Blood Wolf’s Path

Blood Wolf’s Path

Chapter 1. A Werewolf at the Cemetery

That night I was walking through the woods toward the cemetery. In the distance, I heard a howl, but I paid it no mind—nature can be deceptive. The moon was full and the stars shone brightly. But even without them I would have found the way—I’d been here many times in the past two months. It was at this cemetery that I had buried my friend. His death was a mystery: the killer left absolutely no traces. Today I just wanted to sit quietly by his grave and think about the case.

I had barely walked a hundred steps down the forest trail when I heard branches snapping off to my right. It sounded as if something inhuman—a beast—was forcing its way through them. I stopped and shouted.

"Who’s there?"

The cracking intensified. Then I yelled:

"I'm a cop! I've got a gun! Enough joking around. I'll open fire, you bastards!"

The noise grew. I drew my Beretta from its holster and racked the slide.

"You sons of bitches, don't you dare mess with me—I'm not in the mood for fun." I cocked the hammer and prepared to shoot.

The head of a scrawny bear poked out of the bushes. For God's sake, since when are there bears in Boston? I thought. I pulled out the Colt revolver loaded with armor-piercing rounds from my waistband, cocked it, and got ready to fire with both guns.

With surprising agility for such a scrawny thing, the bear lunged at me. Must be hungry, I thought, and I immediately opened fire, hoping to give the animal a bellyful of lead.

Dawn was breaking. I came to on the ground with a shallow wound on my chest. The bushes and earth were spattered with blood. Apparently I’d wounded the beast and it had wandered off into the thicket to die. Well, to hell with it—at least I was alive. But I should go see a doctor.

During my checkup, Dr. Muhammad shook his head disapprovingly and said:

"Mr. Harrison, why on earth would you go to a cemetery on a full moon? That’s a bad omen…"

Oh my God, just do your job, you superstitious idiot, I thought.

After the hospital I swung by home to change clothes, then headed to the station.

I needed to find the killer of my partner, Hank Sullivan. Hank had saved me from bullets more than once and taught me how to track criminals. He used to say, "Think like a criminal—it helps." Oh, how I could use his advice right now!

I sat down at my desk and for the hundredth time began reviewing the case files. First I watched the gas station video that captured Hank alive for the last time. There he is, getting out of his truck, one hand resting on the gun in his holster. He looks around, inserts the pump nozzle, swipes a card at the pump terminal. Then he heads into the store, still keeping a hand on his gun. He gives the clerk $30 and walks back out.

Here’s the gas station attendant’s statement: “The man was clearly in a hurry. He gave me $30 and asked me to turn on pump number 1. Said his card didn’t go through.”

Half an hour later, Sheriff Montgomery Burns found Hank’s body five miles from the gas station on the Yankee Division Highway, about three miles from the bay. The pickup was parked on the side of the road with the engine running. One headlight was broken, the hood dented, the windshield cracked – as if the truck had hit a large animal. The body was lying nearby.

The coroner’s report stated that death resulted from the head being partially separated from the body, which severed the carotid artery and internal jugular vein, and also broke the 4th and 5th cervical vertebrae. The nature of the wounds indicated that the blow was delivered by a blunt, heavy object with significant force. No foreign fingerprints or DNA were found on the body or in the truck. Those were all the clues we had.

A mystery I had to solve. So who killed you, Hank? It was only recently we’d celebrated my birthday, when you gave me a revolver and five boxes of armor-piercing rounds (which I, incidentally, put to use just yesterday), and only two days later you were dead.

I spent the two months since my partner’s death going through all of his (which effectively meant our) case files. Maybe someone decided to take revenge? It was a working theory… But why the broken headlight and the dented hood? What the hell happened… And why such a bizarre way to die? If they wanted revenge, they could have just shot him. Killing him with an axe or a machete in one swing—that’s chancy, especially since Hank was always armed…

The perpetrators—if they’d planned an attack specifically on him—would have known all that, so a death under such strange circumstances just didn’t square with a revenge motive… So how did it happen? Hank ran over a perp with his truck, then the guy got up and killed him? Nonsense… Think, think. Maybe they tossed a corpse onto the hood, Hank stopped, and then they killed him… Also nonsense.

For two months I had been grasping at straws, running down every lead. Today I had a meeting scheduled at MCI Concord prison with Fred Johnson. That black son of a bitch was doing time for murdering a family of three—a husband, wife, and their three-year-old son. A total asshole high on drugs had broken into their home and shot all three with a shotgun. It wasn’t hard to nail him—there was a camera out front, and Fred’s face was caught on it. When we busted him five hours after the murders, he was furiously jerking his huge cock. Hank flipped Fred over onto the floor, snapping his dick. And the black bastard started screaming that he’d fuck us all and get revenge… Well, it was time to have a talk with him.

"Well, well, Jerry Harrison, we meet again," Fred Johnson began when I walked into the interrogation room. "Where’s your partner, Hank Sullivan? I heard he went a little wild—and got his head torn off."

"But at least he lived with his dick intact, not broken," I snapped.

"And how would you know—were you fucking him?" Fred shot back.

This exchange of verbal blows could have gone on forever. Fred Johnson was sitting in a chair, his hands chained to the table and his feet in shackles.

I sat down opposite the black bastard and got down to business.

"Do you know who killed him?" I asked.

"I know, I know," Fred Johnson guffawed, tilting his fleshy, double-chinned head back.

"Was it your doing?" I pressed.

"Well, how could I? I’m serving a life sentence," Johnson said with a smirk.

"That’s only because the state of Massachusetts has no death penalty, you filthy bastard," I shot back sharply.

"But I didn’t kill anyone! You know that’s true. And Hank knew it too, and now he’s dead…" Fred Johnson whispered, dripping with insinuation.

"Again with this innocence bullshit. Everyone’s sick of it. Let’s get to the point. Do you have information or not?" I asked, starting to get irritated.

"Yes, I do. But you won’t like it. Beware the full moon. Your hour is coming," Fred Johnson said.

I left the prison in a foul mood. That bastard hadn’t told me anything useful.

I didn’t go back to the station, heading straight home instead. I was exhausted—I could barely keep my eyes open; I didn’t even bother with a beer. I took a leak – my urine was red – and collapsed onto the couch without undressing.

The next day felt like some kind of delirium. I woke up in the bushes of a park two blocks from my house. And I was naked—no underwear, no socks. Good thing it was early morning and I managed to get home without incident.

The front door of my house had been smashed open. It looked like someone had broken it outward from inside. I went in and saw something strange. By the couch lay a shredded pair of jeans and a torn shirt; my boots had been pulled off and sliced up. My pistols were on the floor in their holsters with full magazines, their straps ripped.

All evidence pointed to me sleepwalking. Good thing I hadn’t been armed. Apparently my partner’s death had messed me up so badly I was starting to lose my mind.

The day passed as usual, spent searching for answers. I decided to send a trusted undercover agent into Fred Johnson’s prison to sniff out his possible involvement in my partner’s death. Some old connections with the prison warden helped – I’d once saved the warden’s ass from prison myself. That evening they were supposed to put my agent into his cell… Well, I would wait.

Evening came and once again I felt myself drifting off, as if I’d spent all day unloading boxcars. This time, just in case, I stripped naked and handcuffed myself to the leg of the sofa. The sofa’s legs had thick ends, so the cuffs locked on securely.

Imagine my surprise when early next morning I woke up naked in the park again, handcuffs still on my wrist. My arm didn’t even hurt. I ran back to the house and was stunned. The sofa leg had been torn off, and the couch was shredded like a pack of Mexicans had been tearing it apart looking for drugs.

I tried to break the remaining leg, but it was screwed on tight… Just how hard must one have pulled…

Because I had to clean up, I didn’t make it to work until 7:30. At noon I got a phone call from the prison. The agent they’d planted in Fred Johnson’s cell had been killed. Fred had shanked him in the throat.

Five minutes later I was in my chief’s office, facing the mustachioed, goat-faced David Scott. He really did resemble a goat, and he behaved no better.

"You know, Jerry. This has gone way too far. In half an hour the feds will be here and it looks like we have serious problems. Why the hell did you start all this?" David Scott said.

"What did I start?" I asked, playing dumb.

"Why the fuck did you send an agent into Fred Johnson’s cell? Now the whole department’s in trouble. Who asked you to run a parallel investigation? The feds are handling Hank’s death, so why are you sticking your nose in? What bullshit did you tell the warden? This is all completely illegal, goddammit. Oh my God…" David Scott sighed.

"You know this is personal… a matter of honor," I sighed.

"I’m going to strip you of your badge, you idiot… That’s where this is headed."

That evening I got naked again. This time I decided not to cuff myself to my only bed, and instead to film everything. I set my iPhone on a shelf across from the bed, hit record, and immediately passed out.

I woke up early and once again in the park. My face was covered in some kind of slime. I wiped my hand over my face and saw that it was blood. I immediately rushed home to check the iPhone. But I was in for a disappointment.

"Fucking Tim Cook, I’m sick of this—put a decent battery in these things already!" I yelled.

The phone had died completely; the only footage available ended with me sleeping peacefully.

That day I decided to go see the prison warden, to find out the details of the agent’s murder and to talk to him about Fred Johnson.

Old Leslie Brown was due to retire soon. But I’d caused him a lot of trouble with yesterday’s incident.

"What have you done, Jerry, what have you done…" he began whining, lighting a cigar.

"No, what have you done? Is that what we agreed on, Leslie? Taylor was a good agent, helped us out many times. How the hell did that bastard get a shiv?" I demanded.

"Beats the hell out of me. That Crooked-Dick kid is no ordinary guy. The black son of a bitch wrecked my stats. Now my pension’s in question."

"You’ll get to enjoy retirement soon, banging chicks," I said.

Leslie shook his head, upset.

"Alright, then you’ll be drinking," I consoled him.

Leslie pulled out a bottle of scotch and poured two glasses.

"And what do you think I’m doing right now?" he said.

I took a sip. It hit my throat with the bouquet of worn sneakers. I felt sick; I wanted to puke.

"Good whiskey," I praised. "Anyway, I need another meeting with Fred Johnson."

"You know that’s impossible… at least right now. The feds are still hovering around here. I don’t like any of it," Leslie said, sniffing his foul whiskey.

"Alright, let’s wait a couple days for things to quiet down. In the meantime I’ll go visit Taylor’s widow. Even though they hadn’t lived together for five years, he was helping with the kids—he had two of them… The guys collected some money for her. I need to deliver an envelope," I said.

"Here, add this," Leslie pulled a twenty from his wallet. Then he thought better of it and added another twenty. "She’s got two kids left."

The widow lived in Albany, two hundred miles from Boston. I reached her after dark via I-90.

"Hello, Brenda," I said when a pretty 35-year-old woman opened the door – tall and slim, with a sweet, pleasant face.

Interesting, why did they divorce? She’s sexy, I thought.

I explained the situation to Brenda and asked if I could come in.

“Well, Taylor and I haven’t lived together in ages… It’s very sad, of course. He helped out, sent money. How am I going to feed the kids now…” Brenda said, licking her lips.

Linda and Angela, two nine-year-old twin girls, sat on the couch, glued to their phones.

“We, uh, collected some money… Things turned out awful. Anyway, this is for you,” I said, handing Brenda the envelope and rising to leave.

“Are you in a rush? Stay, tell me how it happened. I have some beer,” Brenda said softly, taking my hand.

“I’m driving. If I drink a couple…” I said, sitting back down on the couch.

We chatted about nothing in particular. I felt awkward, knowing her husband had been killed because of me. But Brenda wouldn’t let me leave. Her crimson lips were hypnotic, and her breasts and hips seemed to show through her thin dress. A pleasant feminine warmth radiated from her body. At some point I realized I couldn’t get up from the couch because I had a raging hard-on for Brenda. I needed to think of something nasty, fast, to make it go away.

I started recalling the crime scene photos of my partner with his head partially torn off, but it didn’t help. The kids went upstairs, and Brenda still wouldn’t stop chattering nonsense. I tried to scoot away so I wouldn’t feel the tempting heat of her body, but she snuggled even closer and whispered, her lips brushing my earlobe:

“I want you to fuck me tonight, Jerry.”

She touched my right thigh and started moving her hand upward.

What am I doing, I thought, but it was already too late.

That evening was bliss.

In the morning I woke to a strange smell, like vomit. I opened my eyes and was stunned. I had never seen a sight like this at any crime scene. The entire bed was soaked in blood; on the floor lay Brenda with her abdomen slashed open, guts everywhere, and the white ceiling was spattered with gray gore. My hands, face, and chest were covered in blood and bits of flesh. The bedroom door was smashed off its hinges. I rushed into the twins’ room… They were dead, like their mother, killed in the most brutal way.

God, I did this… flashed through my mind.

And then the puzzle pieces clicked together in my head. The full moon, the bear attack, the blackouts, the torn clothing, the door busted outward from inside, these murders… I had become a werewolf. And I remembered nothing after I turned into a monster… Fucking Tim Cook…

What now, how do I cure this? In a couple of days—if not sooner—they’ll catch me. My DNA, my prints, they’re everywhere; there’s no simply washing that away, and it’d be pointless besides. I literally told everyone yesterday I was coming to the widow’s. And cameras—there are cameras everywhere—they’ll find me. My car sat outside the house all day. Time of death will be established… I returned to Brenda’s bedroom with my eyes squeezed shut, so I wouldn’t have to see all that hell, and touched Brenda’s hand. Her hand was cold—meaning she’d been dead for quite a while. I threw up.

God, I’m puking up human remains, I thought, and began vomiting even harder.

And then it was like a bolt of electricity shot through me. I remembered the words of that black bastard, Fred “Crooked-Dick” Johnson… He had told me to fear the full moon. Werewolves strike on the full moon. A werewolf had attacked me on the full moon, the day before my meeting with Fred. Which meant Fred knew someone was planning to attack me, but he didn’t know that I had managed to foil it.

Before they caught me, I figured I had one day left – today. I took a shower and put on one of Brenda’s dresses. Using Google Maps, I found the nearest clothing store and bought jeans, a shirt, and a jacket. Now I could head to the prison to see Fred Johnson… One last meeting, or so I believed.

The prison warden—incidentally an old friend of mine and someone who owed me—was in a surly mood and didn’t want to let me see Johnson.

“The feds are here. Not a good time,” Leslie said.

I asked to speak with the fed. An agent named Cocksucker (that’s how he introduced himself) turned out to be a friendly young man of about 27. He actually wanted to talk to me about this case; he’d dropped by our precinct, but I wasn’t there.

“So why did you send the undercover agent Taylor to Fred Johnson?” asked the tall young agent. He was ugly—his tiny lips were repulsive.

“As you know, Agent, my partner was killed two months ago. I’ve been conducting an independent investigation… and I’m coming up empty. So I was tugging on old cases, seeing if it might have been revenge. I didn’t especially suspect Johnson – that black-ass junkie – but I decided to probe that angle just in case. And after meeting him it started to seem plausible. He said I was next, that I should be looking over my shoulder. And the way he said it, it was like he knew something about my partner’s murder.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said Agent Cocksucker, clearly intrigued by my story.

I continued:

“That’s why I decided to plant Agent Taylor in his cell, to get the truth out of him. And now, after my man was killed, I want to meet with Crooked-Dick again…” I said.

“Crooked-Dick?” Agent Cocksucker repeated, confused.

“Yeah, his dick got broken during his arrest. But that’s another story. Anyway, I want to see him again and talk—maybe something will become clear. To tell the truth, the day before I met him, I was attacked; the doctor said my wound was shallow. I opened fire, the perp ran off, and Fred Johnson, as I now understand, doesn’t yet know about the attempt on me. So I have something to surprise him with,” I said.

“That might work. Let’s try it,” Cocksucker agreed.

Twenty minutes later I entered the room where Fred Johnson was being held. He wasn’t as cocky as during our last meeting. His hands were cuffed and chained to the table, and his feet were in irons. When he saw me, annoyance flashed across his face. I spoke plainly, laying out the situation as I saw it. I knew our conversation was being recorded and that the agent was behind the one-way glass listening to everything.

"I know it was on your orders that my partner was killed, and that an attempt was made on my life when I was going to his grave. You’re gonna burn in hell, you bastard. I know you sent that beast after me to kill me, just like they killed my partner. Don’t bother denying it," I began.

Fred looked at me with hatred and spat out through his thick lips:

"I’ve got nothing left to lose. You killed my brother, you bastard. Enjoy your victory! But you can’t bring your partner back—Hank Sullivan is rotting in his grave."

Fred laughed and went on:

"You can’t bring him back; he just croaked like a stray dog. My brother told me how he killed him with a single blow." Crooked-Dick’s deep-set, angry eyes gleamed.

"So he remembered everything, your brother did – but how? I can’t remember anything after those nights," I said.

Fred realized what I was getting at. His face twisted first in confusion, then in mirth. He brayed like a mare.

"So that’s the deal. Now you’re cursed. And you don’t remember how you killed. Well then, I’ll tell you a secret my brother once shared with me. Control over the wolf doesn’t come immediately… First you have to spend many long moonlit nights in its skin. And when you can’t control yourself, you kill the innocent. That’s all I’ve got. Now get out."

Fred turned away. It was clear the conversation was over.

I walked to the door. It opened.

"Jerry Harrison," Fred Johnson—also known as Crooked-Dick—called after me, "remember: when night falls on the city, the wolf goes hunting."

The door slammed shut.

"What was that about?" the agent asked when we met up again five minutes later.

"Some kind of freaky shit…" I said, wiping sweat from my brow.

"So where did you say your partner is buried?" Cocksucker asked.

"I didn’t say. But he’s buried at Forest Hills Cemetery, in south Boston – off Blue Hills Avenue, then Morton Street."

"Four days ago, out there, Matthew Johnson, Fred Johnson’s brother, was shot dead… He was hit twelve times. Five of the bullets were a silver alloy…"

"Who the hell would bother making bullets like that… and for what…" I muttered, not meeting the agent’s eyes.

"While you two were chatting, I found out who… Your partner. Three months ago he ordered ten boxes from a gunsmith…" Cocksucker said. He was clearly trying to pin me down.

"Hmm… what are you implying, that I shot him?" I looked Cocksucker in the eye. "Yeah, possibly— in self-defense. You just heard Fred say his brother killed Hank and wanted to kill me."

"We’ll be sending your rounds for analysis. And you have to report a killing, even in self-defense—you know the procedure as well as I do," Cocksucker said.

"What killing? It was dark. I was attacked. I fired back, then I looked around: nobody there. What, am I supposed to report every time there’s gunfire in Boston now? I’d be filing paperwork around the clock—wouldn’t be enough paper…"

"We’ll investigate and figure it all out," the agent said.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"No, you’re not under arrest. You didn’t check your gun at the entrance. Is it in the car? I want to take your rounds for testing," Cocksucker said.

"And then those rounds will turn up in Johnson’s head… No way, let’s do this by the book. Bring a warrant, and I’ll call my lawyer in the meantime… You know the drill as well as I do, right, lawman?" I said.

I got into my car and realized I was still free, for now. That idiot Cocksucker should have arrested me, but he’d chickened out – even though the grounds were more than sufficient.

As I drove away from the prison, everything became clear to me. That bastard Fred Johnson had sent his werewolf brother to kill us. My partner figured out who was hunting us and cast silver bullets, one set of which he gave me along with a pistol. I pumped all five rounds into Fred Johnson’s brother when he crawled out of the bushes to kill me. But the werewolf had scratched me and infected me with its virus – and I became a beast. Each night I turn into a hellish death machine and bring people grief and suffering.

Half an hour remains until dark. I’m getting sleepy again. Next to me lies a loaded Colt, my partner’s gift. Its bullets once saved my life. I haven’t decided yet – will I end it all, or will my hand falter… and I continue to kill? There’s no time left to find a cage or a sturdy basement. So tonight I will either kill myself or kill others. Ah, how I want to live!

Chapter 2. A Verbal Agreement with the FBI Agent

The next morning, I woke up in the park, completely naked. The city was still asleep, and only the early birds were chirping to greet the dawn.

My head was pounding. I got up on my knees and ran my hand over my face – it was clean, with no blood. That meant I hadn’t killed anyone that night. The full moon had waned, and probably the wolf’s strength had weakened. I didn’t know for sure; these were all just guesses of mine – I wasn’t about to go to the library. Then again, who knows – maybe I’d have to conduct my own investigation, if I wasn’t caught first.

But I needed to get home, grab my money and guns, get dressed at least, and then get the hell out of town. I figured the murders of two children and their mother in Albany were already known. Soon the police would track me through the cameras – and then I’d be finished. And once they saw the kind of monster I turned into at night, they’d hand me over to the authorities for experiments. That’s the last thing I needed.