Chapter Thirteen

The hand had, at various times, waved to friends, opened doors, and caressed lovers. It had performed the myriad of functions hands do—when still connected to their wrists, their arms, and their bodies. This particular hand was an orphan, severed at the wrist, and lying in the middle of an enormous backyard on the top of a hill south of Vegas: 7711 Claremont Drive.

The slender fingers were curved, dried and brittle from days of baking in the sun, and adorned with painted nails—turquoise—a diamond wedding ring, and a cut on the inside of the thumb. There were punctures near the wrist, jagged and uneven, where raw strands of dried tendons, muscle, and flesh were exposed. Due to its positioning—propped up at an angle, like a hand reaching up from the ground—the forefinger pointed toward a doghouse just a few feet away. But, of course, its days of pointing, of being able to help tell a story were over: except to those who knew what to look for.

Detective Marco Ramirez crouched down and stared at the hand lying next to exhibit marker thirty-seven. Craning his neck to get a better view of the wedding ring, he made a notation in his book, a notebook now filled with comments, diagrams, and symbols. He noted the turquoise nails and the cut on the thumb.

The entire crime scene was bathed in artificial light, an eerie, otherworldly illumination, hard on the eyes. The generators for the portable lights circling the backyard were supposed to be the newer, quieter models. However, the constant noise and smell of diesel sent a shooting pain through Ramirez’s head. He rubbed his temples, mulling over the impossible task ahead.

Scores of numbered yellow cones cluttered the backyard as crime scene investigators, detectives, analysts, and photographers tip-toed around them. Each cone marked the location of evidence—human remains—littering the backyard. A canvas of suffering almost beyond the scope of documentation.

But there was no choice: the tedious work continued. Video cameras captured real time images, while artists and illustrators drew diagrams, mapping the area with the assistance of measuring wheels, distance lasers, and computer aided design tablets. Each piece of evidence was photographed several times, as it was found, with the numbered evidence cone in the background, and with a ruler nearby to indicate scale. The object was then carefully collected and placed in a bag or box, depending on size. Samples of dirt, in proximity to the collected evidence, was scooped up into separate bags as well.

The body parts were reminiscent of the multi-vehicle accidents Ramirez had investigated when he worked uniform. But the comparison stopped there. None of the highway carnage he’d witnessed came close to this. The poor souls here were not victims of an accident, nobody made an error in judgment, and there was no mechanical failure. They were here because of one reason: they’d been murdered, dismembered, and their remains strewn about the property like so much garbage. At the very least, the act was unthinkable. Another word crossed his mind: unforgiveable.

From the moment the task force arrived at the scene discoveries were made in rapid succession: a basement in the house with several empty cages; a room filled with piles of new and used clothing; bones and dried blood throughout the residence. But the most disturbing discovery of all: a man sitting on a ragged yellow couch in the living room.

The wiry old man with clouding blue eyes sat as if frozen, shaking and chattering under his breath in a language nobody understood. Ramirez had no idea if he were a victim or suspect, and wasn’t about to gamble on which.

“I want him taken to UMC,” Ramirez told a uniformed lieutenant, “and be alert, this guy could be the key to everything.” He turned to FBI Agent Miller. “We need to find out what language he’s speaking. It sounds Russian, or Czech to me, but I’m no expert. Let’s get one.”

“We’ve got the best on the way from Langley,” Miller said.

“Good.” Ramirez turned again, barking at the lieutenant, “I want heavy protection on this guy. Stay with the paramedics all the way to UMC. Screen everyone who treats him or even comes close: nurses, technicians—everyone. Keep a record. Check all IDs. I want a tight perimeter, and no press. Is that understood?”

The lieutenant nodded and helped the old man to his feet.

As Ramirez and Miller stepped outside, a helicopter churned overhead.

“Jesus Christ, that better be ours,” Ramirez said shielding his eyes against the blinding search light. He turned to a uniformed officer. “I don’t want press helicopters anywhere near this site. Is Claremont still blocked off at the bottom of the hill?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Find out.”

The old man, helped by two paramedics and followed closely by the lieutenant, stepped outside. Ramirez moved back to make room for them on the narrow walkway leading down to a Clark County Fire and Rescue vehicle. The driveway was empty; a couple of forensics experts busily collected the oil stains left behind.

The old man kept chattering in the unknown language as he passed Ramirez. It sounded like the same few words, repeated over and over, as if it were a chant, or a prayer.

Before being tucked into the back of the vehicle, the old man paused, turned back to face the house, and parted his lips in what could have been a smile. A chill ran through Ramirez.

The incessant noise of the generators and diesel fumes drove Ramirez away from the house and down to the street as the rescue vehicle departed. Three patrol cars, their blue and red lights washing over the hillside, followed close behind.

Ramirez stopped on the sidewalk, his mind stumbling on the old man’s smile, on the cages in the basement. He closed his eyes and bent his head down; someday, what happened here would be explained, a crime of this magnitude demanded an explanation.

Agent Miller approached Ramirez. “How many bodies? Do we know yet?”

“No idea,” Ramirez said. “The coroner has to piece it all together—like a human jigsaw puzzle—and give us a count. Could take days to get that number. Most of the smaller pieces were buried, in individual graves, like they were being put aside.”

“I agree, not buried very well.”

“No, I don’t think they were being hidden. It’s more like they were being held back—saved for later. They had very little bite marks, not like the rest we found.”

Miller rubbed his forehead. “Saved for what?”

Ramirez shrugged and let the word escape. “Leftovers.”

“Cannibalism? You think those bite marks are human?”

Ramirez shook his head. “No. I think our guy was feeding his dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“The cages in the basement—the paw prints in the backyard. Dixie seemed to think we had a Department of Wildlife guy on our team. Looks like we need one now.” He stared at Miller, giving the man a smile accompanied by a frown. “I hate to admit it, but I think Dixie must be psychic.”

“Really?” Miller said. “Then why didn’t she know about this place?”

Ramirez turned and walked away from Miller without answering. He climbed the walkway back to the house. Maybe she did.

****

Colonel Dayton pulled on the cord and drew back the heavy black shades covering the windows. The morning sun bathed the suite in blinding light. He took a moment, allowing his eyes time to adjust, then focused on the New York New York Hotel and Casino located just across the street.

“A werewolf killer is running loose on the streets of Vegas, and the tourists are all out looking for the cheapest breakfast buffet they can find. Kind of ironic, don’t you think? Since they’re sort of on the menu themselves.”

“That’s a bit crass, isn’t it, Jon?” Major Ransom slipped out of the restroom, running both hands down the sides of her dark pants. “The authorities are doing what they can. There’s basically a policeman on every corner. This has to be the safest city in the world.”

“Really?” Dayton picked up the remote control and switched to a news channel.

“…another murder last night in Sin City. That brings the total number of victims attributed to the so-called Werewolf Killer to twelve. The local task force has not issued a statement about last night’s attack, but a press conference is scheduled for—”

He turned off the television and sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped.

Ransom joined him and put a hand on the back of his neck. “Don’t blame yourself. Two million people live in this valley, and we’re looking for one—just one.”

“We weren’t looking last night, were we?”

“Don’t, Jon—”

He stood up and stepped back to the window. “There’s a killer out there somewhere. The kind the admiral has hoped existed for years.”

“What are you saying?”

“Don’t you know? Can’t you read my mind?”

“I can, but I want you to say it out loud so you can hear how silly it sounds.”

“Silly? Don’t you think the home office is giddy with delight? We’ve got ourselves a real live werewolf.” Dayton lowered his voice, doing his best to mimic Admiral Garrison: “We knew it, we knew it all along. There are things out there, things that can’t be explained. Now you know the truth. Now you know—”

“Stop it. Admiral Garrison would never gloat like that. He’s a truly dedicated man. It’s not his fault. Do you think he’s happy about it?”

Dayton turned to her. “I’m sorry. It’s just, now that it’s real, I feel so useless. I mean, we’re actually trying to find a werewolf. And you’re right, it does sound silly when I say it out loud, but there you have it.”

“At least we know what we’re looking for. That gives us an edge, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re frightened.”

“Damn right. Aren’t you?”

“Of course, I am,” she said. “Terrified, actually.”

He helped her up. “You are?”

“Yes. That was the worst impression of the admiral I’ve ever heard. It scared the hell out of me.”

They laughed.

“C’mon, Major,” Dayton said as he grabbed his room key. “Let’s go in search of a cheap buffet breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” Ransom smiled. “Then let’s find ourselves a werewolf.” She stopped in the middle of the room. “Wait.” She stepped back toward the window and gazed across the street.

“What is it?”

“Hush.” Major Ransom closed her eyes, placing her palms on the glass.

Dayton came up behind her and whispered, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. There’s something—very close. I don’t know what it is, but the feeling is quite strong.” She opened her eyes and turned to him. “It’s gone now.”

“Just like that? What was it?”

“Jumbled images: a red leash—panic. I can’t explain it, but it was very real.”

“C’mon, you need food; we both do.”

They rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. When they stepped out, the noise of slot machines, gamblers, and piped-in music assaulted their ears. The backs of their hands rubbed against each other, then came together.

“No,” Major Ransom said, stopping and gripping his hand tighter.

“No, what?”

“We’re not going to tell Detective Ramirez who we are.”

“You’re going to have to stop reading my thoughts. I was just mulling it over. After all, there’s no precedence for this situation. We’ve always investigated, what we thought was, unexplained activity. We’ve never really found anything conclusive. I’d say this is pretty conclusive.”

“Agreed, but there is protocol—there is procedure. We’re supposed to work behind the scenes, always have. It’s one of the basic rules.”

“It was just a thought, Major. I have lots of them.”

She grinned. “Yes you do.”

“So you’re going to have to stop reading them all.”

They entered the café and ate a light breakfast.

Cuthbert met them with the car at exactly nine. He drove onto Tropicana, turned right, and headed north on The Strip to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department’s headquarters where they were told about the house on Claremont.