Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  Chapter Two

  Dixie popped the DVD into the machine. “Watch this.”

  Aunt Rose adjusted her spectacles, leaned forward, and peered at the screen.

  Dixie hit “play” on the remote. After reading a brief statement, Sheriff Gale Hendrickson moved away from the podium, doing his best to ignore the reporters. He stopped as a short blonde in a green dress blocked his path.

  “Sheriff Hendrickson, Dixie Mulholland, Channel Six News. Can you tell us if the victim has been identified?”

  “That information is being withheld pending notification.” The sheriff pressed forward a few more paces. Dixie held her ground. Questions aimed at the sheriff sped over her like low flying darts.

  She shouted above them, “Is this the latest victim of the Werewolf Killer?”

  Sheriff Hendrickson paused and glared down at her. “Metro does not recognize that term. If you’re asking if this is part of our on-going investigation…I’m afraid that information is also being withheld.”

  She turned her back on the sheriff and faced the camera. “Sheriff Hendrickson is neither confirming nor commenting that the woman found earlier this morning—”

  Dixie paused the video. “You see that, Aunt Rose? Instead of saying ‘neither confirming nor denying’ you say ‘neither confirming nor commenting.’ I saw Jenny Cole do that on CBS. That makes it look like the person I’m questioning has something to hide.”

  “Does the sheriff have something to hide?”

  “Beats me.”

  Dixie hit “play.” “Near Calloway Park in Summerlin is the latest victim of the Werewolf Killer. Although I have yet to speak with Detective Marco Ramirez, Metro’s lead investigator on the special task force, my sources tell me this morning’s homicide victim had indeed been brutally mauled as had the eight previous targets of the Werewolf Killer.”

  The screen on the television split, shared now by anchorman Peter Hudson in the studio.

  “I hate it when they do that,” Dixie said over the TV sound, “they make Peter look like he’s the one in control, you know?”

  “Whoa, Dixie,” Hudson’s voice boomed, “so you’re saying this could be the ninth victim of the Werewolf Killer?”

  She hit “pause.” “Right, Peter, nine comes after eight. Counting’s fun, isn’t it? That’s what I should have said. Sorry, but I belong behind that anchor desk and you know it.”

  “Of course you do, sweetie,” Aunt Rose said as she pulled the remote from Dixie’s hands and turned off the TV.

  “The networks are covering this,” Dixie said “And who do you think they’re watching? A field reporter covering briefings where the police are saying absolutely nothing or that hair sprayed suit Peter Hudson? You know I’m the one who came up with the term Werewolf Killer—right on the spot, no script, made it up just like that. Now everyone’s using it, even the networks.”

  “Yes, I know, you remind me every time I see you.”

  “Not only that, I’m the one with the sources.”

  “Yes, dear, you told me about Marco as well.”

  “Whoops, I shouldn’t have told you his name. Nobody can know about that and I mean nobody. He’ll lose his job if anyone finds out.” She checked her watch. “Whoa, speaking of losing jobs I gotta go, it’s almost seven.”

  “Sweetie, you know I love you, so take some advice from an old woman. You and Marco broke it off months ago. Don’t lead him on.”

  “You’re wrong,” Dixie said with a grin, “you’re not old.”

  “I’m serious. You said he’s giving you information that could cost him his job. Now, why would he do that?”

  “Believe me it was his idea. He thinks the public should know more than they’re being told. I didn’t ask him for any special favors, and I’m definitely not leading him on. He’s just cooperating with the press, that’s all.”

  “Not the press, sweetie, only you. Just be careful.” Aunt Rose shuffled close and hugged her niece. “I don’t want you or Marco to get in any trouble. I like him.”

  “I do, too.”

  “Then why did you stop dating?”

  Dixie grabbed her purse and edged toward the door. “It’s complicated, but we’re still friends. Besides, there could be someone new on the horizon.”

  “So soon?”

  Really? Four months is soon?

  “Tell me who this someone new is.”

  “I met him a couple days ago. He’s really nice, a little shy at first, but very friendly. He’s tall, adorable, and in great shape—fit, you know? I might bring him by sometime to meet you, but I really gotta go.”

  “No, you’ve still got plenty of time, stay and tell me more.”

  “Sorry, maybe next time.”

  “Next time, always next time. Why don’t you miss work tonight and stay here? There’s something I need to tell you—”

  “Miss work? Haven’t you been listening? The networks are in town. This Werewolf Killer story is what careers are made of.”

  “Of course I’ve been listening to you. So, why don’t you stay here and we’ll talk about your career?”

  “You want to talk about my career?”

  “Uh, well—why not tell me more about your new friend.”

  “Sorry, no can do. But as we say in the news business,” Dixie opened the front door, turned, and smiled from the porch as the screen door clanged, “details to follow. But I’ll give you a teaser: his name is Adam.”

  ****

  Steel is my given name. The Alpha named us as we were born: Steel, Mikael, Flynn, Lucy, Ivan, Bane, and Nina. Our mother, pregnant by curse, a rumor among my siblings, died giving birth. That was four years ago—twenty-eight in human years. We are Giant Irish Wolfhounds, the largest breed of canine in the world. We are also human.

  As a human, the first sign of the coming transformation is a tingle in the back of my neck. I recognize this tingle and know I have to get home—the one place I’m safe during the change. So far I’ve always been able to make it in time. Sure, there have been one or two close calls, but if I can get within a couple of miles, I’m okay.

  One word describes the transformation itself: pain. I feel my bones bend, cracking as they reform and adjust for size. There’s a searing heat just under my skin, like I’m on fire from the inside out. I can’t breathe and it feels like I’m being suffocated by a heavy coat of flesh. It’s got to come off. I scratch in full panic mode with one single purpose: to rip every inch of skin from my body. Tufts of gray fur appear under the discarded sheets of skin. My snout elongates and fangs push through my gums. At this point, my vision becomes sharp and focused, but all the colors are now just shades of gray. This is when my human thoughts go dark.

  Then, like an unwelcomed guest, pain calls again as I transform back. It drags me out of the canine world, snapping me into human reality. I scratch at the heavy blanket of fur and flesh. My breathing is a series of choked gasps as my bones reform and internal organs adjust.

  The pain finally eases and I breathe deep, like coming up for air after nearly drowning. I lay still on the ground for a few moments, naked and afraid. As I emerge from my canine cocoon and rise on two legs, I realize, once again, I’ve changed into a human being.

  The cycle is endless, from human to canine—canine to human; an unpredictable pattern of change, a pattern over which I have no control.

  One look around confirms I made it back home after my dinner with Dixie. The human flesh and torn clothing from my previous incarnation as Adam lie in a pile a few yards away. The only question is how long have I been a canine this time? A day? A week? I never know.

  The sun is up, cooking the hard dirt in the backyard and turning my newborn human skin bright pink. I peek through the window into the den where The Alpha usually watches television or works on his computer. The house seems deserted, but I have to be certain. The pack is not particularly fond of me, and I’m in no shape for a confrontation. I’m vulnerable after transforming—hungry, naked, and weak.

&
nbsp; I slip around to the front of the house and check the driveway. It’s empty, neither The Alpha nor the caretaker are home, a good sign. The front door is always left unlocked, so I let myself in as quietly as possible. The door makes its normal screeching noise, but nobody comes to investigate, an even better sign.

  Carl, the caretaker, a wiry old man with graying hair and cloudy blue eyes, always makes sure there are plenty of clothes in the living room for community use. I soon find a pair of jeans, a button-up shirt, socks and shoes. The Alpha may be the leader of the pack, but Carl sees to our basic needs.

  Of the entire pack, I’m the only one who loves to venture into the human world; attempting to assimilate, trying to blend. Lucy and Ivan accept their human side to some degree, but the rest of the pack despises walking on two legs. They don’t say as much, but I can tell.

  I’ve made it my life’s work to study humans: their speech, their mannerisms, even their confusing sense of morality. But it seems the more I learn about human beings, the less I know about being human. And that’s what scares me. At least I know something about Adam, I know nothing of Steel.

  One night, The Alpha spoke to me in his den, a rare occasion. I tried to explain my fascination with humans. He raised a hand and stopped me. “Hah. Your interest in humans isn’t a hunger for knowledge. It’s just hunger.” He laughed, like it was a joke. I didn’t understand at first. Then the murders began, and so did my questions.

  Does The Alpha know something about me, about an instinct I’m unwilling to accept? Has he taught me, trained me to do unspeakable things as a wolfhound, things I can’t remember when I’m human?

  That’s when I began to pay particular attention to the nightly news. I watched it from the backyard, through the window over The Alpha’s shoulder. He seemed just as interested in news about the Werewolf Killer, and that horrified me. So I formulated my plan to meet Dixie and gain her trust, and her help.

  I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge in search of water, food, anything to fill the crater in my stomach. It’s jammed with packages of raw meat and not much else. The smell disgusts me. I grab a bottle of water and drain it in a couple of gulps. There’s a loaf of bread on top of the fridge and some peanut butter in a cupboard so I make a sandwich and devour it followed by another bottle of water. It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do.

  Money is the tricky part. The Alpha always has cash tucked away for use by the caretaker. I’ve learned most of his hiding places, and he’s gotten better at concealing it. I check through kitchen cupboards, dresser drawers, and linen closets. There’s nothing in the usual places so I decide to try the den; his domain—The Alpha’s lair. It always unnerves me to be in his den, only a handful of times, and never uninvited, so I enter like a thief.

  Paintings hang on the walls, the only room in the house with any kind of artwork. A bookshelf fills one wall entirely and opposite that, a fireplace with a huge, ornately carved mantel on which sit candle holders, small marble statutes, and glass vases. A grandfather clock in the corner ticks away the time, reminding me I’d better get on with it. I cross the room to the computer desk and rifle through the drawers being rewarded by the discovery of six crisp twenty dollar bills tucked deep inside the center drawer.

  A newspaper on the desktop grabs my attention; the headline chills my blood. Plucking up the paper, I check the date against a calendar on the desk. It confirms two nights have passed since my dinner with Dixie. The article terrifies me:

  WEREWOLF KILLS AGAIN

  “For the second night in a row the so-called Werewolf Killer has claimed a life. The latest victim, found early yesterday morning in Summerlin, follows the previous night’s attack near McCarran Airport…”

  The grandfather clock gongs and I jump. I toss the newspaper back on the desk as peanut butter churns in my stomach. The sprawling six-bedroom house smells old, a ruin of mold and dust, collecting in my lungs. I want to run outside, but I need to check one more room first. I don’t know what I expect to find in the basement, but I’m drawn to it in an almost morbid scene-of-the-crime type curiosity.

  The stairwell is not lit, forcing my hands on the wall to feel my way down. At the bottom of the stairs is a hardwood door locked by a deadbolt. I turn the bolt, and ease the door open. The usual stench of feces and urine festers out, making me gag. The room is black, no air conditioning and no windows. Before turning on the light, I try to convince myself to turn around, go back upstairs, and leave. But I can’t. I need to see it, to remind myself of how The Alpha treats his pack.

  I flip on the light, a bare bulb hung by a chain, and stare at the cages lined up in a row against the far wall. The cages are small, made of wire with slide bolts on the gates. No water bowls, no food, nothing but hard cement and rusty wire.

  I switch the light off and turn away. Before the door shuts a noise crawls into my ear. A sniffing, a whimper? My heart double-thumps and I throw the light back on. There’s no movement, the basement is quiet, covered in shadows. With a tentative step, I amble forward, using slow cautious steps. I peer into each cage as I sink deeper into the basement. In the far corner, in the cage farthest from the door, I see a form. An outline of fur. It’s Lucy. She doesn’t move; she can’t, the cage is that small.

  I lift the latch and open the gate. Her head jerks up and she turns to me, her lips pulling back in a snarl. Even though we’re on good terms when we’re both human, she’s not human now. I can’t leave her here. She doesn’t deserve this—no one does.

  I run back to the door and climb the stairs two at a time, hoping it’ll take Lucy a minute or two to wriggle out of the cage and recover her wits before chasing after me. She has no choice; I’m a surprise in her house, it’s what canines do. Darting into the kitchen, I tear open the fridge and grab a packet of hamburger. I throw it into the living room at the top of the stairway to the basement. That should slow her down a little.

  The sun is set to full burn as I race into the backyard and search through the pile of clothes I’d worn the night I had dinner with Dixie. The sketchbook goes into my back pocket. It’ll take me an hour or so to get downtown. Two legs are not as efficient as four.

  When I reach Fremont Street, I buy a bottle of cold water and sit in front of a slot machine in an air conditioned casino. Even though sweat drips from my face and my shirt is soaked with perspiration, nobody notices me. It’s 111 degrees outside and everybody has their own problems.

  I pull the sketchbook from my pocket and start flipping through the pages. My eyes land on the drawing of Dixie, making me smile, like remembering a pleasant dream. The dream soon fades, however, edged out by a nightmare: The Alpha is laughing at me, the private joke falling from his mouth—

  It isn’t a hunger for knowledge. It’s just hunger.

  Chapter Three

  “Sheriff, Dixie Mulholland, Channel Six news. According to my sources, the victim of last night’s attack at McCarran Airport was mauled. If that’s the case—”

  Sheriff Gale Hendrickson put his hands out, palms up, and shook his head. “Please, everyone just settle down.” He pointed directly at Dixie; a flash from a still camera captured the scene. “Once again, I won’t address rumors. I don’t know where you get your information, Ms. Mulholland, but—”

  “My sources also tell me an expert from the Department of Wildlife has been added to the task force. We haven’t been told anything about—”

  “There you go again. We have not asked the Department of Wildlife for an expert to join the task force. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this briefing is over.” The sheriff dove into the swarm of reporters and vanished through a side door guarded by two beefy Metro officers.

  Detective Marco Ramirez followed him. He scanned the room and threw Dixie a questioning glance before disappearing.

  “What the hell is that girl talking about?” the sheriff said, turning to confront him. They were alone in a small alcove just off the main hallway.

  Ramirez shook his head. He knew Dixie better
than that. She would never go on air with unsupported information. “I have no idea.”

  “The hell you don’t. She’s your girlfriend. You better not be the source she keeps bragging about. So help me, Marco—”

  “Whoa, slow down, Sheriff. First of all, I have no idea where she gets her information. Second, we have no experts from the Department of Wildlife on the task force, and third, you know I stopped dating her months ago.” It was the other way around, she’d broken it off, but he kept that detail to himself.

  Hendrickson exhaled a long slow breath, his expression turning from a cold stare to a calm gaze. The vein in the middle of his forehead just below the short-cropped silver hair stopped throbbing, flattened, and soon disappeared. “Follow me.”

  To avoid the bottleneck of reporters at the elevator, they took the stairs, Ramirez following the sheriff to the third floor and into his office. He closed the door behind him and settled into a plush chair facing the sheriff’s large oak desk.

  Pictures of the sheriff posing with various local personalities hung on the wall. All the usual Vegas celebrities—singers, comedians, and magicians—had autographed the portraits along with a line or two of well wishes and good luck for the sheriff. In a place of honor, just behind his desk, hung a large photo of the sheriff posing with the President of The United States. Ramirez often wondered about that particular picture; the sheriff mocked the president’s policies within his inner circle of friends. Well, politics makes for strange bedfellows.

  “Sorry I lost my temper, Marco.” Sheriff Hendrickson lit a cigarette, blue smoke wafting toward the ceiling.

  “I thought you kicked the habit.”

  “It kicked back.” He took another puff and stubbed it out. “So arrest me.”

  “Let you off with a warning this time.” Ramirez crossed his legs.

  “Marco, I need a favor.”

  Ramirez let out a slow and even breath. He had trouble playing well with that word. “Are you asking as a friend, or as my boss?”