by Jason Starr
He had to move again. Movement was the answer. Movement would make everything better.
He paced back and forth in the park until it got dark, and then he returned to the streets. He was hungry and needed another meal, but he also wanted more space to roam and, as it was a Sunday evening, the city streets were emptying out and it didn’t feel nearly as claustrophobic and oppressive. After a pit stop for a few bunless burgers at Burger King on Eighty-sixth, he continued walking. He preferred the side streets, so he zigzagged downtown, going along a side street to Second Avenue, then back toward Third along another. This made the trip downtown much more time consuming than it would’ve normally been, but it wasn’t about time, it was about movement. He was terrified of staying still.
Though he wasn’t sure what time it was, he figured it had to be close to nine, when Charlie said he was meeting with Ramon and Michael at the brewery. While it was great seeing Charlie, and Simon would have loved to catch up with Ramon, there was no way he was going to hang out with Michael and become even more involved with that maniac than he already was. Yeah, he felt completely alone and isolated, but that didn’t mean he had to go back to Michael. There had to be another way.
He still didn’t have a plan beyond movement. Eventually he would have to rest, but he didn’t want to check into a hotel. The idea of being in some small room all night seemed like total agony. Besides, if he checked into a hotel, under his name, he was afraid the police would find him. He didn’t have any close relatives in the city, and his friends had families of their own. He was better off on his own, until he figured out how to control his behavior—if he could figure out how to control it.
It must’ve taken him an hour, maybe much longer to get down to the East Village, and then—avoiding the scents of potpourri and pot and lots of bad BO at St. Mark’s Place—he headed toward the West Village along the less busy Tenth Street. He was at Tenth and Broadway, near the old church he’d passed hundreds of times but didn’t know the name of, when it happened.
It started in his extremities—tingling sensations in his feet and legs, like when you come in from the cold after playing in the snow and start to defrost. But then the tingling became pain, and there was pain in his mouth too. This couldn’t be happening again. It had to be all in his mind, a fantasy.
But it wasn’t a fantasy.
The pain was spreading slowly, to his joints, and then he saw that his fingernails had little stubs of claws. But the other times he’d been angry, shocked, or sexually aroused, and he’d been convinced that there was some emotional component to it. This time, though, he’d been in a normal, calm state. A little stressed out, but he’d been more stressed at other times, and stress alone didn’t seem to bring on an emotional response.
“You okay?” a young guy asked.
Simon ignored him, walking away quickly before the guy could get a good look at his face—in case his face showed any changes. But where was he supposed to go? There were people everywhere—he was near NYU, for God’s sake. Even on a Sunday night, there were plenty of people on the streets. If he had to pick one area in Manhattan where he absolutely did not want to turn into a werewolf, this would be near the top of the list.
He needed to get away from people and get to cold water. Maybe he could go to a bathroom—there was a bar right up the street. But, no, a bar wouldn’t work. Too many people at a bar. What if he lost control and went on a rampage? He had to get to open space—a park.
He ran toward Union Square. Running helped, or seemed to. He still knew he was transforming and was at least halfway toward fully turning, but maybe the exertion was slowing the process, because he didn’t feel any worse. He sped across Fourteenth Street, keeping his head down, avoiding making eye contact with anyone. As long as he could somehow avoid a full transformation and no one saw the changes in his facial features, he’d have a chance to get to safety. He went past a subway entrance, into Union Square Park, but there were so many people around he didn’t feel any more secure.
He ran faster, zipping through the park, past a playground, leaping over a small fence with ease. Then, when he reached the empty concrete area where there was a farmer’s market on some days, he glanced up at the sky, above the W Hotel, at the bright almost-full moon, and at that moment he knew, intuitively, exactly what was going on, without having to process anything. It explained why Charlie had let it slip about the guys meeting at the brewery tonight and why Simon had started to transform spontaneously without any impetus. It was because of the moon, of course. The moon had been full the first time Simon had turned into a werewolf, and this was the first full moon since that night. But the moon wasn’t full now—he could see with his naked eye that it probably wouldn’t be full until tomorrow night—but there was no doubt that Simon was starting to turn. Going by the way he felt, he had a few minutes, tops, before he experienced a full transformation.
He had to get to safety as fast as possible, and the only safety he knew of was the only real woodsy area in Manhattan: the Ramble in Central Park. The problem was he was over forty blocks, or two miles, from the southernmost entrance to the park. He cut over to Broadway and ran uptown as fast as he could without attracting too much attention. While he wanted to get to the park quickly, he was afraid that after Charlie’s display of speed in the marathon, the spotting of another seemingly normal-looking guy running at world-class speed would become newsworthy. But none of this would matter if he turned into a werewolf in midtown Manhattan, and, approaching Herald Square, he feared that was on the verge of happening. He had increased pains in his joints, and the pain in his mouth was excruciating, like a bad trip to the dentist.
After Herald Square, he veered uptown on Sixth Avenue, picking up speed. He considered ducking into Bryant Park, but the open space and practically leafless trees on the perimeter made it a less-than-ideal place to turn into a werewolf. With about seventeen blocks to go, it was Central Park or bust.
But after several blocks it was clear he wouldn’t make it. He was trying to ignore the pain, hoping that ignoring it would make it go away, but it was impossible not to feel it. Then he knew it was happening, he was beyond the point of no return, and sure enough seconds later all the pain was gone. He was running almost effortlessly, seemingly gliding along the pavement, with long, fluid strides. He noticed that his feet had grown as they became clawed, tearing his sneakers partially apart. His T-shirt had stretched as well, but his sweatpants had enough space to handle the growth in his legs. A glance at his transformed hands confirmed the obvious—he had become a full-blown werewolf.
As he passed Radio City Music Hall, where there were plenty of people around, he reduced his speed and kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, trying to attract as little attention as possible. If someone looked directly at him, all hell would break loose. From a distance, he could pass for human. Though he was leaner and more muscular than most humans, the hairiness was concealed by his stretched-out clothes. If someone looked directly at him and saw the animal features, he would have a serious problem.
Going at a steady pace, he continued uptown, through the East Fifties. At the intersection of Fifty-sixth he sped up to make a light and not have to stop at the intersection, but he couldn’t avoid bumping into a guy crossing at the opposite side of the street.
He was a thin, older guy, maybe sixty years old, and he was holding two shopping bags. Simon didn’t knock into him very hard, but it was hard enough to jolt him off balance. The guy glared right at Simon and he had to see, he had to. Simon was waiting for the reaction of shock and horror. Would he scream for help? Run? Just stand there mesmerized and in awe?
What Simon didn’t expect was for the guy’s face to cringe in anger and for him to say, “Hey, watch it,” as if anyone else had bumped into him.
It was dark out, okay, but not too dark. This was Sixth Avenue, after all, and there was plenty of light from lampposts. As Simon continued uptown he didn’t know if the guy hadn’t gotten a good look at him or if h
e was just too lost in his own world to care that the man who’d knocked into him wasn’t human. Or maybe it just took more than a werewolf to shock a jaded, self-absorbed New Yorker.
Simon managed to make it to Central Park South without attracting too much attention. Well, except when he was entering the park and a horse from a horse-drawn carriage reared up and almost unseated the driver and the tourist passengers. Maybe the humans couldn’t recognize what he was, but animals apparently could.
But Simon didn’t care because for the first time as a full-blown werewolf he was in the park. The experience was more than exhilarating; it was total joy. Maybe it was similar to the nothingness Buddhists experience when they’re in their deepest meditative states. He was at one with nature, with the universe, and his thoughts and feelings didn’t matter anymore. The feeling of being caged was gone, and all that mattered was his need to be free.
With the glee of a live fish tossed back into the ocean, he sprinted through a woodsy area of the park, jumping branches. As a wolf, he found that his sonarlike ability to avoid objects and humans seemed more refined. Without thinking, he knew exactly in which direction to head and, if he got too close to the scent of a human, he would stop instantly and go in another direction. No wonder some wild animals could survive in populated areas for their entire lives without ever being seen by human eyes. If Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster existed—and given everything Simon had experienced lately, it was hard to be skeptical about anything anymore—it was understandable how they could survive undetected for years.
Simon went across a baseball diamond, and in the middle of the outfield he stopped and looked up at the bright full moon. He experienced a strange, unexplainable attachment to the moon, as if the moon were a parent he’d been separated from a long time ago, and to show his love and appreciation he couldn’t resist howling at it. He didn’t let loose, knowing that loud howling could put him in danger. But he howled as loud as he could, at a level he knew no humans could overhear. As he howled, inner love and peace overtook his body—it was just him and the moon and it was intimate and beautiful.
Then he was running again—across a path, veering to avoid human scents, climbing and leaping over a fence with ease. At a road, he waited behind a tree until a jogger and a few bicyclists passed. He detected scents of a man and woman—maybe twenty yards away—but he didn’t want to wait any longer and dashed across, into an area with grass and trees near the Central Park Lake.
He made his way across the perimeter of the lake, going slower because of the dense bushes and because he had to stop and alter his course occasionally to avoid humans and a couple of dogs. Then he reached an open area and ran at full speed, over rocks, climbing even the tallest ones with ease, using the suctionlike grip of his clawed hands to propel himself. He leaped from a rock onto a small bridge and, finally, he was in the Ramble.
Over the past several weeks, running around the Ramble in human form had been exhilarating, but it was nothing like this. With the energy of a puppy he ran around in the woods, shifting directions, jumping over branches, climbing trees, and howling gleefully whenever he knew he was fully out of human earshot. There was nothing better than this; this was pure joy and he couldn’t get enough of it.
He must’ve been running around almost nonstop when he detected a familiar scent. It was an animal, but it wasn’t human and it wasn’t canine. Then he knew, but by then it was too late to react because it was already nearby, right behind him.
He turned around and, though it was pitch-dark aside from faint moonlight shining through tree branches, he knew he was standing face-to-face with a werewolf. He knew why the scent was so familiar as well because it was the same werewolf scent he’d detected in the Ramble a few days ago.
Simon didn’t sense any danger. He knew the werewolf was here in peace, and he also knew that it was older and wiser. There was an overwhelming calming, safe, protective energy coming from the other werewolf, not unlike the feeling Simon had had while he was howling at the moon.
Then it hit—the werewolf was Michael’s father, Volker. This explained why Simon hadn’t been able to place the scent last time, because he had never met Volker in his werewolf state before, and human and werewolf scents in general were very different, like two different species. But from a close distance Simon could identify the scent as Volker’s.
“Hey, it’s great to see you,” Simon tried to say, but it came out as a loud howl.
Volker got the meaning, though. He howled back, Hello, and then howled again, telling Simon to get naked.
Simon wasn’t sure he understood so he asked, What? and Volker repeated, Get naked.
Simon was uncomfortable in his clothes anyway, so he stripped.
Then Volker howled again and ran away. Simon knew he was saying Follow me and, without giving it any more thought, he did as he was told.
ELEVEN
“I got some bad news for you.”
Geri heard this from Shawn moments after she’d arrived at the Manhattan North precinct. Her first thought was that it had to do with Diane Coles. Detective Mangel had found out she’d been killed in Michigan and was reopening the investigation. Maybe the bad news was Dan wasn’t going to let Geri take over the case.
“About Diane Coles, right?” Geri asked.
“Who?” Shawn said.
Then Geri figured it had to do with the Orlando Rojas murder case. Maybe Dan had added more detectives to the case, or taken Geri and Shawn off.
“Oh, not more drama,” Geri said. “Am I gonna have to sit down before I hear this?”
“Yeah, you probably will.”
Shawn seemed very serious, which got Geri concerned.
“So what is it?” she asked.
“It’s about Carlita Morales.”
“What about her?”
“She’s dead.”
At first, the words had no effect. They just seemed like part of mindless conversation. Instead of She’s dead, Shawn could have said It’s a beautiful day today or I like your shoes.
Then the meaning suddenly hit. Geri was breathless, her legs weak.
“What do you mean she’s dead? The hell’re you talking about?”
“She was shot in her apartment.”
“Shot? What does shot mean?” She understood, but she didn’t want to believe it.
“It happened early this morning. Somebody came in, they think through the fire escape, and shot her.”
“What? The apartment faces the street. There were cops right outside the building. How’s this possible?”
“Maybe you wanna go sit down before you hear the rest,” Shawn said.
“Tell me what the hell’s going on!” Geri shouted.
A few other cops nearby, and the receptionist, looked over.
“The protection order was removed last night,” Shawn said.
“What?” Geri said.
“I couldn’t believe it myself,” Shawn said. “It was ’cause of the marathon. They needed more cops downtown, so—”
“There was supposed to be twenty-four-hour protection till there was an arrest in the case. Who the hell removed that order?”
Shawn was looking beyond Geri, toward the entrance to the main part of the precinct. Geri looked back and saw Dan McCarthy standing there.
“Let’s take it easy, okay?” Dan said.
“You did this?” Geri was walking toward Dan.
“I said let’s—”
“You had no right to do that. I promised that woman protection.”
“Okay, let’s take this inside.”
“I want to know what the hell’s going on here.”
“Inside, I said.”
Geri was so furious—her brain swirling, thinking about so many things at once—that she didn’t remember going down the corridor with Dan to his office. She just seemed to wind up in there, screaming at him, “How could you do this? How could you?”
“Hey, just shut up, just shut the hell up and listen to me,” Dan said.
“I’ve had it with you causing scenes here, all right? This is a police station, not a goddamn playground.”
“Tell me why,” Geri said, trying her best to stay calm. “Just tell me why.”
“We were undermanned for the marathon.”
“Come on, they couldn’t get some cops from Brooklyn and Queens who wanted triple pay?”
“She wasn’t a credible witness,” Dan said.
“Whoever shot her thought she was credible, and now she’s dead and the killer’s still out there.”