by Alex P. Berg
“Don’t start with me,” I said. “Anyway, Zeb’s studies led him to the conclusion that werewolfism, or lycanthropy, or whatever you want to call it, isn’t purely a transmitted disease, otherwise he would’ve been able to infect himself with it. But neither is it a purely genetic condition. His history texts made that clear. But there had to be some connection, some factor that made Zeb—and the majority of the population at-large—immune to its ravages. So Zeb came to the conclusion that werewolfism is a disease, but only a small subset of people have the genetic predisposition to catch it. And this is where the story gets really weird.”
“You guys remember when Daggers asked Zeb about his estranged wife and he skirted the issue?” said Shay.
Quinto and Rodgers nodded.
“Well,” she said, “it turns out Zeb found a woman who possessed several ancestors who’d become werewolves,” said Shay. “Zeb befriended her, made her fall in love with him, impregnated her, and when she gave birth to their child, he kidnapped him—their son, Milton.”
Quinto blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” said Shay. “If Zeb couldn’t give himself lycanthropy, he figured he’d try to pass that greatest of gifts onto another, someone close to him, his own flesh and blood. There was only one problem. Well, two really. The first was Milton’s predisposition to the disease wasn’t as great as Zeb had hoped. It took years of testing and experimentation before the disease took hold of his son. And second? Well…the second problem is that Milton doesn’t currently have, nor has he ever had, any interest whatsoever in being a werewolf.”
“The kid hates his old man with a passion,” I said. “Hates that he kidnapped him and stole him from his mother. Hates that he locked him up in a cage and performed medical tests and experiments on him for the greater part of his childhood. And most importantly, he hates that he turned him into a werewolf. A ‘freak of nature’ were the specific words Milton used.”
“Wait,” said Rodgers. “If Milton’s a werewolf and his dad isn’t, and if he resents and hates his old man so much, why didn’t he tear the old guy to shreds and be done with it?”
“Well, that part’s complicated,” I said. “We might need to talk to a clinical psychologist before we can fully unravel it, but from my understanding, there’s a specific psychological affliction that affects kidnapping victims who’ve been forced to live with their captors for long periods of time. Something-or-other syndrome—I forget the name. It makes them relate to their captors and minimize the pain they’ve been put through. And there’s more to it. Though Zeb kidnapped Milton, he’s his biological father and the only family the kid’s ever known. Think most father-son relationships are love-hate affairs? This is like that to a power of ten.”
“Well, that makes sense,” said Quinto, scratching his chin. “But it doesn’t explain why he killed those other werewolves.”
“There’s more to the story, of course,” said Steele with a smile. “Keep in mind Milton hates, and I mean absolutely despises, werewolves—and that’s not a hypocritical statement. He hates himself, too. The poor kid really is a piece of work, but that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is, unlike his father, Milton’s singular purpose in life has been to figure out a way to cure himself of his disease.”
“Remember how Zeb mentioned Milton just started to attend college this year, and he’s working on a degree in biology?” I said. “Well, his interest in biology and immunology goes way back, and he’s been doing small tests regarding the nature of werewolfism in the privacy of his own home for years. But it was only recently, when he got a job at the university’s biology laboratory, that he finally had access to more modern equipment to help him in his studies. He was able to create cultures of his own blood and develop a serum he hoped might cure him of his disease. It’s also, incidentally, where he obtained the ether he used to dose Octavio and the refrigerated gas he put in the murder weapons.”
“Milton recently finished perfecting the serum he thought might cure him,” said Shay. “But he was afraid to use it. Given that lycanthropy only takes hold in the host if they have a weakness to the disease in the first place, he worried the cure, if it worked, might cause irreparable damage to him. So Milton decided he’d try it out on others first.”
“The others being the writing group,” I said. “According to Milton, most of them did, in fact, think his dad was a crackpot. But they thought Milton was ok. They knew he wanted to find a cure for lycanthropy, and they supported him in the endeavor. None of the others particularly liked being werewolves, either. Milton just conveniently failed to mention to any of them he was a werewolf, too—or that he was a sociopathic werewolf hater and soon-to-be murderer.”
Shay nodded. “Milton’s first try was with Terrence. He convinced him to stay home the night of the full moon, and after he’d transformed, Milton injected him with the serum. Unfortunately, it didn’t have the desired effect. Rather than curing him of the disease, it made him even more virile and wolflike. Terrence wasn’t pleased. According to Milton, Terrence attacked him in a rage—and was quite surprised when Milton transformed in return. The two tussled and Milton eventually killed him with a cold dagger.”
“Now, remember Milton detests werewolves,” I said. “If the serum hadn’t worked, Milton had planned to kill Terrence anyway as a ‘service to the world.’ But Terrence forced his hand.”
“As a result, Milton thought he’d taken a wrong turn with his serum,” said Shay. “Instead of working to deactivate the body’s ‘lycanthropic detectors,’ perhaps it worked to activate them instead. So the following night, he donned his spooky mystery cloak and paid a visit to Octavio. He knocked him out with ether as a means to keep him quiet, then injected him with the serum to see if it would cause him to transform into a werewolf despite the moon not being full. He watched him all night, but nothing happened, so Milton murdered him and went back to the drawing board.”
“Milton believes autonomous and cyclical lycanthropy is the same disease but with a different genetic component,” I said. “He thought his serum would work on any kind of werewolf, but he started to doubt himself after failing to cure either Terry or Octavio. So next he went after Cynthia, except he tried a new trick. He refrigerated his serum, thinking that if werewolves are naturally susceptible to cold, a refrigerated serum would be more effective at eliminating the disease than a room temperature version. That’s why Cairny found frostbite burns near the injection site on Cynthia’s arm.
“Unfortunately, the temperature of the serum made no difference, and he found himself in quite the battle for his life against the ghostwriter. Ultimately, Milton won and managed to spear Cynthia in the heart, just like the others.”
“And that’s all there is to it,” said Steele, “though Milton’s pretty bent out of shape about the fact that his serum failed. He’d poured his life, young as it is, into it. Honestly, if you want to experience what years of physical and emotional abuse can do to a person, go chat with him. Now that he knows his serum doesn’t work, he pled with us to kill him. Thinks it’d be better for everyone. Although he didn’t fail to mention that we should kill Eustace, too, since he didn’t have a chance to do it himself.”
Rodgers shook his head. “That’s messed up. I almost wish I hadn’t asked what you’d learned.”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” I said. “You barely would’ve slept if you’d left before getting closure. Alison probably would’ve kicked you out of bed in the middle of the night because of your uncontrollable twitching.”
“And how exactly do you know how I behave in bed?” asked Rodgers.
I grunted in response.
“I’m just pulling your leg, Daggers,” said Rodgers. “You’re right, but with that said, I’d better get going. I’m late, and Alison’s going to be steamed. See you guys tomorrow.”
We waved him goodbye.
Quinto shrugged. “Well, I’m going to head out. I’m running late, too.”
“Y
ou? Running late?” I said. “For what? You never do anything but work and eat.”
Quinto adopted the shifty eyes he’d sprung on me earlier. “What? No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just an expression. I mean, it’s late, and—”
“Relax,” I said. “Go enjoy your date.”
Quinto squinted at me, perhaps deciding if it was worth crushing me like a bug and suffering the consequences later.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell the Captain,” I said. “Mum’s the word.”
The big guy shook his head and walked off.
Shay nudged me in the ribs. “So…you finally figured out who Cairny’s dating, did you?”
“Give me some credit,” I said. “I may be slow, but I’m not stupid.”
Shay rolled her eyes, but she might’ve done it ironically.
I let it slide. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
48
I accompanied my partner to the station’s double doors and onto the precinct’s front steps. The city lanterns that hung every third of a block provided little light, but the waning moon still packed some punch—enough to prevent me from tripping on a pot hole and breaking my neck on my walk home.
Shay stood on the steps. A light breeze tickled her neck and lifted a loose strand of hair up across her face. With a delicate finger, she wrangled the strand and tucked it back behind her ear. She glanced at me as she did so.
I don’t think Shay intended anything special to be delivered with that glance. It was a glance like any other, one that could’ve conveyed curiosity or apprehension or nothing at all. But regardless of her intentions, the glance triggered something within me—the well of emotions I’d been struggling with, but more than that, too.
My mind sagged under a combination of feelings and memories. I felt a heightened awareness of the two long years I’d spent divorced from my wife, Nicole, and the maddening quiet that had reigned over my apartment ever since. I confronted the excessive number of hours I’d spent at Jjade’s, wallowing in beer and conversation and crowd noise to fill the various holes inside of me. And I succumbed to a new feeling, the feeling I’d so recently embraced outside Cynthia’s apartment, the one that rejected my emotional tethers to the past while acknowledging the changes I needed to make to avoid the same pitfalls as before. It was a feeling of possibilities, countless possibilities, and yet one solitary possibility all at the same time—a possibility that stood before me, glancing at me, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Are you alright, Daggers?” Shay said.
“Me? Oh…yeah, I’m fine.” I scratched the back of my neck and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “But, um…it’s dark.”
My partner smiled. “That’s very astute of you. Did you just notice it? Because it’s been this way for a couple hours.”
I cleared my throat. “That didn’t come out the way I’d intended. What I meant was, since it’s dark, I could walk you home if you’d like. You know…for safety.”
“Oh.” Shay blinked. “Well, that’s very nice of you, Daggers. And I’d accept, but…”
I felt a constriction in my chest. Combined with my bruised ribs, it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. “But what?”
“I was actually thinking about getting some dinner first.”
“Oh,” I said.
Shay raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “Would you like to join me?”
“Wait…are you asking me out to dinner?” I said.
“I don’t have anyone else to dine with,” she said. “And as annoying as you can be sometimes, I prefer your company to none at all.”
I nodded. “I’ve been told I grow on people. Kind of like a fungus.”
That made Shay smile, and that in turn made me smile.
“One condition though,” said Steele. “I get to choose where we eat.”
I performed an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh. Well, I guess that’s fair seeing as you didn’t get a fair choice on lunch today. Where’d you have in mind?”
“I was thinking that gnome place a few blocks away.”
“What? The one with the terrible noodles? I thought you hated that place.”
“Not that dump,” said Shay. “The sit down restaurant with the little steamed goat dumplings and the seaweed soup.”
“Oh, that one,” I said. “Well, sure. I’m in. I love that place.”
“Really?” Shay looked at me askance. “It seems a little gastronomic for your tastes.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “I love dumplings. Anything I can eat with my fingers is fine in my book.”
“You know, technically you can eat just about anything with your fingers,” said Shay as we started walking.
I tapped my digits on my chin. “Good point. I might have to try eating more foods with my hands. It might open up new sensory avenues of tastes and textures. However, I can’t imagine the strategy would go over well. Certainly not at any of the places you drag me to.”
“Not so much.” Shay glanced at me again, smiled, and shook her head.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I started imagining all the uncouth ways you might ruin a nice dinner. Chief among them was you whipping out that most recent Rex Winters novel and reading in the middle of the meal.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I said, raising a finger. “I’m still not done with it, you know.”
“So what do you think’s going to happen to the series now that the ghostwriter’s dead?”
I shrugged. “Who knows. It’ll probably revert back to Frank Gregg writing them, in which case I’d be better off not reading them anymore.”
“Maybe you could do it,” said Shay.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Be the ghostwriter,” she said.
I gave her a look indicating how half-baked I thought that idea was.
“No, I’m serious,” she said. “You’re clearly a die-hard fan of the series, so you know all the characters and plot lines intimately. You’ve got experience as a real life detective, which I’m sure could give you tons of ideas for future story lines. And you’re always complaining about how you don’t have enough spare cash and how you have nothing to do in the evenings.”
I scratched my chin. “Ok, while all of that’s true, here’s the thing. My job entails taking subtle clues and using them to recreate a picture of past events, sorting through lies and fibs and half-truths from dozens of sources, and generally putting my life on the line as herds of brain-addled thugs and bloodthirsty killers try to turn my body into fertilizer. Writing, on the other hand? That’s hard.”
Shay smiled, and I returned the favor. I could tell it’d be late indeed before I got to polish off the last of Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger, and that fact didn’t bother me in the slightest.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi. I’m Alex P. Berg, a mystery, fantasy, and science fiction author with a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering and a taste for heavy metal music. If you enjoyed this Daggers & Steele mystery, be sure to check out the next novel in the series, Time to Steele.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
About the Author
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38