Feral

by Lee Mae

  Serena pushed open the door of Spike’s Tattoo, the cowbell above the door jangling. Everything was the same as the last time she’d been here, just after her promotion. Her apartment had been right above the shop and she’d finally indulged her long-held desire of getting a tattoo. She’d gone down the stairs and Lenny had inked a dragon on her upper back. They’d hit it off during the four hours she’d sat for the work and afterwards, they’d had a few dates. But it became clear they made better friends than lovers and the relationship, at least the romantic part, had ended. And not long after, she’d bought her house and moved.

  Lenny was sitting behind the counter now, typing on a battered laptop, the sound of tattoo machines buzzing in the background. He greeted her with a warm smile.

  “Hey, Serena, long time no see. How are you? Back for another tattoo?”

  “I’m good, Lenny. But no, I’m here on business.” She pulled the paper out of her pocket, sliding it across the glass counter.

  “Can you tell by this who might have done the work?”

  “Maybe. Hard to know sometimes who did something unless they have a clear style and are pretty prolific. But I’ll take a look.”

  Lenny slid his glasses up his forehead, perching them on top of his head. He glanced at the photo and then up at her.

  “I’m assuming this is guy’s dead and you want to know who he is?”

  Serena shrugged. “Sorry, yes. Do you recognize the tattoo?”

  Lenny reached behind him and flipped on a goose-neck lamp, adjusting the circle of yellow light onto the paper, nodding as he looked at the photo.

  “Yeah, actually I think I do know who did this. There was a tattoo convention here last year. Something like this won a prize in one of the competitions.” Lenny reached for the laptop, clicked a few keys, and turned the screen toward Serena.

  “Here. The organizers put up pictures of the winning tattoos.”

  There on the screen was a close up of the tattoo in all its glory, the colors bright and clear, not dark and muddy like they were in the photo on the counter.

  “If you scroll down, you’ll have what you’re looking for, the name of the artist. But…” Lenny leaned forward, clicked a key and the image changed. Serena drew in a breath.

  “Even better…here’s your guy.”

  The image on the screen showed a pleasant looking man holding a small plaque, grinning from ear to ear. He was bare-chested, and Serena noticed several more tattoos on his chest. Of course, the body she’d seen this morning had had its chest torn open; those tattoos were now history.

  Beneath the photo was his name: Marcus Goudy. Her victim had a name.

  “Can you print this for me? Both photos?”

  Lenny pulled the laptop back, hit a key, and the printer next to the desk came to life, spitting out two pieces of paper. Lenny handed them to Serena and she looked again at the face of the man she’d last seen this morning, frozen on the ice in a pool of blood.

  “Thanks, Lenny. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Hey, no problem. Just sorry for the reason.”

  “This is confidential, Lenny, okay? Until we can notify family...”

  Lenny nodded. “Yeah. I know. It’s cool.”

  Serena turned and pushed through the door, the cold air hitting her face. Lenny spoke and she turned back.

  “Don’t be a stranger, Serena. I miss you. Even if it’s just for midnight coffee.”

  She nodded and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  13

  Marcus Goudy was a student at the University of Madison. His family lived in Milwaukee. Serena called Nowinski with the information. She hated calling families with this kind of news, so when Nowinski offered to make the call, she breathed out a sigh of relief. Mike had left a message, updating her on the canvas of the ice fishermen. Nothing. No one had seen anything, no one had heard anything. The AC guy had provided an impression of his boot to rule out his footprints at the scene and apologized again for vomiting. And now Mike was on his way to see the jogging lawyer.

  She sat in her car, looking at the picture of the victim. He had a name now and a family. It was when they had a name that it got personal for Serena. She’d been told she’d eventually learn to stop feeling, stop caring about the victims quite so much. But she didn’t want that, didn’t want to become work hardened. It tore her up, but it also fueled her, kept her going. Gave her a purpose for what she did.

  Snow was accumulating on the windshield and her feet were once again freezing. She started the car, flicking on the wipers as she glanced up, out of habit, at the windows above the tattoo shop, the windows of the apartment she used to live in. They were bare now; no curtains hung. A lamp was on somewhere, casting a soft yellow glow. Serena remembered the sage green curtains she’d hung in front of those windows. She’d never gotten used to the constant glare from the streetlights outside her window. It had kept her awake so many long and lonely nights.

  But her house in Shadow Falls sat on a quiet street, the only light at the corner of the block, far enough away that it barely illuminated her front porch. A large maple shaded the front yard for most of the year and she’d left her bedroom windows uncovered. During the summer, it was like sleeping in a tree house. Now, the bare branches barely screened her window but let in the weak winter sun.

  She glanced at her watch. The Hyatt was about ten minutes away. The thought of seeing Callahan sent a shiver through her. Even if she drove slowly, she’d still be early. She shook her head; she was a detective; this wasn’t a date. She could show up any damn time she pleased.

  The wipers thumped across the windshield and tendrils of heat had finally reached her feet. She put the car in gear, pulled up to the light, and waited for it to turn green.

  14

  Serena pulled up under the portico of the Hyatt and a valet darted out to her car, wrapped in a parka and mittens, his hat pulled low over his forehead. She grabbed the case file, opened her door, and stepped out, flashing her badge.

  “Officer. You can park in any of the twenty minute spots over there for as long as you need to.” The young man pointed toward the spots next to the door, reserved for guests’ arrivals and departures.

  Serena looked at the spots a moment before she turned back to the man. “You can park it. I’ll…it might be a while before I’m done. Saves me having to clear the windshield if the snow keeps up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He ducked inside her car, slammed the door, and drove it into the hotel’s parking garage. She watched him, a remote part of her mind wondering yet again just what the hell she was doing. But she shook it off and walked into the lobby of the hotel.

  No one was behind the black marble reception counter and she walked with purpose to the bank of brass-fronted elevators. The doors of the first car slid silently open and she stepped inside.

  She pushed the button for Callahan’s floor and watched as the numbers above the door advanced to four, her heart beating faster as the car rose. This was just an interview, something she’d done a hundred times. Granted, Wes Callahan wasn’t exactly the norm when it came to leads, but it was the subject, werewolves or shifters, that should have her interest peaked, not the man himself. He was just a lead, nothing more.

  The doors slid open and she stepped out into the carpeted hallway. Wes’s room was at the far end of the hall and the closer she got, the faster her thoughts raced. It seemed far too soon that she found herself standing in front of his door, waiting for her heartbeat to slow, knowing it wouldn’t.

  Serena drew a deep breath. Treat Wes Callahan like a lead and everything would be just fine. Figure out what he knew and how she could use that information and get back to her case. She knocked on the door with her knuckles, using three short sharp raps.

  But when Wes Callahan opened the door, Serena knew this was going to be harder than she thought. The powerless feeling she’d felt this morning was back, stronger than ever, and she was unable to focus on anything but him. For the first time, she noti
ced just how handsome he was in a rough, masculine way. There was nothing pretty about him, but there was an undeniable magnetism, stronger than she felt comfortable with. Strong enough for Serena to lose her train of thought for a moment, her focus pulled toward Wes, unable to resist.

  “Detective Daniels. I’m glad you’re here.” Wes extended his hand and she hesitated before taking his hand in hers. His hand was just as warm as she remembered, his grip strong. Was it her imagination, or did he hold her hand longer than he had this morning? He finally released her and stepped aside, holding the door open for her.

  “Come on in.”

  She heard the door click shut behind her and the sound of the security lock thudding into place. The sound echoed in her chest and she drew in a breath, willing her heart to slow down.

  “Have a seat.” He motioned to the couch, and Serena realized he had a suite. She glanced down the short hall, saw the closed door to what she assumed was his bedroom. She wondered, briefly, how he could afford such a place if he was no longer on the force.

  The remains of lunch were spread out on the coffee table. “Sorry about the mess. I just got in, haven’t eaten all day.” He gathered the wrappers from several deli sandwiches along with potato chip bags and cellophane from what looked like chocolate cookies, carrying them to the small kitchen area.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Callahan. I…this won’t take long.” Serena perched on the edge of the couch.

  “Can I get you something? Juice, water…I assume you’re on duty or else I’d offer you a beer.”

  “No, nothing. I have some questions for you, if that’s okay. Questions about what you told us this morning.”

  Wes returned to the living room carrying a bottle of beer. He pulled an armchair up to the end of the couch where Serena sat and nodded. She was conscious of how close he was to her, his legs stretched out in front of him. She wanted to look away, to look at his face, but she felt helpless as her eyes traveled up his long legs, the material of his jeans hugging his body, outlining muscular thighs and narrow hips. She swallowed reflexively, willing herself to meet his gaze.

  When she did meet his eyes, he was watching her, his mouth curved into a knowing smile, a smile that made her feel as though he could read her mind. She pulled herself up straight, took a deep breath, and forced herself to speak through trembling lips.

  “You said you track shifters. Can we start from the beginning? What exactly is a shifter? Is it human or wolf?”

  Wes held her gaze a moment longer, and then his face changed. The smug smile faded, his eyes grew serious, and suddenly he was the consummate professional. The air in the room changed, became less charged between them. Serena felt her heart rate drop, her body no longer aching with desire, her focus coming back.

  “Shifters are human, remember? They have the ability to change, to transform at will, into anything they wish. In this case, it’s a wolf.”

  “A werewolf?” She thought she knew about werewolves, the myths or legends, old wives’ tales, or people spooked by a noise and thinking the neighbor’s dog was really the neighbor, changed into some horrific creature.

  Wes shook his head. “No. Werewolves are ruled by the moon, they’re unable to resist the change. The transformation is violent and uncontrollable…they’re violent and uncontrollable, vicious killers. Why it happens, we don’t really know.”

  “But shifters have control?” It had never occurred to her there could be a difference.

  “Always. They can shift at will and it’s a much smoother transition. They’re in total control, always.”

  “But why do they change?”

  “It’s a little more complicated with shifters. Sometimes it’s their ancestry, some say it’s tied to their religion, like a mystical conversion sort of thing.”

  “But they’re killers too?” It chilled her to think someone could have that kind of control over their bodies, to willfully change from a human to something else, to a wolf. A potential killer wolf.

  “Not always. Werewolves, if they kill a human, are drawn – compelled – to kill again, every month, each full moon. But shifters, they’re different.” Wes tapped his temple. “They retain their human intelligence, their human consciousness. They don’t kill just because they can. They do kill, but for many of the same reason anyone might kill: out of fear, or control, or for revenge. If they’re being attacked. But they’re not compelled to kill. It’s calculated. And that makes it worse.”

  Serena watched Wes carefully as he spoke. There was no sense she got that he was making this up. All this was real to him and as fantastical as it sounded to Serena, it was very real to Wes. And as he continued, in a surreal way, it became more real for Serena.

  “Let me lay out why I’m here, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Please, call me Wes.” The cocky smile was back, flickering across his face. His eyes traveled over her face, down her jacket-clad body. The smile deepened and it sent a ripple of heat through her. Like this morning, the room suddenly seemed too small, too hot. She shifted restlessly on the couch. She drew in a deep breath, willing herself to focus on the case.

  “Wes. I called some of the references you gave me.”

  He made no reply, just cocked an eyebrow.

  “You check out…”

  Serena was startled by his laugh and she frowned. He waved his hand, his laugh fading into a soft chuckle.

  “I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t made the calls, and more surprised if I hadn’t checked out.” Wes leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the beer bottle held loosely by the neck. His eyes were locked on hers, the soft gray darkening, his look hard.

  “I’m not lying to you, Detective. I know this is hard to swallow. Hell, the first time I came across this, heard about it from a friend, I told him he was full of shit.” He took a swallow of beer.

  “But then I saw firsthand what he can do, the brutal senseless killings that this shifter has committed.”

  Wes’s voice dropped to a low growl. “And I vowed, over the first body – and the second, and the third – that I would find that bastard and put him down.”

  Serena was speechless, not only by his words but by the raw emotion behind them. She shook herself. It occurred to her, almost as an afterthought, that he’d just proposed committing a murder himself, and to a police officer.

  “Mr. Callahan…Wes. When you say he, you’re talking about the same shifter you believe killed in Wausau and Point, in Minnesota…”

  Wes nodded. “I’ve followed him from Kansas, like I said. The first victim there was a man, late 50s.” He took another swallow of beer. “Then he went north, up through the Dakotas, and then there were a string of violet murders, nothing linking them except the violence…apparently, no one connecting the dots, except me.”

  “You were on the force in Kansas.” Serena knew he was; he’d told her. It had been one of the calls she’d made. His Lieutenant had told her Callahan was a dedicated cop, a little rough at times, but he had the persistence of a pit bull. But the Lieutenant had also told her Callahan had left abruptly, shortly after he’d made detective, giving little reason why, stating that it was for personal reasons.

  Wes nodded, tipping his beer toward her. “Yeah, this all started while I was on the force in Wichita. I’d just made detective when it happened.”

  “And it…this shifter…was the reason you left the force?”

  His eyes met hers, the gray depths unreadable, his voice steady. “It was.”

  15

  Serena felt pulled into that gaze, into those unfathomable depths. With a sense of detachment, she noticed there was a darker gray ring around the iris of Wes’s eye. Serena had never seen eyes like his; they seemed to glow in the snow-softened afternoon light.

  “You ever have a case that consumed you, Serena? That you thought about, waking and sleeping?”

  “My first homicide case, six months ago…the first one I was lead on.” Serena looked down; Wes’s gaze was a little too intense.
She felt naked, vulnerable, even though she was still wearing her jacket.

  Serena closed her eyes. Mary-Claire Burns. The case had been difficult, a disappearance turned homicide. Mary-Claire had been the same age. Serena had gone without sleep, almost without eating, for days. After they finally caught the guy, Serena hadn’t been able to come down from the adrenaline-filled momentum for days. Mike had finally dragged her home, ordered her to eat, and then marched her to her room, tucking her into bed with a gentleness that belied his size. He then threatened her with bodily harm if she so much as showed her nose outside her bedroom door. Serena wasn’t sure if Mike had stayed and kept watch or not, but she hadn’t really been interested in finding out. She finally slept for the better part of two days, finally emerging disoriented and hungry. She’d thought that was how bears must have felt after hibernation.

  “And it left a mark on you, didn’t it? It’s shaped how you work each case after that, no matter what that case is.”

  She opened her eyes. “It did…it does.”

  Wes leaned forward and placed his hand on her knee. The muscles of her leg tightened involuntarily, her breath suddenly going shallow. She wondered if he’d noticed, but nothing about him seemed to change. His gaze was still intense, fueled by memories, she thought.

  “Then you know. This is that case for me. It’s left a mark, seared itself into me.”

  Serena’s breathing went still and the moment spun out around them, Wes’s hand on her leg, their eyes locked. It wasn’t until he pulled his hand away that she realized she’d placed hers on top of his. He sat back and she blinked, drawing a deep breath, the moment broken. She needed this to get back to the case and not get drawn into whatever spell she kept falling under with Wes.

  “Wes, do you have a name for this suspect?” She pulled out a pen and drew the case file toward her, ready to take notes.

  “Yes, of course.”