“Let’s see what happens when I connect the murder sites.” Hank drew lines from one pushpin to another with a black marker pen. The star shape looked like a pentagram a satanic cult might paint on a floor and surround with candles for a ritual sacrifice.
Bill took a closer look. “That’s a little freaky.”
“I’ll bet my pension”—Hank stabbed the center of the star with the pen tip—“they’re hiding here in some abandoned building.”
“Werewolves are territorial.”
“So is a dog pack.” Hank grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “Come on. Let’s go scout the area.”
* * *
As the Highland District was near the center of the pentagram, they drove through the depressed area of abandoned warehouses and aging brownstone tenements—the ideal breeding ground for night marauders.
Bill stared tentatively over the top of the steering wheel, guiding the black sedan down the street like a prowling panther. Hank shined the bright spotlight into an alley as they drove by.
Bill braked at a traffic light.
Hank drew his snub-nosed Smith & Wesson out of his holster. He flipped open the cylinder to check his weapon.
Bill reached into his jacket side pocket. He took out the speedloader of silver bullets. “Put these in.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Just humor me, okay?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Come on. What’s it going to hurt?”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Hank pointed the gun muzzle up and extracted the six semi-jacketed metal point bullets onto the palm of his hand. He stuffed the loose cartridges into his coat pocket. He took the speedloader from Bill and shoved the silver bullets into the cylinder.
The light turned green and Bill accelerated. “You’ll be thanking me later.”
Hank holstered his gun. “Whatever.”
* * *
Jon ran naked through the grassy yard. He vaulted over a picket fence and landed on the sidewalk, his bare feet slapping the pavement. Keeping to the shadows, he jogged down a side street with the powerful grace of an antelope loping on the savanna.
He glanced down at a stand of water, catching a glimpse of the beast before splashing through.
He picked up a scent and came to a crashing halt. His chest heaved from exertion, though he was far from exhausted. A supercharged rush of adrenaline coursed through his body, enhancing the thrill of the hunt.
His ears perked up at the sound of light footsteps approaching.
He sprang into the nearest alleyway to hide.
* * *
Bill turned the corner onto a dimly lit street. Hank spotted a woman walking half a block away. “You’d better pull over.”
“I don’t know, Hank. Last time we gave someone a lift, it didn’t turn out so great.”
The woman was suddenly yanked off her feet into an alley.
Bill slammed on the brakes. “Did you see that?”
“Hit the horn!” Hank sprang from the car, drawing his weapon.
Bill sounded the car horn in an attempt to disrupt the attacker, hopefully giving Hank the precious seconds he needed to save the woman from a savage death.
Hank darted around the corner of the building.
Bill got out and raced after him.
The woman screamed. A single gunshot sounded.
Coming upon the alley’s entrance, Bill slipped. He went down like a baseball player sliding into home plate as a massive shape leaped over him.
“Bill, you okay?” Hank stepped out of the alleyway.
“What the hell was that thing?”
“I don’t know. Come on, before it gets away.”
“What about the woman?”
“I was too late.”
* * *
Cynthia opened the cabinet under the sink. She pulled the bulging garbage sack out of the plastic refuse bin, then carried it out the back door. A full moon shone brightly in the night sky, casting a bluish glow over the backyard.
She walked to the side of the house where she kept the trash can.
A deep growl rumbled from the next yard on.
“Jon? Is that you?” She dropped the bag into the can and replaced the lid.
A cloud shrouded the moon, blanketing the yard in darkness.
She heard stealthy footsteps in the other yard. “Would you like to come over? My porch light seems to have gone out.”
The beast leaped over the fence, knocking Cynthia to the ground.
Cynthia let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Gleaming white fangs silenced her when they sank into her slender neck. Sharp teeth tore at her clothes, ripping her face and chest.
* * *
“Did you hear that?” Hank yelled over his shoulder, running a few steps ahead of Bill.
“Came from behind that house.”
The detectives darted between two single-story ranch homes and raced down the picket fencing that separated the backyards.
Hank slowed to a walk. He peered into the next yard. “Jesus, he got another one.”
Bill hopped over the fence. His shoes squished down on the soggy turf, which had pooled with blood. He looked at the woman who was sprawled on the grass, her face mauled beyond recognition, her throat flayed like a gutted fish.
A hinge screeched. Hank spun around, spotting a naked man darting into the back door of the house. “It’s him!” Hank bolted for the back porch.
“Wait up!” Bill shouted.
Hank was already up the steps, entering the house.
Bill jumped over the fence. He caught a glimpse of the steely moon making a break from the imprisoning cloud cover.
Hank crept through the kitchen, clutching his gun in a two-handed grip. Pausing at the threshold, he peered into the gloomy parlor.
A hand gripped his shoulder.
“It’s me,” Bill whispered.
A tattered armchair and swayback sofa furnished the room. On a wooden stand, a large aquatic tank glowed through algae-covered glass, dead fish floating belly-up on the murky surface.
Bill followed Hank down the hallway.
They stopped at the first door.
Hank positioned himself on one side of the doorjamb, Bill on the other.
Bill turned the knob, easing the door open to a bedroom devoid of furniture. The closet door gaped open—empty.
They continued down the hall to a grungy bathroom with soiled towels all over the floor and a plastic shower curtain draped halfway across the tub.
Hank kept his gun pointed at the tub and snapped the curtain open.
A rusty waterline rimmed the pitted porcelain. Globs of black hair clogged the drain.
They approached the last door at the end of the hall.
Bill pressed his ear to the door. “I hear something.” He raised his hand, three fingers extended. He counted off silently, lowering one finger, then another. When the last finger curled down, Hank kicked in the door.
An overwhelming zoo-like ammonia stench, accompanied by the rank odor of aged feces, assaulted their nostrils.
“What the hell died in here?” Stepping into the room, Bill covered his nose and mouth.
The door swung closed, smacking Hank square in the face. He stumbled into the hall. Inside the room, a ferocious growl preceded a crash against the door and Bill’s muffled yells.
“Bill, get away from the door!” Hank fired two quick shots into the door. He heard a wounded animal howl, its body thrashing against the floor and walls.
The raucousness faded to a dead silence.
Hank turned the knob, nudging the door open with the toe of his shoe. He stuck his head in to peek.
Bill crouched between a nightstand with a lamp and the wall.
“Are you okay?” Hank whispered, scurrying over to his partner. He could see Bill’s shredded coat sleeve, his exposed arm raked with deep gashes.
“Turned my arm into a damn chew toy.” Bill loosened his necktie, slipping it over
his head. He shoved the loop up his injured arm and cinched it tight around his bicep as a tourniquet.
The opposite side of the room was pitch-black.
Hank aimed his gun across the bedroom, though he couldn’t see a target. “Where is he?”
“It’s over there, hiding in the dark.”
“Get ready.” Hank turned on the lamp.
The low-watt bulb under the thick shade did little to brighten the room.
But it was enough to see the shape hulking in the shadows.
“Go away,” spoke a baritone voice.
“Police! Let’s see those hands!” Hank pointed his gun.
The naked man stood six feet tall, with thick, shoulder-length black hair. All of his body, except his face, was covered with a dark mat of short, curly hair.
He hunched his shoulders, shifting his weight on his muscular legs like a wrestler challenging an opponent. In a bestial display of rage, he inflated his chest, letting out an ear-piercing, wolf-like howl that was so loud, it reverberated off the walls.
The naked man charged across the room.
Hank and Bill fired their revolvers. The room boomed with gunfire, fiery gases blazing out of both barrels in a smoky haze.
The naked man flailed, bullets riddling his chest, one slug exploding his right eye, another punching a hole into his forehead. He toppled backwards, landing spread-eagle on the hardwood floor.
Hank stood and helped Bill to his feet.
“Good thing we used silver bullets.” Bill loosened the necktie around his arm so as not to cut off the circulation.
“The guy’s no more a werewolf than I am.” Hank opened the bail on his snub-nosed .38. He ejected the empty casings onto the floor. Then he grabbed a speedloader from his jacket pocket and put fresh bullets in.
“Well, he was until he changed. How do you explain what he did to my arm?”
Hank looked down at the dead man. He didn’t see any fangs and the man’s fingernails were too short to have inflicted Bill’s wounds. “There’s no way he could have done that to your arm.”
“That’s because he attacked me when he was a werewolf, before he shapeshifted back.”
“Yeah, well that’s a load of—”
A rumbling growl came from behind the closed closet door.
“Did you hear that?” Bill holstered his handgun, knowing it would be too difficult to reload one-handed. He reached down and grabbed his backup piece from his ankle holster.
The closet door exploded off the hinges with a loud crash.
A four-legged creature stood on top of the fallen door, glaring at them with cold, beady eyes. The quadruped was black as night, its body thick as a bull’s. Large flap ears hung on its massive head, its nostrils flaring on an enormous canine snout. A thin trail of blood ran down its dark fur from the bullet wound in its shoulder.
The beast’s slobbery upper lip curled, baring its fierce fangs. Foamy drool pooled onto the floor next to the dead man’s right hand.
“What the hell is it?”
Hank raised his gun. “It looks like one of those bull mastiff breeds. Look at the size of that thing. It’s got to be over two hundred pounds.”
“See? I told you it was a dog.”
“Yeah, with a lunatic owner.”
The monstrous dog lunged.
The detectives opened fire, striking the beast in the face and chest, the bullets seemingly having no effect, until the massive creature crashed dead on the floor, mere inches away from their feet.
Hank draped Bill’s arm over his shoulder and helped his partner to the door. “Let’s get you stitched up.”
“Still want that ten bucks?”
“Keep it. Maybe this’ll teach you there’re no such things as werewolves.”
“Had you believing it.”
“Shut up and quit bleeding all over the place.”
11
CASE NUMBER: 18-06-246
Pelting rain ricocheted off the metal rooftop of the unmarked sedan like a spray of bullets at a gun range.
“Hell, it’s like driving under Niagara Falls,” Bill griped, squinting over the steering wheel. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
Even on the fastest setting, the wipers did little to improve visibility, swiping from side to side like a pair of frantic metronomes, the headlight beams swallowed up in the deluge.
Hank squinted out the side window. “It’s not much farther.”
Bill pulled up to the curb.
The downhill intersection was impassable. Two cars were abandoned in the middle of the street, the waterline up to the door handles.
“What now?”
“Better put on your waders.” Hank pulled his poncho hood over his head and climbed out of the car.
Bill turned off the engine. He zipped up his raincoat and stepped into the torrential rain.
The detectives braved the storm, trudging down the sidewalk.
A sudden gale nearly blew them off their feet.
They forged on until they reached an alleyway leading into a box canyon of warehouses. The rooftop runoff cascaded down the steep walls, splashing through the fire escape ironwork.
Hank and Bill waited under a loading dock overhang.
“I can’t believe we’re out in this.” Bill shook his shoulders to propel the water off his raincoat.
“The storm should give us the element of surprise.”
“Sure hope so. This tip of Dunks’s better pan out.”
“He’s your snitch.”
“I know, Hank. I’m just saying.”
“He’s been a reliable source so far. If he says he knows where we can find this Vorlock character, I’m inclined to believe him.”
“Hank Jenkins, always the optimist.”
“Well, it’s that, or we’re out here taking a shower for nothing.”
“This guy’s pretty ballsy, robbing a blood bank.”
“Human blood’s a lucrative business on the black market.”
“Especially if you’re a vampire.”
“What, like the ones at the mall? Don’t even go there.”
“Go where?” Bill gave Hank a smirk.
“Will you can it with the vampire crap?”
“You got a better explanation?”
“Let’s be logical. Vorlock is just another illegal trafficker out to make a quick buck. He saw the Red Cross as an easy mark.”
“Or he got tired of going out to hunt and decided to stockpile for the winter.”
“Give it a rest. There are heists happening everywhere. Even we got hit.”
“Yeah, the captain is still champing at the bit. He was looking forward to getting his hands on those upgraded Glock automatics and those new bulletproof vests.”
“Enough gabbing. Let’s go.” Hank stepped into the rain, Bill on his heels.
They sprinted twenty yards before ducking into an alcove outside an apartment lobby. A notice posted on the glass declared the property condemned with a scheduled date for demolition. The latch bolt had been sheared off, either from a previous break-in or by the demolition team prepping the site.
Hank pushed through the door into a small entryway with marred flooring, black, dried adhesive squares where tiles used to be. Rival gang insignias tagged the walls. Dark-colored rectangles haunted the chipped paint where pictures once hung. The ingress was devoid of any furniture.
Key-access mailboxes grouped together on the wall, most of the small doors either open or ripped off their tiny hinges. Nearly every resident nametag was gone.
An upside-down smiley face sticker and “C. Vorlock” labeled the metal front of one mailbox.
“I wonder what the ‘C’ stands for,” Hank said.
Bill studied the mailbox. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ‘Count’?”
“Will you put a sock in it?”
“You don’t have to get all testy.”
Hank glanced around. “It’s just like Dunks described it. You brought the warrant, right?”
“No, I thou
ght you did.”
“Aw, man!”
“Yeah, I got it.” Bill patted his raincoat side pocket to reassure Hank.
“One of these days, Alice . . .” Hank said, doing his Jackie Gleason bit.
“I hope you’re up for a barbecue.”
“Barbecue?”
“Yeah, I brought the stakes.”
“What are you babbling about?”
Bill unzipped his rain slicker. He showed Hank the two sharpened wooden stakes tucked inside his belt.
“You’re certifiable, you know that?”
“Scoff all you like, buddy boy! But don’t come crying to me when Vorlock’s taking a bite out of your neck.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“Think this ‘Vorlock’ has a crew with him?”
“Why? You think we need backup?” Hank glanced out the front window. The rain pelted so hard, he could barely see the other side of the street. “It’d take them forever to get here in this weather.”
“Hey, the guy’s probably up there passed out anyway.” Bill led the way over to the service elevator. The door was open, the car suspended four feet up, apparently stuck due to a mechanical malfunction. “Looks like we’re taking the stairs.”
“Which floor did Dunks say this guy’s on?”
Bill gazed up the dark stairwell. “All the way to the top.”
The detectives proceeded up the stairs. They found each level littered with trash, either left behind by previous tenants or brought in by homeless squatters: stained mattresses in the hallways, broken bottles, discarded syringes on the floors.
Bill stepped away from the wall to make room for a rat that was scurrying along the baseboard. “Not exactly the Hilton.”
When they reached the eighth and final floor, Bill took a second to catch his breath.
“Maybe it’s time to cut back on the donuts.”
“Maybe it’s time to shut your pie hole,” Bill shot back.
Hank approached the blue door at the end of the hall. He waited for Bill before pointing to the inverted smiley face sticker affixed above the doorknob. “Like following bread crumbs.”
Bill pushed on the door, edging it open. He glanced over at Hank. “This is a little too easy.”
In Case of Carnage Page 10