The Frenzy War Page 8

  “We were here yesterday,” Willy said. “There were no dogs, and I’d have noticed five animals that big.”

  “There’s no kennels out back, either. I spoke to a few of the neighbors: the Lourdeses never owned any dogs or any other pets that anyone knows about. But last night one of them—Mr. Santino—says he heard a whole pack of dogs howling somewhere in the neighborhood. So you’ve got one DOA, who may or may not have been one of the two owners of this house, who lost his or her arm in here, and five dogs— or lions or tigers or bears or whatever the hell they were— with their heads cut off.” Using a metal pike, he poked at a blackened metal can. “Arson? You bet your ass.”

  “Excuse me,” Karol said. “I need some air.”

  Willy and Faherty followed Karol outside, where she sucked in her breath and covered her mouth.

  Faherty counted on his fingers. “We got Arson, that’s me; Homicide, that’s you. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we both have to answer to goddamned Animal Control.”

  Willy raised his hands. “I appreciate you keeping me in the loop, and I want you to continue doing so as long as there’s a possibility that this is related to my homicide—”

  “But …”

  “I’m Manhattan Homicide South, emphasis on Manhattan. In case you’re tone-deaf and can’t tell the difference between a Lower East Side accent and one from Long Island, this is Queens.”

  “How did I know you were going to say something like that?”

  Willy handed two business cards to Faherty. “Here’s one for you and another for whatever Queens detective catches this case. Stay in touch.”

  “Yeah, you two have a nice day in the big city.”

  Rhonda awoke on her bed ofstraw, her brain feeling syrupy. She remained motionless for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Recalling that she had been in Wolf Form, all she had to do was wiggle her toes to realize she had changed back into her human shape.

  Jason!

  The bastards had murdered him at the store. How she wished she could sink her claws into one of the killers. No matter what happened as a consequence, the desire to tear one of the humans to shreds was greater than any emotion she had ever known. They had shocked her into transforming, then sedated her with their tranquilizer guns. Twice in one day they had pumped her full of their drug.

  Now her bladder threatened to explode. Rhonda did not wish to reveal to them that she had regained consciousness any more than she wished to urinate in one of the metal buckets, but she had no choice. Sitting up, she groaned. Her head felt so heavy. She stood, massaging the bridge of her nose and fighting for clarity. Then she staggered to the buckets, her chains clinking, squatted over one, and relieved herself, the sound of her piss striking the bucket’s bottom filling the gloom. She gazed at a camera mounted near the ceiling, her humiliation curdling into anger. When she stood again, she saw they had given her no toilet paper.

  Animals.

  Refusing to wipe herself with the dirty straw, she allowed the urine drops to trickle down her legs and air dry. She heard the metal bolt on the other side of the door slide into the unlocked position, and the door swung open. Three of her captors entered: the man with dark hair who had worn a beard in the store; the woman with blonde-streaked black hair; and the black man who now had a shaved head. They stood facing her with a few feet between them, their tranq guns held ready.

  Rhonda swallowed. “What is this, an inquisition?” Maybe she could bait them into identifying themselves as Torquemadans, not that it would alter her circumstances.

  “We just wanted to make sure you regained consciousness before we put you under again,” the man who no longer had a beard said. “We don’t want you slipping into a coma.”

  He raised his gun, and his comrades did the same.

  Rhonda felt her resolve breaking down. “Why are you doing this?”

  The man fired his weapon, and its dart drilled into Rhonda, above her left breast. Clenching her teeth and wincing, she reached up to grasp the dart, but before her fingers closed around its shaft, she sank to her knees. Jerking the dart out of her flesh and tossing it aside, she glared at the woman and the other man, waiting for them to fire.

  They glared back, also waiting.

  Then Rhonda pitched forward, embracing the darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mace entered the lobby of the Bonaventure Hotel and gave his name to the front desk clerk, who directed him to a conference room on the second floor. He took the wide, carpeted stairs, opened the appropriate door, and froze in the doorway. Two FBI agents sat beside Jim Mint. “Who says there are no more surprises in the world?”

  Mint gestured at the empty seat on his right, opposite E’he FBI agents. “Come in and close the door.”

  Mace closed the door and walked over to the chair Jim had offered him.

  Norton, an attractive woman who still wore her strawberry blonde hair in a ponytail, gave him a too cheerful smile. “Good morning, Captain.”

  He nodded. “Special Agent Norton.” He turned to the .. bald-headed male FBI agent. “Special Agent Shelly.”

  “It’s Kathy,” Norton said.

  Shelly wore glasses now. “Congratulations. Most people get us confused. Special Agent Shelly is fine.”

  “How could I forget? The two of you could have helped me track down the Manhattan Werewolf and didn’t.” He glanced at Jim. “I’m sorry. I can’t discuss that with him in the room, can I?”

  “You can discuss anything you want with Jim,” Norton said.

  Mace sat. “That’s a load off my mind.”

  “Let us know when you’re done,” Jim said.

  “I honestly don’t think I’ve even started. Why am I here?”

  “Because your city needs you.”

  Mace chuckled. “Really? Well, I am a civil servant, which means I live to serve the city. Tell me what I can do for it.”

  Jim slid two stapled documents across the table and set a pen on them.

  Mace picked up and examined the documents. “A nondisclosure agreement? I don’t think so.” He tossed the paperwork back onto the table.

  “Your country needs you too.”

  “Thus the federales? I love this city. I love this country. But I don’t trust the department, and I trust the government even less.” He rose. “I hate to pontificate and run, but I think I’ll be on my way.”

  “You know what this is about.”

  Mace sighed. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Then sit down.”

  Mace descended into his seat. “What do you want from my life? Haven’t you guys done enough to me already?”

  Jim nodded at the nondisclosure agreements.

  Mace picked up the pen, flipped one document to the signature page, scrawled his name, then did the same with the second copy. Setting the pen down, he sat back.

  “I never did anything to you. That was the previous administration.”

  “You guys are all alike, with your politics and your machinations. Every one of you spends more time covering his ass than doing his job.”

  “You sound like someone who’s bitter because he wasn’t invited to the party. Or maybe you were invited, and your invitation was rescinded.”

  “Did you bring me here for a lecture?”

  “Yesterday morning eighteen-year-old Jason Lourdes was decapitated in a bookstore called Synful Reading. I’m sure you know this because your wife reported the news ad nauseam. Synful Reading was once managed by Angela Domini, a person of interest in your Manhattan Werewolf case. As Special Agents Norton and Shelly have been kind enough to explain, they linked your Manhattan Werewolf slayings to a series of serial murders across the country.”

  Mace glanced at his watch.

  “The murders stopped soon after you were taken off the case.”

  “I guess I was just getting in the way. I thought the murders stopped because the governor sent in the cavalry.”

  “But the perp was never apprehended, and when the National Guard left
, the murders didn’t resume here or elsewhere.”

  “Maybe the perp just needed a slap on the wrist.”

  Norton folded her hands. “For a man who was obsessed with the case, you never discussed it in public. You could have had your say in Carl Rice’s book, but you didn’t.”

  “The guy’s a sleaze.”

  “He made you famous in his previous book, didn’t he?”

  “He was a sleaze then too.”

  Jim opened the folder before him and tapped a stapled document. “This is a copy of a report you filed after witnessing John Stalk’s murder. The original report you filed before the powers that be revised it.”

  Mace stayed quiet.

  Jim slid the report aside, revealing another document. “And this is a transcript of the meeting you had with Deputy Commissioner Dunegan and his aides when they booted you out of Homicide.”

  I should have known Dunegan recorded the meeting, Mace thought.

  “The claims in the transcript support those in your report. Do I need to refresh your memory?”

  Mace leveled his gaze at Jim. “No.”

  “The word that appears several times in both documents, without irony, is werewolf. While you were on suspension on the day the National Guard rolled into the city, you signed out two objects from Evidence Control: the hilt of a broken sword recovered from Terrence Glenzer’s personal safe and the service revolver of Detective Patty Lane, who was murdered by the perp while she was under your direct supervision. Signing out those items while under suspension was a criminal offense.”

  Mace had always known that signing out those weapons would catch up to him sooner or later. “I returned them that night.”

  “Yes, you did.” Jim flipped to another report. “After signing yourself out of Bellevue’s ER, where you were treated for bite wounds and gashes in your forehead.” He looked up from the folder. “Your forehead’s healed well, by the way.” He looked down again. “According to the hospital report, you claimed you were jumped by gang members. A wound in your left shoulder was so severe you attended physical therapy for five months. Since when do gang members bite police detectives?”

  “I guess everyone got a little crazy when those guards came marching in.”

  “Why did you take the items from Evidence Control?”

  Mace shrugged. “Maybe I thought I could stop Patty’s killer.”

  “You mean murder him?”

  “It wouldn’t be murder if he wasn’t human.”

  “Did you have any luck?”

  “No.”

  “It didn’t take long for someone to realize you took the items. Dennis Hackley was notified. He ordered an additional round of testing on both objects. Forensics determined that the revolver was fired six times between the time it was initially tested after Detective Lane’s murder and before you returned it. In addition, traces of cleaning chemicals were found on the broken sword—chemicals that weren’t on it before you signed it out. Hackley was under a lot of pressure and realized he was being forced out. He could have sacrificed you to save himself. Instead he buried the report.”

  Dennis Hackley, the chief of detectives at the time, had once been Mace’s mentor. He had taken over the Manhattan Werewolf case after Mace had been suspended. Mace had no idea his friend had gone to bat for him one more time. After being shit canned by NYPD, Hackley moved to Nebraska, where he took a top spot in a security firm.

  “You took the sword and the gun. You checked into an ER with bizarre wounds. You returned the items and apparently used them. And the Manhattan Werewolf vanished, never to be seen again.” Jim closed the folder. “I’m impressed. I don’t know if I’m looking at a goddamned hero, a goddamned vigilante, or a goddamned monster hunter.”

  Mace said nothing.

  “Hackley didn’t bury his findings deep enough. After that monsignor from the Vatican took custody of both halves of the sword, the FBI requested a search for related documents, and guess what turned up?”

  Mace raised his eyebrows.

  “Here’s where we get into national security,” Norton said. “We’ve been investigating these circumstances for years. When we presented you with evidence that your Manhattan Werewolf had perpetrated killings all over the country, we already believed there was something highly unusual about him. Forensics at various crime scenes determined his DNA had qualities unlike any seen before.”

  “What kind of qualities?”

  “The DNA had remarkable healing properties,” Shelly said. “It changed under certain tests … adapted … survived.”

  “Adapted how?”

  “The DNA was unstable. Its properties changed depending on which tests were performed on it.”

  Mace had no intention of letting Norton off the hook. “Keeping in mind that I’m a layman in terms of science, exactly how did the properties of the DNA change?”

  “It altered its structure,” Shelly said, “almost the way a chameleon changes the color of its skin.”

  “But I’m guessing there were only two or three variables. If you already knew some of this two years ago, why didn’t you help me catch my perp?”

  “For one thing, our superiors were unresponsive to our theories. For another, we didn’t want the responsibility. We were happy to push you in the right direction, and we believe you killed him.” He raised one hand. “No need to implicate yourself.”

  “I wasn’t about to.”

  “Since then we’ve uncovered evidence—which we can’t disclose—that others like your perp exist,” Norton said. “Perhaps many others.”

  Mace turned to Jim.

  “Jim already knows everything I’ve just told you. He’s been in the loop since your suspension two years ago. We pushed to have him put in his current position.”

  “He’s a mole for the FBI?”

  “We prefer to think of him as an advocate for interdepartmental cooperation.”

  Jim held Mace’s gaze. “I’m a cop, not a fed. But this shadow species, for lack of a better term, has me scared. The department won’t ever acknowledge these things exist; you know that. But Norton and Shelly know the truth, and they’ve got the resources to monitor the situation.”

  “Yes, they’re great at monitoring.”

  “We’ve classified these individuals as Class L human beings,” Shelly said.

  “L is for … ?”

  “Lupine.”

  Mace’s body relaxed. It’s finally out.

  “We have no reason to believe these people are a threat,” Norton said. “Other than an occasional report of a sighting on an Indian reservation, they’ve made themselves practically invisible. Your perp was the rare exception. We have to believe the rest only want to live in peace.”

  You’re batting a thousand, Mace thought. “If that’s the case, then how are they a threat to national security?”

  “Knowledge of their existence would cause chaos here and abroad,” Shelly said. “Can you imagine the hysteria that would ensue? The prejudices? We want to make contact with them and forge a trusting relationship. We want to protect them for their own good.”

  “I’m sure the Indians heard a similar sales pitch once upon a time.”

  “Jason Lourdes had DNA similar to that found in hairs taken at your Manhattan Werewolf homicide sites,” Norton said. “We believe he was a Class L human and so were his parents. They’re presumed dead, by the way, after their house was burned down early this morning. Six corpses were found in the ruins of the house: only one was human. Its arm had been chewed off. We’re told the other five were ‘canine’ in nature—huge suckers. Their heads were cut off, just like Jason’s.”

  Mace felt as if he’d been slugged in the stomach. He had seen Janus Farel’s hybrid form—half man and half wolf— transform into that of a giant wolf after his death. Someone had killed five Wolves—six, counting Jason—with a sword.

  The Blade of Salvation.

  “We’ve taken the carcasses into custody and are transporting them to Quantico,” She
lly said.

  “It sounds like you have all the physical evidence you need to prove these things exist.”

  “It’s easy to extrapolate that Rhonda Wilson and by extension her parents and their siblings are Class Ls too,” Norton said. “Possibly Synful Reading’s owners and the other employees as well. We know you’re familiar with the Dominis. Six of these unique beings may have been killed in twenty-four hours. Clearly, there’s an organized force working against them, hell-bent on their genocide.”

  The Brotherhood of Torquemada. “And you want to stop them?”

  “Hell, yes,” Jim said. “Not just to protect the lives of these Class Ls, as our colleagues call them, but to keep knowledge of their existence a secret from the public.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  “We have only limited support for our investigation in the FBI,” Norton said. “Maybe that will change once those carcasses are autopsied, but right now Shelly and I are the sole agents assigned to this investigation. We’ve been granted permission to form a joint task force with NYPD—”

  “A secret joint task force,” Shelly said.

  “And because of what happened here two years ago,” Jim said, “the commissioner’s given me permission to devote a small team to the cause. He wants to avoid the panic that happened last time.”

  Robert Benson had replaced the previous police commissioner after the Manhattan Werewolf fiasco. “How forward thinking of him.”

  “His motives aren’t unselfish. His permission came with several conditions.”

  “Not the least of which is plausible deniability, I’m sure.”

  “Naturally. We’re still talking about the department after all. The mayor is none too pleased that New York City has become known as the werewolf capital of the world. Every documentary that airs on the Manhattan Werewolf, every book that’s published, every video file that’s uploaded to the Internet purporting to be genuine footage of a werewolf, is a public embarrassment. The mayor’s made it clear to the commissioner that he never wants to see the word werewolf mentioned in a headline or news story again.”

  “So one goal of this secret joint task force is to cover up whatever’s going on out there.”