Blood Wolf’s Path

Before entering my house, I looked around. No suspicious cars. My detective instincts told me everything was clean. Maybe a little too clean. But whatever – sometimes you just have to take the risk.

When I walked in, I pulled an intact pair of jeans from the closet (there were fewer and fewer of those left) and started putting them on. At that moment, from behind the curtain, stepped Agent Cocksucker, walking across the carpet in his polished shoes. This still young, by police standards, agent had an unpleasant appearance. His large, protruding ears were lit from behind by the light coming through the window.

What followed was a silent standoff. What to do? I glanced at the Colt lying on the couch in its holster, but Cocksucker shook his head.

“Don’t do that, Jerry Harrison – you won’t have time.”

“And who’s going to stop me? You going to try and slap the cuffs on me? You know the twenty-one-foot rule. Want to risk getting closer?” I shot back, aggressively.

“I just came to talk. I’m not your enemy. Maybe even a friend,” said Cocksucker, taking two steps back as a gesture of peace.

“Hm, you think I belong in the loony bin?” I couldn’t figure out where Cocksucker was going with this.

“No, not the loony bin. A steel cage. I’m currently working the triple homicide case in Albany. And what happens to you next depends on me. But we can settle things right now, as they say – on the shore – and find a good way out for you in this complicated situation. After all, technically it wasn’t you who killed… it was the beast inside you,” Cocksucker said, his last words full of sympathy, trying to worm his way into my trust.

“Get to the point. I’ve got nothing to offer you,” I said, hopping on one foot – the jeans just wouldn’t go on.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You think I’m some twenty-seven-year-old fool who got into the Bureau by accident or through connections? That’s not the case. The investigation into the prison murder of the agent you sent to Crooked-Dick – that’s just a cover. Speaking of Crooked-Dick, I found out the details of that story from your colleagues – it’s actually pretty funny. But now to business. The government has tasked me with solving a much more serious problem – where all these werewolves in the U.S. came from.”

“All? There’s more of us?” I asked with interest. I’d finally gotten my jeans on and was looking in the closet for a shirt.

“All over the country, unexplained murders with extreme brutality are being recorded. But so far we’ve managed to keep it hidden from the public. We’ve already cleaned up the scene at Brenda’s house,” Cocksucker reassured me.

“And how many murders are we talking about?” I asked.

“In the last twelve years, more than twenty-five thousand,” Cocksucker whispered, “but that’s classified information – don’t tell anyone.”

“In the U.S., people are being killed by werewolves. The government doesn’t know how to fight it. Fine. What do you want from me, a blood sample?” I said. Instead of a shirt, I pulled on a red T-shirt. Now I stood before Cocksucker in blue jeans, a red shirt that was too small for me, and no socks.

“We could take one for the record,” Cocksucker sighed, “but we’ve got a whole refrigerator full of your kind of blood in the lab. So far, our virologists can’t figure out how to fight this infection.”

“So it’s a virus?” I asked.

“Well, you can think of it as a virus for simplicity. But let’s not get into details yet. Let’s get to the point. We tracked that the killings recorded by the FBI started twelve years ago. Then they grew exponentially. And now they threaten humanity. You could easily be sent for experiments right now – like we’ve done with others like you – but there’s one ‘but.’ You’ve turned out to be the key to the investigation,” Cocksucker said, pausing for effect.

“A golden key?” I laughed.

“Yes, exactly. The thing is, everyone we caught turned into beasts, but when they changed back into humans, they remembered nothing. Only Crooked-Dick’s brother remembered. That’s what Crooked-Dick said in prison, and I have no reason not to believe him. Which means his brother may have been one of the first werewolves – if not the very first. We traced his life, and everything points to it. Exactly twelve years ago, the once-close brothers parted ways. Crooked-Dick’s brother disappeared. That’s when Crooked-Dick turned to drugs and eventually burned himself out. But just a few days before the murder of the family of three, Crooked-Dick met his brother. Apparently, that’s when he snapped and killed those people…” the agent said.

“And then Crooked-Dick told his brother about me and my partner, and the werewolf took revenge. My partner must have known something, since he gave me silver bullets,” I guessed.

Cocksucker sat down in the chair by the window. His face was calm. It felt like two old friends were talking about science.

“See? You’re starting to get it. You’re a good detective. Here’s what we’ll do. Since Crooked-Dick’s brother is dead, only Crooked-Dick knows what his brother told him about his transformation. That’s the mystery we have to solve. We’ll find out where this infection came from and put a stop to it. And the U.S. will be free of werewolves.”

“Alright, but there’s one little problem…” I spread my arms to the sides, as if pointing at myself.

“As I said, we clean up cases like this. No one will know about Brenda and her children’s deaths… She just left town. And yes, you killed another person that night in the park, on the third day… after infection. We cleaned that up too… almost cleaned it up…” Cocksucker sighed. He looked like he was thinking hard.

“And there haven’t been any more murders?” I asked, looking closely at Cocksucker.

“No. As far as I know, you’re the only werewolf left in Boston,” Cocksucker clearly wanted to calm me down.

“Got it. But I meant another problem. Me. When night falls over the city, I turn into an animal.”

“We’ll take care of that today. We’ll set up a bulletproof room in your house with automatic bolts. Here – this is for you.” Cocksucker handed me an earpiece. “The operator will tell you when to go in, and lock the door remotely. In case of an emergency, we’ve got an armored van – we can pick you up anywhere in the city within a couple dozen minutes. Everything is under control.”

“God, I want this infection out of me,” I sighed. I was starting to understand the kind of mess I was in. And right now there was only one right way out – work with Cocksucker.

“That depends entirely on you. Find out all the details from Crooked-Dick, and we’ll help you,” the agent said businesslike.

“Deal. But I have one more question. You say you hide all the werewolf attacks. What about my partner?” I didn’t want to miss the chance to learn more about Hank Sullivan’s murder.

“Of course, we can’t hide attacks on every person. If someone is socially significant, they can’t just vanish. In that case, the whole department would be up in arms, digging into it. So we just hid some facts. The FBI took control and ran its own investigation, and fed you only part of the truth. In reality, the beast left a pile of evidence at the crime scene. And to your department we sent only the photos of your partner’s neck and head – and only after your chief called the Deputy Director of the FBI, saying his men were climbing the walls wanting to solve the case. We didn’t show you what the werewolf actually did to your partner’s body.”

By noon, about twenty people arrived with tools and materials. They finished in four hours. They built a steel structure inside my bedroom, two meters by two meters, with a door on special locks that closed remotely. As Cocksucker explained, there would be no way for me to get out. From the outside it was covered in soundproof material, so I could howl as loud as I wanted inside.

Cameras and microphones were installed in every room of the house and around it.

“Well, that’s it. I told your chief that today you’re working with me on the agent murder case. Tomorrow you go back to work. Here’s a watch with a rubber strap – put it on. I already gave you the earpiece. We’ll also keep in touch by phone. Here’s a spare – my number’s already saved in it.”

“When will I turn into a beast?” I asked.

“No one can say. The beast can wake up at 9 p.m. or at midnight. But one thing is certain – transformations only happen after sunset and depend on the moon phases. They’ll happen every day – at least the werewolves we’ve studied do. So as soon as the sun sets, you have to be in the cage. The operator will prompt you. You’re always in contact – you can just speak aloud if you have questions or need help. Our response team will always follow you and be on duty near your home and work.”

“But why go to the department? Let me just meet with Crooked-Dick Fred Johnson and question him,” I said. I didn’t want to go to work every day and then sit in a cage.

“We have every reason to think Crooked-Dick has accomplices. He somehow got information very quickly. So we have to act like nothing happened.”

“But he knows I’m a werewolf – what’s the point of this charade?” I exclaimed, pulling a sneaker onto my left foot.

“And that’s why we’ll wait for Crooked-Dick to come to you himself through his helpers. Act like nothing’s wrong. And you’d better get going. Unfortunately, there’s no sofa in the cage, because after you transform you’d shred it to pieces. But the floor has slight heating and is rubberized. It’ll be hard, but not like cold tile… There’s a small hole in the corner for, well, natural needs. A shower is built into the cell. After you transform, you’ll have to be rinsed off – you might be covered in filth. Good luck.”

“I’d like to see that afterward,” I said.

“That’s not going to happen. Now off you go. Leave your clothes, phone, and earpiece outside the shelter. Don’t worry – the agents won’t let anyone into your house, and you can communicate with the operator through the built-in microphones and speakers in all the rooms. All calls to you will be put on speaker, and you can dial anyone too. The floor and air temperature will be set for comfort.”

I went into the cage, closed the door, and heard the soft thud of the bolt sliding shut.

“Hello, my name is Jessie. I’ll be your operator today,” I heard a voice from the wall.

I sat down on the floor, feeling awkward.

“Good day. Could you warm the floor up a couple degrees? My ass is freezing,” I said sarcastically, trying to lighten the mood.

“Done. If you need anything, I’ll help – within protocol,” said Jessie, who was polite with me. Her pleasant voice was soothing, like one of those voices you hear on phone sex lines.

“All right. Any news in Boston? Any murders today?” I asked.

“One moment… From what I see in the news, no murders today. There was an incident on the highway. A car crossed into oncoming traffic, flipped, and caught fire. The driver died. Possibly fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Hm, interesting. Burned to a crisp, I bet? Nice work, Cocksucker… Then I have another question. Jessie, have you ever seen a werewolf?” I asked, looking at the ceiling. I tried to spot hidden cameras but couldn’t find them.

“Yes, it’s my job,” Jessie answered sweetly. Her voice was arousing. I shamefully covered myself – I was starting to get hard. It felt like I was dreaming and about to finish in my sleep.

“I’ve seen them too. They’re like bears with a wolf’s muzzle. But, you know, skinny, unusual. A kind of bear-wolf mix… I think…” my arousal began to fade.

I don’t remember falling asleep. But I woke with a headache. The floor was dotted with droplets, and the air was heavy, as if filled with moisture. Apparently, they’d washed me. Yesterday, while I was chatting with Jessie, I’d studied my cell. It was a cube, two by two by two meters. Overhead burned four light fixtures, apparently under bulletproof glass. In the far right corner from the door, if you stood with your back to it, there was a drain. It seemed the floor had a slight slope toward it.

“Can I come out?” I asked.

The bolts slid back. I needed to get dressed and head to the department. On the couch I found five new suits.

“They’re from Agent Cocksucker. You can wear them if you wish,” Jessie’s voice came from somewhere in the wall.

Apparently, they’d installed speakers and microphones throughout the house, built right into the walls.

I put on a new suit, picked up my revolver, and froze.

“Where are the silver bullets? Why are there different ones here?” I exclaimed.

“We took them. You won’t need them during the day. And at night you’re in the cage,” Jessie said in a velvety voice that calmed me.

“I see – afraid I’ll off myself. But what if I shoot myself with regular bullets? Let’s find out,” I said, pulling the revolver from the holster.

I pressed the barrel to my temple and cocked the hammer.

“Jerry Harrison, there’s no need for that. We have everything under control,” Jessie’s voice stayed calm, but lost some of its friendliness.

“No, let’s see…” I pulled the trigger.

At that second, two agents burst into the room, their faces puzzled.

“Easy, boys. I always leave one chamber empty in the cylinder so I don’t blow my ass off, since I don’t always keep the revolver in its holster – sometimes I have to carry it concealed… Don’t freak out. Now I see you’ve loaded it with real rounds. At least thanks for that,” I said, slowly placing the revolver on the couch, looking into the dull faces of the black and white agents.

The revolver my partner had given me was an old model without a safety. So I always kept one chamber empty, just in case I accidentally put a bullet in myself.

The day was starting off cheerfully. I stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air. But I had to go to the department, do the routine, and wait for Crooked-Dick’s man to make a move on me. Well then – let’s get to work!

Chapter 3. Murder on the Beach

I got into my Ford F-150 pickup and sped down Blue Hill Avenue toward 40 Sudbury Street, where I worked. From Austin Street, where I lived, to my workplace was only ten miles. But in the morning there were terrible traffic jams, so it took me a full forty minutes to get there. The engine rattled as usual, and the truck kept pulling to the right. I’d been meaning to get it repaired for half a year, but there was never any time.

I had barely sat down at my desk when my boss, David Scott—nicknamed Goatface—called me in. I’d given him that nickname for his goat-like face and equally goat-like behavior. He was rude and constantly snapped at his subordinates.

“So, what did that fed sniff out? Are we in trouble?” the boss started without a greeting.

“Everything’s fine. The trouble’s not going to be here in the precinct. We’ve got nothing to do with it. I sold him on the idea that I needed information from Crookeddick on the Cupcake case. I told him Crookeddick was involved in the murder, so I sent an agent to him.”

“But how could Crookeddick have killed him if he’s in prison?” Goatface asked, baffled.

“That FBI guy didn’t go into details. I just sold him the version,” I chuckled, trying to sound convincing, though it came out forced.

“I didn’t understand a damn thing,” Goatface sighed. “Well, to hell with it. Shoot yourselves up with whatever you want, you devils… You won’t bend David Scott!’’ Goatface did his victory dance, shuffling his right foot behind his left and back again.

“Can I go now?” I was already bored.

“Go, go. And let the feds handle your partner’s case. Last time I’m telling you this! You’ve already caused enough trouble! By the way, it’s been two months since Hank Sullivan’s death. Time to pull yourself together. Now you’re working with Cherry Legspiss. Go meet her. And… no jokes about Black people.”

I went back to my desk and plopped into my chair. At a desk forming an “L” shape next to mine sat a short Black girl of about 25. She was clearly a rookie detective and shy. Her smooth, wrinkle-free face was pleasant, and she smelled of berry jam and chocolate. A yogurt sat on her desk.

“Hi. We’ll be working together. The boss told me I’d be working with Cherry. But here I see Blurry…” I laughed. I don’t know if Cherry took my words as flirting, but I was trying to make a good impression.

Cherry blushed. Another five seconds and she’d have started crying. So I defused it:

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I was joking. Cherry lives matter. And I’m not racist, so we’ll work well together. Besides, you’re not ugly.” In short, I’d just said enough to get fired without severance pay.

Under other circumstances, I’d never have said that, but right now the FBI had my back, so I could afford it. Plus, I needed to establish who was in charge here right from the start—take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

While I was musing, Goatface burst in looking rattled.

“We’ve got an emergency. Triple murder in Boston. Here’s the address—get over there and handle it.”

The paper read: Malibu Beach.

“Well, Cherry, let’s ride! We’ll take your car. Mine’s all squeaky and muddy,” I said, standing and offering my hand. She didn’t take it, just stood up silently, grabbing her yogurt.

“Sugar’s bad for you. So’s salt,” I said as I headed for the exit.

We flipped on the siren and, despite the traffic, made it to the beach quickly. Police cars were already there. Onlookers stood at a distance, filming with their phones.

At the beach entrance stood a uniformed officer. I flashed my badge and asked,

“What happened here, officer?”

“Young people killed. A guy and two girls, about nineteen. Knife wounds,” the officer reported flatly.

“I hope no one’s touched anything. Keep everyone out. The forensics team and photographer will be here soon,” I said, heading toward the crime scene, gesturing for my partner to follow.

The sight before us was grim. On the sand lay a guy in swim trunks and two girls in bikinis. Each had multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. The sand around them was crimson. The bodies lay close together, just a couple of meters apart, in unnatural positions. Nearby was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

“Well, Cherry, your theories. What do you see?” I asked, giving her a chance to shine.

“Well, it’s a murder. No weapon here, likely one perpetrator. I can tell from the footprints in the sand—only one person ran away from the scene,” Cherry observed smartly.

“Good. Now here’s a stumper—why are the bodies so close together? Let’s say the killer was alone. He stabs one victim. Why didn’t the others run?”

“Hmm, maybe they were drunk. I see beer bottles…” Cherry said.

“Maybe. Or maybe the killer was one of their group and took them out all at once. Then, after wounding each, finished them off.”

“So it’s a planned killing, not spontaneous? And the killer knew the victims? Maybe they were students and the killer a classmate,” Cherry suggested.

“Most likely. This wasn’t a robbery—nothing’s scattered. And the killer’s white,” I said.

“Why?” Cherry didn’t like that one bit. She was one of those Black folks who hated any mention of skin color.

“Because the victims are white. Unlikely they were close friends with a Black guy. That only happens in movies.”

“But I’m Black!” Cherry exclaimed.

“And are we friends?” I said, giving her a look like she was an idiot.

I put on gloves and searched the victims’ pockets. As I suspected, they were classmates—that much was clear from their IDs.

“Well, Cherry, let’s head to Fisher College. Beacon Street,” I said. We were done here.

“What about forensics?” she asked.

“We don’t need forensics. We’ll have the case wrapped up by evening. Let’s roll!” I photographed the IDs and walked off, Cherry hesitating a moment before following.

On the way to the college, I called ahead and spoke with the dean, a woman who assured me the victims’ classmates would be ready for questioning by the time we arrived.

The dean met us at the door—a large Black woman of about fifty with plump lips and a huge backside.

“Hello, Miss Perthington…” I greeted her. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Good afternoon. Such a tragedy… The students are in the lecture hall. But you understand that…” she trailed off.

“We just need to clarify some details. We’re not accusing anyone.”

I winked at Cherry to let her know everyone was a suspect.

The large lecture hall, decorated with portraits of unknown men in stiff suits, was depressing. It smelled like old shoes. About fifty students sat slouched in their chairs, staring at their phones.

“Hello,” I began. “Here’s the thing. Jimmy Lungova, Berry Kontova, and Snetta Kushka have been murdered.” I read their names from my phone. “I know you knew them, liked them, maybe were friends. But we need to find the killers. And the easiest way is while the trail’s still hot. I have one small request.” I paused.

“With me today is well-known psychologist Cherry… Cherry Campus. Don’t let her youth fool you—she’s from the FBI. She’s going to determine whether the killer is among you. Remember, this is an investigation, and you’re all suspects. Now, do exactly as I say. I’m going to count to five, and on five, raise your right hand. Cherry will instantly spot the killer with her method. Ready? One… two… three…”

On “three,” a huge guy, built like a boar, bolted from the room. Cherry and I had to give chase. The bastard was fast, and within thirty seconds we were sprinting down Beacon Street after him. Cherry kept up, and I drew my revolver, emptying the cylinder into his legs. I hit him—he tumbled and crashed into a trash can.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Cherry yelled.

I didn’t care—the feds had my back. Plus, I wanted to know for sure whether the rounds in my gun were blanks or live.

I ran up to the bleeding guy. “Police! Why’d you kill your classmates, you bastard?” I shouted.

Back at the precinct, Goatface wasn’t pleased.

“What the hell are you doing, Jerry? I’d rather you screwed me than pulled that stunt,” he snarled.

“It’s just a couple of scratches. He lunged at a passerby—I was justified in using my weapon,” I said.

“It’s true,” Cherry added.

She was starting to grow on me. She must have realized she’d be working with me for a while and wanted to earn my goodwill.

“He knifed three people on the beach. We’ll go question him at the hospital,” I said.

“You’re not going anywhere. It’s a cold case now—Phil Sanchez is dead. You didn’t just hit his leg—you hit his liver. Hospital just called…” Goatface wasn’t doing his victory dance.

“Goddammit…” I spat on the floor.

“Watch where you spit, asshole! The judge signed a search warrant for his house. The team’s on their way. You stay here. Cherry goes alone. Sit tight and keep quiet. Now get out,” Goatface waved me off like he was airing out the room.

At five p.m., Cherry called. In Phil’s trash can they’d found bloody clothes. In his dishwasher—a bloody knife. There were also faint blood traces on his car seat and steering wheel. Everything pointed to Phil being the killer. Forensics would confirm it, but the case was essentially closed.

Five minutes later my boss came in cheerful, carrying a bottle of cheap whiskey and two dirty glasses.

“Jerry Harrison, you can’t drink,” I heard a male voice in my earpiece—it wasn’t my usual operator.

“Why not? I can…” I muttered.

Wait… how the hell did they know? Whatever.

“You can’t—it’s contraindicated for you. You’re infected,” the voice said.

“I’ll just have a sip,” I whispered.

“Who you talking to?” Goatface asked, pouring the piss-colored whiskey into the glasses.

“Just my earpiece,” I waved him off.

“Anyway, nice job with that stunt at the college. Cherry told me about it,” Goatface said, sniffing his glass.

“Oh, that Cherry! She’s got a nice ass,” I said, lifting the glass.

“Don’t drink—it’s dangerous!” came through my earpiece.

I downed it in one go and poured another. Screw it all.

“That’s enough—we’ve got work to do,” Goatface said, taking the bottle and glasses away.

As soon as he left, I felt nauseous. I ran to the bathroom, and as I bent over the toilet, a stream of vomit came out. When I looked down, I froze—in the water floated chunks of flesh. Like I’d been eating human meat.

“Jerry Harrison, it’s okay,” came in my ear.

“You filthy bastards… okay?! Where did this come from… damn it! You’ve been feeding me human meat, haven’t you?!” I shouted.