Dark of the Moon
© 2024 by Walter Reimer and E.O. Costello

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Eleven

Before I left, I called the police.  “Inspector Cunningham, please.”
A few moments later I heard him say, “Cunningham.  Anything going on, Walshe?”
“Well, I figure I have to let you know a couple things,” I said.  “First, I told Terhune’s lawyer, guy named Nathan Adams – “
“Of Adams, Kennedy and Pounds?” Cunningham asked.
“Yeah, that’s right.  I told him about the cross they found in the Alpha’s mouth.”  I braced for an explosion.
There was a short silence before Cunningham said, “I’m disappointed, but surprised you kept it under your hat this long.  Armbruster would have been screaming it from the rooftops as soon as he found out.”  A pause.  “You said ‘First.’  What else?”
“Adams came here, to the World-Telly.  He told me to expect to hear some howling.”
“Hmm.  That could be very bad news.  Does he know you’re telling me this?”
“I got the feeling he wouldn’t mind, and you’re not deaf.  The whole city would find out about it soon enough.”
“True,” Cunningham said.  “Anything else?”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“Running down leads,” the Inspector said, “and we’re still looking for the barber.”
“If it’s any comfort, I’m looking for him, too.  If I find him before you do, I’ll wait my turn before asking him for an interview.”
A chuckle.  “Mighty nice of you, Walshe.”
“It make up for me telling Adams?”
“Yeah.  If we’re expecting howling, I’ll bet you a cup of joe and a bagel that your friends will be hunting.”
“Yeah, pretty obvious.  I’m not going to bet, but tell you what.  Coffee and bagel on me next time we see each other, okay?”
“That’s fair.  By the way, that young lady you were with when you got shot at?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve questioned her again.  Had a lot of good things to say about you.”
For some reason, that made me feel good.  “Heh.  See you around, Inspector.”
“Later,” and he hung up the phone.  I put the handset down in its cradle and thought for a few moments.  Mainly about what I was planning on writing for my next story.  After thinking, I got my notepad out of my desk and jotted some notes.
I decided to lead off with the Terhune funeral, and a few thoughts about who could qualify to be the new Alpha.  I also decided to include the conversation I had with George, Wally and Jack, talking about the various customs and such that kept werewolves from fully expressing themselves or barred them from sports or the police (yeah, that was a sore spot too).  When I was satisfied I had enough for the article, I left to find a store.
I hit paydirt with the third place I visited and bought a flashlight and a pair of batteries for it.  When I walked out of the store, George was waiting outside.  “Change of shift?” I asked.
“Yeah, change of shift,” and he started walking with me.  “Where we headed?”
“The old 18th Street Station,” I replied.  “Jack tell you about it?”
George gave me a blank look, and I rolled my eyes.  Figures.  “C’mon, and I’ll tell you on the way.”
We’d gone maybe a block when I heard Michael call out, “Hey, Knocko!”  I turned and he came running up to us.  He pulled up short and cocked an eye at George.  “Who’s this?”
“A friend,” I said.  “Old Army buddy.  George Wilson, Michael O’Donovan.  You two have something in common.”
“Oh?”  He looked at George and sniffed.
George sniffed back at Michael.
“Are you two going to shake hands, or sniff each other’s butts?” I asked.
Michael gave me a surprised look that changed to shock when George muttered, “I swear, you do that once . . . “
I raised a hand.  “You were drunk.  We understood.”  I grinned.  “Of course, no one’s going to forget it.”  All three of us laughed, and the two werewolves shook hands.  I asked, “Are there any messages, Michael?”  He shook his head, and I said, “No news might not be good news.  George and I are going to go look for someone.  You game?”
He didn’t think too long.  “Sure,” and we all headed in the direction of the 18th Street Station.

***

The howling started as the sun went down.  It was a still night, and the sound carried over the traffic noise.  Michael flinched more than once.  “Bad thing, that,” he said, furtively crossing himself.
“Yeah,” George agreed.  “Probably at least one on each rooftop.  The guys raising pigeons won't like it, but . . . "  He looked further up the street and we all moved closer to the buildings.
Two nuns were chasing an older man wearing a nightshirt and a clerical collar.  He had Shifted; his fur was sticking out at odd angles, and his tail was holding up the back of his nightshirt.  Michael and I crossed ourselves as he ran past us while shouting, “FECK!  ARSE!  DRINK!  GURLS!” in a native Irish brogue.
“Father Paul!” one of the nuns exclaimed as they pursued him.  “You’re not well!”
“You need bedrest!” the other nun yelled.
The three of us watched them chase off down the street, and George said, “That’s something I didn’t want to see tonight.”  We glanced at him and he added, “What that old guy was wearing – or not wearing.”
Michael nodded.  “Yeah, although it’d be nice to wear pants and not have to cramp your tail up when you Shift.”
“Yeah.”  George eyed Michael.  “Zipper, or buttons?”
“Oh, buttons of course,” my friend replied.  “Tried a zipper once, and it caught on my fur.  Hurt like the devil.”
I listened, and kept my mouth shut, like a good reporter.  But I resolved to light a candle for Father Paul and his two attendants when I had the opportunity.
I eased aside the planking covering the entrance to the station and stepped back as Michael and George, now both Shifted, both sniffed deeply.
Michael recoiled slightly.  “Phew.  Smells like the Monkey House at the Zoo in there.”
“Yeah, it does, sorta,” George said, licking his nose.  His ears were tilted back and he turned to me.  “You planning to come in with us?”
I nodded.  “Yeah.”
He sighed.  “Okay, but you follow us, got it?”
“I’ve got a flashlight, remember?  And don’t give me any of that ‘you’re more important’ shit,” I said, and I headed down the stairs before they could react.  I heard my two friends fall in slightly behind and to either side as I switched on the flashlight.
The place was pretty creepy.  There were piles of trash here and there, and one or two bums muttered and rolled over as I played the beam of the flashlight around.  George reached out and tapped my shoulder.  I kept the light angled down so I wouldn’t blind him or Michael and turned to look at him.  “What?” I said quietly.
He pointed and said just as quietly, “Wolf.  Over there,” and he pointed toward the tunnel.
A faint glow, and the noise of a subway train started to be heard.  It grew louder and the light grew brighter, and the southbound train rocketed past us, sending a small blizzard of paper whirling around in its slipstream.  I leaned in close to both of my friends.  “You sure?”
Michael and George looked at each other, and nodded.
The train had made its way through the station, and we headed for the entrance to the tunnel.  
Even I heard the scrape of claws on concrete, and I stopped when I heard a quaking voice say, “I-I gotta g-gun!  Don’t c-come any closer!”
“Lou Green?” I asked, keeping the flashlight beam angled down, toward the tracks.
“Calm down, guy,” George said, “we’re not gonna hurt ya.”  He took a step forward.
The bang! was loud and echoed down the tunnel.  The bums were smarter than we were; I heard them fighting each other to get up the stairs and out into the relative safety of the street. 
I switched off the light and we all pressed up against a wall.  A quick check revealed that none of us had been hit.  
“Hey!” George yelled.  “Stop that!”
“S-Stay away!”
“Look, put that thing away,” George growled.  “I don’t want to hurt you, but – “
I put out a hand and grabbed his shoulder.  “Where do you think?” I whispered.
My werewolf Army buddy thought.  “These tunnels got maintenance rooms, right?  Could’ve holed up in there.”  He raised his voice.  “Come on out!”
“George, please.  Hey in there, are you Lou Green?” I asked.
A silence.  Finally, a voice resigned to its fate.  “Yeah.”
“My name’s Pete Walshe.”
“Yeah?  P-Prove it.”
I thought about it for a moment.  “Hey.”
“Wh-What?”
“You read the World-Telegraph?”
A pause from the tunnel.  “Yeah?”
“My picture’s usually next to my name when I write an article.  Now, listen to me, please; I’m going to step out in the open and point my flashlight at myself.  Don’t shoot, okay?”
“Knocko,” Michael said in a worried tone, “You’re taking a heck of a risk.”
“Yeah, I know,” and I stepped away from the wall and edged sideways until I felt the edge of the platform.  Damn, I was awfully close to falling, and I couldn’t recall where the damned third rail was.  I switched on the flashlight and flipped it toward my chest so I wouldn’t completely wreck my eyesight.  Sure, I couldn’t see in the dark as well as Michael and George, but why screw around?
I angled the beam up slightly.  “See?”
There was a pause, and just past the halo of the flashlight’s beam I could see a dim light in the distance.  Literally the light at the end of the tunnel.
And it was getting closer. 
A shadow appeared, silhouetted by the growing light, upright but with a wolf’s features.  “Better move faster,” I said.  “Train’s coming.”
The silhouette suddenly jerked to my left and there was a scuffle.  “We got him!” George said, and I stepped off smartly away from the edge of the platform.
Just in time.  I felt the air from the train’s passing tug at my clothes.