Michele was relatively certain that she knew what he was talking about. However, she didn’t want to accidentally confess to something else, so she feigned ignorance. “What?”
“You know.”
“Really, I don’t. And do we have time for guessing games?”
“You asked the old woman about the bathroom.”
“So? Am I not allowed to pee?”
George cracked his knuckles, one at a time. Next to her, Michele felt Lou’s leg muscles tighten, as if he were cringing. George drove away from the antique shop, looking extremely stern. He was good at it. “You were trying to escape.”
“Did you see the place we were in? Did it look like the kind of place to have a secret rear entrance? Let me give you Women 101, George: when we go into a store, we usually have to pee.”
“This guy Ricky, who sets up our jobs--he told me to lock you in the cage. I don’t want to do that. Right now, we can pretend that we’re business partners, but when you try something sneaky, it makes me feel that I need to take an extra level of precaution.”
“You don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Just needed to pee. I had to go before the dogs attacked.”
She was, of course, lying. The antique store might have had a back exit. If not, she would’ve used the opportunity to steal some kind of weapon. Unfortunately, George had kept her close during the shopping adventure, and she hadn’t been given the chance.
To be perfectly honest, the cage seemed like the safest place to be. If Ivan couldn’t get out, he probably couldn’t get back in, and Michele was very close to raising her hand and politely volunteering to be locked in there. It wouldn’t be that uncomfortable.
The problem, of course, would come when they met up with the other bad guys. If she seemed to be on relatively even ground with George and Lou, she might be able to still talk her way out of this. If she was locked in a cage while George and Lou introduced her...well, it was going to be difficult to sell the idea of them being newfound business associates.
She really did have to pee, though.
The positive side to this whole thing, and she did indeed feel that it was a positive side and not merely self-delusion, was that there was an incredible story here. If she survived the werewolf ordeal, she’d be on television twenty-four hours a day for at least the next week. Book rights. Movie rights. She’d donate a generous portion of her proceeds to the gas station attendant’s family, and perhaps to the families who’d tragically lost their household pets in the dog attack, but as long as she didn’t get killed and her injuries didn’t go much further than the slashed-up shoulder, the danger would be worth it.
That said, she’d still try to get the hell away from George and Lou, given the opportunity. She wasn’t crazy.
“We have a lot of problems right now,” said George. “Please don’t cause more for us.”
“I won’t.”
* * *
Ivan Spinner sat in a tree, feeling good about life. He hadn’t felt so good half an hour ago, when he climbed up this tree; in fact, he’d been pissed off and even a little ashamed. Why did he run away when that bozo Lou cut him? Yeah, it hurt, but he should have ripped Lou’s heart out, stuck it on the end of his talon, and licked it like a Tootsie Roll Pop. It would’ve been fine to murder Lou. That still left George as his plaything.
Of course, he couldn’t forget Michele. He had no ill feelings toward her, but he was certainly going to enjoy devouring her fine ass, even though he wasn’t really a cannibal. He’d be romantic about it. He’d tell her he loved her first.
He reached back and touched the cut. It felt almost healed. The one on his chest had faded to a red scratch. Both cuts still hurt, but that was typical--the wounds went away before the pain.
He wished he hadn’t been forced to reveal the full scope of his power. Unfortunately, though being a werewolf made his life much easier and a lot more fun and was quite honestly absolutely fucking fantastic, it did not allow him to bend bars. He’d been a little worried--not too much, but a little--that George and Lou would take him all the way to Tampa without giving him a chance to escape. Ivan didn’t know much about Mr. Dewey and his crew, and though he was relatively certain that he could’ve gotten away even after George and Lou made their delivery, it was much better to be on the loose here.
He wondered if the werewolf element had made it into the news, or if they thought it was just a regular old human serial killer who’d cut up Diane. He loved the idea of some hillbilly being interviewed: “Why, I saw it, and that thing, it was half-man and half-beast! I ain’t done seen nothin’ like it in my life, even when I’ve sucked down a couple quarts of my county-famous moonshine!”
Ivan climbed down from the tree. Logically, he knew that he should make a run for it and move to another part of the world--again--but what was the point of being a werewolf if you couldn’t terrorize people? George had probably dropped a great big loaf in his oversized underwear, but Ivan hadn’t come close to being satisfied with the thug’s comeuppance.
He’d loved George’s expression when he slid that blade through Diane’s silky neck. Fifty percent horror, fifty percent guilt, mixed into a delicious concoction of misery. George was sitting in that van right now, wailing “It was all my fault! It was all my fault!”
Yeah, George, it sure as hell was.
And this whole killing spree is going to be your fault, too.
Ivan’s shirt had fallen off completely, though his pants had held up fairly well thanks to the elastic waist. He could probably break into somebody’s house and steal a change of clothing without too much trouble, but, no, it felt like the kind of afternoon where he should murder somebody just for their clothes.
Murder them slowly.
Make them die a lingering, horrible, excruciatingly painful death simply because they wore the same size shirt as him.
He sat down next to the tree. It was a pretty desolate piece of road, but three cars had driven by while he was up there, so another one was bound to approach before too much longer.
He wondered if any of his four-legged friends were around. He closed his eyes and put out the call. Nothing heavy-duty like before; just a mild little dog-call to see if any showed up.
Ivan didn’t have the slightest idea how this power worked, whether he was sending out some frequency that only dogs could hear, or if one of George’s guesses was right and it had something to do with his scent, or if he could control dog brain waves, or whatever. Unlike the transformations, which he’d mastered in a ridiculously short timeframe--okay, eight years, but that was damn good for a werewolf, since most of them never learned to control it--he still hadn’t quite figured out the whole dog thing. It was sort of like being able to move a pencil with his mind, except that he didn’t know if the pencil was going to roll across the table or twirl up into the air and poke out somebody’s eye.
He sat there for about five minutes until a small gray Schnauzer walked along the side of the road toward him. No collar. He wondered if it was a stray.
He heard the engine of an approaching car. Sometimes, things just worked out perfectly.
The dog looked at him and let out a sharp bark.
“Fuck you,” he told it. He continued to concentrate.
The dog walked into the middle of the road and began to happily move in the direction of the oncoming car.
Poor, poor doggie. Ivan chuckled as the dog, its tongue hanging partly out of its mouth like a complete moron, trotted along toward its doom. I think I’ll name you...Roadkill.
The car, a white sedan, came around the corner. The driver swerved at the last instant, missing the Schnauzer by the length of its stubby tail, and then careened off the road.
The dog ran off.
Well, shit. He’d hoped to see the dog get creamed and to disable the vehicle. Oh well.
Ivan stood up, jogged over to the car, and opened the passenger-side door. The driver, a bald man who was too young to be naturally bald, seemed shaken up but not hurt. He’d been wearing his seatbelt. Smart lad.