The Ultimate Werewolf (28 page)

After filling the syringe, I turned to the dog. He had no muscles left, just hair, skin and bones. I'd found him tied in a closet, dumped like a pair of old shoes. He turned his liquid brown eyes on me and they were full of trust, ready to love again, in spite of everything he'd been through. Suddenly I saw Zeyde, ribs jutting, in the concentration camp.

"Tee, you okay?" Linda asked.

I swallowed. "Listen . . . uh, can we keep this one?"

She sighed tiredly. "He needs his own pen, vet care, it'd be
six
months
before he'd be adoptable."

It was suddenly very important for me to save this dog. "I can't kill this one," I said, tightly. "He's so damned hungry."

Linda shook her head. "If we started saving every starvation case, we'd be packed to the rafters. . . ." She must've seen something in my face then, something she recognized, because she stopped, giving in. "I don't know why I let you talk me into these things. We'll put a bed behind my desk—"

The phone rang, and she nodded at me to get it as she went to settle the dog in her office and fetch him some food.

"D.C. Animal Control, Officer Norris."

"It's Joe," a familiar deep voice said. "The guy that got killed by those dogs was on the Federal Witness Protection Program. We just got the word."

"Weird," I said. "Some kind of Mafia snitch?"

"Weirder," Joe said. "He was a former Nazi. Did some favors for the State Department at the end of the war. Homicide's calling it a random wild dog attack."

My fingers tightened on the phone, thinking how odd it was to run into a Nazi and a Holocaust survivor in the same night. "Think this has anything to do with Zeyde?" I asked, finally.

"Doubt it, but if you talk to him, call me."

I fought back an urge to ask Joe if there'd been a full moon last night. Joe would know.

"Be careful on the street tonight, Tee," Joe warned me.

"I'm always careful," I said defensively.

"The hell you are. I've seen you work. You take too many chances. I mean it, Tee."

"Yeah, yeah," I agreed impatiently. "Listen, I gotta go."

"Why can't you be nicer to that poor guy?" Linda asked, when I hung up the phone. "Every straight woman in this place would
kill
to have him pay them half the attention he gives you."

"Get off my back," I said, good-naturedly.

With real pleasure I watched the dobie inhale a small meal from a soft bed of worn blankets. You had to start them slow, tiny meals every two hours, to get their systems used to food again. Maybe it was time to look for an apartment that permitted pets, I thought as I walked out to the van.

I was startled out of my mental house-hunting when I found Zeyde waiting beside the vehicle, and had the sudden, uneasy feeling that my mentioning his name had conjured him up. Just like in the movies, the old werewolf silently appeared out of the humid night air.

I gave myself a mental shake, irritated with my silly obsession about this helpless old man. The shelter was only a few blocks from the Hecht Company warehouse. All the street people knew they had the best dumpster in the city. He must've been down there foraging, and was now on his way back downtown.

"Therese, bubeleh," he greeted me warmly, like we were old friends, "still working hard?"

"Still, Zeyde," I agreed. "What can I do for you? Had anything to eat tonight?"

"Such a nice girl to worry about an old man. I was just walking by . . . I recognized your van." He must've watched me and Joe return to it the night of the murder. He smiled, and I felt funny. Why
was
I worried about him? I had enough to be concerned about taking care of the city's unwanted animals. "This is where you work, this place?" He indicated the shelter.

"Yeah, this is it."

"So, why does a nice girl like you do such a hard, dangerous job, chasing animals in the street at night?"

I shrugged. "Someone's got to do it."

"But you could get hurt by such big dogs, bitten terrible!"

"Not me, Zeyde," I reassured him. "I don't get bitten. Not in eight years. Im good at this."

I found myself looking at the old mustard-colored cinderblock shelter. The huge walk-in refrigerator stuck out of its side garishly, all new stainless steel against the old block. That's where most of my night's work ended up, in the walk-in, waiting for the Tenderers. Big, plastic barrels filled with rigid animals curled in a mockery of sleep.

Suddenly I was uncomfortably aware of the similarities between the shelter and a concentration camp. We warehoused animals until we had too many, then killed the sickest, weakest and oldest. Then we sent the bodies away to become soap and fertilizer. I didn't like thinking of myself as a
humane
Nazi.

"Ach, I've upset you, being the yenta, asking questions that are none of my business."

"Zeyde, I do this work because I
have
to, because I love animals . . .

I
help
them. . . ." At least, I ended their suffering. He gave me a sad look and nodded. I thought of the dobie now sleeping behind Linda's desk who'd never again be hungry or thirsty or cold. "I'm a complete vegan. I don't eat animals or wear
any
animal products."

He looked at me gently. "And people? You love them, too?"

I gritted my teeth. On a good day, I tolerated people. After a bad shift, after picking up too many animals like that dobie, I despised them. The only reason this job existed was because of the cruelty and indifference of people. But, even before the job, I'd never had close relationships. I still hadn't recovered from Dove or Alfred's death, but my dad died ten years before, and I couldn't even remember the date.

Then I thought of Joe. I knew how he felt about me, but I didn't
want
to care. "So, how long have you been on the streets?" I asked the old man, wanting to change the subject.

"Since the war," he admitted, with an odd smile.

"World War Two?"
Surviving that long, homeless?

"They took everything," he said softly. "Parents, wife, children, grandchildren . . . our wealth, heritage . . . everything we were. Everything we would have been."

"Other people started over, remarried, rebuilt," I said.

He nodded. "Yes, but to see your loved ones destroyed, an old family like
ours ...
I did not have it in me."

"So, what've you been doing all these years?"

He smiled, showing long, yellow teeth. "Following the wind, bubeleh."

"Zeyde, what's your name?"

"Joshua Tobeck," he replied. "There are many Tobecks, but our branch of that honored line was . . . special . . . very old. Blest, we often said." He chuckled—a short, brittle sound.

"Listen, Zeyde, the other night, when that man was killed . . . weren't you close enough to hear anything?"

"Was / close enough?" he asked, slyly.

I watched him uneasily. "Did you know he was a Nazi?"

"Did I
know
he was a Nazi?" he repeated sarcastically.

I frowned. He was goading me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. He wasn't a helpless old man anymore . . . and we both knew it. He was a werewolf. The feeling was on me stronger than ever, like instinct, like a sixth sense. "Did you kill that Nazi?" I asked softly, not wanting to know.

"Did I
kill
that Nazi?" He grinned wildly. "Did I
rip
his throat out? Did I
eat
his heart? Such a death is too
good
for a Nazi!" He spat angrily on the street. "Did / kill that Nazi?" His gray eyes gleamed with a feral light.

Fear made my skin crawl, but only for a moment. I got a grip on myself and felt embarrassed. It wasn't like me to let my imagination run away like that. I looked at Zeyde's thin form, his gnarled hands and stooped shoulders. He was so old, so worn.

Of course Zeyde knew about the corpse. News travels fast on the streets, and the street people who'd been there would've talked about it among themselves, sharing the grisly details. That's all it was. He was just raving, trying to scare me.

"So, how's your policeman, bubeleh?" Zeyde said, once more the sweet old man, as though nothing had happened. "Be nice to him, he has a good heart."

I watched the stooped figure shuffle away, telling myself that such conversations were typical with street people—confused memories laced with paranoia. But as I slid into the driver's seat, I switched on the radio to call Joe.

▼▼▼

I never did tell Joe much . . . just that Zeyde wasn't a reliable witness. I didn't even consider discussing my uneasy imaginings ... I'd have sounded even crazier than the old man. I could picture Joe's face. Werewolves, yeah, sure!

However, on impulse, I did let Joe take me to breakfast. We shared other meals over the next few weeks. We'd meet at the restaurant, go dutch, then separate from there. He had to be the world's most patient man, but I guess he could tell that was all I was up for. After the second week, I started really looking forward to seeing him and Chief, even though I suspected Joe was using my love for the dog to win me over. Linda couldn't believe I wasn't sleeping with him yet.

I kept running into Zeyde around the city. Sometimes he was lucid; others definitely not. He started telling me about his family, how the Nazis took them, how one minute they were together and the next, only he was alive. He hinted once that he'd helped other prisoners get away.

". . . when I had the strength to help them," he'd said. "The guards, they feared those bright silver nights."

"Bright silver? You mean moonli     " I'd started to ask.

"Searchlights!" he interrupted, smiling. Staring blankly, lost in memories, he muttered, "Six others, there were with me . . . three Jews, two gypsies, a political dissident . . . they hid me in the bad times, and

I helped them get away . . . and revenge we tasted on sweet silver nights. . . ."

"But, Zeyde," I'd said, when he trailed off, "why didn't
you
escape?"

He didn't answer.

Yet, I couldn't shake the crazy notion that he was a werewolf. Especially when he grinned, with all those long, yellow teeth. How could a man his age not have lost any teeth, especially in the camps?

We never found any large pack of dogs to explain that Nazi's death but, with the crush of work, it was easy to forget. I was doing fifteen to twenty-five kills a night, average for fall. Then, one chilly Friday, almost a month to the day since I'd met him, Zeyde appeared at the shelter again, waiting by my van.

"Hi!" I greeted him, smiling. "Have you eaten?"

He nodded. "The people from
Bread for the City
had the trucks out early. The soup's not kosher, but . . ." He shrugged eloquently. "Do you have a minute to speak with me, Therese?"

"Norris!"
Linda yelled out the front door. "Phone! It's
him!"
She batted her long lashes. I flipped her the bird.

"Sure, soon as I get this call. Come inside, it's warm." I went in to grab the phone. "Norris here."

"WhiteCrane," the baritone said. "Breakfast okay?"

I smiled, then realized Zeyde hadn't followed me inside. I poked Linda, who was leaning on me, trying to eavesdrop. "Bring Zeyde in," I hissed. "Sure," I told Joe. "Can we take Chief to the park later?"

"Yeah," he said, softly. "After the park . . . can Chief and I . . . take you home? Tell us at breakfast. Be careful tonight." He hung up quickly.

So, the world's most patient man had finally lost his patience. I was surprised to find how tempted I was. Then I noticed Linda still beckoning to the old man.

"Hey, come on, Zeyde," I called. "It's warm in here!"

Reluctantly, he stepped into the reception area, glancing at the array of brightly colored posters that admonished clients to neuter or spay— it's the only way. The cat kennel was on the left behind a glass wall, so clients could see the kitties. The dog kennel was out of sight, entered through a back hallway. Two small dogs were yapping, but the other sixty were still.

"Sit down, Zeyde, and tell me—"

The quiet shelter erupted in furious sound. The dog kennel exploded with hysterical barking. Linda and I stared wide-eyed at the cats. Every one of them stood facing Zeyde, backs arched, spitting and hissing.

Grabbing his elbow, I hustled him outside. Zeyde was shivering, looking sick and ancient. I sat him in the passenger seat of the van, then turned the heat up.

"I never had much of a way with animals," he muttered. There was a long, uncomfortable moment, until he finally said, "Therese, I've come to give you something. A gift."

I felt confused as he fumbled in the pockets of his huge coat. He pulled out something shiny, a small dagger, the blade maybe four inches long. It had a heavy handle, ornately carved.

"Pure silver," he said, touching it reverently. "It's been in my family since . . . since the family began, how far back no one knows. It's part of our legacy, this knife, like our name, and . . . our blessing. To the strongest grandson, the knife is passed from the grandfather, the zeyde. With the knife, the legacy, the blessing, is passed as well."