Werewolf Cop (24 page)

“I know,” said Zach. “I've killed men too. But this is different.”

“Yes,” answered the man simply. “The innocents. After the curse first began . . . I remember: it was intolerable.”

“That's right,” said Zach. “That's the word. Intolerable.”

“And yet,” said the man with a sigh. “And yet, you must tolerate it. For as long as you can. You must. The rules of what is real have changed for you, but the rules of good and evil are everlasting. You are one of us now. You are the werewolf. But you are still the lawman too, as was I. That is why Dankl chose you. And you must do what it is given you to do.”

The Ford was moving through the town center now, back past the stately Civil War-era clapboard houses. All of them dark, quiet. Everyone sleeping.

“But you already know all this,” said the corpse in the back seat. “This is why you cleaned the house, yes?”

“I guess. But that won't hold them off for long. Maybe a day or two. We have science these days. There are always traces. They can always find them. They'll come for me soon enough.”

Zach glanced up into the rearview just as the Ford passed the darkened shopping mall and moved beneath the town's only street lamp. He had a moment's clear view of the executioner's face. Horrible. His flesh was somehow whole and rotting at the same time, a shifting kaleidoscopic image of vitality and decay, much more terrible together than either one or the other would have been by itself.

The executioner gave a heavy Germanic shrug. “Even science sees only what men see, and men see only what they believe. Science makes their vision even more narrow, in fact, like a bright torch in the night. Everything it doesn't illuminate sinks into even deeper darkness, yes? All that mystery you become blind to—my Jesus, but it's vast! This too you know now, eh? About the mystery.”

Zach turned the car onto the highway, bringing it smoothly up to speed. The air washed in through the open windows in a noisy rush. The smell of the executioner's decay grew even thinner, for which Zach was grateful.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly two-thirty now. The road before him was all but empty. With clear driving, he'd be home in an hour at the most. Then there would be all Grace's questions to deal with. Why hadn't he answered her text messages last night? Why was he all scratched up? Where were the clothes he'd worn? There'd be all those clumsy, implausible lies he'd have to come up with, and God, it hurt to lie to her, as trusting as she was. . . .

“It doesn't matter,” he said aloud. “Whether they find me or not. I can't live like this. With the guilt, with the lies. I can't. I won't. I understand what you want. Only the wolf can defeat Abend, right? Is that the deal? Well, there are two more nights of the full moon and I'll do my best. But if I can't find Abend in that time, I won't live as a murderer. I won't live as—”

“No, no, no,” said the man in the back seat. His voice seemed farther away under the noise of the air from the windows, and yet Zach realized it was as close as his own thoughts. “You do not understand. Abend is only a part of it. There have been many Abends. I myself have killed a few.”

“But Professor Dankl said—”

“Yes, yes, I know. That is what she told herself at the end. Many have told themselves something like it at the end. But she knew better. We all know better. The Abends of the world—they come and go. It is the baselard you must confront!”

“The dagger? What about it?”

“It is the baselard,” the executioner murmured again, and then fell silent.

Zach glanced up into the rearview and saw that the dead man was gone.

He looked ahead, frowning grimly through the windshield at the open road. The blankness inside him was giving way to bitterness.
That is why Dankl chose you.
Yes, he could see it now. Now that his denial was gone, now that he knew it had all been real and no dream, he remembered his last encounter with Gretchen Dankl clearly. He remembered that moment when he had fallen underneath the raging beast she had become. He remembered how the great wolf had hesitated then, and how, in that moment of her hesitation, he had gotten away from her and grabbed the gun—the gun she had given him herself. He understood now. She had meant for him to kill her. Worn out by her failed quest and in despair, Dankl had been looking for a candidate to take her place. She had gone after Bernard Albright first, Imogen Storm's fiancé. She had tried to pass the curse on to him; but either he had failed to destroy her or had chosen not to and, in the grip of the wolf's bloodlust, she had slaughtered him instead. Then she had heard that Zach was on Abend's trail, and she had chosen him next. She had passed on the executioner's curse and freed herself by his hand—suicide by cop. And now look what she had turned him into! Look what he had done to Margo! It was so unfair. It was just as the executioner had said: intolerable.

Intolerable, yes. Zach could not live with this. He wanted to die—right now, right this minute. He wanted to floor the gas and drive the speeding car into a tree or a wall. Why not? He deserved it. Only the thought of Abend stopped him. The thought of what Abend had done to Europe. Of what he was doing now to the city. Of what he would do to the country if he was not stopped. The executioner was right. Whatever else Zach had become, he was still a lawman. . . .

Two nights,
he thought.
Two more nights of the full moon. I will try to find him; but after that, either way, I will end this.

He drove on through the darkness.

The rest of that awful morning, luck was weirdly with him—the luck of the devil, he thought bitterly. The devil's blessing on his own. For instance: he tossed the garbage bag full of torn clothes in a dumpster about a mile from his house, and the sanitation truck came to collect it even as he drove away. As he neared home, he spotted not one car or pedestrian on the streets surrounding his. All his neighbors' windows were dark. He showered and went to bed without rousing anything more than a sleeping murmur from Grace. The luck of the devil.

Tired as he was, he lay awake a long time. The ghost of Margo stared at him from within, her ruined face, the eyeless scrap of flesh on her stripped skull, the hank of hair plastered to all that was left of her mouth. Unbearable. All the while, he was painfully aware of the scent of Grace beside him, that mysterious atmosphere she gave off. The way he felt now, her presence struck him like the memory of a long-lost country, so far away that he knew he'd never touch its shores again. It was an agony to be so close to her and feel so far. Unbearable. Again and again, as the slow night hours passed, he resolved to die, to destroy himself whether he tracked down Abend and his baselard or not.

When the alarm went off, his devilish luck continued. Grace was in a rush because Tom's kindergarten class was going on a field trip and she had to get him to school early.

“You must have really been wrapped up in your work. You didn't even answer my messages!” she said with good humor as she hurried into the bathroom.

She was downstairs before he got out of bed himself. And when he came down for breakfast, she was darting around so much, she didn't even notice the scratches and bruises on him: they were mostly covered by his clothes now anyway.

When she and the kids were gone, he used the family computer in the kitchen nook to check for news. He didn't want to search for Margo's name or visit the police pages or do anything that might leave any kind of suspicious trail at all, so he simply checked the standard news sites. There was nothing there. Either they hadn't found the body yet or hadn't publicized it. But then, it was still early.

He listened to all-news radio as he drove the Ford into Manhattan. Nothing about Margo there either. Hard to tell what that meant. The riots in London and Amsterdam and the widespread persecution of Jewish people in France had grown so dramatic, they were now dominating the reports, sweeping local stories aside. He could have tuned in to Westchester police bands; but again he didn't want to do anything suspicious, not for the next two days at least.

As he pulled up outside the one-six, the radio anchorwoman handed the broadcast over to the sports reporter. So that was it for now, no more news. Zach snapped the radio off and killed the engine. He fetched his messenger bag out of the trunk and went into the precinct.

He wasn't planning to stay long. He wanted to find out if he had missed any weekend developments in the case; then he was going to head out to Long Island to see Angela Bose again, to try to browbeat the truth out of her. That had to be his focus now; all his focus: finding Abend. He wasn't sure what the executioner had meant about “confronting the baselard,” but he thought he was close to Abend now—very close—and he knew he didn't have much time.

As he was riding up in the elevator, he was trying to think about Goulart—what he was going to tell Goulart—but he was distracted by the uniforms standing on either side of him. He had that criminal sense that his guilt was obvious to them, that Margo's blood was practically dripping from his fingertips for all to see. He wished to God that he had no conscience. His conscience was killing him.

It was with that heavy sense of guilt and exposure that he stepped into the Extraordinary Crimes squad room—and stopped just within the threshold, catching his breath. He stared across the long room and realized that his devilish luck had at last run out.

Goulart was propped on the edge of his gunmetal desk, one hand draped over one knee, his foot casually swinging, his other hand in motion. Even from where Zach was standing, he could see that his partner was flirting with the pretty girl who was seated in the desk chair, looking up at him.

Zach could see the girl's face in profile.

Damn it
, he thought.

It was Imogen Storm.

20

SUSPICION

I
mogen stood up as Zach came toward her. He saw the flush of excitement on her elfin features. Her brown eyes were bright. He thought: She knows.

Goulart was standing off his desk. “I guess you two've already met.”

“Agent Adams,” said Imogen eagerly, offering him her delicate hand. Even with her clipped British accent, he could hear the thrill and tension in her voice. “I'm sorry to bother you here, but there's been a killing in Westchester.”

“I got calls in to Mt. Kisco and the staties,” said Goulart, pointing a thumb at the desk phone. “I'll try those rubes again.”

This last was directed toward Imogen with something like a gallant wink—at which she nodded in girlish gratitude. This close, Zach could actually smell the attraction between them.

“I don't know much,” she said, turning back to Zach. “It was a woman. In her own home in a town called Bedford, apparently. The police are saying it might have been a bear. But I thought: given that there was a full moon last night, it might well be our friend Dankl.”

“I didn't hear anything about this on the news,” Zach murmured, stalling for time to think as he set his bag down on his desk. He had packed a change of clothes. There would be another full moon tonight.

“I have a program on my phone that scans police reports,” Imogen told him. “I have it set to alert me to anything involving animal attacks on human beings.”

“Handy,” he said. He looked at her with as much cool irony as he could muster. His throat felt constricted. His mind felt thick. And his hands felt bloody. He did not know how he was going to get through this conversation, let alone the next two days, without giving himself away.

“It's a powerful coincidence, at the very least,” said Imogen. “You have to grant me that. That's why I hurried right over. I thought you might. . . .”

Zach did not hear the rest of the sentence. His eyes had gone past her to where Goulart stood with the phone lifted to his ear. Goulart's lips had just parted. His eyes had widened. He was turning, as he listened, to gape at Zach. Zach understood: the Westchester boys had given him the name of the victim. He knew it was Margo.

Zach tore his gaze away from his partner and turned it back to Imogen. Goulart would guess the truth, or something like it, there was no help for that, but Zach didn't want him to read it on his face. Not yet, anyway.

Imogen was waiting for his reply—to something. He had no idea what she'd just said.

“So you think it was Professor Dankl,” he said. And added drily: “In wolf mode.”

“I think it's at least a possibility worth considering. Don't you?”

Goulart had set the phone down now. He was stepping over to them. Still staring at Zach.

“Has Miss Storm told you about her magazine?” Zach asked him, again with as casual and droll a tone as he could manage. “What is it?
Absurd?
”

“Bizarre.”

“
Bizarre
, right. Has she explained her theory? The whole lycanthropy angle.”

“Yes,” said Goulart, speaking slowly, as if in a dream, distantly, as if from many miles within himself. “Yes. Some of it. Listen, I just spoke to the staties.”

“What'd you get?” said Zach. He was mentally preparing his reaction. Surprise. Restrained concern. Not grief; he hadn't really known Margo all that well according to the lies he'd been telling. He'd never been much of an actor and he wasn't sure how convincing he could be, but he had to try.

“The vic was a woman named Margo Heatherton,” said Goulart in that same slow, distant way. His eyes never left Zach's face.

In the event, Zach's performance was flawless. Mouth opening just enough. Head drawing back ever so slightly in surprise. “Margo . . . ?” He thought again that the devil must be working with him.

“You knew her?” asked Imogen breathlessly.

Zach and Goulart were now staring at each other. Zach was pretending to try to make sense of all this and Goulart was trying to make sense of Zach's pretense. They exchanged small, secret gestures between them. Zach narrowed his eyes—
What the hell?
Goulart lifted his shoulder—
Don't ask me.