Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 (32 page)

It’s slow going; there are a lot of them, mostly thropes, but no one that jumps out at us. “Maybe we’re not looking at this right,” I say, leaning back and stifling a yawn. “Maybe it’s not someone who didn’t have the right mother or father—maybe it’s someone who didn’t have either one. In any sense of the word.”

“A golem? That’s unlikely.”

“Is it? They’re part of the group, but they don’t have the same power—no world leadership for them. And you told me yourself that sometimes lems go rogue.”

“Yes, but not insane. They essentially revert to their animal natures, losing their intelligence while becoming more violent and impulsive. It’s usually an easy thing to spot, with a very distinctive pattern to it. There’s nothing like the kind of complex irrationality we’ve seen with the staging of the crime scenes.”

“So you’re saying that lems don’t go crazy—they just go wild?”

“Yes. And before you ask—no, the Ghatanothoa effect that’s producing mental illness in thropes and pires hasn’t affected any lems yet. They seem immune.”

So no insane golems
. I shake my head, thinking of Brother Stone alone in his self-made crypt, chiseling the forms of the dead. Isn’t religion a form of craziness? If so, Stone definitely qualified. Or how about the Quicksilver Kid, hunting down bail jumpers and locking them in the trunk of his car? He hadn’t seemed crazy to me, but—like Stone—he was a loner. Maybe he reverted to the persona of the rattlesnakes that powered him when he was alone, spent all his time lying on a rock in the sun.

It was an absurd image, but there was something there. The killer had exhibited two patterns of behavior, leading me to believe there might be multiple suspects—but what if there were just multiple personalities? Could lem personas fracture, dividing their animal essence from their civilized one?

When I suggest the idea to Cassius, he’s dubious. “I’ve never heard of anything like that—but you’re the expert in these sorts of matters. If you think it’s a possibility, we’ll look into it.”

I rub my temples with the heels of my palms. “Yeah, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know what is or isn’t possible. Throw me an easy pitch like time travel and I get all discombobulated. Give me a fullfledged schizophrenic any day.”

“Well, it’s not completely random, is it? There are patterns we can analyze, facts we can study. It’s not hopeless.”

I shake my head. “No, of course not. I—”

My phone chimes. “Hello?”

“Jace.” I recognize Neil’s voice. “Sorry to disturb you like this, but I was reading through some back issues and an image caught my eye. It might be nothing, but I thought you’d like to know.”

“An image? Of what?”

“Your first victim. I’m looking at a panel depicting a skeletal version of the Flash right now.”

Suddenly I don’t seem quite so tired. “What’s the context?”

“His death. Chronicled in a maxi-series called
Crisis on Infinite Earths
.”

“Parallel realities again.”

“Very much so. Neither Grant Morrison nor Alan Moore was directly involved in this particular series, but it does chronicle the death of several major characters.”

“So this was the last appearance of the Flash?”

He chuckles. “Oh, no. Death in the comic book realm is at best a temporary setback; it’s often used to relaunch the character in a different direction, or simply to boost sales. This particular version of the Flash did remain dead for quite a long time, but even he eventually returned—at the hands of Grant Morrison, in fact.”

“How did he die?”

“Racing backward through time to avert a catastrophe.”

Backward through time. I sigh. “Thanks, Neil. I appreciate the call—I may not be getting any sleep for a while.”

“My pleasure, Jace.”

After he hangs up, I tell Cassius what I’ve just learned. “Too bad my time-travel theory sucks,” I say.

Cassius looks distracted. “Still, any information might eventually prove useful . . .”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Hmm? I’m sorry—I was thinking about Gretchen, actually.”

I get up and stretch. “Maybe we should take a break. Go see how she and Dr. Pete are doing.”

He frowns. “Jace Valchek, suggesting a social visit over casework? I may have to ask to see your ID.”

I’m already heading to the bedroom to put on some street clothes. “Only human, Caligula. Even I need the occasional breather—besides, it’s a good way to reset your brain. Let your subconscious chew on the situation for a while, see what it spits out.”

We take Galahad with us. He’s been asleep in the bedroom since Xandra brought him back, but he’s more than happy to go for a walk. I’m kind of getting used to having him around, though with him and Cassius both crashing here it’s starting to feel a little crowded. I’m sure Dr. Pete will be happy to see him, anyway.

“Wow,” I say. It turns out that a lack of visitors is the least of Dr. Pete’s worries.

His room is almost unrecognizable. Tapestries embroidered in arcane symbols hang on the walls, incense burns on a shrine in the corner, and there’s a little old lady stirring a large pot of something on a hot plate beside that. Wolf cubs dart out from under the bed, between my legs and out into the hall, where they sniff at Galahad’s bare feet curiously. A dozen or so of Pete’s family form a circle around his bed, all of them in human form and chatting like they’re clustered around a punch bowl instead of an invalid. There’s violin music playing, and it’s not recorded.

In the midst of all this is the same tall, imposing nurse who read me the Riot Act last time. She looks considerably more frazzled, though not defeated. I wish her well; I’ve dealt with Pete’s family before, and they are formidable.

Except they’re not really his family. They’re a fiction, created by the NSA to provide him with a cover. Not completely made up, of course—I have no doubt they’re actually related to one another, just not to Dr. Pete. I wonder what happened to his actual relatives.

Cassius and I push our way inside, Galahad right behind us. The nurse spots us, gives us a grim look, and says, “Visiting hours will be over in twenty minutes. At that point, I
will
clear the room, if I have to use a flame-thrower.”

“So noted,” I say. “Good luck with that.”

She stalks out of the room, clipboard under her arm. I feel sorry for her next patient.

Dr. Pete is looking better—his eye hasn’t fully regenerated yet, but his teeth seem to have grown back in. He’s still in splints and half-were form, but his one eye is open and focused on me.

“Hi,” I say. He nods, weakly. Can’t talk, of course, or use sign language yet. That’s as far as I get anyway, because now the family has noticed me. I’ve only been to Dr. Pete’s once, but you’d think I was some sort of long-lost relative from the way I’m treated; within a few seconds I’m the one that’s surrounded and being inundated with sympathy. Lots of hugging and squeezing of shoulders, arms, hands. “Thank you, I’m fine,” I say over and over. “Really. I’m okay. Thanks. That’s very sweet.”

Leo makes his way over from the opposite side of the bed. He was introduced to me as Pete’s father, and he’s definitely the head of the Adams pack. He’s got two pointy gray tufts of hair that stick up from head, but they always remind me more of Bozo the Clown than anything wolfy.

“Jace,” he says, and gives me a big hug. “We need to talk,” he whispers in my ear, then lets go and stands back. “Such a terrible thing that’s happened to our boy.” His eyes are filled with pain.

“He’ll be okay. I, uh—”

“I was wondering if you could pick up some things for him from his office,” Leo says. “Let’s step outside for a minute, I’ll get you a list.”

Cassius glances my way as we exit, but doesn’t follow.

Leo leads me down the hall and to a waiting area, almost identical to the one outside the maternity ward. He sits, and motions me to do the same.

“So,” I say. “What would you like me to bring?”

He studies me for a second before answering. “That was a lie. What I need from you is your understanding.”

“About what?”

“Do you know how hard it is to sign with broken fingers? Not to mention painful? But when we came here to see Peter, he insisted. It took him a long time, but he finally got his message across. Do you know what it was?”

“I—no. I have no idea.”

“
Tell Jace the truth
. About himself, his past. He wants you to know what he did, for whatever reason.”

“That’s not necessary. People who think they’re about to die will say things they regret later—”

He shakes his head. “No. Peter is a doctor, a good one, and he knows that his body will heal. He wants this done because he’s had what thropes call a tearaway experience—an injury so painful it lays bare what is and isn’t important to the one that suffers it. This is what’s important to him, and I’m going to honor that.”

He hesitates, gathering his thoughts before he speaks. “The Adams pack may seem like a close-knit clan, but that is not because of shared blood. It is because of shared pain. We are, in truth, a ragtag bunch of misfits, outcasts from larger and stronger packs—or at least our ancestors were. Mongrels and half-breeds are our heritage, and none of us care. Many of us fled from the purges of the war, and still carry those scars with us.

“We take in those that need it. Your employer, David Cassius, he knows this. He was the one who asked us to take in Peter.”

“Did he tell you what Peter did?”

“Yes. We would not have accepted him otherwise. I will not excuse his actions—what he did was terrible. But many of us have done terrible things, Jace.” He meets my eyes, unblinking. I don’t know about him, but I can’t deny the truth of that statement when it comes to myself.

“He has tried to atone for his deeds,” Leo continues. “To act, not apologize. The dead, after all, do not care about apologies.”

“No,” I say. “They don’t.”

“He respects you a great deal. What you think is important to him. Listen to his story with an open heart, that’s all I ask of you.”

I keep my voice neutral. “Go ahead.”

“The study of human medicine is not a terribly profitable one. And it requires a great deal
more
study—human beings are prone to so many conditions, aren’t they? Despite this, Peter persevered. Over the course of several years, he acquired a number of debts. One of these was to a criminal organization called
La Lupo Grigorio
.”

“The Gray Wolves.” This world’s equivalent of the Mafia. “I know who they are.”

“Then you know what they are capable of. They required a shaman versed in biothaumaturgy—golem activation. Peter had been moonlighting in that field to make some extra money, and they pressured him to work for them. He was young and broke and most of all naive—after all, he was simply helping to create life, wasn’t he? What could be the harm?”

Leo sighs. “I know, I know. He was a fool. He thought he was simply bending the rules, adding laborers that would exist off the books—but still, he reasoned, at least they would exist.”

“For a while.”

“Yes. He did not learn until later how brief and brutal that existence often was. When he did, he planned to turn himself in.”

“Planned?”

“I wish Peter’s story was unique, but it is not. The Gray Wolves are old and cunning, and they always need people with Peter’s skills. Over time, they have evolved a strategy to ensure the continued cooperation of their employees.”

He pauses again, begins to speak, then stops. “They,” he says softly, “know about . . . breaking things. Objects, structures. People. I don’t know if you truly understand how important a pack is to a lycanthrope, but it is more than family—that is simply flesh and blood. The pack is part of your
soul
.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep quiet. After a moment he continues.

“You can always turn to your pack when you are in trouble. No matter what kind, no matter what you have done. Peter knew this, as all thropes do. Even more than a thrope’s strength or ability to heal, it is this knowledge that gives us the most security. A thrope that belongs to a pack is never alone.

“Unless,” he says, his voice bleak, “the pack itself is destroyed.”

It takes me a second. “My God. How many?”

“Eleven. Not a large clan, by most standards—it’s one of the reasons he was chosen. Slaughtered in their beds in what seemed a botched robbery, with the Gray Wolves ready to accept him as one of their own while he was still in shock. You’d be surprised how many such victims accept, even if they suspect the truth. Even if they know for sure.”

I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t. The desire to belong is one of the strongest drives the human psyche has—and primal urges always come to the fore during grief. He wouldn’t have been the first victim to identify with his attacker—or the first to grab a dubious lifeline when it was offered.”

“That is true—but that is not what he did. He went to the authorities instead. And that is how he came to be with us.”

“Witness relocation. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.” He leans forward, eyes intent under shaggy brows. “He
is
a member, of our family and our pack. He is a decent, honorable man who was the victim of his own bad judgment and has devoted the rest of his life to making amends. I speak to you not as someone who harbors such fugitives professionally—though I certainly do that—but as a man who considers himself Peter’s father.”

“What do you want from me, Leo?”

“Just give him another chance. Let him heal, then talk to him. He’s worth your friendship, I promise you.”

I rub my forehead. “All right, I will. But I have a question for you, first.”

“Anything.”

“Do you know a thrope named Tair?”

No recognition in his eyes, no change in his body language. “No, Jace. I do not.” If he’s lying, he’s too good for me—maybe not in an interrogation room, but right here and now.

“He’s the thrope responsible for what happened to Peter,” I say. “He could be working for the Gray Wolves, but his motivations seem personal. I haven’t been able to find out anything about him, and Peter claims he doesn’t know who he is, either.”