Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (26 page)

Fingernails clawed across a chalkboard, and the wall shifted.

Steele and Rodgers looked our way. “Oh,” said Steele. “Well, I guess that works, too.”

I clenched my jaw and pushed again. The door shifted another foot.

“Come on,” I said, hopping off Quinto’s back. “Give me a hand. I think I’ve loosened it.”

We all squeezed in tight, lowered our shoulders into the door, and pushed. With another horrible rasping squeal, the door swung open.

Dust tickled our noses as we stood there, surveying the scene before us. I found my voice first.

“Well, I have to admit…I did not expect that.”

45

We stumbled into one of the last places a police officer—or any humanoid, for that matter—would ever want to find themselves: a creepy underground torture dungeon.

I snagged Rodgers’ lantern and hung it from a nasty-looking metal hook that dangled in the center of the smallish room. By its light, I could discern all the elements of the space that gave me the heebie-jeebies, not the least of which was a hulking cage on the far wall forged of thick, iron bars. I hoped the reddish hue of the metal was due to rust rather than blood, but I couldn’t detect any of the metallic, bitter scents that dried blood and stale bodily fluids so often emitted. Instead, the room smelled musty, and a fine layer of dust coated the floor.

A splintered pine table sidled up against the wall to my left. Forceps, pincers, knives, and other wicked implements littered its surface, but medical equipment lay there, too. I spotted gauze, rubber tubing, a scalpel, and syringes.
Syringes!
Finally that missing piece of evidence reared its pointy, little head.

As I absorbed the room’s contents, I started to realize my environs were less of a torture chamber and more of a freaky, experimental laboratory. A microscope sat on the edge of the pine table, and a rack to its right held beakers, flasks, and stacks of glass cell culture dishes. On the right side of the room, the ashy remains of a fire pit languished under the dust, and shiny slivers of glass within indicated beakers had once been heated in the coals—ineffectually, I might add.

“What the heck is this place?” I said.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Steele. “But there’s one thing I’m becoming increasingly certain of. I think Zeb was lying when he said that, given his passionate love for the species, he’d never hurt a werewolf.”

“No kidding.” I walked over and tapped on the bars of the cage, causing a flake of rust to crack and fall to the ground.
So it wasn’t blood
. “You think this thing was used to hold werewolves?”

“Well, it’d have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Steele. “Look at those bars. They’re as thick as sausages. You don’t need that sort of heft to imprison normal people. And look at the metal on the inside. Most of it’s scratched and weathered. There are even some impressive gauges in spots. I’m going to guess it’d take some supernaturally augmented teeth or claws to inflict that sort of damage.”

I turned and spotted Rodgers and Quinto standing at the room’s entrance, hesitation showing on their faces.

“You two ok?” I asked.

“Oh…yeah,” said Quinto. “We were just trying to stay out of the way, that’s all. You know, in case Detective Steele starting suffering one of her spells.”

Rodgers scratched his head. “I’ve got to admit, I don’t have the foggiest idea how those powers of yours work, Steele. I mean, I figured if any place would’ve had the requisite aura, or temporal vibration, or whatever you call it, to cause you to experience those prescient visions of yours, this would’ve been it. I can’t imagine what sort of freaky stuff’s gone on in this room over the years. But, hey, it’s probably better for you, right? That way the visions won’t give you nightmares.”

Shay flushed. “Well…that’s a good point, Rodgers. I mean, the threads of the past can be very…fickle sometimes. And—”

“I think what my partner’s trying to say is she understands her abilities about as well as you do.” I forced out a chuckle. “Honestly, with all the uncertainty regarding what clairvoyants can and can’t do, you have to wonder how those kooks at her university are still employed. I mean, they’re more like cheerleaders than teachers, right?”

Shay pressed her lips together and gave a tiny shrug. “It’s ok, Daggers. I think it’s time they knew.”

“Really?” I arched an eyebrow. “You want to do this now? And
here
of all places?”

“Do what now?” asked Rodgers.

Steele faced the guys and launched into a spiel about how she was a fraud and a liar and how she’d never had psychic abilities in the first place and how she hoped she could someday regain the guys’ trust and admiration.

Quinto scratched his chin when she finished. “Huh.”

“Really?” said Rodgers.

Shay nodded.

“And you figured this out already, Daggers?” Rodgers said.

“Yup,” I said. “After our first case, in fact.”

Rodgers nodded. “Nice.”

“You don’t seem upset,” said Steele.

“Why would we?” said Rodgers. “You’re not our partner. And besides, you’re good at what you do. Probably better than Daggers.”

“Hey now,” I said.

Rodgers grinned. Him and his dang quips.

“What I don’t get is why you’d go to the trouble,” said Quinto. “As Rodgers said, you’re clearly qualified.”

“Don’t get her started,” I said. “Let’s just say the diversity statistics of our department aren’t particularly good.”

“What are you talking about?” said Rodgers. “Quinto is half…well, you know.”

The big guy glared at him.

“I’m talking about what’s dangling between our legs,” I said.

“Ok,”
said Steele. “I think it’s time to get back to the case at hand, wouldn’t you agree?”

We all nodded. The air was getting a little awkward.

“Alright,” said Steele. “So I think we can all agree this is some sort of werewolf confinement slash experimentation slash torture room, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Although I have to admit, when Eustace told us Zeb’s obsession with werewolves bordered on the unhealthy, I didn’t envision this.”

“I don’t think he did, either,” said Steele.

“What do you mean?” asked Quinto.

“Well, Eustace couldn’t have had any knowledge of this room,” said Shay. “If he had, he would’ve told us about it, probably during his accusation of Zeb.”

I nodded in assent. “And I’m willing to bet none of the other werewolves knew about this room, either. I mean, if you were a werewolf and you found out someone you knew had a secret room in their basement where they tortured members of your kind, wouldn’t you mention it to your werewolf buddies?”

“Honestly, I don’t think this room’s been used for much of anything recently,” said Quinto. “Look at all the dust.”

“So Zeb has this secret torture room, but he didn’t use it on any of the murder victims?” said Rodgers. “He must’ve used it on someone. You don’t build a werewolf prison just for kicks.”

“Guys, take a look at this.” Steele kneeled down, pinched something between her fingers, and stood back up.

“What is it?” I said, squinting to make it out.

“It’s a strand of honey blond hair,” she said.

“And?” I said. “So the big guy sheds. We already know he was down here.”

“Yes, but there’s more of these,” she said. “And they’re all inside the cage.”

Shay pointed. We looked—and gasped.

“Wait,” I said. “You don’t think—”

“—that the cage wasn’t for his victims,” said Shay. “No. I think the cage was for him.”

“Zeb’s a
werewolf?”
said Rodgers.

“He said he wasn’t,” said Quinto.

“So?” said Shay. “He’s lied about pretty much everything else we’ve asked him about. Why wouldn’t he lie about that? Think about it. The guy’s pathologically obsessed with werewolves. He’s devoted his entire life to them. He knows far more about physiology and immunology than a crackpot museum owner like him has any right to. And look around us. This isn’t exactly a typical torture room—not that those are typical in any way, but you know what I mean. There’s a microscope, plates for cell cultures, surgical supplies. He must’ve been experimenting, trying to find a way to turn himself into a werewolf. And he must’ve succeeded. I mean, let’s be honest, Daggers. You mentioned how Zeb’s a big strong guy, how he could’ve tangled with a werewolf. But could he?
Really?
If what we think we know about werewolves is true, they probably would’ve torn Zeb to shreds. And besides, someone engaged in a knock-down, drag-out fight with Cynthia last night, and Zeb doesn’t have a scratch on him to show for it.”

“If you’re right,” said Quinto, “we need to get back to the precinct in a hurry. If he took on Cynthia while in wolf form, then he can transform at any time. He could be murdering officers while we speak!”

“Whoa, whoa,” I said, holding my hands up. “Hold on a second, big guy. While I appreciate the enthusiasm, Steele’s theory doesn’t make any sense.”

“No?” she said. “How so?”

“Well, for one thing, none of this helps us establish a motive for the murders. As much as I now believe Zeb’s a total psychopath, I think his love for werewolves is genuine. He loves them so much he wanted to become one. So why would he go to the trouble of turning himself into one only to go murder all the others? And while I agree Zeb certainly could’ve been lying about his werewolf status, you guys didn’t watch his face when I asked that question. It
pained
him to talk about it. If he’d gotten what he’d wanted and contracted lycanthropy, why would that question bother him?”

“Maybe he regrets his decision,” said Shay. “Maybe he turned into the wrong kind of werewolf.”

“Not if you’re right,” I said. “He’d have to be the autonomous kind, which is clearly the more powerful, more desirable kind to be. No, no. This goes deeper.”

“Alright then, Mr. Master of the Deductive Arts,” said Steele. “If I’m wrong, come up with a more plausible hypothesis that explains the presence of his hair in the werewolf cage.”

I rubbed my brow. “Look, I don’t know, ok? Maybe he’s balding, and he lost the hairs while mucking out the pen. Maybe he finds the solitude of the cage comforting, and he gives himself haircuts in there. Or maybe the hairs aren’t his.”

The truth hit me like a ten-pound hammer.

I blinked slowly. “Or…oh. I think I know who our murderer is.”

46

“You ready?” I asked Quinto.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “I hope this works.”

“Me, too,” I said. “The rest of you clear on the plan?”

Rodgers and Shay nodded. My partner in particular looked squeamish. She hadn’t agreed with my plan.

I gripped Daisy tightly and knocked on the door.

I heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a typical teenager’s bedroom. Between it and us stood a young man with shoulder-length, honey blond hair.

“Um…can I help you?” said Milton Coriander.

“Get him!” I yelled.

Quinto leapt into action, moving quicker than a guy his size had any right to. He wrapped a giant arm around Milton’s neck and swung behind him, catching his own fist with his free hand and pulling tight. I delivered a pot shot with Daisy to the middle of Milton’s face while Rodgers sent a flying knee into the kid’s scrotal region. Milton snarled, his hands shooting to Quinto’s arm, his fingers grasping for purchase. I cocked another shot with Daisy.

That’s when the crazy hit the fan.

Milton started to grow, and not like a seedling pushing its way through dirt in search of sun and fresh air—more like one of those fake snakes that shoots out of a can of novelty peanuts. His clothes split and burst as his rapidly expanding body shot upward. Hair sprouted from his skin, his fingernails thickened and turned into claws, and his face stretched toward me, pulling his nose and teeth into a snarling muzzle.

I would’ve sworn, but I was far too busy pummeling Milton’s furry, fang-toothed face with my truncheon. I got another four or five shots in before he swiped me with a paw that sent me flying into his bed frame.

Quinto still held Milton in a headlock, but the kid had grown so tall the big guy’s feet now dangled six inches off the floor. Quinto’s muscles bulged as he squeezed on Milton’s furry neck with all his might.

Milton grasped for Quinto’s head. I suffered a sudden vision of a burst melon, but before my nightmares could come true, Rodgers threw himself into the side of the werewolf’s knees in a move that’s banned in every sport known to man for its ligament shredding potential. Milton crumpled and roared in pain, but rather than permanently drop him, the move only angered him.

With his feet back on solid ground, Quinto squeezed on the kid’s neck as if he were trying to win a prize at a carny game. The move was working—Milton was slowing, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I picked myself up, ran forward, and delivered a full strength, no holds barred uppercut to Milton’s chin, backed by the entire weight of my meat, cheese, and fried-dough fed body.

The blow spun his head up and to the right. Milton kept it there for a moment before turning it back down to face me. He stared at me with his dark brown, fury-filled werewolf eyes and growled.

I had a bad feeling my day was about to take a turn for the worse. I sent a quick prayer to any and all gods for a miracle.

Apparently, one of them heard me and decided I wasn’t so big of a jerk that I wasn’t worth saving.

“Get back, Daggers!” yelled Steele.

I’d lost my partner during the scuffle, but I took her advice. I dove to the floor, narrowly escaping a nasty werewolf swipe that probably would’ve separated my head from my shoulders. In the meantime, she jumped and joined Quinto on the creature’s back.

Milton stood, a clawed hand on Quinto’s arm, his breathing labored.

“Hold your breath, Quinto!” she said.

Her hand came forward, clutching a dripping wad of white cotton rags. As I tried to understand what was going on, she stuffed the wad in the werewolf’s mouth.

“Now let go!” Shay said.

That seemed like a bad idea to me, but I didn’t have time to argue. Quinto apparently trusted my partner with his life. He released the furry neck, and Milton gasped, sucking air greedily in through his mouth.