The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told (39 page)

The werewolf virus had jacked Glen's metabolism into a molten overdrive. His mind raced with quick-cut impressions, hundreds of them—Kris' .45 . . . and her smile . . . and the other two Howard boys watching him from across the room . . . and their snarling werewolf brother straining against the snakeskin leash, eager for another taste of Barlow's flesh—the slightest movement of each member of the Howard clan cataloged in a fraction of a second, and every image filed for action and reaction if Glen could only move.

He had to do that. If the virus set quickly enough . . . if the full moon shone at the correct angle . . . his lupine brain understood that he could move faster than he'd ever moved before. And it was happening already. His wounds were closing as if some heathen god had decided to dam him up. Scar tissue crackled over his carotid artery. New skin covered exposed muscle and tendon, cells multiplying with an insane rapidity.

Glen's dropped pistol lay just a foot away. Synapses fired as his brain ordered his hand to grab the pistol . . . but, damn . . . he couldn't even wriggle his fingers yet, let alone lift his arm.

“Don't even think about it,” Kris said, kicking the gun across the room.

She bent low, pressing the .45 barrel against his temple.

“Here we go,” she said. “Enjoy the ride.”

Glen sucked a breath. Kris began to squeeze the trigger.

Across the room, another pistol cocked sharply.

A man's voice came from the other side of the ragged plywood hole.

“Drop the gun,” J. J. Bryce said. “And do it now.”

The hard-eyed woman did as she was told. One look at the bloody man on the floor and Bryce had a serious crime scene flashback—Kim Barlow dead in the shadow of Tres Manos—but this time he was looking at her brother, soaked in his own gore on a dusty hardwood floor.

“Get away from him,” Bryce said.

The woman raised her hands and stepped backward, retreating from the dull illumination of the room's single standing floor lamp. Bryce leaned through the splintery plywood gap, tracking her movement with his pistol.

That was when he noticed that the woman wasn't alone. Two men stood in the shadows on the other side of the room. One of them reached for a wall switch while the other slipped a loop from around the neck of a . . .

Jesus. Some kind of hairy
thing
. . . a thing with claws, and teeth, and—

It settled on its haunches.

In another instant it would spring—

Bryce's brain didn't need any more input. He fired his pistol. The slug punched the freak backward. The lights went out. The two men scrambled in the dark, but J. J. couldn't see them. He couldn't see anything—

Except a pair of red eyes, low to the floor then rising, closing on him like coals shoveled by the devil himself.

The nickel-plated .45 gleamed in a patch of moonlight. Glen was with it, his body trapped in the dead-white fire. And it seemed as if the pistol Kris Howard had used to control her werewolf brother were melting there on that same moonlight forge . . . its gleaming ivory grips scorching the silver slugs that lurked within.

The stink of silver nearly made Glen retch. His stomach roiled at the thought of touching the weapon, but he knew that the .45 was his only chance.

So did Kris Howard.

She grabbed for the pistol.

Glen did, too.

Several shots rang out inside the house, but J. J. Bryce was barely aware of them. Gripping his own pistol tightly in his fist, he scrambled to his feet as he came out of a tumble with the red-eyed creature.

It had rolled over the top of him, continuing across the flagstone patio before righting itself. Quickly, it launched a second attack, charging him like a freight train. Bryce wasn't set, but he fired his pistol three times in quick succession. Every slug found its target, dead center in the thing's chest. It didn't matter. The monster bit off an anguished scream and kept coming, and it slammed into the deputy so hard that he was airborne in an instant.

A glance to the side. White teeth gnashing inches from Bryce's face. His pistol clattered against the patio. Then he started to drop. He realized he'd be coming down hard on a flagstone slab a second before his skull slammed against it, realized too that the monster would be on top of him before another second could tick off the clock.

The cop landed hard.

Kale knew he had to finish him off quickly and get back inside the house. He'd heard the gunshots. Chances were they'd come from Kris' .45 instead of Glen Barlow's pistol. But who had the gun? That was the question—

“Hey, boy.”

Kale spun toward the open doorway.

He had his answer.

He didn't like it.

The werewolf sprang. Eyes gleaming, teeth bared, claws ready to tear through Glen Barlow in a ferocious explosion of rage.

For Glen, it was just like staring into his own heart.

He didn't stare long.

He pulled the trigger.

In a bright blast of muzzle flash, everything went away.

J. J. Bryce lay on the flagstones, out cold, but Glen ignored the fallen cop.

The .45 still filled his hand. The silver bullets inside the weapon were encased in a steel clip buried beneath ivory grips. Glen knew that. Still, holding the pistol was like holding a live rattler, ready to sink fangs into his skin if he so much as twitched.

But he couldn't put the pistol down.

The truth was, he didn't know if he'd ever put it down.

Behind Glen, three people lay dead in the house. He'd killed Kris first, then the other two. He didn't even know their names. He'd killed all three of them in a matter of seconds, the animal fury of the werewolf virus surging through him as if it were in control of the gun. Kale was dead, too—his sternum shattered by a silver bullet that had torn through muscle and heart, finally burying itself in his spinal column. He lay on the flagstone patio, and looking at him there was no clue that he'd ever been anything different than the human monsters who lay within the walls of Kim Barlow's house.

But Kale had been something different. Glen knew that as he stared down at the corpse of the man he'd wanted to kill so badly, just as he knew that his rage was as dead as the cursed bastard who'd murdered his sister. Now it had been replaced by another fire, a hunk of brimstone buried inside him that was torched by the light of the full moon.

Glen wasn't the kind of man who prayed, but he hoped he wouldn't feel that fire when he watched the sun rise in just a few hours.

If he watched the sun rise.

If he stuck around long enough to do that.

Glen's grip tightened around the .45. He knew what the silver bullets in the gun could do to him, the same way he knew what the moon above would do to him the next time it rose in the night sky, full and bright.

Just one bullet. That's all it would take.

Just one, and he'd never end up like Kale Howard.

Glen raised the pistol. He placed the barrel beneath his chin.

And he waited. He waited for a sign . . . a sign from somewhere . . . or someone . . . perhaps a sign from Kim. Right or wrong, the things he'd done tonight he'd done for her. So he waited for an acknowledgment, a rush of images his brain could catalog the way it had cataloged every movement and expression of the people he'd just killed.

The ivory pistol grips were slick with his sweat. The gun barrel dug into the taut flesh beneath his chin. That brimstone fire inside him was cooking his heart now. Suddenly Glen heard words, down there in the sizzle.

But they weren't Kim's words.

They belonged to another, and he'd heard them earlier this night.

What you do is who you are . . .

The words were lost for a moment, sizzling in the brimstone roar. It was as if something inside Glen wanted to incinerate them, the same way he'd burned down the woman who'd spoken those words. But they came around again, surer this time . . . as if they were his own.

What you do is who you are . . .

Glen lowered the pistol.

. . . and what you don't do, too.

The sound of his cell phone brought Bryce around. It was still dark—a glance at his watch told him it was just past midnight.

Damn. His skull was pounding in time with the phone's insistent ringtone. J. J. reached for his cell, but it wasn't there. It was over on the patio, murky LCD light glowing as it chirped like a confused little bird. And there was his pistol, right next to it, and—

That thing he'd wrestled lay on the patio, too. Only it didn't look like a wolf anymore. Now the damn thing looked like Kale Howard. And now J. J. remembered. He'd cracked his head on the patio when he'd taken that fall. In the moment before he'd passed out, Glen Barlow had appeared in the doorway with a nickel-plated .45 in his hand. He'd looked like a refugee from a zombie movie, but he'd gunned down the monster beneath the patio overhang.

And now Kale Howard lay dead in its place.

Bryce stared at Howard's corpse for a long moment.

Goddamn
, he thought.
Well . . . goddamn.

Because there wasn't much else you could think. Not if you could add two and two. And even with a knock on the head, J. J. could do that. He moved on to the next order of business and tried to rise, but his legs wouldn't quite make the trip. And the rest of his body . . . Jesus. It felt like his right arm wasn't even there.

What the hell was going on? He was ass-down in the dirt, leaning against something hard. He couldn't move his right arm at all. Damn thing was asleep, bent above his head, stuck there as if tied.

Bryce leaned to the side and looked up. He was handcuffed to the driver's door of a truck. Not his own truck—Barlow's piece-of-shit rustbucket . . . which hadn't even been there when J. J. pulled in a couple hours ago.

Oh shit.
With his free hand, Bryce patted his pocket. His keys were gone.

His brand-new Ford was gone, too.

That son of a bitch
, Bryce thought. He settled back against Barlow's truck, and he stewed about it. Might be he'd have to sit here a while before someone came along. But that was okay. He was in no rush to discuss his stolen vehicle . . . or tonight's business.

Still, the wheels started turning in his head. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Sooner or later, he'd have to decide what the hell he was going to say.

To Sheriff Randall.

And to Lisa, too.