The Frenzy Wolves

by Gregory Lamberson

  Tudoro sat straight. “I’m a priest with the Catholic church. I demand to call the Vatican.”

  “Does it look like we’re treating you with kid gloves? That we’re going to give you a quarter to make a phone call? Forget it. That ain’t happening. But just to put your mind at ease, we’ve already contacted the Vatican on your behalf. They deny any knowledge of your activities and suggested that you and Delecarte embezzled funds for this rogue operation. They want nothing to do with you. We got the feeling they’d prefer it if you sat in this cell until your dying day or if something worse happened to you. The last thing they want is a scandal.”

  This did not surprise Tudoro. The Brotherhood was a clandestine organization only partly rooted in the church, and when Delecarte had passed, its other backers had withdrawn their support. Delecarte had played everything so close to the vest that Tudoro didn’t even know who else in the church knew about the Brotherhood’s mission, and Tudoro had been Delecarte’s chief assistant. “That’s it, then? I’m to be left to rot here?”

  “That depends on how willing you are to cooperate. Tell me. What did you envision for your retirement?”

  “I once wished to return to a simple life in Tuscany.”

  Jim made a face. “That’s a little close to home. How about the Dominican Republic? You once served there.”

  Jim missed the point; Tudoro wanted to retire where he knew no one, and no one knew him—a difficult task given his globe-trotting history. “Now I’d prefer to see the sunrise from someplace warm and unfamiliar.”

  “How about Costa Rica?”

  Tudoro considered the suggestion. “The idea has appeal for me, but I’m concerned about my safety.”

  “From the church?”

  “And our enemies.”

  “Well, we never considered setting you free anyway. You’d have to be watched and protected in a compound somewhere. But at least you’ll see the sun, which is more than you’ll do here.”

  “An expensive proposition.”

  “Not in Costa Rica.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Sure, why not? You’re sixty-eight. How long could you have left?”

  Tudoro grunted. His parents and maternal grandparents had lived into their late eighties. “So I can stay here and be tortured or cooperate and be treated like some deposed dictator.”

  “That’s not a bad analogy.”

  Drawing a breath, Tudoro stared at the dirty mirror behind Jim. “Are we being recorded?”

  “Of course.”

  “If I agree to your terms, how long will it be until you relocate me to my new quarters?”

  “That depends on how fast you talk.”

  “Please untie my hands and feet. I’d like to be comfortable.”

  Jim stared at Tudoro’s eyes. Then he rose and walked over to the door, which he banged on. As Jim walked back to Tudoro a second man entered the cell and closed the door. The second man held a machine gun.

  “Is that to protect me or you?” Tudoro said. “I assure you I know no martial arts and possess no superpowers.”

  “Your assassins knew a lot of tricks,” Jim said. He set one boot on the table and rolled up his jeans, revealing a hunting knife that he unsheathed.

  Tudoro’s gaze did not leave the blade until Jim moved behind him with it. The interrogator cut the ties binding the priest’s ankles, then the zip tie around his wrists. It felt good to be somewhat free.

  Jim returned to his seat.

  “I’m hungry,” Tudoro said.

  “You’ll be fed.”

  “I’d like some red wine too.”

  “We planned ahead.”

  “Where shall we begin?”

  “Start with the werewolves.”

  Two

  Seated in the second pew of the worship hall at the Church of Saint Paul the Apostle on the corner of Columbus Avenue and West Sixtieth Street, Captain Anthony Mace felt his stomach tighten as Father Shepherd called his name. His wife, Cheryl, had remained at home with Patty, their two-year-old. She had stayed there all week since Mace had rescued her and Rhonda Wilson, an eighteen-year-old Wolf, from the New Jersey lair of the Brotherhood of Torquemada.

  Karol Williams, a detective serving on his task force, squeezed his hand. He looked at her brown eyes, shiny with suppressed tears, and gave her a grim smile. Then he rose and made his way toward the flag-draped coffin on the dais. A statue of Jesus Christ, crucified and in agony, overlooked the closed casket. Mace avoided the statue’s tortured eyes, instead focusing on those of Willy in a framed eight-by-ten photo atop the coffin.

  Stepping up to the pulpit, Mace nodded to the priest and faced the mourners. Willy’s parents and other family members sat in the front pew on Mace’s right-hand side. Willy’s mother wore black and sobbed into a handkerchief. His father resembled Willy, only with silver hair and a mustache. Civilians filled the pews behind them, an invisible blue wall separating them from the police who occupied the other half of the church, all of them in dress blues, like Mace. Ken Landry and Candice Smalls, the other two surviving detectives from Mace’s task force, sat on Karol’s other side. Special Agent Kathy Norton, the surviving FBI member of their task force, had flown to Washington, D.C., to attend the burial of her partner, Special Agent Shelly, also killed in the raid.

  In the front pew on Mace’s left sat the big brass, including Mayor Branson and his wife, Deputy Chief of Operations Jim Mint, Commissioner of Public Information Craig Lindberg, and Police Commissioner Robert Benson. The power of the police department stared at him. They knew about the existence of Class Ls, the government’s classification for lycanthropes—Wolves. Jim had pressed Mace to head the task force because Mace had tangled with Wolves even before the Brotherhood of Torquemada showed up, and Mace had dragged Willy into the operation. Guilt gnawed at his insides.

  Mace gave Willy’s parents a sympathetic look and then spoke into the pulpit’s microphone. “Willy Diega served under me for five years, first in Manhattan Homicide South . . .”

  Mace recalled Willy working cases with Patty Lane, who had been murdered two years earlier by Janus Farel, a rogue Wolf. Mace and Cheryl named their daughter after the fallen detective. He wondered how many other good cops might die under his command.

  “. . . and then on a special task force assigned to apprehend the Brotherhood of Torquemada. I can’t discuss that case because the investigation is ongoing, but Willy served his community with honor and died in the line of duty. His bravery helped bring down a terrorist organization we didn’t even know existed until they arrived on our shores. He died a hero, and today he’ll be recognized as one. My thoughts and the prayers of the department go out to his family, friends, and colleagues. His loss is a blow to our community, and we must make it our personal missions to carry on as he would have wanted us to, living up to his ideals. He was a good man, and I’m better for having known him.”

  Mace lost focus as he descended from the pulpit. He ran his right hand along the polished surface of the casket, then took his seat beside Karol.

  Karol’s breathing was shallow. He knew she would not allow herself to cry, even though she and Willy had been lovers. The relationship between his subordinates had come as a surprise to Mace but not as big a surprise as the secret Karol carried with her every day: she was a Wolf and belonged to Gabriel Domini’s pack. Karol had served the task force while reporting its activities to Gabriel. Mace should have felt betrayed, but he and Gabriel had formed an uneasy alliance to rescue Cheryl and Rhonda Wilson.

  Mace’s desire to protect Gabriel—as he had protected Gabriel’s sister, Angela Domini, before him—conflicted with his loyalty to the department, and that conflict intensified now that the skirmish with the Brotherhood had become public news. Everyone who had survived the battle in Newark had left the presence of the Wolves out of their accounts. As far as the brass and the public knew, only police detectives and FBI agents had battled the Torquemadans.

  Bagpipes played outside the
church as mourners exited. Another hundred police officers stood on the sidewalk, and civilians stood across the street. Snowflakes drifted through the air, almost invisible.

  Waiting for the uniformed pallbearers to emerge with the casket, Mace scanned the crowd and spotted Colleen Wanglund. Cheryl worked for Colleen at Manhattan Minute News. The two women had been together when Rodrigo Gomez, the notorious Full Moon Killer, had given Cheryl a stunning interview from Sing Sing prison, where he had proclaimed himself a werewolf. Colleen had driven Cheryl home from the interview, but the Brotherhood intercepted them. They drugged Colleen and took Cheryl prisoner, which provoked Mace into leading the charge on their Newark, New Jersey, base—the offense that had gotten Willy and Shelly killed.

  Mace’s gaze drifted away from Colleen, and he took in the faces of the members of the press corps. Cameramen trained their lenses on him, the price of being branded a hero cop in the tabloids. A familiar figure stood in the crowd: a flabby man with blond hair, wearing a red scarf. Carl Rice. Mace’s body stiffened.

  Rice had authored two true crime books that featured Mace in a central role, Rodrigo Gomez: Tracking the Full Moon Killer and The Wolf Is Loose: The True Story of the Manhattan Werewolf. The first book was a sensationalized account of how Mace had apprehended Gomez. It had been made into a cable TV movie, much to Mace’s consternation. The second book tried to make sense of a series of brutal murders committed by Janus Farel, the rogue Wolf Mace had killed in secret. The book was largely conjecture. How could it be anything else? Farel had been a shape-shifting Wolf, and no rational mind could accept such a being’s existence with ease.

  Mace disliked Rice on principle: he was a shoddy journalist and an opportunist. Rice had also made Mace something of a celebrity and had spoken to Cheryl hours before her abduction, implying Mace had killed the Manhattan Werewolf. Rice’s theory was correct, and since freeing Cheryl from the Brotherhood’s makeshift prison, Mace had told her everything. Now Rice watched him. Mace knew the reporter was on the scent of a story.

  The gang’s all here, he thought.

  But that wasn’t true. Gabriel Domini had gone underground; he was wanted for questioning because both the funeral home and the occult bookstore he and his brother, Raphael, owned had been destroyed in explosions set by the Torquemadans. And Rhonda Wilson was nowhere to be seen.

  Six police officers exited the church with Willy’s casket supported between them. They descended the front steps, and the bagpipes swelled. The pallbearers carried the casket to the waiting hearse and loaded it into the black vehicle.

  Mace, Karol, Landry, and Candice got into Mace’s department SUV and joined the procession en route to the Police Arlington Burial Grounds at Cypress Hills in Brooklyn for Willy’s twenty-one gun salute. Neither Landry nor Candice knew Karol was a Wolf.

  “Nice job, Tony,” Landry said.

  Keeping his eyes on the motorcade ahead of him, Mace did not answer.

  “Any idea when we’re going to get some help in the squad room?”

  “I’ve requested five more detectives,” Mace said.

  “How long is this operation going to continue?” Candice said. “I know we have to cooperate with Justice as far as wrapping up what just went down—whatever that was—but new detectives mean new business. We did our duty; the Brotherhood’s finished. So let’s go home.”

  “Mint wants us to keep surveillance on the Class Ls.”

  Karol looked out the passenger side window.

  “That isn’t what we signed up for,” Candice said.

  “I realize that,” Mace said. “Objectives change.”

  “I didn’t become a police to spy on werewolves. I wish I didn’t even know they existed.”

  “I’m sorry for getting Willy and Shelly killed and dragging you all into this. But we’re part of something bigger now, whether we want to be or not. We know the truth. The department’s not going to let any of us off the task force. They’re going to keep us in that shabby squad room for as long as they can to keep an eye on us if nothing else. If they want us to watch Class Ls, then that’s what we’re going to do.”

  It doesn’t mean we have to hurt them, he thought.

  “How are we supposed to identify them?” Landry said.

  “Good question.” But he already knew the answer.

  Three

  Sitting in the passenger seat of a silver minivan, Gabriel Domini exhibited no reaction as the Hauppauge Industrial Park, one of the largest industrial parks in the country, came into view. Modern-looking buildings and decrepit factories rose to the sky like great mesas. The park occupied fourteen hundred acres and employed fifty-five thousand employees. Gabriel thought it was a city unto itself.

  George Allen, his driver, lowered the volume on the radio. “Civilization.”

  Gabriel smiled. George had served as advisor to Gabriel’s father, Angus, the leader of the pack until Angus appointed Gabriel to fill that role in preparation for the day when Gabriel would succeed him. When Angus passed away just over two years ago, Gabriel became the alpha, and his brother, Raphael, served as his advisor. Now that Raphael and his subordinates had separated from the pack, Gabriel had turned to his father’s former advisor for help. “You don’t have skyscrapers on the Upper East Side?”

  “Of course we do. That doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

  “Today I’m glad this park is here.”

  George snorted. “Park.”

  They drove through the industrial park, passing stout buildings and lawns that had lost their green sheen in the December cold. Christmas lights blinked in a single window in one building.

  “Thank you for your help,” Gabriel said.

  “Thank you for asking me. My retirement has been a disappointment, especially since Katherine died. I’ve felt useless.”

  “I should have consulted you earlier.” Gabriel hoped his sincerity showed.

  The older man waved him off. “Forget it. I’m old; I get it. Young people think old people are out of touch just because it takes us longer to learn new technology and we have little patience for modern music.”

  “I’m hardly young. I have a wife and two children.”

  Thinking about Melissa, Damien, and Gareth pained his heart. He had sent them to Canada to stay with his sister, Angela, when the Brotherhood of Torquemada came to New York City to exterminate the Wolves in his pack.

  They reached the far end of the park. A factory that looked ancient in comparison to the other buildings loomed ahead. A man stood outside a steel door set in dirty brick.

  “There he is, as promised,” George said.

  Gabriel recognized the Wolf in human form: Bennett Jones, a grocer from Staten Island. Gabriel had been reluctant to enlist Bennett, who had challenged him at several pack councils, but George had insisted. Seeing the burly man now, Gabriel was glad George had been so stubborn.

  George parked near a rusted old truck, and he and Gabriel got out. Across the lumpy pavement, Bennett spoke into a cell phone. George opened the hatch, and each man withdrew an old guitar case. Metal clanged inside the heavy cases. George closed the hatch, and they met Bennett halfway to the steel door.

  “Warren’s on his way down,” Bennett said. “I came an hour early. The morning shift went inside. No sign of Raphael or his men.”

  “That doesn’t mean they aren’t watching us right now,” George said.

  “They’re not here,” Bennett said in a flat voice.

  “It doesn’t matter if they are,” Gabriel said. “Raphael’s got no reason to stop us from doing what we came here to do.”

  “That isn’t what I’m worried about,” George said.

  Gabriel knew George feared Raphael intended to assassinate him and take over the pack. Gabriel did not share that fear. Raphael posed a threat, but he had been raised with the same code as Gabriel. If the younger brother intended to seize power, he would do so in accordance with the pack’s law by challenging Gabriel at council.

  Bennett took out a
cheap-looking cell phone. “I just bought this, and I’ll chuck it as soon as we’re done here. Give me a number so I can warn you if anyone with an unfriendly disposition shows.”

  George removed a scrap of paper from his coat pocket and read a phone number aloud, and Bennett entered the number into his disposable phone.

  So many precautions, Gabriel thought.

  “Got it,” Bennett said. Pocketing his phone, he withdrew a key card and turned to the door. He waved the key card before a sensor, and the door clicked.

  George opened the door, and as he and Gabriel moved to enter the factory, Bennett held the card out.

  “Give this back to Warren,” Bennett said.

  Gabriel followed George inside, and the door clanged shut behind him.

  Warren Schneider led Gabriel and George across the shop floor of Schneider Metal Works. Each man wore a safety helmet, protective goggles, and earplugs. Dozens of workers pushed carts, welded iron, and poured fiery molten metal. The heat made Gabriel dizzy, and he unbuttoned his coat. They passed through plastic strips over a threshold wide enough to accommodate a forklift, and the temperature dropped. Inside this new space, chargers for the forklifts’ batteries lined one wall.

  A forklift came around the far corner, beeping a warning. Its driver wore a protective yellow vest in addition to the gear Warren and his guests used.

  Warren stopped at a door in the side wall, near an eyewash station, and waved a key card at a sensor. He opened the door and led Gabriel and George into a large room filled with silent machinery. Closing the door behind them, he removed his earplugs. Gabriel and George did the same. Warren walked over to what looked like a giant oven. It reminded Gabriel of the oven he and Raphael had used to cremate people at their funeral home.