The Frenzy Way (2 page)

Lowering the rifle, Stalk blinked in astonishment. The air stinging his nostrils told him he was not dreaming.

Blood streamed from a bullet hole in her left hip, and her shadowed features twisted with pain. “Help … me …”

As he stepped outside, feet pressing snow, Stalk’s mind raced. Something awful had transpired on the mountainside: the woman had been shot in the burst of gunfire he had heard earlier. She must have fled the scene in a state of blind panic, thinking of nothing but survival. In his mind, he replayed the yelping he had heard; she must have owned a dog. Bending over, he scooped her up in his arms, his right hand still clutching the Winchester. He didn’t care if he got her blood on his long underwear, because whoever had shot her probably lurked nearby.

Domestic dispute
? His mind still worked like a cop’s.

The woman wrapped her arms around his neck and bowed her head against his chest, barely conscious. Carrying her inside the cabin, he kicked the door shut with one heel, leaned his rifle against the fireplace, and draped her over the futon. A moan escaped her chapped lips, and she turned her head, hair covering half her face. Stalk pulled the comforter around her. First he’d warm her; then he’d dress her wound. Returning to the door with his socks soaking wet, he bolted the locks. In the kitchenette, he removed disinfectant and gauze from a cupboard; his father kept the cabin stocked with emergency supplies in case of a hunting accident or some other life-threatening mishap.

Setting the medical supplies on the bedside table, he brushed the woman’s hair out of her face. She had closed her eyes, snow melting in her long lashes. Her cheeks curved down to full lips, vaguely ethnic. She scrunched her features in deep concentration, sweat forming on her brow. In the warm golden firelight, Stalk thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He pulled back one flap of the comforter, exposing her naked body, then bunched up the other end of the cover to hide the strip of black hair between her legs. After he used the first flap to wipe the bloodfrom the curve of her hip, he pressed a wet cloth against the wound. Removing the cloth, he frowned. He stepped to one side, allowing the firelight to shine directly on her hip.

Impossible.

The wound had vanished. He was certain he had seen a bullet hole when he first set eyes on her, and he had seen countless bullet wounds in Iraq. The woman’s flesh was unmarked. He studied her face. Her features now appeared relaxed, and her body had stopped quivering. She lost consciousness.

Stalk stepped back from the futon. What in God’s name had just happened?

A sudden howling outside interrupted his thought process.

The wolf?

Fear inched up his spine. A wolf, yes, but not the same one he had heard earlier. This creature’s voice sounded deep and commanding. Menacing, even.

Moving to the window, Stalk froze. Outside, in plain view, an immense black shape streaked with gray sat on its haunches in the snow, staring straight at him. Tilting its head back, it howled again, calling out to an invisible audience.

Another howl answered it. And then another. And another after that. Soon an entire chorus sang at the cabin.

Heart pounding, Stalk ran to another window. He glimpsed a similar shape, as black as midnight, against the stark white snow. This one stood on all four legs, pacing in a circle. With the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end, Stalk rushed to the kitchenette. Through the window there he spied another wolf, this one standing as still as an ice sculpture. Like the first two, it stared at him. He ran into the bedroom, which his family never used in the winter because it didn’t receive enough heat. Through the last window, he squinted at the darkness outside, where the moonlight failed to reach. Two dark shadows separated from the blackness.

Jesus!
Stalk sprinted back into the main room and seized the Winchester from the fireplace. Staring at the unconscious woman on the futon, he pulled back the bolt. Then his body jerked as the window closest to the futon exploded in a shower of glass and the first wolf landed on the floor, its eyes blazing with fury and its lips pulled back to reveal fangs jutting out from its gums.

A crackling sound came over the car radio, followed by the female dispatcher’s voice: “Five Charlie, what’s your status? Over.”

Brandt glanced at Penrose, behind the wheel of the moving vehicle. Halfway through a busy midnight-to-eight tour, they wanted nothing more than a hot meal.

Eyes drooping, Penrose shook his head and blew air from his cheeks. As the radio car cruised Christopher Street, city lights arced across his dark features.

Brandt eased her hand radio from its resting spot on the seat between her legs. “This is Five Charlie,” she said, studying the West Village hipsters that prowled the sidewalks. “We’re available. Over.”

“We have a possible 10-34 on Bedford Street.” A 10-34 identified a violent assault in progress, and their sector included Bedford.

“Ten-four. Over.” Brandt set the hand radio down again. “Must be a full moon tonight.”

Grunting, Penrose activated the siren.

“The Original People worshipped Sun, who loved a Crow woman. When an evil Crow man raped Sun’s wife, she committed suicide. Angered, Sun banished the Crow people from their land and threatened to kill them. White Wolf took pity on the Crow people and secretly provided them with food. When Sun learned of his servant’s disobedience, he forgave the Crow people and made Wolf an outcast instead.”

—Native American Religion
, Terrence Glenzer

The cell phone’s piercing ring caused Tony Mace to stir in the darkness. Rolling over, he blinked at the digital alarm clock as he clicked on the bedside lamp: 4:40
AM
, almost an hour before he had planned to rise. Beside him, Cheryl pulled a pillow over her head. Mace picked up his phone and squinted at its display, which flashed Night Watch Command. The detective bureaus closed their doors at 1:00
AM
, when Night Watch responded to their calls. He pressed the phone against his ear. “This is Mace.”

“Sorry to wake you, Captain,” a female voice said. “This is Sergeant Evans with Night Watch Command. One of your detectives, Willy Diega, is requesting to speak to you from a crime scene.”

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Mace set his mind to military time. The detective bureau closed shop at 0100 and reopened for business at 0800, four hours from now. The only time Night Watch summoned on-call detectives during that period was in an extreme situation requiring immediate attention. He and his lieutenant, Ken Landry, took turns being on call to supervise their detectives in such situations, and Mace was up at bat. “Put him through, please.”

“Yes, sir.” A click, followed by a beep. “I have Captain Mace on the line, Detective Diega.”

“Thank you,” said Willy Diega, detective first grade.

“You’re welcome.” Another click as Evans hung up.

“Go ahead, Willy.”

“Captain, we’ve got a real bag of shit in the Oh-Six. The biggest bag of shit I’ve ever seen.”

The Sixth Precinct
, Mace thought. “Who’s the primary?”

“Patty.”

Mace understood the concern in Willy’s voice. His partner, Detective third grade Patty Lane, had proven herself to be a sharp-eyed Murder Police, but she had not yet headed a major investigation. “Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Bring your accessories. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The first officer puked.”

Shutting the phone off, Mace clambered out of bed. In the shower’s hot spray, he soaped and rinsed his muscular arms. Because he stood only five-seven, he had compensated for his lack of stature by working out on a regular basis for most of his adult life, and at thirty-nine he was in better condition than most men half his age. Returning to the bedroom, he saw that Cheryl had gotten up, and he felt guilty for waking her. He dressed in a tailored black suit and combed his short dark hair.

Cheryl stood waiting for him in the kitchen with a cup of espresso, her pink robe belted at the waist and her curly dark hair crushed on one side. They had been married for four years, and she had adjusted well to being a cop’s wife.

“Thanks,” Mace said, taking the sterling cup from her. “You didn’t have to get up.” He blew on the espresso and sipped it, jolting his sleepy nerves.

“I only get to enjoy caffeine vicariously through you now,” Cheryl said. They had confirmed her pregnancy just two weeks earlier. “What’s the 911?”

“Professional curiosity?” He suppressed a smile. Cheryl worked as an associate producer for an afternoon TV talk show. “I don’t know yet. Something in the Village.” He swallowed the espresso and set the cup in the sink.

“Don’t forget we have dinner plans.”

“I won’t.” Sliding his hands around her still-narrow waist, he kissed her lips. Then he moved the palm of his right hand to her belly. “Make sure you eat a lot today.”

“Yes, coach.”

Crossing the apartment, Mace took an olive green trench coat from the closet. He usually woke up at 0530 to jog in Carl Schurz Park before reporting for duty and considered the run an important part of his day. Skipping the routine fouled his mood.

“Make the city safe for expectant mothers,” Cheryl said.

“I’ll try.” He unlocked the door and stepped into the carpeted hallway, the overhead fluorescent lights humming in the morning quiet. He waited for Cheryl to lock the door behind him, then descended three flights of stairs to the lobby, little more than a wide corridor lined with brass mailboxes.

Outside, he raised his eyes to the black sky. The mid-September days alternated hot and cool, and the humidity had dropped from the previous afternoon. He walked half a block to the undergroundparking garage where he kept his blue Chevy Impala, courtesy of the department, and got into the vehicle. With the NYPD parking permit visible on the dashboard, he started the engine and exited the garage. Passing his building, he steered the car across York Avenue, then East End Avenue, and finally onto the FDR Drive, which he took at a fast clip. The early morning traffic consisted mostly of taxis transporting bar hoppers and partygoers, and pink streaks appeared in the sky behind the high-rises on Roosevelt Island, across the East River to his left.

He exited the FDR at Houston and sped across town to the West Side, where deliverymen unloaded bundles of fresh newspapers from their trucks. Only donut shops, all-night diners, and hookers continued to serve their customers. Red and blue glare splashed the windshield as the car turned onto Bedford, a curved side street tucked off Christopher. Three radio cars, an unmarked Cavalier, and an EMS ambulance occupied spaces before a tree-lined brick building with white trim. Mace checked his watch: almost 0530.

Parking alongside the ambulance, he climbed out of the Impala and glanced at the building across the street. Half a dozen apartment dwellers in bedclothes stood gossiping on their stoops, and twice as many silhouettes hovered like ghosts within lit windows. Mace removed his gold shield from his belt and clipped it onto his coat even though most uniforms who worked below Fifty-ninth Street knew him on sight.

The grim-faced PO stationed at the front door nodded to him. “Good morning, Captain.”

The word still sounded new to him because he had been promoted to the head of Manhattan Homicide South only five weeks ago. “Which apartment?”

“It’s 3-C.”

Entering the wide vestibule, Mace glanced at the tenants’ directory on the wall. The tag next to 3-C identified
Glenzer, T
as the apartment’s occupant. A second PO opened one of the two interior doors, and Mace slipped inside the carpeted lobby. Nodding to the uniform, he boarded the elevator and jabbed the third-floor button. As the elevator rose, he reached into his coat pocket and removed a pair of latex gloves, which he pulled on. This was the first homicide site he had been called to since his promotion from lieutenant, and Willy had warned him to bring his accessories. Entering the third-floor hallway, he passed the backs of a paunchy man in pajamas and a tall woman with graying hair who wore a bathrobe. They whispered to a shorter woman who stood framed within her doorway as they glanced at the far end of the hall.

The super, his wife, and the nosey next-door neighbor
, Mace concluded. He had seen people like them at scores of crime scenes. They grew silent when he passed them, then resumed their excited gossiping.

A female PO, the recorder, stood guarding the open doorway at the end of the hall, not far from a foul-smelling puddle on the carpet. Willy had said that the first officer on the scene had vomited, and now that mess belonged to the crime scene. Short and stocky, the policewoman held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. She recorded Mace’s name and rank as he ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape that crisscrossed the doorway like a spiderweb. Finding himself in a narrow hallway with little light, he turned right and entered the apartment proper.

Books had been pulled from the living room’s floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the sofa’s seat cushions had been torn apart, their stuffing scattered around the room. A wooden desk lay tipped over on one side, an oversized electric typewriter upside down on the floor before it.