Sin City Wolfhound

by Rick Newberry

  The pain has me in its grip. I see her mouth moving, but the words fade in and out.

  “C’mon, let’s get you inside. The quicker we get a room, the quicker we can figure this thing out. It’ll be all right. I promise to keep you out of the headlines for as long as I can, okay? That’s the best I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  She races around the Hummer and opens my door. I stumble out on shaky legs and fall into her arms.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “Thanks again.”

  The journey across the parking lot to the elevator takes its toll on me. I want to scratch my skin off, to be free of the human cocoon that holds me prisoner and be done with it. Instead, I force myself to calm down and breathe—to focus on my senses and the changes occurring: colors fading into muted shades of gray, metal wheels grinding on the roller coaster tracks above, and the smell of rain in the air.

  “We need to call the police is what we need to do.”

  The word comes shooting out of my mouth, “No.” I grab her shoulders and squeeze tight. “You’re friend in Metro…call him. Tell him about the house on Claremont. Tell him you saw a murder, that’ll get him there.”

  The elevator doors open, and we stagger inside. I grasp the handrails, slump forward, and moan. At least it’s not a howl…not yet.

  “C’mon,” Dixie says, “just a few more minutes and everything will be all right. You’ll be safe. Hold on.”

  “Promise me you’ll call Detective Ramirez.”

  “No,” she says. “He’ll ask too many questions I won’t be able to answer. I’ll call 911 with an anonymous tip instead. That’ll be better, trust me. Please hang on, we’re almost there.”

  My breathing turns into rhythmic panting. I growl and scratch at my arm.

  “Stop that.” She grabs my hand and holds it in hers. “Don’t you scratch anything off, do you hear me?”

  The wait in line at hotel registration is torture. Dixie holds both my hands while whispering words of encouragement, “You’re doing great. Hang on. We’re almost there.”

  She flashes her KLVA ID card to the registration clerk and explains we’re here to get the reserved suite ready ahead of the VIP guests for the big fight. She also apologizes for her co-worker’s sudden bout with asthma.

  The bright-eyed clerk makes a pouty-face. “Oh, sorry to hear that, Ms. Mulholland. You know, my uncle had asthma. Your friend’s got it pretty bad, though.” The clerk leans forward, as if he’s a doctor examining my face. “Of course, it could be allergies, you know—it’s that time of year. Look at his eyes; they’re all red and watery. Or it could be the flu—his face is clammy. He might have a temperature. I don’t like the way he looks at all.”

  Summoning what little strength I have left, I manage a shaky grin, glance at the clerk’s name tag, and say, “Listen, Jesus, shut your hole and give us a room.”

  The clerk straightens up. “Of course. My apologies.” He types on his keyboard, hands Dixie a plastic key-card, and scowls at me. “It’s pronounced hay-soos.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dixie says as we move away from reception and walk to the elevators. “I’m sure he’ll be okay in a little while.” Then she whispers in my ear, “Jesus, Adam, keep it together for a few more minutes. We’re almost there.”

  “Don’t you mean hay-soos?” I stumble along with her help. She puts her hand behind my back and shoves me into the elevator. “Are canines allowed here?”

  “Yes. Listen to me—are you listening? Once I get you settled in the room, I have to call the police from a pay phone down here in the lobby so they can’t trace it. Are you gonna be all right by yourself?”

  I manage another awkward smile as the elevator doors slide shut. “Dixie.” I paw at her shoulder. “Dixie, when I…when I change, be strong…you’ve got to use a commanding voice. Take charge.” The pain makes me howl at last. I can’t hold it back.

  “Shut up, Adam!”

  “That’s good. But remember my name,” my body convulses, “Steel.”

  We tumble out of the elevator. She supports my weight down the long hallway to the room. She slips the key card into the lock, opens the door, and flips on the light. I brush past her and fall into the bathroom.

  The pain takes over. I leave the door open just a crack on instinct. My last lucid act as a human is to turn on the shower; the canine can no longer wait.

  ****

  The size of the wolfhound that emerged from the restroom took Dixie’s breath away—she felt light-headed, frightened, and excited all at once. The words, “What have I done?” fell out of her mouth.

  The beast stood at the threshold, his coarse gray hair leaving puddles on the carpet. When he spotted Dixie, his yellow eyes narrowed, his top lip curling up in a snarl. The animal’s beard was streaked with blood.

  Dixie backed up against the nightstand, her heart pounding. She stood as far from the wolfhound as possible. The suite that at first seemed quite large now felt like a closet. The nightstand held her in place. She raised her hands in a weak attempt to keep the animal at bay.

  “Adam…Adam, stay.”

  A low growl, deep and guttural, crawled out of the canine’s throat. Inching forward on massive paws, the wolfhound’s head lowered, its shoulder blades rising and falling with each silent step. The hackles on the back of its neck bristled as the animal’s tongue lapped at its bloody chops.

  Dixie’s heart banged inside her chest. The desperate man who promised not to hurt her—the very man she’d helped into this room—had left the building.

  “Adam, stop or you’ll be sorry.” The words fell flat, an empty threat. The wolfhound advanced to the middle of the room. Her path to the door was now blocked.

  What was it he’d told her? To be firm; to be in command. He also told her to use his name. She stuck a hand out like a traffic cop. “Steel, stop!”

  The wolfhound paused in mid stride, its eyes softening, and the hair on the back of its neck smoothing. Dixie relaxed at once. The word had power—a special word—the last word he’d spoken to her before transforming: Steel. At once she believed, no, more than that, she was convinced some trace of Adam resided in the giant creature.

  “Good boy, Steel,” she said, testing the boundaries of her new found power. “We’re going to have to trust each other.” The hand she still held up as a stop sign trembled, betraying the authority she desperately needed to convey. “Mutual trust. You trust me to take care of you, and I trust you not to hurt me.”

  The animal shook itself dry, throwing water in all directions. She put her hands up against the spray that flew onto the walls, the ceiling, and carpet.

  Steel found a patch of dry carpet near the window and lay down, putting his head on top of his paws. He watched her—always—from this resting position; the low growl sounding every time she moved.

  The confidence she felt only moments ago faded with each growl. Was there power in the word Steel? Was there trust? She’d heard animals could sense fear. “I’m not afraid of you, you know.” But the words were hollow. If animals truly could sense fear, no amount of saying otherwise would do any good. “All right, I’m scared to death of you.” It made her feel better to put it out there. After all, he’d been honest with her; it was the least she could do in return.

  Steel opened his mouth revealing enormous, knife-like teeth. His huge tongue curled up in a lazy yawn accompanied by a high pitched “ee-yow.” It was adorable. In that moment of the yawn, her fear of the wolfhound eased just enough for her to realize the truth: Steel meant her no harm. After all, he’d asked for her help—of course he’d been Adam at the time—and if he meant to hurt her he would have done it by now.

  “Just give me a minute to stop shaking. By the way, staring at me isn’t helping.” She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths, a technique she often used to help organize her thoughts before going on air.

  The sound of running water in the restroom reminded her. “I’ve got to straighten up the b
athroom. We don’t want housekeeping to freak out, do we? I don’t know how long we’re going to be here, and I like fresh towels, don’t you? Do you understand anything I’m saying? I’m going into the bathroom and do my best to make it presentable, okay?”

  All at once Dixie flinched at the thought of the task ahead. She imagined the flesh, blood, and whatever else he’d left behind during the transformation. Cleaning had never been one of her top ten activities, but in this case a little tidiness might prevent some uncomfortable questions. With a deep breath, she ran her fingers through her hair. Steel growled.

  “It’s okay,” she said in a high-pitched, cooing voice—the kind of voice that worked so well on babies and young children. “You’re okay, I’m okay, everything is okay—okay?”

  Steel barked at the voice.

  “Fine.” The voice apparently did not work on massive wolfhounds. “I’m going to the bathroom now and clean up.” But she couldn’t move; her shoes felt like they were made of Velcro, stuck to the carpet.

  Steel sneezed.

  “Bless you,” she said, then smiled at the words directed to the animal. She blessed him out of habit—she did the same with strangers, co-workers, anyone at all within earshot of a sneeze. She didn’t know why. To be polite? Was it really the correct thing to say when someone sneezed? What if they didn’t want to be blessed? What if they were atheists? Was Steel an atheist? Did he believe in God, a higher power—heaven?

  Hell, I’m stalling.

  She eased her right foot forward, checking the Wolfhound for any reaction to the movement. There was none except for the incessant low, rumbling growl. “You’re gonna have to stop doing that, it’s annoying.” Left foot forward—growl. “Good boy, stay.” It took well over a minute, at this slow and careful pace, to cover the fifteen feet to the restroom. Steel commented on her every advance, but he did not move.

  She stopped just short of the restroom, long enough to give the door to the hallway a quick glance. The thought of running out and abandoning him played in her mind for a moment, but vanished as Steel sneezed.

  “Bless you again.”

  She entered the restroom. Steam filled the confines of the windowless room, coating the mirror, fixtures, and walls in a fine mist of condensation. The air was thick and hard to breathe. A pile of tattered clothes covered in spatters of red lay in the corner. A rust-colored trail led across the floor to the shower.

  Dixie reached around the shower curtain and turned the faucet off. Small spots of blood blended with the steam on the walls giving them the appearance of water colored roses. The lack of any substantial human remains lifted her spirits at first. Then, in one sudden and disgusting realization she knew why Steel’s mouth was covered in blood: he’d consumed the leftovers.

  “Yuck.”

  With a well-soaked washcloth, she set to the task. It took several minutes to wipe the blood from the floor and walls, but the condensation made the job easier than it might otherwise have been. After wringing the cloth out in the sink several times and using a towel to dry the area, she gave the room a final inspection. She picked up the pile of clothes and something fell out, dropping hard on the tiled floor, a small notebook.

  She flipped it open and saw a penciled drawing of a face—a likeness of her. “What the hell is this?” She flipped through pages of drawings, sketches, and simple outlines. All were quite good. She tucked the notebook into her back pocket and jammed the rest of the blood spotted clothes, towels, and washcloth into a small wastebasket, putting his shoes on top and shoving it all down as hard as she could. Hopefully, housekeeping would toss it out and not get too curious about the contents.

  “Marco would be proud,” she said, satisfied with her work. She turned off the light and shut the door.

  “Well,” Dixie said in a soothing tone, “you certainly do like to draw, Mr. Steel.” She put the notebook on the writing table next to the phone. “I guess we don’t have to worry about getting you anything to eat for a while.” A grimace. “And thanks for that, my appetite’s gone, too. But right now food is the least of our worries.

  “Pay attention, Steel. I’m going downstairs for about ten minutes. I’ve got to make that phone call to the police—remember the one we talked about? We don’t want it traced back to this room, so can I trust you to behave while I’m gone? Do you even know what I’m saying?” She waited for an answer, then shook her head at the absurdity of waiting for an answer. “I’ll be right back, ten minutes, tops. No barking, promise?” She put her hand on the door knob. Steel stood up, his ears erect, tail waving from side to side as if caught in a light breeze. “No, you have to stay here. Stay.” She opened the door and slipped out.

  After easing the door closed, she raced down the hall, her shoes clomping on the thick carpet. The light above the elevator doors lit and a soft “ding” echoed. A muffled bark sounded from down the hall. Dixie jumped into the elevator, hoping she would only be gone for the ten minutes she’d promised.

  On the way down, she visualized the worst case scenario of leaving Steel alone in the hotel suite: someone complaining about a noisy dog, hotel security being called, the security officer opening the door with his pass key and being eaten alive.

  The elevator doors slid opened. The noise of the casino assaulted her ears.

  It took her a minute or two to find a pay phone. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “I witnessed a murder on Claremont Street. Please hurry. It’s the house on top of the hill. I think the killer is still in the house.”

  “What is your name?” Click. She ended the call.

  Dixie raced back to the elevator and returned to the room in less time than planned. She opened the door with caution, stuck her head in, and smiled. “It’s me, I’m back.”

  Steel stood up and glared at her for a moment. She closed the door and double locked it. He sniffed the air then lay down again on the carpet by the window.

  She moved to the bed and lay on top of the covers. With two pillows under her head, she rolled onto her side and stared at the wolfhound. He stared back.

  “It’ll be okay, Steel. You’ll see, I promise.”

  His eyelids started to close in a slow, measured rhythm, his breathing unhurried and peaceful. Little by little his giant muscles relaxed, and his eyes shut tight. Dixie watched him sleep, curled up on the floor, and wondered what dreams, if any, might play out in his mind.

  The more she thought about his dreams, the sooner hers came.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The hand had, at various times, waved to friends, opened doors, and caressed lovers. It had performed the myriad of functions hands do—when still connected to their wrists, their arms, and their bodies. This particular hand was an orphan, severed at the wrist, and lying in the middle of an enormous backyard on the top of a hill south of Vegas: 7711 Claremont Drive.

  The slender fingers were curved, dried and brittle from days of baking in the sun, and adorned with painted nails—turquoise—a diamond wedding ring, and a cut on the inside of the thumb. There were punctures near the wrist, jagged and uneven, where raw strands of dried tendons, muscle, and flesh were exposed. Due to its positioning—propped up at an angle, like a hand reaching up from the ground—the forefinger pointed toward a doghouse just a few feet away. But, of course, its days of pointing, of being able to help tell a story were over: except to those who knew what to look for.

  Detective Marco Ramirez crouched down and stared at the hand lying next to exhibit marker thirty-seven. Craning his neck to get a better view of the wedding ring, he made a notation in his book, a notebook now filled with comments, diagrams, and symbols. He noted the turquoise nails and the cut on the thumb.

  The entire crime scene was bathed in artificial light, an eerie, otherworldly illumination, hard on the eyes. The generators for the portable lights circling the backyard were supposed to be the newer, quieter models. However, the constant noise and smell of diesel sent a shooting pain through Ramirez’s head. He rubbed
his temples, mulling over the impossible task ahead.

  Scores of numbered yellow cones cluttered the backyard as crime scene investigators, detectives, analysts, and photographers tip-toed around them. Each cone marked the location of evidence—human remains—littering the backyard. A canvas of suffering almost beyond the scope of documentation.

  But there was no choice: the tedious work continued. Video cameras captured real time images, while artists and illustrators drew diagrams, mapping the area with the assistance of measuring wheels, distance lasers, and computer aided design tablets. Each piece of evidence was photographed several times, as it was found, with the numbered evidence cone in the background, and with a ruler nearby to indicate scale. The object was then carefully collected and placed in a bag or box, depending on size. Samples of dirt, in proximity to the collected evidence, was scooped up into separate bags as well.

  The body parts were reminiscent of the multi-vehicle accidents Ramirez had investigated when he worked uniform. But the comparison stopped there. None of the highway carnage he’d witnessed came close to this. The poor souls here were not victims of an accident, nobody made an error in judgment, and there was no mechanical failure. They were here because of one reason: they’d been murdered, dismembered, and their remains strewn about the property like so much garbage. At the very least, the act was unthinkable. Another word crossed his mind: unforgiveable.

  From the moment the task force arrived at the scene discoveries were made in rapid succession: a basement in the house with several empty cages; a room filled with piles of new and used clothing; bones and dried blood throughout the residence. But the most disturbing discovery of all: a man sitting on a ragged yellow couch in the living room.

  The wiry old man with clouding blue eyes sat as if frozen, shaking and chattering under his breath in a language nobody understood. Ramirez had no idea if he were a victim or suspect, and wasn’t about to gamble on which.

  “I want him taken to UMC,” Ramirez told a uniformed lieutenant, “and be alert, this guy could be the key to everything.” He turned to FBI Agent Miller. “We need to find out what language he’s speaking. It sounds Russian, or Czech to me, but I’m no expert. Let’s get one.”