Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3 Page 15

  They had withdrawn to the safety of the trees, the dark of the mountainside. Another den lost and Prall had only himself to blame. Going back to the halfway house was risky but finding it boarded up and abandoned was an unexpected boon. He would have wagered a day's earnings that the old house would have been razed for the hellhole it was. But it wasn't. No one cared. The house sat dark and forgotten. A perfect refuge for the pack since the pigs took their old den. He hadn't expected them to look there. He had underestimated them, the pigs. Especially the woman.

  He scratched at a scab on his ribs. Blackened blood flaked away under his dirty fingernails. The Argentino mastiff nosed his ribcage and lapped its tongue over the scab, grooming it clean. Prall smacked it away, hazing it off with blows until it pouted off across the pine needles and joined the others.

  Prall watched the dogs. The dogs wrestled and fought. Every animal in the pack unnerved by his mood. They nipped and trampled one another, the aggression growing into full blown snarls and snaps to the neck. The bitch was gone, blown to hell by the guns of men and the pack was feeling her absence. Without a female to nicker, the pack's aggression turned inward and the scrapping was getting out of hand. More than once, Prall had been set on by the younger males, testing his power. He had killed one and marked two others. That should have been enough to dismay the rest but aggression still festered in the ranks.

  He looked up at the ripples of blue sky slipping in and out of the canopy of leaves and he questioned the wisdom of his plan. Chased out of the Gethsemane House into this garden, this Gethsemane. Doubting his course of action and recusing himself for the losses they'd suffered and the certainty of more losses to come before it was all over.

  And there was the cop who'd found the den. The woman. He had no idea if she was alive or dead. This was a mistake, a sin never made before. What if she survives? Had he ruined his chances for redemption?

  He leaned and spat into the dirt. There was no time for weakness. There would be more losses and more bloodshed but no tears would be shed. He could not cry, even if he wanted to. The reformation had sealed his tear ducts forever. Wolves do not cry. All that mattered now was the burning need for revenge and the lasting hope for salvation. Stay the course, the plan would provide both.

  BEHIND the halfway house was a footpath that cut through the raspberry bushes into the trees beyond. Gallagher followed the track as it snaked around willows and dogwoods until it dropped to a creek bed below. He looked north towards the source then followed the stream as it trickled past him to where the creek bent leeways and disappeared behind some cottonwoods. The creek graded downward and fed into the river further down. A box turtle sunned itself on a rock. Gallagher climbed down the bank, slipping on the wet leaves and coming up with a damp ass. The turtle dropped into the water and vanished. He crossed the stream, eyes on the muddy banks for paw prints. Cutting for sign. That's what they said in the old cowboy movies. They went thataway. Gallagher couldn't see anything that looked like paw tracks or any kind of tracks at all. He'd make one shitty cowboy. Still, it made sense the dogs would flee this way. The footpath led directly to the creek and from here Prall could lead them further into the trees or south to the river and into the city.

  When he got back to the house his knees were damp and his shoes muddy. The police tape had snapped at one end it twisted and popped in the wind. He went through the house again, top to bottom, hoping the fifth time would be the charm but there was nothing new, no overlooked gem that would lead him to the crazy son of a bitch. The techs had gone over everything, leaving dust smears and tape behind, the duffel bag and filthy clothes tagged and carted away.

  Upstairs in the big room, Gallagher sat on the floor and studied the pentagram scored into the old sheetrock. He waited for some divine inspiration to drop a lead into his head, psychically cutting for sign that would lead to their suspect. He shivered from being damp. After a while he rose and quit the house.

  At the office, he filtered through the paperwork and stuck the essential stuff into a folder to take home. Vogel stopped to inquire about Mendes's condition but he had no news and the Lieutenant grumbled and moved on. Gallagher thumbed through the mess on Mendes's desk until he found her notepad. Skimming through it, there was a note about the Gethsemane case files still held up in evidence. He called down to the evidence dungeon and barked at someone to locate the files detective Mendes had requested. He felt better for having hollered at someone.

  He was late getting to the hospital. Amy was watching TV, feet propped onto the bed and her hand in a bag of pretzels. Mendes lay stiff and straight, unchanged since he last saw her. The only difference were her eyes. They were blinded with squares of cotton and taped into place.

  “What's wrong with her eyes?”

  “They wouldn't stay closed.” Amy sat up, dropping her feet so her dad could move closer. “They just stayed open. It was creepy. The doctors thought her eyes would dry out like that so they taped them shut.”

  “Did you talk to her like I asked? Did she react at all?”

  “She hasn't reacted to anything. Even her eyes. They were just like, lifeless.” Amy wiped her fingers on her jeans. “Whose shift is up next?”

  “No one. Everyone's busy.”

  “We can't just leave her alone.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you wanna stay?” Amy asked. “We can order a pizza or something.”

  He picked up her school bag and peeled her sweater from the back of the chair. “No. Let's go home.”

  “Dad. Are you sure? I don't mind.”

  He wrapped the sweater over her shoulders. “You've done enough. Let's get home.”

  LARA dreamt about sex.

  Sex outdoors, the smell of damp earth and dead leaves. Stars sparkling dull against a black sky.

  She had stared at that ceiling for so long, the dimpled tile with a water stain and the cruel fluorescents. Unable to shut her eyes against it, her pupils shrank and her vision blurred white. Snowblind until the doctor shuffled in and forced her eyelids closed. The feel of tape pulling the upper lid over the lower one and then the pressure of wadding packed against it. Darkness, merciful in its oblivion and she slept.

  But now the dream of sex. It started as sensation, something against her skin. She was dreaming but conscious of the dream at the same time. Running through half-memories of all the times she'd done it outside. On a picnic blanket with the feel of mown grass under her shoulders. In a pool she and a boy had snuck into late at night. On the rooftop of a cheap hotel in Mexico with her last real boyfriend. His name was Matt. The breeze warm off the Caribbean and the sound of the beach below. Sand still on their bellies, pumicing their skin raw.

  Above her was a night sky pinholed with stars. Beneath her a carpet of pine needles and the smell of dirt. The trunks of pines and elms at each point of the compass. Her palms flat on the ground, propping herself up. Her arms pale blue in the moonlight.

  The man behind her. She thought it was Matt at first but it wasn't Matt. Too rough, the way he slapped her and gripped her hair. She looked over her shoulder but he tugged her hair hard, keeping her eyes off him. He was noisy. So was she.

  She pulled away, leaving hair in his fingers. A cloud passed over the moon and blocked the light. Too dark to see his face. She didn't care, pushing him flat on his back. She picked up steam, feeling it build inside her. A breath away from coming, the clouds parted and his face shone pale. She knew it would be him but she couldn't stop now. Ivan Prall clutched her arms and held her fast until she finished and wilted onto him.

  She pushed herself up, found her hands were slick. Blood all down her arms, her stomach, her thighs. Prall lay stone still. His throat was open, the severed windpipe sucking wet air. His belly was gutted, ribs protruding through the meat. The cracked sternum rose and fell. His entrails squirmed between her thighs like eels swimming in blood.

  She bolted off and crawled away. Her skin painted red and nothing to wipe it off with.

  The
crack of a branch caught her ear. Bootheels crunching pine needles. A figure pushed through the branches and stood in the moonlight, the face hidden under a baseball cap. He wore camouflage underneath an orange safety vest, the kind hunters wore to keep from shooting one another. Rifle in hand, an old bolt action topped with a scope.

  She ran. Breakneck through the trees, skin clawed by branches and her feet bare over the earth. Cold teeth swallowed her ankle and she hit the ground. An old bear trap, the iron jaws biting clear through to the bone. She pulled at it but the iron jaws wouldn't give.

  The sound of his boots. The hunter clomped forward and bore down on her. She clawed at the trap, clawed at her leg. The hunter seated the rifle to his shoulder and lay his cheek into the stockpiece. Even with one eye hidden behind the scope, she recognized his face.

  Gallagher steadied his aim and fired. A clean killshot and her chest bloomed red when the bullet found her heart.

  LARA WOKE. She didn't startle or jerk awake like she did from any other nightmare. She couldn't move and she couldn't see and the scream bubbling up inside her had nowhere to go. The paralysis, the cotton wadded over her eyes. How long has she been like this? What day was it?

  She heard the creak of the chair, someone in the room. Who was sitting with her now? She knew they were taking shifts so she wouldn't be alone. Charlene and Gallagher and Amy. Even Kopzyck had taken a turn. He had yammered at her, complaining about how she got the homicide promotion over him. How unfair it was. Then he put his feet up and napped until he was relieved.

  “You lived.”

  A voice she couldn't place. Someone else from the unit? Or a doctor.

  Hands touched her face. She felt fingers peel the tape back and the pressure on her eyes lifted away as the batting was removed. A warm palm flattened against her brow, a thumb pulling up her eyelid. The voice again, rumbling low in her ear. “Sometimes surviving isn't the best option.”

  The light stung, dim as the room was. The figure hovering over her took on shape. His breath hot on her face. Prall.

  She wanted to scream but could not. She wanted to stab her thumbs through his eye sockets into his brain but could not. Prall stroked her cheek, his fingers hot on her skin like he was burning a fever. Her face reflected back in the mirror of his sunglasses. On his brow, the cross-shaped scar was raw as if fresh.

  “You know what happens now, don't you?”

  Lara willed her muscles to do something, her hands to strike out. Her teeth, anything. And where was the nurse?

  Prall leaned over her. He stank of sweat and dirty hair. A gamey musk, like wet dog. He said, “This is the scary part, the paralysis. It's like dying 'cept you're awake the whole time.” His nostrils flared, taking in her smell. “What's your name, piggy?”

  He reached over her, his hand coming back with a blue plastic card embossed with information. Ivan Prall looked at it for a spell, his lips moving slowly as he read. He tapped the plastic against his teeth.

  “Mendes, Lara. Detective, Portland Police Bureau.”

  He flicked the card away and touched a finger to her lips. He traced his fingertip over her chin and down her neck, the rise of clavicle and down her sternum. His fingers circled her breast and spiraled round the nipple. He pinched and twisted.

  “You're like me now.”

  In spirit, Lara struck out like a rattlesnake, bashing his skull against the floor until there was nothing but froth and bone chips. In body, she did none of this. Still as statuary.

  “No more playing piggy for you. You're gonna change, Lara Mendes. And when you do change, you'll come to me. Take your place in the pack.”

  He slid the sunglasses off his nose. His eyes were all wrong. They were bloodshot and the irises glowed yellow around the pupil.

  “Tell me something.”

  His coarse palm smoothed down her ribs and along her hip. Turned in to the thigh and slid under the hospital gown.

  “Who's the little girl who comes to sit with you?”

  The screams bounced around inside her skull with nowhere to go.

  23

  LI'L DEE LIT THE WICK ON THE LANTERN now that it was full dark. There wasn't a lot of kerosene left, he'd have to be careful with it now. That crazy bastard Reggie had used some of it, not for the lamp but to rub on himself. Dee had come back to the hovel to find the stupid son of a bitch stripped to the waist and washing himself with it, rubbing kerosene over his armpits and down his neck. Dee snatched the fuel can away and cursed him. The man was getting crazier by the day, you never knew what kind of nonsense the bastard would get up to next.

  Reggie didn't even apologize. He pulled his clothes back on, wrapped himself in his sleeping bag and sat by the window. Watching. After a while, he started coughing again. He reached for one of his jugs, thumbed the lid off and spit into it. Great phlegm gobs spackled with blood and God knows what. He jammed the lid back on and slid the jug back amongst the others.

  Dee sat and chewed a bun salvaged from a dumpster. The man was bugging and Dee considered moving on. He didn't want to give up the space but Reggie was beginning to scare him. He was sick, that was plain enough from the coughing and the moaning, the fever that rippled through the man. He was hot to the touch, burning up inside. And now this craziness with the cans.

  Reggie refused to piss outside anymore. He collected a bunch of cans and jugs, anything that had a lid and these he pissed in, always sealing it up when he was done. The first time Dee saw it, he yelled at him to do it outside. Reggie refused but he weirdly encouraged Dee to piss outside, to piss a ring around their shack to mark territory and cover his scent. Dee just shook his head at the damn craziness. Reggie had taken to burying his shits too, like a cat. He'd go out behind the shack with a little shovel, to the spot where it was sandy and he'd dig a hole and do his business and backfill it. Pure craziness.

  Dee weighed his options. Pack up his gear and look for a new squat or stay and watch Reggie go to pieces. Wake up one night to find the lunatic coming at him with a knife.

  “I can't do it anymore.”

  Reggie had spoken, but not to Dee. He stared out the window and spoke to no one, to the night. “I just can't.”

  Now what? Dee watched as Reggie knelt over his belongings in the corner. He rooted into a satchel and came up with a few cards. Drivers license, something with a picture on it. These he stuck into a pocket and then turned to Dee and dropped the satchel at his feet.

  “Here,” he said. “Take this. I won't need it anymore.”

  Reggie shuffled to the door. He opened it, letting in a blast of wind and then he looked back at Dee. “Don't stay here. Find a new place. They'll find this place sooner or later. You don't want to be here when they do.”

  Dee said nothing, blinking his eyes. Reggie pulled the blanket tight and left.

  Dee dug through the satchel. He found a can opener and a good jackknife. He dug into a smaller pocket inside the lining and came up with money. Not loose change but paper money. Three wrinkled fifties and two fives. Son of a bitch.

  GALLAGHER knocked on doors, canvassing the area around the halfway house for the third time. Nothing useful had been pulled from the scene, just like the earlier squat in the industrial lot. The investigation had stalled out and Mendes remained in hospital. The Lieutenant had ordered him to back up Latimer and Bingham on a homicide up in North Portland. A white male found dead in a laneway behind a drycleaners. The victim's tongue bulged out the mouth and rope burns round the neck. No ID on the body and no cell phone to backtrack through. No witnesses. Another stone cold whodunit without a shot in hell of ever being solved. Every detective got one and this time it was wonder boy Bingham and cracker Latimer. So it goes.

  Gallagher looked at his watch. Mendes was alone right now, caught between sitter shifts. As the days dragged on it was harder to find anyone available to sit with her. Including himself. The list was down to himself, Amy and Charlene but that wasn't enough to cover it all. All he could do was hope Mendes didn't wake up in the gap
between sitters. If she ever woke up. The doctor he'd spoken to this morning mentioned the increasing risk of coma.

  Walking back to his car with a handful of nothing from the canvas, his phone buzzed. On the display, PABLO.

  After the animal shelter had been processed and the police tape taken down, Pablo had gone back to work. There was no one to replace him and the pens were full of animals that needed to be cared for, crime scene or no. Still in shock, Pablo did what most people do in crappy situations. He carried on. Gallagher had stopped in to see him two days ago with a request, asking Pablo to monitor all complaints that came in. If anyone called in about stray dogs, no matter how minor, Pablo was to call him immediately.

  He put the phone to his ear. “What'cha got, Pablo?”

  “Just took a call from someone over in Felony Flats, said her Corgi was almost mauled by a couple of pit bulls.”

  “Where exactly?” Gallagher scrounged for his pen and took down the address.

  “I dunno how accurate the woman is,” Pablo said. “I asked how she knew these were pits, all she said was they looked mean as hell.”

  “Good enough for me. Thanks for the heads up.” Gallagher almost hung up there but lingered, letting the pause stretch down the line. “You doing okay? You should take some time off. Go fishing or something.”

  “You kidding me? Who's going to mind the store when I'm not here?”

  Gallagher smiled. “I know. Just don't push it, man. You've been through a helluva shock. Deal with it now. Otherwise it just comes back to bite you in the ass later.”

  “Thanks, Oprah.”

  “Screw you too, buddy.”

  THE ADDRESS of Pablo's caller was dark when he rolled the Cherokee past the house. The porch light out, all the windows dark. No sense bothering the lady who called. He'd be stuck on her stoop for half an hour listening to a longwinded complaint. Who had the time for that nonsense?