City Under the Moon (5 page)

“I…” Lon sputtered. Agreeing would probably lock him into forking over most of his savings. But he couldn’t take a stand now, not without his mom’s protection.

Frank threw one of his massive hands at Lon’s neck and slammed him against the refrigerator, which clanged in alarm.

Lon couldn’t get any air. He clawed at Frank’s hand, but there was no competing with the strength of a lifelong farmer.

“Do. You. Unda’stand?” His breath was putrid.

Lon couldn’t respond, couldn’t nod, couldn’t even look Frank in the eye.

“Little pissy fag. You like to fuck boys? Or maybe you think about fucking your mom, hmm? Wish I wasn’t in the picture?” Every word fueled his own anger. This was when he was the most dangerous, when he got himself going. Lon had often wondered if Frank might kill him some day. Maybe this was it. No warning. No reason. No pants.

The world grew cloudy, the cold against his back faded, and Frank’s taunts warbled away as if they were leaving through a tunnel. He’d felt this sensation before; it meant he was about to pass out. All he could do was hope that he’d wake up, and that Frank wouldn’t break any of his things.

Then he heard a new, unfamiliar noise: a rhythmic pounding, whirling in his chest. Maybe the washing machine had come on. Or maybe he was having a heart attack. Then it got bigger, enveloping the room. The rickety house began to shake and Frank gawked at the walls. So it wasn’t just his imagination.

Finally, Frank dropped him.

Lon crumpled, and his lungs raged with saliva-filled drags and honks. Each gasp was more humiliating than the last. He couldn’t help but cry, even though he knew Frank reveled in his suffering.

That whirling was still pounding at the walls.

WHUPWHUPWHUP.

Two men in black suits knocked at the screen door. They’d just arrived by helicopter.

“I didn’t touch him!” Frank wailed, shooting his guilty hands into the air.

The men let themselves in. In perfect David Caruso fashion, they removed their sunglasses and assessed the scene for a long, silent moment.

“I didn’t touch him,” Frank repeated with more conviction.

The men were looking down on a purple-faced eighteen-year-old lying on his kitchen floor in soiled tightie-whities, and their faces bore no expression.

“Are you Boris Toller?” one of them asked.

Lon rasped, “I am.”

Three

The White House

Washington, DC

December 31

8:12 a.m.

Lon couldn’t make his legs stop shaking.

The White House.

He was waiting to speak with someone very important, maybe even the President of the United States. And wondering
why
.

Signs pointed to something bad. He must’ve done something wrong. Something
very
wrong. If it was what he thought it was, Frank was finally going to snap his neck once and for all.

Six years prior, Lon had sent the previous administration a stern letter warning that lycanthropy was a present threat to America. Furthermore, he’d demanded that they send an expedition of scientists and commandos to investigate unsolved murders in Romania.
(Um, and maybe he’d offered to lead it.)

He should’ve known better. The government may be slow to react, but they do take that kind of shit seriously.

But come on! It wasn’t like he’d threatened the president. Or, at least, he
hoped
he hadn’t. Could he have worded something badly?

Oh man, had it sounded like a threat?

Still, though… helicopters?
Really?

“Can I get you something to drink, Mister Toller?” the secretary asked with a smile. “Something decaffeinated, maybe?”

Lon shook his head. What was
that
about? What did she know?

When he was in third grade, Lon accidentally tripped the sweetest girl in school, Caroleigh Combe. She fell on a curb and broke her two front teeth. As they carried the cutie patootie away—screaming, bleeding, and disfigured from her encounter with Lon the Horrendous Monstrosity—the playground official told him to wait on Mister Harris’ bench. That was where all the bad kids went, where your stomach turned knots as you imagined the cruel fate awaiting you within that office. Nobody knew what went on in there. Or even what Mister Harris’ job title was. But that fucker was scary and
Holy Frak, if this chair didn’t feel exactly like that bench...

The open door to the hallway read “National Security Advisor’s Office.”

They hadn’t arrested him. But does the government even have to arrest you? Couldn’t they just lock you up and, like, waterboard you?

If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to have to go to the bathroom, and it was going to be the kind of visit where he needed to be home. Like when he ate something with lactose, he’d need to spray “Poo-Pourii” to nullify the—

One of the doors opened and Lon stood (well, maybe he jumped, maybe like an alarm had gone off inside his ear). Then he immediately sat back down.
Be cool. The Fonz cool. Sam Jackson quoting The Fonz cool.

An important-looking man in a distinguished suit emerged from one of the offices behind the secretaries. He said some words, none of which Lon was able to process, and then he squished Lon’s hand like an earthworm. The guy was at least six inches taller than Lon, and his slick hair and tailor-cut suit made him look like one of Ocean’s howevermany.

Lon felt underdressed and unworthy, like a hobbit in the Matrix. He just wanted to leave.

“Mr. Toller?”

Lon swallowed air and followed the man into his office. It was tight and cluttered and not at all what he expected. He was grateful when he found the nameplate on his desk.
Derek Freese, Assistant to the National Security Advisor.

“So…Boris. You’re probably wondering why we have you here today.”

“Lon.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My father was… ah…” Lon hated having to explain this. “Well, a week before I was born, Boris Yeltsin announced that Russia was going to stop targeting the United States with nuclear weapons.”

“So ‘Boris’… happened to you.”

“That’s why I go by Lon.”

“Why Lon?”

“I just do.” This had gotten embarrassing enough. “Sir.”

“Derek will be fine. And I’ll call you Lon. That’s a great name,” he said, as if it were a malignant tumor. “So, Lon, they tell me you’re the foremost authority on werewolves.”

What what?

“Lon? Do we have the wrong person? Werewolves?”

“Lycanthropy,” Lon blurted. Habit.

“Is that… that’s a werewolf, right?”

“Lycanthropy. From the Greek
lykoi
, ‘wolf,’ and
anthropos
, ‘man.’ It’s commonly misrepresented as a psychotic state in which a person believes he or she is a wolf. Which is to say, of course, this is a misnomer, because mainstream medicine hasn’t yet accepted the truth of the—“

“Lon,” the deputy whatever interrupted, “I’m sorry, but we’re in a hurry. In five minutes, Secret Service agents are going to escort you to the National Archives Building, where you’ll be exposed to every shred of information the government has collected in regard to werewolves. At some point later today, you’re going to report back to us,
in as succinct a manner as possible,
and reconcile what you find against popular lore. We need to separate fact from fiction.”

Lon wanted to say something profound—

Deputy guy leaned forward. “Lon. Do you understand?”

“Can I ask why?”

“Yes. But I won’t answer.”

Four

Arlen Specter Headquarters and Operations Center,

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

Atlanta, Georgia

December 31

8:31 a.m.

Jessica Tanner gripped her desk as a new wave of cramps rippled through her abdomen. She focused on the soothing light shelves at the far end of her office and tempered her breathing until the pain ebbed.

This was her third attempt at in-vitro fertilization. The process had begun with a ten-day regimen of self-administered needles and pills: hormones to hyper-stimulate the ovaries into producing extra eggs. Earlier that morning, the doctor had used a needle—a
big
needle—to extract the eggs, which would be fertilized in a lab somewhere. Meanwhile, the punctured ovaries filled with fluid, swelling to—

She gritted her teeth for the next wave. This was always the worst part of it. Once the local wears off, the cramps hit like a bowling ball shot from a cannon.

Maybe the pain should be a warning sign. A pregnancy at 47? Why go through it? She would’ve been fine with adoption. It was Richard who wanted his own child, and she just couldn’t disappoint him.

No. It wasn’t him; it was her. It was the paranoia. Was she getting too old? Too boring? Not smart enough, or willing enough, or sexy enough? Now she was treating herself like a pincushion to keep him happy.

Ow
. She bent over and groaned at the floor.

But Richard was her lifeline, not only to the rest of the world, but to herself. She hadn’t existed before she met Richard.

Pathetic, but true.

Her childhood had been arduous. With intelligence came premature confidence and rapid alienation. She’d had no interest in entertaining uninspired minds simply to sate the immature need for companionship.

By her teenage years, she’d given up on a social life and focused on work, where discourses were limited to intellectual debates. The effort took her to Harvard, to UCLA, and to the CDC.

Dating? Never. No askers, no takers. There were compliments, particularly on her red hair, but no contemplations. She’d had her desires like everyone else, but how to make sex happen? And they said it was supposed to be easy for a woman. Eventually she abandoned the idea as hypothesis disproven. Most evenings, her CDC colleagues flirted over dinners and drinks while Jessica remained behind her microscope.

Research and dissertation. Research and dissertation.

Consequently, she leapfrogged her counterparts to become Director of the CDC. Gone was the safety of the lab; now she’d been thrust into the dirty world of politics. She’d become the administrator of hundreds of scientists, but she couldn’t negotiate a personal conversation with any one of them.

That all had ended when she met Richard Tanner.

“My love,” he said as he kissed her cheek. “Feeling any better?”

She hadn’t even noticed his entrance. And no, she wasn’t feeling better, but his touch and his cologne were comforting. “Yeah, better.”

“We’ll have a quiet night in tonight. Get some sushi; watch the ball drop. There might be a foot rub in it for you.”

He was a handsome fireball of curiosity, ambition, and charisma. Five years her junior, and so beyond her stratum that his initial interest seemed preposterous. It took him three long years to convince her that he was serious; that he saw something in her that she’d never seen in herself. What had she done to attract him, or even to deserve him?

Someday you’re going to have to believe in me, Jess,
he’d say.

Her abdomen wanted to burst. She gripped Richard’s hand on her shoulder and held her breath until the cramp subsided.

A knock came at the door, exactly the distraction she was looking for. “Come in,” she hollered, rather than risk standing.

Leilei entered. She was Jessica’s assistant, rocket-fueled as always and armed with the day’s itinerary. “Good morning, Dr. Tanner. And Dr. Tanner.” She was well short of five feet, so their eyes were level with Jessica seated.

Richard’s hand slipped from her grasp. “I’ll meet you there. I have to check on something.” He was out the door before Jessica managed to stand.

“Are you ready for this?” Leilei asked.

Jessica nodded. She took the only file on her desk and they slowly left her office, starting out on their routine morning walk.

“Possible E. Coli in Topeka. We’ve got a team on it. Bill Mariani from Cincinnati is the lead and Amy Neely is awaiting his report. Seven sick in Baker City, Oregon, waiting on cultures. They suspect it’s from a batch of eggs shipped from Idaho. The farm is organizing for a recall.”

Jessica’s title, “Director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and Administrator of the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry,” was as thankless as it was exhausting to say. It was a presidential appointment—a tremendous honor—but in politics, the spotlight only ever shined on failure or fear. The list of complaints was long and ineradicable. The CDC wasn’t prepared for H1N1; they hadn’t jumped on AIDS fast enough; maintaining their live virus samples was too dangerous. And where were this year’s flu shots already?

“Nick Ross is talking with Pfizer about…” something something something. Leilei had learned to regulate Jessica’s attention with her tone of voice. Unimportant updates—which staff member was negotiating with which pharmaceutical company in which country to get flu shots to which region—were delivered in a
you can ignore this
melody.

They made their way to the high-security conference room. It was a spacious improvement from the safe room in the old CDC headquarters, but it was also a long walk from Jessica’s office. The brand-new CDC building was designed to discourage the use of elevators in favor of exercise and energy conservation. Not exactly accommodating for her next wave of cramps.

They took the stairs to the twelfth floor and proceeded along the curved perimeter corridor, looking out over a panoramic view of Emory University. It was a bright morning. People and trees shivering in the wind.

Leilei raised her voice to
pay attention now:
“You’re okay for the call with USAMRIID? I tried to reschedule, but they shut me down.”

“It’s okay. Dr. Tanner has the lead. The other Dr. Tanner.”

“That’s good. Take it easy. Don’t forget, I won’t be able to listen in on this one,” Leilei reminded her, meaning Jessica would have to take her own notes.

“Of course,” she said, relieved that they’d reached the end of their walk.

“Buzz me if you need anything,” Leilei said, off on her merry way.