The Frenzy Wolves

by Gregory Lamberson

  “The animal attack won’t hold water even as a cover story,” Hollander said.

  Karol went back into the hall. “Bloody animal tracks go into the master bedroom.”

  Mace followed Karol into the bedroom with Jim and Hollander right behind him.

  “Those prints sure look like they could belong to a bear,” Hollander said.

  Karol opened the closet door, and Mace peered in at the walk-in closet: the rod on the left held a man’s clothes, the rod on the right a woman’s.

  “Gomez killed the husband downstairs, then came up here and killed the wife,” Mace said. “The daughter fled out the window, and Gomez followed her. He chased her into the street, killed her, dragged her into the light, then came back in through the front door.”

  “Why?” Hollander said.

  Mace noticed Karol biting her lip. “He turned back into human form and stole some of the husband’s clothes.”

  “So he’s walking around out there on two legs?” Hollander said. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  Mace went to the two-car garage and peeked inside. “There’s a silver Hyundai here, nothing else. A one-car family with a teenage daughter?”

  Hollander took out his phone and pressed a button. “This is Deputy Regional Director Hollander calling from the crime scene in Croton-on-Hudson. I need to know how many vehicles are registered to family O’Hearn at this address.” He repeated the address and looked at Mace, waiting. “Right, stay on the line.” He lowered the phone. “The Hyundai in the driveway is registered to the wife. The husband’s got a black Explorer.”

  “He’s already far from here,” Mace said.

  Hollander brought his phone to his lips. “Put out an APB on that vehicle. The driver is armed and dangerous, and anyone who encounters him should use extreme caution and call for backup.” He ended the call. “What does he want in Manhattan?”

  Mace held his gaze. “Me. My wife. The ADA who prosecuted him. A tabloid reporter who wrote a book about him.”

  “All on our little island.”

  Fourteen

  Gomez drove the Explorer along back roads with the headlights off. He didn’t need them; he had perfect night vision. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tapped his foot on the gas pedal, his senses ablaze. Warm blood tickled the back of his throat. The O’Hearn girl had tasted good. Sam O’Hearn’s clothes were large on him, but he didn’t mind. He did mind the man’s scent all over the articles.

  He drove through any wooded areas he could, speeding toward the New York–Connecticut border. When the GPS told him he was getting close, he turned south. He did not intend to travel to New York City this morning; he knew the pathways into the city would be under watch, and the police would soon realize he had taken O’Hearn’s vehicle.

  Especially if they called Mace already, he thought. The cop’s ability to get inside Gomez’s head and anticipate his next move had led to Gomez’s incarceration in the first place. Gomez would never forget that little fact.

  “Valhalla in 1.8 miles,” the GPS announced.

  No one and nothing awaited Gomez in Valhalla, which was just a name on a map to him—a map he had spent two years studying, ever since Mace had spoken to Gomez about the Manhattan Werewolf. Mace’s visit had solidified in Gomez’s mind his kinship with the night stalker and had led to the deep self-examination and discovery of his true nature.

  Gomez circled the outskirts of the hamlet, the GPS coaxing him toward busy streets. He went in the opposite direction, the device recalculating his approach. It took him an hour to find the house instead of thirty minutes. The colonial mansion overlooked a horse stable, a barn, and a garage. Gomez had read about its owner, Savana Silvestri, a widow who donated a great deal of money to local charities, including an orphanage. Savana lived alone, although the newspaper article Gomez had read featured a photo of the woman with her college-age granddaughter.

  Gomez turned into the long driveway and allowed the SUV to crawl forward between the corral fences at a snail’s pace. He reached a fork and took the left branch, traveling toward the barn. A light appeared in the sky, moving closer: a helicopter.

  Searching for me, Gomez thought.

  His instincts told him to step on the brake pedal, but he allowed the car to continue instead. The distant roar of the chopper masked the sound of the Explorer’s engine as he passed the house. No lights came on. The helicopter veered to its left and turned around as Gomez reached the barn. He switched the dome light off, opened the door, and got out. The faint chiming of a car alarm irritated him, even though he knew Savana Silvestri could not have heard it from the house even if she wasn’t eight decades old.

  Standing between the car and the barn, Gomez scanned the property. Trees of all types peppered the lawn. He inhaled the cold air, feeling alive and aware of himself. Everything made sense to him now. Swinging the barn doors open, he gazed inside at a riding lawn mower and other devices used for lawn maintenance. There was more than enough room for the SUV.

  He went outside, slid behind the wheel, and gave the vehicle just enough gas to push it into the barn. He lowered the windows, killed the engine, got out, and closed the barn doors. Then he lay down in the backseat. His belly was full, and he was exhausted from running from Sing Sing to the O’Hearn home. He closed his eyes and slept.

  Standing in the foyer of the building on Mott Street, Ken Landry entered his code into the alarm keypad and opened the door to the lobby. Candice Smalls entered behind him, and they traded smiles.

  “I didn’t expect you for another hour.” Landry held the inner door open for her.

  “Why, because I’m a woman?” Candice entered the lobby.

  “No, because I told you not to come in for another hour.”

  “When Tony sounds the bugle, I answer the call.”

  The door closed behind them, and they walked to the elevator.

  “Tony told us Gomez is a Class L,” Candice said.

  “I remember.”

  The elevator opened, and they boarded the car. Landry pressed the fourth-floor button, and the door closed.

  “Six people dead,” Candice said. “Gomez is on a mission. The Manhattan Werewolf picked them off one at a time until the dragnet closed in. Gomez is going for the high score right off the bat.”

  “This is going to get a lot of attention because of the connection between Gomez and the Brotherhood of Torquemada,” Landry said.

  “The crank calls should start early.”

  The elevator stopped, and they got off. Landry opened the door to their headquarters with his key card and followed Candice inside. The overhead fluorescents came on as they triggered motion detectors, a recent modification.

  “Every day I’m a little more impressed with our Batcave,” Landry said as they passed the unmanned reception desk.

  “I’ll be impressed when the heat comes on before we get in.” Candice set her bag on her desk and booted up her computer.

  A ringtone came from Landry’s pocket: the theme music to The Taking of Pelham 123. He answered his phone and looked at Candice while he listened to Jim Mint. “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.” He shut off his phone. “That was Mint. We can expect four clerks from downtown at shift start to help deal with the calls.”

  Leaving her coat on, Candice logged on to her computer. “Hallelujah.”

  Carl awoke without assistance from an alarm clock and jumped out of bed in a rare burst of excitement. He staggered over to his computer and tapped the touch pad, which always took a few minutes to warm up, then hurried into the bathroom to relieve himself.

  Rubbing his hands together when he came out, he dropped into his desk chair and brought up the website for the Post. The home page for the daily newspaper teased him with the headline: Full Moon Killer Escapes from Prison.

  A photo of Gomez beneath the headline showed him as he had appeared during his interview with Cheryl Mace. Carl’s pulse quickened as he digested the news of Gomez’s escape. He scrolled down the page
in search of his piece on the Brotherhood of Torquemada and found nothing.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  Dressing in the same clothes he had worn the day before, he left his apartment and took the stairs to the street. It was a two-block walk to the nearest newsstand, and he shivered in the morning cold. The sun had only just begun to rise. The Indian man at the newsstand watched him pick up the print edition of the newspaper, which had the same cover as the online version.

  Carl handed the man a twenty. “Give me a pack of Marlboro Lights,” he said.

  The man gave Carl the cigarettes and his change, which Carl pocketed. Then Carl searched the newspaper for his article. He didn’t find it anywhere. It hadn’t been buried; it hadn’t been printed at all.

  Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he lit a cigarette and smoked it on the way back to his building. Inside his apartment, he slammed the door and hurled the newspaper at the floor. Then he took out his phone and pressed autodial.

  “Yeah?” John Beaudoin sounded half-asleep.

  “Good morning, John. Did I wake you?”

  “Who’s this?” He sounded more awake now.

  “Where the hell is my story?”

  John sighed. “Did you see the front page? You got bumped.”

  “I saw it. What I didn’t see is a reason why my piece wasn’t a perfect sidebar for the Gomez story.”

  “Come again?”

  “Gomez told the world he’s a werewolf on live TV, and my piece was about the Brotherhood of Torquemada using the Blades of Salvation to execute werewolves. Could the timing be any more perfect?”

  “Listen. Your story is ridiculous, but it has value. Just not today. I’m not above sensationalism, but fearmongering is another story. Some nut out there is likely to take this a little too earnestly, and the next thing you know we’ll have civilians shooting each other. I’ll run your damn story when things cool down a little.”

  “You know what you lack? Imagination! No wonder the newspaper business is dying.”

  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted, but we’re running the piece and you’re getting paid for it. Now, if you want to see your name in print so badly, give me something timely on Gomez. You’re the expert, aren’t you? Dig deep until you come up with something.”

  The line went dead.

  “Don’t hang up on me,” Carl said as he wound up his arm to throw the phone at the wall. Thinking better of it, he set the phone down.

  John was right: he was the expert on Gomez, other than Tony Mace. There had to be some way he could turn this to his advantage. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the Blade of Salvation.

  Cheryl sat on the sofa, bouncing Patty on one knee while switching between Manhattan Minute News and the other local news channels on TV. She lost count of how many times she saw Tony and Karol supervising uniformed police officers inspecting vehicles at checkpoints.

  A knock at the door caused her to check the clock—8:00 am. She didn’t expect Anna for another hour. She stared at her daughter, then held one finger to her lips and made a shushing sound. Then she set Patty aside and stood up. In the dining room, she removed her purse from atop the computer hutch and approached the door. Her heart beat faster. Sliding her hand inside the purse, she curled her fingers around the rubber grip of the .38 revolver and pressed her ear against the door.

  “Mrs. Mace?” Anna said.

  Cheryl exhaled and took her hand out of her purse. She unlocked and opened the door and let Anna inside.

  “Good morning,” Anna said.

  “You’re early.” Cheryl closed the door and twisted the locks.

  “My father told me to come now. He spoke to Captain Mace last night. Captain thought you’d like some company.”

  “Oh.” Tony had neglected to mention that to her, but she was glad he had arranged for Anna to come when she did. “Thank you. He was right.”

  Anna entered the living room, and Cheryl put her purse on top of the hutch, out of Patty’s reach.

  “Hello,” Anna said to Patty, who giggled.

  Cheryl joined them.

  “Dada! Dada!” Patty pointed at the television.

  “Was Dada on TV?” Anna said.

  “Unfortunately,” Cheryl said. She picked up the remote control and lowered the volume.

  “I’ve got her if you need to shower,” Anna said.

  Cheryl smiled. “Do I look that bad?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Cheryl’s phone rang, and she answered it.

  “How are you?” Tony said.

  Cheryl crossed the room. “Tired. You?”

  “Well rested. Karol and I took turns power napping in her SUV.”

  “What are you, partners now?”

  “We are today.”

  Cheryl pulled back the curtain. The police cruiser still idled at the curb. “Patty was excited to see you on TV.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “It all feels too familiar.”

  “We’ve never dealt with a prison escape before.”

  “Are you calling to tell me you caught him?”

  “I’m afraid not. The dogs haven’t been able to pick up his scent, and a vehicle owned by the second set of victims is missing.”

  “When will you be home?”

  “Dinnertime?”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “I asked Eduardo to have Anna come early.”

  “She’s here now.”

  “Good. And the unit?”

  “Waiting and ready.”

  “I’ll see you as soon as I can. Try not to worry.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I love you.”

  Cheryl closed her eyes. “I love you too.” She hung up and faced Anna. “I think I’ll take that shower.”

  Fifteen

  When Gomez awoke, every muscle in his body burned with pain. He lifted his head from the backseat of the Explorer and felt as if someone was sawing through his neck with a serrated knife. Wincing, he lay back. The simple act of shifting his body sent a tidal wave of agony roaring through his lower back and stomach muscles, and he stifled a cry.

  With his eyes widening like twin moons, he stared at the ceiling until his breathing returned to normal. He had experienced pain on those mornings following his partial Transformations in Sing Sing but nothing like this. The act of using his Wolf Form was much more traumatic to his infrastructure than assuming its shape.

  With great deliberation, Gomez set his feet on the floor, grabbed the back of the driver’s seat, and pulled himself into a sitting position. Sweat formed on his brow despite the cold. His lower lip quivered, and it felt like he’d been shot in the gut. With tears in his eyes, he reached around the seat and retrieved the gallon of purified water he had taken from the O’Hearns’ refrigerator. Unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers, he raised the plastic container to his mouth. He guzzled the water until his throat was too cold for him to continue, then looked at the half-empty container, capped it, and returned it to the front seat.

  He slumped sideways and went to sleep.

  The front door buzzed, and Candice looked up. The monitor on her desk showed a heavy man and a short woman with a blonde pixie cut standing outside the door to the task force squad room. She glanced over her shoulder at Landry, who held a landline pressed between his ear and shoulder, then stood and passed through the short corridor leading to the reception area, where she opened the door.

  “Hola, Candice,” Hector Rodriguez said. He stood in the hall with Suzie Quarrel, his Crime Scene Unit partner. He held a cardboard box.

  “There are no bodies here,” Candice said.

  “We didn’t come for any bodies. We’ve been collecting stiffs all night.”

  “Then what did you come here for?”

  “The Chinese food.”

  Candice snorted. “You can have it. I got sick of it after a week.”

  “We’re reassigned here temporarily,”
Suzie said.

  “By who?”

  “Jimmy Mint,” Hector said.

  Candice raised her eyebrows. “Really? I knew we were getting some clerks, but aren’t you overqualified?”

  “We’re not clerks,” Suzie said.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re genuine detectives,” Hector said. “We were told to report here and detect. At least when we’re not bagging werewolf burgers.”

  “I hope you’re not bringing your work with you,” Candice said. “But if you are, this place is cold enough to refrigerate the corpses.”

  Suzie chuckled, and Candice led them into the squad room. “You can pretty much have your choice of desks.” She pointed at two desks that faced each other in the center of the space. “Williams sits there, and Willy sat across from her.”

  Hector moved to one of the cubicles. “Not that I’m superstitious, but I think we’ll set up over here.”

  “Agent Shelly sat there.”

  Hector looked at the vacant seat. “Damn, this whole place is cursed. No wonder you’re recruiting from other departments.”

  Landry hung up his phone. “We’re recruiting you because you’ve already sworn to secrecy. Like the rest of us, if you want your pension, you’ll go where the big boys send you.”

  Hector shrugged. “That’s cool. I don’t mind playing Dirty Harry instead of CSI.”

  “More like Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” Suzie said under her breath.

  “So we’re going to help capture the Full Moon Killer, and then we’re back to our meat wagon, right?”

  Smiling, Landry took his turn at shrugging. “We have an ongoing assignment beyond Gomez. As far as I can tell, you’re here for the duration.”

  Hector chose a seat. “Like I said, cool.”

  “Welcome aboard.”

  Hector set his box on top of his desk, and Suzie moved to the desk beside him.

  “Look at the bright side,” Candice said. “You already know what fucked-up shit you’ve stepped in. At least we don’t have to haze you with wolfsbane or anything.”