Shapeshifter: 1

by J. F. Gonzalez

  "Nobody is going to get a peek at your personal records until they go through me first," Jim had said, his tone gruff. "I don't even want you to make any comments to a meter reader unless I'm present, do you understand?"

  "You bet."

  "What's this about this assault and vandalism charge in Three Rivers you mentioned earlier?"

  That was bullshit, he'd told Jim. He shouldn't have done it, but there had been no other way. His secretary, Carol Emrich, had been acting strangely lately and he'd begun to suspect that she was helping whoever it was that was trying to destroy him. He had told her too much about his opposition to the merger-they had been lovers, you see, and Carol had always been a gold digger anyway. Somebody must have gotten to her and now she was not only in the sack with this bigwig hot shot, she was helping them stick it to him. And furthermore, he was certain that she had seduced one of the hourly minions at the company, some computer tape librarian named Mark Wiseman, and had bribed him into making the actual hits. It would make sense, since he'd found out Mark was not working on the nights of the murders and he wasn't that well-off financially-"I mean for a guy who only makes twenty-seven thousand dollars a year, who the fuck could live off that in Orange County? Besides, if Carol had come along and shaken her tits at him the right way, the guy would have licked all the bathrooms in Grand Central Station to get a piece of that pussy. Shit, I've heard of real murder cases in which the woman successfully got the man to do all her dirty shit for her and then-"

  "I get the picture," Jim had said. "And I'm on it."

  The next few days had been spent in phone conference strategy sessions with Jim and his team of lawyers. A simple barrier was set up in Bernard's defense: Bernard had been unaware of any embezzling and they could prove that through his personal financial records. Bernard had been careful to go through all his legitimate records and handed them over to Jim, who went over them with a fine-toothed comb. All the records Bernard had funneled the money he had stolen were safe in a Cayman Island account that Jim and his cronies wouldn't dare look for. Half the board members themselves had dirty money in similar accounts and for them to go sniffing after him might bring down a whole truckload of shit on their heads as well. Therefore, he was fairly confident they weren't going to go snooping around after that end of the financial spectrum. As far as domestic accounts went, Bernard was clean.

  He was also clean in other matters; Bernard had kept meticulous records of phone calls, bills, and receipts. Within a week they were able to comfortably place Bernard away from any charge of embezzlement. Therefore when the call came that detectives wanted to search his home, Jim had given them the okay.

  Nothing had been found in Bernard's home. Jim had supervised the search himself and the detectives and FBI agents went through drawers, dressers, closets, file cabinets, all to no avail. They'd left with nothing, much like Jim had said they would.

  That hadn't stopped them from trying to subpoena his bank records. Jim had filed an order to have the subpoena postponed and the request had been granted, giving Bernard and Jim ample time to document every transaction in Bernard's accounts. The investigators, upon hitting the brick wall in the form of Jim's brief, had tried to have it overturned and been denied. That had pushed the whole hearing on the matter back another month. Bernard laughed as he thought about it.

  Fully packed now, Bernard picked up his suitcase and walked through the house. Everything was locked up and secure. He would call Jim on his cell phone on the drive to John Wayne Airport and tell him he was heading out of town to visit an old college buddy for a few days. Jim wouldn't need to know where he was going. The investigation had slowed down the last few days, anyway. Once he flew out to Missouri and got rid of Mark and Carol, he would be free and clear because soon after that the people doing the investigation would have to call it quits; they would have no proof and no witnesses. No witnesses meant no repercussions on him.

  Grinning, Bernard got in his black Mercedes and backed slowly out of the driveway, then headed toward John Wayne Airport. Already the thrill of the hunt was pulsing through his veins.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  They were in their room watching television when Carol Emrich turned to Mark. "What's wrong?"

  Mark looked at her. "Nothing. Why?"

  "There is something wrong and you're not telling me. What is it?"

  "Nothing. Everything's fine."

  "Mark, I don't want you to think we're going through what we went through last night-"

  Last night had been the first time they had finally talked seriously about their predicament and Carol thought they had made some progress. When she had woken up that morning, she found that Mark had come home sometime during the middle of the night without managing to wake her up. She had awakened to the sound of the shower in the bathroom and when Mark came out he'd looked pale and tired. Her first instinct was that something was wrong, but then he had come to her naked and put his arms around her. "I'm sorry for the fight," he had said. "You were right; we do need to talk about what we're going to do."

  Carol hadn't wanted to talk right then; she had been too stunned with emotion to summon up what she wanted to talk about. Instead she had drawn Mark into bed with her and wrapped herself into his embrace.

  They had fallen asleep again, then woken up around noon. They'd showered together and for the first time in over a month they had made love in the shower and then again in bed. It had been like when they'd first met and fallen in love; they couldn't keep their hands off each other. All told, it had taken them two hours to shower and get dressed for supper, for which they had driven into Sedalia.

  They had eaten dinner in Sedalia near the mall, then taken a walk. The weather had been crisp and cold, in the low forties with the nighttime temperatures expected to plunge into the low teens. They'd debated on going to the movies since it was their night off of work, but Mark had suggested heading back to the motel. Carol had agreed and they had headed back and immediately flopped back into bed.

  Now Carol was trying to draw Mark out and find out what was bothering him so much. She could tell something had been on his mind all day and it seemed to weigh even heavier since they'd gotten home. He kept looking toward the curtained windows, as if expecting somebody to show up. "You are acting nervous and scared, honey. We've been meaning to talk about what we're going to do, what our next move is going to be and maybe that time should be now."

  Mark nodded and glanced at the watch he had left by the nightstand. It was eight-fifteen. Carol thought he looked a trifle better, as if some tremendous weight had been taken off his shoulders. "We should be fine now. It's been night for a few hours and I've been fine."

  It suddenly hit her like a sledgehammer. "Oh Christ, you mean it's-"

  "The full moon?" Mark was looking at her apologetically. "Yeah, it is. Last night was the first night. I didn't want to scare you but-"

  "That's why you weren't here," she said suddenly. "That's why you were gone when I came home." Her hands flew to her mouth as if to stifle a scream. "What happened?"

  It looked like Mark didn't want to confess; he shifted uneasily on his side of the bed and looked at her with what seemed like shame on his face. "I went out last night," he said, quietly. "I changed. It just hit me so suddenly. I...I fell asleep and I started dreaming ... I ... I had this weird dream about my parents and ... I ... I don't remember much else."

  Carol looked at him for a moment, too stunned to say anything. Finally: "Are you sure? Think, Mark. If you killed somebody, they might find out-"

  "They're not going to find out."

  "How do you know?" Carol's voice was raising in pitch as her emotions rose.

  "They aren't going to know where we are," Mark said. "Even if ... what I think happened last night did happen."

  Carol looked at him with slow, dawning horror. "Oh my God, you did kill somebody last night didn't you?"

  "Carol, I told you once before that when ... when this happens to me, it's not me!" He was pl
eading with her to understand; she could detect it in the tone of his voice, but it also had a tinge of whining desperation in it. "It's like ... somebody else occupies my body for the night and changes it. It makes me do things I wouldn't think of doing and-"

  "If that's the case why are you fine now?" She motioned to him with a tilt of her head. "You seem fine now. I don't see you sprouting fangs and fur and it's a full moon right now. Why aren't you changing into a fucking monster right now?"

  "I told you last month that I can usually control it. It's only when-"

  "So why couldn't you control it last night? What happened?"

  Mark took a deep breath. "If you would just listen to me instead of-"

  "I am listening to you! You said the moon changes you, that it turns you into a werewolf. Why isn't-"

  "If I don't let it out every once in awhile it takes complete control over me!" Mark yelled, suddenly looming over her. Carol fell back against the bed, her heart leaping in her throat. She made a mad scramble to get away from him and he came after her, not threateningly, but coming after her just the same. His eyes were wide, his expression one of anger. "I can only control it for so long, but it's always there. If I don't let it out, if I keep it bottled up, the pressure builds and then it just bursts out. It takes control of me and then I don't know what happens. I lose all control to it. It makes me do those things. Then when it's run its course it's easier to control ... like tonight."

  Carol stood there stiffly, not daring to move. For the first time in almost two months she felt afraid of Mark. A thought rose in her mind and she tried to bat it aside, but it refused to die. He says he can't control it sometimes, that sometimes he just has to let it out. Suppose it had been me he had killed?

  She voiced this concern without even thinking. "Suppose it had been me, Mark? Suppose that this morning when you woke up, you woke up to me all torn up and strewn across this room. What then?"

  Mark turned away from her. "That wouldn't have happened."

  "Why not?" She was gaining some of her boldness back.

  Mark looked away from her, refusing to meet her gaze. Her heart was beating hard in her ribcage. He didn't have to answer this question; she knew the answer just from the way he was behaving. He wouldn't have been able to control it because it had taken control of him while he had been asleep.

  Carol stood over him, not quite knowing how to react. Part of her felt angry with him for initially hiding this part of himself, but she knew how she would have reacted upon first hearing it, too. She wouldn't have believed him; she would have dismissed him as a lunatic. Hell, she had a hard enough time believing it even after practically witnessing the metamorphosis last month. It was actually because of witnessing it that she had stayed with him; there was obviously something wrong with him and she loved him too much to desert him. It was obvious he couldn't control it. It was obvious that it was something he didn't want, that it was a crutch. That was why she had stayed with him.

  Carol took a deep breath and tried to think things through. She wanted to turn the television on and see if there was anything on the news. She didn't remember passing any newspapers carrying the story, or hearing any conversation about the attack. Of course it might not have made the news yet; it had only happened last night. She tried to remember how many days there were in a typical full-moon cycle-was it four or five? She turned back to Mark, who was still sitting on the bed with his head bowed. "How do you feel now?" she asked softly.

  Mark started sobbing quietly.

  For a minute Carol was too stunned to react. Then she sat beside Mark and put her arms around him awkwardly, holding him close. He was trying to control his emotions and he wiped at his tears with the back of his hands. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to ... to break down like this, but-"

  "It's okay," she said, brushing his hair back from his face. She kissed him. "It's okay."

  "It's not okay," he sniffled. "It's my fault that we're both in this mess."

  "No, it's not."

  "Yes it is. If it wasn't for me, Bernard wouldn't have ... wouldn't have come at me the way he did. He wouldn't have trapped me."

  "It's not your fault," Carol said. She felt stupid saying that, but what else could she say? I'm sorry you have this uncontrollable urge to change into a monster every month on the full moon and kill people, honey, but it's really not your fault that we're being hunted down by Bernard Roberts because you failed to kill one of the faceless suits on the Free State Board of Directors. Maybe if you had been a normal person instead of a werewolf he wouldn't have seen fit to wrangle you into this little mess.

  Carol changed the subject, hoping to get Mark's mind off of feeling sorry for himself. "You think we should pack up and head out?"

  Mark had calmed down somewhat. His breathing was heavy as he sought control of his sobs and he nodded, wiping his eyes. "Yeah, maybe we should. Get the fuck out of Missouri, maybe head north into Illinois or Iowa or something."

  "When do you want to leave?"

  Mark looked up at her. "I don't know ... tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow." She bent down and kissed his cheek. He seemed so vulnerable now and she realized that she couldn't baby him-Mark Wiseman wasn't that kind of man-but she felt the need to protect and nurture him. "I'll start packing some things. We'll leave first thing tomorrow morning."

  Mark nodded. He pushed his hair back from his face. He appeared more in control of his emotions now. "Maybe I should turn on the TV. We should at least see if what happened last night made the news." He stood up and turned the TV on, flipping through the channels until he got the local news. He stood back and watched as Carol worked at packing their clothes together into the two suitcases. She listened as she worked and thought about what to do: pack their stuff up, turn in early, get up early, change, shower, head out to the diner to pick up their paychecks and formally quit, then hit the road.

  The local news was broadcast from Kansas City and there was nothing reported about the surrounding areas; the closest anything came to that was the weather report when the anchorman warned motorists heading into Sedalia to be careful of snow drifts along US 70. There was no mention of anybody killed by anything, human or inhuman.

  "Maybe they didn't find him," she said, putting the last piece of clothing in her suitcase. She had laid out clothes for tomorrow, but otherwise she was ready to go. She turned to Mark who sat back down on the bed, still looking up at the television. "I would think that anybody being attacked and killed by anything would have made the news."

  "You would think," Mark said in a strange, flat voice. He turned to her and smiled, but Carol saw that it was forced. He was trying to put her at ease.

  "You okay?"

  Mark nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."

  "How do you feel? Do you feel the ... you know ... ?"

  "It's there, but very slight. And I call it the curse." Mark smiled again, and this time it was slightly more genuine. "The closest way I can describe it is ... well, like being hungry. It's like something natural that your body goes through. I can feel myself wanting to yield to it, to change. And when it's strong it's like you're starving. You know, you haven't eaten all day and the hunger suddenly comes on you so strong that you simply have to pull into the nearest Wendy's or Burger King and eat all the fried, greasy slop they serve simply to quench that hunger. When the curse comes on really strong, that's what it's like. To resist it is ... well, it physically hurts."

  Carol had come to the bed and sat down beside him as he explained this to her. For the first time she understood what he was going through; he had expressed what he physically went through so eloquently that it was stunning. She took his hands and squeezed them. "You won't have to worry about going through it alone like you used to, Mark. I'm here with you and I'm always going to be here. You can count on that."

  Mark smiled. For the first time today he appeared happy. "You don't know how much that means to me."

  But she did. And she expressed it that night as they lay together i
n bed, not making love, but just holding each other and keeping his demons at bay.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  They made it into Springfield, Illinois by six p.m. the following night. There was a Motel Six just off the interstate and they checked in for the night, dragging their tired bodies and their luggage to their room and shutting the door to the outside world.

  Outside it was cold and spitting snow.

  Carol was exhausted. She flopped down on the queen-sized bed while Mark showered. It seemed like she could feel every aching muscle and tendon in her body. Even though the day had not been a physically active one, it had been tiring. She was still trying to puzzle why that was so; it wasn't like she had pulled an eight-hour shift and then had somehow found the time to drive four hundred miles today.

  After rising early this morning they had checked out of the Star Motor Lodge and had made Jake's Grill their first stop. They told Jake Owens that they were quitting and he hadn't put up a fuss. He'd written out their checks on the spot in his office and when he'd handed them over his features were somewhat softer than they had been, as if he were seeing two of his own children off to college for the first time. "You people take care now, you hear?"

  They had thanked him, then eaten a quick breakfast at the diner counter. Then they hit the road.

  With a map of Missouri and Illinois spread out on the seat between them, they traced the most appropriate route: Route 52 to Sedalia, Route 63 to Interstate 70 into St. Louis, then north to Springfield, Illinois. Just before they had drifted off to sleep last night, Mark had suggested settling in Chicago. "It's a big city," he had said sleepily. "We've got enough bucks to get ourselves a place and we can get jobs there real easy. It'll be harder for somebody to pick us out there too; not like a small town where you stick out like a sore thumb."