Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves

by Kwen Griffeth

  He laughed, and for the first time, she felt he wasn’t laughing at her. She allowed herself to join him.

  “I will tell you how I know, and after I do, you will tell me you don’t believe me.”

  Trakes leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She secretly smiled when his eyes dropped to watch the movement.

  “All right, tell me,” she said.

  “I can smell the scent of hot chocolate on you, and there is no odor of coffee or tea. Hot beverages have a lingering scent.”

  “I don’t believe you. My last cup of chocolate was this morning, from a vending machine at a rest stop. It wasn’t very good.”

  “I know,” he nodded. “The machine is set up to brew coffee, and the water is too hot for decent chocolate. Your drink was burnt.”

  “How can you do that?”

  He grinned. “An overly developed nose?”

  She shook her head.

  “And what is in your glass?” she asked.

  “Oh,” he said, “because it’s clear, you think it might be gin or maybe vodka?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s okay. It’s water. Just plain everyday water. It’s all I drink.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “No wine with dinner?”

  “No wine. Only water.”

  “No beer after work?”

  “Only water. Look, why don’t we get to why you are here. My nose is but a party trick, and my choice of beverage is boring.”

  Happy to do so, Andee nodded.

  “As I was saying, we had a murder, and the spot where the killing took place looked like a scene from a movie. A werewolf movie.”

  “Really?”

  Lloyd leaned forward and placed his forearms on his desk. His expression sharpened. Trakes decided her comment had stirred some interest. She leaned forward in her chair, her own expression of intensity and started the discussion.

  “To start with, the victim was killed execution-style,” she pointed to the back of her head. “With a .54 caliber ball from a smoothbore musket.”

  “Most likely not a musket,” the professor interrupted and shook his head. “I can’t see an executioner carrying a smoothbore musket through Central Park.”

  “The ball we recovered…”

  “I have no doubt it was .54 caliber,” he continued over her. “Since the early 1800s, the preferred weapon for downing a werewolf, in this country, has been the .54 caliber smoothbore pistol originally made at Harper’s Ferry in what was then Virginia.”

  “A smoothbore pistol?”

  He nodded, “Yes, the gun has no rifling. I’m sure you are familiar with what’s called the lands and grooves of modern firearms. They spin the bullet as it travels the barrel, much like a football thrown, the spinning action keeps the bullet more on line with where it is intended to go. The gun you’re looking for had no such advancement. A smoothbore. This particular firearm was known as the US Marshal model, and it was made in 1805. It was the first such gun to be made by a national foundry and only presented in braces.”

  “Braces?”

  “Yes, pairs,” he nodded again. “Each gun of the pair had the same serial number. It’s the pistol on the insignia of the US Army Military Police.”

  “Where would one get such a gun today?”

  “That would be a bit of a challenge. Only a few hundred of the guns were made originally, though I guess the executioner could settle for a reproduction. A real werewolf would not, but a pretender might. Some of the repos have rifled barrels to improve accuracy.”

  “No, this was a smoothbore. There were no ballistic marks on the ball.”

  He nodded his understanding, and then hesitated as he worked out a problem.

  “If I was doing your job, I would start with the assumption the killer used an authentic pistol.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there two possibilities here, as I see it.”

  He stopped, finished his water and touched a button on his phone. When Miranda answered he asked for more water. He pointed at her mug, silently offering her more chocolate, but Trakes declined.

  “Okay,” he said, “two possibilities. First, you have a werewolf executioner, and he would only use an authentic pistol. The second is a guy who is pretending, and he will be more than happy to use as repo, if for no other reason than the cost.”

  Trakes studied the man for several seconds, then asked, “I almost feel silly asking this, but you referred to the first possibility as an executioner?”

  “I did. In my opinion, the most likely suspect is a selected individual who has the responsibility of executing werewolves who violate certain laws.”

  “So he’s a... what? A self-appointed vigilante?”

  “Far from self-appointed,” Lloyd shook his head. “He would have been assigned or ordered, if you will, by those who make the decisions on matters such as this.”

  She looked at him with an expression that asked if he thought her a fool.

  “You’re telling me there is a werewolf court that decides if other werewolves should be executed?”

  “Actually, it’s more of a congress. Deciding punishments is only one of their responsibilities.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  He gave her a small closed-lip smile, and shook his head. “No, there is such a congress.”

  She sighed. “And they meet in the great hall of Atlantis, I suppose.”

  “No,” he answered, ignoring her sarcasm. “Usually they Skype, but once a year they meet in Athens. They could meet anywhere, but I think most of them like to visit the old city.”

  Trakes glared at him, a warning not to treat her like a fool. Then, with a quick bounce of her eyebrows, she refocused the conversation.

  “Back to my question, where would I get such a gun?”

  He smiled and then answered.

  “Best bet would be from a collector, though very few of them would have one. There’s just not that many of them around.”

  “Because the werewolves have them all.”

  He grinned at her and said, “They’d only have fifty, and that would be the brace, you remember, the matching pairs. So, in total, the werewolves would have only a hundred guns.”

  She rolled her eyes, “Why only fifty?”

  “Each major family will have a brace.”

  “And there are fifty families of werewolves?”

  He nodded, “Major families. There’s more, but the species can be tracked back to fifty first families.”

  Andee shook her head and motioned for him to stop.

  He did and smiled at her.

  She changed the topic of discussion.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why would a killer use such a gun? I mean one so rare?”

  “The person who was killed was seen as a werewolf, at least by the killer, and a werewolf is never just killed. They are executed. The execution of a werewolf is a ritual, and the gun to be used in the ritual, at least in the Western Hemisphere, is the 1805 US Marshal pistol chambered in .54 caliber.”

  “A ritual?”

  “Of course. The death of such a legendary beast has both physical and spiritual ramifications. It must be executed in a prescribed manner.”

  “If this was the ritualistic killing of a werewolf, are there other signs I can look for?”

  Lloyd shrugged, “Well, the location of the wound would be an indicator. A werewolf can only be killed by either a silver bullet or ball through the brain or a silver blade through the heart. You have told me this victim was shot, so the wound was in the crown of the head and the ball travelled down and out the face. With a ball of this size, the face would have extensive damage.”

  “You just described it as if you’d seen it.”

  He shrugged. “It is the accepted manner of execution. Knowledge of it is my profession.”

  “Why is it necessary to destroy the face?”

  “Destroying the face removes
recognition, and the loss of recognition is symbolic of being forgotten. It’s part of the spiritual side I mentioned. Remember, werewolves haunt people’s dreams. It was believed destroying the face kept the creatures from the dream world or spirit world. In effect, the creature never existed.”

  “Geez,” Andee faked a shudder, “that face was a mess. You’d think there would be an easier way to remove them from existence than that.”

  He smiled, “Destroying the face also removed the stigma from the family of the executed. They did not have to look at their own, if you will.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “that’s sick. Ruining the face as a manner to save the family grief. Who thinks up this stuff?”

  He smiled, “You don’t believe in werewolves, do you?”

  She huffed a laugh and asked, “You’re kidding, right? You’re not going to tell me you seriously believe such creatures exist. Next you’re going to say Dracula, Frankenstein and the mummy get together to play cards on the weekend. I stopped believing in mythical creatures right after I learned there was no Santa Claus. All of them make nice stories and nothing more.”

  “I see,” he nodded. “What other signs were observed at the scene?”

  “I don’t know if it is important or just weird, but someone had poured wolf urine around the body.”

  Lloyd sat straight in the chair, and his eyes focused on her.

  “You found urine at the scene?” he asked.

  “Yeah, the dogs wouldn’t get near the body so we could try to backtrack him. I thought we should have the ground tested. A ring of urine was poured around the body.”

  Lloyd nodded and thought for several seconds.

  He stood, and the sudden movement caused her to recoil slightly. If he saw her reaction, he gave no sign. She looked at the water in his glass. It never so much as rippled. She felt her heart thump against her ribcage, and she wasn’t sure if it was due to fear or excitement, nor was she sure if the adrenaline in her stomach signaled fight or flight. Lloyd stepped to the door and opened it.

  “Miranda,” he said, and the woman appeared, her smile still present.

  “Miranda, Special Agent Trakes has decided to spend the night, as the discussion she requires will take longer than she thought. Would you be kind enough to escort her to my mother’s house? Call ahead and inform my mother and have a room prepared for her.”

  Andee jumped to her feet, protesting, “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I already have a motel room reserved for me.”

  Lloyd turned to her and for the first time, Andee saw complete honesty in his face.

  “That will not be possible. You have travelled here to visit us, no matter what the motivation. It is not acceptable for you to stay in a motel. You are our guest. Since it is not proper for you to stay at my place and Miranda has but one bedroom, the choice is obvious. You’ll stay with my mother.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m here on official business.”

  He smiled, and the warmth of it tickled the pit of her stomach.

  “So, be official with my mother.”

  Miranda interjected, “Andee, you really have no choice. If Mama Lloyd learned, and she would, that you came to visit Uncle Alwyn and he let you stay in a motel, he’d never hear the end of it.”

  Andee turned to Lloyd, and with the slightest of gotcha smiles, said, “So you’re a mama’s boy?”

  For the first time since meeting the man, she felt she had an upper hand, if only for a moment.

  “All real men are mama’s boys,” he defended.

  He turned and walked back into his office, and closed the door behind him. The women laughed, and Miranda offered a high five. Andee took it.

  Andee had removed her overnight bag and a small suitcase from the truck of her pool car when Miranda arrived to pick her up and take her to the Lloyd family home. Miranda arrived in a candy-apple-red Mazda Miata with the top down and her hair streaming behind her. Oversized, round sunglasses hid her eyes. The car skidded when the woman stopped to allow Andee to get in. The agent stowed her bags and closed the trunk. As soon as she had sat in the seat but before she had belted herself in, indeed before she had completely closed the door, Miranda was off. The tires scratched on the pavement as the little sports car got up to speed. Andee’s head was forced to the headrest.

  “You realize I am a law enforcement officer,” Andee said.

  The redhead grinned and pulled the glasses low on her nose. She looked over the tops of the frame.

  “You’re not a traffic cop,” she giggled. “I know all the traffic cops.”

  Andee shook her head and smiled, “I’ll bet you do.”

  The ride to the house was a single car roller coaster event. Miranda swerved in and out of traffic and rarely seemed to look in the mirror or over her shoulder. Andee found herself watching the speedometer, which hovered at least ten miles an hour above the posted limit. Free of the confines and decorum of the office, Miranda talked as fast as she drove.

  “So, what do you think about my uncle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Quite a hunk, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, I guess.”

  “Oh, come on, I saw you drooling. I almost brought you a napkin with your chocolate.”

  Andee smiled and braced a hand to the dashboard as the car skipped around a turn.

  “I wasn’t that bad,” she managed to say. Miranda laughed.

  “Weren’t that bad? Lady, you were stunned. You were deer in the headlights. You were…”

  “All right, your uncle is a good-looking man, and certainly not what I expected.”

  “Really,” Miranda glanced at her passenger. Her green eyes bright with amusement. “What were you expecting?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A small, round, balding man with glasses pinched on the end of his nose. He is a history professor, after all, and he specializes in history that doesn’t really exist.”

  Miranda laughed, and the sound resonated from her soul. Andee knew the joy, the happiness, was honest and free.

  “Okay,” the agent said, “now I have a question for you.”

  Miranda gave a sideways glance, silently agreeing and bidding Andee to continue. She immediately focused again on the road and served into the inside lane to pass a slower vehicle.

  “If your uncle is such a catch, how come some other woman hasn’t scooped him up and taken him home with her?”

  Again, Miranda laughed.

  “You may not have noticed, since you were fighting the images of you with him between the sheets, but…”

  “I did no such thing,” Andee declared.

  “Oh, please,” the redhead countered, “you and I are going to be the best of friends. We might as well start out being honest.”

  “Well,” Andee admitted, “maybe one or two images. What’s your point?”

  “My point is that my uncle, as sweet as he is, is also a bit on the intense side. The truth is most women can’t handle him. He’s more than just eye candy, and if you get to know him, you’ll learn he is a serious piece of work.”

  “Why is that?” Andee asked. “I don’t mean to put him down, but he is still just a history professor, and he specializes in stories that aren’t true.”

  “He’s much more than that, my dear. Believe me, much, much more.”

  The women rode in silence, and then Andee turned to face the driver and said, “Tell me about the mother. Lloyd seems almost afraid of her.”

  Miranda glanced at her passenger and shifted gears that jumped the car forward and out and around slower traffic.

  “No, Uncle Alwyn doesn’t fear anything or anybody, but he is devoted to Auntie Gennie.”

  “Auntie Gennie?” Andee asked.

  Miranda stole another glance, and said, “She’s not really my aunt. Well, I guess she is, but she’s like my great aunt, so all of us just call her our aunt. Alwyn is a brother to my mother.”

  The little car swung wide as it was steered from the street and
onto a lane marked by trees on both sides of the pavement. The lane wound along a slightly raising grade, and the car took to it like a skier to a slalom run. Within minutes, Miranda applied the brakes and turned onto a long driveway marked by two brick pillars and a wrought iron gate hanging open.

  Once the gateway had been cleared, the little car slowed. Andee glanced at the speedometer and noticed Miranda kept the car at fifteen miles per hour.

  “Now you slow down,” she commented to the redhead. “Afraid of hitting a sheep or maybe a cow?”

  Miranda leveled her eyes at the agent, and spread wide the hand not holding the wheel.

  “This is the Lloyd family estate, and Gennadiya Lloyd is the grand lady of the Lloyd family and clan. She’s Aunt Gennie to me and soon you, and she watches this lane like a hawk. If she sees someone driving faster than what she thinks is proper, she’ll take away their driving privileges.”

  Andee laughed, “So what the state of New York can’t get you to do, your aunt can?”

  “All the state of New York can do is give me a ticket,” Miranda rolled her eyes and gave a dismissive wave. “Like some cop is going to ticket me. My aunt doesn’t play. I had to park outside the gate for a month one time for driving too fast on the property.”

  The agent smiled as she surveyed the countryside. Mown grass and tended shrubs stretched as far as she could see, which was not so far, as trees littered that landscape. The driveway was asphalt, black and smooth. It led the way up a gentle hill and almost to the crest, the house came into view.

  The residence of the family Lloyd was rectangular, simple in design, but massive in size. Three stories tall, it was made of brick, and a fireplace chimney stood on each end of the structure. A portico designated the front door, which to Andee seemed undersized. The asphalt expanded into a parking area, but the drive continued around the side of the house.

  “That’s leads to the garage,” Miranda said, by way of explanation.

  She stopped next to the front door and under the overhang. A woman stood waiting for them.

  The woman stood straight and tall without a sign of bend or slump. Her hair was white and cut to accentuate her face. The face was strong and steadfast and held a neutral expression. The woman had the face of a long-distance runner, one who would last the course. She did not smile, as she studied Andee with periwinkle eyes. The agent rose from the car and lifted her travel bags from the trunk.