I took a sip. It hit my throat with the bouquet of worn sneakers. I felt sick; I wanted to puke.

"Good whiskey," I praised. "Anyway, I need another meeting with Fred Johnson."

"You know that’s impossible… at least right now. The feds are still hovering around here. I don’t like any of it," Leslie said, sniffing his foul whiskey.

"Alright, let’s wait a couple days for things to quiet down. In the meantime I’ll go visit Taylor’s widow. Even though they hadn’t lived together for five years, he was helping with the kids—he had two of them… The guys collected some money for her. I need to deliver an envelope," I said.

"Here, add this," Leslie pulled a twenty from his wallet. Then he thought better of it and added another twenty. "She’s got two kids left."

The widow lived in Albany, two hundred miles from Boston. I reached her after dark via I-90.

"Hello, Brenda," I said when a pretty 35-year-old woman opened the door – tall and slim, with a sweet, pleasant face.

Interesting, why did they divorce? She’s sexy, I thought.

I explained the situation to Brenda and asked if I could come in.

“Well, Taylor and I haven’t lived together in ages… It’s very sad, of course. He helped out, sent money. How am I going to feed the kids now…” Brenda said, licking her lips.

Linda and Angela, two nine-year-old twin girls, sat on the couch, glued to their phones.

“We, uh, collected some money… Things turned out awful. Anyway, this is for you,” I said, handing Brenda the envelope and rising to leave.

“Are you in a rush? Stay, tell me how it happened. I have some beer,” Brenda said softly, taking my hand.

“I’m driving. If I drink a couple…” I said, sitting back down on the couch.

We chatted about nothing in particular. I felt awkward, knowing her husband had been killed because of me. But Brenda wouldn’t let me leave. Her crimson lips were hypnotic, and her breasts and hips seemed to show through her thin dress. A pleasant feminine warmth radiated from her body. At some point I realized I couldn’t get up from the couch because I had a raging hard-on for Brenda. I needed to think of something nasty, fast, to make it go away.

I started recalling the crime scene photos of my partner with his head partially torn off, but it didn’t help. The kids went upstairs, and Brenda still wouldn’t stop chattering nonsense. I tried to scoot away so I wouldn’t feel the tempting heat of her body, but she snuggled even closer and whispered, her lips brushing my earlobe:

“I want you to fuck me tonight, Jerry.”

She touched my right thigh and started moving her hand upward.

What am I doing, I thought, but it was already too late.

That evening was bliss.

In the morning I woke to a strange smell, like vomit. I opened my eyes and was stunned. I had never seen a sight like this at any crime scene. The entire bed was soaked in blood; on the floor lay Brenda with her abdomen slashed open, guts everywhere, and the white ceiling was spattered with gray gore. My hands, face, and chest were covered in blood and bits of flesh. The bedroom door was smashed off its hinges. I rushed into the twins’ room… They were dead, like their mother, killed in the most brutal way.

God, I did this… flashed through my mind.

And then the puzzle pieces clicked together in my head. The full moon, the bear attack, the blackouts, the torn clothing, the door busted outward from inside, these murders… I had become a werewolf. And I remembered nothing after I turned into a monster… Fucking Tim Cook…

What now, how do I cure this? In a couple of days—if not sooner—they’ll catch me. My DNA, my prints, they’re everywhere; there’s no simply washing that away, and it’d be pointless besides. I literally told everyone yesterday I was coming to the widow’s. And cameras—there are cameras everywhere—they’ll find me. My car sat outside the house all day. Time of death will be established… I returned to Brenda’s bedroom with my eyes squeezed shut, so I wouldn’t have to see all that hell, and touched Brenda’s hand. Her hand was cold—meaning she’d been dead for quite a while. I threw up.

God, I’m puking up human remains, I thought, and began vomiting even harder.

And then it was like a bolt of electricity shot through me. I remembered the words of that black bastard, Fred “Crooked-Dick” Johnson… He had told me to fear the full moon. Werewolves strike on the full moon. A werewolf had attacked me on the full moon, the day before my meeting with Fred. Which meant Fred knew someone was planning to attack me, but he didn’t know that I had managed to foil it.

Before they caught me, I figured I had one day left – today. I took a shower and put on one of Brenda’s dresses. Using Google Maps, I found the nearest clothing store and bought jeans, a shirt, and a jacket. Now I could head to the prison to see Fred Johnson… One last meeting, or so I believed.

The prison warden—incidentally an old friend of mine and someone who owed me—was in a surly mood and didn’t want to let me see Johnson.

“The feds are here. Not a good time,” Leslie said.

I asked to speak with the fed. An agent named Cocksucker (that’s how he introduced himself) turned out to be a friendly young man of about 27. He actually wanted to talk to me about this case; he’d dropped by our precinct, but I wasn’t there.

“So why did you send the undercover agent Taylor to Fred Johnson?” asked the tall young agent. He was ugly—his tiny lips were repulsive.

“As you know, Agent, my partner was killed two months ago. I’ve been conducting an independent investigation… and I’m coming up empty. So I was tugging on old cases, seeing if it might have been revenge. I didn’t especially suspect Johnson – that black-ass junkie – but I decided to probe that angle just in case. And after meeting him it started to seem plausible. He said I was next, that I should be looking over my shoulder. And the way he said it, it was like he knew something about my partner’s murder.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said Agent Cocksucker, clearly intrigued by my story.

I continued:

“That’s why I decided to plant Agent Taylor in his cell, to get the truth out of him. And now, after my man was killed, I want to meet with Crooked-Dick again…” I said.

“Crooked-Dick?” Agent Cocksucker repeated, confused.

“Yeah, his dick got broken during his arrest. But that’s another story. Anyway, I want to see him again and talk—maybe something will become clear. To tell the truth, the day before I met him, I was attacked; the doctor said my wound was shallow. I opened fire, the perp ran off, and Fred Johnson, as I now understand, doesn’t yet know about the attempt on me. So I have something to surprise him with,” I said.

“That might work. Let’s try it,” Cocksucker agreed.

Twenty minutes later I entered the room where Fred Johnson was being held. He wasn’t as cocky as during our last meeting. His hands were cuffed and chained to the table, and his feet were in irons. When he saw me, annoyance flashed across his face. I spoke plainly, laying out the situation as I saw it. I knew our conversation was being recorded and that the agent was behind the one-way glass listening to everything.

"I know it was on your orders that my partner was killed, and that an attempt was made on my life when I was going to his grave. You’re gonna burn in hell, you bastard. I know you sent that beast after me to kill me, just like they killed my partner. Don’t bother denying it," I began.

Fred looked at me with hatred and spat out through his thick lips:

"I’ve got nothing left to lose. You killed my brother, you bastard. Enjoy your victory! But you can’t bring your partner back—Hank Sullivan is rotting in his grave."

Fred laughed and went on:

"You can’t bring him back; he just croaked like a stray dog. My brother told me how he killed him with a single blow." Crooked-Dick’s deep-set, angry eyes gleamed.

"So he remembered everything, your brother did – but how? I can’t remember anything after those nights," I said.

Fred realized what I was getting at. His face twisted first in confusion, then in mirth. He brayed like a mare.

"So that’s the deal. Now you’re cursed. And you don’t remember how you killed. Well then, I’ll tell you a secret my brother once shared with me. Control over the wolf doesn’t come immediately… First you have to spend many long moonlit nights in its skin. And when you can’t control yourself, you kill the innocent. That’s all I’ve got. Now get out."

Fred turned away. It was clear the conversation was over.

I walked to the door. It opened.

"Jerry Harrison," Fred Johnson—also known as Crooked-Dick—called after me, "remember: when night falls on the city, the wolf goes hunting."

The door slammed shut.

"What was that about?" the agent asked when we met up again five minutes later.

"Some kind of freaky shit…" I said, wiping sweat from my brow.

"So where did you say your partner is buried?" Cocksucker asked.

"I didn’t say. But he’s buried at Forest Hills Cemetery, in south Boston – off Blue Hills Avenue, then Morton Street."

"Four days ago, out there, Matthew Johnson, Fred Johnson’s brother, was shot dead… He was hit twelve times. Five of the bullets were a silver alloy…"

"Who the hell would bother making bullets like that… and for what…" I muttered, not meeting the agent’s eyes.

"While you two were chatting, I found out who… Your partner. Three months ago he ordered ten boxes from a gunsmith…" Cocksucker said. He was clearly trying to pin me down.

"Hmm… what are you implying, that I shot him?" I looked Cocksucker in the eye. "Yeah, possibly— in self-defense. You just heard Fred say his brother killed Hank and wanted to kill me."

"We’ll be sending your rounds for analysis. And you have to report a killing, even in self-defense—you know the procedure as well as I do," Cocksucker said.

"What killing? It was dark. I was attacked. I fired back, then I looked around: nobody there. What, am I supposed to report every time there’s gunfire in Boston now? I’d be filing paperwork around the clock—wouldn’t be enough paper…"

"We’ll investigate and figure it all out," the agent said.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"No, you’re not under arrest. You didn’t check your gun at the entrance. Is it in the car? I want to take your rounds for testing," Cocksucker said.

"And then those rounds will turn up in Johnson’s head… No way, let’s do this by the book. Bring a warrant, and I’ll call my lawyer in the meantime… You know the drill as well as I do, right, lawman?" I said.

I got into my car and realized I was still free, for now. That idiot Cocksucker should have arrested me, but he’d chickened out – even though the grounds were more than sufficient.

As I drove away from the prison, everything became clear to me. That bastard Fred Johnson had sent his werewolf brother to kill us. My partner figured out who was hunting us and cast silver bullets, one set of which he gave me along with a pistol. I pumped all five rounds into Fred Johnson’s brother when he crawled out of the bushes to kill me. But the werewolf had scratched me and infected me with its virus – and I became a beast. Each night I turn into a hellish death machine and bring people grief and suffering.

Half an hour remains until dark. I’m getting sleepy again. Next to me lies a loaded Colt, my partner’s gift. Its bullets once saved my life. I haven’t decided yet – will I end it all, or will my hand falter… and I continue to kill? There’s no time left to find a cage or a sturdy basement. So tonight I will either kill myself or kill others. Ah, how I want to live!