Wolf Hunt (16 page)

* * *

"Aw, crap, that's Ricky,"
said George. Maybe it would be good news.
Hey, we found the werewolf at the movies. Something with
Sandra Bullock. He didn't put up a fight. Everybody's enjoying a
good laugh at the whole thing, so you and Lou can just upgrade to
first class and bask in luxury on your flight home.
He answered. "Yeah?"

"It's Ricky."

"I know. Any updates?"

"Yeah, I've sort of got your werewolf on a
conference call."

"Hello, George." George's grip on the phone
tightened at the sound of Ivan's voice. It was a tiny phone, so he
relaxed his hand so as not to break it.

"What do you want?"

"World peace. No, scratch that, world
destruction. But at the moment I just want to chat."

"So chat. Where are you?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Hey,
Ricky, did George tell you about how I made him so mad that he
opened up the cage?"

"That's not how it happened," George
said.

"He opened the cage and dragged me out by my
feet. Said my attitude needed adjusting. Lou sat there and watched
him."

"I don't care about any of this," said
Ricky.

"You should. He was going to beat me bloody.
If it weren't for his temper, I'd still be on my way to Tampa."

"Is this why you called?" George asked. "To
make shit up?"

"No. Well, that's part of it, but that's not
the whole reason. Hey, Ricky, I'm going to need you to drop off the
call. Wait, you're the host, so before you do that give me George's
number in case we get disconnected."

Ricky gave it to him and then hung up. George
was surprised he didn't protest.

"You still there, George?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, good. So I was thinking that we should
meet up."

"I'm all in favor of that. But why do you
want to do it?"

"Because being a werewolf
doesn't pay that well,
and I heard you and Lou
chatting about the briefcase of drug money, back when you thought
that I'd never, ever, ever get out of the cage. I could hide away
for a couple of years with sixty-three thousand
dollars."

"It's less than that. We spent some on
jewelry."

Ivan chuckled. "You're a funny guy, George.
So I'm offering you the chance to meet with me, give me the money,
and have your problems diminish."

"If we give you the money you'll lock
yourself back up in the cage? That doesn't even make sense."

"I didn't say that your problems will go away
completely. But if you hand over the cash, I'll disappear. You'll
never hear from me again. Otherwise, there will be a bloodbath
beyond anything your criminal mind can imagine. I'm talking about
dead women and dead babies. Dead grandmas, dead grandpas, dead
aunts and uncles, dead moms, dead dads, dead sisters, dead
brothers...I will kill and kill and kill, and I will write 'George
Orton Was Here' in the blood of every victim."

"The cops will take you down."

"You think so? Maybe. I might only get to
murder twenty newborns instead of thirty. I guess if you can only
kill twenty babies, why even bother, right?"

"I don't believe you."

"That's fine. I wouldn't believe me, either.
But this is a one-time offer. Once the Everglades genocide begins,
I'm not going to take a time-out to see if you've changed your
mind."

George knew the skinny bastard was up to
something, but he also believed that Ivan would make good on his
threat. If they were going to drive around looking for him, they
might as well meet him somewhere. "All right."

"Superb choice."

"Where should we meet?"

"I'm in Naples.
How far away are you?"

George punched in some information on the
GPS. "About fifteen minutes."

"I'll call you back in fifteen minutes. Lie
to Ricky when he asks what's going on. If I get any kind of feeling
that you're not playing fair, the deal is off." He hung up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

No Time For A Good Plan

"What are we going to do with her?" Lou
asked.

"I don't know."

"You could let me go," Michele said,
helpfully.

Though they had a perfectly good cage to lock
her in, the broken windshield meant that she could scream for help
and attract attention. They could gag her, in theory, and you
couldn't really see the cage from outside the vehicle, but the
broken windshield would also make the van very enticing to thieves
if they left it unattended.

They
could
just let her go, except that if
they did succeed in recapturing Ivan, they'd wish that Michele
wasn't free and blabbing to the police. It was a big loose end they
didn't need. But what else could they do? Bring her to the meeting
with Ivan and get her killed?

"I didn't run before," she said.

"Actually, you did."

The phone rang. Fifteen minutes on the dot.
"Yeah?" George answered.

"Where are you?"

"We're in Naples. Just passed a
Seven-Eleven."

"Well, that's helpful. Put the Cotton
Mouse Tavern into your magic machine."

George entered the name in the GPS. "Nine
minutes away."

"Then be there in seven. Find us a cozy
booth."

At 2:47, exactly when the GPS said
he'd get there, George pulled into the parking lot of the Cotton
Mouse Tavern, a bar with about three billion neon beer signs on the
outside, along with an ugly-ass rat-thing on the roof. There were
about eleven or twelve other cars in the lot, none of them fine
automobiles.

George parked, shut off the engine, and
turned to Michele. "This is our chance to negotiate with this
psycho. If he thinks we called the cops, he may start killing
people. So I'm not going to lock you up, but I'm going to trust
that you'll make the right decision and not cause any trouble that
will get anybody killed."

"You're letting me go?" Michele asked.

"Yeah. It's either that or drag you in there
with us. You want to tag along?"

"Not really."

"You know, it would've been nice to be
consulted on this," said Lou. "I'm just saying."

"Where were we going to talk about it?"

"We could've talked about it right in front
of her. What was she gonna do?"

"Are you saying that we shouldn't let her
go?"

"No, I've been in favor of letting her go
from the beginning. I'd just like to be part of these decisions.
We're partners. You're not my boss."

"Then I apologize. But for the past
nine years our relationship has generally involved me making the
decisions and you cheerfully going along with them. Forgive me for
not realizing that suddenly you want to--"

"I get to go, right?" Michele asked.

"Yes," said George.

"Yes," Lou added.

"Thank you. I'm not going to get anybody
killed, I promise."

George and Lou got out of the van. Lou
carried the briefcase, while George carried the folded-up blanket.
Michele followed them, then stood there, looking uncertain.

"I guess it's inappropriate to, I don't know,
shake your hand or anything like that."

"It
would
be weird," said
George.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. I hope you guys
catch the werewolf. I'm rooting for you."

"Thanks."

Michele stood there for another moment, then
walked away from the van. George watched her go, wondering if he'd
just made a huge mistake.

"Did we just mess up?" Lou
asked.

"I don't know. What else were we going to do
with her? Hobble her?"

"I kind of liked her. Not just because she
was hot."

"Well, damn, you should have asked her out on
a date. That might keep her from rushing right to the cops."

"Think I'd have a chance?"

"Not in hell."

"Yeah. Oh well. So in addition to letting her
go, are we really going to walk in there and talk to the
werewolf?"

"Yep."

"This is a decision we're making on purpose,
as opposed to, say, getting in that van and driving for the
border?"

"Which border?"

"Whatever one is closest. Canada or Mexico. I
don't care."

"You don't have to come with me."

"Yeah, I know. But if I didn't, you'd get all
killed and stuff, and then I'd have to deal with funeral
arrangements, and your financial affairs are probably completely
screwed up."

"They're actually very solid. I've even got a
living will. It says that if I can't go to the bathroom on my own,
pull the plug. That's my minimum standard for quality of life. So
if Ivan doesn't kill me but he turns me into a paraplegic, that's
what you need to know."

"Got it. Hey, George?"

"Yeah?"

"We're just standing here talking so we don't
have to go in there and face this guy, aren't we?"

"That's why
I'm
standing here, at
least."

"We should get it over with."

"Yeah."

They walked into the bar. A jukebox played a
country/western song that immediately became George's least
favorite song of all time. All of the stools at the bar were taken,
though a couple of the booths in the back were unoccupied. An
extremely intoxicated sixty-year-old slow-danced (even though it
was a fast song) with a twenty-one year-old who had one hand in
each of his back pockets. The place smelled like smoke, booze, and
desperation.

It wasn't even three o'clock in the afternoon
on a Wednesday. Didn't these people have lives? Granted, George's
line of work didn't stick to a strict nine-to-five schedule, so who
was he to judge?

There was no sign of Ivan.

"Now what?" Lou asked.

"I guess we have a seat."

They weaved through the crowd to the booth
furthest in the back and sat down on the same bench, giving the
werewolf a place to sit across from them. George brushed some ashes
and a wet straw wrapper off the table, put a finger in his left ear
to block out the hellish noise, then called Ivan.

"Are you there?" Ivan asked.

"Yeah. Where the hell are you?"

"Making sure you're not setting a trap."

"We're not that clever."

"I see that. I'll be there in a minute."

Ivan hung up. George tucked the phone back
into his pocket. A waitress who was neither the appropriate age nor
the appropriate body shape for her tight t-shirt walked over to
their booth. "What can I get you?"

"Coke," said George.

"Diet," said Lou.

The waitress gave them a look of mild
disgust, as if they'd announced their intention to simultaneously
urinate on the floor, then rolled her eyes and walked away.

"If you end up dying today, you'll wish you
at least had a regular Coke," said George.

"If I live, I'm getting back in shape."

"Fair enough."

Right after their drinks arrived, Ivan walked
into the bar. He looked confident. Fearless. Arrogant. Like a
complete prick.

He walked through the bar and sat down at
their booth, then gestured to their drinks. "Didn't you order me
anything?"

"No," said George. "Order your own
drink."

"Did you bring the money?"

"Yeah."

"Let me see it."

Lou took the briefcase off his lap and set it
on the table. He kept it close, as if worried that Ivan might make
a sudden grab for it.

Ivan nodded. "Open it."

Lou popped open the lid. He held the
briefcase open just long enough to give Ivan a glimpse of the cash
inside, then closed it back up.

"Thank you," said Ivan. "Now burn it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Take out a lighter and set the money on
fire. Right now."

"We really aren't in the mood for any more of
your games," George said, leaning across the table in what he hoped
was a threatening manner. "Now are you here for the cash, or are
you here to waste our time?"

"Well, I'm
definitely
not here to
waste your time, George. And we all know that this could never be
as simple as you bribing me to go away, because I've already proven
that I'm not a man of my word. Remember when I kept insisting that
I wasn't a werewolf? Good times."

"So what's it going to take for us to make a
deal?"

"Oh, there won't be a deal. Just a massacre."
Ivan looked around the bar. "How many people do you think are in
here? Twenty-five? Thirty?"

"About that."

"How many do you think I can kill? I think I
can get eight before this place completely clears out. What's your
guess? Higher or lower?"

"We're not playing around, Ivan."

"You're not? Then why are you here? You
actually think you're going to stop me?"

"We might."

"Okay, I'll make you another deal. Both of
you take your drinks and slowly pour them on your heads, and I'll
surrender."

"I'm not kidding," said George. "We're
done with the games."

"We've barely even started the games.
What have we done so far that qualifies as a game? You chased me
around that neighborhood, but that wasn't really a game, that was
just a chase. Doesn't count. There weren't any games played at poor
Diane's house--personally, I consider that cold-blooded murder. If
you thought it was a fun game, well, you're just not a very nice
person. Are you two playing games without me?"

George gently kicked Lou under the
table. They did not have an elaborate plan to trap Ivan. They'd
tried to come up with one, but all of their ideas seemed like plans
that could go terribly wrong. So they'd settled for the following
scheme: if they decided that they had no other choice, George would
give Lou the signal by gently kicking him under the table, at which
point they would pull out their guns and pump several rounds into
Ivan's face. Hopefully that would surprise and weaken him enough
for them to throw the blanket with the silver rings over his head
and drag him out to the cage. If he got a chance, Lou would also
try to stab him.