Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  I wait across the street from the Channel Six Television Station’s underground parking garage and bide my time. All at once, I see her pink and blue striped Hummer emerge from the cave-like entrance. With her scent fresh in my mind, I raise my right hand into the air.

  “Taxi!” I jump into the back of the Sunshine Cab. “Follow that Hummer.”

  “Sorry, pal,” the driver says. “I gotta radio the destination in. It’s the rules.”

  I hand him two twenties to forget the rules, and he shuts his yap. The hunt is on.

  Dixie lives in a cookie-cutter mini-mansion in Summerlin tucked into the foothills at the end of Desert Inn Road. During the silence of the twenty minute drive in the back of the taxi, I wonder how I’m going to tell her about me. As the various scenarios enter my mind, I escort them out just as quick. Like I said, humans talk in code, but I don’t speak the language. I’ll have to be subtle so I don’t terrify her, but I’ll also have to be direct. Tricky. I’ve heard it said that honesty is the best policy. We’ll see.

  She parks in the driveway and sits still for a moment. I tell the cab driver to let me out a few houses down from hers. Apparently, he thinks I have to pay a fare on top of the forty I’ve already given him. I don’t have time to argue, so I give him what little money I have left in my pockets. Every day I learn something new; now I understand highway robbery.

  Staying low, I inch up the street and use the few hedges along the sidewalk as cover. I don’t want to give her a chance to dart into the house before I can get to her. The element of surprise is on my side and right now I need to use every advantage.

  She’s got her back to the street, fumbling with something in her purse. I approach without making a sound, close enough to touch her.

  She spins around and shoves a small black device at me. “Stop right there.”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Talk to this.” She waves the device back and forth, at the same time trying to grab the cell phone out of her purse.

  “Is that a tape recorder?”

  “Yeah, a fifty-thousand volt tape recorder. Step up to the mic.” She has to juggle the device and her phone in order to dial a number. She’s clumsy and the small mechanism she’s so proud of falls to the ground making a zst-zst-zst sound.

  I scoop it up and move in closer. She backs up against the Hummer, her eyes shutting tight. I’m trying to be polite and hand back what she dropped, but she acts like I’m holding a loaded gun on her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Help me.” It’s barely a whisper. She opens her eyes and fumbles with the cell phone.

  I don’t want her to be distracted so I pluck it out of her hand.

  “Help me!” It’s a yell now.

  “Would you stop shouting? The whole neighborhood will hear you.”

  After a deep breath, she screams, “Help me!”

  “Let’s go inside.” I say this while pushing the small device closer to her. It has an immediate effect, and she shuts her mouth. I wave it at her like she did to me. “Inside.”

  “Be careful with that Taser. If you hurt me—”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Careful.” She pulls her keys from her purse and backs up the driveway to a small iron gate. She stops and looks up at me. “There are cameras all around my house. If you hurt me, they’ll know it was you. You won’t get away with this.”

  “I don’t want to get away with anything. I just need to tell you something.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Not here—inside.”

  She opens the gate, revealing a small courtyard complete with water fountain, and a tiny house to the left.

  “Which house is yours?”

  She gives me an odd glance. “Which house? What kind of a question is that? That’s a casita. You don’t know that, do you? And it looks like you don’t know what a Taser is, either.”

  “Sure I do.” I’ve heard about Tasers, of course, but I’ve never seen one, much less held one in my hand.

  She turns and continues through the courtyard to the door of the larger house. With a twist of the key and a push down on the latch, the door opens. We move inside. A small beep-beep-beep sound floats down the hallway.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “That’s the alarm,” she says, “I’ll kill it.” She plops her purse down on the floor.

  I stay close behind her as we move down a cluttered hallway. Stacks of old newspapers turn the narrow hall into a short obstacle course. I catch a glimpse into the kitchen at the various dishes and cups scattered on the table and countertops. The disorder reminds me of my house. She flips open a small plastic box on the wall. After hitting a few buttons, the beeping stops.

  “Okay, we’re inside.” She can’t stop staring at the Taser. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  I toss the Taser and her phone onto the carpeted floor in the living room. I know she wants to retrieve the items, but I block her path. I’m much bigger than she is so keeping her in the hallway presents no problem.

  “I’m going to tell you something. I don’t expect you to believe me at first, all I ask is that you calm down and hear me out. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She nods.

  This is it. I need to tell her the truth, and I only hope she doesn’t freak out. “Dixie, I have the ability to transform into a wolfhound.”

  Nothing.

  “A canine, Dixie. I can change into a canine.”

  Nothing.

  “I’m half human and half canine.”

  She isn’t reacting and I start to worry. I have to give it to her straight—I hope she can handle it. “I have no recollection of what I do as a canine. For all I know, I may be the Werewolf Killer.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Not only does she not freak out, but her non-reaction to what I’ve just told her freaks me out. “What do you mean okay? Dixie, I’m a Giant Wolfhound.”

  “Sure, sure, I can see that.”

  “No, not now—I’m not a canine now. I’m human now.”

  “Yeah, of course you are.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Sure, I do. You believe you’re a dog. Got it.”

  I’m getting nowhere. “I meant to tell you the other day, but we hit it off so well I thought…well, I thought I wouldn’t have to. I need your help to get information. For obvious reasons, I can’t go to the police.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, you won’t have to go to them.”

  The way she says it strikes me odd. I follow her gaze to the plastic alarm box on the wall. After flipping down the cover, I see the words INTRUDER WARNING flashing across a little green screen. That is not a good sign.

  A knock on the front door grabs my attention giving Dixie just enough wiggle room to bolt past me. She races down the hall and flings open the door.

  “Thank God, you’re—”

  No one is there.

  “Dixie, please close the door.”

  She turns to me with an expression that awakens something in my memories. I’m sure I’ve seen it many times before, but not as a human. It’s a look that means: bad—as in bad dog.

  “Get out of my house.” The words shoot from her mouth. She steps outside and backs up to the fountain. I know if I don’t leave, she will.

  “Listen to me. You know I’m not going to hurt you. I would have already if I wanted to.”

  She draws in a shaky breath. “Get out.”

  I traipse down the hall and stand on the threshold. She backs up another step, almost falling into the fountain. “I know what I’ve told you is a little…out there—”

  “Out there?” she says, her voice hard. I can tell she feels more in control of the situation. “No, being abducted by aliens is out there. You turning into a dog is way out there. Now, get out of my house. Go on, Fido—outside.”

  I failed to convince her of anything. In fact, she believes I’m lying to her, or insane, or both. I step outside and give her a wide be
rth, allowing her enough room to slip back inside. In an instant, the door slams. The noise of the door banging shut reinforces my failure. Not only does Dixie think I’m a bad dog, for the first time in my life I feel like a bad human as well.

  I find myself alone in the courtyard. Or so I think.

  Chapter Five

  The Bentley Mulsanne—onyx paint, freshly waxed, shining alloy rims—powered into the driveway. The soft purr of twelve cylinders revved once then shut down. A man stepped out of the vehicle, tore off his shades, and slammed the door.

  “Carl,” the man called out. No answer. Even though the yellow van was not in the driveway, the caretaker sometimes parked it around back. The man shouted again, louder this time—an order: “Carl.”

  Still no answer.

  He clicked the key alarm to the Bentley and marched toward the house under an unforgiving late afternoon sun. The house was quiet, dark, and hot. He strode to the kitchen and grabbed a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator. Sweat beaded across his brow, dribbling down the lines of his face in tiny rivers.

  A woman approached him in the hallway just outside the door to the den; long waves of maple brown hair, green eyes, and shamelessly naked. She trembled at the sight of him. “Alpha.”

  The Alpha towered over her, outweighing the girl by at least fifty pounds. He punched her square in the face, sending her to the floor.

  “Flynn,” he shouted.

  A heavy-set man, dark scraggly hair, dull with a face devoid of emotion, plodded down the hall toward him. He, too, seemed apathetic about being nude.

  The Alpha pointed down at the girl. “How the hell did she get out? Never mind. Put Lucy back in her cage and then come to the den.”

  Flynn lifted Lucy’s limp body with little effort and hauled her away.

  “And where’s Carl?” The Alpha shouted after him.

  “Take pack for run,” Flynn said as he continued down the hall, carrying the girl over his shoulder. “They go for run. I stay, like you ask. I watch house. Steel come in.”

  The Alpha rushed into the den and headed straight for the computer desk, planting himself on the padded chair. He searched in the center drawer. The money was gone. Besides setting Lucy free and stealing some cash, The Alpha wondered what else Steel had done.

  He snatched the newspaper from the top of the desk, the headline grabbing his attention: WEREWOLF KILLS AGAIN. The color photo depicted a scowling Sheriff Hendrickson at a news conference pointing his finger at a reporter in front of him. The caption read: Local television reporter Dixie Mulholland surprises Sheriff Hendrickson with inside information.

  “Alpha.” Flynn stood at the threshold to the den, waiting, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Come in.”

  Flynn’s lips broke into a full smile as he raced into the room and hurried to The Alpha’s side. He waited in silence, his body trembling. He rocked back and forth, his hands in constant motion running through his hair and scratching at his face and chest.

  “So you watched the house as I asked?”

  “Oh yes, I watch like you say.”

  “Good boy. I’m sure you did a very good job.”

  Flynn puffed up his chest and beamed.

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  The heavy man furrowed his brow and stared at the floor as if searching for something. All at once, he raised his head and smiled. He used his hands as he spoke, big sweeping gestures, pointing, waving and signaling like an animated traffic cop. “Steel come inside. He change. He eat and come here, here in this room. He go to basement and open Lucy cage. He run away. Lucy change, she eat. I watch all this—I see with my eyes.”

  The Alpha put a finger to his mouth and tapped at his lips, an unconscious habit as he thought, staring blankly out the window. “Flynn,” he said after a minute, “I have a special job, just for you. A very special job. Do you understand?”

  “Oh yes.” Flynn pranced and spread his arms like a bird about to take off.

  “Good boy. Now go put some clothes on and hurry back.”

  “Yes, I hurry.” Flynn dashed out of the room, heavy footsteps clomping down the hallway.

  The Alpha knew he’d have to give Flynn very precise instructions, maybe repeat them once or twice for clarity. Flynn was slower than the rest, never quite taking to his human side, but once he understood what he had to do, he’d get it done.

  Flynn rushed back into the den. He wore khaki shorts, tennis shoes with no socks, and a pink t-shirt which read: I (heart) You. The t-shirt stretched across his large frame, covering only half of his stomach.

  The Alpha closed his eyes and shook his head. “Tell me, Flynn, where is Steel now—right this very moment?”

  “I go find.” Flynn turned for the door.

  “No, Flynn! Stay. Look with your mind. Where is Steel? Do you remember how?”

  Flynn closed his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets. He scrunched his eyelids tight, and took large gulping breaths.

  “That’s right, Flynn. Find your brother. Find him with your mind. Take your time.”

  “I find Steel.” Flynn opened his eyes and grinned at The Alpha. “Steel in the mountains.” He pointed to the west. “There. He is in—”

  “You don’t have to tell me exactly where he is. I’ll drive you and you tell me if we’re getting close to him, like a game, okay?”

  Flynn hopped on one foot, then the other. “Like a game.”

  “First, I want you to change your clothes. Wait. I’ll go with you and pick out something…different. Then we’ll drive in the car and find Steel.”

  “Yes, oh yes. Get clothes and go see Steel. Like a game.”

  “Good boy.” The Alpha patted Flynn on the head. “But listen to me carefully, okay?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “You’re not going to just see Steel. I want you to kill Steel. Do you understand?”

  “Oh yes.” Flynn nodded and pranced. “Get clothes and kill Steel.”

  “Make him dead. Do you understand? Make Steel dead.”

  “Oh yes.”

  The Alpha patted Flynn on the cheek. “That’s my good boy. Hah.”

  ****

  “We’ve got a situation in Las Vegas, Nevada.” Admiral Garrison settled back in his chair, the plush red leather crunching beneath his considerable weight.

  Colonel Jon Dayton took a sip of coffee from the cup he’d been offered upon entering the admiral’s office. Major Jean Ransom, Admiral Garrison’s personal assistant, anticipated Dayton’s needs. He appreciated her psychic abilities, and it made perfect sense: mind reading was an ideal skillset for her work at UNPAD; it also proved quite entertaining after hours.

  “Once again, it’s called telepathy, Colonel, not so much mind reading anymore,” Major Ransom said, smiling as she spoke. “And I’m glad you find it so entertaining.”

  “Major.” Admiral Garrison kept his comments direct and to the point, as did most officers in the Senior Service. “If you’re quite finished with your one-way conversation, please shut the door on the way out.”

  Major Ransom gazed at Dayton, smiled again, and closed the door.

  Dayton faced the admiral and shifted in his seat as he cleared his throat. “Las Vegas?”

  “Werewolves. We’ve held back on this one, hoping it would have been sorted out by now, but we can’t sit on our hands any longer. There’s been a series of murders, each victim savagely mauled. The federal task force they’ve assembled to investigate is at sixes and sevens.” The admiral opened a manila file and spread glossy crime scene photos across his desk. “Gruesome business. The forensic evidence is a bit muddled.”

  Dayton winced at the photos. “Werewolves?”

  “Vicious attacks, each one taking place at night; no witnesses and not one solid clue. The press is calling this the work of the Werewolf Killer.”

  “The press? Admiral, are we investigating because of the media?”

  “Certainly not, we’re investigating because of the council. The dir
ector rang me just an hour ago and wants this top priority. Remember last year, the assignment in New York? The council wants this handled as promptly as that affair.”

  “It was New Jersey, actually. Vampires. It turned out to be a couple of teenagers on meth.”

  “Yes, well I think it’s a bit more complicated this time, but that’s the nature of the job then, isn’t it? Look, Colonel, I know your view on our work here. You find it difficult to accept the need for our unique type of expertise—”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’ve never found anything that comes close to requiring our type of expertise.”

  “Still, the mandate is clear: to investigate every threat, no matter how curious. In truth, I wanted you on staff because of your misgivings, not in spite of them. I understand the importance for a skeptic on our team. It keeps us honest.”

  “Sir, I can’t pretend to believe in what I’ve never seen.”

  “Then perhaps this case will change your view. Take a good look at the photographs and tell me what you see.”

  “Bite marks, hundreds of them on each victim, suggesting large canine teeth in a classic scissor pattern.” Dayton glanced up. “Were the missing body parts recovered?”

  “No.”

  Dayton picked up each photo, examining them more closely. “Claw marks, deep and jagged. In each victim, the neck is eviscerated. These poor bastards were torn to shreds. You said the forensic evidence was muddled. What did you mean by that?”

  “This is where it gets a bit dicey. The police have collected evidence at each crime scene—DNA, hair, blood—but they haven’t been able to classify it.”

  “No match in their database?”

  “No match of any kind. The DNA in particular is an entirely new strain, never before encountered. They’ve tested their equipment, recalibrated, and re-examined. They’ve sent samples to the top forensic labs in the world: FBI, Geneva, Scotland Yard—that’s when we got involved. Our lab is stymied as well. It’s as if we’re dealing with something so unique, so exotic: an unknown entity.”

  Dayton raised his eyebrows and deadpanned, “A werewolf.”

  “Exactly what you’re being sent to find out—quietly, of course.”