Evil Dark (12 page)

  The name came from an innocent little song on the Beatles'
White Magic
album, but there was nothing innocent about what Crazy Charlie had in mind for America: race war.

  Out of Manson's deranged mind had come the notion that the Bible predicted a final showdown between humans and supes, or what Charlie called the "Children of Light" and the "Children of Darkness." When it became clear to the supes that humans were targeting them, courtesy of Charlie and his troops, they would strike back indiscriminately. This would bring a swift response from humans, prompting a struggle that would eventually result in the annihilation of every supe on the planet.

  Or something like that.

  Charlie was currently serving ninety-nine years to forever, and the rest of his tribe also went down for long stretches. A few of them were released eventually, and one of the women actually tried to assassinate President Ford. But somebody in the crowd grabbed the gun away before Betty could take a bullet.

  In any case, the visions of Helter Skelter were locked up with the madman who had dreamed them, and that particular brand of craziness wasn't going to trouble the world again.

  Or so everybody thought.

  I looked at Pettigrew. "If you really believe that, you oughta be happy as a pig eating garbage," I said.

  His mouth tightened at my insulting metaphor, but what he said was, "I don't know, man. I just don't know. It's a cool idea to rap about over a few beers or some weed, but making it really happen…" He let his voice trail off.

  "You afraid you might get killed, is that it?"

  He shook his head. "No, within the context of the struggle, my life is nothing."

  I just looked at him. After ten seconds or so, his somber expression broke and he snorted with laughter.

  "Guess you still know bullshit when you hear it, huh?"

  "I encounter so much, you might say it's pretty familiar," I said.

  "Yeah, well, sure, I'm afraid I might die, if the capital 'S' shit hits the capital 'F' fan. I've got a wife and kids that I love the hell out of, most days. And I'm pretty damn fond of myself, too. But that's not the real reason why this Helter Skelter stuff scares me."

  "What, then?"

  "I'm afraid we just might lose."

 

It was time for me to go to work for real. When I got to the squad room, I saw that Karl had already arrived. He was alone in the place, apart from Lieutenant McGuire, who was in his glass-enclosed office at the far end.

  Karl looked up, said, "Hey," and went back to work on his computer. I wanted to let him know about my conversation with Pettigrew, even though he might be pissed that I went there without him. I walked around to his side, grabbed an empty chair from somebody's desk, and wheeled it over to where Karl was sitting. As I plopped down he turned and looked at me curiously. "What's up, Stan?"

  "I got out of the house earlier than usual tonight. Christine and I have some shit going on, and I didn't feel like dealing with it right now, so I left before she got up."

  "Is she OK?" I sometimes wonder if Karl has some kind of a thing for Christine. I hope he doesn't, although I couldn't have said why, exactly.

  "It's complicated, but, yeah, she's OK. I'll tell you about it sometime. Maybe you can even give me some advice, since you're uniquely qualified. But now you need to hear about the conversation I just–"

  That was far as I got when McGuire came out of his office and yelled, "Markowski, Renfer – you got one." He didn't need to yell, since we were the only ones here, but I think it's just habit with him now.

  I swiveled the chair around and stood up. "We've already got two cases going, boss," I said carefully. "If you count the snuff film thing, that is."

  "And now you'll have three. You see anybody else around here to catch it?"

  Karl was on his feet by now. "What and where, boss?"

  "Looks like a dead werewolf in Nay Aug Park. Your buddy Scanlon is on the scene and asked for somebody from what he likes to call the spook squad."

  "The park's a pretty big place," Karl said. "Got any info about where the scene is?"

  "Yeah," McGuire said. "The tree house."

  There's this company that goes around the country building enormous tree houses in parks and other public green spaces. They charge a lot, but the city was able to get a matching grant from some Federal agency a few years back, and I have to admit the final product was impressive.

  It's basically just a big, open platform with a roof on it, but the thing is built in the middle of an immense oak tree. The trunk shoots up right through the middle of the thing, and the designers put holes in the roof where the branches go. The tree house overlooks Nay Aug Gorge and the Roaring Brook, which runs through the middle of it. If you were crazy enough to jump over the railing, you'd have a 150-foot drop straight down before you hit the water, and that creek isn't nearly deep enough to dive into with any hope for survival. The tree house is as steady as the Sphinx, but it might not be the best place to visit if you're nervous about heights.

  There's been a couple of suicides over the years – lovelorn teenagers looking to make a romantic final exit. I'd seen the aftermath of one of those idiotic gestures when I worked Homicide, and the result didn't look romantic at all.

  That hasn't been a problem in a long time, though, ever since they closed the park after sunset. If you're some emo determined to make a dramatic exit, I suppose you could sneak in there some night. But the odds are you'd run into a werewolf, and the results of that encounter might make the remains of a jumper look positively dainty by comparison.

  The city lets the weres have the use of the park at night as a public service – both to the weres and the rest of the city's population. Wolves need to run, it's in their nature.

  Back when the city council was composed of sentient beings, they realized that it would be better for everybody concerned if the weres had a big, open space to do their collective thing, instead of doing it in their backyards. Less risk to the neighbors that way – and to the weres as well. Every human knows about silver bullets, and although the cartridges tend to be pricey, they're not exactly hard to find. I'm pretty sure that I saw some for sale in Vlad-Mart last week.

  To get to the park tree house, you walk up a gently sloping ramp that makes a sharp right turn about halfway up. I'm sure there's some principle of engineering that explains that, although nobody has ever bothered to enlighten me.

  It was the usual homicide scene: flashing red and blue lights, yellow crime scene tape, obnoxious yelling reporters – and Scanlon. He was waiting for us at the base of the ramp, along with a couple of uniforms that I knew.

  "I would've been inclined to call you guys anyway," Scanlon said, "considering that this place is Were Central after dark. But once I laid eyes on the vic, I was pretty damn sure it was something you'd be interested in."

  "Where's the body – up there?" I nodded toward the tree house.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Then let's go have a look," I said.

  Scanlon took the lead up the narrow ramp, with me behind him, followed by Karl.

  "Who called it in?" I said to Scanlon's back.

  Without stopping, he said over his shoulder, "Anonymous call to 911. They've traced it to within the park, but the number isn't getting us anywhere. Probably a disposable phone."

  I wondered if Christine had been the operator to take the call, and if she'd known it would bring her old man to the scene. Then I decided that I'd better stop thinking about Christine.

  There was more crime scene tape across the entrance to the tree house. Scanlon produced a pocket knife and cut it loose. Must have been a sharp blade – it went through the plastic tape without a snag.

  The naked man lay on his side, what was left of his mouth frozen into a snarl. Weres have to undress before transforming, or they'd just have to fight their way out of the clothes with teeth and claws once the change is complete. And as everybody knows by now, a werewolf returns to human form post-mortem. So if you kill a were, you end up with a dead, naked human – like the one we were looking at now.

  I heard Karl draw in his breath sharply – a good trick when you no longer need to breathe. He was reacting to the pool of blood under the corpse's head. There wasn't much of it, though, compared to some other crime scenes I've been at. Bullet wounds to the head often bring instantaneous death, and corpses don't bleed much. But there was another, larger pool of blood a few feet beyond the corpse.

  "What do you make of the other blood pool?" I asked Scanlon.

  "Don't know yet," he said. "It's not consistent with the head wound. Maybe the vic managed to hurt the killer before dying."

  "With a bullet in his brain?"

  "I mean before the perp got a shot off. Maybe some human idiot got into the park, the were attacked him, and the guy was defending himself. Could happen."

  "Not unless the shooter was a goat," Karl said.

  Scanlon and I looked at him. Karl was kneeling next to the second blood pool, and I saw that his index finger was dark from where he'd dipped it in the blood for a sniff, and maybe a taste.

  "This is goat blood," he said, looking up at us. "Not human, not were. Just your basic old-McDonald-had-afarm goat."

  "There's an expert opinion for you," I said to Scanlon.

  "I don't doubt it," he said. "But that raises an interesting question, the same one that I often find myself asking at murder scenes."

  "You mean 'What the fuck?'" I said.

  "That's the one."

  Karl was looking closely at the section of railing that overlooked the gorge. He wasn't using a flashlight, but then I guess he didn't need one.

  "There's a couple of blood drops here," he said, "and the smell of goat is pretty strong." He turned to look at Scanlon. "I'm betting that if you send some guys down into the gorge tomorrow, you'll find a dead goat, probably with its throat cut. Even if it went into the creek, it won't have traveled far downstream. Water's pretty shallow, this time of year."

  "You're on a roll, man," I said. "Care to tell us what you think it all means?" I was beginning to get an idea myself, but Karl deserved a chance to shine, especially in front of Scanlon, who'd voiced his doubts about vampire cops to me once, over a beer.

  "I think it was a set-up," Karl said. "The perp led the goat up here, killed it – and waited. He knew that weres were gonna be in the park, and they have a powerful sense of smell, better even than… some other kinds of supes." I think he'd been about to say "vampires," but thought better of it.

  "He knew the blood smell would bring a werewolf up here, sooner or later," Scanlon said. "And it would probably be strong enough to mask the shooter's scent, as well."

  "Sure," Karl said. "And there's only one way for the wolf to get here – right up that ramp. Talk about shooting fish in a barrel."

  "So the wolf comes bounding up the ramp," I said, "and the killer's waiting, maybe sitting or lying down. Just him and his piece, loaded with silver."

  "That's what I'm thinking," Karl said. "So the guy shoots the wolf, who dies and transforms back to human. Then the killer heaves the goat over the railing, steps over both blood pools real careful like, then walks down – and out."

  "Why not do the same with the vic?" Scanlon said. "That way, he might not be found for days, even weeks. Which would give the perp lots of time to set up an alibi, or even leave town."

  We stood there in silence until I broke it by saying, "He didn't throw the body over, because he wanted it to be found. He wanted us to know that somebody killed a werewolf here tonight."

  "Why the fuck would anybody do that?" Scanlon asked.

  "As a step in bringing on Helter Skelter." They both looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. I took a deep breath and let it out. "I had a conversation earlier today with a guy. I haven't had time to tell you about it, but it's time I did."

 

It was Karl's turn to drive, but he didn't start the car when I slipped into the seat next to him. Instead, he turned and looked at me.

  "If somebody hadn't offed a werewolf tonight, were you ever gonna tell me about the little talk you had with Pettigrew?"

  "I started to tell you about it as soon as I got to the squad room tonight, remember? Then McGuire gave us this thing to deal with. I could've mentioned it in the car on the way over, but it's a short trip and I knew I wouldn't have the chance to finish before we got to the park. And I wanted to make sure you got the whole story at once, not just a piece of it."

  After a couple of moments he nodded. "OK, I remember you sitting down next to me when you came in. And then McGuire comes out of his office, and it's
Who else am I gonna give it to
?"

  His impression of McGuire was really terrible, but I thought this wasn't a good time to mention it.

  "OK, that answers one question, Stan, but here's another one. How come you went to see that fuckface Pettigrew without me?"

  "It's like I started to tell you back at the squad," I said. "I've got a problem with Christine and I don't know how I want to deal with it yet. So I got out of the house before she was up."

  "Yeah, all right, you wanted to leave early and avoid Christine. But that doesn't explain Pettigrew, Stan. You could've taken in a movie, or maybe stopped off for coffee someplace. Nothing says you had to go see Mister Master Race by yourself."

  "You just showed why I did it."

  Karl blinked a few times. "What the fuck does
that
mean?"

  "The 'master race' thing. Going to see Pettigrew was a spur of the moment decision, OK? But it did occur to me that having a conversation with him would probably go smoother without the two of you growling at each other like a couple of pit bulls."