work. That he had to trace some suspect who’d vamoosed. That would be easier. No questions, no fights. He looked up at his kid. “I found her.”
Amy blinked. She wanted to ask who but the question would have been rhetorical. She knew exactly who he meant. Before she could say anything, he turned and went back into the house.
The basement bulb popped on and Gallagher crossed the room to a tall metal locker. Unlocking it with a key, he swung the doors open and reached for the big handgun. The Desert Eagle remained sheathed in a holster. He placed it in a green duffel bag, along with a brick of ammunition. He slid the Mossberg off the shelf and pumped the action twice to ensure it wasn’t loaded. The black shotgun was the same one Lara had used when they went up against Ivan Prall. The finish was parkerized and the serial numbers filed off. He slid it and a box of hulls into the bag. Last to go in was the big Kabar knife.
Hauling the duffel onto the workbench, he tossed in a few last tools. Duct tape and pliers. Plastic restraint ties and a set of handcuffs. Rope and two flashlights. He zipped up the contents, ready to go.
“Damn it.” He stopped, almost forgetting it. Back to the gun locker, where he fetched up a box of rounds for the handgun. 50 calibre magnums he had had specially made. Cost a good hunk of money too. He opened the box and inspected the tips of the rounds. Solid silver.
A creak on the stairs made him turn. Amy sat down on the bottom step, watching him . “How did you find her?”
“The crank call,” he said. “I put a trace on it. The call was placed from some backcountry town two hundred miles from here.”
She draped her arms across her knees. “That could have been anyone.”
“It was her.”
“So what, you’re gonna drive five hours for a hunch? All based on a wrong number?”
“She finally broke. Called for help.” He jammed the ammo box into the bag and clocked the skepticism etched in her face. “Let me guess, you think this is more of the post-trauma? My denial?”
“She’s gone, Dad.” It just came out and Amy immediately shut her mouth. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. So blunt. She saw him bristle as if struck. Too late to take it back, she pressed the matter. “Just face it. Lara’s dead.”
He slammed the locker door so hard the whole cabinet rattled. “Don’t you ever say that. Ever.” He clomped up the stairs, forcing her to scoot aside.
A few last minute items pulled from the cobwebbed shelves in the garage. A canister of kerosene and a package of road flares. Tossed into the back of the truck, the husky shadowing his every step. The dog nickered and whined, refracting his mood back to him. He scratched it behind the ears and the Siberian licked his palm. The regret over yelling at his daughter was eating his guts so he trod back into the house.
Don’t leave it like this, whatever you do.
Amy was in the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards and tossing things into a cardboard box. Her backpack sat slumped on a chair with hastily packed clothes spilling out the top.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing some food.” She pulled down a box of granola bars, waved it for him to see and dropped it into the box. “Road trip snackage.”
“Oh. Thanks.” He swung his eyes to her backpack. “Why is your bag packed?”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You said two days, right? School is done for Christmas break. You drive, I’ll navigate.”
“Not this time.”
“I’m sorry about what I said.” Her hand instinctively went to the dog, skiffling its ruff with her nails. “That was wrong. It’ll be better with two of us looking for Lara.”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hollered at you like that. But honey, you can’t come with me.” He cut short her protest by showing her his palm, like a referee in one of her basketball games. “No discussions. That’s just the way it is.”
“So I have to go stay with mom and the wet blanket?” Her demeanor shifted, from outrage to pleading. “Don’t do that. The two of them are in full Christmas meltdown.”
“You can stay here,” he relented. “I can trust you to stay here alone, right?”
“I’m gonna have a huge party the minute you’re gone. Trash the place.”
He cracked a smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow. If I’m going to be longer than two days, you go to your mom’s, agreed?”
Amy nodded. “You know she’s gonna freak if she finds out I’m here alone.”
“I know. I’ll deal with that when it comes.” He put his arm around her, kissed her forehead. “Don’t sleep past the alarm. I won’t be here to holler at you.”
“How long is the drive?”
“Six, maybe seven hours.”
“Take this.” She handed the box of food to him. “Keep me posted, okay? I want to know what happens.”
“Okay.” He reached into a pocket and held out a small key for her. “Here. The service issue is in the cupboard. You’re not going to need it but, well, just in case.” He turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What about the dog? I can’t take him to mom’s place. She hates dogs.”
“He’s coming with me.” Gallagher whistled and the husky rose and trotted out the door after him.
Getting out of the city was a pain, as always, but thirty minutes on the highway and traffic thinned out. The plan was to spend the night driving, taking advantage of the lesser traffic to cover most of the distance. Once he got into the mountains, he’d find a motel somewhere and catch a few hours of sleep. He wanted to enter the little town of Weepers with the sun up and without bleary eyes from driving all night.
The headlights of oncoming cars flared past, the whoosh of traffic on a wet road. The blush of excitement had burned off and the dim prospect of endless highway hypnosis settled in. Doubt crept in like a damp chill. Amy was right in her assessment; this might be a total wash. Tearing off on little more than a hunch. He’d have to gear down his expectations, gird himself for disappointment. More than anything, keep his emotions dulled to clear his head. He had to remember what he was chasing. That Lara Mendes was no longer just Lara Mendes. She was something else now. Something dangerous.
And what if it really is her? What then? He hadn’t a clue. Any scenario he imagined seemed ridiculous and false.
Three hours on and the dog was getting restless. Pacing back and forth on the back bench, wedging its nose out one window and then the other. Gallagher hated stopping. Once settled behind the wheel, he’d just keep going until his daughter groaned and cajoled him to stop somewhere, anywhere. And now the dog was doing the same thing, like a second child clamouring to get out of the stifling cab.
He pulled into a roadside diner, a gas station adjacent to it. The husky bolted from the cab and beelined for the grass, sniffing crazily and peeing over tree trunks, rocks, a fence. He whistled and the husky looked up. “Stay here,” he said and went inside.
Coming back outside with a foil-wrapped sandwich and coffee, he looked around but the dog was gone. He whistled once, sharp and loud. The brush behind the diner stirred and the Siberian came bounding out to him, tongue lolling from its jaws. Its fur was slick with wet and its paws muddy.
“What the hell have you been into?”
The dog sat, mouth agape and panting.
“Forget it. I don’t want to know.” He settled onto the picnic table in the grass and peeled the foil off his dinner. The dog followed, its eyes glued to the crinkling bundle. Annoyed, he was about to shoo the animal away but then leaned back. “Oh shit...”
He had completely forgot to bring food for the mutt. How could he have been so stupid? The dog stirred, thick strands of drool already trailing from its chops. He unwrapped the sandwich, slabs of roast beef sliding from the bread, and tore the thing in half. Put one half on the ground. “Be warned, it’s got plenty horseradish on it.”
The Siberian attacked it, head jerking back as it swallowed the damn thing whole. Gallagher took a bite of his and looked up to find the husky’s eyes looking back at him. Big, sad and pleading. “Get lost. This half is mine.”
The dog didn’t move a hair. Still as stone. If anything, its eyes got bigger.
“Oh for Chrissakes.” He held it out and the dog snapped up the sandwich and he went back inside to order another. Or three.
TEN
THE TRAPS WERE empty, the snare lines untouched in the snow. She had placed seven of the traps throughout the dense thicket where she had spotted rabbit trails and grouse tracks. All seven were undisturbed, as if the critters had sensed them. Annoyed, she went back to collecting firewood. The sun had just dipped below the treeline and all that was left of the day was a dim haze that darkened by the minute. Her boots were wet from tramping the snow all day with nothing to show for it. She ignored the hollow pit in her guts and faced the fact that she simply wouldn’t eat today. She’d come back tomorrow and reset the snares in different locations.
Stupid rabbits.
She climbed the creekbank to the trees and threaded her way through the scrub pine and cottonwoods towards home. This wouldn’t be the first night she’d gone to bed hungry and with winter settling in, it wouldn’t be her last.
It didn’t have to be like this. Sitting on the bank of the creek, she had heard plenty of game in the brush around her. Smelled it too. Hell, she could almost triangulate the position of any animal through its scent and sound. A moment’s release and she could have pounced and bagged a grouse or rabbit with ease.
She had done it once. Never again.
A late November day, spent gathering wood and drawing water back to the decrepit little shack. She had worked up a sweat despite the chill air and her hunger came on in a rush, powerful and unrelenting. Hunger the most base, most raw of urges. Sex and fear and anger ran a close second but none of them held a candle to the stripped need of an empty belly. Hunger atuned all of her senses, making each one sharper and alert for the tiniest hint of possible consumption. Her ears had prickled, picking up a jagged, uneven crackle along the pine needle forest floor. Her nose flared, roaring at the scent of a jackrabbit. Before her conscious brain had time to process anything, she was off like a shot, tearing through the brush like a bloodhound. The jackrabbit scampered, thumping through the loam for a nook to hide in. She tracked it down, her heart pumping and her muscles flensing with unknown power. She dove through a rack of fern leafs, snatching the lupus from its flight. She snapped its neck and the thing flopped to the ground like a wet sock.
It took all she had just to calm her heart and push the monster back down into its hole. She swore to never do that again, to never use the heightened senses and powers of the wolf hiding inside her heart to track and kill game. Fearing she would turn then and there she ran for the silver knife and cut.
Her pulse had slowed. The monster sealed inside her heart had, after a brief taste of freedom, been forced back into its wallow. Back to the dark corner where she kept it imprisoned. Any ground, no matter how small, given to the beast brought it that much closer to the surface. To overwhelming her.
Tracking her way back through the brush to her shack, she moved deftly through the lengthening shadows and clutching brambles. She would fix up a small mess of rice and beans. Tomorrow she would try again and if there was no--
She stopped cold. Something was wrong.
Climbing up a rock face, she crested the rise and the tarpaper shack came into view. But so had the smell. The breeze had been blowing north all day and she was upwind of the camp. Blind to whatever had trampled through her home.
The door stood wide open. The little table set up outside was knocked over. The lantern and spare fishing pole lay strewn in the cold weeds, kicked around carelessly. But the smell of it was the thing that froze the marrow in her bones and set alarm bells ringing in her head. That musky, earthen scent she had encountered only once before.
Lupus
Wolf
Werewolf
Whatever it was that had ransacked her solitary refugee camp was not human. It wasn’t a bear or a coyote or fox. It wasn’t of the natural order. Just the opposite, it was a blasphemy to the natural order.
Like herself.
Since her exile, she had wondered if there were others like her. Like Ivan Prall, the deranged drifter who had cursed her. She figured there must be more, had to be, but the others must keep themselves hidden, or stayed far away from any humans. How could such monsters exist without anyone knowing? Ivan Prall, she figured, had to have been an exception.
Today, she had her answer.
One other than herself existed and had come calling. Had tracked her down all the way out here in the middle of nowhere and tore through her home. Her nose singled out the places where it had marked territory as clearly as if she could see them. Was it challenging her for territory? Was it a message, one she couldn’t decipher?
She remained still but her ears opened, catching every sound within a fifty yard radius. Her nose filtered out every smell within the same area. Was it still here? Was it waiting for her?
Was it here to kill her?
Nothing stirred in the underbrush, no telltale sound of pads on pine needles. The trills of a few winter birds and nothing more. She moved forward, silent as she could across the fr
ozen loam, to her tinderbox home. The inside was ransacked also. Her few possessions kicked around, her bedroll torn up and flung into a corner. She held her breath to listen but no sounds hooked her attention. She pulled free the loose board and reached down into the crawlspace under the floor. Her bundle of essentials was untouched. She felt for the oilcloth bundle and pulled it up. Unwinding the cloth to free the gun. A Sig Sauer she’d taken off a drunk in a bar in Tacoma. Full metal, reliable and sturdy in her hand. She slipped the magazine in and snapped the slide home.
Back outside, her ears peeled for sound, her nose tuned to the wind and the scents it carried. Something felt wrong but it took a moment to realize that there was no sound outside of the breeze. The birds had silenced their calling.
And then the sound of the thing itself.
A low grumble, guttural and menacing from deep inside the trees. Her ears prickled and she rotated her head to pinpoint the location but it kept changing, kept moving. Dead ahead at twelve ‘o clock. Then three. Six. Her arms raised up, levelling the gun and then she realized what it was doing. The thing was circling her.
One step backwards toward the shack but then the grunting changed direction, ringing behind her. Trying to cut off her retreat. What the hell did it want?
The grip of the Sig slacked in her damp palm and then the sensory information overloaded. Signals crossing; the sharp scent of it was coming south, from behind her but her ears clocked the growling as dead ahead. When it finally broke, the thing burst into the open from the east. She swung the gun round and fired blind at the massive bulk rushing breakneck at her. Her hand tapped off one more round before it slammed into her.
Her mind went blank, the pain white hot. Its jaws closed over her, plowing her across the snow. She fired again and again, no time to aim. Just blast it. A blur of massive teeth swung into view and then bristling pain as those teeth closed over her forearm, molars biting to the bone until the weapon dropped from her hand.
Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3 Page 32