Weird Detectives: Recent Investigations

LIKE PART OF THE FAMILY Jonathan Maberry

“My ex-husband is trying to kill me,” she said.

She was one of those cookie-cutter East Coast blondes. Pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes. Lots of New Age jewelry. Not a lot of curves, and too much perfume. Kind of pretty if you dig the modeling-scene heroin chic look. Or if you troll the anorexia twelve-steps or crack houses looking for easy ass that’s so desperate for affection they’ll boff you blind for a smile. Not my kind. I like a little more meat on the bone, and a bit more sanity in the eyes. This one came to me on a referral from another client.

“He actually try?”

“I can tell, Mr. Hunter.”

Yeah, I thought and tried not to sigh. What I figured.

“You call the cops?”

She shrugged.

“What’s that mean? You call them or not?”

“I called,” she said. “They said that there wasn’t anything they could do unless he did something first.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Can’t arrest someone for thinking about something.”

“He threatened me.”

“Anyone hear him make the threat?”

“No.”

“Then it’s your word.”

“That’s what the police said.” She crossed her legs. Her legs were on the thin side of being nice. Probably were nice before drugs or stress or a fractured self-image wasted her down to Sally Stick-figure.

Skirt was short, shoes looked expensive. I have three ex-wives and I pay alimony bigger than India’s national debt. I know how expensive women’s shoes are. I was wearing black sneakers from Payless. Glad I had a desk between me and her.

“Your husband ever hurt you?” I asked. “Or try to?”

“Ex,” she corrected. “And . . . yes. That’s why I left him. He hit me a few times. Mostly when he was drunk and out of control.”

I held up a hand. “Don’t make excuses for him. He hit you. Being drunk doesn’t change the rules. Might even make it worse, especially if he did it once while drunk and then let himself come home drunk again.”

She digested that. She’d probably heard that rap before but it might have come from a female caseworker or a shrink. From the way her eyes shifted to me and away and back again I guessed she’d never heard that from a man before. I guess for her, men were the Big Bad. Too many of them are.

It was ten to five, but it was already dark outside. December snow swirled past the window. It wasn’t accumulating, so the snow still looked pretty. Once it started piling up I hated the shit. My secretary, Mrs. Gilligan, fled at the first flake. Typical Philadelphian—they think the world will come to a screeching halt if there’s half an inch on the ground. She’s probably at Wegmans stocking up on milk, bread, and toilet paper. The staples of the apocalypse. Me, I grew up in Minneapolis, and out in the Cities we think twenty inches is getting off light. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate the shit, though. A low annual snowfall is one of the reasons I moved to Philly after I got my PI license. Easier to hunt if you don’t have to slog through snow.

“When he hit you,” I said, “you report it?”

“No.”

“Not to the cops?”

“No.”

“Women’s shelter?

“No.”

“Anyone? A friend?”

She shook her head. “I was . . . embarrassed, Mr. Hunter. A black eye and all. Didn’t want to be seen.”

Which means there’s no record. Nothing to support her case about ex-hubby wanting to kill her.

I drummed my fingers on the desk blotter. I get these kinds of cases every once in a while, though I stayed well clear of domestic disputes and spousal abuse cases when I was with Minneapolis PD. I have a temper, and by the time they asked for my shield back I had six reprimands in my jacket for excessive force. At one of my IA hearings the captain said he was disappointed that I showed no remorse for the last “incident.” I busted a child molester and somehow while the guy was, um, resisting arrest he managed to get mauled and mangled a bit. The pedophile tried to spin some crazy shit that I sicced a dog on him, but I don’t have a dog. I said that he got mauled by a stray during a foot pursuit. Even at my own hearing I couldn’t keep a smile off my face to save my job. Squeaked by on that one, but next time something like it happened—this time with a guy who whipped his wife half to death with an extension cord because she wasn’t “willing enough” in the bedroom—I was out on my ass. He ran into the same stray dog. Weird how that happens, huh? Long story short, I already didn’t have the warm fuzzies for her husband. We all have our buttons, and when the strong prey on the weak, all of mine get pushed.

“Did you go to the E.R.?”

“No,” she said. “It was never that bad. More humiliating than anything.”

I nodded. “What about after the divorce? He lay a hand on you since?”

She hesitated.

“Mrs. Skye?” I prompted.

“He tried. He chased me. Twice.”

“Chased you? Tell me about it.”

She licked her lips. She wore a very nice rose-pink lipstick that was the only splash of color. Even her clothes and shoes were white. Pale horse, pale rider.

“Well,” she said, “that’s where the story gets really . . . strange.”

“Strange how?”

“He—David, my ex-husband—changed after I filed for divorce. He’s like a different person. Before, when I first met him, he was a very fastidious man. Always dressed nicely, always very clean and well-groomed.”

“What’s he do for a living?”

“He owns a nightclub. The Crypt, just off South Street.”

“I know it, but that’s a Goth club, right? Is he Goth?”

“No. Not at all. He bought the club from the former owner, but he remodeled it after The Batcave.”

“As in Batman?”

“As in the London club that was kind of the prototype of pretty much the whole Goth club scene. David’s a businessman. There’s a strong Goth crowd downtown, and they hang together, but the clubs in Philly aren’t big enough to turn a big profit, and not near big enough to attract the better bands. So, he bought the two adjoining buildings and expanded out. He made a small-time club into a very successful main stage club, and he keeps the music current. A lot of post-punk stuff, but also the newer styles. Dark cabaret, deathrock, Gothabilly. That sort of thing. Low lights, black-tile bathrooms, bartenders who look like ghouls.”

“Okay,” I said.

“But this was all business to David. He didn’t dress Goth. I mean, he wore black suits or black silk shirts to work, but he didn’t dye his hair, didn’t wear eyeliner. Funny thing is, even though he was clearly not buying into the lifestyle, the patrons loved him. They called him the Prince. As in Prince of—?”

“Darkness, yeah, got it. Go on.”

“David was more fussy getting ready to go out than I ever was. Spent forever in the bathroom shaving, fixing his hair. Always took him longer to pick out his clothes than me or any of my girlfriends.”

“He gay?”

“No.” And she shot me a “wow, what a stereotypically homophobic thing to say” sort of look.

I smiled. “I’m just trying to get a read on him. Fastidious guy having trouble with a relationship with his wife. Drinking problem, flashes of violence. Not a gay thing, but I’ve seen it before in guys who are sexually conflicted and at war with themselves and the world because of it.”

She studied me for a moment. “You used to be a cop, Mr. Hunter?”

“Call me Sam,” I said. “And, yeah, I was a cop. Minneapolis PD.”

“A detective?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.” That seemed to mollify her. I gestured to her to continue. She took a breath. “Well . . . toward the end of our relationship, David stopped being so fastidious. He would go two or three days without shaving. I know that doesn’t sound like the end of the world, but I never saw David without a fresh shave. Never. He carried an electric razor in his briefcase, had another at home and one in the office at the club. Clothes, too. Before, he’d sometimes change clothes twice or even three times a day if it was humid. He always wanted to look fresh. Showered at home morning and night, and had a shower installed in his office.”

“I get the picture. Mr. Clean. But you say that changed while you were still together?”

“It started when he fell off the wagon.”

“Ah.”

“When I met him he said that he hadn’t taken a drink for over two years. He was proud of it. He thought that his thirst—he always called it that—was evil, and being on the wagon made him feel like a real person. Then, after we started having problems, he started drinking again. Never in front of me, and he always washed his mouth out before he came home. I never smelled alcohol on him, but he was a different person from then on. And he started yelling at me all the time. He called me horrible names and made threats. He said that I didn’t love him, that I was just trying to use him.”

“I have to ask,” I said, being as delicate as I could, “but was there someone else?”

“For me? God, no!”

“What set him off? From his perspective, I mean. Did he say that there was something that made him angry or paranoid?”

“Well . . . I think it was his health.”

“Tell me.”

“He started losing weight. He was never fat, not even stocky. David was very muscular. He lifted a lot of weights, drank that protein powder twice a day. He had big arms, a huge chest. I asked him if he was taking steroids. He denied it, but I think he was trying to turn into one of those muscle freaks. Then, about a year and a half ago, he started losing weight. When he taped his arms and found that his biceps were only twenty-two inches, he got really angry.”

“David has twenty-two inch biceps?” Christ. Back in his Mr. Universe days, Arnold the Terminator had twenty-four inch arms, fully pumped. I think mine are somewhere shy of fifteen, and that’s after three sets on the Bowflex.

“Not anymore,” said Mrs. Skye. “He lost a lot of muscle mass. Really fast, too. I was scared; I told him to go to a doctor. I thought he might have cancer.”

“Did he go to the doctor?”

“He said so . . . but I don’t think he did. He kept losing weight. After six months, he didn’t even have much definition. He was kind of ordinary sized.”

“Was he drinking by this point?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“That when he started putting his hands on you?”

“Yes. And he became paranoid. Kept trying to make it all my fault.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Well . . . after the first time he, um, hurt me, I gave him a second chance. After all, he was my husband. I figured he was just scared because of his health. But then it happened again. The second time he knocked me around pretty good. I couldn’t go out of the house for a few days.”

“Was that when you left?”

It took her so long to answer that I knew what her answer would be. I’ve done too many interviews of this kind. If self-esteem is low enough then victimization can become an addiction.

“I stayed for two more months.”

“How many times did he hurt you during that time?” I asked.

“A few.”

“A few is how many?”

Another long pause. “Six.”

“Six,” I said, trying to put no judgment in my tone. “What was the last straw?”

She looked at her hands, at the clock, at the snow falling outside. If there’d been a magazine on my desk she would have picked it up and leafed through it. Anything to keep from meeting my eyes. “He choked me.”

“I see.”

“It was in the middle of the night. We were . . . we were . . . ”

I almost sighed. “Let me guess. Make-up sex?”

She nodded, but she didn’t blush. I’ll give her that. “He’d been sweet to me for two weeks straight without getting mad or yelling, or anything. He acted like his old self. Charming.” She finally met my eyes. “David has enormous charisma. He makes everyone like him, and he always seems so genuine.”

“Uh huh,” I said, wondering how that charm would work on a blackjack across his teeth.

“We sat up talking until late, then we went to bed. And in the middle of the night . . . things just started happening. You know how it is.”

I didn’t, but I said nothing.

“I was, um . . . on top. And we were pretty far into things, and then all of a sudden David reaches up and grabs me around the throat. I thought for one crazy moment that he was doing that auto-whatever it’s called.”

“Autoerotic asphyxiation,” I supplied.

“Yeah, that. I thought he was doing that. He talked about it once before, but we’d never tried it. He’s really strong and I’m pretty small. But . . . I guess I thought he was trying to change things, you know? Create a new pattern for us. A fresh start.”

Naivety can be a terrible thing. Jesus wept.

“But it wasn’t sex play,” I prompted.

“No. He started squeezing his hands. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. It was weird because we were so close to . . . you know . . . and David kept staring at me, his eyes wide like he was in some kind of trance. I tried to pull his hands apart, but it just made him squeeze tighter. That’s when he started calling me names again, making wild accusations, accusing me of destroying his life.”

“How did you get away?”

Her eyes cut away again. This was obviously very hard for her.

“I threw myself sideways and when I landed I kicked him in the, um . . . you know.”

I smiled.

“Good for you,” I said, but she shook her head.

“I grabbed my clothes and ran out. Next day I drove past the house and saw that his car was gone. I had a locksmith come out and change the locks and change the security code on the alarm. I hired a messenger company to take a couple of suitcases of his clothes to the club. Next day I rented a storage unit and had a moving company take all of his stuff there. I used the same messenger service to send him the key.”

“I’m impressed. That was quick thinking.”

“I . . . I’d already looked into that stuff before. Until that last stretch where he was nice I was planning to leave him. I’d already talked to my lawyer, and I filed for divorce by the end of that week.”

“What did David do?”

“At first? Nothing, except for some hysterical messages on my voicemail. He didn’t try to break in, nothing like that. But after a while I started seeing his car behind mine when I was going to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a nurse supervisor at Sunset Grove, the assisted living facility in Jenkintown. Right now I’m on the four to midnight shift. I’ve spotted David’s car a lot, sometimes every night for weeks on end. I’ve seen him drive by when I’m going into the staff entrance, and his car is there sometimes when I get back home, cruising down the street or parked a block up.”

“What makes you think he’s planning to do more than just harass you?”

“He’s said so.”

“But—”

“He didn’t say or do anything at first . . . but over the last couple of weeks it’s gotten worse. About three weeks ago I came out of work and stopped at a 7-Eleven for some gum, and when I came out he was leaning against my car. I told him to get away, but he pushed himself off the car and came up to me, smiling his charming smile. He told me that he knew who I was and what I was and that he was going to end me. His words. ‘I’m going to end you.’ Then he left, still smiling.”

“Did anyone see this?”

“At one in the morning? No.”

Convenience stores have security cameras, I thought. If this thing got messy I could have her lawyer subpoena those tapes. I had her write down the address of the 7-Eleven.

“That’s how it went for a couple of weeks,” she said. “But last night he really scared me.”

“What happened?”

“He was in my bedroom.”

“How?”

“That’s it . . . I don’t know. The alarms didn’t go off and none of the windows were broken. I heard a sound and I woke up and there he was, standing by the side of my bed. He’s really thin now and as pale as those Goth kids at his club. He stood there, smiling. I started to scream and he put a finger to his lips and made a weird shushing sound. It was so strange that I actually did shut up. Don’t ask me why. The whole thing was like a nightmare.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t?”

She hesitated, but she said, “I’m positive. He pointed at me and said that he knew everything about me. Then he started praying.”

“Praying?”

“At least I think that’s what he was doing. It was Latin, I think. He was saying a long string of things in Latin and then he left.”

“How’d he get out?”

“The same way he got in, I guess . . . but I don’t know how. I was so scared that I almost peed myself and I just lay there in bed for a long time. I don’t know how long. When I finally worked up the nerve, I ran downstairs and got a knife from the kitchen and went through the whole house.”

“You didn’t call the cops?”

“I was going to . . . but the alarm never went off. I checked the system . . . it was still set. I began wondering if I was dreaming.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Why are you so sure?”

She fished in her purse and produced a pink cell phone. She flipped it open and pressed a few buttons to call up her text messages. She pointed to the number and then handed me the phone.

“That’s David’s cell number.”

The text read: Tonight.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me see what I can do.”

“What can you do?” she asked.

“Well, the best first thing to do is go have a talk with him. See if I can convince him to back off.”

“And if he won’t?”

“I can be pretty convincing.”

“But what if he won’t? What if he’s . . . I don’t know . . . too crazy to listen to reason?”

I smiled. “Then we’ll explore other options.”

The Crypt is a big ugly building on the corner of South and Fourth in Philadelphia. Once upon a time it was a coffin factory—which I think would have been a cooler name. Less trendy and obvious. The light snow did nothing to make it look less ugly. When we pulled to the corner, Mrs. Skye pointed to a sleek, silver Lexus parked on the side street.

“That’s his.”

I jotted down the license plate and used my digital camera to take photos of it and the exterior of the building. You never know.

“Okay,” I said, “I want you to wait here. I’ll go have a talk with David and see if we can sort this out.”

“What if something happens? What if you don’t come out?”

“Just sit tight. You have a cell phone and I’ll give you the keys. If I’m not out of there in fifteen minutes, drive somewhere safe and call the name on the back of my card.” I gave her my business card. She turned it over and saw a name and number. Before she could ask, I said, “Ray’s a friend. One of my pack.”

“Another private investigator?”

“A bodyguard. I use him for certain jobs, but I don’t think we’ll need to bring him in on this. From what you’ve told me I have a pretty good sense of what to expect in there.”

As I got out my jacket flap opened and she spotted the handle of my Glock.

“You’re not . . . going to hurt him,” she asked, wide eyed.

I shook my head. “I’ve been doing this for a lot of years, Mrs. Skye. I haven’t had to pull my gun once. I don’t expect I’ll break that streak tonight.”

The breeze was coming from the west and the snow was just about done. I squinted up past the streetlights. The cloud cover was thin and I could already see the white outline of the moon. Nope, no accumulation. Typical Philly winter.

I crossed the street and tried the front door. Place didn’t do much business before late evening, but the doors were unlocked. The doors opened with an exhalation of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. There was probably an anti-smoking violation in that. Something else to use later if I needed to go the route of making life difficult for him.

It was too early for a doorman, and I walked a short hallway that was empty and painted black. Heavy black velvet curtains at the end. Cute. I pushed them aside and entered the club. Place was huge. David Skye must have taken out the second floor and knocked out everything but the retaining walls of the adjoining properties. The red and white maximum occupancy sign said that it shouldn’t exceed four hundred, but the place looked capable of taking twice that number. Bandstand was empty, so someone had put quarters in to play the tuneless junk that was beating the shit out of the woofers and tweeters. Whoever the group was on the record they subscribed to the philosophy that if you can’t play well, you should play real goddamn loud.

There were maybe twenty people in the place, scattered around at tables. A few at the bar. Everyone looked like extras from a direct-to-video vampire flick. The motif was black on black with occasional splashes of blood red. White skin that probably never saw the sun. Eyeliner and black lipstick, even on the guys. I was in jeans and a Vikings warm-up jacket. At least my sneakers and my leather porkpie hat were black. Handle of my gun was black, too, but they couldn’t see that. Better for everyone if nobody did.

The bartender was giving me the look, so I strolled over to him. He knew I wasn’t there for a beer and didn’t waste either of our time by asking.

“David Skye,” I said, having to bend forward and shout over the music.

“Badge me,” he said.

I flipped open my PI license. “Private.”

“Fuck off,” he suggested.

“Not a chance.”

“I can call the cops.”

“Bet I can have L-and-I—Licenses and Inspections—here before they show. Smoking in a public restaurant?”

Another smartass remark was on his lips, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He was paid by the hour and this had to be a slow shift for tips. I took a twenty from my wallet and put it on the bar.

“This isn’t your shit, kid,” I said. “Call your boss.”

He didn’t like it, but he took the twenty and made the call.

“He says come up.” The bartender pointed to another curtained doorway beside the bar. I gave him a sunny day smile and went inside.

There was a long hallway with bathrooms on both sides and a set of stairs at the end. I took the stairs two at a time. The stairs went straight up to his office and the door was open. I knocked anyway.

“It’s open,” he yelled. I went inside; and as I looked around I hoped like hell that the office décor was not modeled after the interior landscape of David Skye’s mind. The walls were painted a dark red, the trim was gloss black. Instead of the band posters and framed “look at who I’m shaking hands with” eight-by-tens, the walls were hung with torture devices and S-and-M clothes. Spiked harnesses, leather zippered masks, thumbscrews, photos from Abu Graib, diagrams of dissected bodies. A full-sized rack occupied one corner of the room and an iron maiden stood in the other, one door open to reveal rows of tarnished metal spikes. The only other furniture was a big desk made from some dark wood, a black file cabinet, and the leather swivel chair in which David Skye sat. He wore a black poet’s shirt, leather wristbands, and a smile that was already belligerent.

“The fuck are you and the fuck you want?”

The man was a charmer. I could just taste the charisma his wife had mentioned flowing like sweetness from his pores.

I flipped my ID case open. “We need to have a chat. It can be friendly or not. Your call.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

So much for friendly.

“That whore send you?” he demanded.

I smiled but didn’t answer.

He had a handsome face, but his wife was right when she said that he’d lost weight. His skin looked thin and loose, and he had the complexion of a mushroom. More gray than white.

“Did my wife send you?” he said, pronouncing the words slowly as if I’d come here on the short bus.

“Why would your ex-wife send me?”

His eyes flickered for a second at “ex-wife.” I strolled across the room and stood in front of his desk. He didn’t get up; neither of us offered a hand to the other.

“She makes up stories,” he said.

“What kind of stories?”

“Bullshit. Lies. Says I slapped her around.”

“Who’d she say that to?”

He didn’t answer. He did, however, give me the ninja secret death stare, but I manned my way through it.

“What are you supposed to be?” he said.

“Just what the license says.”

“Private investigator. Private dick.”

“Yes, and that was funny back in the 1950s. Why do you think I’m here?”

“She’s probably trying some kind of squeeze play. The club’s doing okay, so she wants a bigger slice.”

“Try again,” I said, though he might have been right about that.

“Oh, I get it . . . you’re supposed to scare me into leaving her alone.”

“Do I look scary?”

He smiled. He had very red lips and very white teeth. “No,” he said, “you don’t.”

“Right . . . so let’s pretend that I’m here to have a reasonable discussion. Man to man.”

Skye leaned back in his chair and stared at me with his dark eyes. It was a calculating look, and I’m sure he took in everything from my slightly threadbare Vikings jacket to my cheap black sneakers. Put everything I was wearing together and it would equal the cost of his shirt. I was okay with that. I don’t dress to impress. Skye, on the other hand, smiled as if our mutual understanding of my material net worth clearly made him the alpha.

I smiled back.

“What does she want?” he asked.

“For you to leave her alone.”

“What is she afraid of?”

“She thinks you’re trying to kill her.”

“What do you think?”

“What I think doesn’t matter. I’m not a psychic, so I don’t know whether you’re trying to kill her or if you’re playing some kind of mindgame on her. Whatever it is, I’m here to ask you to lay off.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I asked real nice.”

He smiled at that.

“Because it’s illegal and I could build a harassment case against you and you could lose your club and sink a quarter mil into legal fees. Because I know inspectors who can slap you with fifteen kinds of violations that will hurt your business. I can have your car booted by accident three or four times a week, every week.”

“And I could have you killed,” he said, the smile unwavering.

“Maybe,” I said. “You could try, and I might fuck up anyone you send and then come back here and fuck you up.”

“Think you could?”

“You really want to find out?” When he didn’t answer, I took a glass paperweight off his desk and turned it over in my hands. A spider was trapped inside, frozen into a moment of time for the amusement of the trinket crowd. I knew he was watching me play with the paperweight, wondering what I was going to do with it.

I put it back down on the desk.

“Really, though,” I said, “how long do we need to circle and sniff each other? We don’t run in the same pack and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do, who you are, or how tough you think you are. We both know that you’re either going to stop bothering your ex-wife and go on with your life, or you’re going to make a run at her—either because you have some loose wiring or because I’m pushing your buttons by being here. If you back off, we’re all friends. I’ll advise my client not to file a restraining order and you two can let the divorce lawyers earn their paychecks by kicking each other in the nuts.”

“Or . . . ?” he asked. Still smiling.

“Or, you don’t back off and then this is about you and me.”

“Nonsense. You’re no part of this. This is about me and—”

I cut him off. “I’m making this about you and me. Maybe I have a wire loose, too, but once I tell a client that I’m going to keep her safe, I take it amiss if anything happens to her.”

“Amiss,” he repeated, enjoying the word.

“But that’s a minute from now. We’re still on the other side of it until you give me an answer. What’s it going to be? You leave her alone? Or this gets complicated.”

“What were you before you started doing this PI bullshit?”

“A cop.”

He grunted. “You sound like a thug. An asshole leg-breaker from South Philly.”

“Thin line sometimes.”

He steepled his fingers. It was one of those moves that looked good when Doctor Doom did it in a comic book. Maybe in a boardroom. Looked silly right now, but he had enough intensity in his eyes to almost pull it off. He gave me ten seconds of the stare.

I stood my ground.

His cell phone rang and he flipped it open, listened.

“I’m in a meeting,” he said, and closed the phone.

His smile returned.

I heard the footsteps on the stairs even though they were quiet.

I sighed and turned. There were four of them. All as pale as Skye, but much bigger. “Really? You want to play that card?”

“It’s one of the classics. Though, to be fair, it’ll be more than a typical beating. I . . . hm, am I wrong in presuming you have had your ass kicked?”

“That cherry was popped a long time ago.”

The four men entered the room and fanned out behind me.

“So, our challenge, then,” Skye said, “is to put a new spin on this. Something surprising and fresh so that you’ll be entertained.”

“Mind if I take my jacket off first?”

“Go right ahead.”

I heard a hammer-cock behind me.

Skye said, “You can put your jacket on my desk here, and take off your shoulder holster and put that—and your piece—on top of it.”

“Sure, whatever,” I said. I shrugged out of the jacket. I bought it the year the Vikings took their eighteenth division title. I’ll buy a new one if they ever win the Super Bowl. Or when pigs sprout wings and learn to fly, whichever comes first. I folded it and set it down, unclipped my shoulder rig, set that down. If I was going to ruin my clothes, then at least nothing I was currently wearing had sentimental value.

I leaned on the desk. “Let’s agree on a couple of things first, okay?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin.

“When I’m done handing these clowns their asses, then you and I dance a round or two.”

“That would be fun,” he said, “but I doubt I’ll have the pleasure.”

“Second, if I walk out of here on my own steam, then it’s with the understanding that you will leave the lady alone.”

“If you walk out of here? Sure. But, tell me something,” he said, and he looked genuinely interested, “Why do you care? What is she to you?”

“Maybe I’m the possessive type, too. Maybe now that she’s asked for my help, it’s like she’s part of the family. So to speak.”

“Part of the family? You fucking kidding me here?”

“Nope.”

“You Italian? This some kind of dago thing?”

“I said it’s like she’s part of the family. My family,” I said, “and I protect what’s mine.”

“That’s it? It’s just a macho thing with you?”

“No, it’s more than that,” I admitted. I gestured to the torture-and-pain motif in which his office was decorated. “But, seriously, I doubt you would understand.”

“Mmm, probably not. I’m not into sentimentality and that bullshit. Not anymore.”

“What happened? What changed you?”

His smiled faded to a remote coldness. “I learned that there was something better. Better than family, better than blood ties. Better than any of this ordinary shit.”

“You found religion?” I said.

“It’s a ‘higher order’ sort of thing that I really don’t want to explain and I doubt you’d understand.”

“I might surprise you.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. But we might surprise you. In fact I can pretty fucking well guarantee it.”

“Rock and roll,” I said.

I straightened and turned toward the four goons. They took up positions like compass points. The office was big, but not big enough to give me room to maneuver. They were going to fall on me like a wall, and they knew it. The guy with the gun even snugged it back into his shoulder rig. They were that confident, and they were smiling like kids at a carnival.

“You shouldn’t have bothered Mr. Skye,” said the guy in front of me. He was the gun who’d holstered his gun. He stood on the East point of the compass. “You should have—”

I kicked him in the nuts. I really didn’t need to hear the speech.

I’m not that big, but I can kick like a Rockette. I felt bones break and he screamed like a nine-year-old girl. Dumbass should have kept his gun out.

I stepped backward off of him and put an elbow into West’s face. It had all of my mass in motion behind it. That time I heard bones break, and he went down so fast that I wondered if I’d snapped his neck.

That left South and North. South spent a half second too long looking shocked, so I jumped at him with a leaping knee—the only Muay Thai kick I know—and drove him all the way to the wall. By the time North closed in I’d grabbed South by the ears and slammed him skull-first into a replica of a torture rack. Blood splattered in a Jackson Pollack pattern.

I pivoted and rushed to intercept North, who was barreling at me with a lot of furious speed; so I veered left and clothes-lined him with my stiff right forearm. He did a pretty impressive back flip and landed face down on the black-painted hardwood floor.

If this was an action movie everything would switch to slow motion as the four thugs toppled to the ground and I turned slowly, looking badass, to face the now startled and unprotected villain.

The real world is a lot less accommodating.

I caught movement behind me, figuring it for Skye going after my gun, so I whirled and made ready to launch into a diving tackle.

Only it wasn’t Skye.

It was East and West getting to their feet. West’s face was smeared with blood from his broken nose, but he was smiling. As I watched he took his nose between thumb and forefinger and snapped it into place, then spit a hocker of blood and snot onto the floor.

North was chuckling as he rose; and behind me I could hear South shifting to stand behind me again. I turned in a slow circle. They were all smiling. They shouldn’t have been able to. They should have been sprawled on the floor and I should have been giving some kind of smart-ass speech as I closed in to lay a beating on Skye. That was the script I’d written in my head.

What the hell was this shit?

“Surprise!” said Skye dryly.

“What the hell are these fuckers taking?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you?”

“Try me.”

“Blood,” he said.

“What the—”

And I looked more closely at the smiles. Lots of white teeth. Lots of long, pointy white teeth.

“Oh, balls,” I said.

“Yeah, kind of cool, huh?”

“Vampires?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Actual vampires.”

Skye laughed. The four—well, let’s call a spade a spade—vampires laughed with him.

Even I laughed.

“Geez. When shit goes wrong it goes all the way wrong, doesn’t it,” I said.

“On the up side,” said Skye, “you did win the first round. Nice moves.”

“Thanks.”

The four of them circled me. My pulse jumped from “uh-oh” to “oh shit.” It was cold in his office, but I was starting to sweat pretty heavily.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “You’re one, too? Am I right?”

“A recent convert,” he admitted.

“So . . . that whole weight loss, going all weird on the missus, that was—?”

“A transition process. It’s not like they show in the movies, you know. Takes weeks. The whole metabolism changes.”

“No kidding.”

One of the vampires faked a lunge to psyche me out and I jumped a foot in the air. I’m pretty sure I didn’t yelp like a Chihuahua, but I wouldn’t swear to that in court. They all laughed at that, too. I didn’t.

“Which explains why you lost all that weight.”

“Who needs steroids and free-weights,” he agreed and spread his hands. “This package comes with honest-to-God super strength. I’m like Spider-Man and Wolverine rolled into one. Super strong and I heal from damn near anything.”

“Could you be more specific on that last point?”

“Cute.”

“Worth a try.” I looked at them, at their grinning, evil faces. My nuts were trying to crawl up inside of my chest cavity. I mean . . . fucking vampires?

“Weird thing was,” I said, “I was starting to build a case in my head about your wife. You losing weight and getting pale, blaming her for it all, and you saying you know what she is. Is she a vampire, too? Is she the one who bit you?”

Skye laughed. “Christ, no. And she’s not a succubus, either. She’s just a nagging, soul-draining, passive-aggressive, codependent bitch.”

“Wow. You’re really a chauvinistic prick, aren’t you?”

“Better than being pussy whipped.”

I dropped it. I had bigger fish to fry than trying to bring this macho jackass into the twenty-first century. Namely the fact that I was in a roomful of vampires.

I know I keep harping on that, but really . . . it’s not the sort of shit that happens all the time to me. Or, like . . . ever.

“Say, man,” I said to Skye, “any chance we can roll back this tape to the point where we were still friends? I just walk out of here and we all call it a day?”

Skye made a face as if pretending to consider it. “Mmm . . . no, I don’t see that happening.”

“You want to make a deal of some kind?”

“Nah,” he said. “You got nothing I want. Except the O-positive.”

“AB-neg,” I corrected.

“Never tried that.”

“You wouldn’t like it. Goes right to your hips.”

The wattage on his smile was dimmer. Jaunty banter can buy only so many seconds and then it’s back to business.

I tried to keep my face neutral, but my pulse was like a jazz drum solo.

“I’m going to throw something out here,” I said. I could hear a tremor in my voice. Fuck.

“Oh, please.” He gestured to the four killers and they started forward.

“Wait! Just hear me out. What have you got to lose?”

The thugs looked at Skye. West gave a “why not?” kind of shrug.

Skye sighed. “Okay, what is it? Last words? A little begging?” he suggested.

“Mm, more like last threat.”

“This I got to hear.”

The five of them looked genuinely interested.

“Okay, so here you are, five vampires. That’s some really scary shit, am I right? I mean creatures of the night and all that.”

He nodded, nothing to disagree with.

“To most people that’s enough to make them go apeshit crazy. I mean . . . vampires. Not your everyday thing. It opens up all kinds of metaphysical questions. If vampires exist, what else does? If there are supernatural monsters, does that mean God and the Devil are real? You follow me?”

“Sure. We get that a lot.”

“And I’m outnumbered here. Five to one. Tough odds even without you fellows being the undead. So . . . why am I not scared?”

His eyes narrowed.

“I mean, yeah, my pulse is racing and I’m sweating. But do I look as scared as I should be? I don’t, do I? Now . . . why is that?”

“So you put up a good front. It’ll be a good anecdote later,” he said. “For us.”

“Maybe he’s got a hammer and stake,” suggested West.

That got a laugh.

“Nope.”

My heart rate had to be close to two hundred. It was machine-gun fire in my chest.

“Coupla garlic bulbs in your pocket?” asked East.

“Nah. I don’t even like it on my pizza.”

“You don’t have any backup,” said North. “And you don’t got your gun.”

My blood pressure could have scalded paint off a battleship. I wiped sweat off my brow with my thumb.

“Okay, jokes over,” snapped Skye. “What’s the punch line here? Why aren’t you as scared as you should be?”

I smiled.

“I’ll show you.”

The first time it happened, way back when I was thirteen, it took almost half an hour. I screamed and cried and rolled around on the floor. First time’s always the hardest. Each time since, it was easier. My grandmother and her sister could do it in the time it took you to snap your fingers. My best time was during a foot chase back when I was with Minneapolis PD. I was running down the guy who’d beaten his wife with the extension cord. He saw me coming and ducked into his apartment. I kicked the door and he came out of the bedroom with a gun and opened up. I went through the change in the time it took me to leap through the doorway. Like the snap of my fingers. One minute me, next minute different me.

I tore the shit out of him. I lost my badge and pension and had to make up all sorts of excuses. On the plus side, I didn’t die, which would have happened if I hadn’t managed the change so fast. I’m only mortal when I look like one.

That night in Skye’s office wasn’t my best time. Maybe third or fourth best. Say, two, three seconds. It felt like an explosion. It hurts. Feels like my heart is bursting, like cherry bombs are detonating inside my muscles. It starts in the chest, then ripples out from there as muscle mass changes and is reassigned in new ways. Bones warp, crack and re-form. Nails tear through the flesh of my fingers and toes, my jaw shifts and the longer teeth spike through the gums. It’s bloody and it’s ugly and it hurts like a motherfucker.

But the end result is a stunner. A real kick-ass dramatic moment that wows the audience.

I think all four of the thugs screamed. They jerked back from me, looks of shock and horror on their faces. If I wasn’t so deeply into the moment, I would have smiled at the irony. Monsters being scared by a monster.

I crouched in the center of the room, hands flexing, claws streaked with blood, hot saliva dripping from my mouth onto my chest.

It would have been cool and dramatic to have said “Surprise!” to them, the way Skye had said it to me, but my mouth was no longer constructed for human speech. All I could do was roar.

I did.

And then I launched at them.

Vampires are strong. Four or five times stronger than an ordinary human.

Werewolves?

Hell, we’re a whole different class.

I slammed into West with both sets of front claws. He flew apart like he was made of paper and watery red glue. North and East tried to take me high and low, but they’d have done better to try and run. I brought my knee up into East’s jaw as he went for the low tackle and his head burst like a casaba melon. I caught North by the throat and squeezed. Red geysered up from the stump of his neck as his head fell away. South backed away, putting himself between me and Skye, arms spread, making a more heroic stand than I’d have thought. I tore the heart from his chest. Turns out, vampires need their hearts.

Skye had my gun in his hands. He racked the slide and buried the barrel against me as I leaped over the desk. He got off four shots. They hurt.

Like wasp stings.

Maybe a little less.

I don’t load my piece with silver bullets. I’m not an idiot.

He looked into my eyes and I would like to think that he saw the error of his ways. Don’t fuck with the innocent. Don’t fuck with my clients. My clients are mine, like members of my pack. Mess with them and the pack leader has to put you down. Has to.

So I did.

She saw me coming from across the street, her face concerned and confused. I was wearing a different pair of pants and different shoes. My own had been torn to rags during the change. Stuff I was wearing used to belong to the bartender. He didn’t need them anymore. He’d been on the same team as Skye and the four goons.

I opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.

“Are you all right, Sam?” she asked, studying my face. “Are you hurt? Is that blood?”

I dabbed at a dot on my cheek. Missed a spot. I pulled a tissue out of my jacket pocket and wiped my cheek.

“Just ketchup,” I said.

“You stopped for food?” she demanded, eyes wide.

“It was on the house. I was hungry. No biggie.”

She stared at me and then looked at the club across the street. The snow was getting heavier, the ground was white and it was starting to coat the street.

“What happened in there?”

I put the key into the ignition.

“I had a long talk with your ex. I told him that you were feeling threatened and uncomfortable with his actions, and I asked him to back off.”

“What did he say?”

“He won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“Just like that? He agreed to leave me alone just like that?” She snapped her fingers.

“More or less. I told him that I had some friends on the force and in L-and-I. Guess I made it clear that I could make his life more uncomfortable than he was making yours. He didn’t like it, but . . . ” I let the rest hang.

“And he agreed?”

“Take my word for it. He’s out of your life.”

She continued to study me for several long seconds. I waited her out and I saw the moment when she shifted from doubt and fear to belief and acceptance. She closed her eyes, sagged back against the seat, put her face in her hands, and began to cry.

I gripped the wheel and looked out at the falling snow, hiding the smile that kept trying to creep onto my mouth. I was digging the P.I. business. Fewer rules than when I was a cop. It allowed me to be closer to the street, to go hunting deeper into the forest.

Even so—and despite what I’d said to Skye—I was pretty rattled that he’d been a vampire. I mean, being who and what I am, I always suspected other things were out there in the dark, but until now I’d never met them. Now I knew. How many vampires were there? Where were they? Would they be coming for me?

I didn’t have any of those answers. Not yet.

I also wondered what else was out there. I could feel the excitement racing through me. I wanted to find out. Good or bad.

I reached out a hand and patted Mrs. Skye’s trembling shoulder. It felt good to know that one of the pack was safe now. It felt right. It made me feel powerful and satisfied on a lot of different levels. I knew that I was going to want to feel this way again. And again.

The snow swirled inside the thickening shadows.

Inside my head the wolf howled.

Jonathan Maberry is a Bram Stoker Award-winning author, writing teacher, and motivational speaker. Among his novels are Ghost Road Blues, Dead Man’s Song, Bad Moon Rising, Patient Zero. His most recent novel for adults, Extinction Machine, fifth in the Joe Ledger series, was published earlier this year. Maberry’s nonfiction works include Vampire Universe, The Cryptopedia, Zombie CSU: The Forensics of the Living Dead, and They Bite! His work for Marvel Comics includes The Punisher, Wolverine, DoomWar, Marvel Zombie Return, and Black Panther.