Пётр Левин – Blood Wolf’s Path (страница 3)

"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!

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.