“And Evans—”
“The last I saw he was sitting in the car. You’d have thought he would have locked the doors. I guess he didn’t think of it in time.”
“They opened the doors?” Becky asked.
Wilson shrugged. “What’s surprising about that?”
He was right. It was just hard to accept, even with all she had seen. Somehow you just couldn’t see animals behaving like that. But then, they weren’t animals at all, were they? They had minds, that qualified them as… something. You couldn’t include them as part of humanity. They were fundamentally our enemy. It was in their blood, and in ours. Although they were intelligent they couldn’t be called human. Or could they? Did they have civil rights, duties, obligations? The very question was absurd. Despite their intelligent nature there would be no place for them in human society.
Except as hunter. There was a very definite place for the hyena in wildebeest society, for the leopard in baboon society. Their presence was respected and accommodated because there was no choice. No matter how hard they tried, the wildebeest and the baboon were never going to defeat their predators. So the social order reflected their presence. Baboons protected the young, exposed the weak. They hated it but they did it. You would too, in time.
Ferguson was the first to speak after absorbing Wilson’s explanation. “It fits,” he said. “That’s a very clever plan. They must have been amazed that you got away.”
“Unless they’re playing games.”
“Not likely. You’re too dangerous. Can you imagine how it must feel, knowing that your way of life is about to be destroyed by just two human beings? Hell, they probably knock off one or two people a day for food. Hunting you down must have seemed easy at first. No, I don’t think they’re playing games with you. You’re damn hard to get, that’s all. Like all predators, when they come up against competent members of the prey species they have a hard time. They aren’t equipped to deal with determined resistance. Among animals, this nets out to a trial by strength. The young moose kicks hell out of the wolf. With us it’s wits—ours against theirs.”
Wilson nodded. Becky noticed that what Ferguson was saying was having a good effect on him. And her too, for that matter. It didn’t change the fear, but it added some perspective. You began to get the feeling that the werewolves were almost omnipotent and you were like mice in a trap, just waiting there until they got tired of toying with you. But maybe Ferguson was right. After all they had thus far defeated the werewolves every time. They could go on defeating them. But then another thought came to her, an ugly one that had been hiding in the back of her mind untouched. “How long,” she asked, “will they keep up the hunt?”
“A long time,” Ferguson said. “Until they succeed —or get talked out of it.”
Becky pushed hard at that thought, got rid of it. They couldn’t afford an ambivalent attitude. “OK, kids, let’s hit the road. We have work to do.”
Herbert Underwood was troubled. He was sitting in the Commissioner’s outer office. The last cigar of the day was in his pocket but he resisted the impulse to smoke it. Commissioner didn’t like cigars. Again Herb went through his mind, touching each point of the case, weighing it, trying to see how it could be used to strengthen his position and weaken the Commissioner’s. Word from Vince Merillo, the new mayor’s first deputy-to-be, was that the Commissioner still had an inside track to reappointment. That would mean that Herbert Underwood would reach retirement before he reached the top job. And he wanted that job bad. Wanting the next job up the ladder was more than a habit with him. He deserved the promotion, he was an excellent cop. A good man too, good administrator. Hell, he was a better man than the Commissioner. All he needed was a nice, ugly embarrassment for the Commissioner and Merillo would start mentioning the Chief of Detectives as successor. He was sure of Merillo’s support. The guy owed him. Merillo was into a bank in a very ugly way and the Chief of Detectives knew it. The DA didn’t—and wouldn’t as long as Merillo played on the right side of the net.
“Come in, Herb,” the Commissioner said from the door of the inner office. Underwood got up and went inside. The Commissioner closed the door. “Nobody here but us rats,” he said in his singsong voice. “I got two mayors screaming at me. I got reporters hiding in my file cabinet. I got TV crews in the bathroom. Not to mention the Public.” He added in a more clipped tone, “Tell me what happened to Evans.”
“Oh come on, Bob, you know I’m up against a brick wall.”
“Yeah? I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry. Because it may mean I’ll have to replace you.”
Underwood wanted to laugh out loud. The Commissioner was crashing around like a wounded elephant. The pressure from upstairs must be hell. Bad for him, very bad. “You mean that? It’d be a relief.” He chuckled.
The Commissioner glared at him. “You know, our new mayor is a very smart man.”
“I know that.”
“And so is Vince Merillo, your good buddy.”
Underwood nodded.
“Well, here is what the Mayor and his first-deputy-in-waiting think about this case. Want to hear?”
“Sure.”
“They have got the Wilson theory on their brains. I mean, essentially the Wilson theory. The DiFalco mess, the Bronx mess, the bloody bench, the gutted patrolmen and Evans—”
“All the work of hybrid wolves. I know. I’ve talked to Merillo.”
“So what’s your position?”
“The theory is total bullshit. I’ve known Wilson since we were kids and I think he’s pulling a fast one on us, trying to get us to buy bullshit so we’ll look like fools. Especially me. You I don’t think he gives a damn about.”
“OK. So what else are you working on?”
“I just organized a special squad. They’re going to be under Commander Busciglio of the Fifth Homicide Zone. Goddamn good guy. Good cop, lot of smarts. They will be investigating the three incidents that happened today in Central Park. We’ll be working on the assumption that these incidents are entirely separate from the Bronx case and the Brooklyn case. I think that makes sense. It’s not out of the question that they’re all related, but it’s very farfetched. That enough to keep me from getting fired?‘
“You know I’m not gonna fire you, Herb. Hell, you’re the guy slated to kill me off. If I fire you it’ll look like sour grapes to the Mayor.” He laughed. “Can’t let that happen.” He had been standing in front of Underwood, the two men in the middle of the office. Now he went over to a leather chair and sat down, motioning the Chief to follow. “Herb, you and I, we’ve been buddies a long time. I gotta tell you though, I’ve been hearing some things about you that’ve made me very sad. Like, you’re trying to get me dumped, to put it bluntly. Why are you doing that, Herb?”