Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (16 page)

I stare levelly at my one-night stand. Nicely done, Valchek. Only been on the planet a few days and you’re already racking ’em up.

Shut up, brain.

“Look, Tanaka—what happened last night was a mistake.”

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“I’m sorry you think so.”

Not really the response I’d expected. “I’m—well, I’m flattered, but this is not really normal behavior for me, you know? I don’t just— I mean, okay, sometimes I do, but not with . . . with—”

“Members of another race?”

Ouch. “I was going to say ‘professional colleagues.’ But it’s not my fault, all right? It was that damn tea.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Urthbone. I told you, it increases empathy—what I’m feeling isn’t really what I’m feeling. And then the booze loosened up both our inhibitions, and . . . well, no offense, Tanaka, but from what I can remember you feel things pretty strongly.”

Now he looks irritated, though he tries not to show it. “You are saying I am not in control of my emotions, is that it?”

“No, no. It’s my fault, not yours. You were just . . . just being you—”

“I see. And I can’t help what I am.” His voice is cold.

I shake my head. I can tell anything else I say will just make things worse. “I’m sorry, Tanaka. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen and go back to work, all right?”

“Very well.”

Twelve hours later I’m back in the U.S. Tanaka doesn’t come with us.
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I’ve learned all I really can in Japan, and the longer I’m there the bigger the bull’s-eye on my back gets. Tanaka stays behind because he’s more useful there—it’s possible he might learn something on his own he couldn’t while I’m around.

I’m not running away. That’s just what it feels like.

And Charlie, damn his featureless eyes, doesn’t say a thing about me and Tanaka. Neither does Eisfanger, though I think that’s because he has no idea.

I decide to stop taking the Urthbone. Maybe what happened with Tanaka won’t happen again, but I can’t take the chance. Investigators have to rely on their instincts, and I can’t trust mine if my hormones go into overdrive every time I’m around someone who finds me attractive. I could stop brushing my teeth and hair and dress in baggy sweatsuits, but then I’ll just be emotionally overwhelmed by disrespect with a touch of pity. Besides, I don’t need the tea to keep me grounded—the case will do that just fine. Once I get my teeth into one, it kind of consumes me; if that kind of total immersion doesn’t bind me to this world, nothing will.

I spend the flight going over data with Eisfanger, avoiding Charlie entirely. He doesn’t seem to mind. I know I’m just putting off the inevitable; I finally grit my teeth and broach the subject just before the plane touches down on American soil. Eisfanger’s at the other end of the cabin, playing with his rat skull; Charlie’s reading a newspaper. I sit down across from him and say, “Hey. We should talk.”

He doesn’t put the paper down. “What about?”

“You deserve an apology.”

“I deserve a lot of things, but I still drive a secondhand Ford. Write me up an IOU.”

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“Not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“I’m not really an easy kind of guy.”

I wait, but the punch line never shows. I groan. “Jesus, you’re either a real sadist or have a blind spot the size of Cuba. Look, I’m sorry I reamed you out for saving my sorry, promiscuous ass. You did exactly what you were supposed to and you did it really damn well. I can be a real jackass at times and you better get used to it. That’s about all I got. Okay?”

He puts down the paper and looks at me. “Okay. No sweat. You don’t have to make a big, hairy deal out of it.”

“All right, then.”

“Unless, you know . . . you have a thing for big, hairy deals.”

Ah.

“There was no deal, it wasn’t that big, and it certainly wasn’t hairy,” I say, and grab his newspaper so I can try to hide my smile.

The three of us debrief Cassius in his office. Gretchen gives me a warm smile from where she’s perched on the sofa when we enter and sit down.

“The Impaler,” Cassius says. He doesn’t look happy. He makes a fist with one hand and taps it lightly on the desk as if he’s considering smashing it in two. “That’s . . . unexpected.”

“So he’s real?” I ask.

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“Oh, yes. Very good at staying out of sight, though—no photograph of him is known to exist, and I’ve had varying reports of his physical description: young, old, short, tall. Some people even claim he’s a vampire or a lycanthrope, though I’m sure that’s not true. But I also heard he was dead.”

“According to Isamu, he nearly was. The rest of his cell wasn’t so lucky.”

“Hmm. Well, this alters our investigation considerably. The Impaler has access to resources and contacts worldwide, from crime families to arms dealers. He’s a dangerous opponent. Only—”

“Only he’s not crazy. He’s a well-known international terrorist that’s smart enough to not get caught. And what he’s doing makes perfect sense from a terrorist POV: he’s using the media to create an atmosphere of uncertainty and increasing fear. So here’s the question: what the hell am I doing here?”

“You’re here because our killer is insane,” Cassius says.

“How do you know that? Because so far, despite a definite pattern of sociopathic behavior, I’m not seeing a lot of signs of out-and-out psychosis—hell, from a military point of view, what he’s doing almost makes sense. Sow fear and confusion in the enemy, pick your kills for maximum social impact—”

“No. If he truly wanted to terrify, he’d hit targets in heavily populated centers, not isolated areas. And the killings would be less elaborate and more brutal; in the case of the silver maiden, the death wasn’t even visible.”

I sigh. “Okay, those are good points. There’s a certain artistic quality to the murders that doesn’t make much sense. But that just points to a different motive, not necessarily mental illness.”

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Gretchen clears her throat. “I’d like to point out that you’ve discovered more in two days than our investigators have in two weeks, Jace. That suggests to me that your approach and expertise are exactly what we need, despite your misgivings.”

“Absolutely,” Cassius adds. “Don’t underestimate yourself. Insight that seems obvious to you is not to us; you come from a culture that has madness so firmly entrenched that you take it for granted. I could give you a list of terms our researchers discovered, apparently commonplace to you but meaningless to us.” He shuffles a few papers on his desk and pulls out a single sheet. “ ‘Nut job.’ ‘Rubber room.’ ‘Off his rocker’?”

I shake my head. I can’t argue with him, but his explanation still doesn’t ring true. I let it go for the time being. “All right, let’s say the Impaler is losing his marbles—”

“That one I find kinda offensive,” Charlie says. I shut him up with a look.

“—he’s still what we call an organized killer. He plans very carefully, even though his thought processes may be based on delusional thinking. If he’s operating on a timetable, I don’t know what it is; there was a nine-day period between the first two killings, and an eleven-day gap between the second and the third. A killer like this, I’d expect him to stick to a rigorous schedule or the gaps between murders to decrease—

neither appears to be true. Which means that though he’s almost certain to strike again, we don’t know when; could be two weeks, could be two months.”

“But at least we know who we’re looking for,” Gretchen says. “I can generate a list of known associates and past sightings. Perhaps one will lead us to our quarry.”

“I may have a lead,” Eisfanger pipes up. “The drug used on Keiko Miyagi—I have a list of pharmaceutical distributors in the U.S. It’s a lot of data, but maybe I can crosscorrelate to something else.”

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“I know some guys with connections to the FHR,” Charlie says. “We’ll go talk to ’em.”

“Good,” Cassius says. “Let’s get going.”

That signals the end of the meeting and we all stand up. Once again, Cassius says,

“Jace? Just a moment.”

I glance at Gretchen, but she just gives me a bland smile; somehow, that says more than a raised eyebrow could.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Just want you to have this.” He pulls a small vial out of his breast pocket and hands it to me. The others are filing toward the door, but Eisfanger is hanging back.

I take the vial and examine it; it’s got a few ounces of a yellowish fluid inside. “What is it?”

“Wolf pheromones. Dab a little bit of this anywhere you have hair; it’ll make you smell like the alpha female of a Siberian pack.”

“And I want to smell like a Russian wolf why?”

Eisfanger steps forward. “It’ll get you in certain places you wouldn’t be able to otherwise. And a certain amount of respect.”

I scowl at the little vial. “I thought my badge was supposed to do that.”

“Only to a point,” Cassius says. “Especially when dealing with wolves. Pack structure is very important to them, and even the lowest-ranking wolf will be treated better than a human.”

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Great. The olfactory equivalent of passing. I slip the vial into my pocket. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Yes. I want you to be careful. Let Charlie do his job and keep you safe. You’re no good to us dead.”

“No?” I say as I head for the door. “Thanks for letting me know—I forgot to check my contract for a zombie extension clause.”

“Talk to the receptionist on your way out. She’s got details on your accommodations and some paperwork for you.”

While Gretchen works on her list, I take some time to get settled. The receptionist hands me an envelope with a key card and a cash voucher in it; apparently I’ve already got a place to stay within walking distance of the office. I half-expect Charlie to tag along when I say I’m going over there to check it out, but he just nods and says he’ll see me later.

I find it with no problem. Concrete high-rise, security entrance, reasonably sized onebedroom on the third floor. Furnished with bland, motel-style furniture and a double bed, even a few pots and plates in the kitchen. I’m not crazy about staying there for any length of time—it has all the earmarks of a safe house, which means it’s probably bugged out the wazoo—but it’ll do for now. The fridge is empty, which I’m grateful for.

Then I do some shopping. I could probably sign a car out of the motor pool, but there’s a mall a few blocks away. I make my first foray into the big bad world of supernatural commerce, taking care to dab on some wolfy underarm charm first.

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Seattle seems to have a pretty even mix of pires and thropes. It’s evening by now, so I see both kinds out and about. It’s often hard to tell them apart; the paler ones are probably pires, but that’s hardly definitive. The thropes that are in full-on hairy mode stand out, of course, but there are fewer of them than I expected. I guess it’s just more convenient to stay in human form, since it’s the base model for both races. Lowest common denominator rules.

I see more wolf children than anything else—running around, sniffing everything, yelping and snapping at each other. It’s unbelievably cute. Here I am on the Planet of the Monsters, and it feels more as if I’m stuck in a remake of 101 Dalmations done with wolf cubs. Makes me wonder what their version of Disney World is like.

I find myself thinking about Tanya and what she would make of all this. She’s a tiny blonde with a big goofy smile and a habit of sleeping with married men. “Keeps the complications to a minimum,” she says, and then finds herself in the middle of some huge family drama that usually winds up in a bitter divorce and a restraining order. She seems to thrive on it.

Yeah, she’d probably like it here. In fact, the hardest decision she’d probably have to make is which one to pick, thrope or pire. Pire, probably. She’d never have to worry about gaining weight again.

Thinking about Tanya makes me a little melancholy. I decide to splurge on some music—you can’t enjoy a good funk without a sound track—go into the first music store I see, and head for the blues section.

Where I get smacked in the face by a cultural difference that makes perfect sense in retrospect. I don’t recognize any of the artists. Technology and even history can evolve along parallel lines in different worlds, but music is a cultural artifact—and the cultures I’m dealing with are very different from my own. I listen to a few samples and some of it’s very good, but I’m not in the mood to experiment. I want something familiar, dammit.
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Most people would have a ton of music stored on their laptop, but I have a rule about using mine strictly for work—no games, no tunes, no time wasters. I spend the next two hours looking through every CD in the store. I wind up with a bunch of classical—it figures the further back I go, the more similarities I find—one jazz recording, the National Anthem, a country-and-western album, a collection of novelty songs and a movie sound track. Not exactly consistent, but it’s a start.