Wolf's Trap (The Nick Lupo Series Book 1)

by W. D. Gagliani

  Sam falls asleep, conflicted at the rush of his thoughts. As if his fear has been squashed by a new, disturbing feeling of kinship and understanding, as if the Creature is more friend than foe. His sleep is not restful. Not at all.

  Jessie

  She tossed and turned all night long, her thoughts leaping from dream to nightmare and back, but Dominic Lupo dominated both, seeming to be at once dangerous and yet protective.

  When she awoke near dawn, she felt as if she’d had an orgasm. Touching herself, she was surprised to find wetness. The sheets were a mess, sodden with sweat and her essence, and her fading dream memory included a gigantic wolf defeating another in mortal battle.

  Where in the hell did that come from? she thought, trying to catch her breath. It was as if she had been lying in a lover’s arms all night—all right, in Nick Lupo’s arms!—and only now took the time to rest and let her body slow to a normal rhythm, coming down from the fever pitch of an orgasm she could sense but barely remember.

  This is weird, she thought just before falling asleep contented and smiling, the image of her new lover as clearly in her mind as if he were there with her. Pleased, she rolled gently into sleep.

  Ben

  “Hey, Nick, you there? Pick up. Okay, you’re not there and your cell’s dead, too. I hope you’re having a good time while I’m slaving away. Listen, I got a hit on the juvie search. Jackpot! They just finished converting the records or whatever for that year. That’s why it took this long. Anyway, I got Judge O’Hara to open the file for me—guy owes me, so he moved his ass. Name of Martin Stewart mean anything to you? Seems to me you might remember a Caroline Stewart, used to teach at the university got herself killed years ago, maybe ’bout the time you were a rookie. Butchered, but her brother was already in a mental ward, ’cause he’d killed their parents and abused her when she was a kid and, you name it, this wacko’s done it. Anyways, your fuckin’ tape’s gonna cut me off, so call me back—”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lupo

  His whole body tingled.

  Was it love? Or was it the unprecedented control he’d finally achieved over the Creature? Was it the triumph of the kill? He remembered the night’s events, the fight with the other wolf, his dominance, his awareness. He remembered it all.

  So, the Creature and I are even more linked now than ever!

  He’d wanted to sniff out the fucker, Martin, if he was here, but the other wolf had taken his attention and lured him away.

  Damn it!

  He drank a second bottle and rinsed out his mouth. His jaws ached from the battle.

  But why did his body tingle so much?

  He’d been tired, but he still looked forward to seeing Jessie Hawkins. His groin ached with desire. There was no other way to put it, as if the night’s events had somehow affected his libido. He had to have her again. He ached for the tenderness, and some of the repressed sexual aggression they’d both felt. He wondered if the Creature’s needs weren’t getting a bit crossed with his own. How dangerous was that?

  Then the phone had rung and he’d let the machine take it.

  Now that Ben had spoken the names, he wondered what could result from all the strings hanging out there, connected in plain sight. Could he withstand the scrutiny? Corinne and Caroline?

  He called Jessie and left a message, figuring she was either in the shower or off to the clinic. He tried to warn her about Martin without letting panic creep into his tone. He mentioned his suspicion about having been followed, begging her to keep an eye out for herself, that the guy was dangerous. “Until we meet again, Doctor, and I for one hope it’s very soon.” Well, for him it was tender. Too late to take it back or add a more appropriate ending after the long pause. He hated fucking answering machines, because you never got a second chance. No spellcheck.

  He would try to catch her later, either at home or at the res medical center. But he had to try tracking down Martin Stewart first. Lupo couldn’t be in two places at once—and there was a fifty percent chance he’d be wrong at either place. Jess could take care of herself, and Stewart was most likely going to attack him here. Maybe he could provide Jessie a police guard. He could call the sheriff here, what was his name? Bunche? He’d call Bunche and explain, see about getting a deputy assigned to her doorstep. The decision made him feel better, even if the timing didn’t. Corinne’s body, as he’d seen it in death, haunted him.

  As did the fear that he would find Jessie the same way.

  He had to find Martin Stewart first.

  Jessie

  She awoke with the vague echo of the phone in her ears, knowing the machine had picked up and that a message was left, but not willing to part with the covers. Now that the sweat had dried and she was snuggled underneath, there seemed to be no reason to get up so early. She had made arrangements at the clinic—again! They were going to kill her if she didn’t go in one of these days!—and had planned to maybe see Nick again, before he left.

  She tingled at the thought, sure enough, both physically and emotionally.

  I’ve got it bad.

  Late thirties and desperate?

  No, late thirties and finally able to converse with someone, joke with someone, laugh with someone, then screw someone’s brains out in a most unladylike manner! Score!

  She smiled into the pillow. She opened her eyes and saw a lavender smudge on the cotton, and suddenly she remembered everything they’d talked about.

  Groaning, she tumbled out of bed and let the cold caress her skin as she made her way toward the phone and machine on her desk in the living room, half of which she used as a wide-open office.

  Grinning, she pushed the button. Nick Lupo’s terse voice spoke to her, and her smile turned quickly to a frown.

  Jesus! As if it weren’t enough that her mind was playing little tricks on her, making her think Nick had some sort of magical power, now she had to worry about the murderer who had it in for him? She wasn’t sure whether to worry more for him or for herself, so she decided to make coffee instead.

  Fresh coffee would stimulate clear thinking.

  She realized she was still naked and wondered at the changes Mr. Nick Lupo had already wrought in her life.

  Shameless!

  She smiled and enjoyed the feeling. It really had been too long since she’d felt this way about anyone, and now she wasn’t going to let some whacked-out wannabe Hannibal Lecter ruin her life.

  She whistled a melody out of the Parsons canon again; about the same old sun shining tomorrow. That was strange, she thought. Why so sad a song? Try as she might, she couldn’t quite get a happy song in her head, only sad or cynical ones.

  She showered off the negativity then she had coffee.

  Ben

  The empty house reminded him so much of his wife and kids that he felt a lump in his throat.

  Marie and the kids were safe near Madison. He’d called again to check on them. He stopped in the kitchen and contemplated a soda in the fridge, but decided against it. Damn carbonation would really get to him later. He settled for a long, cold swallow from the water pitcher, a practice for which Marie would have scolded him. But there were perks to batching it, as they said. Still, he felt lonely. If she’d been home, she would have given him his choice of freshly baked biscotti or maybe some ciambella—pie—one of her specialties. Marie reminded him a little of a TV mom also named Marie, the one on that Raymond show. The good parts of her, anyway.

  Ben smiled at the thought and stepped into the bedroom.

  Strange, he thought, it looks like Marie’s in bed. On my side. When had she come home? And why?

  “Marie?” He approached, alarmed. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  The shape under the sheet muttered softly and moved, trembling.

  Concerned, Ben laid his hand on Marie’s soft hip and—

  —with a sudden twist, the shape rose up screeching and reached out for Ben’s hand, which he was too startled to pull back.


  The first slash severed the main artery across his wrist, sending a geyser of blood spraying upward as he reacted and finally pulled his arm back. The blond man with the sheet over his head screamed again and the bedroom light glinted off the sharp blade he held.

  “You! You’re Martin—”

  Right-handed Ben fumbled for his Glock with his unhurt left hand, getting caught in the folds of his jacket just as the blade swished past him again and he thought he had stepped back far enough, only to realize that a long gash had slit open his left forearm. Blood soaked his sleeve and weighed down his efforts to free the pistol while he felt his life’s blood spraying the walls from the slash.

  The fucker was filleting him like a fish, and all he could do was babble incoherently and whimper as the pain finally hit his nerve center and he screamed, his hand giving up its hunt for the pistol and now his brain reversing his every motion in an effort to retreat away from the madman with the blade before the remainder of his blood could be spilled.

  In a flashing strobelike split second, Ben saw that the man’s lips were painted a deep purple color and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was in the presence of the very madman they were seeking, Martin Stewart, the master of disguise and killer of girls in photo booths. Now, cop-killer.

  Ben Sabatini’s mind processed the information at supercomputer speed, passing the fastest Intel or Motorola chip and yet giving him no time at all to do the one thing necessary for his survival, which would have been to make his legs move against the forward momentum still carrying him forward even after his initial backward recoil once he’d unmasked the assailant.

  The blade sank deep and true, slicing his throat open from side to side, severing the larynx and Adam’s apple and releasing a great gout of blood outward as the words or curses or pleas died on his lips like bloody bubbles and he died with them, his feet still trying to engage reverse even though the toes were now scrabbling into the stained hardwood floor as if he couldn’t wait to enter the ground.

  His mind formed one last coherent word, which could not travel to his lips, even though in his mind he saw his wife.

  “Nick!”

  Then the void opened up and Ben Sabatini entered it and the pain was flushed away like his soul.

  Martin

  Humming a tuneless ditty Martin bounced off the soaked bed and was glad he’d kept the sheet wrapped over himself. The old fuck’s blood was still spurting, though less so now that he was about squeezed like a lemon.

  Martin giggled.

  He brought a hand up and absentmindedly smeared the lipstick, enjoying the intoxicating smell on his skin and under his nose.

  Well, that was easy.

  He was surprised to learn they knew his name, though. That he hadn’t expected, not so soon. Somebody had managed to unseal his records. Oh, well, he was ready to end it all, anyway. Wheels were rolling. It was too late to pull back. And anyway, he’d wanted Lupo to know eventually. Revenge was no good if the victim didn’t even know the reason he was targeted.

  But now Martin was torn. He’d wanted to leave a personalized wall note here for the bastard cop, writ in blood, as they said. But the old fuck had come home later than Martin expected, even though he had left a message at the office that Ben’s wife was ill and at home. Maybe the old bastard didn’t even know. That was possible. Maybe his showing up at home at lunchtime was just a lucky coincidence. Still, he now had to drive like a maniac to make the trip Up North to end it all.

  He would call Klug and his idiot sidekick while on the road, then stop at some sort of department store for the supplies they’d put on the list. Fortunately, they’d already made their plans, and all they had to do was carry them out. He’d leave immediately—he had a lot of traveling to do before he and his two new guys got to work together, but it wouldn’t be long. There was just enough time to go through the plan once more, and then they were on.

  Martin surveyed his work here and found it good.

  Very good, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lupo

  He was naked.

  He had to determine how far he had come.

  The growl worked its way up into his throat and he gave himself over to his anger. The doors were locked and bolted, the windows barred. No soundproofing here, but there was no need. Nick Lupo pushed—in his mind, it was like pushing against a wall and feeling a whole building move.

  Lupo pushed.

  Harder.

  And then he was Over again, just like that—a fact, Jack—he was Over and on four paws, his gigantic muscular body hurtling through the room and scrabbling at the door, the scent of his enemy in his nostrils and the hatred, ten times—no, a thousand times—worse than the hatred he had felt for the interloper wolf, the hatred coursing through him like a poison and adrenaline and kerosene cocktail.

  Lupo and the Creature howled madly.

  And this time, Lupo knew he was in control, for he felt the Creature respond to his thoughts.

  Maybe he had needed Corinne to bridge his worlds, but he would never know. Now it seemed his rage and hatred and sadness had formed a Force he could control.

  Lupo thought in the Creature’s head, and the Creature in his. For the first time the thoughts were lucid in both directions.

  He gobbled down a pile of raw meat he had ladled onto a dish, relishing the protein—the blood—and then he lapped water from a bowl, knowing that his wolf side felt insulted by this treatment. The Creature wanted to roam, to hunt, to bring down prey, to tear flesh from carcass and to swallow fur and bone and skin. The Creature loathed being treated like a dog, and that was why Lupo did it.

  Because he could.

  He pushed again, pushed hard as if trying to move the building back, allowing himself an almost orgasmic effort, as he thrust and folded himself back into human form, leaving the Creature behind.

  He tried forcing himself to not fall asleep this time. He needed to get out and follow that scent, his enemy. He hoped control nulled and voided the need for sleep. But not his need for water. He took a cold jug from the fridge, his hand suddenly heavy with fatigue.

  Control. He drank.

  Then his body betrayed him, and he slept on the floor.

  He dialed Jessie Hawkins’s number, not sure why, perhaps looking for an antidote to the sour liquid that sloshed around in his stomach along with the raw meat, but got only a ringing.

  Ten, twenty, thirty rings.

  No machine.

  That was strange…

  “Son of a bitch!” he growled.

  He was still naked, still feeling the aftereffects of the Change he had brought about intentionally.

  He was out of time. He’d gambled and lost, Fifty percent.

  He dressed quickly in jeans and layers—a t-shirt, a thin Kevlar vest, a heavy denim shirt, and a brown leather bomber jacket, then stopped long enough to grab extra ammo clips for his Glock and a second handgun, a stodgy short-barreled .38 Smith & Wesson Model 10 in an ankle holster, a sling of full speed-loaders and a box of extra semi-jacketed hollow-point cartridges from his duffel bag.

  Once in his car, he debated. No one at Jessie’s meant she would be at work. He scoured his memory for the road to the res. Not a religious man, yet Lupo prayed he was in time for whatever was about to happen.

  Suddenly, he felt as if control—the very control he had just gained—had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

  Klug

  At about dinnertime, Sheriff Bunche and one of his deputies drove the TrailBlazer right up to the back door of the county courthouse, where a tiny exercise yard and a loading dock sat side by side next to a row of industrial-size Dumpsters and chain-link fence protected air-conditioning units.

  The handy little radio on his belt squawked. It was Martin, calling with the other radio from the matching set they’d bought at a Target store barely an hour before. The whole thing had come together last minute, but it was solid.

  Oh, yeah, it was solid.

/>   “Yeah?” Wilbur Klug hissed into the radio dwarfed by his meaty fist.

  “The road’s clear.”

  The sheriff’s office and jail was only a mile away, down a stretch of Highway 45, and the city boy had followed their departure from there.

  Looking at the deputy, Klug thought it was Wes Norman, a little snot he remembered beating up repeatedly just off school grounds years before, now all grown up and tidy in his precious uniform. While Wes stood guard looking bored, pump shotgun cradled loosely in his arms, that fat-ass Bunche pulled Buck none too gently out of the backseat. Buck wore the prisoner’s orange jumpsuit and chains.

  Fuck! Klug hadn’t figured on that. How did the sheriff’s office get so much money for all the updates? The new squads, new weapons, the jumpsuits. This was bullshit. Did they think they were gonna face terrorists in this backwater half-assed resort town? Klug grinned and decided that it was the perfect way for him to blow this popsicle stand. Not only would he and his buddies break their ties with the past, but they’d make CNN and probably even the network broadcasts. Maybe O’Reilly would get to rant about them. Klug had few illusions about fame. You had to kill somebody to have it, and he’d passed that milestone with Shelly. They were so close to the Canadian border here, only an hour to the UP and then nothing but forest and a line on a map. They’d be in Canada’s mountains long before anybody even figured out who they were, It was better than heading south, his original plan.

  Meanwhile, this Martin would get his stupid cop up here, with their help, of course, and they’d do the guy and pocket the twenty grand he was offering. Maybe they’d screw the city boy out of a few more grand, maybe do him just for the fun of it.

  Klug nodded to Kenny, who sat in the cab of the garbage truck they had commandeered from the crew, who now lay in back with the garbage and shit, tied up and gagged, probably wondering whether the crusher was going to come to life any second. Klug thought it was a done deal—he was curious to see what the machine would do to them.