Kitty and the Midnight Hour Part 23

"I'll pick you up there." The phone clicked off.

Matt was standing in the doorway between the booth and the studio. "Kitty. Are you serious?"

"Yeah. You heard the guy. He wasn't talking like he was going to do something. He's already done it. How much time do we have left?"

"I don't know." He had to look back at his board. "Ten minutes?"

I took a couple more calls and spent all my effort trying to sound normal. I couldn't remember what they were about, or what I said. I hoped I sounded normal.

"This is Kitty Norville, Voice of the Night." I signed off with a sigh and listened to my recorded howl.

"Be careful!" Matt called as I started out of the booth. I grimaced, the best kind of rea.s.suring smile I could manage at the moment. He didn't look rea.s.sured. He gripped the doorway, white-knuckled. Wasn't anything I could do about it.

Cormac pulled up to the curb as I left the front door of the station. He drove a Jeep. Not an SUV, but a real Jeep with mud caking the wheel wells. I got in the pa.s.senger side and told him the address. Thank G.o.d for the online reverse directory.

We'd driven for about five blocks when he said, "You understand that we have to kill this guy. By not calling the police, by going outside the law, that's the only thing we can do. Not arrest him, not talk reason into him, but kill him."

"You were listening to the show." I probably had double the number of listeners the ratings said I had, since no one seemed to want to admit they were listeners.

"You ever kill anyone?"

"No."

"Just stay out of the way so I can get a clean shot."

I leaned on the door, holding my forehead in my hand. Vigilantism, that was the word for what we were doing. But the niceties of legal technicalities were slipping away. Four women had been murdered. A werewolf had done it. Someone had to stop him.

Cormac's cell phone beeped. It was jammed into the ashtray, near the stick s.h.i.+ft. He grabbed the hands-free wire dangling from it and stuck the earpiece into his ear. It took about six rings. So that was why he always took so long to answer.

"Yeah." He waited a minute, then said, "Just a minute." He covered the mouthpiece part of the wire with his hand. "It's Hardin. She wants to know if I know how to get hold of you. She wants to talk to you about tonight's show. I guess she was listening."

"Should I tell her?"

"What's the saying? It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."

He was right. She'd just get in the way. "I'll call her back when it's all over."

Cormac uncovered the wire. "Detective? I'll have to get back to you on thata What am I doing? Drivinga Yeah, I'll keep in touch." He pulled the wire out of his ear, smirking. "She's an optimist," he said. "That's her problem."

The address was northeast, in a neighborhood of dilapidated houses on the edge of a region of industrial warehouses, oil refineries, and train tracks. It might have been a nice place once, maybe fifty years ago. A few big, old trees lurked in many of the yards. But they were dead, their branches broken, and the yards themselves were overgrown with weeds. The streetlights were all out, but the wash of the sodium floodlights from the warehouses reached here, sickly and orange.

As we pulled onto the street, Cormac turned off the Jeep's headlights and crawled ahead.

"There it is," he said, pointing to a bungalow set back from the road. A fifty-year-old house, maybe three or four rooms. It used to be white, but the paint was peeling, chipping, streaking; the wood of the siding was split and falling apart. Half the s.h.i.+ngles were gone.

I rolled down the window. The air smelled of tar, gasoline, concrete. There was some wildness, even here: rats, racc.o.o.ns, feral cats. This was a dried-up, unpleasant place. The pack never came here. Why would we, when we had hills and forest, true wilderness, so close by? That was one of the things I liked about Denver: It had all the benefits of a city, but forest and mountains were a short drive away. Why would any wolfa"were- or otherwisea"want to stay in this desolation? If he didn't have any place else to go, I supposed.

Then how had he gotten here in the first place? Werewolves weren't born, they were made. Someone had made him, then left him to fend for himself, and he came here.

Or someone put him here to keep him out of the way, where he wouldn't be found, because the pack never came here. That meanta did Carl know about this guy? If not Carl, then who?

"You okay?" Cormac said. "You look like you just ate a lemon."

"I don't like the way this place smells."

He smiled, but the expression was wry, unfriendly. "Neither do I."

We stepped out of the Jeep. Cormac reached into the back and pulled out a belt holster with his handgun. He strapped it on, then retrieved a rifle. He slung another belt, this one with a heavy pouch attached to it, over his shoulder. I didn't want to know what was in there. We closed the doors quietly and approached the house.

I whispered, "Let me go first. Get the scent, make sure he's the same guy. He might freak out if he sees you first."

"All right," he said, but sounded skeptical. "Just give the word, and I'll come in shooting."

Why didn't that make me feel better?

I walked a little faster, moving ahead. A light shone in horizontal lines through the blinds over the front window of the house. I tilted my head, listening. A voice sounded inside, low and scratchya"a radio, tuned to k.n.o.b. The show had been over only a half an hour or so. I reached the walkway and followed it to the front door. Cormac was a couple of steps behind me. I tried to look through the front window, but the slatted blinds were mostly closed.

I put my hand on the k.n.o.b, turned it. It was unlocked. I took my hand away. I didn't want to surprise anyone inside. So I knocked.

Cormac stepped off the walkway and stood against the wall of the house, out of sight of the door. And, by chance, downwind of the door. Or maybe not by chance.

I waited forever. Well, for a long time. I didn't want to go into that house. But no one answered. Maybe he'd left. Maybe he was out killing someone. If I went in, at least I would get a scent. I'd know if it was the same guy I'd smelled at the murder sites.

I opened the door and went inside.

The hardwood floor of the front room was scarred and pitted, like a dozen generations of furniture had been moved back and forth across it, and several swarms of children had been raised on it. But that was long ago, in someone else's life. An old TV sat on the floor in one corner. The radio was on top of it. It might have been Rodney, the night DJ, calling the last set. A sofa that would have looked at home on the porch of a frat house sat in the middle of the floor. Wasn't much else there. A box overflowing with trash occupied another corner. The walls were bare of decoration, stained splotchy brown and yellow. I wondered what this guy did for a living. If anything. There was no evidence of a life here. Just a place, sad, decayed, and temporary.

I took a deep breath through my nose.

I didn't identify the smell so much as I flashed on the scene. The blood. The victim's body, splayed across the alley. People say scent is tied to memory. What does that mean for a werewolf, whose sense of smell is so acute? The memory sparked vividly, all the sights and sounds and other smells that I'd imprinted along with the scent of the werewolf, the murderer. My stomach turned with the same nausea.

Straight ahead, a hall led to the rest of the house, probably kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. A sudden gush of water ran through the house's pipes. A toilet flus.h.i.+ng. A door opened and closed. A man emerged into the hallway and walked toward me.

He wore a plain white T-s.h.i.+rt and faded jeans. He was tall, built like a construction worker, thick arms, broad chest. He had a crew cut that was growing out, a beard that was a couple of days unshaven. He was barefoot. He smelled the same as the room, close and ripe.

He stopped when he saw me. His nostrils flared, taking in scent like a werewolf would. His hands clenched. Glaring, he moved toward me, stalking like a predator.

I stood straight, careful not to flinch, not to show any weakness that his wolf would take as an invitation to attack.

I said, "Are you James?"

Again he stopped, as if he'd hit a wall. His brow furrowed, his face showing confusion. "What did you say?"

It was him. That voice, low and strained, close to breaking. "James. Are you James?"

He squinted harder, like he was trying to bring me into focus. Then his eyes grew wide.

"You're her. Kitty." He closed the distance between us, and I thought he was going to pounce on me with a bear hug, but he halted a step awaya"I didn't quite flinch. He was gesturing with his hands like he was pleading. "I'm such a big fan!"

"Thanks," I said weakly. I should have yelled. Just yelled and ducked as Cormac came storming through the door, guns blazing. But James had stunned me.

James didn't ask the questions I would have asked a celebrity who happened to show up at my house, like how did you find me, why are you here. He acted like he didn't find this strange at all, like this sort of occurrence was a natural part of the life he'd made for himself. The kind of life where he constantly made calls to late-night talk radio shows.

He slouched, ducking in front of me like he was bowing. He had to stoop to make himself shorter than I. That was what he was doing, showing submission, one wolf to another. He kept turning his gaze away. His instincts were taking over.

I stared. Not a dominant, I'm-a-bigger-wolf-than-you stare. More like a bewildered, disturbed stare. What was I supposed to do with him? I didn't want him touching me, but he was inching closer, like he was going to start pawing me, rubbing me, the way a subordinate wolf would to the one he'd identified as the alpha. I stepped back.

He cringed, pulling his arms close to his body, his eyes sad and hurt. "You don't understand," he said. "Thisa this is great. It's what I've always wanted. You can help me. You're the only other onea"one of us, one like us, I meana"I've ever met besidesa"" He stopped, swallowing. His breathing came fast.

"Besides who, James?" My voice caught.

"Besides the one who made me. She's been helping me. She said I could have a pack, if I killed this other werewolf and took his. She said she would show me. Ia"I can do that. I know I can do that. I've been practicing. But she won't tell me where to go. Shea"she hasn't been to see me in a while. But you'll help me, won't you? You help so many people."

I felt sick. James needed help, but I couldn't give it to him. Who could? What hospital could hold him? What could anyone do? That was the human talking, of course. I remembered Cormac's words: You understand that we have to kill this guy. As a wolf, he'd overstepped his bounds. Like Zan. But what did that mean if there'd been no one to teach him the rules?

James looked up, over my shoulder. Cormac stood in the doorway.

"Norville, is he the one?"

All I could do was nod.

Cormac raised his arm, fired his handgun.

I ducked out of the way. James was already running. I thought he would turn around, try to make for the back of the house. That was what I would have done. But he dived forward, under the range of the gun, past Cormac, shouldering him aside, and out the door.

Cormac struck the door frame, but recovered in a heartbeat, turned outside, and fired twice more. His arm remained steady, his sight aimed at his target, tracking smoothly like he was mounted on a tripod.

"s.h.i.+t!" He pointed the gun up when James disappeared around the corner of the house.

I ran after him, aware that he might have been waiting on the other side of the house to ambush whoever followed him. I didn't want to lose sight of him. Cormac was right behind me.

In the strip of yard between the two houses a trail of clothing led away: jeans, briefs, and a white T-s.h.i.+rt, torn to shreds. There was a dark, wild odora"the musk, fur, and sweat of a recently s.h.i.+fted lycanthrope.

I unzipped my jeans and shoved them to the ground.

"What are you doing?" said Cormac, stopping in his tracks.

I paused. I didn't know if I could do this. I didn't have a choice.

"I can move faster if I Change. It's the only way I'll keep up." It can be a strength, T.J. had said. We'd see.

He opened his mouth, starting to argue. But he didn't say anything. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away. I took off my s.h.i.+rt, my bra. The air was cold, sending pimples crawling across my shoulders. Inside, I felt warm. My muscles tensed, already preparing to run, because I knew what this meant; Wolf knew what this meant. I wanted to hunt, and I needed her. I was ready. She crouched inside, filling me with antic.i.p.ation.

Cormac started to walk away.

"Wait," I said. "I want you to watch."

"Why?" he said, his voice rough.

"I want you to see what I look like, so you don't shoot me by accident."

"If I ever shoot you, it won't be by accident."

I walked up to him, naked, unself-conscious. I was on the edge of my other world, human mores falling away. I didn't know how else to be, like this, with Wolf looking out of my eyes.

I stood a step away, holding his gaze.

"Here's your chance. If that's what you're planning, get it over with now so I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder."

I didn't know how long I planned on waiting for him to raise that gun and shoot me in the head. I stood, arms spread, offering myself to him. My glare didn't match my vulnerability. But once and for all, I had to know what he wanted to do.

Finally he said, "Be careful."

"Yeah. You, too." I turned away, walking to the back of the alley.

"Don't try to fight him, Kitty. He's bigger than you. Just find him, and I'll take care of it."

I nodded.

Holding her back felt a little like holding my breath. As soon as I thought of s.h.i.+fting to Wolf, the Change started, sensations coursing with my blood, waking those nerves and instincts that lay buried most of the time. Any time except full moon nights, I could hold it back. But if I wanted to s.h.i.+ft, I just had to let that breath out, think of exhaling, and the next breath would belong to her.

My back bent, the first convulsion racking me. Think of water, let it slide, and fur sprouted in waves down my back and arms, needles piercing skin. I grunted, blocking the pain. Then claws, then teeth and bones and musclea"

She shakes, ruffling her fur and slipping into her muscles.

Her ears p.r.i.c.k, and she raises her head to see the figure nearby. He stands on two legs and smells of danger, of mechanical pain. Her other self recognizes the weapons that can kill her.

Her other self also recognizes him, and keeps her hackles flat and buries the growls.

"Norville?"

Tension, anxiety, fear. She can take him, kill him if she has to. He's weak. But those weapons are stronger. They smell of fire.

"You in there? You know who I am?"

The tone is questioning, seeking rea.s.surance. His anxiety isn't because of her, because there's another danger. The other one, the rogue, the outcast. She remembers.

Identifying him as friend, she wags her tail.

"Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this."

He says this to her back, because she's already running.

She seeks the one who has invaded her territory, caused havoc, broken the code. He's run far ahead, but the night is still, the ground is clear, and she can smell him, chase him, like she would a rabbit. With her nose close to the ground, her legs racing, her muscles flowing, close to flying, she will find him. Her mouth hangs open a little; her tongue tastes the air.

Closer, she gets closer. He's turned up ahead. She feels a thrill because he's trying to confuse her, to make her lose him, but she isn't fooled. Stretching full-out, running hard, she turns the corner.

He is waiting for her.