Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (18 page)

“Wow.
Party?”

“No.
Hungry.”

“Wild.
There’s a sale on toilet paper. You’ll probably be blocked up for a week,
eating all this protein. When it comes, you’re gonna need toilet paper.”

A
large and very annoyed animal growled, the sound coming from somewhere nearby.
The teen’s already pale face blanched, each pimple standing out like a bright
red BB with an oily white cap. Dropping the magazine, he started to hastily
scan the packages of meat and pack them back into the box. It was only after
Dallas had passed a credit card across the belt, retrieved it, and carried the
box to Deloris that he realized the growling noise he’d heard had been him. The
realization brought a dark smile to his lips.

Chapter 26

“I
c-can’t believe you ate without me,” Stanley complained. “We’re a t-team,
right?”

“Oh,
sure. A team. Which is why I was so annoyed. You were taking so long, I figured
you’d gone to eat without me. Rotten thing to do to your teammate.”

Stanley’s
face purpled with indignation. “B-but I didn’t eat! I swear! I’m st-starving,
but I was working hard, Dal. Really, I was!”

Dallas
laughed, the action stretching his already distended stomach and pushing out a
hearty belch. He’d packed away almost the entire box of juicy, raw meat in one
sitting and was now feeling incredibly satiated and indescribably happy.

Sometimes all it takes is a good
meal to put everything right,
he
thought.

“I
know you were working, and I’m sorry I grabbed a bite without you. Won’t happen
again. I think there’s still,” he rummaged in the box and pulled out an
asparagus wrapped pork cutlet, “one of these things. There’s meat in there,
somewhere, if you can get past the nasty green stuff.”

Stanley’s
eyes went wide, and he started to bounce excitedly from foot to foot. “Oh,
h-heck yeah, Dallas. I love the pork cutlets. And that’s asparagus. Lots of
iron, lots of vitamins. Make’s your p-pee smell funny, but it’s totally worth
it.”

While
Stanley cooked up the cutlet, which Dallas thought was a bit weird, he reviewed
the list Stanley had put together.

He
unfolded it carefully and spread it out on the small dining room table. Dallas
was impressed at the crisp, clean rows of hand-written text. Stanley was an odd
one, to be sure, but he had amazing penmanship. It’s why he was usually tasked
with keeping track of important things like bowling scores and lists of
possible werewolves in Trappersville.

Sliding
a finger down the list of names, he wrinkled his brow and shook his head.

“Crappers.
Kind of a long list. Are you sure you got some good suspects here?”

Stanley’s
head poked out of the kitchen, bobbing like a yo-yo on a short string.

“Oh,
you bet’cha. I was watching,
Murder, She
Wrote
. S-season nine, episode seven,
Sugar
and Spice, M-malice and Vice
,” he said over the sound of a sizzling
skillet. “It’s a really good episode. One of my favorites.”

Ducking
back into the kitchen, he returned a few minutes later with his lunch and sat
across the table from Dallas. Warming up to how he derived his list of
suspects, he started explaining the episode for Dallas between forkfuls of pork
and cheesy asparagus.

“See,
Michael Haggerty’s future son-in-law is mixed up with this Hong Kong b-bank run
by drug dealers. Real nasty guys, those drug dealers. Guns, too. Bad news.”

Dallas
crossed his arms and cleared his throat.

“J-just
listen,” Stanley whined. “I’m getting there. See, turns out that gonna-be
son-in-law, he ends up d-dead, you know. Everyone’s looking at Michael, but not
Jessica. No sir. She knows a thing or two about a thing or two, so she starts
helping c-clear his name. It’s tough though. That Michael, he was found with
his dead son. Or almost son. In-law. I said that, right? He ain’t a son-in-law
yet, but he’s g-gonna be. That’s important.”

Holding
out a hand to stop the onslaught, Dallas shoved his words in edgewise between
Stanley’s excited yammering.

“Okay!
Good to know. Fine job, Stanley. You’ve convinced me. I can see you put a lot
of thought into this, so where do we start? Who’s our top suspect?”

“Fancy
Dan,” Stanley said, authoritatively. “Betch’ya all the cheese c-curds in
Kenosha he’s a werewolf.”

Dallas
couldn’t help but laugh. Seeing Stanley’s crestfallen look only made it
funnier. Fancy Dan, a werewolf?

“It’s
n-not funny!” Stanley sputtered. “I done my research. Fancy Dan’s d-definitely
a werewolf.”

Dallas’s
laughter subsiding a bit, he obligingly listened while Stanley made his case.
After mapping out where the missing dogs were taken from, Dan’s trailer was pretty
near to the center. Plus, the tracks Colton had found seemed to head in that
direction. Dallas shrugged, pointing out that Dan’s trailer wasn’t too far from
his house. While houses tended to be a little spread out in these parts, there
were still probably twenty or thirty people that lived inside of the werewolf’s
assumed territory.

“Yeah,
I know, I know,” Stanley agreed, “but I checked ‘em out. I know m-most of the
folks in town, too, ya know. I crosschecked the folks on this side of town with
some other stuff. There’s more.”

“Do
tell,” Dallas said, grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge and cracking it open.

“Well,
we know it wasn’t you, right?” Stanley started. “I mean, you didn’t g-get those
dogs, did you?”

Dallas
snorted beer through his nose.

“Me?
What the hell, Stan?”

“I
know. I know. It wasn’t you. So I started thinking, how does someone turn into
a werewolf? They get b-bit. Sure they do. Another werewolf comes around, bites
‘em. That’s what Colton said. And g-guess what?” Stanley asked.

Dallas
didn’t say anything, still a bit insulted that Stanley would even imply that
he’d done something to those dogs.

“Guess
what?” Stanley asked again.

Thinking
about it was really souring Dallas’s mood. He’d been feeling just fine. He’d
had a great lunch and was washing it down with a nice, cold beer. Everything
was good, but then Stanley shows up suggesting that he, the Hero of frickin’
Trappersville, might be a werewolf.

“Dallas,
guess what?” Stanley repeated, knee bouncing and fingers drumming on the table
with excitement.

“What,
Stanley? What? Geez. You’re like a four year old that just learned a magic
trick. Get it out, for chrissake.”

“Fancy
Dan got b-bit. Last week. I saw him at the clinic. I had to g-get my flu shot.
Always g-get the flu shot, you know. Flu’s a nasty business. First, there’s the
fever, then you p-puke. Nasty business. You gotta g-get the flu shot. You got
yours, right Dallas?”

“No.
Now what’s this about Dan getting bit?”

Stanley
beamed. “He was at the clinic, coming out as I was going in. Had a b-bandage on
his arm. Said it was a stray dog. Said it was hiding under his trailer and bit
him when he was trying to get it out. Needed to g-get a rabies shot and
everything. But Dallas,” Stanley paused to let the drama of the moment build.
“What if it wasn’t no dog? What if it was a wolf?”

“Or
what if it was a dog?” Dallas challenged. “I’ve had to run off more than my
fair share of strays, especially if the garbage lid ain’t on tight.”

Stanley
shook his head. “Nope. No sir. When I was doing my research today, I saw Fancy
Dan. He was coming out of the salon. You know the one where they do the t-tans
and the highlights and what-not? That one. I saw Dan, and he was looking all
suspicious like. Made for his c-car real quick and d-drove off in a hurry. So
me, I went inside. I told the girl I th-thought maybe I’d left my glasses when
I was there tanning.”

“Your
glasses? You don’t wear glasses, and you sure as hell don’t tan. Hell, scrawny
thing like you, the sun couldn’t even find you to make an attempt.”

Stanley
gave a sly wink, the gesture so unexpected that Dallas couldn’t even start to
think of a reaction.

“When
the g-girl was in back looking for my glasses, I grabbed the appointment book!
I had to look quick like, b-but you know what?”

Dallas
waited, curiosity replacing his earlier annoyance.

“You
know what, Dal?” Stanley asked again.

“Oh,
for… what, Stanley? What?”

“Fancy
D-dan had a wax. A wax, Dallas. To get all the hair off his body. So he gets
bit by something, big d-dogs go missing near where he lives, and he had a
wax.
”

A
slow whistle slipped through Dallas’s lips. It did make a certain kind of
sense. Fancy Dan, the waxed werewolf of Trappersville. Looking out the window
at the afternoon sky, Dallas decided now was one of those times when a decision
needed to be made. It’s what a Warrior of the Society was supposed to do. Make
decisions and take care of business.

“Nice
work,” he commended Stanley. “I never much liked that douchebag anyway. Thinks
he can just run around being a werewolf in my town? No way. No goddamn way.”
Dallas flexed his biceps and pounded his palm with his fist. “We’ll see how
fancy he feels with my fist in his face.”

Stanley
shook his head. “Oh no, Dallas. Oh no. Can’t be just p-punching him up. You
heard Colton. We g-gotta be sure.”

The
urge to hit things he didn’t like warred with his common sense, but eventually
Dallas gave in.

“Fine.
Let’s go have a chat with that prancy little twit, but ten bucks says he’s our
wolf. C’mon, Stan. We’ve got a town to save.”

About
twenty minutes later, Dallas had his bowling shoes on and had settled in at the
lane next to Fancy Dan. Even though the fall league hadn’t kicked off yet,
Dallas was pretty sure he’d find Dan at Bay City Bowlers, the town’s premiere
venue for the highly competitive sport. After checking in with Slow Johnson at
the counter, his intuition was rewarded when he looked across the lanes and saw
the usual cornea-melting collection of colors that defined Fancy Dan’s
wardrobe.

“Fancy
Dan! You’re a sight, that’s a sure thing.”

If
ever someone tired of looking at jeans, flannels and sweatshirts, all they had
to do was pull up a chair, flip on some sunglasses, and take a gander at good
old Fancy Dan. At the moment, Dan was sporting a white silk neckerchief, a
wide-collared, button down shirt that pulled a daunting array of primary colors
into haphazard but somehow still geometric patterns, purple velour
bell-bottoms, and his usual powder-blue, patent leather bowling shoes.

Dan
smirked and gave a theatrical bow. “Clothes make the man,” he patronized. “You
never know when the right person might walk through the door. I saw the Stones
last summer in Chicago. After the show, I was in the bathroom when Mick walked
in. That’s right.
The
Mick Jagger. He
saw me and gave me the sign,” Dan held up his index finger and pinky and pumped
his arm. “‘Rock on, dude!’ That’s what he was saying. ‘Rock on!’ Nobody in no
high waisted jeans and flannel, or even a lips tee-shirt, got that. I did,
because I,” he paused for emphasis, “have
style
.”

Point
made, Dan took up his ball, discoed down the lane, rolled a seven-ten split,
and cussed loudly.

“Dammit.
Slow Johnson needs to oil these lanes.”

“You’re
probably right,” Dallas placated, earning a suspicious look from Dan. “I gotta
say, that hook had quite a bit of oomph behind it. You been hitting the gym,
Dan? Pumping the old iron?”

“Gyms
are for girls,” Dan answered. “I’ve just got a naturally strong arm. Part of
the package.”

Dallas
noticed Stanley’s eyes go a tad wider. Sensing he was on the right track, he
offered another question.

“Naturally
strong. Uh huh. Hey, you smell that, Dan? What is that?”

Dan
shrugged, rolled, picked up the seven, huffed at the injustice of being a
top-tier athlete forced to bowl in mediocre conditions, and walked back over to
tick his score sheet.

“You
noticed, too? Rhonda must have broken out a new tub of cheap perfume. Smells
like a whore house in late July.”

Stanley
gasped. “I c-can’t smell nothing,” he whispered, his awe laced with a hint of
fear.

“You
can’t?” Dan exclaimed. “Ugh. I’m half-inclined to shove bar napkins up my
nose.”

Dallas
gave Stanley a surreptitious thumb’s up. Rising, he picked up his own ball and
rolled an easy strike.

“Crazy
days lately, don’t you think?” he asked in a conversational tone. “You heard
about those dogs going missing last night?”

Fancy
Dan took a moment to answer. He was still staring at the pin deck on Dallas’s
lane where ten pins used to be standing.

“Lucky
roll. Yeah, I heard about the dogs. So?”

“Well,
seems kind of strange, a bunch of dogs getting snatched up like that,” Dallas
drawled. “What would someone have against the neighborhood mutts?”

“Dog
fighting. Police busted up a ring in Milwaukee a few years back. Probably some unsavory
types came through town, grabbed those five dogs, and bolted. Sheriff can look
all he wants, but I doubt he’ll find much.”

“Five
d-dogs, you say?” Stanley asked in his best Columbo voice. “I heard it was
four. Two huskies, a Malamute, and a Rottweiler. F-four, not five.”

Dan
sniffed. “Four, five, whatever. Now be quiet. I’m trying to bowl.”

While
Fancy Dan rolled a seven, cursed again, and picked up the spare, Stanley leaned
in and whispered.

“Ask
him about the b-bite,” Stanley encouraged. “You just ask him.”

Dallas
casually stood and picked up his ball again. With a quick approach, he released
the ball and tweaked his thumb at the last moment. The ball spun wildly and
curved into the gutter about halfway down the lane.