True evil has the smell of rotting meat, sewer filth, sickrooms. Add the feeling you get when you realize something life-alteringly bad is happening, something you can’t do anything about, and you’ll get close to what I felt. But my senses are a hundred times sharper than yours.
The good thing is that smell brings on the Change and that brings power.
I opened the door cautiously. The wind shifted and I found I could manage without going furry, so I visited the ER. The nurses told me the doc who’d treated “J. Smith” was gone.
I thanked them, then tried Claudia’s office. The scent was stronger here, possibly because of his attack on Claudia, but there was something else I couldn’t place: it set my teeth on edge. The assistant Claudia shared with the other shrinks told me I’d just missed my sister, that she’d been really shook up by a patient. I feigned surprise—Claudia could get into a lot of trouble for talking about the case with me, much less giving me the file—and said I’d check on her.
I tracked the scent back to the parking lot, where the guys at the valet stand said that a guy had caught a cab dropping someone off, a local company.
Just then Eileen came out, a tart little nurse who’d always had a cup of coffee and a kind word for me when I’d been on the force. Claudia’d said she was the nurse handling Smith’s case. We exchanged hellos.
“You heard about Claudia?”
“Yeah.” I exhaled, whistling.
“She’s okay. Guy was a bruiser. Came in to get stitched up, said it was a slip, but I know a bottle-slash when I see one. Street fight, probably.”
I nodded.
“Claudia gave me the high sign, so I sent him along to her. A post-trauma chat, I told him. Oh!” Eileen said, remembering. “It gets better. Weems brought him in. Said he found him in the middle of the street, and hauled him in to get him patched up. Too bad you missed him, you guys could have caught up on old times.” She grinned a mean grin; everyone knew Weems and I hated each other.
“My bad luck,” I said. I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Apart from this guy, you been busy?”
She shook her head. “Not the past two days. Not even a bumsicle.” She glanced at the steely sky. “That’ll change. Snow tonight.”
I nodded; I could smell that, too. We both knew that between the cold, the holidays, and the law of averages, soon enough there’d be accidents, drunk drivers, domestic disputes, and the homeless who’d freeze to death. The usual.
“Well, the kids will like it.” She zipped herself up. “They’re out of school after today. Jumping out of their little skins already, the little monsters.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Kids should be excited about Christmas.” I like Christmas. I like the effort people make. I like presents. I like the hope. Like I said, we Fangborn are all about Hope.
“Yeah, I guess.” Eileen looked uneasy, though. “I’ve got this feeling, Gerry. Everyone’s on edge. Maybe it’s the low pressure or the full moon, but there’s something up. Watch yourself out there.”
The ER was always hopping during the full moon. My people aren’t the only ones who feel its power.
“I will, thanks. And you take care. Keep up with the patch.”
Eileen was startled. “How did you—?”
I grinned. “You’ve been out here for five minutes and didn’t light up.” I didn’t tell her I could smell the difference in her clothing, see the slight weight gain, feel her nerves humming with the strain of not reaching for that crumpled box of relief . . .
We wished each other Merry Christmas and I left. The trail from the taxi was blasted by the mall traffic and the nearby landfill, so I headed to Ziggy’s Donuts in Salem, where the cabbies hung out. It didn’t hurt that Annie worked there, a girl I’d been kinda hung up on for a while.
I ordered a jelly-filled because Annie was on the counter. I had been trying to get up my nerve to ask her out on a date. It was one of my New Year’s resolutions—from this year. But we chatted while she got my donut, and I didn’t say anything dumb, so I counted it a success. Maybe even a sign. I found a seat before I did something impetuous and stupid. I’d have to soon: time was almost running out on my resolution, and I keep my promises.
It’s hard, when you’re a guy, to ask out a cute girl. I’m okay, I’m not hideous, though personally I think I look better as a wolf. I built my own house when our folks died, I have a decent income and a boat that’s paid for, and my place is spotless because I don’t like surprises.
But it’s even harder, when you’re Fangborn, to ask a normal out. The two species can mate, though most of us Fangborn prefer to keep to our own kind. A mixed mating has a lower chance of producing a were or vamp than two Fangborn, but that’s pretty low odds, too; how my parents lucked out and got two, one of each, I don’t know. As far as I understand, it’s all about recessive genes, but it doesn’t make the initial discussion any easier. “Hey, sweetie? When I said my family was strange, I didn’t mean regular, dysfunctional-strange . . .”
My cabbie came in then, sweating profusely, probably thinking he was coming down with the flu; I could smell Smith on him, even though they’d probably only brushed fingers when Smith paid. I waited until the cabbie ordered his coffee—even Annie’s smile didn’t help him—and then I approached him. He wasn’t supposed to tell me where he took his fare, but I slid a twenty across the table and got the address of a no-tell motel on the edge of town. Then I asked to check his cab, to see whether Smith had dropped anything, I said.
“Help yourself,” he said, shivering around his coffee cup. “It’s open.”
I was feeling pleased with myself when Weems pulled up alongside me in the parking lot. As he locked up the cruiser, he didn’t speak, but gave me a nod along with the hairy eyeball. I nodded back, and kept moving.
We had never liked each other, and now he harbors the deep suspicion most cops have for PIs. He’s always made my hackles rise. I couldn’t put my finger on the reason, so I did the best I could to avoid him.
Annie knew him, too. Well enough to know that she could look forward to a full six-percent tip.
I waited until Weems was tearing into his bear claw, then opened the door to the cab—
. . . the screech of brakes before a crash . . . a phone ringing at 3:30 in the morning . . . the gush of blood from a wound that is deeper than you thought . . .
I could barely keep myself standing. I slammed the door, and stumbled back to my truck, not even waiting to calm myself before I fled into the traffic and away from that cab.
“What’s next?” Claudia said, when I returned to her condo two hours later. She looked a little better and was now dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that said, I ❤ SPIKE. She was barefoot, making us coffee. I still felt sick and I was freezing just looking at her. Her place is all white wood and glass and bare surfaces, which she calls “clean lines.” The Christmas tree and lights looked out of place there, but I was glad of them.
I tried to get myself together. “After I left Ziggy’s, I checked the motel. He paid cash, left no forwarding address. No luck at the other fleabags, either. I cast around for a while, but he wasn’t doing any walking and I couldn’t get anything from car tracks.” I didn’t tell her I’d driven halfway to New Hampshire before I’d gotten hold of myself, and used my work to keep from spinning into another panic. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to feel less hollow, trying not to puke watching the cream swirl around the top of the coffee.