by Alex P. Berg
“Ok, let’s assume Eustace is on the run but hasn’t left the city,” I said. “If we also assume he doesn’t have any friends or family willing to take him in, then where would he go?”
I got a bunch of empty looks in response, but only one mattered to me at the moment.
“Come on, Zeb,” I said, slapping my hand on the table in front of him. “You’re the only one here who knows anything about werewolves. So think, man! Dig up some of that werewolf psychology you’ve pruned from countless books with long, complicated titles and give me some insight. Eustace is frightened, worried, and fearful. He needs a safe place to go, and he clearly didn’t come to you for help. So where else could he have gone? Are there other werewolf sanctuaries that you can think of?”
Zeb snapped his fingers. “A sanctuary! That’s a good idea.”
“Really? Those exist?” I said. “Because I just picked a random turn of phrase. But if you have some ideas, by all means share. What are we talking about? A church? A wildlife preserve? What?”
Zeb shook his head. “Sorry, that’s my fault. I didn’t mean a werewolf sanctuary. Those don’t exist. But knowing Eustace, he might’ve sought refuge in a different sort of sanctuary…”
I prodded Zeb for more, and he gave. As he did so, one of my eyebrows rose of its own accord. His idea was decidedly off-kilter, but it was worth a shot.
38
I sat on some worn concrete steps in the shadow of the main branch of the municipal library—a majestic building five stories high, faced with milky polished marble slabs embellished with friezes of angels and demons and ionic columns that resembled centenarian trees in height and girth. A pair of bronze griffin statues flanked us on either side of the broad steps, each polished to a gleaming, golden luster.
I sucked on my fingers. They tasted like barbeque sauce.
Despite it being one of Shay’s days to choose our lunch destination, I’d convinced her it was in all our best interests to make the stop as quick and painless as possible. Anything longer would increase the odds Eustace would get away, causing the Captain to blow a gasket upon our return to the precinct.
Shay may be a stickler for fancy food, but she does prioritize work over her stomach, a weakness I’ve exploited on more than one occasion. In this instance, I exploited it to the tune of a pulled pork sandwich slathered with smoky sauce and topped with macaroni and cheese.
Quinto noticed me making love to my fingers. “You know, if you’re that desperate for more, there’s some a bit farther south you missed.”
“What?” I glanced down at my shirt. A nice, round barbeque stain stared right back, thumbing its nose at me. “Gah! Again? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I licked my thumb and went to work on the spot. In addition to elderly ladies, brightly-colored sauces suffered an inexplicable attraction to me. Shay mocked me mercilessly for it. Rarely a day passed that we left a restaurant and my wardrobe didn’t sport more flair exiting than it did entering. Of course, things could be worse—Zeb had stored half of his brisket sandwich in his beard for later.
Rodgers knew all about my scientifically unfounded attractive sauce force. “You know, Daggers, you should probably bring a spare shirt to work if it bothers you so much.”
“I don’t need your guff,” I said as I scrubbed at the spot in vain. “Just because you’ve learned proper dinner etiquette under the tip of Allison’s whip doesn’t mean the rest of us are quite so refined.”
“I learned how to eat a sandwich without getting it all over me when I was still wearing diapers,” said Rodgers. “And besides, you were married, too, once upon a time. What’s your excuse for not learning how to avoid spilling food all over yourself?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but someone beat me to the punch.
“Perhaps it has something to do with the number of truncheon blows he’s taken to the skull,” said Steele.
“Gah!” I shouted.
Shay stood behind me. We’d sent her into the municipal library alone to do a little scouting, figuring her capris and flirty yellow top wouldn’t give her away as a police officer.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “You could start by not wearing flats all the time.”
Shay crossed her arms. “You’re the one who convinced me heels were a dumb idea due to how much walking we do, which turned out to be sage advice. Now you’re telling me I should risk blisters so you don’t look foolish?”
“It would make your calves look great, too,” I said.
Shay frowned.
“Excuse me,” said Zeb with a confused look, “but did you manage to locate Eustace?”
“Don’t worry,” said Quinto. “They’re always like this.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Steele, “I did. Found him in one of the stacks surrounded by books. Looked like he’d been reading for a while. I’m not sure he was even awake when I spotted him. And he’s got a backpack with him, so he’s probably thinking about running.”
“Fantastic.” I stood up and dusted my hands off on my pants, which were miraculously stain-free. “Now let’s figure out a plan of attack and go snag this little weasel.”
“Really?” said Shay. “You want to form a plan? You’re sure you don’t want to run in, swinging Daisy and cracking skulls?”
“Please,” I said. “This is a public library.”
Steele raised her brows at me.
“Fine,” I said. “That basically was going to be my plan.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want to confer with me?” said Steele. “You know, seeing as I’m the one who performed the recon?”
“Alright,” I said with a downward curl of my lip. “What do you suggest?”
“Honestly, it should be straightforward,” said Steele. “Eustace was on the second floor of the west wing, in the classics section smack dab in the center of one of the stacks. As long as we go in with a pair of officers and approach from both sides simultaneously, it should be a breeze.”
I eyed Zeb. “You’re sure this guy is one of the cyclical werewolves, right?”
“Well, certainty is relative, Detective,” he said. “Given that autonomous werewolves can transform at will, it’s possible Eustace is in control of his own metamorphoses and merely chose to transform in accordance with the lunar cycles so as to perpetrate a ruse—”
I scowled.
“—but that’s extremely unlikely.”
“Alright,” I said. “Quinto, bring Zeb and stay in the lobby. Steele, you lead the way. When we get close, we’ll split. Rodgers will stay with you on one side of the stacks, and I’ll take the opposite side. Sound good?”
Everyone nodded.
After a brief session of light calisthenics to loosen up, I dug my hand into my coat and wrapped my fingers around Daisy’s cold, hard midsection. For the first time in a while, she might see some action, and she was a girl who liked to get around.
39
I moseyed along the second-floor balcony on the left-hand side of the municipal library’s cavernous reading room, my arm sliding along the railing that ran around the entire room. Below me to my right, scores of studious individuals of all races and creeds sat and read, clustered among rows and rows of identical polished maple tables. Light streamed in through huge arched windows at the sides, making the lanterns that dotted the tables temporarily superfluous.
Rodgers and Steele made their way across the opposite side of the reading room, their legs moving in lockstep with mine. At the far side of the room, the classics stacks stood like immobile sentinels, their shelves packed to the brim with books that were impeccably written, highly-regarded, and as a general rule, mind-numbingly boring. Why anyone would willingly read literary pieces when genre fiction was available was beyond me.
Shay’s recon placed Eustace between the third and fourth racks. With my hand clutching Daisy, I turned the corner to
the aisle in question. Shay and Rodgers appeared at the other end. In the middle of the stack sat a slight, young elf with close cropped black hair and a prominent mole on his left cheek. Stacks of books formed a castle around him, and a bulging backpack peeked out from among the walls like a brightly-tinted indigo groundhog.
Though my partner’s recon might’ve been perfectly accurate at the moment she gathered it, Eustace was no longer asleep.
And he saw us.
I should’ve anticipated what happened next. By approaching the young man from the sides, I’d assumed we’d cut off his escape routes, making his arrest simple and lacking in any form of cardiac exertion on my part, but I’d made one crucial error. I’d forgotten the stacks in the classics section stopped several feet short of the high arching ceiling.
The moment Eustace spotted me and my shiny friend Daisy, he grabbed his backpack and sprang up the sides of the stacks, his thin fingers propelling him up the shelves with ease.
I swore.
“Go! Go!” I waved my arms at Rodgers and Steele and took off in the direction I’d come. A quick glance at Eustace revealed he had me beat on speed and agility, but given the geometry of the room, he had to duck walk across the top of the stacks.
Meanwhile, I sprinted down the aisle perpendicular to the end of them, more or less keeping pace. This resulted in Eustace reaching the end of the second floor stacks at roughly the same time Rodgers, Steele, and I did.
An infinitesimal moment passed where we all stood, eyeing each other and trying to anticipate one another’s next moves. Eustace glanced my way, then at Rodgers, then down. The last stack stood at the edge of the second floor balcony. A good twenty-five foot drop separated the top of the stack from the reading room floor—slightly less to one of the tables.
I rushed forward. Eustace jumped.
The kid hit one of the maple tables with a thump and a yell—indicating some measure of pain. I nearly ran into Rodgers as we met in the middle of the balcony. Below us, library-goers abandoned their seats and squawked in surprise.
Eustace ignored the popular outcry. He picked himself up and half-ran, half-hobbled along the table lengthwise toward a side exit.
I grabbed Rodgers by the arm.
“Come with me,” I said.
I took a step to the side and put a foot on the balcony railing.
“Uhh…Daggers?”
“Trust me,” I said.
We both went over the edge.
I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I do understand basic physical principles, including those of mass, inertia, and the concept of lever arms. Rodgers and I landed feet first onto the edge of the reading table, our combined bulk causing the far end of the table to lift off the floor, taking Eustace with it. The young guy windmilled as the table threw him into the air. I smiled, but my mirth was short-lived.
I’d underestimated the mass of the table. I’d thought them solid maple, but based on the way ours behaved, they must’ve been composed of a cheap composite with a maple veneer. As the table lifted, it kept on going, depositing me and Rodgers flat on our asses and nearly sending the table crashing down upon us.
Before I’d even cleared the books and lantern bits from my coat, Eustace was halfway across the room, heading straight for the economics stacks.
Shay rounded the edge of the balcony, shouting at me from above. “Go! I’ll meet you in the history wing!”
Rodgers offered his hand as shocked-looking gawkers gaped at us, and we took off after the slender suspect. We made a beeline toward him, but even with his bum ankle, I could tell Eustace outpaced us. He reached the economics stacks, zipped into the first aisle, and took off.
I shoved Rodgers in the back. “Follow him! I’ve got a plan.”
I may not be the fastest horse in the stable, but I use what I’ve got. I whipped out my cursory knowledge of geometry and physics, took a hard angle along the hypotenuse of Eustace’s trajectory, and confident in my knowledge of the law of propagation of—momentum? Force? Fatness?—I launched myself at full velocity into the side of the stacks.
The entire length of the racks teetered, wobbled, and toppled, coming down in a crash of clanging metal racks and thumping book covers. The commotion nearly drowned out two distinct cries—one a surprised yelp and another involving the words ‘Daggers, you piece of—!’
I rounded the corner, gripped the edge of the now bare metal shelves, and, with a grunt, tipped them back upright. Eustace sputtered and flailed under a pile of weighty econ texts, while farther behind, Rodgers tried to swim his way out of a similar pool. Huffing and breathing hard, Steele approached me from behind.
“Daggers?” she said as she caught her breath. “What did you do?”
“I figured I’d test the theory of trickle-down economics,” I said. “Seems to have worked pretty well.”
Shay scrunched her face. “I think you’re stretching that metaphor a little too far.”
“Alright, how about this one,” I said. “I always thought economics wasn’t considered one of the hard sciences, but these books sure did leave some nice welts.”
I could tell Shay wanted to roll her eyes, but my wit and charm were too much for her to handle. She settled on a subdued grin. “It’s ok. Better, I suppose.”
Eustace groaned. I dug him out of his prison of books and restrained him with a love tap from my billy club—not that he needed it. Between his sprained ankle and the avalanche of books that may or may not have given him a concussion, I think the kid was pretty much spent.
Rodgers walked over, swinging one of his arms in a wide circle.
“Whoa, there,” I said. “You getting ready to pop me?”
“No, but I should,” said Rodgers. “You could’ve given me some warning. Luckily, I only got pelted with soft-bound periodicals, otherwise I’d really be miffed.”
“Don’t lie,” I said. “This’ll be one of those stories you’ll lord over Quinto for years. He’ll wish he could’ve been a part of this. He’ll be angrier than a dwarf at a carnival ride.”
“If so, he’ll be angry with you,” said Rodgers. “Which makes two of us.”
“Don’t be so sour,” I said. “We caught the bad guy, didn’t we?”
Rodgers shrugged. “I guess. I wonder what he’ll have to say for himself regarding his decision to run.”
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea what he’ll say regarding that,” I said. “However, there is something I’m very curious about.”
“Which is?” said Steele.
I eyed the bright blue backpack. “I want to know what’s in there.”
40
Before I’d even had a chance to sniff the backpack’s straps, a herd of the most surly, foul-tempered creatures ever to set foot on our gods’ green earth descended upon me in a wave of furrowed brows and accusatory fingers—angry librarians.
They weren’t particularly happy about the state in which I’d left the economics wing. I feared their molars might break under the rage-fueled pressure of their own jaws. I tried to smooth things over with a few witty platitudes, but I soon realized the librarians had all had their funny bones removed as part of their occupational training, so I cut anchor and skedaddled.
And as much as I enjoyed being right, I wish I’d been less prescient regarding Quinto. Upon finding out he’d missed not only a thrilling chase but also getting to see Rodgers pelted with magazines, the big guy’s surliness infected us all.
Normally it wouldn’t have bothered me—Shay and I would’ve hitched a ride on a rickshaw and left Rodgers to deal with the mess on his own—but given that we had two prisoners to transport, we decided a slow, steady walk was the least risky way to ensure everyone reached the station. Not only did I have to suffer Quinto’s moping the entire way back, but I never had a chance to open the backpack, either.
The chances of everyone’s moods lifting upon reaching the precinct plummeted when the Captain met our entourage head first in the pit.
“Where the hel
l have you all been?” he barked. “My hairline’s receded a good two inches while you buffoons have been out gallivanting in the sun and sucking on barbeque sandwiches.”
I glanced at my shirt. My wet thumb hadn’t exactly done the bang up cleaning job I’d hoped. “Sorry, Captain,” I said. “When the runner arrived this morning with the news about the third body, I took charge and requisitioned some more troops for the battle.” I nodded toward Rodgers and Quinto. “I would’ve cleared it with you, but you weren’t in.”
“Yeah, I’m still trying to process that,” the Captain said.
“Which part? That I took charge, or that I beat you in to work in the morning?”
“Both.” He nodded toward Zeb and Eustace. “Who are these chumps?”
Eustace’s brain remained addled from the whack I’d given him with my truncheon—either that or he was daydreaming about how he’d immortalize his harsh treatment in a poorly written limerick. Either way, he wasn’t interested in talking. Zeb didn’t suffer the same affliction.
“Zebruder Coriander, at your service, sir,” he said. “Head of the WPL.”
“The what?” said the bulldog.
“Werewolf Protection League,” I said.
The Captain shot me a glance that carried with it a slew of unasked questions.
“I’ll explain later,” I said. “Rodgers, Quinto, can you get our two suspects down to the interrogation rooms? I have a couple things to deal with first.”
Someone fixed the connections in Zeb’s head. “Wait, what? Suspects? As in plural?”
“Why do you think we brought you to the precinct?” I asked. “It wasn’t because of the spectacular coffee, I guarantee you.”
“I thought I was here to offer guidance and insight regarding Eustace,” he said.
“You poor, deluded bastard.” I jerked my thumb toward the stairs. “Guys? Interrogation rooms, please.”
Rodgers took Eustace while Quinto escorted a loudly protesting Zeb.