This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (22 page)

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The shooter had no time to react. The ball of his foot hit the marbles and flew out from under him. With his arms windmilling wildly, he looked like a drunk from a silent movie as he tried to keep his balance. As he fell, his hand convulsed, sending another bullet into the ceiling.

Fur sprouted from his face and hands, his nose and mouth began to elongate into a snout, and claws replaced his fingernails. In his wolf form, his agility would have been increased, but the transformation didn’t happen fast enough to save him. He struggled to keep his footing and careened against the wall. Miniature tea sets, antique dolls, and a curtain of dust cascaded to the floor, and the weapons on the wall bounced on their hangers. He careened back in the other direction and hit the bannister. The wood gave way with an ear-splitting crack, and a long splinter drove into his side. He fell to the ground floor. I peered over the broken bannister. As the intruder’s body had begun to morph, his clothes had ripped, giving me a view of his half-transformed body. It was almost as disturbing as his neck, which was bent in a most unnatural position, and the bloodstained splinter protruding from his side.

I kicked off my high-heeled shoes and started down the stairs. I wanted to run down as fast as I could, but instead I picked my way carefully through the scattered marbles and shattered china, not wanting to end up like the shooter. A werewolf in full wolf form appeared at the foot of the stairs and stared up at me. Bunny-like, I froze on a step. Belly low, lips drawn back to expose his fangs, he crept up the stairs toward me. The growl erased rational thought and brought back only primal memories. I began backing up the stairs. He was closing on me. When he was three steps below, he launched himself at me. It was pathetic, but I used the only weapon to hand. Locking my fingers around the edge, I swung the marble jar and caught the hound on the side of the head. The heavy glass shattered with a boom, and marbles flew in all directions.

Like a baseball player going for a high ball, I had timed my swing to hit when the werewolf was at the apex of his leap. The blow affected his trajectory just enough that he missed landing right on top of me. I dodged, stepping on a glass shard. It dug painfully into the sole of my foot. I yelped and hopped, feeling the wet flow of blood.

The elongated snout wrinkled, the lips drawing back even more, and saliva dripped from the fangs. The rank scent of werewolf filled my nose. I cringed back, preparing to die. In my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of something falling. It was more instinct then conscious thought—I threw out my hand, hoping to ward it off, and ended up catching it.

The werewolf, jaws snapping, leaped at me. I threw one arm across my face and thrust out my hand as if I could fend him off. It didn’t work. The creature landed on me, but almost immediately went limp. Sticky, warm wetness flowed over my hand and arm, and a new smell joined the rank animal scent. It was cloying, coppery, and almost sweet. The werewolf lay on top of me. Gagging, I pushed him aside. A dagger protruded from his chest. That was what I’d caught. I would never have had the strength to drive home the dull replica weapon. The werewolf had done it himself with inertia and his own weight. I stared down at the blood coating my hand and arm.

I killed somebody! I killed somebody! I killed somebody! Oh, holy fuck, I killed somebody!

I went hobbling down the stairs, wincing when I landed on marbles and broken china, and blinded by tears.
The werewolf at the office was an accident. Not my fault. He killed himself when he attacked me. Not my fault. But this time …
I laid a hand over my bloodied arm, covering the palm of my once-clean hand with blood.

Then I was down the stairs, in the living room and among the paper towers. Some had been knocked over in the frenzied search for Gillford and me, but most were still upright. I began wending my way toward the front door. I tried to step lightly, to keep the papers from crackling underfoot. I glanced back and saw a bloody footprint. Even if I was quiet, they would find me, track me. How many were there? Were there still more in the house? Panic was a vise around my chest. I fought the urge to just run screaming for the front door. To combat the terror, I advanced in short sprints and then froze, listening hard. Truthfully, all I was hearing was the blood rushing in my ears, the hammering of my heart, and my short, shallow breaths. Then a blood-freezing howl went up. It ended with an almost questioning warble. There was another one, and he was between me and the door, and this one was obviously wondering where his friends were.

I reversed course and headed toward the kitchen. There would be a back door. There had to be a back door. There was the crackle of paper: the hound was moving. I tried to hold my breath and step softly. Then I realized how stupid that was. The werewolf could smell me, his hearing was acute in his wolf form, he knew by now something had happened to his buddies. The time for subtlety was over!

I broke into a run and heard a paper wall fall to the floor as the hound leaped over it. I risked a brief glance over my shoulder. His back legs were tangled in the falling wall, and his front paws found little purchase on the slick covers of the magazines. He actually tumbled onto his side. I had a small head start.

I felt a wash of heat as I ran past a wall heater proving old people must get cold to have this on in the summer or else it was broken. The grill was bent, and I had a brief glimpse of the pilot light burning brightly.

Into the dining room, running like a maniac. Only one small area wasn’t covered with junk: the place where Gillford had eaten his solitary meals. At the far end of the room was a lovely built-in cabinet filled with china. All of the sets where colorful, and the patterns tended to be floral. On one wall was a collection of large bronze disks etched with Mayan figures. The chandelier over the table, made of deer antlers and hanging unevenly from the ceiling, was clearly a replacement for an older fixture. The base didn’t fully cover the hole in the ceiling. I saw it all in a flash, and then I was in the kitchen.

The walls had once been a cheerful yellow, but now they were so coated with grease and smoke and dirt that they had turned a dull brown. I ran past a scarred and stained chopping block with an upright cleaver driven point-first into the wood. On the stove was a large iron skillet filled with congealing Crisco. The grease was darkened and flecked with bits of breading. A single chicken leg lay like an ice-bound ship in the solidified grease.

I spotted the back door and put on a final burst of speed, only to be tripped up by the frayed and trailing extension cord stretching from the old refrigerator to a wall plug on the far side of the kitchen. I fell down and felt liquid soaking into my skirt and blouse. Water had leaked from beneath the fridge and was forming a puddle on the warped linoleum. The frayed electrical cord rested in the water. I tensed, waiting to be electrocuted, and looked toward the back door. It was lined with locks and chains too. My heart sank. I’d never get it open in time.

Then I realized there was a doggie door cut into the wood. Not small. Not large. Sort of medium sized. Since I was already on the floor, I just started crawling toward that possible escape. Lifting up the flap, I tried to shove my way through the doggie door, and I felt my blouse and skirt rip on the top edge. My purse, still flung around my neck, was stuck underneath me, impeding my progress. I pulled back into the kitchen, ripped it off, and thrust it through the door. Then I dove through. It was much easier without the bulky purse. I was almost out when I felt a clawed hand tearing at my ankle. I kicked back hard, feeling something wet and cold on the sole of my foot. Nose. The hound yelped. Noses are sensitive.
Good to know,
I thought in a burst of irrational analysis, but the kick had caused the werewolf’s grip to loosen, and I was able to get outside.

I heard the howl of frustration from the other side of the door as the hound fumbled with the chains and locks. Unless he changed back to human, he wasn’t going to open the door. My knees were trembling, but I managed to get to my feet. The door shook as the werewolf flung himself against the wood. Then rational thought seemed to once again take control of the creature, and I saw the shaggy head thrusting through the dog door. Snatching up my purse, I took off running around the side of the house and bashed into a set of wind chimes on a freestanding hook, setting them to ringing wildly. I raced on toward the street and my car. The bells seemed to keep ringing. I shook my head and fumbled frantically through my purse, searching for the car keys.

Naturally they had fallen to the very bottom of the bag. Sobbing with exhaustion and frustration, I upended the purse. Out fell hairbrush, makeup kit, lipstick, lip pencil, pen flashlight, dental floss, breath mints, house keys, wallet, pens, pad, cell phone, package of Kleenex, my card case—the metal was dented—and finally the car keys. I bent to pick them up.

I got an excellent, if upside down, view of the werewolf rounding the building and closing on me with massive, ground-covering leaps. The leaps seemed to be in time to the calliope music. I straightened and blindly ran into the street. The hound was right behind me.

A rush of air fluttered my hair. Calliope music filled my ears. My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of white and garish colors. There was the blare of a car horn. A loud
thump
. A shrill
yelp
. Followed by screeching as a handbrake was pulled.

I half-turned to see what had happened, but my legs gave way and I collapsed in a heap in the street. My nose was filled with the scent of hot asphalt, gasoline, and blood.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus.” It was a young male voice shaking with anxiety. I forced my eyes open. And found myself staring at a clown. Or rather, the painted visage of a clown grinning at me from the side of a white-paneled ice cream truck. The calliope music was still tinkling away.

A young man in a white suit and a silly little hat came around the truck. He was shaking, and his eyes were rimmed with white.

“Are you okay, miss?”

I opened my mouth to give the obligatory response, but then I shut my mouth and shook my head. “No.”

“Are you hurt? Did I hurt you too?”

“No. Not exactly.” I pulled the foot that had been grabbed by the werewolf into my lap and looked at my abraded, bloody, dirty sole, the long claw marks on the ankle, and my shredded panty hose. “Would you call the police? Please.”

“Oh, right. Police. I was gonna call my boss. I think I killed your dog,” he added.

“Oh God, I hope so.”

15

This interview wasn’t conducted in the lush comfort of an Ishmael, McGillary and Gold conference room. The police station in downtown Bayonne was rundown and stank of burned coffee, unwashed bodies, and old vomit. The driver of the ice cream truck was seated at one scarred and battered desk, giving his statement while I sat at another. I had given my statement, and now Sergeant Balfour, at whose desk I was seated, was in the lieutenant’s office with the door closed, a phone to his ear, and my wallet in his hand.

When the cops had arrived, I had gasped out “Bodies, house,” and pointed. The two patrolmen exchanged alarmed glances, went through the open front door, and came back out in a really big hurry. One had gotten on the radio while the other checked the crumpled pile of fur. The ice cream man had indeed killed the hound.

A little while later a whole lot of cops and ambulances had arrived, and then the ice cream guy (whose name was Salvatore Balduini, and who was a student at Ramapo College) and I were taken to the station.

“… I barely missed her, and then there was the dog … er … wolf. I tried to brake, but the brakes failed. I tried to miss him, but I just couldn’t. There wasn’t time. And that’s why I ran over him. The only way I stopped was because I pulled the handbrake and threw the truck into park.”

“Yeah, but you had to have been speeding.” The cop posing the question was middle-aged, with stooped shoulders and a walrus mustache.

Sal looked to one wall and then the other. “Well, maybe, but only a little. There was a soccer game over at the community center, and it was about to let out. I didn’t want to be late. I knew there’d be a lot of hot kids and parents. I sell a lot at those games. I get paid on how much I sell, and I’m short paying my fall tuition.” He looked hopefully at the cop, who seemed unmoved by Sal’s sad story. Sal sighed and continued.

“But I
was
late, so I might have gotten a little lead-footed. But it’s not like there’s traffic or kids or anything on that street. In fact, a lot of the houses are empty.”

“Still, you were speeding, and you killed a hou—” The cop’s mouth twisted beneath the mustache. “Power.”

I was beginning to realize that outside the cocoon of my upper-middle-class life and ivy league university, there was a lot of ambivalence, if not out-and-out hostility, about the Powers.

“You could be in a lot of trouble,” the cop added, and Sal looked green against the white of his shirt.

I wasn’t sure if I was about to help or hurt him, but I couldn’t just sit by and let my inadvertent rescuer get thrown to the dogs—or the wolves. “Officer, that wolf was trying to kill me. If Sal hadn’t been there, I’d have my throat torn out right now.” I gave the officer a smile, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace.

The sergeant hung up the phone, then made another call. More time passed. Sal’s boss showed up. He was a big, red-faced man, and things didn’t look good for Sal in terms of keeping his summer job.

They started to leave. I stood up and took Sal’s hand between mine. “Thank you so much. You really did save my life.” The boss split a suspicious look between the two of us. “I’m sure my dad would be happy to get the brakes of the truck fixed.”

“And the front grill?” the boss asked in a pugnacious tone. “It got all bent to hell. And a piece even broke loose and got blood all over it.”

“I’m sure the grill too.” The boss looked a bit mollified.