The Frenzy Way (25 page)

Stalk nodded, saying nothing.

Mace looked him in the eye. “I need to know why you came here and what you know about this killer.”

Stalk’s eyes lighted on the mirror overlooking them. “I don’t know anything.”

“I find that hard to believe. I called Chief Diondega. He told me you took a leave of absence yesterday.”

“Two days ago,” Stalk said. “It’s past midnight.”

“So it is. He says you’re stubborn and headstrong and don’t doanything haphazardly. He wouldn’t say why he thought you took off the way you did, except to say it must have been urgent.”

Stalk shrugged. “Diondega’s a bureaucrat. I’m sure he’s no different than the COs you have to deal with.”

Mace tapped the folder. “According to your record, you had trouble in your previous position on the Niagara Falls police force. One of your fellow officers even accused you of assault.”

“No charges were filed.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“You ever been to Niagara Falls?”

Mace nodded. “Once, when I was a kid.”

“Rough town, real blue collar. They can’t develop the American side of the Falls the way Canada has because of the corruption. A lot of drug trafficking over the border too. I wanted to be Super Cop, but I kept butting heads with people who were in the business of doing favors for other people, you know? It was a whole lot of bullshit. I like the reservation better, but there’s bullshit there too. The whole world is bullshit.”

“I see you served overseas.”
Like Vince
, Mace thought, picturing his brother, who would have been Stalk’s age.

“I went to Afghanistan to take down the Taliban. Then they sent my ass to Iraq and kept it there. Like I said, the whole world is bullshit.”

“Diondega says you’re studying to be a shaman.”

“I’m studying
with
a shaman. There’s a difference.”

“That’s hard to imagine in this day and age.”

“I’m just trying to learn about the world. I bet you think Manhattan is the center of the universe, but it isn’t.”

Mace glanced at his notes. “Tom Lenape.”

“Tom’s a good man.”

Mace studied the man before him. With short hair, no one would even suspect his heritage. “Why would someone who’s grown up in this society want to study with a shaman?”

“Have I asked you about your culture?”

“You’re not asking the questions.”

Stalk looked around the room. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. Innocent women and children blown to pieces for no good reason. Body parts strewn across plazas. Good men bloodied and killed by IEDs. This whole world is
bullshit.
I study the old ways with Tom to try to make sense of it all.”

Mace closed the folder. “Have you ever seen a skinwalker?”

A slow smile formed on Stalk’s lips, and his gaze flicked to the mirror. “Can’t say that I have. How about you?”

“I understand some have been sighted on reservations.”

Stalk maintained his smile. “I’ve heard that too. The new folktales.”

“Our research shows that tribal police on reservations all over the country have recorded reports by Native Americans who claim to have struck skinwalkers with their cars at night.”

“You know us Indians. We can’t hold our liquor. That leads to all kinds of accidents and crazy stories.”

Leaning across the table, Mace lowered his voice. “Did you come here because you believe a skinwalker is stalking Lower Manhattan?”

“I only believe what I read in the papers and see on the TV,” Stalk said in an even voice.

“Do you think our killer is someone who believes in skinwalkers?”

“You mean an Indian? Why do you keep saying
skinwalker?
I saw the word written on Miss Lee’s wall, remember?
Ulfheonar
is no Indian word. Shouldn’t you be looking for a big white guy with horns on his head carrying a spear?”

“That you can even pronounce that word, let alone know what it means, tells me we need to sit on you.”

Stalk’s smile faded. “You haven’t charged me with anything.”

“No, but I could. Just to keep you out of my way. We don’t take kindly to out-of-town policemen driving around our city with rifles, and we frown on them aiming those weapons in our subway stations.”

Stalk sat back. “You should have let me fire. Then you’d have a real reason to lock me up. This isn’t Tombstone, and you’re not Wyatt Earp. I didn’t see any signs at the edge of town telling me to check my guns at the border.”

“We’ve already collected two from you. Which reminds me …” Mace reached into his pocket. “How do you explain
this?”
He set a small plastic bag onto the tabletop.

Barely glancing at the gleaming silver bullet in the evidence bag, Stalk shrugged. “I overheard some of your uniforms calling me Tonto, but I’ve always fancied myself more like the Lone Ranger.”

Cute
, Mace thought.

The door opened and Gibbons entered, beckoning to Mace.

Rising, Mace shot Stalk a hard stare even though he knew it would have no effect. Outside, Landry and Willy joined Mace and Gibbons.

“We got trouble,” Gibbons said, offering Mace an index card. “Uptown.”

Mace glanced at the address, then said to Landry, “I’m on this.” Facing Willy he said, “You’re not.”

“What?” Willy’s face darkened. “Patty was my partner!”

“You’re not working this in the field. You want to help? Do it from your desk. So far we’ve got two dozen witnesses who claim they saw a wild animal covered in blood running uptown on the train tracks. Start processing their statements, and do everything you can to keep them from speaking to the press.”

Willy clamped his mouth shut.

“What about him?” Gibbons nodded at the closed interview room door.

“Leave him in there overnight. Maybe he’ll be more cooperative in the morning.”

On the sidewalk, Mace squinted in the storm of video camera lights and camera flashes. It was impossible to count how many media people had gathered outside, but it took six uniformed officers to hold them back.

“Captain!”

“Captain Mace!”

He pushed through the crowd to the squad car waiting for him at the corner.

“Tony!”

“Is it true you have a suspect in custody?”

“When will the name of the slain officer be released?”

Christ, what a circus
.

Windows shattered throughout the cabin, and heavy footsteps padded through the darkness toward Stalk. With nothing but the flames in the fireplace and the frosty moonlight for illumination, Stalk raised the Winchester’s stock against his right shoulder and sighted on the grayish wolf that stood staring at him a dozen feet away. Before he could squeeze the trigger, blackness filled his vision, and a powerful shape seized the rifle’s barrel and jerked the weapon out of his hands. As this second beast landed on all fours and dragged the Winchester across the floor, Stalk backed toward the futon where the woman lay, his eyes locked on those of the gray wolf. He intended to protect the woman, though he had no idea how.

Wind swirled through the cabin, causing the flames in the fireplace to dance in frantic patterns. The room came alive with the sounds of wet panting. The gray wolf rose on its hind legs, which appeared to change their shape. The creature’s front legs shifted as well, assuming a humanoid configuration. As Stalk gaped at the manlike wolf beast that stood a head taller than him, he glimpsed similar shapes rising around him in a half circle. Dark eyes reflected the firelight, which glintedoff bared canine teeth. A low, unified chorus of growls rose above the wind outside and the crackling flames to his right. Then the gray wolf took a step forward, and the others did the same, five of them in all.

Surrounded
, Stalk thought as the monsters closed in on him. With his left hand, he reached behind him, groping for the woman. He contemplated diving for the Winchester on the floor, but even if he could reach it, he would leave the woman exposed, and he felt certain that the creatures had come for her. But how could he protect her unarmed? He knew he couldn’t. The best he could do was throw himself over her, delaying the inevitable. And for how long?

As the bipedal wolves advanced on him, the spaces between them shrank, and the fire cast orange light over their taut, furry bodies. Saliva drooled from between their powerful jaws, and the black flesh above their gums quivered with ferocity. A single thought imprinted itself upon Stalk’s disbelieving mind:
werewolves.

Smooth fingers grasped his outstretched hand. He dared not turn his head even long enough to glance at the woman. Turning his back on these things meant immediate death, and he planned to fight until he could fight no more. Her flesh felt warm, and he felt an odd connection to this stranger. The bond of two people about to die together? The growls around him became vicious snarls, and Stalk realized he was squeezing the woman’s hand hard enough to break it. The creatures drew into themselves, crouching, ready to spring into action. Stalk’s heart beat faster, and he clenched his free hand into a fist.

“No!
” The voice possessed anger, not fear.

When he heard the woman’s shout, Stalk thought the wolf creatures had already leapt for him. Instead they halted in their tracks, though their snarls grew even louder in protest. Unable to control himself, Stalk turned his head as the woman stepped beside him, the firelight accentuating her curves in the darkness. He felt heat radiating from her flesh.

A black werewolf standing beside the gray one barked at the woman, a deep, throaty sound that caused Stalk to wince.

“I said no,” the woman said in a firm tone.

Stalk wanted to recoil and pull his hand free of the woman’s, but at that moment he knew she was the only thing separating him from death.

The black werewolf roared and moved forward, and before Stalk could react, the woman stepped in front of him, shielding him from the creatures. Her black hair smelled musky. As the black werewolf continued forward, Stalk heard a growl rising from her compact frame.

My God, she’s one of them!

Leaning forward, the woman spread her legs apart and crouched as if preparing to strike.

The black werewolf glared at her, its teeth jutting out at deadly angles. Those teeth could shred its prey in seconds….

The woman threw back her head and unleashed a howl that made Stalk cringe. He recognized the sound, which had awakened him earlier that night. Now he questioned everything he had accepted as fact in his life. The world was a far different place than he had thought it only hours ago.

The black werewolf cut an angular path across the floor, attempting to drive the woman away from Stalk. She turned on one heel, facing the attacking beast and using her left arm to keep Stalk behind her.

The other monsters remained motionless, except for the gray wolf, which barked at the black shape trying to get at Stalk. Every pair of eyes turned to the gray wolf, which sat on its haunches, a regal look in its eyes. The other werewolves followed the gray wolf’s lead, sitting on their haunches. Their limbs withdrew, assuming canine form. They stared at the black beast, which huffed its disapproval before joining them.

Stalk’s chest rose and fell.

Standing erect once more, the woman faced him with her back to her fellow creatures. Perspiration glistened on her features as her dark brown eyes met Stalk’s. “You’re safe for now. But we have a lot to discuss.
All
of us.”

As the wind howled outside, Stalk watched in stunned disbelief as the wolves changed shape.

“Bounties forced upon Indians by the U.S. government in essence required them to murder their own gods, and the heads of slain wolves were nailed to the exteriors of trading posts. Can you imagine what that did to the psyche of an entire people?”

—Transmogrification in Native American Mythology
, Terrence Glenzer

Matt Schwaebel had served his country well. He had enlisted in the Army after 9/11 and had served three tours in Iraq until an IED disabled the transport he drove. He awoke in a VA hospital with a concussion and loss of hearing in his right ear. The doctors diagnosed him with brain trauma, but he refused to accept that he suffered from a disability even after multiple operations, CAT scans, and prescriptions for seventeen different medications.

Now he lived on the street, without his meds, barely able to fend for himself. On most days, he could not remember how he had gotten into his current predicament. He recalled staying with his mother, who hadcared for him, and then after she died he had stopped taking his pills. For a while it had felt good to be able to have an erection again. But then he started hearing things: not voices—he wasn’t
crazy
—but deep, reverberating sounds, like those he had heard as a boy while submerged in his family’s swimming pool. And then the visions had plagued him, followed by memory loss.

Somehow Schwaebel had survived the summer without help from anyone. Oh, he had spent his share of nights in homeless shelters, mainly to get some hot food, but he had been unable to relax in those accommodations. Too many predators. Lately he had been sleeping in the bowels of the 181st Street subway station near Broadway in Washington Heights. The elevators that delivered commuters from street level to the underground station were so slow that he could relieve himself in them anytime he needed to without fear of someone invading his privacy.