by Alex P. Berg
“No kidding.” I walked over and tapped on the bars of the cage, causing a flake of rust to crack and fall to the ground. So it wasn’t blood. “You think this thing was used to hold werewolves?”
“Well, it’d have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Steele. “Look at those bars. They’re as thick as sausages. You don’t need that sort of heft to imprison normal people. And look at the metal on the inside. Most of it’s scratched and weathered. There are even some impressive gauges in spots. I’m going to guess it’d take some supernaturally augmented teeth or claws to inflict that sort of damage.”
I turned and spotted Rodgers and Quinto standing at the room’s entrance, hesitation showing on their faces.
“You two ok?” I asked.
“Oh…yeah,” said Quinto. “We were just trying to stay out of the way, that’s all. You know, in case Detective Steele starting suffering one of her spells.”
Rodgers scratched his head. “I’ve got to admit, I don’t have the foggiest idea how those powers of yours work, Steele. I mean, I figured if any place would’ve had the requisite aura, or temporal vibration, or whatever you call it, to cause you to experience those prescient visions of yours, this would’ve been it. I can’t imagine what sort of freaky stuff’s gone on in this room over the years. But, hey, it’s probably better for you, right? That way the visions won’t give you nightmares.”
Shay flushed. “Well…that’s a good point, Rodgers. I mean, the threads of the past can be very…fickle sometimes. And—”
“I think what my partner’s trying to say is she understands her abilities about as well as you do.” I forced out a chuckle. “Honestly, with all the uncertainty regarding what clairvoyants can and can’t do, you have to wonder how those kooks at her university are still employed. I mean, they’re more like cheerleaders than teachers, right?”
Shay pressed her lips together and gave a tiny shrug. “It’s ok, Daggers. I think it’s time they knew.”
“Really?” I arched an eyebrow. “You want to do this now? And here of all places?”
“Do what now?” asked Rodgers.
Steele faced the guys and launched into a spiel about how she was a fraud and a liar and how she’d never had psychic abilities in the first place and how she hoped she could someday regain the guys’ trust and admiration.
Quinto scratched his chin when she finished. “Huh.”
“Really?” said Rodgers.
Shay nodded.
“And you figured this out already, Daggers?” Rodgers said.
“Yup,” I said. “After our first case, in fact.”
Rodgers nodded. “Nice.”
“You don’t seem upset,” said Steele.
“Why would we?” said Rodgers. “You’re not our partner. And besides, you’re good at what you do. Probably better than Daggers.”
“Hey now,” I said.
Rodgers grinned. Him and his dang quips.
“What I don’t get is why you’d go to the trouble,” said Quinto. “As Rodgers said, you’re clearly qualified.”
“Don’t get her started,” I said. “Let’s just say the diversity statistics of our department aren’t particularly good.”
“What are you talking about?” said Rodgers. “Quinto is half…well, you know.”
The big guy glared at him.
“I’m talking about what’s dangling between our legs,” I said.
“Ok,” said Steele. “I think it’s time to get back to the case at hand, wouldn’t you agree?”
We all nodded. The air was getting a little awkward.
“Alright,” said Steele. “So I think we can all agree this is some sort of werewolf confinement slash experimentation slash torture room, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Although I have to admit, when Eustace told us Zeb’s obsession with werewolves bordered on the unhealthy, I didn’t envision this.”
“I don’t think he did, either,” said Steele.
“What do you mean?” asked Quinto.
“Well, Eustace couldn’t have had any knowledge of this room,” said Shay. “If he had, he would’ve told us about it, probably during his accusation of Zeb.”
I nodded in assent. “And I’m willing to bet none of the other werewolves knew about this room, either. I mean, if you were a werewolf and you found out someone you knew had a secret room in their basement where they tortured members of your kind, wouldn’t you mention it to your werewolf buddies?”
“Honestly, I don’t think this room’s been used for much of anything recently,” said Quinto. “Look at all the dust.”
“So Zeb has this secret torture room, but he didn’t use it on any of the murder victims?” said Rodgers. “He must’ve used it on someone. You don’t build a werewolf prison just for kicks.”
“Guys, take a look at this.” Steele kneeled down, pinched something between her fingers, and stood back up.
“What is it?” I said, squinting to make it out.
“It’s a strand of honey blond hair,” she said.
“And?” I said. “So the big guy sheds. We already know he was down here.”
“Yes, but there’s more of these,” she said. “And they’re all inside the cage.”
Shay pointed. We looked—and gasped.
“Wait,” I said. “You don’t think—”
“—that the cage wasn’t for his victims,” said Shay. “No. I think the cage was for him.”
“Zeb’s a werewolf?” said Rodgers.
“He said he wasn’t,” said Quinto.
“So?” said Shay. “He’s lied about pretty much everything else we’ve asked him about. Why wouldn’t he lie about that? Think about it. The guy’s pathologically obsessed with werewolves. He’s devoted his entire life to them. He knows far more about physiology and immunology than a crackpot museum owner like him has any right to. And look around us. This isn’t exactly a typical torture room—not that those are typical in any way, but you know what I mean. There’s a microscope, plates for cell cultures, surgical supplies. He must’ve been experimenting, trying to find a way to turn himself into a werewolf. And he must’ve succeeded. I mean, let’s be honest, Daggers. You mentioned how Zeb’s a big strong guy, how he could’ve tangled with a werewolf. But could he? Really? If what we think we know about werewolves is true, they probably would’ve torn Zeb to shreds. And besides, someone engaged in a knock-down, drag-out fight with Cynthia last night, and Zeb doesn’t have a scratch on him to show for it.”
“If you’re right,” said Quinto, “we need to get back to the precinct in a hurry. If he took on Cynthia while in wolf form, then he can transform at any time. He could be murdering officers while we speak!”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said, holding my hands up. “Hold on a second, big guy. While I appreciate the enthusiasm, Steele’s theory doesn’t make any sense.”
“No?” she said. “How so?”
“Well, for one thing, none of this helps us establish a motive for the murders. As much as I now believe Zeb’s a total psychopath, I think his love for werewolves is genuine. He loves them so much he wanted to become one. So why would he go to the trouble of turning himself into one only to go murder all the others? And while I agree Zeb certainly could’ve been lying about his werewolf status, you guys didn’t watch his face when I asked that question. It pained him to talk about it. If he’d gotten what he’d wanted and contracted lycanthropy, why would that question bother him?”
“Maybe he regrets his decision,” said Shay. “Maybe he turned into the wrong kind of werewolf.”
“Not if you’re right,” I said. “He’d have to be the autonomous kind, which is clearly the more powerful, more desirable kind to be. No, no. This goes deeper.”
“Alright then, Mr. Master of the Deductive Arts,” said Steele. “If I’m wrong, come up with a more plausible hypothesis that explains the presence of his hair in the werewolf cage.”
I rubbed my brow. “Look, I don’t know, ok? Maybe he’s balding, and he lost the hairs whi
le mucking out the pen. Maybe he finds the solitude of the cage comforting, and he gives himself haircuts in there. Or maybe the hairs aren’t his.”
The truth hit me like a ten-pound hammer.
I blinked slowly. “Or…oh. I think I know who our murderer is.”
46
“You ready?” I asked Quinto.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “I hope this works.”
“Me, too,” I said. “The rest of you clear on the plan?”
Rodgers and Shay nodded. My partner in particular looked squeamish. She hadn’t agreed with my plan.
I gripped Daisy tightly and knocked on the door.
I heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a typical teenager’s bedroom. Between it and us stood a young man with shoulder-length, honey blond hair.
“Um…can I help you?” said Milton Coriander.
“Get him!” I yelled.
Quinto leapt into action, moving quicker than a guy his size had any right to. He wrapped a giant arm around Milton’s neck and swung behind him, catching his own fist with his free hand and pulling tight. I delivered a pot shot with Daisy to the middle of Milton’s face while Rodgers sent a flying knee into the kid’s scrotal region. Milton snarled, his hands shooting to Quinto’s arm, his fingers grasping for purchase. I cocked another shot with Daisy.
That’s when the crazy hit the fan.
Milton started to grow, and not like a seedling pushing its way through dirt in search of sun and fresh air—more like one of those fake snakes that shoots out of a can of novelty peanuts. His clothes split and burst as his rapidly expanding body shot upward. Hair sprouted from his skin, his fingernails thickened and turned into claws, and his face stretched toward me, pulling his nose and teeth into a snarling muzzle.
I would’ve sworn, but I was far too busy pummeling Milton’s furry, fang-toothed face with my truncheon. I got another four or five shots in before he swiped me with a paw that sent me flying into his bed frame.
Quinto still held Milton in a headlock, but the kid had grown so tall the big guy’s feet now dangled six inches off the floor. Quinto’s muscles bulged as he squeezed on Milton’s furry neck with all his might.
Milton grasped for Quinto’s head. I suffered a sudden vision of a burst melon, but before my nightmares could come true, Rodgers threw himself into the side of the werewolf’s knees in a move that’s banned in every sport known to man for its ligament shredding potential. Milton crumpled and roared in pain, but rather than permanently drop him, the move only angered him.
With his feet back on solid ground, Quinto squeezed on the kid’s neck as if he were trying to win a prize at a carny game. The move was working—Milton was slowing, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I picked myself up, ran forward, and delivered a full strength, no holds barred uppercut to Milton’s chin, backed by the entire weight of my meat, cheese, and fried-dough fed body.
The blow spun his head up and to the right. Milton kept it there for a moment before turning it back down to face me. He stared at me with his dark brown, fury-filled werewolf eyes and growled.
I had a bad feeling my day was about to take a turn for the worse. I sent a quick prayer to any and all gods for a miracle.
Apparently, one of them heard me and decided I wasn’t so big of a jerk that I wasn’t worth saving.
“Get back, Daggers!” yelled Steele.
I’d lost my partner during the scuffle, but I took her advice. I dove to the floor, narrowly escaping a nasty werewolf swipe that probably would’ve separated my head from my shoulders. In the meantime, she jumped and joined Quinto on the creature’s back.
Milton stood, a clawed hand on Quinto’s arm, his breathing labored.
“Hold your breath, Quinto!” she said.
Her hand came forward, clutching a dripping wad of white cotton rags. As I tried to understand what was going on, she stuffed the wad in the werewolf’s mouth.
“Now let go!” Shay said.
That seemed like a bad idea to me, but I didn’t have time to argue. Quinto apparently trusted my partner with his life. He released the furry neck, and Milton gasped, sucking air greedily in through his mouth.
He took one step toward me and stumbled, his eyes defocusing, and suddenly I knew what Steele had done.
The werewolf stumbled to his knees, his head wobbling dangerously from side to side. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, I rounded on him and delivered another vicious blow with Daisy. This time, my gal pal peppered her magic fairy dust over the victim. He slumped and fell onto the floor with a thud.
Moments after he hit the hardwood, his body began to revert to human form, but at a far cry from the rate at which he’d initially turned, like air slowly being let out of an oversized werewolf balloon.
I wiped a drop of sweat from my brow as I stood over the shrinking figure. Quinto sat on the floor panting and holding his arm, which featured a few red gouges that glistened and stained the sleeve of his coat. Steele rose to her feet and offered Quinto a hand.
“Here, let me help,” said Rodgers, approaching from near the door. “He’d pull you over if you tried that.”
As Rodgers helped his partner up, I turned to mine. “Nice work. Where’d you find the ether?”
Shay pointed to a corner of the room where a laboratory supply crate filled with syringes, glass bottles, and a large metal flask of some sort sat. I also noticed a dark, hooded cloak draped over the right side of the bed’s headboard.
“I had it in the back of my mind we might find the chemicals here,” she said. “When things turned south with Milton, I sprang into action.”
“So basically as soon as we set foot in the door, then,” I said.
“Pretty much,” said Steele.
“You ok, Quinto?” I asked.
“I got gashed pretty good,” he said, looking at his arm. “Might even need some stitches, but it’s nothing I won’t heal from. You?”
“I’ll have some sore ribs tomorrow, but I didn’t break anything,” I said. “Now come help me secure this guy. I don’t think ropes will help any, though chains might work. I say we wrap his face in ether-soaked rags and high-step it back to the precinct.”
As Rodgers and Quinto gathered the materials, I stopped my partner with a hand to her shoulder. “Hey, Steele?”
“Yes?” she said.
“Thanks. You saved our lives. I’m not kidding. We owe you. All of us.”
Rodgers and Quinto nodded in agreement.
“Yes. Thank you,” said Quinto.
A shy smile crept across her face. “Well, you’re welcome. Anytime. Although, let’s try not to make this a regular occurrence. I’m not sure how many creative ways I can come up with to take down vicious, furry werebeasts.”
“Let’s just hope we don’t need another method this evening,” I said.
It was a sobering thought. We doubled up on the ether.
47
“You know, I have to admit,” said Shay. “That went far better than I expected.”
“I know, right?” I said. “There’s so many points at which it all could’ve blown up in our faces, not least of which during the walk back here. I was afraid we’d run out of goofy juice.”
“I meant I was surprised he ended up being willing to talk,” said Steele.
“Oh, right,” I said. “That worked out nicely, too.”
We walked from the holding cells toward our work stations on the main floor, having successfully imprisoned and interrogated Milton and survived the ordeal with nary a scratch between us.
“Can I tell you something, though?” said Steele.
“Of course,” I said.
“When he first woke up and charged us as he transformed, I was afraid the cage might not hold.”
“Really?” I said. “That enclosure we put him in was built for trolls. There’s no way he’d break out.”
“I knew that,” said Steele. “At least the logical side of me did. Trust me, I know how strong tempere
d steel can be. But still, watching a seven-foot werewolf with teeth and claws like razors charge you with only a few metal bars between you and him?”
I nodded. “Logic goes right out the window when you’re scared. The mind’s funny like that.”
“You didn’t seem frightened,” she said.
I smirked. “I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
“So you eventually learned not to be afraid?”
“Nope,” I said. “I learned not to show it. On the inside, I’m still terrified. But I put on a brave face.”
We found Rodgers and Quinto packing up their things as we reached our desks, the latter of which had a thick, white bandage wrapped around his forearm.
“Hey, you guys are still here,” I said.
“Quinto just finished with the medic,” said Rodgers, “and I debriefed the Captain while you guys got Milton situated. You manage to get anything other than growls and spittle out of the kid?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” I said. “Once he vented a little of his latent anger on the troll cage, he reverted back to human form and settled down. Eventually he sung like a canary. I think he was almost relieved to get some of it off his chest, though Shay helped. She has a knack for drawing narratives out of young, male suspects.”
My partner gave a miniature curtsey.
Rodgers and Quinto shared an eyebrow raise.
“Well,” said the big guy as he threw on his coat, “we were going to wait until tomorrow morning to pester you about it, but since you’re already back, why don’t you fill in the missing details for us.”
“It’s more or less what we expected,” I said. “Zeb, as I surmised, is not a werewolf, but he does love them to an unhealthy degree. He spent years trying to become one, experimenting with werewolf blood, injecting himself with serums, even begging werewolves to bite him in the name of science. According to Milton, the weirdo even raked himself with the teeth from a dead werewolf once, hoping it might have the desired effect a bite from a live werewolf didn’t.”
Rodgers grinned at me. “If anything, wouldn’t that have turned him into a zombie werewolf?”