Thinning the Herd

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This one is dedicated to Richard T. Cowan.
You gave us so much laughter, love, and joy.
Thanks so much for sharing your warped sense of humor, Daddy.
I miss you every day.

1

A LONE BIRKENSTOCK

Another
freakin' werewolf.

Hal Rupert poked the grumpy lycanthrope with his catch pole until it leapt from the pickup's kennel. He kept an eye on it as it slunk down the street, tail down, growling to itself, headed home. To daylight. To furless flesh. To wife and kids. A job in a suit.

Shaking his head, Hal swung the kennel door shut, blocking off the stink of wet fur and animal musk. As he stowed his catch pole in the truck bed, he wondered what the hell was up with all the werewolves roaming Eugene, drunk on ducks. That was the third one this week. Normally, Hal only caught one, maybe two, lycanthropes in a month. And that was during the full moon. This wolfie had walked right into his catch pole.

Maybe it'd realized there was no escape. Not when facing the legend himself, Hal Rupert, Animal Control Officer. Hal snorted. Hell, might as well call a spade a spade. He was a freakin' dogcatcher and damned proud of it.

In fact, the only thing standing between the citizens of Eugene and Springfield—hell, maybe even Portland—and furred, fanged death was Hal and his deadly skill with a catch pole.

Squinting at the horizon, the rose-edged sky, Hal rubbed his whisker-stubbled chin. Three werewolves this week. Something was definitely up. But what? He climbed into his truck, keyed the engine on, and steered the vehicle toward Delta Highway and the Valley River Center. One last little scouting trip along the river, then he'd call it a night.

He glanced at the glowing digital numbers on the truck's dashboard. 6:03—in the a.m., baby. His shift ended officially at 6:30, so he still had plenty of time. Swigging down the last of his cold mocha—the real thing: no skim milk or sugar substitutes for this bad boy—he stomped the accelerator to the floor. Not for the first time, he wished the ACO trucks came equipped with sirens. He could just picture it:
The pickup's siren pierces the dawn as the yellow warning light strobes through the last fading remnant of night. Cars pull over to the side of the road and their occupants wave as the pickup flashes past
.

The citizens of Eugene and Springfield knew how Hal protected them, understood just how much he risked every night to keep them safe.

From feral cats in the thousands.

From garbage-can–ransacking dogs.

From duck-drunk werewolves.

From lurky things in general.

Every freakin' night.

As Hal negotiated the pickup onto the dizzying cloverleaf leading to I-105 on just two wheels, he wished his request for a siren would be granted. Imagining one was fun and all, but his talents and prodigious brainpower really should be applied to more important concerns.

Like winning the heart of the lovely Desdemona Cohen—the love of his life. Long purple tresses, kohl-lined blue eyes, and black-glossed lips, she'd captured his heart the moment he'd first seen her standing behind the counter at Hot Topic, ringing up bondage gear on the register.

Hal's heart hammered against his ribs as her mocking smile filled his mind. He'd have to stop by Hot Topic on his dinner break during his next shift and pour the sight of her into his mind. He knew she was working because he'd managed to borrow a copy of her schedule from the employees-only room when she'd been busy wrestling a shoplifter into a wicked half-nelson.

Hal parked the pickup in the lot and hopped out. He pulled his trusty catch pole from the truck bed and strode through dew-wet grass to the riverside paths. The river's smell, cold and mossy, filled the warming air.

Strolling along the paved path, Hal glanced at the flowing green-brown water and frowned. No ducks. No ugly-ass nutria. No bugs clicking or birds singing. Silence curled thick through the air, deadly and ominous.

Hal's muscles tensed. His fingers tightened around his catch pole. The hair stiffened on the back of his neck. Something was behind him.

A voice intoned, “On your right!”

And Hal whirled, the air whistling as he swung his catch pole out and around like a
b
Ō
staff. It caught the bicyclist across the chest, hitting with a satisfying thud that reverberated from the catch pole and into Hal's arm. The bicycle wobbled for several moments before clattering to the path.

Twirling the pole up and away, Hal straddled the bicyclist's crumpled form. Thumped the end of the catch pole against the pavement beside the man's helmeted head.

“On my right
what
?” Hal asked, voice a low hiss.

The bicyclist finally managed to uncross his eyes and focus on Hal. “Jesus fucking Christ!” he gasped.

“Jesus fucking Christ was on my right?” Hal knocked the end of the catch pole against the guy's helmet. “Try again, punk, cuz I don't think so. On my right
what
?”

“Huh?”

Catch pole knocked against helmet. One. Two. Three times.

“Me!” the bicyclist screamed. “Me!
I
was on your right!”

“Okay, then.” Hal leaned down and offered his hand. The bicyclist flinched. Grasping the man's arm, Hal hauled him to his feet. “Why'd you make me interrogate you like that?”

The bicyclist gaped at him, clearly impressed by the fact that
Hal Rupert
had put the smack-down on him. Smiling, Hal nodded at the bike. “G'wan. Get outta here.”

Ducking low, the bicyclist scurried past Hal and snatched up his bike. As he ran down the path, hands on the handlebars, Hal called, “Let that be a lesson! Next time, be
specific
when you yell something like that! Anything could be on my right! A werewolf! A feral cat! Anything!
Comprendez
?”

The bicyclist shrieked. And ran faster.

Hal shook his head, chuckling. Boneheaded bicyclists. What if he'd been a lycan and not the human, but still very deadly, Hal Rupert?

Well . . . then the guy woulda been one helluva meal, if a bit stringy—all those wiry muscles. Ah, well. Live and learn.

Sauntering, breathing in the morning's crisp summer scents—dewed grass, cold water, dog shit—Hal continued his stroll along the greenbelt. He was about to turn around and head back to his pickup when an odd shape on the path caught his eye.

Eyes narrowed, Hal beelined for it. Around him, any number of annoying things chirped, twittered, cricked, and croaked. Oblivious. He stood over the thing on the path. Frowned.

A lone Birkenstock upended like a tombstone.

Hal poked it with his catch pole. It fell over. Dark specks dotted the straps. Hal didn't need to be a member of the cast of
CSI
(any edition) to know blood when he saw it. Though, if he
was
a member of the cast, he'd want to break for a commercial right then. Add to the tension.

Hooking his pole through the sandal, Hal lifted it for closer examination. Sniffed. Patchouli. Ganja. Yup. Hippie. Eugene's unofficial mascots.

And based on this bloodstained Birkie, Eugene was now short one hippie. The thought chilled Hal's blood. The Oregon Country Fair—the yearly hippie-fest bacchanalia—was only a day away. Hippies from all over the Northwest thumbed rides to Veneta's fabled forested fair. By the hundreds.
Thousands
.

What was a legendary dogcatcher to do?

Angling his catch pole over his shoulder, the sandal dangling like a knapsack, Hal trotted back to his pickup. Pole and sandal in the back, he slid in behind the steering wheel and started 'er up. Slamming the gearshift into reverse, he backed up with tire-smoking speed.

As he shifted into first, then second, a vision filled Hal's mind: the tree-shaded dirt paths winding through the Country Fair, a labyrinth of goods and services—tie-dyed undies, hand-carved Green Man plaques, face painters, palm readers, and the sizzle of frying tofu—vendor and food tents fluttering in the summer breeze.

And in this vision, hippies and locals cavorted together along the paths seeking entertainment, looking to spend their money on shit they never knew they needed. Hoping for stuff they'd never smoked or snorted or ingested before. Kids in knee-length shorts, skateboards in hand, all lifted-chin attitude; neo-hippies in dreads and tie-dye, old-school hippies with tangled, graying beards and ponytails. Dressed-down, well-to-do yuppies from the South Hills mingling with Grateful Deadheads.

As Hal replayed last weekend's Saturday Market through his mind, a Country Fair in miniature, he realized a truth he'd overlooked at the time, even though it'd nagged at his subconscious: fewer hippies.

Was someone murdering hippies in Eugene? Snatching 'em out of their Birkenstocks in mid-stride? And were these disappearances tied in with the plethora of lycan appearances?
Plethora.
One hell of a good word. Saying it made people pause and look at him with respect. He used it as often as possible.

But, in any case, this plethora spelled one thing: bad fucking shit.

Hal turned into the Lane County Animal Regulation's parking lot and guided the pickup into a parking slot. Grabbing his catch pole and the sandal, he walked into the building. Yapping echoed throughout the corridors as detained dogs vied for attention from their human guardians. The place reeked of pine cleanser, dog fur, and pee.

Hal strode into the employee's lounge. Empty, but the smell of scorched coffee wafted through the room. He slapped the coffeemaker's off button. As he slid his time card into the clock to be punched, he heard someone walk into the room.

“You're late again, Rupert.”

Cha-
chunk
. Hal pulled his time card free and whirled, catch pole still on his shoulder. Jennifer Markey, stuffed like a sausage into her khaki uniform, glared at him, hand on hip. “Which means
I'm
late getting out, because I was assigned your vehicle.”

“Sue me.”

“You're not getting overtime, I hope you know that.”

“Trying to break my heart?”

“No. Just your balls.”

Hal met and held her green-eyed gaze. He nodded. “Fair enough. As long as we understand each other.” He eased the catch pole down beside him. The Birkenstock jittered down the length of the pole and hit the floor with a muffled
thwap
.

Markey's gaze traveled to the sandal. “What's that?”

“Evidence, darling. Evidence.” Hal slanted the pole and re-hooked the sandal. Slung the pole over his shoulder.

“Whatever.” Markey held her hand out for the pickup keys.

Hal walked over to her, his work boots squeaking against the tile. He dangled the keys over her waiting palm. “Have you noticed fewer hippies lately?”

Markey sighed. Dramatically. Heaving sausage bosom. “Have you noticed that you're mental?”

Hal dropped the keys into her palm. Her fingers clenched shut. He tapped a finger against his temple. “Yeah,” he said. “Mental like a fox.” Grinning, he sauntered backwards out the door. Tapped his temple once more. “Like a freakin' fox.”

Markey rolled her eyes. Hal snorted. She could learn a thing or two about eye rolling from his beloved, the ravishing Desdemona. Warmth spread through him like melted butter when he thought of his ladylove, his delicate midnight rose. Was she sleeping now? Did she dream of him?

Hal stepped out of LCAR's gloom and into the peach-colored dawn. He walked a short block to the bus stop. As he waited, catch pole over his shoulder, his thoughts tracked back to the Birkenstock upended on the path. Like the wearer'd been snatched into thin air.

And Desdemona worked so close . . . Was she in danger? She wasn't a hippie, but what if he was wrong (unlikely) about only hippies being marked for vanishing? Just for argument's sake?

Hal straightened, his fingers curled around the catch pole. He'd protect Desdemona from everything—stalkers, werewolves, boredom, cold-blooded killers, everything.

The diesel-wheezing LTD bus pulled over to the curb, yellow blinkers flashing. As Hal climbed the steps, bus pass in hand, he was certain the other passengers recognized the steely resolve gleaming in his eyes. Knew a hero walked among them.

“Hey, fuckhead! Watch your stupid fishing pole!”

Of course, to keep him safe from his enemies, they'd pretend not to know who sat among them on the bus. Hal eased into a seat beside a kid wearing iPod earbuds and a sullen expression. Smiling, Hal gave him a thumbs-up. The kid flipped him off.

Hal's smile widened. The kid was doing a damned fine job. Anyone watching him would assume Hal was no one of importance. Yeah, a damned fine job. He settled back into his seat. Life was good.

Well, maybe not so good for the owner of the lone Birkenstock. But Hal would avenge him. Her. Whatever. Bring their killer in to justice or, if necessary, catch-pole 'em into oblivion.

A lonely life, this hero's life, but not one he'd ever refuse. Knowing he made a difference or eased someone's suffering or pushed back the forces of darkness made all the loneliness worthwhile.

Every time the bus lurched to a stop, Hal studied each person who climbed the steps and dropped their token into the coin slot. Studied each face, breathed in each odor. Soon the bus filled and the warm, humid air smelled of garlic, sweat, and roses.

His people, each one of them. Even the lycans. And a werewolf nodded at him now over an opened copy of the
Register-Guard
. Hal nodded in return. Looked like the one he'd catch-poled into the kennel two nights ago. Only now he wore man flesh and paint-spattered construction overalls.

Yeah, his people, every one.

Even the one who'd just pulled a gun out of his knapsack and screamed, “Stop the bus, motherfucker!”