One

The Hour of the Wolf

Dammit, Sandra, just go to sleep, she told herself again. She looked at the clock. 3am. If she fell asleep right now, that would give her a solid three and a half hours. She didn’t dare set the alarm any later. She’d already received two warnings about being late. Her boss made it clear there would not be a third.

She was fucking everything up again. Problems with her car had cost her her last job, and how was she supposed to get it fixed without an income? She felt she was letting everyone down. Mary. Her dad. Even Sid. She’d driven away the one close friend she’d made out here. She wanted badly to apologize to Mary. That was a stupid falling out, especially over trying to defend her relationship with Sid. Mary had since moved away to who knows where. She couldn’t even reach her through Facebook since she’d been blocked.

And Sid. God, what had she been thinking? He hadn’t threatened her, not really. Not exactly, but it had been enough to freak her dad out. 

She turned over again and looked at the clock. 3:15. When he visited last month, her father urged her to move back home. She’d told him she wouldn’t. She didn’t need him to protect her. It was safe. Sid wasn’t even around anymore. Last she’d heard he moved to Seattle. But sometimes people came back from Seattle…

Maybe she should move back home. Try again in a year or two somewhere else. Save up some money first so the slightest problems didn’t bring everything crashing down. She turned over again and squeezed her eyes shut. She would find a way to make it work. She loved everything about Portland. Except how damn expensive everything was.

And that was when she heard it. A soft click. The door to the back patio closed quietly. She had locked it. She knew she had. Hadn’t she? She froze where she lay in bed. 

Someone was in the house. Could it be Sid? She’d warned him not to come back. He’d said then that they’d be together forever. Maybe she should have gotten that restraining order after all. She’d told her dad she would but hadn’t gotten around to it. She had at least taken the gun he’d given her, although as she’d pointed out at the time, she hadn’t fired one since she was a little girl. 

Schedule some range time then, he’d told her. She promised she would. She hadn’t gotten around to that either.

She thought Sid was too much of a coward to actually break in. It appeared she was wrong. Or maybe it was just a burglar. Just a burglar. How fucked up a thought was that? 

She cursed silently to herself as she slid out from under the covers. She felt for the bathrobe on the nearby chair and shrugged into it. Only then did she carefully move to the closet to get the gun. She loaded it as quietly as she could, then slid the safety off and started stealthily toward the hall. 

If it was a burglar, they'd find out the hard way they picked the wrong house to break into tonight. She tried to sound tough in her thoughts. If it was Sid, well, they’d see what happened. Could she actually shoot him? She didn’t know. If he tried anything… maybe. At the very least, she’d give him a good scare, it would serve him right.

She carefully opened her bedroom door and peered into the hall. A faint light shone from the kitchen. The bastard was raiding the fridge? She stepped into the hall. Froze, took a couple more steps, and froze again. She thought she saw a shadow move. Okay, now I'm just scaring myself, she thought. But it was another long moment before she willed herself to move again. 

She crept, carefully, gun gripped in both hands, to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was hanging open. By its light, she could see what looked like a pile of shredded clothing on the floor in front of it. A naked burglar? Or Sid’s idea of romance. Why would they be shredded? And how? Whatever was going on, there was definitely somebody here, and she was rapidly moving from scared to angry.

Footsteps behind her, from the living room. Fast, across the carpet. She whirled, raised the pistol, and peered past it into the darkness. She stepped forward and reached for the light switch, feeling along the wall. All right, asshole, I know you're there. Step out slowly, hands where I can see them, or I'm blowing your fucking head off.

She was answered by a low growl. She could see him now, a shadow, low to the ground, moving toward her, crawling. I mean it, she said again, desperately trying to keep her voice calm, to show no trace of her fear, over-enunciating I am armed, and I will shoot you. 

No answer to that, but the figure still advanced. Her fingers found the switch and the room blazed into light. She recoiled at what she saw. It wasn't a burglar, or even a man at all. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening in the small space. The figure twitched but still advanced. She pulled the trigger twice more. Two more loud reports. It leapt. 

The weight of the creature hit her, knocking her to the ground, teeth at her throat. She tried to scream, but the jaws were already clamped down too tightly. She could feel something warm trickling down the sides of her neck, over her ears. Then there was only darkness and silence.

"Other side of the tape, Ms. Rosen," Police Detective Michael Diaz called out to her about half a second after Veer ducked under the tape to get a picture.

Dammit. Just a few more steps and she would have seen what the yellow flag on the ground outside the broken window was marking. 

She quickly ducked back to the right side of the tape.

Is this another dog mauling, Detective? she called back to him. 

He didn't answer her, though. 

Why is homicide here? Shouldn't Animal Control be involved?

Veer knew she wouldn’t get much but hoped for at least something. Five years of working the crime beat in Portland, off and on. It wasn’t what she wanted to do, but it paid the bills and allowed her to work on the big stories, the deep-dive exposes that were the real reason she’d gone into journalism in the first place. And now that she was sitting on the biggest one yet, for almost three years, it seemed all she could do was sit. These attacks, though, if her guess about them was correct, might be exactly what she was waiting for.

And she was being thwarted by this police detective. If only he knew what she knew. Of course, she could never tell him. In the years she’d been here, she learned who she could cajole a bit of information out of and who would just blithely ignore her. Who would likely be angered into shutting her out completely if she stepped over a line, and who would just recognize it as part of the game as long as she didn't actually interfere with anything. Diaz was one of the latter.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ms. Rosen, he responded to her question. Do you know something that I don't?

Two people killed in two days, both badly mauled? she responded. You don't think that establishes a pattern?

How do you know this guy was mauled? he asked her. He seemed genuinely surprised. 

Dammit. She shouldn’t have given away that much. 

I have my sources, she responded. 

She was hoping he’d be amused, but instead he just got annoyed. Not really in the mood for games tonight, Ms. Rosen, he responded.

So tell me what you've got, here. Some guy roaming the neighborhood with a big dog?

We don't know what we have here yet. I just got here myself. We don't even know if this case is connected at all to the one from Friday. Seeing the look of skepticism on her face, he continued, How about you answer a couple of questions for me? How do you know about the mauling? How did you get here so much faster than your fellow vultures? He indicated the news crews just arriving and unpacking their gear.

Let me in, and I'll tell you.

He laughed, not entirely without mirth. I can't do that. Even if I did want to.

What about the reports of shots being fired? Did the killer shoot the victim before he was mauled?

He gave her a strange look. Instead of answering, he turned back toward the house. She, he said before heading inside, leaving her on the other side of the yellow tape.

Detective Michael Diaz walked into the controlled chaos of a busy crime scene inside the house. Two people were bagging the body for transport to the morgue. A couple of other officers were measuring the three bullet holes, marking and laying down measurements for the crime scene photographer who, having finished with the body, moved on to the rest of the house.

The living room and kitchen seemed to be the only parts of the house affected by the violence. The victim, deceased, had been found by the doorway between them. A shredded pile of clothing, like at the last scene, was lying on the kitchen floor. The CSI team were still taking prints in the rest of the house, but if their suspect had been anywhere else, he hadn't left any obvious signs. 

Despite what he had told the reporter outside, Detective Diaz was fairly certain the killings were related. Both had had the same mauling pattern, with the victims’ throats torn open by large teeth, and bites and scratches over the rest of the body. The shredded clothes were similar to the last one. Sweatpants, T-shirt, sandals. He was willing to bet that they weren’t in the victim’s size.

No signs of forced entry, and in both cases the doors had been locked. So, the victim let the killer in, and… and, what? This one at least distrusted the killer enough to have a gun handy, and by the looks of things had gotten a couple of shots off, wounding the killer pretty badly before his dog got her.

Did the dog owner even do any of the killing himself? He didn’t even know if it was technically murder if someone trains a dog to kill someone. Fortunately, that wasn’t his responsibility. It was up to the DA to figure out what to charge the guy with. He just had to catch him. Though if this was a burgeoning serial killer, and there was every indication it was, the latest victim may have put an end to it. There was enough blood on the floor that the killer couldn't have gotten very far. So far, the police searching the nearby area hadn't turned up anything. Nor had alerting the local hospitals. But it was still early.

It was even possible that all the work they had done gathering evidence would only be used to confirm the identity of a corpse found in some back alley days from now. Wouldn't that be nice?

Detective Philip Lee walked in the front door, carrying two drink trays full of steaming paper coffee cups. For several seconds he was the most popular guy in the room. They all knew it was going to be a long night.

They got you fetching coffee now, Phil? Michael asked him, taking one of the cups for himself. 

It was on my way, his fellow detective answered him.

What, Powell’s? asked Detective Lauren Boyd, noticing the label on the cup she had taken. There’s closer coffee. She’d made detective only a week before but was already fitting in as if she’d been there forever.

I was coming from the other side of the river, Phil responded. 

He just likes the barista there, Officer Don Avison said, looking up from his camera.

Phil looked to Michael for help but found none there.

What, the short pudgy one with the wolf tramp stamp?

Hey, she’s not… Phil started, but was saved from the conversation by the arrival of a uniformed officer from a back room.

What’ve we got? Phil asked him as he came in.

Jones, he introduced himself. We responded to a call about shots being fired at this location.

Wait a minute, Michael interrupted him. Was that how dispatch reported it?

Yeah, as far as I remember, why?

No reason, go on, he told him. 

Phil stopped him with an upraised hand, though. What is it? he asked Michael.

The reporter, Vera Rosen. She knew there were gunshots because we reported it over the radio. She must have been listening to a police scanner and just gave me the mysterious act about it so I’d bite and give her more information.

Clever, Phil said.

I almost fell for it, too, Michael responded with a slight smile. He turned back to Jones. Sorry, go on.

When we got here, there was no sign of disturbance, Jones continued. We knocked and got no answer, then my partner spotted the deceased up against the wall there. He indicated the spot where the body had been.

We both drew our weapons, and I kicked the door in and entered while he covered me. It was locked before I did so. I tried it. The girl was obviously dead, so we secured the rest of the house and called you guys.

And you didn't touch anything else?

The front door, the doorknob to the bedroom, and a couple of light switches. Didn't move anything around of course. Found the bullet holes and the blood, weapon knocked out of the victim’s hands. He indicated another pin flag where the gun had been found.

What do you make of it?

You ask me. Your killer picked the wrong target this time. Got himself shot, but not fatally. Ran off while, or after, his dog tore the victim up. Door probably locked on its own while closed.

I'll check that. Thanks.

No problem. There was also a stolen vehicle reported about fifteen minutes ago a couple of blocks from here, so you'll have that report on your desk soon as well.

Great. Let's put an APB out on the vehicle, just in case it is related.

Already done.

Michael supposed it was just as likely that the killer went out the back door as the front. When he checked it later, it also wasn't bolted, and could have been locked before it was closed.

The press demanded a statement before he left, so he gave them the usual no comments and We’re still investigating. They didn't expect anything else, veterans all, though they knew they needed something to show their audiences. TV crime shows had led everyone to believe the case should be cracked in an hour, though truthfully he knew he might be starting an investigation that could be open for years.

God, he hoped not. If the latest victim had wounded the killer enough to end the guy’s career, he would be eternally grateful.

Rosen, he noticed, was not among the crowd of her fellow reporters demanding a statement.

Vera Rosen was making a report, though not for her editor. That would come, hours later, but what went into it depended a lot on what happened in this room tonight.

There was danger enough here, speaking to Victor about such things. He was known to the public at large as Victor Stumpp, president and CEO of Stumpptown Systems. And he was that. But to a very small group of people, including both of the others in the room, he was more than that. And currently he was not acting in his capacity as head of Stumpptown Systems. Instead, he was speaking as the Alpha of his region.

 The other man standing near Victor’s desk added an extra unknown element, though. She guessed he was Gregor Theissen, Alpha of Southern California and she happened to know Victor's original mentor. His presence here lent strength to a suspicion she had about the deaths.

Hello, Veer, Victor said brightly as she entered the room. What did you learn from the crime scene?

His use of her familiar name along with the cheerful attitude she knew would not be an accident. It was a signal to Gregor that she was a friend and not just a flunky —a way of letting them both know that she had his trust and his support. 

She let herself relax, just a little bit. Not much more than I told you before I went, she replied. I wasn't able to get in. By the time I arrived, the police were already there.

And you didn't try sneaking in? the other man, standing by a filing cabinet, asked. He looked to be in his early eighties, though Veer was sure he was much older than that.

It was a stupid suggestion. And although Veer knew better not to say so in so many words, she would not kowtow to him, either. Victor may have to answer to him, but she only had to answer to Victor. That carried its own ironies, but that was a thought for another day. It would be dangerous to even consider that right now, lest either of the two men realize what she was thinking. 

Like I said, there were police all over the place. No way to get in without them knowing, she replied instead.

No way a Human could get in, perhaps? Victor put in. Which was really just too much.

I should have transformed right there? Because a wolf nosing around in the middle of the city, at a crime scene where the chief suspect is a large dog wouldn't have raised any notice at all? She tried to sound more amused than confrontational, to let him know his suggestion was no better than a joke. 

She was already tired of these petty power games, keeping her standing while giving her report, questioning her. Doubting her. From Victor, she could take it. He had earned her respect. He was, after all, her Alpha. This stranger, Alpha or no, had no such claim over her. She didn't like him, and she didn't like the way Victor followed his lead.

She continued, You weren't there. Don't try second guessing my decisions from the safety of your armchair.

Look, she immediately gentled her tone, but still chastised her elders, I'll get the information you want, but I'll get it my own way and in my own time. I'll use my own judgment while I'm out there about when to proceed and how.

Victor looked amused, which was better than angry she supposed. Gregor looked like he was about to say something. 

No, she interrupted before he could start, This isn't a negotiation. If you don't like it, do it yourselves. Or get someone else to go for you.

She kept the fear out of her voice as she spoke. She was all too aware of her danger. She hadn’t been able to find proof - yet - but rumor held that people who had angered either of these two men disappeared in the past. But she had to establish her place early, and firmly. To do any less would bring its own dangers. 

Despite her words, she desperately didn’t want to take the risk of them giving the task to someone else. If she got the information from the police, or even worked with them, she might yet be able to turn this whole situation to her own advantage.

Do you have a plan? Victor finally responded. She knew he could sense her relief, but she didn't let her guard down.

Yes, she replied simply, but didn’t elaborate.

Gregor glared at her, and then took a step toward her. She met his gaze. From what she understood, it would be a breach of protocol for him to do anything here, in Victor’s territory. She hoped her understanding was right. He was stopped in his tracks by the laughter of the man behind the desk. Gregor reeled back in that direction.

Hell, you asked for that, Gregor!

The fuck, the older man said. You give your people far too much leeway, Victor.

Ah, kids these days, Stumpp replied, leaning back in his chair behind his desk. What are you going to do? His tone was mocking, and the other didn't miss it. 

You keep them in line is what you fucking do. He’d forgotten about Veer, and leaned toward Victor now, putting both his hands on the desk. If you'd done that, I wouldn't be here! He stalked back toward his chair, turned but didn't sit down.

That didn’t seem likely. She decided to assume her earlier deductions were correct and see where that took her.

Shouldn’t we wait to see who it is before making that assumption? she asked him. After all, didn’t the killings start in your territory?

Both men turned to look at her in surprise.

One in San Diego and another in Stockton. And then one in Ashland last month.

Victor looked to Gregor. He hadn’t known.

In that order, she told him. The first was the night of the full moon last month.

Weeks between each, then? Victor asked.

Yes. But then two killed back to back up here. Any idea why? She directed the question to Gregor. 

To his credit, he hesitated only slightly before giving a slight shake of his head. I didn’t even know about the one in Ashland.

Is that all of them, then? Victor asked, turning his attention back to Gregor.

All that I know about for sure, Veer responded. I’ve found some others that may fit the pattern and I’ll follow up on those. Of course, there could easily be another dozen we’ll never hear about.

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Victor brought it back to the important point. We've got a Werewolf, running around killing people blatantly, and leaving evidence behind. He seems to be working his way North. Maybe hitchhiking up I-5?

Or she. Or they. There might be more than one, Veer added. It could just be coincidence that they seem to be in a line.

Oh, now that's a comforting thought, Victor said. Let’s assume it’s all the same person. Why change his pattern when he gets to Portland? And he’s being loud about it. Almost as if he wants to get caught.

Maybe someone who’s trying to reveal us? Know anyone who wants to do that? Gregor asked.

Only about half the clan, Victor replied. Same for you, I take it? 

They know better than to do anything, Gregor replied testily.

Veer knew there were Were who were unhappy with the strict code of secrecy - she’d spoken to several who’d expressed as much. That there were so many, and that the Alphas knew, but were unconcerned, was a surprise. Perhaps this was nothing new - just one more thing they were used to dealing with. That would be something worth following up, but at a later time.

Kids these days, Victor echoed his earlier sentiment. What if we have a rogue? Somebody who's creating more either on purpose or accidentally? Newly awakened, no training, no control? he asked.

You think the killings could be done by his victims? The pattern could be different because the actual perpetrators are different.

I hope not. But it is a possibility, Gregor said. Whatever it is, it has something to do with Portland. They were more or less careful until they got up here.

Well, we'll have police evidence soon. That means DNA, hair samples, prints, whatever they can find. We'll be able to tell if both the Portland killings were the same person, Victor said.

And it doesn't bother you that your police will have all of that as well? Gregor asked him.

If it becomes a problem, we'll find a way to make it disappear. He had already confirmed that he didn’t have anybody within the police department. Veer wondered how he’d manage to pull that off. She wondered if even he knew. Could he be less confident than he sounded?

Besides, he continued, I'm kind of curious about what the analysis will find. 

Other than who it is? Gregor asked.

For one, will it be human or canine DNA? How deep does the change go?

Gregor merely raised an eyebrow in response.

There must be some mechanism for the change, even if we have no idea what it is, Victor explained. I'm curious if our overall mass changes as well. It seems to, but I can't imagine how.

Veer was used to this from Victor. It was one of the things she liked about the man: his insatiable curiosity. God, what an ally he’d make. All she’d have to do is convince him to betray everything he’d sworn to protect and go against everything he was. Right. But then again hadn’t she been doing exactly that herself for the last three years?

Seriously? This is what concerns you? Gregor asked him. 

Don't you wonder what we are? How it all works? Where we really come from? Victor pressed his mentor.

We're Were. Inheritors of a power passed down to a chosen few since the dawn of pre-history. Given superior intelligence and strength and longevity by the great wolf Fenrir. Who cares how it works? Gregor responded.

I do. Why don't you?

There's no science to it, Victor; it's magic, Gregor replied.

Bullshit. There's no such thing as magic.

 Gregor laughed aloud at that. "No such thing as…Victor, you're a fucking werewolf!"

Two

Theft and Lies

It was easy enough to set up a distraction to get Diaz out of the precinct building quickly. A simple favor from a friend who placed a call from a phone booth across town asking to meet him, promising information. When nobody was there to meet him at the assigned spot, he’d come back. Another minor mystery that would never be resolved. 

Fifteen minutes after she’d sent her friend the text letting him know she was in place, Detective Diaz rushed out the front door of the station. Apparently, it had only taken that long because he had to hunt down a working phone booth so it couldn’t be traced back to him.

The operation would be risky, but this whole situation might be exactly what she needed, if she were bold enough and clever enough to take advantage of it.

Once inside, she started toward the front desk, then raised her gaze and let a relieved smile cross her face. She hurried over toward a waiting area where several people were already milling about. Hopefully the simple ruse would be enough to convince anyone watching that she'd seen whoever she'd come to see, and they didn't have to worry about her checking in now. 

Veer had been in the police station a few times before and was familiar with the layout. On the ground floor there were holding and processing areas as well as a waiting room with a coffee pot. An exit toward the back presumably led to the underground parking garage. Along one side of the interior there was a raised section, just a few steps up, with an antique looking wooden railing around it. Likely it was part of an adjoining building with a higher floor whose connecting walls had been removed decades ago when the precinct expanded. It was big enough to hold half a dozen desks and a couple of small conference rooms. These desks would belong to the detectives. There were a few extra chairs that could be moved around to allow a guest to sit at a desk, usually witnesses or low risk suspects being interviewed or otherwise processed. Nobody was using any of them now. 

 This raised section was her target, and where it could get tricky. She'd have to find his desk, then get into his files, without drawing any attention to herself, in an area where she probably wasn't supposed to be.

She walked over to where the extra chairs sat against the wall, trying to hide her nervousness and act like she belonged there. She picked one up and started into the room. It only took her a moment to find the desk with the detective's nameplate on it. She set the chair down next to it and took a seat.

She pulled out her phone again and pretended to be reading it, while looking up every few seconds and fidgeting, trying to convey an impression of someone waiting impatiently. A detective across the way glanced up at her, but then back to his own paperwork, ignoring her. She kept an eye on him while pretending to look at the phone, and carefully opened a file drawer with her other hand. The file she wanted was the first one. She pulled it out quickly and laid it flat on the desk. Pretending to ignore it again, she scanned the room, while feigning interest only in her phone and the front door.

The detective was looking her way again. She didn't acknowledge seeing him at all. She scowled at her phone and looked toward the front door again, right through the detective watching her. Finally, he looked away, and she flipped open the file. Making certain the phone's sound was off, she took a picture of the first page. She repeated the process several more times. Glance at the door again, wait for the detective to look another direction, then flip a page in the file and take another picture. If he suspected anything, he didn't try to interfere. After a few more minutes, he got up and walked away.

Finally, she reached the end of the file, closed it, and slid it back into the drawer. Relieved, she stood up, put the phone back in her pocket, and walked out of the station into the city.

To make sure she wasn’t being followed, she first turned away from the direction she’d parked her motorcycle and walked down the street. She passed the same detective who’d been watching her inside the station, sitting in an unmarked car. Did he know? Most likely he suspected something. He couldn’t be sure, though. If he knew what she’d been up to, she’d be under arrest now. 

She continued past the car. He was studiously - too studiously — looking at something on the car’s laptop computer’s screen. She suppressed a smile. Was he intentionally mocking her earlier attempt to be sneaky? Or was he hoping she hadn’t noticed him? As long as he only suspected, she was good. Now she’d just have to keep him from learning anything more. She decided to take a walk. If he wanted to follow her, he’d have to earn it. Plus, it was a nice day: overcast, with just a light mist in the air. Perfect Portland October weather.

He started the car and drove up the street directly away from her. She cut to the right and walked another block. In a couple of blocks she was at waterfront park. She’d been hoping for a bigger crowd, but not really expecting it. 

She walked through the park for a couple of blocks, hoping to lose him under the bridge. She didn’t see him when she got there, but just to make sure she took the stairway up to the bridge and started across it. She did her best to blend in with the few other pedestrians doing the same thing. At the top of the stairway, she stopped to do a few stretches, as if she was a jogger about to get started. The movement let her look around while hopefully not looking like she was trying to look around. She started across the bridge. A quarter of the way there, she turned and hurried back the way she came. If he had followed her this far, he’d be committed to crossing. She would be long gone by the time he could get back.

She didn’t see him the rest of the way back to her bike.

When Michael got back to the precinct, Phil was on the phone. But he waved Michael over to him when he saw him. 

So why don’t you just arrest her now? he was saying to whoever it was he was talking to. I guess. What do you hope to learn?

He listened for a moment then replied, I’d assume it would be for her paper. But if you think there's more to it than that, then go ahead, he added. Michael just walked in, I’ll fill him in. You sure you don’t need backup?

Michael raised an eyebrow in query and Phil filled him in. You had a visitor while you were out.

A visitor? Michael asked, a little confused.

That reporter, Rosen.

She seems to be popping up a lot recently. What’d she want?

Apparently, to see your desk. She didn’t speak to anyone, and left before you got back.

And that’s probably what that call was about, he said. He rushed over to his desk to check if anything was missing or out of place.

What call?

About half an hour ago, I got a call from someone who said he had information about the murders. When I got there, there was nobody.

She may have gotten hold of one of your files. Sam’s tailing her now.

Michael could guess which file. 

Phil led him into the conference room before calling Sam back. He put the phone on speaker and set it down on the table between them. 

She hasn’t seen me yet, Sam’s voice said over the speaker. She tried to lose me under the Morrison bridge, but I played a hunch at what she was doing, and came back, switched cars, and caught her doubling back. Oh…now that’s interesting… he said.

After a few seconds of silence, Michael prompted, What’s going on?

Sorry - recognized the building she parked in front of. Stumpptown Systems.

Don’t know it, Michael told him.

Renovated historic building attached to the White Stag building, Sam replied.

Michael had been in Portland long enough at least to recognize the name, even though the sign had read simply Portland, Oregon since he’d lived here. 

Yeah, she’s going inside, Sam said. 

What would she be doing there? Phil asked.

She went there from here, whatever the reason, Michael answered.

I think she read through one of your files, Sam said.

Phil told me. Pretty sure it’s the serial killer, Michael replied.

Anything in there to connect Stumpptown?

Not unless she saw something I didn’t. Nothing in it to connect anybody, Michael responded.

I’d give anything to see who she was meeting with right now, or what they’re talking about, Sam said.

Michael retrieved the suspected file from his desk and brought it into the conference room. They paged through it as they waited, but he didn’t see anything useful. Lots of raw data from the crime scenes, but nothing to indicate any connections to anyone specific. 

I didn’t see which file she actually got, Sam said. Could it be something else entirely?

I doubt it, Michael said. She was at both the last two scenes.

She’s coming back out, Sam finally said. Michael had been poring over the file. Michael waved to Phil to come back into the room.

She’s heading West now, not toward her home. Looks like she’s got another stop to make. Michael and Phil listened quietly as Sam narrated.

Yep, west, she’s getting onto Sunset. Highway 26, Michael translated, one of the main roads out of town. They kept listening and turned their attention back to the file as Sam occasionally narrated his drive. Beaverton. Hillsboro. Heading up into the hills. 

So…she breaks into your desk, reads your files, visits a tech company, then…heads to the coast?

Oh wait, she’s turning off. Road’s not marked. Just says ‘Private Drive’ and Google doesn’t show a name for it, Sam said.

Okay, be careful. It’s probably someone’s house she’s going to, and they’re going to see you if you get close to it. Likely they don’t get a lot of visitors.

She probably wouldn’t recognize me. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them I got lost and am trying to turn around. Fortunately, this road winds a lot. Can’t see more than maybe a hundred feet ahead at best, so she can’t see me back here. Of course, I can’t see her either, but there’s nowhere to turn off yet.

For several more minutes, all they could hear was the sound of the car on the gravel road. Then Sam spoke again. Oh, hey, parking lot. Hold on… There, I backed up a bit. 

They could hear him turn off the car.

Looks like a small office building of some sort. No markings on the building, but there’s a big stone wall. I’m gonna take a peek over it and see what I can see.

A car door opened and closed, followed by the sound of Sam walking on gravel.

Only one other car here, Sam said, and read off a license plate number. Michael wrote it down. I’m going to put you in my pocket for a bit. Keep quiet; I’ll let you know when it’s safe to speak again.

Phil hit the mute button on the phone so they could talk without broadcasting anything.

I don’t like this, Michael said. 

Should we call him back?

He thought about it for a second. Let’s give it a few more minutes. He’s smart enough to leave if there’s any real danger.

It looks more like a business than a house, Sam said again. I don’t see anyone around. Just a yard and an expanse of woods on the other side of the wall. Okay, trying the direct approach. They heard knocking. 

No answer, he said. Then, a few seconds later, Door’s unlocked. 

Michael was about to say something about that, then remembered Sam wouldn’t be able to hear him. 

Hello? they heard him call out. Anyone there? He waited a moment then spoke to the phone again, Yeah, looks like an office. A couple of chairs against one wall. Counter with a window - dark in here, nobody home. 

Another door with a window. They heard the rattle of a knob. This one’s locked. Dark in there, too. Metal table in the middle of the room, buncha machinery around it. Medical facility of some sort? 

Phil and Michael exchanged a look. No idea. No major medical facilities around there that I’m aware of, Phil said.

Okay, last door, Sam’s voice continued. This one’s open. Hallway with a bunch of lockers, benches down the middle. Hm. Showers over here, like a gym. No signs. I don’t know if this is the men’s or women’s room, though. Most of the lockers are open, and empty, and…a set of men’s clothing in one of them. So, that answers which…wait, no…bingo, he said a few seconds later. It’s what she was wearing. Guess she changed here. As did whoever she’s meeting. No bag or anything, just all her clothes in the locker. No locks on them. She left her phone, keys, wallet, everything.

So… Gym? Phil said.

Michael shrugged. Awful long way to go to work out.

Let’s see what’s through door number three, Sam said. Back yard. Little wooden deck. Too small to be anything more than a landing. Bit of bark dust yard, then a trailhead into the woods. Private hiking spot? Whoever maintains this place they sure like their privacy. That wall’s gotta be eight feet.

Michael hit the mute button. I don’t like this, he said. Come on back, we’ll check into it later.

Sam must have turned the volume all the way down on his end, though, because he didn’t respond, just continued his narration.

Heading up the trail. They could hear him breathing and walking along for maybe ten minutes. Finally, he spoke again. Lotsa woods, but the trail’s maintained, he said. Wait…What’s that? Holy shit! he yelled, and it sounded like he was running. 

Sam? Sam, what’s going on?

All they could hear was Sam’s heavy breathing. Then, Shit, which way was the front?

Something heavy crashed into underbrush. Sounds of a scuffle. Then a scream.

Oh god! Oh god, my leg!

What? What is it? Get out of there! Michael yelled, forgetting for a second that Sam couldn’t hear him. He leapt to his feet.

The wall! They heard from the phone. Phil was carrying it in front of him as they both ran toward the door to the parking garage.

I… Oh my god. Made it to the top. Hah! Take that, scruffy!

Michael and Phil both paused at the door. Michael wanted to move, but they’d lose contact with Sam if they went any further.

Holy… they heard him cry out, then a scream of pain. A loud crash and some kind of terrible thrashing sound.

Sam’s cries grew weaker, then stopped. There was silence for a second, then some kind of low animal growl.

C’mon, Phil said, and they headed to his car in the underground garage.

When they re-emerged, Michael tried to call him again, over and over, with no success. Phil radioed for backup as they drove, heading toward the highway.

The Tillamook County sheriff already knew of the location, and guided them in. The local police had already found Sam’s body and the coroner removed it. His car was still parked down the road and aside from police the parking lot was empty. 

I’m sorry about your friend, the deputy told them when they’d stepped out of their cars. But it doesn’t look like a murder. Your friend stumbled into a private wolf sanctuary. To all appearances, it’s a wild animal attack.

A wolf sanctuary? I didn’t know we had one up here.

They’re not open to the public. Apparently, they’re privately funded.

Is that even legal? Michael asked. 

Guess so. They get regular visits from a vet in town, and a guy from the government comes out once a year to inspect the place.

You said it was privately funded? Phil asked.

Yeah.

By who?

Dunno - some company. No idea who owns it or who works for them, other than Walt.

Who’s Walt? Michael asked.

Caretaker. Lives up in Manning, but we haven’t been able to reach him yet.

He led them not to the front door of the building, but up a path into the woods. After a short while, it curved back and ran into a tall stone wall. We found the cell phone just on the other side. Body was further in. Dragged off.

He wondered if Sam had been dead by then, or if he was dragged, injured and terrified while the wolves tore at him. A horrible way to go.

I’d like to see the inside.

The sheriff offered his hands as a step to boost Michael to the top of the wall.

Take a peek, but don’t go in. Don’t touch the wire. He stepped into the cupped hands and pulled himself up to where he could see over. A well-maintained path covered in bark dust led up to and along the wall. The covering was disturbed directly under where he was. Blood stained the ground.

Eight feet, Sam had said, and Michael saw he was right. And if it enclosed the entire area, that’d be a lot of stone. 

Hell of a wall, he said.

Gotta be to keep the wolves in.

They just roam free in there? Isn’t that dangerous?

Only to people who go inside. Which is why they don’t have visitors.

How many wolves are there?

Maybe a dozen? You’d have to ask Walt for an exact account.

I’d like to talk to him. 

I’ll give him your number next time I see him.

He let it go at that. He was outside his jurisdiction here, and didn’t want to antagonize anyone who could help him. 

Do you see Walt often?

From time to time. I’ve helped him load roadkill deer into his truck for the wolves sometimes.

That was interesting. Made sense though. They had to eat, and the area they were confined to was probably far too small to sustain maybe a dozen wolves.

In the end, the sheriff wouldn’t allow them onto the grounds. Even though an officer had died, they were not treating it as a crime scene, which meant they’d need a warrant to go in any further.

The next morning, back at the precinct, Michael was at his desk on the phone with the coroner’s office when Phil came up the three steps to the detectives’ landing and pulled up a chair to his desk.

They’ve confirmed the cause of death as animal mauling, Michael told him after hanging up the phone.

Bullshit, Phil replied. I checked into it. Do you know how many people are killed by wolves in this country?

Tell me.

Twenty.

Is that per month, or year, or…?

Ever.

What do you mean ‘ever?’

I mean, in the entire history of the United States, there have been a total of twenty people confirmed to have been killed by wolves. It almost never happens, especially to adults. And half of those were probably murdered and then literally thrown to the wolves. And wolves on a preserve wouldn’t be either hungry or rabid, which is the only reason wolves ever attack humans. Maybe Sam was killed by wolves, but that doesn’t mean it’s not murder.

I agree, Michael said. Too much of a coincidence. Shot, poisoned, stabbed, car accident, even breaking his neck after falling off the wall, I might have bought. But mauled to death, like the murder victims? No, he found something.

Hey, Diaz, a voice called from behind him. He turned to see Detective Boyd coming toward the stairs. She nodded back the way she came. Captain wants to see you.

He glanced and Phil and they both went down into the captain’s office. 

Police Captain Frank Billings sat behind his desk. A short stocky man, he looked perfectly at place behind his desk, on which piled papers nearly overwhelmed his keyboard and mouse. A well-stained coffee cup sat on an empty spot on one corner, half full, and Michael didn’t even want to guess how old it was. His door was open, and he looked up when the pair entered. 

Ah, there you are, he told them. He motioned to chairs then swiveled the monitor most of the way around so they could see.

What is it? Michael asked.

Footage from the camera in Sam’s car, Billings said. He started the video. It was the low-resolution black-and-white view of security camera footage, showing the inside of a police cruiser. The car was parked, on a forest road, and the lights were off.

As they watched, Michael thought he saw a brief blur of movement in one corner. A second later, the dome light came on. An arm reached into view, followed by a bare shoulder and the back of a man's head. There was broken glass on the driver’s seat - the man must have smashed the window to get into the car. He slid fully into view and they saw he was completely naked. He was in his early thirties perhaps. He obviously cared a great deal about his appearance, from the well toned muscles to his short perfectly coiffed hairstyle and carefully trimmed beard. 

He picked up a notebook that had been sitting on the passenger's seat, riffled through it briefly, then carefully tossed it behind him, out the door. He spent the next few moments doing a quick search of the car, checking under seats, behind the visors, and in the glove box. Finally, he reached up, looked directly into the camera, and reached for it with one hand. The image went dark.

We have the car back. They're searching for prints now, Captain Billing said. He found the camera and pulled it loose. No idea what he did with it, but the recorder’s a separate unit. He missed it. He must have picked up Sam's notebook and taken it with him as well. For now, we are assuming he is somehow connected to the murders, and to Sam's death. And yes, despite what Tillamook says, we’re still considering this a murder.

And Rosen was just moments ahead of him.

So, how is she involved in all this?

I intend to find out.

Michael took his own car. No need to upset the neighbors, he figured. He found Vera Rosen’s house easily enough: a modest building, it looked like one or two bedrooms, in a quiet Northeast neighborhood just off Klickitat street. He parked on the street nearby and walked up the driveway to her front door. As he approached, he could see her through the large living room windows. She was sitting at a desk, facing a pair of large computer screens in front of her. From his approach, he couldn’t see what was on them. 

Rosen looked up before he knocked, setting down her coffee cup, and stood to answer the door. She adjusted the large bathrobe she was wearing as she did so. He realized that this may be early morning for her. Covering the crime beat, he could easily imagine her working mostly nights. 

Officer Diaz, she greeted him. She seemed pleasantly surprised to see him, but he didn’t buy it. An appearance of friendliness could be a tool. In her line of work she would be as much an expert in getting information from people as he was. What brings you by?

I’d just like to ask you a few questions, Ms. Rosen, he replied.

I suppose turnabout is fair play, she said with a smile. Come on in. Call me Veer. Her tone was still pleasant, as if this were a social occasion. They both knew it wasn't.

Michael, then, he said. Normally he’d encourage, if not demand, the use of his title and last name. It subtly reinforced his authority. In this case, though, he decided that playing along with her casual routine might be a better tactic.

She stepped back as he entered and closed the door behind him.  

Next to where her desk was set up in the front room, he looked over the bookshelves. Though neatly arranged, they didn’t seem to be sorted in any particular order. Modern politics sat next to Civil War history. A couple of travel guides next to three different biographies of Nellie Bly, a name that seemed vaguely familiar though he couldn’t place it at the moment.

Coffee? she asked, heading toward the kitchen. Just made a pot. I'm afraid all I have for it is milk. 

I prefer it, actually. And thank you. The thought of poison flashed but briefly through his mind. He thought she might excuse herself to go change into something more than the bathrobe. She did not. She seemed utterly unconcerned with her state of dress. Not seductive or sexy. Just a complete lack of self-consciousness. Did she intend to make herself seem more vulnerable? Her manner of acting did the opposite, though. He took his cup and seated himself at the kitchen table, across from her.

How do you know Victor Stumpp? he opened with, hoping she'd be caught by surprise. If she was, she didn't show it. She’d been ready for the question, he realized. She must have figured out she was being followed, so she would know they knew of her visit to Stumpp. She hesitated before answering. Just long enough to think up a lie, or to consider one then reject it.

She answered, The wolf preserve is owned by Victor Stumpp. I had an idea that these killings may have been done by a wolf, not a dog. So, she continued, setting down a mug of coffee on the table in front of him before taking a seat opposite him, I wanted to talk to someone who knew something about wolves. I knew of this place from an earlier story I had done, so I went there first.

And what did you find? he asked her. He carefully sipped his coffee, keeping his composure no more tense than if he'd been discussing the weather.

Nothing. I couldn't find the caretaker. Or anyone else. So, after a while, I gave up and left, figuring I could come back later, she replied, just as calmly.

And that's it? You went all the way out there, stood around for a few minutes, and left?

Pretty much. I went inside, looked around a bit, realized I was walking alone into the woods with several wolves, and got a bit creeped out, remembering Little Red Riding Hood. So, I came back.

That wouldn’t explain why she’d changed clothes. She was lying, but he wasn’t sure how or why yet. He decided to try a different tack.

You never saw or heard Sam?

That one drew a slight reaction. But she quickly covered it up. It was enough to let him know there was something there - but it might have been as innocuous as a completely unexpected question.

Sam? she asked, apparently puzzled. He had to fight back his own anger now. Sam had been a good cop, and she had, wittingly or not, led him to his death.

Sam Bailey. He was a police officer. He was killed yesterday at the preserve, after following you there. He deliberately used was killed not died to see her reaction.

I'm sorry, she sounded like she meant it. If I'd have known I was still being followed…

He cut her off. You'd have done exactly the same thing. He tried to keep the anger out of his tone. He couldn't afford to alienate her, not at this stage. She knew something. Or suspected something. And whatever she knew and wasn't telling had gotten a good man killed. There'd be more to come. He knew it.

But how to get the truth out of her? She was an experienced investigator and would probably know all the same tricks he did. Unless he could get her into an interrogation room, she couldn't be threatened. Probably not even then. Perhaps an appeal to compassion might work?

Ms. Rosen, he began, letting a tone of earnest pleading into his voice, if you know anything at all, I need to know. As I'm sure you're aware, the girl the other night wasn't the first to be killed. And I don't think she'll be the last. Any information you can give me could save lives.

I'm sorry, detective. I really can't tell you anything. All I have is hunches and ideas myself, nothing solid at all. 

Now we're getting somewhere, he thought.

Then tell me your ideas. Maybe there's something worth following up. Or something that meshes with other data. He told her.

Did you get any prints at the crime scene? she asked him.

You saw the report, he replied in a neutral tone, as if reiterating a known fact. 

She acknowledged the point with a brief smile and slight nod. I only saw a photograph of a single paw print. That won't be enough. She ticked the points off on her fingers, Wolves and dogs have nearly identical paw structure. They both have four pads, and the same alignment of claws. You need a set of them to tell the difference. Dogs’ front legs tend to be farther apart than their rear legs, so there would be prints next to each other. Wolves tracks, on the other hand, will be all in a line, but their stride is longer, so they'll be farther apart laterally.

He wasn't sure if such measurements had been taken. He'd have to check in the morning and order them if they had not.

I thought you said you couldn't find the keeper, he said. It was almost a question.

I didn't.

Then where did you learn all this?

I googled it this morning,

He laughed at that. All right, Ms. Rosen, I've taken up enough of your time. I know you read that report. And we both know that alone is a crime. I suppose you were just doing your job. I'm willing to overlook it this time, on two conditions.

Which are?

One, you don't release any information from there that we don't release, he said.

Agreed, granted that the condition is lifted once the case is over, she added.

Fair enough, Michael replied. But over is when I say it is. Maybe once we've made an arrest. Maybe only after a conviction.

Good enough for now, she accepted. And your second condition?

You share anything you learn in your own research, he told her. Even if it isn't conclusive, I'll decide what's worth following up.

I'll continue sharing if you will, she told him, ignoring the fact that the initial sharing of his data wasn't exactly his plan.

All right, as long as you accept there will likely be some things I can't tell you, he told her.

That works, as long as I get full access to the finalized report, she replied.

Okay, he said, I can accept that. And you stay out of my files until then. He had a good idea that her promise would mean more to her than any threat of law.

When he had returned to the station, he pulled the file out of his desk drawer and found the picture of the single paw print. He had remembered it correctly after all. Dogs and wolves both have four pads, she’d said. So why did this one have five?

Three

Taking the Field

Grant Talman set down his morning paper. He considered for a moment getting a television so he could see what they were saying about him on the news. TV wasted too much time, though. It was for unimaginative people with nothing important to do. In the paper, he could skim the articles and search for mentions of himself. Today, they weren’t hard to find; he was front page news.

They claimed the police could find no connection between the victims. That's because the police would be looking for motives for murder. What they didn’t know was that he didn't mean to kill any of them. It was just so hard to control himself when in wolf form. The others, before he'd come home to Portland, they had been meant as food. But he wasn't looking for food here. He was looking for disciples. But they were so fragile. 

Maybe he should go back to San Diego. Hunt down the creature that had done this to him and make him explain it. He’d come back to Portland searching for his old crew. Maybe biting some of them, giving them the same gift he’d been given.  Even in ten years, the city had changed. His old hunting ground was now called The Pearl and full of the same people who ten years ago would never deign to cross the hills and go out in that part of the city at night, and all his old friends had moved away years ago. Screw them. He didn’t need them anyway. He'd always been faster, stronger, and smarter than those around him. The wolf blood had only increased all that. Even in human form, he found he could see better, hear better, and even taste so much more than he ever could before. 

There must be others like