by A. J. Colby
“I want to go to the morgue,” I announced, hiding my fear by snatching up another piece of pizza, shoveling congealed cheese and dough into my mouth. Across from me Holbrook tried not to choke on his soda.
“What?” he croaked.
“I’m tired of feeling useless. I want to do something to help.”
“I don’t see how punishing yourself can possibly help.”
“I’m having visions,” I blurted before I could chicken out. “I mean, I think they’re visions. That, or I’ve finally snapped and need to be committed.”
Staring at me intently, he said “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I’ve been having these dreams for years, ever since Samson attacked me. Well, not like the ones I’m having now exactly, but weird, you know?” I began to explain, setting my half eaten slice of pizza aside, the smell of it making me queasy.
Drawing my legs up to my chest I wrapped my arms around my knees, wishing that Holbrook would wrap me up in the comfort of his embrace.
“I dream that I’m somewhere in the dark, trapped, and I can’t get out. I can’t see the sky or feel the wind on my skin, and it hurts so much to be there, locked away and forgotten. They normally happen around the full moon, and I just figured it was some weird were thing that no one ever talks about, like maybe the wolf feels the pull of the moon and needs to run. It’s just that lately they’ve been different.”
“Different how?”
“I’m not trapped anymore.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” he asked, setting aside his own slice of pizza, giving me his full attention.
“No, it’s bad...so bad,” I whispered, afraid to close my eyes and see the bloody visions dancing across the inside of my eyelids, but unable to look him in the eye either.
“Riley, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on,” he said, leaning across the distance between us to squeeze my clasped hands.
“I can see their fear, can smell it and taste it, and it excites me. They’re so weak and slow, it’s so easy to catch them, but I enjoy the chase so I let them think they have a chance of getting away. It makes the meat so much sweeter,” I said, choking on the words, horrified by the hunger in my voice. “It’s disgusting, but this other part of me, this dark part of me... it’s thrilled by the hunt and their fear.”
“Isn’t that how it is to be a were?”
“A little,” I admitted. “But this is different somehow. It doesn’t feel the same. It doesn’t feel like my wolf. This feels so much more dangerous.”
“Maybe it’s just the stress of knowing Samson is out there,” he tried to reason, the crease between his brows hinting at his doubt.
“I had the first dream before you and Agent Sunshine showed up at my house.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” he asked, rising from the bed to pace back and forth in front of the window.
“I thought they were just bad dreams,” I shrugged. “Now I’m not so sure. It’s all a bit hazy. The details get hazier the longer it’s been since I had the dream, but the victims that they’re showing on the news? I feel like I’ve seen them before. All of them. How can that even be possible?”
Holbrook stopped pacing and turned to face me, silhouetted by the wan light filtering through the nearly transparent curtains. Rubbing a hand along the stubble covered edge of his jaw he let out a heavy sigh.
“Well, this changes things.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HOLBROOK’S STEPS WERE swift as we approached the Medical Examiner’s office, the morning sunshine doing little to erase the chill from the wind skittering down the street. It had taken some finagling, and a lot of phone calls, but eventually he had gotten the all clear to let me visit the morgue once we had agreed to take a contingent of agents with us.
No doubt we looked like some kind of strange parade with Collins and Hill, in their matching black suits, trailing along behind us, but I was just glad to finally be doing something. The long, squat, red brick building took up almost all of the south side of the street, hulking like a slumbering beast surrounded by winter bare trees. Snow clung to the green awning over the door and was piled high in ice crusted mounds around the three short steps leading up to the door. Stopping so fast that I almost walked into him, Holbrook spun on his heel to glance down at me.
“Is there any way I can make you change your mind?” he asked for what must have been the hundredth time since we had left the hotel.
“Not a chance in hell,” I replied smiling wide.
“Come on then,” he said with a sigh, opening the door and ushering me through.
A wall of hot air blasted me in the face as soon as I stepped inside, almost knocking me back on my heels. Sweat instantly broke out on my forehead beneath my woolen hat. Snatching it off my head, I stuffed it into my jacket pocket and fell into step behind Holbrook as he strode through the lobby towards the reception desk with an authoritative air.
Consisting of little more than a wide curved desk and a couple of uncomfortable looking bright orange chairs, the reception area was sparsely decorated with a potted plant that looked like it had seen better days, and a bulletin board behind a dusty pane of glass. The overall atmosphere was one of neglect and apathy. It was, quite frankly, more than a little depressing.
You’d think they’d want to brighten the place up a little.
The woman behind the desk didn’t exactly liven up the place either. Dull, steel colored hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun, reminding me of my disapproving high school librarian who had skulked through the shelves with a perpetual scowl on her sharp featured face as if the students were intruding upon the sanctity of her domain.
The name Mildred, spelled out in a severe looking font on the brass plaque displayed on the front edge of her desk, seemed somehow fitting. With a pair of teal, cat’s eye glasses perched on the end of a long hawkish nose she looked like a caricature of every shrewd and disapproving aunt you could imagine. The grating nasal voice that came out of her thin pale lips didn’t help to dispel the imagery.
“Can I help you?” Mildred asked, her voice making the muscles in my shoulders bunch. Catching the glint of a wedding band I hoped for her husband’s sake that he was deaf as a post.
Presenting his badge, Holbrook replied, “We’re here to see Dr. Cole.”
Leaning forward, peering over the rim of her glasses, she plucked the credentials from his hand, while clucking her tongue against her teeth. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but the Doctor is expecting us.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Cole is very busy today,” she said, inspecting Holbrook’s badge as if the mere weight of it in her hand would verify its validity.
“I’m sure she would be happy to fit us in,” Holbrook replied with his usual unflappable charm.
For a moment I thought she would continue to corpseblock us. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one gnarled finger, she looked at Holbrook and then me, her face puckering as her eyes swept over me.
Guess I don’t measure up
“One moment please.”
Answering her disapproving gaze, I bared my teeth in a mirthless smile and felt the wolf chuff in laughter Mildred paled and scrambled for the phone, almost dropping it in her haste. With a single tangerine colored nail she dialed what I presumed was Dr. Cole’s extension and waited as the line rang, purposely avoiding looking in my direction.
Serves you right, you old bat.
With my enhanced hearing it was easy to pick up the even toned feminine voice that answered.
“Dr. Cole here.”
“Dr. Cole, its Mildred. There’s an FBI agent and his...associate...here to see you. I’ve tried to explain that you’re busy, but they are quite insistent,” Mildred said, feeling brave enough to throw a sour look my way. I was amused by the fact that she didn’t have the guts to actually meet my eyes, her gaze settling somewhere above my left shoulder.
The
sigh that crackled through the phone receiver was one of beleaguered patience.
“Please tell Special Agent Holbrook I will be up in a moment.”
“But...” Mildred started to protest even as the click of Dr. Cole ending the call echoed in the receiver.
* * *
Dr. Lillian Cole was nothing like what I envisioned for the Chief Medical Examiner of Denver County. Like many people, I’d always assumed that anyone who preferred the company of the dead had to be a social misfit, awkward, and more than a little creepy. The statuesque woman that strode through the lobby in killer, bright red heels to greet us was the polar opposite of what I expected.
She possessed the agelessness of many African Americans I had met, the sparse smattering of grey in her closely cropped hair making me peg her somewhere above forty. High rounded cheek bones tapering down to a full mouth made her striking. Her face was almost entirely devoid of wrinkles, only a few creases around her eyes marring the smooth perfection of her dark skin. Those lines deepened when she smiled, extending a long fingered hand towards Holbrook, her nails painted the same daring shade as her shoes.
“Agent Holbrook?” she asked, her voice like warm velvet against my ears. “I do apologize for keeping you waiting,” she added, glancing at Mildred who appeared to sink down behind her desk, refusing to look in our direction.
“Yes,” Holbrook answered, stepping forward to shake her hand. “And this is–”
“Ms. Cray,” she cut in, shifting her inscrutable attention to me. “Yes, I know who you are.”
“How?” I asked, letting my in-drawn breath roll across my tongue, scenting the air. All I could detect was the subtle fragrance of her expensive perfume and a hint of disinfectant. She was wholly human, which was almost a relief, but didn’t explain how she knew who I was.
“You can’t watch the news for more than five minutes without seeing your face. You’re a paparazzi’s wet dream.” I didn’t like her analogy much, but I couldn’t exactly argue with it.
“Fair enough,” I agreed with a shrug as I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, fighting to keep the bite out of my voice.
That bitch, Chrismer. One of these days she’s going to pay for making me a damn household name.
“Oh! I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m not known for my people skills,” she said. “I suppose that’s why I chose to keep company with the dead rather than the living. It’s a bit harder to offend them.”
“Its fine,” I lied, offering up a strained smile and forcing some of the tension out of my shoulders.
It wasn’t fair to be pissed off at her for simply stating the truth, and yet it galled me to be reminded of that ugly truth. I resented the fact that Samson and Chrismer had made me a media darling, and yet again I longed for the simple, quiet life I had once known. The irony of it all was a bitter pill to swallow.
“I can have someone fetch you some coffee if you like, Ms. Cray. Or you’re welcome to wait in my office if that would be more comfortable,” she said, managing to regain some of her previous calm, though her cheeks remained high with color.
“Oh no, Doctor, she’s coming with us.” Holbrook said, his smile friendly enough while the tone of his voice left no doubt that his mind was made up.
“That’s highly unorthodox, Agent. I’m afraid that only law enforcement and next of kin are permitted to view the deceased.”
And here I thought his disarming smile was Kryptonite to the elastic in women’s underwear the world over.
“I’m law enforcement, and she’s with me.”
“I really don’t think–” she continued to protest.
“I’ll take the rap for this if it comes down to that, Doctor,” Holbrook assured her, sealing the deal with one of his trademark 10,000 kilowatt smiles. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Very well,” Dr. Cole agreed, though the furrow in her brow said she wasn’t entirely sure why she was capitulating. “Right this way.”
Aw, nice try Doc, but no one is immune to that smile. Better luck next time.
“You guys can wait here,” Holbrook said to the other agents, who nodded and settled themselves into the hideous orange chairs, their expressions as emotionless as ever.
Holbrook and I fell into step behind the doctor, following the sharp click of her blood red heels through a maze of hallways and short stairways that led down into the bowels of the building. The air grew cold and musty the further down we went, sending a shudder down my spine. Even my transformation into a werewolf had not eradicated my instinctual fear of the things that dwelled in dark and damp places. There were monsters living in the darkness.
I should know.
The astringent smell of disinfectant assaulted my nose before we reached the exam room, making my stomach roil. Hesitation rang in my slowing steps, buzzing in the stiffness growing in my spine. I wasn’t sure that I was ready to see the evidence of Samson’s handiwork in person, but then again, when would anyone ever be ready for something like that?
“You okay?” Holbrook asked, the tender brush of his fingers along the back of my arm sending a wave of reassurance through me.
“Would you believe me if I said yes?” I asked with a wry curve of my lips.
“No,” he replied, mirroring my smile. Pausing, he caught my wrist, making me stop and face him. “You don’t have to do this. No one is asking you to.”
“Yes, I do. I have to know what’s happening. I need to know if these dreams, visions, whatever the hell they are, are somehow a link to Samson, or if I’m just going insane. If there’s even some small chance that this could help you catch that crazy bastard it’s reason enough.”
For a moment Holbrook looked like he was going to argue the matter, perhaps even walk me back out to the SUV himself and lock me inside, but then his shoulders slumped just a little and his lips spread in a thin smile. It was an expression I was all too familiar with, my grandfather had worn it often when inevitably giving in to my grandmother’s wishes no matter how much he was against them.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”
“As a mule,” I replied, grinning.
Looking ahead I saw Dr. Cole waiting at the end of the hallway in front of a large set of doors, the garish fluorescent lighting overhead gleaming on the brushed metal, distorting her reflection.
“Everything alright?” she asked as we approached, my steps still echoing with hesitancy.
“Fine,” Holbrook and I chimed in tandem, though neither one of us sounded very sure of our answer.
Quirking an eyebrow at our response, Dr. Cole moved to push open the door, and then paused. Turning to look at me she asked, “You’re not a fainter are you?”
“Umm...no?” I replied. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Good. The last civilian I had in here was a fainter. Cracked his head on the floor. Blood everywhere. It was a damn mess.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
The scent of disinfectant was almost overpowering in the exam room. The smell seemed to crawl up my nose and camp somewhere in the back of my throat, coating my tongue with an oily film that made me want to take a scrub brush to it. And maybe a gallon of mouthwash.
The body laid out on the slab was a portrait of brutality painted in shades of deathly grey and brilliant slashes of red where somewhere torn his skin to ribbons. Rigor mortis had come and gone, his blood pooling on the underside of his body to mark the pale flesh with dark purple and red bruises. Savage lacerations had turned his face into a bloody ruin, exposing the stark gleam of bone and muscle beneath. Dread settled, cold and heavy, in my stomach at the sight of him. Even through the bloody mess of his face I recognized him from my dream. Dreams or visions, whatever they were, I had some kind of link with Samson.
Bile rose up the back of my throat, bitter and acidic on my tongue, before I could force it back down with an audible gag.
“If you’re going to vomit please try to get it in the trash can,”
Dr. Cole said, gesturing across the room.
Shaking my head I swallowed again and said, “Just give me a sec. I’ll be fine.”
I’d witnessed the inevitable end for us all more times than I cared to count. I’d even seen the evidence of Samson’s savagery before, but bearing witness to it in person was different. The young man who lay cold and broken before me was a stranger, and yet I felt a kind of twisted kinship to him. That could have been my body on the slab eight years ago, it could have been my grandmother standing in my place, looking down at the atrocity Samson had wrought.
“Do you recognize him?” Holbrook asked, his words holding far more weight than their simplicity would suggest. He stood closer than I remembered, a hand hovering at my elbow, not quite touching me, but close enough to send flickering sparks of energy along my skin.
My nod was little more than a minute dip of my head, but Holbrook’s stiff stance let me know he had caught it. “Yes, he’s the last one I saw.”
Straightening my shoulders and curling my hands into fists as my sides, I stepped up to the metal exam table. The overhead lights gleamed on the brushed metal surface of the table, the refracted light making his skin almost appear a normal shade. If I ignored the gruesome injuries marring his face and abdomen, I could almost believe he was merely sleeping. Before I knew what I was doing I had uncurled the fingers of one hand and raised them to brush a lock of flaxen hair back from his forehead, revealing the white gleam of an old scar just above his eyebrow.
“How old was he?” I heard myself ask as though I was listening to someone else, my voice distant and thick with emotion.
After flipping through the man’s chart, the rustle of papers loud in the otherwise silent room, Dr. Cole answered, “Twenty-six. His name was Nicholas Evans.”
Just two years younger than me.
“Nicholas,” I said, stroking through the soft curls of his hair. “Did your friends call you Nick? I bet your mom called you her Little Nicky.”