Chapter Eight

Dixie drove east on the 215. She kept her gaze cemented on the road, guiding the Hummer between the white lines, and the speedometer closer to eighty than seventy. The highway was fairly crowded in the early evening, but she had no trouble powering around slower traffic with ease. Although her eyes concentrated straight ahead, and Adam had told her what exits to take, her mind zig-zagged in all directions.

Was the world ready for Adam Steel? What were the ramifications of a story like this? She had to consider the bigger picture: the scientific, religious, even political consequences had to be weighed before going public with such an earth-shattering story. Was it even her place to bother about such issues?

This was the biggest discovery of all time, but the even bigger question kept gnawing at her: Was she ready to tell the story?

She drew in a deep lungful of chilly conditioned air and concentrated on silencing the doubts. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, what every reporter dreamed of: a worldwide exclusive with living proof sitting right next to her. In the long run that meant, no more fighting for air time, no management approvals for her stories, and a free pass to the all-boys club. This was her ticket to the big show—the networks.

And it wasn’t as if she chased Adam down and forced him to tell her the truth. The story came to her, like a story that insisted on telling itself.

She grunted and whispered, “Look what followed me home.”

“What was that?” Adam said.

Yes, she was up for it. She was ready to tell the world about Adam Steel.

“Adam,” she said in an easy, off the cuff manner—after all she didn’t want to spook him; he trusted her, but who knew how long that trust would last? “When did you know you were able to turn into a dog?”

“Canine,” he said, stepping over her last word. “And I’m not getting all superior on you. Call me a snob, but I prefer canine. I’m not a house pet; I’m a Giant Irish Wolfhound. And, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t turn into a canine. I am a canine who transforms into a human. It’s something that’s happened to me all my life. Canine, human—human, canine—back and forth.”

“Do you have any control over it?”

“None. It happens when it happens. Sure, I get a little advanced notice, like the night we had dinner. I knew it was about to happen. That’s why I had to run away.”

“That was two days ago. Is that common, two days on, two days off?”

“No. Sometimes I remain in human form for weeks, sometimes for just a few days. Like I said, I have no control over it.”

“How does it feel? You know, how does it feel being a dog?”

“Canine. I don’t know. I have no recollection of what I do as a canine, and that scares the hell out of me.” He pounded on the dash. “If I knew, if I had any clear memories at all—”

“Calm down, Adam. Tell me why you think this change happens to you.”

“It happens to all my brothers and sisters, and we don’t know for sure. There’s talk about a curse—they’re just rumors really.”

“You mean like a spell, or whammy, or something?”

With a shrug of his shoulders, he said, “I guess.”

“You guess? You must have some idea why this happens—”

“I don’t, okay?”

“All right, all right, don’t get mad. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this, that’s all.” She shook her head and furrowed her brow. “It’s just that…that—”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You just seem so normal. You speak perfect English, look like a typical man, and you carry on a good conversation. If I didn’t know, I would never be able to tell. How do you pull it off?”

“I’ve worked hard at it all my life. I listen to people and try to imitate them. I’ve even sat in on a few open lectures at UNLV. But to be honest, there’s no substitute for watching old movies on TV. Television is the best instructor. And, let’s face it, without TV I would never have met you.”

She smiled. “You said your family lives in Las Vegas. Were you born here?”

Adam turned to her with a cold stare. “You’re interviewing me, aren’t you?”

Dixie swerved onto the I-15 at the last minute, cutting off a smaller vehicle in the process. “Whoa, almost missed the exit.”

“Answer me. This is an interview, isn’t it?”

“I’m just asking a few questions. I mean, it isn’t every day that you meet a…whatever it is you are.”

“I’m a canine…and you’re a reporter.”

“C’mon. It’s my job to ask questions, and you came to me because of my job, remember? We can’t very well change our stripes, can we?”

“What does that mean?”

“We are what we are. I report the news, and you, my friend, are definitely news. What do you expect me to do with that, huh?”

“I came to you for help, to find out what’s going on.” He lowered his head. “I had to find out if I was the Werewolf Killer. But this isn’t on me anymore, Flynn convinced me of that. This is about that psychotic old man, The Alpha, who thinks he has the power to make us do anything he wants, terrible things. Well, it ends today.”

“And then what? After it’s over, I mean. Are you going to disappear into the background? Fade from the radar and find a safe place to hide?”

He nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Dixie choked the steering wheel. “But the whole world needs to know about you and your kind—”

“My kind?” His voice rose a few decibels. “So they can examine my kind; study my kind? I’m not a lab rat to be tested and analyzed.”

“I never called you a lab rat.”

“You know what they’ll do—they’ll dissect me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Am I? Listen, you said yourself you couldn’t tell there was anything different about me. And there isn’t. I’m just someone who happens to live in two different worlds, and I choose being human over being canine, that’s all. I love being free, exploring new things, and meeting new people. I enjoy art, and movies, and eating good food; I love seeing the world in color, and reading and drawing—”

“You draw? Can I see them?”

“Would you stop being a reporter for just a minute? You don’t know how lucky you are to be human. I swear, you and your kind take it all for granted.” The drone of the Hummer’s tires begged for him to speak up, to shout, but instead he lowered his voice, “Please promise you’ll keep my secret, that you’ll find a way to change your stripes.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then I’ll lose everything.”

“Hold on, this is the exit.” She whipped off the freeway and drove through a red light. “Where do I go? How do I get to your house?”

“Keep in the right lane, the turnoff is coming up. Right there.” He pointed. “Turn here.”

She turned the wheel, and they skidded onto a rundown road with no street sign. They sped past shrubs and cactus, blurred images of a barren desert.

“Slow down,” Adam said. “The road leads up that hill.”

“What road?”

“Turn right just past the sign.”

“What sign?”

****

Claremont Estates—1965

The sign is weathered: faded paint, sunbaked, and cracked. The only reason I see it is because I know where it is, having passed it hundreds of times before. Like I said, I look for signs from the universe—I hate this sign.

Claremont Drive is a gravel road winding up a small hill just south of Las Vegas. The dozen or so ranch-style homes on the hill were built in the late sixties; oversized lots offering perfect views of The Strip. Unfortunately, the sixty-plus years of desert sun have cooked the structures into uninhabited ruins. Built before post-tension requirements, most of the foundations are cracked and unstable. The homes are now abandoned, condemned by the city, and keeping with the tradition of Las Vegas, scheduled for demolition.

Pine trees, cactus, and shrubs cover the hillside. Miles of chain link fence jigsaw back and forth defining the ancient property lines of Claremont Estates.

At the top of the hill is 7711, a six-bedroom maze of rotting plywood and patches of stucco. Peeling, sun damaged paint gives the house a faded mix of rusty browns and muted tans. The ever present chain link fence defines a huge backyard consisting of nothing more than caliche and sand.

A dog house, the size of an enormous oven, sits in the middle of the backyard. That’s my house. I avoid it like the plague and prefer to lay in the shade of a pine tree near the house, away from the backyard. I’ve never made a drawing of this place in my sketchbook—my drawings are for things I want to remember.

Dixie parks the Hummer at the bottom of the hill, and I jump out. She rolls down her window and wipes a hand across her brow.

“I wish I had my phone,” she says. “I’d feel better if I knew the cavalry was on the way.”

“I’m glad you don’t. I don’t want any more people in danger because of my family. Give me some time, then drive to Metro and tell them what’s going on as best you can.”

“What do you mean as best I can?”

“I mean don’t tell them about me. They’re more apt to believe you if you say it was an anonymous tip. Hopefully, it’ll be over by the time they get here. And don’t go back to your home tonight, not until it’s safe.”

Her brow wrinkles. “Why wouldn’t my home be safe?”

“Flynn has been there, and that means The Alpha knows where you live. He’s a very powerful man. Don’t underestimate him.”

“But you said he only has power over your pack, and only when you’re dogs, right?”

“Listen to me, Dixie, my family is extremely dangerous. We’re not puppies, doggies, or pooches; we don’t fetch and we don’t play Frisbee. We’re Giant Irish Wolfhounds, and we were trained by The Alpha. And once again, we prefer to be called canines, not dogs.”

“All right already, I’m sorry.”

A dry, hot wind blows across the hill whipping up dust devils. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m taking everything out on you, and I shouldn’t. There’s something about this place that stresses me out.”

“You think?”

I smile at her. “Thank you, Dixie Mulholland.”

“For what?”

“I came to you for help, and you have helped, more than you know. Without you, I wouldn’t be here right now; Flynn would have made sure of that. Now, go tell Detective Ramirez everything, almost everything. That should give me enough time to deal with The Alpha.”

“But—”

“Go.” I turn and jog up the road. The tires of the Hummer chomp on the gravel as it pulls away. All of a sudden it grinds to a halt.

“Adam…be careful.”

Maybe she told me to be careful because that’s what humans say when they’re afraid and don’t know what else to say, but it doesn’t matter; I believe her. I feel recharged, encouraged by the knowledge I’ve found someone—a human—who knows me, the real me, and she’s okay with that. Of course, I know she’s using me to further her career, but that doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I know from experience stripes are hard to change.

She’s on my side. I’ve never had that before—ever.

I watch the Hummer disappear around a corner, knowing Dixie won’t be speeding back to help me, not this time.

Trudging up Claremont Drive is a hike. I stay low and use the overgrown brush along the side of the road as cover. By the time I reach my house, the sun starts to fade behind the Spring Mountains in the west. With only an hour or so of daylight, I’ve got to act fast; as a human, I have poor night vision and an even worse sense of smell. I wouldn’t stand a chance getting into the house undetected at night.

There’s no movement in front of the house so I edge toward the mouth of the driveway. The shade under a pine tree gives me much needed cover from prying eyes. I lean against the tree and scan the area.

Our yellow van is parked in the driveway. That means the caretaker is home. The van is covered by a mist of dust and some joker has written “wash me” on the back window. I smile, remembering the joker was Ivan, my brother. Ivan makes me laugh, and we might have been friends under any normal circumstances. But my family is anything but normal. Ivan ran away from home a few weeks ago.

Next to the van is The Alpha’s expensive black sedan. The difference between the two vehicles is striking. The Alpha’s way of making a statement I guess, reminding us of how wealthy he is next to our beat-up, overcrowded cattle car.

I don’t know how or where The Alpha gets his money, but he makes no excuse for it, not to us. The den, his lair, is the nicest room in the house. He drives a luxury vehicle, and wears very expensive clothes. I have no idea why he would choose to mastermind a series of murders. He may be a sociopath, but with the rumors of a curse on my family, I hope that’s all it is.

I guess to anyone who doesn’t know him, The Alpha would appear to be just an old man: short gray hair, tall and stocky, good health, but all and all harmless. As canines, we see a different man: our lives are controlled by him. Everything we do as canines, every action, emotion, and movement is by his command. He is our god.

My senses are on high alert as I follow the path up the driveway to the front door. I turn the knob and try to lift it as I open it so it doesn’t rub and squeak against the surrounding woodwork like it usually does. So far, so good. I shut the door, but only enough to keep out the light. It’s still open just a crack.

My siblings usually nap at this time, if they’re all in canine form, something I have no way of knowing. They tend to gather as a pack in one of the bedrooms in the east wing, the coolest part of the house. I take cautious, careful steps through the living room.

Thoughts of how I’m going to kill The Alpha play out in my mind on the long trek down the hallway. If I catch him off guard, I’ll sneak up and choke him. If he sees me coming, I’ll sucker punch him, then choke him. Either way, choking sounds like the best method. It’s quiet.

My mind is so involved in the details of murder I don’t notice someone behind me. I become aware of that little detail just before something crashes down on my head. I fall to the floor, limp, seeing shades of red and black. My eyelids are heavy, and my head feels wet. I have just enough strength to roll onto my back and see Bane standing over me holding a rather large rock in his hand. I always thought Bane and I were on good terms.

The Alpha rushes out of his den and stares down at me. He grins and gives Bane a nod. “Lock him in the basement.”