Chapter 2. A Verbal Agreement with the FBI Agent

The next morning, I woke up in the park, completely naked. The city was still asleep, and only the early birds were chirping to greet the dawn.

My head was pounding. I got up on my knees and ran my hand over my face – it was clean, with no blood. That meant I hadn’t killed anyone that night. The full moon had waned, and probably the wolf’s strength had weakened. I didn’t know for sure; these were all just guesses of mine – I wasn’t about to go to the library. Then again, who knows – maybe I’d have to conduct my own investigation, if I wasn’t caught first.

But I needed to get home, grab my money and guns, get dressed at least, and then get the hell out of town. I figured the murders of two children and their mother in Albany were already known. Soon the police would track me through the cameras – and then I’d be finished. And once they saw the kind of monster I turned into at night, they’d hand me over to the authorities for experiments. That’s the last thing I needed.

Before entering my house, I looked around. No suspicious cars. My detective instincts told me everything was clean. Maybe a little too clean. But whatever – sometimes you just have to take the risk.

When I walked in, I pulled an intact pair of jeans from the closet (there were fewer and fewer of those left) and started putting them on. At that moment, from behind the curtain, stepped Agent Cocksucker, walking across the carpet in his polished shoes. This still young, by police standards, agent had an unpleasant appearance. His large, protruding ears were lit from behind by the light coming through the window.

What followed was a silent standoff. What to do? I glanced at the Colt lying on the couch in its holster, but Cocksucker shook his head.

“Don’t do that, Jerry Harrison – you won’t have time.”

“And who’s going to stop me? You going to try and slap the cuffs on me? You know the twenty-one-foot rule. Want to risk getting closer?” I shot back, aggressively.

“I just came to talk. I’m not your enemy. Maybe even a friend,” said Cocksucker, taking two steps back as a gesture of peace.

“Hm, you think I belong in the loony bin?” I couldn’t figure out where Cocksucker was going with this.

“No, not the loony bin. A steel cage. I’m currently working the triple homicide case in Albany. And what happens to you next depends on me. But we can settle things right now, as they say – on the shore – and find a good way out for you in this complicated situation. After all, technically it wasn’t you who killed… it was the beast inside you,” Cocksucker said, his last words full of sympathy, trying to worm his way into my trust.

“Get to the point. I’ve got nothing to offer you,” I said, hopping on one foot – the jeans just wouldn’t go on.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You think I’m some twenty-seven-year-old fool who got into the Bureau by accident or through connections? That’s not the case. The investigation into the prison murder of the agent you sent to Crooked-Dick – that’s just a cover. Speaking of Crooked-Dick, I found out the details of that story from your colleagues – it’s actually pretty funny. But now to business. The government has tasked me with solving a much more serious problem – where all these werewolves in the U.S. came from.”

“All? There’s more of us?” I asked with interest. I’d finally gotten my jeans on and was looking in the closet for a shirt.

“All over the country, unexplained murders with extreme brutality are being recorded. But so far we’ve managed to keep it hidden from the public. We’ve already cleaned up the scene at Brenda’s house,” Cocksucker reassured me.

“And how many murders are we talking about?” I asked.

“In the last twelve years, more than twenty-five thousand,” Cocksucker whispered, “but that’s classified information – don’t tell anyone.”

“In the U.S., people are being killed by werewolves. The government doesn’t know how to fight it. Fine. What do you want from me, a blood sample?” I said. Instead of a shirt, I pulled on a red T-shirt. Now I stood before Cocksucker in blue jeans, a red shirt that was too small for me, and no socks.

“We could take one for the record,” Cocksucker sighed, “but we’ve got a whole refrigerator full of your kind of blood in the lab. So far, our virologists can’t figure out how to fight this infection.”

“So it’s a virus?” I asked.

“Well, you can think of it as a virus for simplicity. But let’s not get into details yet. Let’s get to the point. We tracked that the killings recorded by the FBI started twelve years ago. Then they grew exponentially. And now they threaten humanity. You could easily be sent for experiments right now – like we’ve done with others like you – but there’s one ‘but.’ You’ve turned out to be the key to the investigation,” Cocksucker said, pausing for effect.

“A golden key?” I laughed.

“Yes, exactly. The thing is, everyone we caught turned into beasts, but when they changed back into humans, they remembered nothing. Only Crooked-Dick’s brother remembered. That’s what Crooked-Dick said in prison, and I have no reason not to believe him. Which means his brother may have been one of the first werewolves – if not the very first. We traced his life, and everything points to it. Exactly twelve years ago, the once-close brothers parted ways. Crooked-Dick’s brother disappeared. That’s when Crooked-Dick turned to drugs and eventually burned himself out. But just a few days before the murder of the family of three, Crooked-Dick met his brother. Apparently, that’s when he snapped and killed those people…” the agent said.

“And then Crooked-Dick told his brother about me and my partner, and the werewolf took revenge. My partner must have known something, since he gave me silver bullets,” I guessed.

Cocksucker sat down in the chair by the window. His face was calm. It felt like two old friends were talking about science.

“See? You’re starting to get it. You’re a good detective. Here’s what we’ll do. Since Crooked-Dick’s brother is dead, only Crooked-Dick knows what his brother told him about his transformation. That’s the mystery we have to solve. We’ll find out where this infection came from and put a stop to it. And the U.S. will be free of werewolves.”

“Alright, but there’s one little problem…” I spread my arms to the sides, as if pointing at myself.

“As I said, we clean up cases like this. No one will know about Brenda and her children’s deaths… She just left town. And yes, you killed another person that night in the park, on the third day… after infection. We cleaned that up too… almost cleaned it up…” Cocksucker sighed. He looked like he was thinking hard.

“And there haven’t been any more murders?” I asked, looking closely at Cocksucker.

“No. As far as I know, you’re the only werewolf left in Boston,” Cocksucker clearly wanted to calm me down.

“Got it. But I meant another problem. Me. When night falls over the city, I turn into an animal.”

“We’ll take care of that today. We’ll set up a bulletproof room in your house with automatic bolts. Here – this is for you.” Cocksucker handed me an earpiece. “The operator will tell you when to go in, and lock the door remotely. In case of an emergency, we’ve got an armored van – we can pick you up anywhere in the city within a couple dozen minutes. Everything is under control.”

“God, I want this infection out of me,” I sighed. I was starting to understand the kind of mess I was in. And right now there was only one right way out – work with Cocksucker.

“That depends entirely on you. Find out all the details from Crooked-Dick, and we’ll help you,” the agent said businesslike.

“Deal. But I have one more question. You say you hide all the werewolf attacks. What about my partner?” I didn’t want to miss the chance to learn more about Hank Sullivan’s murder.

“Of course, we can’t hide attacks on every person. If someone is socially significant, they can’t just vanish. In that case, the whole department would be up in arms, digging into it. So we just hid some facts. The FBI took control and ran its own investigation, and fed you only part of the truth. In reality, the beast left a pile of evidence at the crime scene. And to your department we sent only the photos of your partner’s neck and head – and only after your chief called the Deputy Director of the FBI, saying his men were climbing the walls wanting to solve the case. We didn’t show you what the werewolf actually did to your partner’s body.”

By noon, about twenty people arrived with tools and materials. They finished in four hours. They built a steel structure inside my bedroom, two meters by two meters, with a door on special locks that closed remotely. As Cocksucker explained, there would be no way for me to get out. From the outside it was covered in soundproof material, so I could howl as loud as I wanted inside.

Cameras and microphones were installed in every room of the house and around it.

“Well, that’s it. I told your chief that today you’re working with me on the agent murder case. Tomorrow you go back to work. Here’s a watch with a rubber strap – put it on. I already gave you the earpiece. We’ll also keep in touch by phone. Here’s a spare – my number’s already saved in it.”

“When will I turn into a beast?” I asked.

“No one can say. The beast can wake up at 9 p.m. or at midnight. But one thing is certain – transformations only happen after sunset and depend on the moon phases. They’ll happen every day – at least the werewolves we’ve studied do. So as soon as the sun sets, you have to be in the cage. The operator will prompt you. You’re always in contact – you can just speak aloud if you have questions or need help. Our response team will always follow you and be on duty near your home and work.”

“But why go to the department? Let me just meet with Crooked-Dick Fred Johnson and question him,” I said. I didn’t want to go to work every day and then sit in a cage.

“We have every reason to think Crooked-Dick has accomplices. He somehow got information very quickly. So we have to act like nothing happened.”

“But he knows I’m a werewolf – what’s the point of this charade?” I exclaimed, pulling a sneaker onto my left foot.

“And that’s why we’ll wait for Crooked-Dick to come to you himself through his helpers. Act like nothing’s wrong. And you’d better get going. Unfortunately, there’s no sofa in the cage, because after you transform you’d shred it to pieces. But the floor has slight heating and is rubberized. It’ll be hard, but not like cold tile… There’s a small hole in the corner for, well, natural needs. A shower is built into the cell. After you transform, you’ll have to be rinsed off – you might be covered in filth. Good luck.”

“I’d like to see that afterward,” I said.

“That’s not going to happen. Now off you go. Leave your clothes, phone, and earpiece outside the shelter. Don’t worry – the agents won’t let anyone into your house, and you can communicate with the operator through the built-in microphones and speakers in all the rooms. All calls to you will be put on speaker, and you can dial anyone too. The floor and air temperature will be set for comfort.”

I went into the cage, closed the door, and heard the soft thud of the bolt sliding shut.

“Hello, my name is Jessie. I’ll be your operator today,” I heard a voice from the wall.

I sat down on the floor, feeling awkward.

“Good day. Could you warm the floor up a couple degrees? My ass is freezing,” I said sarcastically, trying to lighten the mood.

“Done. If you need anything, I’ll help – within protocol,” said Jessie, who was polite with me. Her pleasant voice was soothing, like one of those voices you hear on phone sex lines.

“All right. Any news in Boston? Any murders today?” I asked.

“One moment… From what I see in the news, no murders today. There was an incident on the highway. A car crossed into oncoming traffic, flipped, and caught fire. The driver died. Possibly fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Hm, interesting. Burned to a crisp, I bet? Nice work, Cocksucker… Then I have another question. Jessie, have you ever seen a werewolf?” I asked, looking at the ceiling. I tried to spot hidden cameras but couldn’t find them.

“Yes, it’s my job,” Jessie answered sweetly. Her voice was arousing. I shamefully covered myself – I was starting to get hard. It felt like I was dreaming and about to finish in my sleep.

“I’ve seen them too. They’re like bears with a wolf’s muzzle. But, you know, skinny, unusual. A kind of bear-wolf mix… I think…” my arousal began to fade.

I don’t remember falling asleep. But I woke with a headache. The floor was dotted with droplets, and the air was heavy, as if filled with moisture. Apparently, they’d washed me. Yesterday, while I was chatting with Jessie, I’d studied my cell. It was a cube, two by two by two meters. Overhead burned four light fixtures, apparently under bulletproof glass. In the far right corner from the door, if you stood with your back to it, there was a drain. It seemed the floor had a slight slope toward it.

“Can I come out?” I asked.

The bolts slid back. I needed to get dressed and head to the department. On the couch I found five new suits.

“They’re from Agent Cocksucker. You can wear them if you wish,” Jessie’s voice came from somewhere in the wall.

Apparently, they’d installed speakers and microphones throughout the house, built right into the walls.

I put on a new suit, picked up my revolver, and froze.

“Where are the silver bullets? Why are there different ones here?” I exclaimed.

“We took them. You won’t need them during the day. And at night you’re in the cage,” Jessie said in a velvety voice that calmed me.

“I see – afraid I’ll off myself. But what if I shoot myself with regular bullets? Let’s find out,” I said, pulling the revolver from the holster.

I pressed the barrel to my temple and cocked the hammer.

“Jerry Harrison, there’s no need for that. We have everything under control,” Jessie’s voice stayed calm, but lost some of its friendliness.

“No, let’s see…” I pulled the trigger.

At that second, two agents burst into the room, their faces puzzled.

“Easy, boys. I always leave one chamber empty in the cylinder so I don’t blow my ass off, since I don’t always keep the revolver in its holster – sometimes I have to carry it concealed… Don’t freak out. Now I see you’ve loaded it with real rounds. At least thanks for that,” I said, slowly placing the revolver on the couch, looking into the dull faces of the black and white agents.

The revolver my partner had given me was an old model without a safety. So I always kept one chamber empty, just in case I accidentally put a bullet in myself.

The day was starting off cheerfully. I stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air. But I had to go to the department, do the routine, and wait for Crooked-Dick’s man to make a move on me. Well then – let’s get to work!

Chapter 3. Murder on the Beach