Пётр Левин – Blood Wolf’s Path (страница 2)
Five minutes later I was in my chief’s office, facing the mustachioed, goat-faced David Scott. He really did resemble a goat, and he behaved no better.
"You know, Jerry. This has gone way too far. In half an hour the feds will be here and it looks like we have serious problems. Why the hell did you start all this?" David Scott said.
"What did I start?" I asked, playing dumb.
"Why the fuck did you send an agent into Fred Johnson’s cell? Now the whole department’s in trouble. Who asked you to run a parallel investigation? The feds are handling Hank’s death, so why are you sticking your nose in? What bullshit did you tell the warden? This is all completely illegal, goddammit. Oh my God…" David Scott sighed.
"You know this is personal… a matter of honor," I sighed.
"I’m going to strip you of your badge, you idiot… That’s where this is headed."
That evening I got naked again. This time I decided not to cuff myself to my only bed, and instead to film everything. I set my iPhone on a shelf across from the bed, hit record, and immediately passed out.
I woke up early and once again in the park. My face was covered in some kind of slime. I wiped my hand over my face and saw that it was blood. I immediately rushed home to check the iPhone. But I was in for a disappointment.
"Fucking Tim Cook, I’m sick of this—put a decent battery in these things already!" I yelled.
The phone had died completely; the only footage available ended with me sleeping peacefully.
That day I decided to go see the prison warden, to find out the details of the agent’s murder and to talk to him about Fred Johnson.
Old Leslie Brown was due to retire soon. But I’d caused him a lot of trouble with yesterday’s incident.
"What have you done, Jerry, what have you done…" he began whining, lighting a cigar.
"No, what have
"Beats the hell out of me. That Crooked-Dick kid is no ordinary guy. The black son of a bitch wrecked my stats. Now my pension’s in question."
"You’ll get to enjoy retirement soon, banging chicks," I said.
Leslie shook his head, upset.
"Alright, then you’ll be drinking," I consoled him.
Leslie pulled out a bottle of scotch and poured two glasses.
"And what do you think I’m doing right now?" he said.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.