Blood Wolf’s Path бесплатное чтение

Chapter 1. A Werewolf at the Cemetery

That night I was walking through the woods toward the cemetery. In the distance, I heard a howl, but I paid it no mind—nature can be deceptive. The moon was full and the stars shone brightly. But even without them I would have found the way—I’d been here many times in the past two months. It was at this cemetery that I had buried my friend. His death was a mystery: the killer left absolutely no traces. Today I just wanted to sit quietly by his grave and think about the case.

I had barely walked a hundred steps down the forest trail when I heard branches snapping off to my right. It sounded as if something inhuman—a beast—was forcing its way through them. I stopped and shouted.

"Who’s there?"

The cracking intensified. Then I yelled:

"I'm a cop! I've got a gun! Enough joking around. I'll open fire, you bastards!"

The noise grew. I drew my Beretta from its holster and racked the slide.

"You sons of bitches, don't you dare mess with me—I'm not in the mood for fun." I cocked the hammer and prepared to shoot.

The head of a scrawny bear poked out of the bushes. For God's sake, since when are there bears in Boston? I thought. I pulled out the Colt revolver loaded with armor-piercing rounds from my waistband, cocked it, and got ready to fire with both guns.

With surprising agility for such a scrawny thing, the bear lunged at me. Must be hungry, I thought, and I immediately opened fire, hoping to give the animal a bellyful of lead.

Dawn was breaking. I came to on the ground with a shallow wound on my chest. The bushes and earth were spattered with blood. Apparently I’d wounded the beast and it had wandered off into the thicket to die. Well, to hell with it—at least I was alive. But I should go see a doctor.

During my checkup, Dr. Muhammad shook his head disapprovingly and said:

"Mr. Harrison, why on earth would you go to a cemetery on a full moon? That’s a bad omen…"

Oh my God, just do your job, you superstitious idiot, I thought.

After the hospital I swung by home to change clothes, then headed to the station.

I needed to find the killer of my partner, Hank Sullivan. Hank had saved me from bullets more than once and taught me how to track criminals. He used to say, "Think like a criminal—it helps." Oh, how I could use his advice right now!

I sat down at my desk and for the hundredth time began reviewing the case files. First I watched the gas station video that captured Hank alive for the last time. There he is, getting out of his truck, one hand resting on the gun in his holster. He looks around, inserts the pump nozzle, swipes a card at the pump terminal. Then he heads into the store, still keeping a hand on his gun. He gives the clerk $30 and walks back out.

Here’s the gas station attendant’s statement: “The man was clearly in a hurry. He gave me $30 and asked me to turn on pump number 1. Said his card didn’t go through.”

Half an hour later, Sheriff Montgomery Burns found Hank’s body five miles from the gas station on the Yankee Division Highway, about three miles from the bay. The pickup was parked on the side of the road with the engine running. One headlight was broken, the hood dented, the windshield cracked – as if the truck had hit a large animal. The body was lying nearby.

The coroner’s report stated that death resulted from the head being partially separated from the body, which severed the carotid artery and internal jugular vein, and also broke the 4th and 5th cervical vertebrae. The nature of the wounds indicated that the blow was delivered by a blunt, heavy object with significant force. No foreign fingerprints or DNA were found on the body or in the truck. Those were all the clues we had.

A mystery I had to solve. So who killed you, Hank? It was only recently we’d celebrated my birthday, when you gave me a revolver and five boxes of armor-piercing rounds (which I, incidentally, put to use just yesterday), and only two days later you were dead.

I spent the two months since my partner’s death going through all of his (which effectively meant our) case files. Maybe someone decided to take revenge? It was a working theory… But why the broken headlight and the dented hood? What the hell happened… And why such a bizarre way to die? If they wanted revenge, they could have just shot him. Killing him with an axe or a machete in one swing—that’s chancy, especially since Hank was always armed…

The perpetrators—if they’d planned an attack specifically on him—would have known all that, so a death under such strange circumstances just didn’t square with a revenge motive… So how did it happen? Hank ran over a perp with his truck, then the guy got up and killed him? Nonsense… Think, think. Maybe they tossed a corpse onto the hood, Hank stopped, and then they killed him… Also nonsense.

For two months I had been grasping at straws, running down every lead. Today I had a meeting scheduled at MCI Concord prison with Fred Johnson. That black son of a bitch was doing time for murdering a family of three—a husband, wife, and their three-year-old son. A total asshole high on drugs had broken into their home and shot all three with a shotgun. It wasn’t hard to nail him—there was a camera out front, and Fred’s face was caught on it. When we busted him five hours after the murders, he was furiously jerking his huge cock. Hank flipped Fred over onto the floor, snapping his dick. And the black bastard started screaming that he’d fuck us all and get revenge… Well, it was time to have a talk with him.

"Well, well, Jerry Harrison, we meet again," Fred Johnson began when I walked into the interrogation room. "Where’s your partner, Hank Sullivan? I heard he went a little wild—and got his head torn off."

"But at least he lived with his dick intact, not broken," I snapped.

"And how would you know—were you fucking him?" Fred shot back.

This exchange of verbal blows could have gone on forever. Fred Johnson was sitting in a chair, his hands chained to the table and his feet in shackles.

I sat down opposite the black bastard and got down to business.

"Do you know who killed him?" I asked.

"I know, I know," Fred Johnson guffawed, tilting his fleshy, double-chinned head back.

"Was it your doing?" I pressed.

"Well, how could I? I’m serving a life sentence," Johnson said with a smirk.

"That’s only because the state of Massachusetts has no death penalty, you filthy bastard," I shot back sharply.

"But I didn’t kill anyone! You know that’s true. And Hank knew it too, and now he’s dead…" Fred Johnson whispered, dripping with insinuation.

"Again with this innocence bullshit. Everyone’s sick of it. Let’s get to the point. Do you have information or not?" I asked, starting to get irritated.

"Yes, I do. But you won’t like it. Beware the full moon. Your hour is coming," Fred Johnson said.

I left the prison in a foul mood. That bastard hadn’t told me anything useful.

I didn’t go back to the station, heading straight home instead. I was exhausted—I could barely keep my eyes open; I didn’t even bother with a beer. I took a leak – my urine was red – and collapsed onto the couch without undressing.

The next day felt like some kind of delirium. I woke up in the bushes of a park two blocks from my house. And I was naked—no underwear, no socks. Good thing it was early morning and I managed to get home without incident.

The front door of my house had been smashed open. It looked like someone had broken it outward from inside. I went in and saw something strange. By the couch lay a shredded pair of jeans and a torn shirt; my boots had been pulled off and sliced up. My pistols were on the floor in their holsters with full magazines, their straps ripped.

All evidence pointed to me sleepwalking. Good thing I hadn’t been armed. Apparently my partner’s death had messed me up so badly I was starting to lose my mind.

The day passed as usual, spent searching for answers. I decided to send a trusted undercover agent into Fred Johnson’s prison to sniff out his possible involvement in my partner’s death. Some old connections with the prison warden helped – I’d once saved the warden’s ass from prison myself. That evening they were supposed to put my agent into his cell… Well, I would wait.

Evening came and once again I felt myself drifting off, as if I’d spent all day unloading boxcars. This time, just in case, I stripped naked and handcuffed myself to the leg of the sofa. The sofa’s legs had thick ends, so the cuffs locked on securely.

Imagine my surprise when early next morning I woke up naked in the park again, handcuffs still on my wrist. My arm didn’t even hurt. I ran back to the house and was stunned. The sofa leg had been torn off, and the couch was shredded like a pack of Mexicans had been tearing it apart looking for drugs.

I tried to break the remaining leg, but it was screwed on tight… Just how hard must one have pulled…

Because I had to clean up, I didn’t make it to work until 7:30. At noon I got a phone call from the prison. The agent they’d planted in Fred Johnson’s cell had been killed. Fred had shanked him in the throat.

Five minutes later I was in my chief’s office, facing the mustachioed, goat-faced David Scott. He really did resemble a goat, and he behaved no better.

"You know, Jerry. This has gone way too far. In half an hour the feds will be here and it looks like we have serious problems. Why the hell did you start all this?" David Scott said.

"What did I start?" I asked, playing dumb.

"Why the fuck did you send an agent into Fred Johnson’s cell? Now the whole department’s in trouble. Who asked you to run a parallel investigation? The feds are handling Hank’s death, so why are you sticking your nose in? What bullshit did you tell the warden? This is all completely illegal, goddammit. Oh my God…" David Scott sighed.

"You know this is personal… a matter of honor," I sighed.

"I’m going to strip you of your badge, you idiot… That’s where this is headed."

That evening I got naked again. This time I decided not to cuff myself to my only bed, and instead to film everything. I set my iPhone on a shelf across from the bed, hit record, and immediately passed out.

I woke up early and once again in the park. My face was covered in some kind of slime. I wiped my hand over my face and saw that it was blood. I immediately rushed home to check the iPhone. But I was in for a disappointment.

"Fucking Tim Cook, I’m sick of this—put a decent battery in these things already!" I yelled.

The phone had died completely; the only footage available ended with me sleeping peacefully.

That day I decided to go see the prison warden, to find out the details of the agent’s murder and to talk to him about Fred Johnson.

Old Leslie Brown was due to retire soon. But I’d caused him a lot of trouble with yesterday’s incident.

"What have you done, Jerry, what have you done…" he began whining, lighting a cigar.

"No, what have you done? Is that what we agreed on, Leslie? Taylor was a good agent, helped us out many times. How the hell did that bastard get a shiv?" I demanded.

"Beats the hell out of me. That Crooked-Dick kid is no ordinary guy. The black son of a bitch wrecked my stats. Now my pension’s in question."

"You’ll get to enjoy retirement soon, banging chicks," I said.

Leslie shook his head, upset.

"Alright, then you’ll be drinking," I consoled him.

Leslie pulled out a bottle of scotch and poured two glasses.

"And what do you think I’m doing right now?" he said.

I took a sip. It hit my throat with the bouquet of worn sneakers. I felt sick; I wanted to puke.

"Good whiskey," I praised. "Anyway, I need another meeting with Fred Johnson."

"You know that’s impossible… at least right now. The feds are still hovering around here. I don’t like any of it," Leslie said, sniffing his foul whiskey.

"Alright, let’s wait a couple days for things to quiet down. In the meantime I’ll go visit Taylor’s widow. Even though they hadn’t lived together for five years, he was helping with the kids—he had two of them… The guys collected some money for her. I need to deliver an envelope," I said.

"Here, add this," Leslie pulled a twenty from his wallet. Then he thought better of it and added another twenty. "She’s got two kids left."

The widow lived in Albany, two hundred miles from Boston. I reached her after dark via I-90.

"Hello, Brenda," I said when a pretty 35-year-old woman opened the door – tall and slim, with a sweet, pleasant face.

Interesting, why did they divorce? She’s sexy, I thought.

I explained the situation to Brenda and asked if I could come in.

“Well, Taylor and I haven’t lived together in ages… It’s very sad, of course. He helped out, sent money. How am I going to feed the kids now…” Brenda said, licking her lips.

Linda and Angela, two nine-year-old twin girls, sat on the couch, glued to their phones.

“We, uh, collected some money… Things turned out awful. Anyway, this is for you,” I said, handing Brenda the envelope and rising to leave.

“Are you in a rush? Stay, tell me how it happened. I have some beer,” Brenda said softly, taking my hand.

“I’m driving. If I drink a couple…” I said, sitting back down on the couch.

We chatted about nothing in particular. I felt awkward, knowing her husband had been killed because of me. But Brenda wouldn’t let me leave. Her crimson lips were hypnotic, and her breasts and hips seemed to show through her thin dress. A pleasant feminine warmth radiated from her body. At some point I realized I couldn’t get up from the couch because I had a raging hard-on for Brenda. I needed to think of something nasty, fast, to make it go away.

I started recalling the crime scene photos of my partner with his head partially torn off, but it didn’t help. The kids went upstairs, and Brenda still wouldn’t stop chattering nonsense. I tried to scoot away so I wouldn’t feel the tempting heat of her body, but she snuggled even closer and whispered, her lips brushing my earlobe:

“I want you to fuck me tonight, Jerry.”

She touched my right thigh and started moving her hand upward.

What am I doing, I thought, but it was already too late.

That evening was bliss.

In the morning I woke to a strange smell, like vomit. I opened my eyes and was stunned. I had never seen a sight like this at any crime scene. The entire bed was soaked in blood; on the floor lay Brenda with her abdomen slashed open, guts everywhere, and the white ceiling was spattered with gray gore. My hands, face, and chest were covered in blood and bits of flesh. The bedroom door was smashed off its hinges. I rushed into the twins’ room… They were dead, like their mother, killed in the most brutal way.

God, I did this… flashed through my mind.

And then the puzzle pieces clicked together in my head. The full moon, the bear attack, the blackouts, the torn clothing, the door busted outward from inside, these murders… I had become a werewolf. And I remembered nothing after I turned into a monster… Fucking Tim Cook…

What now, how do I cure this? In a couple of days—if not sooner—they’ll catch me. My DNA, my prints, they’re everywhere; there’s no simply washing that away, and it’d be pointless besides. I literally told everyone yesterday I was coming to the widow’s. And cameras—there are cameras everywhere—they’ll find me. My car sat outside the house all day. Time of death will be established… I returned to Brenda’s bedroom with my eyes squeezed shut, so I wouldn’t have to see all that hell, and touched Brenda’s hand. Her hand was cold—meaning she’d been dead for quite a while. I threw up.

God, I’m puking up human remains, I thought, and began vomiting even harder.

And then it was like a bolt of electricity shot through me. I remembered the words of that black bastard, Fred “Crooked-Dick” Johnson… He had told me to fear the full moon. Werewolves strike on the full moon. A werewolf had attacked me on the full moon, the day before my meeting with Fred. Which meant Fred knew someone was planning to attack me, but he didn’t know that I had managed to foil it.

Before they caught me, I figured I had one day left – today. I took a shower and put on one of Brenda’s dresses. Using Google Maps, I found the nearest clothing store and bought jeans, a shirt, and a jacket. Now I could head to the prison to see Fred Johnson… One last meeting, or so I believed.

The prison warden—incidentally an old friend of mine and someone who owed me—was in a surly mood and didn’t want to let me see Johnson.

“The feds are here. Not a good time,” Leslie said.

I asked to speak with the fed. An agent named Cocksucker (that’s how he introduced himself) turned out to be a friendly young man of about 27. He actually wanted to talk to me about this case; he’d dropped by our precinct, but I wasn’t there.

“So why did you send the undercover agent Taylor to Fred Johnson?” asked the tall young agent. He was ugly—his tiny lips were repulsive.

“As you know, Agent, my partner was killed two months ago. I’ve been conducting an independent investigation… and I’m coming up empty. So I was tugging on old cases, seeing if it might have been revenge. I didn’t especially suspect Johnson – that black-ass junkie – but I decided to probe that angle just in case. And after meeting him it started to seem plausible. He said I was next, that I should be looking over my shoulder. And the way he said it, it was like he knew something about my partner’s murder.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said Agent Cocksucker, clearly intrigued by my story.

I continued:

“That’s why I decided to plant Agent Taylor in his cell, to get the truth out of him. And now, after my man was killed, I want to meet with Crooked-Dick again…” I said.

“Crooked-Dick?” Agent Cocksucker repeated, confused.

“Yeah, his dick got broken during his arrest. But that’s another story. Anyway, I want to see him again and talk—maybe something will become clear. To tell the truth, the day before I met him, I was attacked; the doctor said my wound was shallow. I opened fire, the perp ran off, and Fred Johnson, as I now understand, doesn’t yet know about the attempt on me. So I have something to surprise him with,” I said.

“That might work. Let’s try it,” Cocksucker agreed.

Twenty minutes later I entered the room where Fred Johnson was being held. He wasn’t as cocky as during our last meeting. His hands were cuffed and chained to the table, and his feet were in irons. When he saw me, annoyance flashed across his face. I spoke plainly, laying out the situation as I saw it. I knew our conversation was being recorded and that the agent was behind the one-way glass listening to everything.

"I know it was on your orders that my partner was killed, and that an attempt was made on my life when I was going to his grave. You’re gonna burn in hell, you bastard. I know you sent that beast after me to kill me, just like they killed my partner. Don’t bother denying it," I began.

Fred looked at me with hatred and spat out through his thick lips:

"I’ve got nothing left to lose. You killed my brother, you bastard. Enjoy your victory! But you can’t bring your partner back—Hank Sullivan is rotting in his grave."

Fred laughed and went on:

"You can’t bring him back; he just croaked like a stray dog. My brother told me how he killed him with a single blow." Crooked-Dick’s deep-set, angry eyes gleamed.

"So he remembered everything, your brother did – but how? I can’t remember anything after those nights," I said.

Fred realized what I was getting at. His face twisted first in confusion, then in mirth. He brayed like a mare.

"So that’s the deal. Now you’re cursed. And you don’t remember how you killed. Well then, I’ll tell you a secret my brother once shared with me. Control over the wolf doesn’t come immediately… First you have to spend many long moonlit nights in its skin. And when you can’t control yourself, you kill the innocent. That’s all I’ve got. Now get out."

Fred turned away. It was clear the conversation was over.

I walked to the door. It opened.

"Jerry Harrison," Fred Johnson—also known as Crooked-Dick—called after me, "remember: when night falls on the city, the wolf goes hunting."

The door slammed shut.

"What was that about?" the agent asked when we met up again five minutes later.

"Some kind of freaky shit…" I said, wiping sweat from my brow.

"So where did you say your partner is buried?" Cocksucker asked.

"I didn’t say. But he’s buried at Forest Hills Cemetery, in south Boston – off Blue Hills Avenue, then Morton Street."

"Four days ago, out there, Matthew Johnson, Fred Johnson’s brother, was shot dead… He was hit twelve times. Five of the bullets were a silver alloy…"

"Who the hell would bother making bullets like that… and for what…" I muttered, not meeting the agent’s eyes.

"While you two were chatting, I found out who… Your partner. Three months ago he ordered ten boxes from a gunsmith…" Cocksucker said. He was clearly trying to pin me down.

"Hmm… what are you implying, that I shot him?" I looked Cocksucker in the eye. "Yeah, possibly— in self-defense. You just heard Fred say his brother killed Hank and wanted to kill me."

"We’ll be sending your rounds for analysis. And you have to report a killing, even in self-defense—you know the procedure as well as I do," Cocksucker said.

"What killing? It was dark. I was attacked. I fired back, then I looked around: nobody there. What, am I supposed to report every time there’s gunfire in Boston now? I’d be filing paperwork around the clock—wouldn’t be enough paper…"

"We’ll investigate and figure it all out," the agent said.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"No, you’re not under arrest. You didn’t check your gun at the entrance. Is it in the car? I want to take your rounds for testing," Cocksucker said.

"And then those rounds will turn up in Johnson’s head… No way, let’s do this by the book. Bring a warrant, and I’ll call my lawyer in the meantime… You know the drill as well as I do, right, lawman?" I said.

I got into my car and realized I was still free, for now. That idiot Cocksucker should have arrested me, but he’d chickened out – even though the grounds were more than sufficient.

As I drove away from the prison, everything became clear to me. That bastard Fred Johnson had sent his werewolf brother to kill us. My partner figured out who was hunting us and cast silver bullets, one set of which he gave me along with a pistol. I pumped all five rounds into Fred Johnson’s brother when he crawled out of the bushes to kill me. But the werewolf had scratched me and infected me with its virus – and I became a beast. Each night I turn into a hellish death machine and bring people grief and suffering.

Half an hour remains until dark. I’m getting sleepy again. Next to me lies a loaded Colt, my partner’s gift. Its bullets once saved my life. I haven’t decided yet – will I end it all, or will my hand falter… and I continue to kill? There’s no time left to find a cage or a sturdy basement. So tonight I will either kill myself or kill others. Ah, how I want to live!

Chapter 2. A Verbal Agreement with the FBI Agent

The next morning, I woke up in the park, completely naked. The city was still asleep, and only the early birds were chirping to greet the dawn.

My head was pounding. I got up on my knees and ran my hand over my face – it was clean, with no blood. That meant I hadn’t killed anyone that night. The full moon had waned, and probably the wolf’s strength had weakened. I didn’t know for sure; these were all just guesses of mine – I wasn’t about to go to the library. Then again, who knows – maybe I’d have to conduct my own investigation, if I wasn’t caught first.

But I needed to get home, grab my money and guns, get dressed at least, and then get the hell out of town. I figured the murders of two children and their mother in Albany were already known. Soon the police would track me through the cameras – and then I’d be finished. And once they saw the kind of monster I turned into at night, they’d hand me over to the authorities for experiments. That’s the last thing I needed.

Before entering my house, I looked around. No suspicious cars. My detective instincts told me everything was clean. Maybe a little too clean. But whatever – sometimes you just have to take the risk.

When I walked in, I pulled an intact pair of jeans from the closet (there were fewer and fewer of those left) and started putting them on. At that moment, from behind the curtain, stepped Agent Cocksucker, walking across the carpet in his polished shoes. This still young, by police standards, agent had an unpleasant appearance. His large, protruding ears were lit from behind by the light coming through the window.

What followed was a silent standoff. What to do? I glanced at the Colt lying on the couch in its holster, but Cocksucker shook his head.

“Don’t do that, Jerry Harrison – you won’t have time.”

“And who’s going to stop me? You going to try and slap the cuffs on me? You know the twenty-one-foot rule. Want to risk getting closer?” I shot back, aggressively.

“I just came to talk. I’m not your enemy. Maybe even a friend,” said Cocksucker, taking two steps back as a gesture of peace.

“Hm, you think I belong in the loony bin?” I couldn’t figure out where Cocksucker was going with this.

“No, not the loony bin. A steel cage. I’m currently working the triple homicide case in Albany. And what happens to you next depends on me. But we can settle things right now, as they say – on the shore – and find a good way out for you in this complicated situation. After all, technically it wasn’t you who killed… it was the beast inside you,” Cocksucker said, his last words full of sympathy, trying to worm his way into my trust.

“Get to the point. I’ve got nothing to offer you,” I said, hopping on one foot – the jeans just wouldn’t go on.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You think I’m some twenty-seven-year-old fool who got into the Bureau by accident or through connections? That’s not the case. The investigation into the prison murder of the agent you sent to Crooked-Dick – that’s just a cover. Speaking of Crooked-Dick, I found out the details of that story from your colleagues – it’s actually pretty funny. But now to business. The government has tasked me with solving a much more serious problem – where all these werewolves in the U.S. came from.”

“All? There’s more of us?” I asked with interest. I’d finally gotten my jeans on and was looking in the closet for a shirt.

“All over the country, unexplained murders with extreme brutality are being recorded. But so far we’ve managed to keep it hidden from the public. We’ve already cleaned up the scene at Brenda’s house,” Cocksucker reassured me.

“And how many murders are we talking about?” I asked.

“In the last twelve years, more than twenty-five thousand,” Cocksucker whispered, “but that’s classified information – don’t tell anyone.”

“In the U.S., people are being killed by werewolves. The government doesn’t know how to fight it. Fine. What do you want from me, a blood sample?” I said. Instead of a shirt, I pulled on a red T-shirt. Now I stood before Cocksucker in blue jeans, a red shirt that was too small for me, and no socks.

“We could take one for the record,” Cocksucker sighed, “but we’ve got a whole refrigerator full of your kind of blood in the lab. So far, our virologists can’t figure out how to fight this infection.”

“So it’s a virus?” I asked.

“Well, you can think of it as a virus for simplicity. But let’s not get into details yet. Let’s get to the point. We tracked that the killings recorded by the FBI started twelve years ago. Then they grew exponentially. And now they threaten humanity. You could easily be sent for experiments right now – like we’ve done with others like you – but there’s one ‘but.’ You’ve turned out to be the key to the investigation,” Cocksucker said, pausing for effect.

“A golden key?” I laughed.

“Yes, exactly. The thing is, everyone we caught turned into beasts, but when they changed back into humans, they remembered nothing. Only Crooked-Dick’s brother remembered. That’s what Crooked-Dick said in prison, and I have no reason not to believe him. Which means his brother may have been one of the first werewolves – if not the very first. We traced his life, and everything points to it. Exactly twelve years ago, the once-close brothers parted ways. Crooked-Dick’s brother disappeared. That’s when Crooked-Dick turned to drugs and eventually burned himself out. But just a few days before the murder of the family of three, Crooked-Dick met his brother. Apparently, that’s when he snapped and killed those people…” the agent said.

“And then Crooked-Dick told his brother about me and my partner, and the werewolf took revenge. My partner must have known something, since he gave me silver bullets,” I guessed.

Cocksucker sat down in the chair by the window. His face was calm. It felt like two old friends were talking about science.

“See? You’re starting to get it. You’re a good detective. Here’s what we’ll do. Since Crooked-Dick’s brother is dead, only Crooked-Dick knows what his brother told him about his transformation. That’s the mystery we have to solve. We’ll find out where this infection came from and put a stop to it. And the U.S. will be free of werewolves.”

“Alright, but there’s one little problem…” I spread my arms to the sides, as if pointing at myself.

“As I said, we clean up cases like this. No one will know about Brenda and her children’s deaths… She just left town. And yes, you killed another person that night in the park, on the third day… after infection. We cleaned that up too… almost cleaned it up…” Cocksucker sighed. He looked like he was thinking hard.

“And there haven’t been any more murders?” I asked, looking closely at Cocksucker.

“No. As far as I know, you’re the only werewolf left in Boston,” Cocksucker clearly wanted to calm me down.

“Got it. But I meant another problem. Me. When night falls over the city, I turn into an animal.”

“We’ll take care of that today. We’ll set up a bulletproof room in your house with automatic bolts. Here – this is for you.” Cocksucker handed me an earpiece. “The operator will tell you when to go in, and lock the door remotely. In case of an emergency, we’ve got an armored van – we can pick you up anywhere in the city within a couple dozen minutes. Everything is under control.”

“God, I want this infection out of me,” I sighed. I was starting to understand the kind of mess I was in. And right now there was only one right way out – work with Cocksucker.

“That depends entirely on you. Find out all the details from Crooked-Dick, and we’ll help you,” the agent said businesslike.

“Deal. But I have one more question. You say you hide all the werewolf attacks. What about my partner?” I didn’t want to miss the chance to learn more about Hank Sullivan’s murder.

“Of course, we can’t hide attacks on every person. If someone is socially significant, they can’t just vanish. In that case, the whole department would be up in arms, digging into it. So we just hid some facts. The FBI took control and ran its own investigation, and fed you only part of the truth. In reality, the beast left a pile of evidence at the crime scene. And to your department we sent only the photos of your partner’s neck and head – and only after your chief called the Deputy Director of the FBI, saying his men were climbing the walls wanting to solve the case. We didn’t show you what the werewolf actually did to your partner’s body.”

By noon, about twenty people arrived with tools and materials. They finished in four hours. They built a steel structure inside my bedroom, two meters by two meters, with a door on special locks that closed remotely. As Cocksucker explained, there would be no way for me to get out. From the outside it was covered in soundproof material, so I could howl as loud as I wanted inside.

Cameras and microphones were installed in every room of the house and around it.

“Well, that’s it. I told your chief that today you’re working with me on the agent murder case. Tomorrow you go back to work. Here’s a watch with a rubber strap – put it on. I already gave you the earpiece. We’ll also keep in touch by phone. Here’s a spare – my number’s already saved in it.”

“When will I turn into a beast?” I asked.

“No one can say. The beast can wake up at 9 p.m. or at midnight. But one thing is certain – transformations only happen after sunset and depend on the moon phases. They’ll happen every day – at least the werewolves we’ve studied do. So as soon as the sun sets, you have to be in the cage. The operator will prompt you. You’re always in contact – you can just speak aloud if you have questions or need help. Our response team will always follow you and be on duty near your home and work.”

“But why go to the department? Let me just meet with Crooked-Dick Fred Johnson and question him,” I said. I didn’t want to go to work every day and then sit in a cage.

“We have every reason to think Crooked-Dick has accomplices. He somehow got information very quickly. So we have to act like nothing happened.”

“But he knows I’m a werewolf – what’s the point of this charade?” I exclaimed, pulling a sneaker onto my left foot.

“And that’s why we’ll wait for Crooked-Dick to come to you himself through his helpers. Act like nothing’s wrong. And you’d better get going. Unfortunately, there’s no sofa in the cage, because after you transform you’d shred it to pieces. But the floor has slight heating and is rubberized. It’ll be hard, but not like cold tile… There’s a small hole in the corner for, well, natural needs. A shower is built into the cell. After you transform, you’ll have to be rinsed off – you might be covered in filth. Good luck.”

“I’d like to see that afterward,” I said.

“That’s not going to happen. Now off you go. Leave your clothes, phone, and earpiece outside the shelter. Don’t worry – the agents won’t let anyone into your house, and you can communicate with the operator through the built-in microphones and speakers in all the rooms. All calls to you will be put on speaker, and you can dial anyone too. The floor and air temperature will be set for comfort.”

I went into the cage, closed the door, and heard the soft thud of the bolt sliding shut.

“Hello, my name is Jessie. I’ll be your operator today,” I heard a voice from the wall.

I sat down on the floor, feeling awkward.

“Good day. Could you warm the floor up a couple degrees? My ass is freezing,” I said sarcastically, trying to lighten the mood.

“Done. If you need anything, I’ll help – within protocol,” said Jessie, who was polite with me. Her pleasant voice was soothing, like one of those voices you hear on phone sex lines.

“All right. Any news in Boston? Any murders today?” I asked.

“One moment… From what I see in the news, no murders today. There was an incident on the highway. A car crossed into oncoming traffic, flipped, and caught fire. The driver died. Possibly fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Hm, interesting. Burned to a crisp, I bet? Nice work, Cocksucker… Then I have another question. Jessie, have you ever seen a werewolf?” I asked, looking at the ceiling. I tried to spot hidden cameras but couldn’t find them.

“Yes, it’s my job,” Jessie answered sweetly. Her voice was arousing. I shamefully covered myself – I was starting to get hard. It felt like I was dreaming and about to finish in my sleep.

“I’ve seen them too. They’re like bears with a wolf’s muzzle. But, you know, skinny, unusual. A kind of bear-wolf mix… I think…” my arousal began to fade.

I don’t remember falling asleep. But I woke with a headache. The floor was dotted with droplets, and the air was heavy, as if filled with moisture. Apparently, they’d washed me. Yesterday, while I was chatting with Jessie, I’d studied my cell. It was a cube, two by two by two meters. Overhead burned four light fixtures, apparently under bulletproof glass. In the far right corner from the door, if you stood with your back to it, there was a drain. It seemed the floor had a slight slope toward it.

“Can I come out?” I asked.

The bolts slid back. I needed to get dressed and head to the department. On the couch I found five new suits.

“They’re from Agent Cocksucker. You can wear them if you wish,” Jessie’s voice came from somewhere in the wall.

Apparently, they’d installed speakers and microphones throughout the house, built right into the walls.

I put on a new suit, picked up my revolver, and froze.

“Where are the silver bullets? Why are there different ones here?” I exclaimed.

“We took them. You won’t need them during the day. And at night you’re in the cage,” Jessie said in a velvety voice that calmed me.

“I see – afraid I’ll off myself. But what if I shoot myself with regular bullets? Let’s find out,” I said, pulling the revolver from the holster.

I pressed the barrel to my temple and cocked the hammer.

“Jerry Harrison, there’s no need for that. We have everything under control,” Jessie’s voice stayed calm, but lost some of its friendliness.

“No, let’s see…” I pulled the trigger.

At that second, two agents burst into the room, their faces puzzled.

“Easy, boys. I always leave one chamber empty in the cylinder so I don’t blow my ass off, since I don’t always keep the revolver in its holster – sometimes I have to carry it concealed… Don’t freak out. Now I see you’ve loaded it with real rounds. At least thanks for that,” I said, slowly placing the revolver on the couch, looking into the dull faces of the black and white agents.

The revolver my partner had given me was an old model without a safety. So I always kept one chamber empty, just in case I accidentally put a bullet in myself.

The day was starting off cheerfully. I stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air. But I had to go to the department, do the routine, and wait for Crooked-Dick’s man to make a move on me. Well then – let’s get to work!

Chapter 3. Murder on the Beach

I got into my Ford F-150 pickup and sped down Blue Hill Avenue toward 40 Sudbury Street, where I worked. From Austin Street, where I lived, to my workplace was only ten miles. But in the morning there were terrible traffic jams, so it took me a full forty minutes to get there. The engine rattled as usual, and the truck kept pulling to the right. I’d been meaning to get it repaired for half a year, but there was never any time.

I had barely sat down at my desk when my boss, David Scott—nicknamed Goatface—called me in. I’d given him that nickname for his goat-like face and equally goat-like behavior. He was rude and constantly snapped at his subordinates.

“So, what did that fed sniff out? Are we in trouble?” the boss started without a greeting.

“Everything’s fine. The trouble’s not going to be here in the precinct. We’ve got nothing to do with it. I sold him on the idea that I needed information from Crookeddick on the Cupcake case. I told him Crookeddick was involved in the murder, so I sent an agent to him.”

“But how could Crookeddick have killed him if he’s in prison?” Goatface asked, baffled.

“That FBI guy didn’t go into details. I just sold him the version,” I chuckled, trying to sound convincing, though it came out forced.

“I didn’t understand a damn thing,” Goatface sighed. “Well, to hell with it. Shoot yourselves up with whatever you want, you devils… You won’t bend David Scott!’’ Goatface did his victory dance, shuffling his right foot behind his left and back again.

“Can I go now?” I was already bored.

“Go, go. And let the feds handle your partner’s case. Last time I’m telling you this! You’ve already caused enough trouble! By the way, it’s been two months since Hank Sullivan’s death. Time to pull yourself together. Now you’re working with Cherry Legspiss. Go meet her. And… no jokes about Black people.”

I went back to my desk and plopped into my chair. At a desk forming an “L” shape next to mine sat a short Black girl of about 25. She was clearly a rookie detective and shy. Her smooth, wrinkle-free face was pleasant, and she smelled of berry jam and chocolate. A yogurt sat on her desk.

“Hi. We’ll be working together. The boss told me I’d be working with Cherry. But here I see Blurry…” I laughed. I don’t know if Cherry took my words as flirting, but I was trying to make a good impression.

Cherry blushed. Another five seconds and she’d have started crying. So I defused it:

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I was joking. Cherry lives matter. And I’m not racist, so we’ll work well together. Besides, you’re not ugly.” In short, I’d just said enough to get fired without severance pay.

Under other circumstances, I’d never have said that, but right now the FBI had my back, so I could afford it. Plus, I needed to establish who was in charge here right from the start—take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

While I was musing, Goatface burst in looking rattled.

“We’ve got an emergency. Triple murder in Boston. Here’s the address—get over there and handle it.”

The paper read: Malibu Beach.

“Well, Cherry, let’s ride! We’ll take your car. Mine’s all squeaky and muddy,” I said, standing and offering my hand. She didn’t take it, just stood up silently, grabbing her yogurt.

“Sugar’s bad for you. So’s salt,” I said as I headed for the exit.

We flipped on the siren and, despite the traffic, made it to the beach quickly. Police cars were already there. Onlookers stood at a distance, filming with their phones.

At the beach entrance stood a uniformed officer. I flashed my badge and asked,

“What happened here, officer?”

“Young people killed. A guy and two girls, about nineteen. Knife wounds,” the officer reported flatly.

“I hope no one’s touched anything. Keep everyone out. The forensics team and photographer will be here soon,” I said, heading toward the crime scene, gesturing for my partner to follow.

The sight before us was grim. On the sand lay a guy in swim trunks and two girls in bikinis. Each had multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. The sand around them was crimson. The bodies lay close together, just a couple of meters apart, in unnatural positions. Nearby was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

“Well, Cherry, your theories. What do you see?” I asked, giving her a chance to shine.

“Well, it’s a murder. No weapon here, likely one perpetrator. I can tell from the footprints in the sand—only one person ran away from the scene,” Cherry observed smartly.

“Good. Now here’s a stumper—why are the bodies so close together? Let’s say the killer was alone. He stabs one victim. Why didn’t the others run?”

“Hmm, maybe they were drunk. I see beer bottles…” Cherry said.

“Maybe. Or maybe the killer was one of their group and took them out all at once. Then, after wounding each, finished them off.”

“So it’s a planned killing, not spontaneous? And the killer knew the victims? Maybe they were students and the killer a classmate,” Cherry suggested.

“Most likely. This wasn’t a robbery—nothing’s scattered. And the killer’s white,” I said.

“Why?” Cherry didn’t like that one bit. She was one of those Black folks who hated any mention of skin color.

“Because the victims are white. Unlikely they were close friends with a Black guy. That only happens in movies.”

“But I’m Black!” Cherry exclaimed.

“And are we friends?” I said, giving her a look like she was an idiot.

I put on gloves and searched the victims’ pockets. As I suspected, they were classmates—that much was clear from their IDs.

“Well, Cherry, let’s head to Fisher College. Beacon Street,” I said. We were done here.

“What about forensics?” she asked.

“We don’t need forensics. We’ll have the case wrapped up by evening. Let’s roll!” I photographed the IDs and walked off, Cherry hesitating a moment before following.

On the way to the college, I called ahead and spoke with the dean, a woman who assured me the victims’ classmates would be ready for questioning by the time we arrived.

The dean met us at the door—a large Black woman of about fifty with plump lips and a huge backside.

“Hello, Miss Perthington…” I greeted her. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Good afternoon. Such a tragedy… The students are in the lecture hall. But you understand that…” she trailed off.

“We just need to clarify some details. We’re not accusing anyone.”

I winked at Cherry to let her know everyone was a suspect.

The large lecture hall, decorated with portraits of unknown men in stiff suits, was depressing. It smelled like old shoes. About fifty students sat slouched in their chairs, staring at their phones.

“Hello,” I began. “Here’s the thing. Jimmy Lungova, Berry Kontova, and Snetta Kushka have been murdered.” I read their names from my phone. “I know you knew them, liked them, maybe were friends. But we need to find the killers. And the easiest way is while the trail’s still hot. I have one small request.” I paused.

“With me today is well-known psychologist Cherry… Cherry Campus. Don’t let her youth fool you—she’s from the FBI. She’s going to determine whether the killer is among you. Remember, this is an investigation, and you’re all suspects. Now, do exactly as I say. I’m going to count to five, and on five, raise your right hand. Cherry will instantly spot the killer with her method. Ready? One… two… three…”

On “three,” a huge guy, built like a boar, bolted from the room. Cherry and I had to give chase. The bastard was fast, and within thirty seconds we were sprinting down Beacon Street after him. Cherry kept up, and I drew my revolver, emptying the cylinder into his legs. I hit him—he tumbled and crashed into a trash can.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Cherry yelled.

I didn’t care—the feds had my back. Plus, I wanted to know for sure whether the rounds in my gun were blanks or live.

I ran up to the bleeding guy. “Police! Why’d you kill your classmates, you bastard?” I shouted.

Back at the precinct, Goatface wasn’t pleased.

“What the hell are you doing, Jerry? I’d rather you screwed me than pulled that stunt,” he snarled.

“It’s just a couple of scratches. He lunged at a passerby—I was justified in using my weapon,” I said.

“It’s true,” Cherry added.

She was starting to grow on me. She must have realized she’d be working with me for a while and wanted to earn my goodwill.

“He knifed three people on the beach. We’ll go question him at the hospital,” I said.

“You’re not going anywhere. It’s a cold case now—Phil Sanchez is dead. You didn’t just hit his leg—you hit his liver. Hospital just called…” Goatface wasn’t doing his victory dance.

“Goddammit…” I spat on the floor.

“Watch where you spit, asshole! The judge signed a search warrant for his house. The team’s on their way. You stay here. Cherry goes alone. Sit tight and keep quiet. Now get out,” Goatface waved me off like he was airing out the room.

At five p.m., Cherry called. In Phil’s trash can they’d found bloody clothes. In his dishwasher—a bloody knife. There were also faint blood traces on his car seat and steering wheel. Everything pointed to Phil being the killer. Forensics would confirm it, but the case was essentially closed.

Five minutes later my boss came in cheerful, carrying a bottle of cheap whiskey and two dirty glasses.

“Jerry Harrison, you can’t drink,” I heard a male voice in my earpiece—it wasn’t my usual operator.

“Why not? I can…” I muttered.

Wait… how the hell did they know? Whatever.

“You can’t—it’s contraindicated for you. You’re infected,” the voice said.

“I’ll just have a sip,” I whispered.

“Who you talking to?” Goatface asked, pouring the piss-colored whiskey into the glasses.

“Just my earpiece,” I waved him off.

“Anyway, nice job with that stunt at the college. Cherry told me about it,” Goatface said, sniffing his glass.

“Oh, that Cherry! She’s got a nice ass,” I said, lifting the glass.

“Don’t drink—it’s dangerous!” came through my earpiece.

I downed it in one go and poured another. Screw it all.

“That’s enough—we’ve got work to do,” Goatface said, taking the bottle and glasses away.

As soon as he left, I felt nauseous. I ran to the bathroom, and as I bent over the toilet, a stream of vomit came out. When I looked down, I froze—in the water floated chunks of flesh. Like I’d been eating human meat.

“Jerry Harrison, it’s okay,” came in my ear.

“You filthy bastards… okay?! Where did this come from… damn it! You’ve been feeding me human meat, haven’t you?!” I shouted.

“Jerry, it’s Cocksucker,” came the familiar voice. “I’m parked outside your work. Come out, I’ll take you home and explain everything. My guys will bring your truck to your house tonight.”

“Fine. But this time, don’t hide anything. No more surprises.”

Cocksucker waited in his pickup. I opened the passenger door, and without turning his head, he said,

“Get in, Jerry. I’ll tell you everything on the way to your place.”

“Go ahead,” I said, closing the door.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asked.

I thought about it. Since the werewolf attack, I hadn’t eaten or drunk a thing—except for that sip of whiskey today and a couple sips of beer at Brenda’s with her twins.

“Thing is, two or three days after transforming, a person can’t eat anything but human flesh and blood. Everything else gets rejected. You can sip some water, but it’s tough to keep down. Food, soda, alcohol—it’s all off-limits. You saw that yourself today,” he said, pulling into traffic.

“So you’re going to feed me human meat at night, right?” I snapped.

“Right. But we didn’t kill anyone last night. And you didn’t either. We just dropped fresh corpse meat through the ceiling hatch. Didn’t kill anyone just for that, but yeah—it was fresh.”

“Bet you tossed me some poor bastard and then burned the car…” I glared at the right side of his face—he still hadn’t turned his head.

“Oh, the accident? Yeah, that was us. But that was the guy you killed in the park on your third night. Look at the hatch in your cell—too small for a live person. But you need to eat to stay strong.”

Of course, I didn’t believe a word. I was starting to suspect he was playing me. His stories needed to be divided by ten or multiplied by a hundred. Still, since I hadn’t eaten since transforming, whoever they were feeding me didn’t matter—it was on the FBI’s conscience now.

“Alright, Cocksucker… what’s your real name?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Call me Cook if you want.” He wasn’t smiling—but he did sound like he was enjoying the game.

“Okay, Cook… sucker… Fine, you’re right. Let’s keep working. Today was productive. But Crookeddick still hasn’t contacted me.”

“What about Cherry?” he asked, his tone steely.

“Her? She’s a shrimp… no way she’s a gangster. Just a little squirt,” I said, though I didn’t quite believe myself.

“Or maybe she wants you to think that. While you were running around with her, we searched her house. Found something.”

“She’s Crookeddick’s illegitimate daughter?” I laughed.

“No idea—we’re still digging. But it looks like she’s got a contract on you—after the money. We found $100,000 in her couch. And that’s not all, Jerry.” He fell silent.

We pulled up to my house.

“Open the glovebox,” he said.

Inside was a box of bullets.

“Silver rounds—probably meant for you. We found them at her place.”

“You arrest her? Question her?” I asked, not liking this conversation.

“No, we’ll keep watching. Don’t worry—we swapped them for regular rounds, and we’ll replace the ones in her gun tonight when she’s asleep.”

“What if she wakes up?” I asked, palming one bullet before putting the rest back.

“She won’t… she won’t.”

“Cook, you’re one clever bastard—always thinking ahead. But why haven’t you figured out this werewolf thing yet? I’m 99% sure it’s the Chinese getting back at us for COVID… Wait, no—if the killings started twelve years ago and COVID was two years ago, then not the Chinese… maybe the Russians? Revenge for the fall of the USSR?” I said with a smirk.

“If only it were that simple, Jerry. Like I told you—it’s some kind of virus. But not a virus. Some weird shit. And as for China—they’ve got a full-blown werewolf epidemic. According to our data, their entire leadership is turned.”

“And in our government?” I asked quietly.

“Well… I can’t tell you. But since we trust each other, I’ll share a secret. Our president is a werewolf.”

“Knew it! I knew it!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t worry—we’ve got it under control. At night he’s locked in a cell. But imagine if the press found out the President of the United States eats human flesh every night—that’d be a scandal!” Cook turned to me and smiled. I stared, jaw dropped.

“God save us… He can barely walk and he’s got dementia…”

“Yeah, that’s why we feed him dead babies—they’re softer,” Cook said. It sounded like a sick joke—but he was serious.

I got out, shut the door, went inside, and sat on the couch, holding my head and thinking hard. I sat like that for half an hour. Outside, dusk was falling, and as the sun set, the operator reminded me it was time to head to the cell.

Every day I learned something new… But the news about the President—God, what kind of country is this?!

Chapter 4 – The Mysterious Death of the Mayor’s Daughter

The morning began in its usual routine. I stepped out of the “cage” – as I affectionately called my cell – got dressed, and drove to work. My pickup, which I’d left at the office, had been thoughtfully delivered to my house by the agents. Now, of course, I had to spend an hour in traffic.

The truck had been washed and filled to the brim with gas. In the glove box was a note: “Vehicle inspected and tuned up – will drive like a dream.”

And sure enough, it felt like a completely different machine. No more pulling to the right, no engine knocking, no creaky doors. They’d worked their magic – and fast. At least the FBI was good for something.

When I arrived at the precinct, Cherry was already at my partner’s desk.

“Sleep well?” I asked.

“Yeah. Went to bed early last night. There was a murder. The chief called me in and yelled for five straight minutes. Couldn’t get through to you or me. We were supposed to be at the crime scene, but they had to pull Fox in – even though he’s attached to another district.”

“Oh, that bastard Bram Fox… fine, I’ll deal with it.”

I went straight to Kozloryl’s office.

“What the hell are you doing? You gave my case to Fox! He’s not even from our precinct!” I barked, throwing open the glass door.

“Don’t start with me, idiot. I couldn’t get either of you on the phone, sent units to your places, and the streets around both of you were dug up for repairs… total mess. And this was a high-profile case. The victim was the mayor’s daughter,” Kozloryl said. He wasn’t in a good mood today – but then again, he rarely was.

“This is my case! Keep Fox out of it,” I said, stepping inside.

“He won’t touch it. The mayor called this morning asking specifically for you to handle it. Said he’d heard all about your ‘heroics’ in the student murder case. And besides, your clearance rate’s solid… damn, you’ve solved every case you’ve been given – except your partner’s murder. Or have you dug something up already?” Kozloryl’s anger was already cooling.

“Let the feds handle that one. I’m heading to the scene. Where is it?” I asked.

“Christ, Jerry! Don’t you watch TV or listen to the radio in your car? Go talk to Cherry – she knows the details. Drive to the mayor’s house. I’ll call him and say you’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He turned me by the shoulder and shoved me out the door.

Cherry and I got into my truck.

“You said your car was filthy and the engine ran rough. Sounds like it’s purring now,” Cherry noted.

“Cherry, is this an interrogation? I washed it, fixed the engine. The pulleys were squealing – five-minute swap. Did it myself in the garage,” I said casually. “Now tell me what happened – I didn’t watch the news, didn’t listen to the radio…”

“Alright, here’s the short version. The mayor’s daughter was murdered—”

“Murdered? No kidding! Had no idea,” I cut her off.

“—stab wound to the neck,” Cherry went on unfazed, “bled out. She was five. That evening the family went to bed – the mayor, his wife, the daughter, and their ten-year-old son. Around midnight, the wife woke up to get some water. She checked on her daughter and found her already dead. No cameras inside the house.”

“And outside?” I asked.

“There are some, but nothing suspicious showed up – no strange cars or people. None of the cameras point directly at the house. So it’s unclear if anyone came in. The whole family’s been evacuated except for the mayor. Forensics have been dusting for prints and collecting evidence all night.”

“Find anything?” My curiosity was piqued.

“Nothing. As if the killer never entered the house,” Cherry said meaningfully, staring at the side of my face. It was getting annoying.

“They swab the hands of the son, wife, and mayor? Oh wait – Fox was in charge. Of course they didn’t,” I said. “And stop staring at me before you burn a hole in my cheek.”

When we pulled up, Fox was on the porch chatting with the mayor.

“Well, well, well,” Fox squeaked – a scrawny man in his forties – “look who it is! How’s that investigation into your partner’s murder going?”

“No idea, Fox. As you know, the FBI’s running that one – call them and ask. This case is mine. Now get the hell out of here,” I growled through my teeth.

“Try sleeping less, hero,” he shot back. He liked to trade barbs.

The mayor stepped in. He was about forty-five, tall, lean – and obviously devastated. He looked at our squabble with disgust.

“Detective Jerry, I want you to find the killer,” the mayor said crisply.

“Of course, Mr. Mayor. But let’s speak privately.”

I took him aside.

“I’ll check the scene and talk to forensics. But let’s be honest – there was no break-in. Which means the killer was one of your family,” I said as gently as I could.

“That’s impossible! We loved her! And our son slept with us that night. My wife says he’s been nervous lately – maybe he sensed something,” the mayor protested.

“Alright. I’ll need to interview all three of you – you, your wife, and your son. I’ll visit you in a couple hours.”

“We’ll be at the Marriott,” the mayor said.

“The one on the waterfront near State Street?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Think hard about every detail of that night and the days leading up to it. And whether you have any enemies who might want revenge.”

“Enemies? Come on! I won the election fair and square!”

“I didn’t vote for you. I don’t vote for Democrats,” I said on my way out.

Inside, the head forensic tech, old grumbler Herner, was packing up with two assistants.

“Got the prints?” I asked.

“Yeah, all done. No sign of forced entry.”

“Could they have come in through a window?”

“One on the second floor was open. The rest were latched. You can’t open those from the outside.”

“But could they have used the open one?”

“Unlikely. It’s pristine – I dusted it, checked the ledge. No footprints, no marks. Even in sterile gear, someone would’ve left something. There’s nothing.”

“Alright, I’ll check it myself. Found the weapon?”

“Nope.”

“You swab the son’s hands?”

“No. By the time I got here, the mother had already taken him away. Damn Fox…”

I tuned out his complaints and went upstairs. Cherry followed, eyeing the blood-soaked bed and carpet.

“I think this was revenge,” she said.

“Why?”

“Not a random killer. A pro.”

“Or the boy?”

“Highly unlikely. They said he slept with them – if he’d done it, he’d be covered in blood. And the mother found the girl first…”

“Uh-huh. And if you had to hide a knife, where would you put it?”

“Couch… I don’t know.”

“Lousy detective. They’d have found it there. Go to the kitchen – see if all the knives are there.”

While she was gone, I examined the room. Blood everywhere – even on the ceiling. On the long-pile carpet, a brownish stain – likely from the mayor trying CPR. The open window showed no prints or ledge marks, but I noticed the grass below was slightly flattened. You’d need a detective’s eye to catch it.

“Well?” I asked when Cherry returned.

“One’s missing – the ice-pick knife,” she said quietly.

Before leaving, I told Herner to bag the grass samples.

At the Marriott, I asked the mayor to gather the whole family. The wife resisted, saying the boy was in shock. The mayor overruled her.

She brought in a sullen Black boy. Not what I was expecting.

“My wife’s son from her first marriage,” the mayor explained.

“Right. And you say he slept with you that night, ma’am?”

“Yes… When I got up for water and checked on her, she was dying… I called my husband…”

“And you, sir – how were you woken?”

“My wife. Her face was covered in blood. She said someone killed our little girl…”

“And where was the boy then? Still in bed?”

“I don’t know… I ran straight to my daughter’s room…”

“Why all these questions?” the wife snapped – clearly hiding something.

I stood. “Last question, ma’am. Where’s your ice-pick knife? Let’s check your purse.”

“Nooo!” she screamed, falling to her knees before her husband. “Forgive me… it wasn’t on purpose…”

The pale mayor drew a revolver.

“Don’t—” I started, but it was too late.

He shot his wife in the head, then fired three rounds into the boy’s neck, then one into his own jaw.

On the way back, Cherry asked, “Why kill the boy? Black lives matter.”

“Not his son. The Black brat was jealous. The mayor was always at work, so the mother started bringing the boy into her bed. That night, he got up and drove the ice-pick into his sister’s neck. The mother found her still breathing, pulled the knife out – and that’s when the blood poured. The boy stayed clean. Instead of saving her daughter, she saved him – tossing the knife out the open window, later retrieving it and hiding it in her purse. Even without the weapon, I’d have broken them in ten minutes.”

“Poor mayor,” Cherry sighed.

“That bastard? He might’ve been a doctor and a good shot, but he was no leader. Maybe now we’ll get a real Republican in office. Now get out of my truck – grab a cab and report to the chief. I’m not driving you.”

“And you?”

“You don’t want to see me tonight – I’ll be in a bad mood. Might bite someone…”

Cherry flinched. That told me she really was involved in something. So Kuksucker hadn’t been lying about her. Time to go home and spend the night in the cage.

Hopefully no one would get killed tonight, so I could spend tomorrow digging into Krivochlen’s case – maybe finally tracing the origins of this werewolf epidemic and helping Kuksucker find a cure.

Chapter 5 – The Boston Strangler

The morning started with a dressing-down from Kozloryl… The chief was fuming and spitting insults. Droplets of spit from his bastard mouth splattered onto my new suit – the one Cocksucker had given me.

“Jerry, you’re a real piece of work. A triple homicide at the Marriott – the mayor killed his family and blew his own brains out right in front of you. How could you let that happen?” Kozloryl squealed, yanking the blinds shut.

“Me? What about your Cherry? She’s a detective too! Why aren’t you chewing her out?” I shot back.

“She just started on the force. And you know the situation… She’s Black, and I don’t need trouble with those darkies,” Kozloryl said nastily.

“You old asshole! Listen to me now – I don’t give a damn about your hang-ups. You chew me out one more time, and I’ll plant one right in your face, got it, you little prick? You and your career only went anywhere because of me and my partner – how many times did we cover your sorry ass?” I shouted.

“Now, Jerry, I—” Kozloryl faltered. My outburst hit home.

“Go to hell, mustache-face. You just drenched my jacket in your spit,” I yelled.

“Wait, let me just say—” he stammered.

I didn’t listen. I stormed out and slammed the door hard. Finally, I could say what I really thought. And most importantly, it was the truth. That worthless piece of crap had been belittling my work for years, stealing all the credit for himself. Screw him.

I was pissed – and ready to go all in. I went over to Cherry and told her we needed to talk. She flinched.

“Why so tense today, Cherry, sugar? Come on, tell me what’s up. The chief mentioned some case to me…” I tossed out.

“Oh, right. The case. Looks like we’ve got a serial killer in the city. The press doesn’t know yet – just suspicions – but it’s starting to look that way. Remember the Anna Stern case your favorite Fox handled?”

“A 40-year-old woman raped with a bottle in her own apartment, then strangled with a bathrobe belt. Investigators worked the leads but came up empty,” I recited.

“Today, two weeks later, another woman turned up dead – Linda Brown. Same MO. Rape. Strangled with stockings,” Cherry said.

“And she’s white too?” I asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Cherry clearly didn’t get where I was going.

“Listen up—” I grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her out of my partner’s chair – “I’m getting damn tired of your constant, scared little hints about your skin color. I don’t give a crap until you people start making it the point of every conversation. From now on, when I ask a question, you answer it – directly, without your stupid hints.” I let go, and Cherry plopped back down into the chair, her chin trembling.

“Yes, she’s white,” she nodded, almost in tears.

“So I take it the case is ours?” I asked, softening my tone.

“Yes. We can go right now,” Cherry said.

The victim lived in the southwest outskirts of Boston on Clifford Street. I lived in the same area, so it meant driving back – but with a purpose this time. I flipped on the siren. The house was cordoned off, a few people standing behind the tape. As Cherry and I approached and I flashed my badge, a man in a worn blue sweater, maybe 50, called out:

“Linda was a good person. Find her killer.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“George Servanto, sir. My family and I have lived here twenty years. We knew Linda – she was our neighbor. We often visited her…” He seemed genuinely eager to help – or at least that’s how it looked at first glance.

“Notice anything suspicious?” I asked.

“No. Just that the power went out around midnight. I was reading when it happened. A minute or two later, the lights came back on – I’d just managed to pull a flashlight from the drawer,” Servanto explained in detail.

“And does that happen often?”

“In twenty years, I can’t remember it ever happening…”

“Alright, thanks,” I said, turning toward the house.

Inside, the front door and lock were untouched. The killer had either used a pick or – more likely – the victim had let him in. No sign of a struggle in the entryway. In the living room, on the couch, the body lay face down.

The left stocking was torn, the right missing entirely. The killer had strangled her with a bathrobe belt still tied around her neck. A comb protruded from her anus, handle first.

“Well, did the bastard leave us anything?” I asked when I saw the familiar scowl of Herner, the god-tier forensic tech.

“He didn’t just leave something – he left his underwear,” Herner said, clearly itching to share.

“Good. Hopefully they stink enough for the dogs to catch a trail,” I said, encouraged.

“They did. The scent led to the road, then stopped. Likely he got into a car,” Herner reported.

“Time of death?”

“Too early to be sure – the AC was running all night. But my guess, with the cooling factored in, is between midnight and one a.m.”

“Son of a bitch – left his underwear, but turned on the AC to throw us off,” I muttered.

“Maybe it was already on,” Herner suggested.

“No – judging by the stockings and warm sweater, she was the type to feel cold. Let’s check the cameras. Cherry, call Doug Quark at HQ – he’s sharp.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Just give him the address – he knows what to do. Have him pull city camera footage. There’s a gas station nearby – maybe it caught something. Give him the timeframe Herner just told you. He’ll figure it out.”

Cherry was already grating on my nerves.

“Well, this case is a mess,” I told either myself or Herner. “Only good thing – the killer’s left-handed. Easier to track.”

“How do you know?” Herner asked.

“Look at how the stockings were torn. Definitely with the left hand.”

Here’s what I had so far: jack shit. Every night I had to get into the “cage.” I didn’t know what happened after I transformed. My Black partner wanted to kill me. America faced a werewolf epidemic only I could stop. And now this Boston Strangler wannabe was on my plate. This bastard picked victims at random – which meant catching him would be tough. I’d need luck.

“Let’s work,” I said. “Autopsy as soon as possible.”

Half an hour later, Cherry reported that Quark had called back. They’d pulled footage from surrounding streets and nearby gas stations. His team flagged several suspicious cars – their owners would be questioned soon.

The meat wagon arrived. Two guys, with Herner’s approval, rolled the victim over.

One unzipped a black body bag, then they lifted her in.

“One sec,” Herner called. “Stop – photographer!”

“What is it?” I asked – but I already saw it on the couch.

The woman had been lying on a blanket. When they moved her, the blanket slid off, revealing red letters scrawled across the upholstery:

DH + HS = DH by 01.01

“Not a word. I’ll take a sample,” Herner said.

Looks like he didn’t get the riddle. Neither did Cherry, judging by her dumb face. She had an excuse – but Herner? He’d been friends with my partner.

“Looks like we’re staying here. Search the place top to bottom. This isn’t just any murder – we’re hunting a very specific killer. I want everything on both the first and second victims. There will be more – that’s certain. Check the laptop?” I asked.

I walked over to the laptop on the coffee table and tapped the space bar.

The desktop wallpaper was a pair of shapely legs in white stockings. A Word doc was minimized – I opened it. Four lines stared back:

The monster will come

And you it will slay.

At night I shall pray

And live through the day.

Two hours later, I left Cherry and got into my pickup. This killer clearly wanted me to investigate these murders. Either he was some amateur who thought he was immortal, or a calculated psychopath trying to leave me holding the bag. DH were my initials. HS were my late partner’s. But why that strange equation?

I asked the operator to connect me to Cocksucker. Ten seconds later, he was on the line.

“Hello, Jerry Harrison,” Cocksucker greeted me.

“Hey, Cocksucker. Swear to me this isn’t one of the Bureau’s sick jokes. I’m at a crime scene – second woman dead, brutally murdered. And it looks like the killer knows me and is playing games,” I said.

“No, we don’t do that kind of thing. And remember – the first murder happened before you and I even met,” Cocksucker replied.

“That doesn’t mean much. Anyway… you probably don’t know, but in the mid-20th century Boston had a serial killer – the Boston Strangler. Same M.O. as our new friend. As far as I remember, they caught him. This can’t be coincidence. We need to find the bastard.”

“You think the Boston Strangler’s back?”

“Some nut read too much internet before bed. I’ll find him. I’m going to the archives to take a fresh look at the original Strangler case. I want you to check your channels – maybe the FBI has more than what’s in the files,” I said.

“Fine, I’ll look. But Jerry… I’ll say this up front: we don’t have time for this crap. We’ve got bigger problems. By the way, Fred Johnson – that Crooked-Dick – still hasn’t made a move on you? And what about Cherry?”

“It’s been three days. Relax. I’m on it,” I said crisply. I didn’t like his pushy tone.

“This country’s in the middle of a werewolf epidemic, son. I can’t wait forever. My boss has me by the balls and soon he’ll start pulling. You’re only free and alive because I vouched for you. Don’t let me down,” Cocksucker pressed.

“I get it. But we agreed I’d wait for Fred Johnson’s people to make the first move. Let’s stick to that plan. If it fails, we go on the offensive,” I suggested.

“Fine. You’ve got four more days. Don’t screw this up,” he said, then hung up.

I already knew about the Boston Strangler. We’d studied the case at the police academy. In short: in 1962, 1963, and 1964, thirteen women aged 19 to 85 were killed. The murders were linked into one series.

The killer raped victims with foreign objects, then strangled them – often with nylon stockings. The culprit was Albert DeSalvo. After the series, he spared one woman – only raping her. She described him to police, leading to his arrest. DeSalvo had posed as a detective to gain entry, then assaulted her. His conviction rested on his own confession. Nine years later, he was stabbed to death in prison. In 2013, DNA tied him to one of the murders. Case closed.

Today was the second murder. When I pulled the old dates, I froze – they matched exactly: June 14 and June 28.

The first victim of the old Strangler was Anna Schlepers. The first of the new – Anna Stern. Same name. Both killed on June 14, both strangled with a bathrobe belt.

The second victim of the old Strangler – Mary Mullen. The new – Linda Brown. Killed June 28. Different names – good. Maybe the first-name match was coincidence.

Both of the new victims wore stockings – likely brought and put on by the killer. And the “left-handed” clue might be a ruse – he could be right-handed. The planted underwear? A distraction.

Then there was the formula: DH + HS = DH by 01.01. Interesting.

And the poem:

The monster will come

And you it will slay.

At night I shall pray

And live through the day.

Also – the power outage at midnight near the second murder. Could be a lead.

Alright, Boston Strangler – you picked the wrong guy to play hide-and-seek with. I’ll crack you before I crack Crooked-Dick’s brother’s case – the one who turned into a wolf twelve years ago.

The next two murders in the old series happened on June 30. Two women, different districts, raped with foreign objects and strangled with stockings.

That gave me two days to prepare.

Chapter 6. A Difficult Decision

After reviewing the case, I gathered Cherry, Quark Doug, and Herner.

“Well, guys, this killer is exactly copying the murders of the Boston Strangler, who terrorized the city back in 1962. But this new Strangler miscalculated – this isn’t the 20th century anymore. We’ll catch this bastard and punish him! According to the old case, the next murder will happen in two days – June 30. Today, I remind you, is the 28th. And this time it will be a double murder. Two women will be strangled with nylon stockings. Those stockings are bothering me. I feel like this bastard brings them with him, just like the robe for the first victim. I don’t think he’s counting on the luck that all this clothing would be in the victims’ homes.”

“So what are you suggesting, Jerry?” Herner asked.

“We need to find out exactly what kind of stockings and robe these are. Probably the Strangler bought an entire batch at once in some Boston store. We need to find out where these items are sold… Maybe we’ll get a lead. You and Cherry will handle that. Quark Doug will take on the surveillance footage.”

Quark nodded.

“That’s it, you’re all dismissed,” I said.

Cherry and Quark left, but Herner stayed.

“And what are you going to do, Jerry?” Herner asked.

“I’ll keep analyzing. This killer started a game with me, which means it’s someone who knows me well. A lot of people know me – but not the whole damn city of Boston!” I exclaimed.

“Do you think it’s Fred Johnson?” Herner asked. “And why do you think these murders are being committed just to piss you off?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s Crooked-Dick. This is too subtle a game for him. As for the maniac – there were initials written on that couch: mine and those of my murdered partner – D.H. and H.S.”

“Does the chief know about this? Technically, you should be pulled off the case,” Herner said in a perfunctory tone.

“He doesn’t know. And he’s not going to. We’ll solve this before he finds out. Or do you want the case handed back to Fox? He’ll screw it up for sure!” I put an end to our sluggish argument.

“All right. We’ll do it,” Herner sighed.

I got home right at sunset. The operator kept urging me to hurry and suggested detours around the evening traffic. At one point, I noticed a silver van with Washington plates following me. Probably that same armored vehicle in case I didn’t make it home before sunset.

From the chamber I’d gotten used to calling “the cage” – though it wasn’t a cage – I asked the operator to connect me to Cocksucker.

“Hey, Cocksucker! Got anything extra on the Boston Strangler case?” I said cheerfully.

“I do, Jerry. But this is classified. All right, I’ll tell you as a friend – but you’ll owe me,” Cocksucker said, and I already owed him for not sending me off for experiments.

“Anything you want… You know I’m busting my ass – literally – to solve the Crooked-Dick mess,” I said, trying to sound convincing.