Another cold stare between the men. “You sent me to talk to Sonny Russo and I did. It was against my better judgment, but I went. He had a ridiculous idea to help us with the investigation so this whole thing would just go away. He seemed to think it would be better for the City of Las Vegas if this thing just disappeared.”
“What are you implying?”
“Look,” Ramirez said, deciding to change tact. He approached the map and pointed to the pin at Claremont Drive. “I’ve been trying to get this clear in my head. Why is this pin, the one that broke the case wide open, way out here, miles away from all the rest? The other pins are grouped.” He waved his hand across the map. “In clusters from downtown, south to The Strip, west to Summerlin, and north to Aliante; four distinct groups on the map with a few connectors in between. That red pin at Claremont is out of place—a rogue—with nothing around it, but miles of empty desert. There’s nothing, not one single pin, anywhere near it. Not one lead, not one rumor—nothing. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, we get an anonymous call about this place. I don’t buy it, any of it.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “It’s not uncommon for a serial killer to commit his crimes miles away from where he lives.”
“We found that old man sitting in the living room smoking a cigarette. He didn’t try to run—hell, he could hardly walk. There’s no way—”
“That’s enough, Detective.”
“But the evidence doesn’t—”
“Go home. It’s over.”
Ramirez grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on. He told himself to keep his mouth shut, just walk away. He couldn’t. “Because Sonny Russo says it’s over?”
Sheriff Hendrickson’s face burned scarlet. In a faltering voice, “Get out.”
Ramirez drove home in a trance, his mind too cluttered, his body too tired to bother with the mechanics of driving. After fifteen years of the same commute, his car knew the way.
He parked in the garage, entered through the kitchen, and cracked open a beer. It tasted bitter. He reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept on the counter and poured a shot. It tasted better. The gears in his mind whirled: the damned red pin on Claremont did not belong.
A knock at the front door stopped the gears in his mind from turning. He didn’t budge from the kitchen table. Instead, he closed his eyes, took another shot of whiskey, and tried to concentrate on that damned red pin at Claremont.
If it was important, they’d knock again. They did.
****
Dixie Mulholland attempted a weak smile when the door opened. “Marco—” She listed to the left, then right, then back again as if she were on a fishing boat in the high seas. “Marco, we need your help.”
“What the hell is that?” Ramirez stared at the big gray dog on the end of the short red leash. “When did you get a dog, and when did they start breeding them with horses?”
“Please,” Dixie moaned, “can we come in?”
Ramirez stood aside and held the door open. Dixie coaxed Steel inside by pulling on the leash and telling him everything would be okay. When the animal trotted past Ramirez, it sniffed and snorted at his pants, the floor, and his shoes.
“Hey, I’m clean—no bombs or drugs, promise.” He closed the door and turned to Dixie. “Go ahead and put him in the backyard, okay? It is a him, isn’t it?”
Dixie nodded. “His name is Steel, but he’s got to stay inside.”
“Absolutely not. Dogs belong outside the house—at least in my house they do.”
“I can’t let him outside; someone’s chasing us.”
Ramirez’s tone changed, officious and detailed. “Did you call Metro?”
“No.” She jerked a thumb toward Steel. “He wouldn’t let me.”
“The dog wouldn’t let you call?”
She nodded and held fast to the leash as Steel sat down. “I hoped you’d help us—you know off the books—like before?”
“That was a speeding ticket, no big deal. What is it now? Who’s chasing you?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
Ramirez reached into his pocket for his cell. “I’ll get a black and white over here just in case, they can take a look around and let me know if—”
“No.” The loud and sudden cry from Dixie brought Steel to his feet. He glanced at her then turned his head to Ramirez. His lips pulled back in a snarl.
Her voice softened with an almost embarrassed explanation. “Settle down, Steel. Everything’s okay.” She turned to Ramirez. “There’s something I need to tell you first…please?”
“Sure, okay.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “How about putting the dog in the spare room, that be all right?”
She smiled and relaxed, like a burden had been eased off her shoulders.
“Good, you take care of the dog and I’ll get some beers, looks like you need one.”
“Thanks. Have I got a story to tell you.” She guided Steel down the hallway and called out over her shoulder, “You still keep that bottle of Jack in the kitchen?”
“Sure. By the way, I hope your dog’s empty; I just cleaned that room.” He grabbed two beers from the fridge, two glasses, the bottle of whiskey, two shot glasses, and juggled it all back into the living room. After placing dry-stone coasters on the marble-top coffee table, he eased the glassware down, arranging the drinks in an even line across the table, nudging a couple of coasters until he was satisfied with the arrangement. He heard Dixie speak in a soothing and reassuring tone from the spare room.
Ramirez followed the sound, not exactly tip-toeing, but not being obvious either. He peeked around the open door.
The spare room was spotless, the walls painted in a sterile, icy cold bone-white. Wood paneled louvered doors closed off the closet.
Ramirez checked his breathing and listened.
“I’ll be right back,” Dixie said, kneeling in front of the dog, her hands cradling its giant head. “I need to explain everything to the detective. He can help us, I know he can, but you’ve got to trust me. And don’t make a mess—he’s a neat freak. After we’re done talking, I’ll come back and let you know what’s going on, okay?”
Neat freak? Who talks to a dog that way? Ramirez stepped lightly back into the living room and sat on the couch, easing back into the soft tan leather.
“You weren’t at the news conference today,” he said when she entered the room. He handed her a shot glass three quarters full; they air toasted and drank. “I never thought you’d miss the grand finale. Where’ve you been the last couple of days?”
“It’s a long story, but I listened to it on the radio.”
“It was something, wasn’t it? The sheriff single-handedly solved the Werewolf Killer case.” Ramirez took another quick sip from his glass.
“Why didn’t the sheriff mention Russo?”
“Russo?” He placed his glass on the coaster. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? Hendrickson kept saying the suspect, the suspect. Why didn’t he just say Sonny Russo?”
“Russo’s not a suspect.”
“What? Then who the hell’s been arrested?”
“Slow down. Why should Sonny Russo be a suspect?”
“I don’t understand. You have a suspect in jail, and it’s not Sonny Russo?”
Ramirez shook his head. “Take a drink and tell me what’s going on.”
After a shaky sip and a steadying breath, she said, “Where to begin?”
“From the beginning, how about that?”
She nodded. “Okay, what I’m about to tell you is…pretty weird. I’m just trying to figure out how to tell you, I can hardly believe it myself. But you’ve got to promise you’ll listen with an open mind, okay? Do you promise?”
He nodded and spun the top off his bottle of beer.
“Okay…here goes. You know I’m not crazy, right? I mean not insane crazy.” She cleared her throat. “That dog in there is a very unique breed; in fact, he’s not really a dog
at all. He’s a person.” She waited for a reaction. There was none. “That dog can change into a human; his name is Adam when he’s human, and when he’s a canine—”
“Dixie, please. Tonight’s not a very good night for practical jokes. I’ve been up for two straight days. I have no idea what you’re talking about, but—”
“Well, then shut up and listen.” She banged her shot glass hard on the table.
He waited a beat then eased the glass up and placed it dead center on a coaster. “Calm down. You said you needed my help, that someone’s chasing you. Why don’t you start there?”
“That’s right.” Her volume increased. “I was on my way home when I saw a yellow van with the words ‘wash me’ on the rear window driving into my neighborhood ahead of me. The guard at the gate let it right in. Can you believe that?”
“So you were chasing someone, not the other way around?”
“No, no this is coming out all wrong.” She put a hand to her forehead and giggled, but it wasn’t a giggle, more of a sad and pitiful snort. “Great, I go on camera every night and tell thousands of people the news, but I can’t even tell you one simple story.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Take a breath.” He smiled. “And just talk to me. I’ll listen—I won’t interrupt—just tell me your story nice and slow, okay?”
She did as he suggested, a slow and easy breath, in a calm voice. “That dog in your spare room can transform into a human—” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “Just listen, okay? I don’t know how it happens and I don’t know why, but I saw it with my own eyes. And I know it sounds insane. Hell, I thought so too when he explained it to me—”
“It’s a talking dog?”
“No,” she barked, “he’s not a talking dog. He talks when he’s human.”
Ramirez folded his arms and melted back into the couch. He didn’t know how much she’d had to drink before coming over, but he decided not to pour her anymore. He’d let her ramble on, then sleep it off.
“He told me, when he was human, he thought he was the Werewolf Killer, but he’s not,” Dixie said. “We don’t know exactly who it is, but we think it’s one of his pack. One of his siblings. Listen, he came to me for help a couple of days ago. He told me he was from the Department of Wildlife and he worked with the task force. He sounded so believable, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Ramirez nodded, his eyelids drooping.
“When I drove to his house, I saw his brothers. They’re nothing like him—they’re mean and vicious—except his sister, Lucy, who helped us escape. We jumped into my car, and we barely got away. Bane, that’s one of his brothers, chased us right down the hill; Giant Wolfhounds are so fast.”
“Giant Wolfhounds?” Ramirez raised an eyebrow. “The two dogs Metro shot at were Giant Wolfhounds.”
“That’s right, they were. They chased us all the way from his house to the New York New York.”
“That’s where the shooting happened.”
“That’s what I’m saying. They tracked us for like ten miles all the way from Adam’s house. What normal dog can do that?”
Ramirez shook his head in an attempt to clear the whiskey-colored cobwebs. “They followed you for ten miles? Where does Adam live?”
“Just south of Vegas, on top of a hill off a gravel road: Claremont Drive.”
Ramirez sat up straight, his mouth hanging open like a cartoon character. “That address was never released to the public.” He bolted off the couch, ran down the hall to the spare room, and flung open the door. The room was empty save for what appeared to be a pile of fur and flesh on the ground.
The window was wide open.
Chapter Eighteen
The suite at the MGM was cool, almost chilly, in sharp contrast to the world on fire outside. Major Jean Ransom spoke with purpose—a passion Colonel Dayton appreciated. “I have some type of connection with the reporter. She was at the house on Claremont. She’s with him.”
Dayton plopped down on the edge of the bed, holding a cold plastic bottle of water to his forehead. He kept silent, knowing his thoughts would speak as loudly as his words to her.
“Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you, can’t you tell? What do you mean by a connection to the reporter?”
“When we were in the basement, next to those cages, I got inside her head, or she got inside mine, I couldn’t tell. It’s as if she’s trying to communicate with me, or…”
“Or what? You’re going to have to be a little more direct with me. After all, I don’t possess your gift.”
“Very funny, Jon. I’ll do my best to explain. It was as if someone was trying to contact her through me.” Ransom opened a bottle of cold water and sipped at it as she paced the room. “As if somebody wants to find her as much—maybe more—than we do.”
“How is that even possible?”
“I have no idea. You know I’ve always had the gift—this ‘mind-reading’ thing as you call it, for as long as I can remember. But it’s more than that. When I was recruited by UNPAD, they tested me for all sorts of special abilities. They said I was some kind of Empath: someone who can feel the emotions of other people. You must think I’m some sort of freak.”
“Would you stop it? You know what I’m thinking, and freak is not even in the equation. Now, suppose you just take a breath, calm down, and tell me what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?”
Major Ransom smiled. “Well, remember this morning, over there?” She pointed toward the window. “I saw a red leash and felt truly panicked. I think Dixie Mulholland was there, at the New York New York and she was in some sort of danger. But she wasn’t alone.”
“The red leash?”
“Exactly. She was with someone—or something—that needed her help, needed her guidance.” Ransom finished the bottle of water and joined Dayton on the edge of the bed. “I had that same feeling at Claremont, only it came from someone else; someone trying to find her like we are.”
“Why didn’t you say anything then, when we were there?”
A slight blush crawled across her face. “To be honest, I didn’t recognize what was happening. That sort of feeling has never happened to me before. It’s taken me a while to process the information.”
“So basically you have the ability to become someone else.”
Ransom shook her head. “No, not become someone else, not the way you think. But acquire the feelings of someone else; to know what they think, what they want.”
He pursed his lips and tried a weak smile. “Listen, you said earlier she was with someone, or something. Any guess as to whom?”
Major Ransom closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “It’s not a werewolf. It’s much more complex than that. Whatever this thing is doesn’t change into an animal. It is an animal that transforms into a human.” She opened her eyes. “And Dixie is with it—she’s helping it.”
“Helping it?” Dayton stood up. “Why would anyone want to help it kill people?”
“Because it’s not killing people. It’s trying to stop the killing.”
“You know I trust you, Jean. Of course you do, you know exactly what I’m thinking. But just so it’s perfectly clear, I have no idea what you’re talking about. You say the reporter is with something—an animal that can change into a human—and they’re trying to stop the killings. Forgive my skepticism, but―”
“There’s more.”
Dayton stared down at her, almost afraid to ask. “More?”
“The person trying to contact Dixie is her aunt. She’s trying to find Dixie through me.”
“Why doesn’t this aunt contact Dixie directly?”
“She’s tried, but she can’t get through. Dixie’s not an empath. She’s not like me. Apparently, the aunt can sense I’m looking for her niece, and so she’s using me like a sort of tracking device to find her. She’s very powerful—Dixie, not so much.”
“And what do you think the aunt wants with her?”
Major Ran
som hesitated before answering. “Like I said, her aunt is very powerful, almost otherworldly. I think she’s trying to warn her niece about something terrible coming.”
Dayton sat down next to Ransom. “Something more terrible than that thing on the end of the red leash Dixie’s wandering the city with?”
Ransom nodded.
****
The clothes I find in the closet after transforming are definitely not made for me; the fabric is soft, but the fit is tight, rubbing me wrong in so many places. It’s a black cotton sweat suit so there’s at least a little wiggle room where it counts, but not much. I’ll never fit into any of the shoes lined up in pairs on a shelf, so I’ll just have to go barefoot. I’m used to the feel of almost any type of surface on my padded canine paws, but human feet are tender and always beg for mercy. It’s odd that humans refer to their feet as “dogs.” So ironic.
One glance around my surroundings tells me I’m not in Dixie’s house. It’s too neatly organized, too clean. With only a quick glimpse of her place yesterday, it’s clear this can’t be her home. No way.
This is the most bizarre part of my existence: transforming from canine to human. Since I have only vague memories of my life as a canine, the first few minutes after changing back to human is always surprising—sometimes frightening. It takes a minute or two to get my bearings.
Muffled voices come from somewhere in the house, so I crack the door open a bit and sneak a listen. The words echo down a short hallway; two people are talking and one of them is Dixie. The other person sounds familiar, although I can’t put a name to the voice. I’m guessing he’s not only the homeowner, he also owns the clothes I’m wearing.
Dixie sounds confused and afraid. Thanks to me her reality’s been altered. I back away from the door and try to remember what happened during my last interim as a canine. The transformation occurred in a room at the New York New York Hotel, this is a clear recollection. Dixie and I had to have spent some time together—time I can’t fully recall.
I remember being chased by wolfhounds through a dark, concrete structure: a parking garage? That’s all that comes to mind. Try as I might, everything else is lost in shadows.
Sin City Wolfhound Page 14