Wolf Hunt (30 page)

The explosion sounded even louder than the
first one.

They looked back. There was nothing left of
Michele but some burnt pieces, scattered around the area.

"Shit," said George.

"At least she didn't suffer."

"What do you mean? She suffered a
lot."

"Not from the dynamite, though."

"Well, that's lovely. If you count
only that last second when she got blown to bits, she died a
peaceful death. Wonderful. I guess coming into our lives was the
best thing that ever happened to that young girl."

"I just won't say anything else." Lou took
another stick of dynamite out of the box while watching carefully
for any sign of Ivan.

"Hey, Ivan!" George shouted. "Did you see
that? Sorry you didn't get to make yourself a girlfriend! She was a
good choice!" George walked over to the white van and opened the
passenger side door.

"Is he still around?" Lou asked. It seemed
unlikely that Ivan would stay in the area having witnessed what
happened to the other werewolf, but anything was possible with that
cocky bastard.

George picked up the tracking device. "Yeah.
He's still close." George pointed at the swamp in the same
direction where Lou had thrown the grenade. "Do it."

Lou lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite.

The explosion sent up a cloud of smoke and
burning leaves. Lou felt too sick over what they'd done to Michele
to enjoy the sensation of hurling explosives.

"Did we get him?"

"No," said George. "Crap. He's on the
move."

"Should we go after him?"

George stared at the tracking device for a
moment. "No, he's running. I don't blame him. We won't be able to
catch him on foot. Let's get in the van. When he comes out of the
swamp, we'll be ready."

They got in the van, with George
driving. Lou figured that this was around the time when several
police cars would come into view, red and blue lights flashing,
with a few dozen officers pointing rifles at them, but the path
remained empty.

"Once again, we could just let him go," said
Lou.

"Are you kidding me? With a
van full of great stuff? That furry son of a bitch is
dead
."

Lou sighed. "All right."

"You're with me, right?"

Lou thought about that for a moment. "You
know what? I actually think I am. I will be really, really relieved
when he's dead."

"Me too."

"So...Mexico or Canada when we flee from our
former lives?"

"People are polite in Canada."

"But it's cold there."

"I don't speak much Spanish."

"But again, it's cold."

"So what?" George asked. "You've spent the
entire day complaining that it's too hot."

"And it is. I don't like Florida heat or
Canadian cold."

"Which is worse?"

"I'm not sure. Florida heat, I guess."

"Well, Mexico heat is worse than Florida
heat, so I guess that settles it. Time to relearn how to say
'about.'"

"About," said Lou,
pronouncing it
a-boot.
"I can't believe Michele is dead."

"Let's not talk about it."

"What if her pieces are still alive?"

"
What?
"

"I'm just saying."

"You jackass. Why the hell would you say
something like that? I mean, even if you thought it, why would you
say it? Her pieces are not still alive, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. I'm just freaked
out by it all."

"So am I, but that doesn't mean I'm
sharing 'living hell' scenarios. She's dead. If we blow Ivan into a
billion pieces, he'll be dead, too. Did you see any of those pieces
moving?"

"No, they were...they were pretty much just
lying there, burning."

"Right. Stop coming up with macabre shit like
that."

"Sorry."

George looked over at the tracking device.
"He's still running. We put a nice scare into him. Let's appreciate
that instead of dwelling on horrific stuff."

"When we catch up to him, I'm using all of
the remaining dynamite."

"That's the spirit!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Distress

Ivan ran through the swamp, so enraged
that he thought his head might explode like the
dynamite.

He didn't mind losing Michele. She was
only intended to be a temporary plaything, and he probably
shouldn't have bitten her in the first place. No big deal. It was
like having a child--a responsibility he didn't want.

Losing George hurt worse. He'd really
been looking forward to making the thug weep. Ivan had probably
exercised bad judgment in staying around as long as he did. As soon
as he saw that they had grenades, he should have gotten out of
there. He was a fast healer, but not immortal, and even if there
was no jagged silver involved he wouldn't survive having his head
blown off.

Still, that wasn't the reason for his
misery.

They were
tracking
him. George had
been holding some kind of device that could follow his movements.
It had to be a chip or something, like what people used for their
beloved pets. That's how those fuckers with the net and crossbow
found him.

Ivan was almost in tears.

He'd stopped for about a minute to check his
ears, even though he would've noticed a chip in there long before
now. The way he healed up, they could have stuck it in him at
Bateman's place while he was unconscious and he never would have
known.

Where was it?

This was awful. This was the worst
possible thing. Sure, he was a werewolf, but he still had to sleep.
What was he going to do, find some kind of impenetrable bunker to
hide out in? Even if the chip only had a limited range, that didn't
do him any good unless he was able to jump on a plane. He couldn't
help but feel that he was going to have difficulty using air travel
for the foreseeable future.

Damn them!

He could turn back, try to kill George
and Lou, and steal their tracker, but that couldn't be the only
device. Ivan wasn't good with technology and didn't know how these
things worked, but they probably even had a fucking website where
they could track him.

He stopped running. He had to think. He
couldn't just let them hunt him down. Better to get blown up than
to be Dewey's little experiment, but he wanted to avoid both of
those possibilities.

Where would they stick the chip?

If he were tagging a werewolf, where would he
put it?

He changed back into his human form and
searched his arms for scars. All of this blood wasn't helping. A
tiny incision wouldn't leave any trace, but if they got
overzealous, there might be a mark.

He had lots of marks, but they were
all from today, as far as he could tell. He feverishly rubbed his
arms, trying to get off as much of the dried blood as he
could.

He could feel himself losing it. This wasn't
good.

If they beat him, it wasn't going to be
because of some chip. No way.

He stripped off what little remained of his
pants and stood there, naked, searching his body for any scars he
couldn't identify. There had to be one. Just a faint trace.

Still too much blood.

Fine. This was the Florida Everglades. There
was water all over the place. He ran for less than a minute before
he found a pool of water. It looked stagnant and thousands of
mosquitoes seemed to be swarming around it, but it would do.

He lay on his back in the water, splashing
around, washing off the blood. He didn't care about the bugs. Let
them take his blood. They could have as much as they wanted.

Losing it...

Ivan sat up. He inspected his stomach, his
legs, his feet. Nothing.

It wasn't fair.

Where would they put it? Where the
hell would they put it?

For all he knew, there was a big
crooked scar across his back. He twisted himself around, trying to
glimpse his reflection in the water, but the water wasn't still
enough and he couldn't see anything.

Chill the hell out. You're going from
"losing it" to "batshit crazy."

So they had a chip in him. So what?
He'd massacred a whole bunch of people in the Cotton Mouse Tavern
who'd known exactly where he was, and it sure didn't save their
lives. George and Lou had been following him, and they hadn't fared
very well. Neither had the reinforcements.

Following Ivan Spinner with a tracing device
meant that you got your arms, legs, and head torn off and thrown
into the air like confetti. That's what your precious chip did for
you.

If Bateman showed up, Ivan would rip his
heart out.

If Dewey showed up, Ivan would make him
measure his own intestines by the yard.

If George and Lou found him, Ivan would hold
them in this foul water and laugh while the mosquitoes drained
them.

Watch the skeeters drink until they burst.
Pop, pop, pop.

Where would they put it? It had to be
something relatively easy--it's not like they would saw open his
cranium and glue it to his brain. They'd want to keep it someplace
simple, like his arm.

His arm. That had to be it.

Which arm?

He was right-handed, so they'd probably go
for his left. That would be the best way to keep it undetected.

Where on the left arm?

They'd go for a fleshy part. Somewhere he'd
be less likely to feel it. So...the bottom of his upper arm.
Absolutely. That's exactly where a sneaky bastard like Bateman
would hide the chip.

Ivan transformed his right index finger into
a claw. The problem with Bateman's oh-so-brilliant plan was that he
didn't think Ivan would cut open his own flesh to dig out the chip.
How wrong he was.

Ivan held up his arm, bent it at the elbow,
and poked the talon through his skin. He was spilling new blood to
replace what he'd washed away. Let the mosquitoes drink their
fill.

He dragged the talon across his arm, cutting
deep into his flesh.

He didn't scream. He wanted to, but he
didn't. He'd felt much worse pain than this, and here he was in
total control. He could stop whenever he wanted.

Ivan cut all the way to his elbow, then
withdrew the talon. There was no chip on the end.

He took a deep breath to steel
himself, and then slipped his middle finger into the gash, running
along its length, searching for the chip. This hurt far worse than
the initial cut. Worse than the bullets he'd taken today. Even
worse than the process of having bullets extracted, which was
something he'd been through several times before, and something
else he'd have to endure in the near future. Drugs didn't work on
him anymore, so he was forced to remain totally conscious and alert
as the non-licensed physician dug out the slugs with a scalpel and
tweezers.

Now he screamed.

What difference did it make? Until he got rid
of the chip, it didn't do any good for him to remain quiet.

No chip.

He dug around in the wound some more.

"You can't beat me," he whispered. "Not a
chance."

He'd have to try the other arm.

He slapped at the mosquitoes.

Other arm. Same spot. That's where they'd
hide the chip.

He transformed his left index finger, then
slit his other arm, wishing that he could just shut off all
sensation. Scrape his arms down to the bone.

He probably wouldn't heal from that.

He wasn't entirely sure where the
limits of his healing power ended. He'd certainly tested that over
the years, but never to the point of skeletonizing a limb to find a
hidden tracking chip.

He worked his finger through the wound,
blinking back tears.

What was that?

He'd definitely felt something odd.

He poked around in there, arm twitching, the
pain more intense than anything he'd ever experienced in a lifetime
of pain. He could do this. He was strong.

I think the word is "insane."

Was he touching bone?

He couldn't take it anymore. He pulled his
finger out, then kneeled back down in the water and washed off his
hands.

What was he going to do?

Maybe the chip wasn't in his arms. Maybe
they'd implanted it in his heart. Or maybe it was microscopic, and
it was right there on the tip of his nose but he couldn't see
it.

Pull it together...

What a horrible way to end this conflict.
Sitting here in a bug-filled pool practicing self-mutilation. Oh,
George and Lou would get a great big laugh at that. They'd point
and take pictures. Look at the formerly amazing werewolf, reduced
to a filthy animal hurting himself.

He picked up his pants--well, the
pants formerly belonging to the guy who he'd killed--and slipped
them back on. He needed to do that. The pain brought
clarity.

He'd get the chip out before too long. He
knew a "doctor" in Atlanta who could X-ray him, find exactly where
it was, and cut it out. No problem.

No reason to panic. And no shame in
panicking. Everybody did it.

They could follow him, but they couldn't
catch him.

Not a chance.

Ivan transformed back into a wolfman, let out
a howl, and then resumed racing across the swamp.

* * *

When he emerged onto a two-lane paved road,
he kept running.

A couple of minutes later, he saw a car.

There was no time for jokes. No time to
mentally torment his prey before he ripped them apart. No time for
fun. He needed that car, and he needed it now.