City Under the Moon (8 page)

Tildascow’s escort directed her to the last cell on the left, where CDC techs were hurriedly prepping monitors around their star patient.

Holly Cooke was strapped to an upright gurney. Thin-skinned, anemic, and covered in bruises, her 52 years had finally caught up with her.

EIS had cleaned her up and documented her contusions, breaks, and sprains. They found eight gunshot wounds matching the shots Tildascow had put into that animal last night, but they looked like they’d undergone a month’s worth of healing. She also had a nasty fracture to her right orbital socket, which could have happened when she
(it?)
hit the window.

When Cooke saw her in the suit, one more faceless stormtrooper, she dropped her head and continued sobbing. Tildascow fought the gasmask until she was free of its plastic choke. The hall’s stench of bleach made her eyes water.

“Holly,” she called through the cell bars. “Holly Cooke?”

Cooke’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t have the strength to respond.

“My name is Brianna Tildascow. I’m with the FBI. I know this is scary, but these people are going to take good care of you. You’re going to be okay, your husband is flying in.”

“My son,” she rasped.

“That’s what I’m here for. I’m going to find him. I need your help.”

Cooke winced as an EIS guy pricked her arm with a ferocious needle.

“Could you hold off on that for a second?” Tildascow asked him.

He searched for a word to summarize his incredulity, finally settling on a venomous “No.”

Game, set and match to that guy.

“I just want my son,” Cooke whimpered. “Please.” Her head wobbled as she tried to see Tildascow through her good left eye.

“We’ll find him, I promise. I just have to understand what happened to you. Do you remember the attack, or anything from the hospital last night?”

“I…” She took a deep, sobbing breath. “I want to go home.”

“We’ll get you home as soon as possible, Holly. I promise. But I need you to help me try to find your son. Can you remember the attack at all? Or anything from last night?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”

Her words lingered as Tildascow squinted.

Boy, she dropped the concern for her son pretty quick. Now she’s focused on going home?

“Do you remember what happened last night, Holly? At the hospital?”

“I… don’t.”

Cooke didn’t look like she was stumped. Not if Tildascow’s read was good. She looked like she’d been shut up, like a lawyer had covered her mic and whispered into her ear.

“Try, Holly. It’s very important.”

Cooke gazed down and to the right. Her profile said she was right-handed, so casting her eyes in that direction suggested internal dialogue. But Tildascow’s interrogation training was hardly necessary to read this sham.

Cooke was inventing a story.

“I was taking a walk… We were walking on the street… and we were attacked by something… some kind of dog. It pushed me down, and… and it got on top of me. And then I woke up in the hospital.” Her tone suggested recitation, like a kid fed a lie by a guilty sibling.

“Holly, this will take longer if we can’t figure out what happened to you. It will take longer to find your son. And you may not be able to go home for a long time.”
Long.

Tears dripped from her eyes. “I know.”

“Holly, what happened at the hospital last night?”

She shook her head and silently sobbed, mouth open, saliva dripping. This part was honest: “I don’t know… I just blacked out. It… it hurt so bad, I thought I was dying… and then…”

She cried in great heaves, and then the EIS officers stepped in to work her upper body, cutting her off from Tildascow.

Holly Cooke, a soft-skinned socialite, had suffered a sudden and savage physical assault. Her son was stolen. And then she’d transformed into some kind of monster and woke up half-naked on the streets.

And after all this, she was hiding something.

Protecting something?

Some…
one?

Nine

National Archives Building

Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility

Washington, DC

December 31

9:52 a.m.

Lon had never been more disappointed in his life, and that included the full-scale shit-flinging assault on cinematic posterity commonly referred to as the 2010 remake of
The Wolfman
(they didn’t even get the name right).

The government’s “complete” and “official” aggregate of data on the subject of lycanthropy was, in a word, pathetic. In fact, the most insightful piece was a lengthy (and startlingly well-written) manifesto written by Lon himself and sent to Congress some eight years ago as part of a school project.

Even the rest of the occult section was unacceptably sparse. There were some pamphlets he recognized as issues of
The Necromantic Gauntlet;
that would please their author, Donnie Tuttle, Lon’s internet forum nemesis. Bah. There were also a few grimoires of the A∴A∴
(Arcanum Arcanorum)
, a magical fraternity that Lon was, frankly, desperate to join. But these spell books had been unearthed decades prior, and their veracity was under deep contention.

The jewel in the government’s collection? A wretched interpretation of the
Necronomicon
, Master Lovecraft’s legendary tome described by him as the “image of the law of the dead.” This was a flimsy 1988 prestige format graphic novel, defaced with faux post-it notes by some daft “expert.” They even misspelled the name of the author, referring to Abdul
Alhazred
as “Abdul
Alhazered!
”

How embarrassing.

All of the government’s werewolf photos were already available on the Internet, all of their “sightings” previously documented by the lycanthropy community. Their knowledge base was chiefly informed by commercial propaganda… and they didn’t have a
single mention
of the countless alleged incidents in Transylvania!

The emperor had no clothes. There wasn’t an old man behind the curtain. The Matrix didn’t explicitly revolve.
Fuck!

A wave of depression hit Lon and he sat back in the squeaky chair. He was at a mahogany desk in a sparse room, some kind of man-sized safe in the basement of this
supposedly
important government library. The air was musty with the depressing smell of dying paper. Dust was snowing underneath his lamp. Where the hell had his tax dollars gone? Well, not
his
, but his mother’s?

He’d been working with his therapist to dissociate professional affronts from personal insults, but this was too much to bear. Why had they brought him here, anyway? To show him that the occult wasn’t a concern to the government? To put him in his place? To…

Wait a minute!

Maybe they’d enlisted him to organize and enhance their files! Maybe he was to become the first official United States Inspector of Lycanthropy!

His therapist constantly warned him about his swelled head. But how would women react when they saw his
government badge
—question mark and exclamation point!? This was the greater destiny he’d always imagined!

Perhaps he could assemble an FBI team to investigate the occult! Like
The X-Files,
but with enthusiastic sanctioning, an informed crew, and more than a fleeting modicum of veracity!

If the government was searching for the right man to preside over the truth seekers, they had found him in Lon Toller.

The door to the safe room opened to the two stiff Secret Service agents who’d escorted him from the White House. “It’s time, Mr. Toller. Bring whatever you need.” The archivist guy who’d prepared the documents wanted to protest, but a glare from one of the agents made him swallow his words.

Lon brought the puny folder, hoping they’d let him keep it for his website, but his
mind
was all they’d need. He couldn’t wait for the debriefing. Surely they’d see that his expertise was indispensible. Maybe they’d take him out for a drink. He’d always wanted to go out for a drink.

It occurred to Lon that this might be a time when his head was getting too big. People found it off-putting when he lectured. At the behest of his therapist, he was tracking this phenomenon in his introspective writing.

He determined to keep his ego in check and make everyone part of the discovery. It would be more of a discussion than a lecture.

This was gonna be great!

Ten

White House Conference Room

December 31

11:04 a.m.

“Well then, I’m glad to see the government has finally decided to wisen up to matters of the occult. Who will be asking me questions today?”

Lon sat at the head of a mile-long conference table in the most modern room he’d yet seen in the White House. Flat-screen panels and cameras lined the walls, and a badass touchscreen map of the world was mounted behind him. He thought he might put that to use while discussing the eighteenth-century lycanthropic infestation of Transylvania.

Nine other people were seated at the table, and not one of them answered his question. One senior military guy scowled so hard that his white nose hairs spread like fangs.

“It’s understandable, though, right? The modern world doesn’t have the balls to admit that the things that go bump in the night are real.”

Still no reaction.

The door opened behind him. Everyone stood expectantly, so Lon followed suit.

A black woman glided in and waved the room back to their seats with a curt smile. She was attractive for her age and exuded importance. Her graying kinky hair was pushed behind a black headband, and she smelled of citrus. He’d seen her before, maybe on TV. But he didn’t follow politics. It all seemed too futile, since he knew there were more malevolent powers puppeteering society.

She approached Lon, and a gofer dude standing at the door introduced them. “This is our werewolf expert,” he said. “Mr. Boris Toller.”

“Mister Toller,” said the black woman as she extended her hand. “Rebekkah Luft. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” he muttered. His hand squished in her grip. He was going to have to learn how to do something about that.

“
National Security Advisor of the United States of America
,” said the gofer dude, picking up on Lon’s obliviousness. Very helpful.

“I appreciate your coming on such short notice.” She directed him to his seat. “We’re here to talk about werewolves.”

“Of course,” Lon smiled, tossing the archive file on the desk for the sake of drama. “But they’re nasty little buggers then, aren’t they?”

Luft exchanged a weary glance with the gofer dude.

“You see ma’am, obviously I don’t know what this is about.”
Although I hope I’m guessing right!
“But there was very little in your files that isn’t already available on the Internet. The personal accounts, the hazy photographs—I’ve had the whole bloody lot of them on my website for years now—“

“Have you spent time in England, young man?” the nose-haired general interrupted. His scowl was back.

“Er, no. Why?” But Lon realized he’d slipped into his English accent. His stepfather hated that too. But the royal vernacular sounded far more elegant when it came to educating.

“Keep going,” urged Luft.

“Well, quite honestly,” he said, easing back into Ohio commonspeak, “I’ve found far more convincing testimonials in European texts, particularly those from seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Romania. If you’d like, I could translate—“

Luft suddenly diverted her gaze. “Where are we with the patch-throughs?” she asked the gopher. What a brazen interruption!

“They’re on stand-by.”

“Put them through.”

Two side-by-side flat-panel screens came to life on the far end of the room, both displaying women’s faces. The one on the right looked like an overworked schoolmarm. Lon remembered her face from his contact list: She was the head of the CDC; he’d sent her information about lycanthropes as well. But he didn’t recognize the other woman, a younger, more attractive blonde.

“Brianna,” said Luft. “Always wonderful to see you.”

Eleven

Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building

26 Federal Plaza, Manhattan

Tildascow sat alone at the center of a long table in the conference room. The Chelsea building was nearly empty; everyone was in the field, prepping for NYE or off for the evening. If she weren’t a grown-up, the place might’ve seemed creepy. Or maybe the anticipation had gotten to her. The CDC apparently had something, but she couldn’t squeeze out any more details before—

The video screen in front of her flashed from the White House seal to a conference room packed with advisors. Rebekkah Luft was seated at the head of the table.

“Brianna,” said Luft. “Always wonderful to see you.”

“Good morning…” she sputtered, unsure how to address her. “Mrs. Luft.”

“Oh please, Brianna,” Luft chuckled. Her diamond-studded watch jangled as she waved off the formality. “I’ve known her since she was in the second grade,” she informed the others at her table.

Tildascow smiled hollowly as the officials nodded her way.

“We’re connecting you to a feed from the CDC.”

The video switched to a QuickTime interface. A black screen with white text.

New York Lycanthropy Unclassified-Group VI.

Twelve

White House Conference Room

December 31

11:04 am

Lon read the screen again. And again.

New York.
Lycanthropy?
Unclassified? Group VI?

What could that combination of words mean?

“Ladies and gentlment, this is Dr. Jessica Tanner, Director of the CDC,” said Luft, “Dr. Tanner, you have the room.”

“Good afternoon, everyone,” said Jessica’s voice over the video. “I’m afraid we haven’t had very much luck with this.”

The video began with a flat, grayscale image that was reminiscent of the microscopic photographs Lon had seen in science textbooks. Moving, roundish blobs appeared to be blood cells.

The image jerked as the video’s speed adjusted, and then a new shape entered the top of the frame.