Chapter 1. A Werewolf at the Cemetery
That night I was walking through the woods toward the cemetery. In the distance, I heard a howl, but I paid it no mind—nature can be deceptive. The moon was full and the stars shone brightly. But even without them I would have found the way—I’d been here many times in the past two months. It was at this cemetery that I had buried my friend. His death was a mystery: the killer left absolutely no traces. Today I just wanted to sit quietly by his grave and think about the case.
I had barely walked a hundred steps down the forest trail when I heard branches snapping off to my right. It sounded as if something inhuman—a beast—was forcing its way through them. I stopped and shouted.
"Who’s there?"
The cracking intensified. Then I yelled:
"I'm a cop! I've got a gun! Enough joking around. I'll open fire, you bastards!"
The noise grew. I drew my Beretta from its holster and racked the slide.
"You sons of bitches, don't you dare mess with me—I'm not in the mood for fun." I cocked the hammer and prepared to shoot.
The head of a scrawny bear poked out of the bushes. For God's sake, since when are there bears in Boston? I thought. I pulled out the Colt revolver loaded with armor-piercing rounds from my waistband, cocked it, and got ready to fire with both guns.
With surprising agility for such a scrawny thing, the bear lunged at me. Must be hungry, I thought, and I immediately opened fire, hoping to give the animal a bellyful of lead.
Dawn was breaking. I came to on the ground with a shallow wound on my chest. The bushes and earth were spattered with blood. Apparently I’d wounded the beast and it had wandered off into the thicket to die. Well, to hell with it—at least I was alive. But I should go see a doctor.
During my checkup, Dr. Muhammad shook his head disapprovingly and said:
"Mr. Harrison, why on earth would you go to a cemetery on a full moon? That’s a bad omen…"
Oh my God, just do your job, you superstitious idiot, I thought.
After the hospital I swung by home to change clothes, then headed to the station.
I needed to find the killer of my partner, Hank Sullivan. Hank had saved me from bullets more than once and taught me how to track criminals. He used to say, "Think like a criminal—it helps." Oh, how I could use his advice right now!
I sat down at my desk and for the hundredth time began reviewing the case files. First I watched the gas station video that captured Hank alive for the last time. There he is, getting out of his truck, one hand resting on the gun in his holster. He looks around, inserts the pump nozzle, swipes a card at the pump terminal. Then he heads into the store, still keeping a hand on his gun. He gives the clerk $30 and walks back out.
