Hunting Night

Hunting Night

A Sons of the Wolf mystery

F.M. McPherson

Copyright © 2014 Fiona McPherson

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

eISBN 978-1-927166-25-3

Published 2014 by Nightflower, an imprint of Wayz Press, Wellington, New Zealand.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Wayz Press

31 Gloucester Street

Wellington 6012

New Zealand

http://www.wayz.co.nz/wayzpress/nightflower

http://www.fmmcpherson.com

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Other books by F.M. McPherson

Chapter 1

The night wraps itself around them, warm as a brother’s skin, liquid as a woman’s womb. The scent of her layers itself on the humid air: the musk of her sex, the salty tang of her sweat, the sweet metal of her blood. The dizzying, erotic flavor of her fear.

He runs. Smiling.

* * *

It was the doldrums of the night, the time when human energies are lowest, when the sick and frail die, when depression turns to suicide. It was a good time for hunting.

I walked along the darkened streets, bouncing on my toes, feeling a rush building in my veins. Forget the painstaking, boring searching that is the backbone of my job, this is what I love. This was why I do what I do. A purr started deep in my chest. Maybe I’d be lucky. I laughed softly. My brothers stepped out of the shadows and grinned at me.

We went hunting.

* * *

I have a few contacts on the streets. Contrary to most people’s preconceptions about what a PI does, the sex and drug scene is usually far removed from the problems people bring me. But not always. And sometimes I come here looking for trouble. Sometimes I’m lucky, and find it.

Nothing too heavy. I know exactly how much Dave and Paul can live with, and I don’t, ever, step over that line.

But even for me, memories and fantasies only go so far. Sometimes I need something real.

Something new.

* * *

I was looking for a line into the porn business. There was a trannie I’d helped out once, I thought maybe he could help me. But I tripped over someone else I knew first.

He was rolling a drunk. The stupid schmuck had passed out in the recessed doorway of a second-hand bookshop. He was crumpled against the door, breathing stertorously, a bottle still clasped in his hand. Cheap scotch. The smell was strong, but not strong enough to mask the smell of the guy with his back to me, his hands busy in the drunk’s clothes. I ghosted up to him. Stood close enough to breathe in his ear.

Boo.

He jerked himself straight and whirled around. His hair had been cropped into spikes and dyed white-blond since I last saw him, and he had a small scar near his eye that hadn’t been there before, but otherwise he looked the same. Eyes too close together with the pupils slightly out of alignment, high cheekbones emphasized by the sunken cheeks, a grayish cast to the spotty skin. He smelled of bad food and poor hygiene and most of all, of the bitter-sweet chemical cocktail of the drugs he consumed.

I smiled. Hey, Pisser.

He swallowed nervously. Hey, man.

Don’t call me man.

He held up both hands in a defensive gesture. One of the hands held a wallet. I clicked my tongue and shook my head in mock sorrow. A little fizz of joy ran quicksilver through our veins.

He said, heartfelt, "Shit."

What did I tell you, Pisser? My voice was a gravel purr, not trying to hide my pleasure.

He tried bravado. You told me lots of things, ma— He bit his lip. His eyes darted sideways, looking for escape.

I’m fast, I reminded him, enjoying his panic. He stood very still, his eyes fixed on me in a rabbit’s stare. I’m strong. I put my hand on his skinny biceps and squeezed. His mouth opened in a soundless cry. He knew it would be worse if he made a noise. He kept his eyes on me.

I released him. And I like hurting people. I waited expectantly.

His head moved in a jerky stutter of a nod. It took him a couple of goes to get the words out, but eventually he managed, I remember.

I looked at the hand with the wallet in it. What else do you remember, Pisser?

His breath rasped. I remember you like people to do something bad, ’cos then you have an excuse to hurt them. He swallowed. I’m putting it back, see? Keeping his eyes on me the entire time, he lowered himself into a squat and reached behind to shove the wallet back into the drunk’s pocket. I didn’t try to lie about it, did I? I remembered that too. I could see the effort it took him to keep looking at me directly, but he’d learned that lesson. A trace of puppy-dog hopefulness laced his scent with acorn and peach.

Yeah, I said flatly. Doing good, Pisser.

He brightened a little and when I stepped back he stood up. You want something, ma—. He cut himself off abruptly, his eyes dilating with fear.

That cheered me. You’ve got a name for me, Pisser. Why don’t you use it?

He shook his head violently. No, I ain’t got a name for you. Nossir. I don’t talk about you, not to anyone. Why’d I need a name?

My grin widened. You sure you haven’t mentioned me, Pisser?

The panic kicked up a notch. I swear, ma—! I swear. I held my stare. He wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. Maybe I’ve said that I got some protection, I mean, that’s okay, isn’t it? I haven’t said anything about you though! I swear. Not one thing!

I listened to him babble for a while, then leaned one shoulder against the window. Pisser stopped talking immediately and the hopeful look came back into his eyes. I’d got him pretty well trained. I hoped he lasted longer than the last junkie I’d had. Oh well, short shelf-life. And it was fun training them.

I said, You know the little mall near the video arcade on Dunsmuir? There’s a florist on one side of the entrance and a shop selling papers and stuff on the other side.

He relaxed some more. Opposite the kebab place? I nodded. Yeah sure. They make great kebabs. You should try — My eyes bored into his. He stopped and swallowed nervously. I know it.

You know the game shop?

I guess. I don’t go into those shops. I mean, I don’t even know if I’ve seen it open, you know? Doesn’t keep my hours. He grinned hopefully, keeping his eyes on me like a love-sick puppy.

The guy who runs it, I hear he has another business out the back. Porn. Kids. You know anything about that?

His whey face clouded. Not my scene.

I know. But you hear things. I reached out and ran a nail consideringly along the flaccid line of his jaw, feeling the effort it took him not to flinch. I grinned. What I keep you for, eh?

I can ask around, sure. His head bobbed up and down eagerly. Wanting me gone.

My brothers drifted around me, looking for something more interesting, sensing we weren’t going to get any more fun out of this one. I shared their disappointment.

Nobody better know I’m asking.

He shook his head hard. No way.

No. I stared at him while he stood there, desperate to move, pinned to my stare like a butterfly on a page.

The minutes passed. The stink of his ratcheting desperation amused me for a while, but it also whetted my appetite. My brothers moved restlessly.

His name’s Bill Short. I repeated my client’s description. He’s about thirty. Dirty blond hair, thinning on top. Moustache. No beard. Not tall, not short. Average build. I paused. Repeat it back.

It took three goes before I was satisfied, then I said, I’ll meet you at the usual place at midnight tomorrow. Don’t be late.

He bobbed his head, then shook it. I’ll be there.

I glanced down at the noisome heap on the ground. There was no point stopping Pisser from rolling him then leaving him here. Someone else would be along soon. I squatted down and picked him up. Useless asking Pisser to do it, a wallet was the most he could lift.

I carried him a ways down the street and dropped him on a bench on the edge of the pedestrian mall. There was a good chance the cops would get to him first. That was the most I’d do for a drunk.

I headed west again. Night club territory. Bright lights and noise and too many people. But I didn’t see any of it. I’m squatting over my keyboard grumbling over my report to the insurance company and the phone is ringing. I pick it up with relief.

* * *

Mike?

Brother. I settle back with pleasure, despite the note of restraint that has been in my brother’s voice for weeks. For now it is enough to hear his voice.

I was afraid I’d miss you.

I’m in the middle of this stupid report. And Paul’s staying home tonight.

Good.

You got plans for me?

You could say that. His voice holds amusement now. It’s Mrs D. again.

I groan.

‘That young brother of yours’, he mimics in an old lady’s quaver. ‘Such a nice boy. So clever at finding Diana’. He laughs, and resumes his normal light tenor. For a moment it is as it has always been between us. It’ll only take you a few minutes.

It’s the second time this month. I reckon she’s doing it on purpose.

Mrs D. or Diana?

Mrs D.

There is a brief silence. When he speaks again, the amusement is gone from his voice. Do you want me to tell her you can’t do it anymore?

I try to speak lightly. The truth, as there must be between brothers. You want me to do it, I’ll do it.

Mike ...

My brother has taught me over the years that it is not always the right time for too much truth. I try to erase my error. Dave, it’s okay, I was just mouthing off. You know how much I love writing reports.

Silence. I can tell he is mulling over my tone of voice, trying to work out how honest I am being. I smile. Let the smile enter my voice. We admire her. And you know I’m desperate for an excuse to leave this computer.

His voice relaxes. I know. A pause, then he says awkwardly, Well, I better let you get going then.

Dave —

See you Sunday. The words rush out and he hangs up without waiting for a reply.

The jagged hurt of that was still with me when my cell rang, jarring me from memory. It was Caryl with the address. It wasn’t far. A run-down part of town, but maybe my suspect lived at one of the better addresses. I went to see.

Chapter 2

The place was like a hundred others I had tossed. Stale odors of an adult male, of sex, of Asian takeouts and pizza and cheap wine and beer, of socks and shirts and underpants left to molder. And traces of cocaine.

I found the cocaine taped to the back of a drawer in his nightstand. There wasn’t much. The fact that there was any argued against a planned disappearance.

Other things argued against it too.

I found a soft-covered notebook stuck to the underside of a low table. The table was some sort of modern monstrosity made out of recycled whiteware. The notebook had a magnetic strip stuck to its cover. Ingenious, but it was hardly going to fool even a halfway experienced searcher. The unnecessary cunning, coupled with a certain base level of stupidity, seemed typical of what I’d seen of this guy.

I flicked through the first few pages of the notebook. Names in some sort of half-assed code, phone numbers. I slipped it into my pocket.

The only other things he’d made any attempt to hide were the DVDs. The DVD covers were all mainstream commercial ones. They were all unlikely titles for a young male on his own. I squatted in front of the big screen and fed them in, one by one, only watching them long enough to see what they were. Standard commercial porn, most of them. Some of them I thought were probably his own work. I took those.

Then I tried the DVD I’d taken from the shop. And sighed. Clients always lie.

I hoped it meant nothing more than a reluctance to embarrass himself. Dave and Mrs D would both be disappointed if I couldn’t protect him.

* * *

I hit the streets again. As I walked, the tall narrow buildings melted into the tall trees of the Endowment Lands, that had soothed my soul through the turbulence of my awakening and still do today. We have always found comfort in the trees, although they are very different from the dense woods and wild infinite plains of our memory. But the woods are gone now, and the rolling, windswept plains. This is all we have.

Since I was sixteen, I have run nightly in the forest, sometimes with Paul, sometimes with my other brothers. I still do.

But the trees recede into the distance, pine-scent lingering on the night breeze, and I am running from a too-bright street onto a stony track enclosed in trees let to grow wild, down through Mrs D’s garden. We like that. Like the way the trees close in around us as we run silently through the dense shadow.

The cat is easy to find. Less easy to hold. Cats never like us. I hold it firmly at arms’ length and weave my way through the bushes edging Mrs D.’s place, then climb up through the undergrowth. As we pass beneath the house a rectangle of light splashes over us. I blink rapidly.

We walk around to the front and I knock on the door with my elbow, the cat limp in my grasp, waiting for my grip to loosen. It knows better than to struggle. I listen to the old woman’s slow movement through the house, using the sound to focus my attention away from this small mammal in my hands. The footsteps stop and the door opens without pause.

You should check first, I scold, handing over the cat. She smiles at me over the cat’s head. The cat settles against her, head turned toward me, glaring malevolently. I give a barely audible growl and its ears flatten. Then it wriggles out of Mrs D.’s arms and stalks into the house. The old woman looks after it with concern, then turns back and smiles again. An old woman’s face, blurred into anonymity with age, but the faded blue eyes are still bright, still sharp. We respect those eyes.

You’ll come in for some tea? Her usual request, but she isn’t as casual as she is trying to sound. I agree with a brief upward flick of my head and follow her through to the kitchen, where I fill the kettle as she fusses over her selection of herbal tea-bags.

When the drinks are made I carry them through into the small living room. The too-warm air is thick with the smells of her and the cat. Not unpleasant as such, but smothering, as if I am drowning in thick fog. I close my mouth and breathe shallowly through my nose as I put her mug down on the small table beside her usual chair and sit carefully on the edge of the ancient green sofa opposite. Mrs D. slowly folds her bony body into the marshmallow embrace of her armchair. When she is comfortable, she lays her hands on top of each other on her lap and looks at me thoughtfully. I wait, breathing in the smells of lemon and ginger and hibiscus flowers, focusing on each different scent in the room until I have accustomed myself.

Dave taught me that.

Mrs D. widens her eyes. Oh dear, I haven’t even thanked you for finding Diana. Her tone is flustered. She has the eyes and voice off pat. They aren’t what I pay attention to. I say nothing. She’ll get to it in due course.

Picking up her mug, she sips it carefully. Such a nice boy, your brother. I grin at that, hearing the echo of Dave’s mimicry. He’s so wonderful with Diana. Of course, his predecessor was a good vet, too, but Mr Jaeger has such a way with animals, doesn’t he?

My grin widens. Private joke. Yeah, he does.

Her eyes watch me slyly. The two of you aren’t very alike.

No. I don’t let myself think about that. I keep my mind empty, focused on the smells, waiting for her words.

After a while she chuckles softly and nods at the light. Turn it off, if it bothers you. I look at her sharply. She tilts her head, eyes quizzical. You didn’t think I’d notice?

I wonder what else she’s noticed, but idly, I do not believe I have anything to fear from this woman. Rising to my feet, I cross the room to the light switch, realizing only then that the curtains aren’t drawn. The half-moon glows through the wispy clouds. Had she been watching me in the garden? Walking back to the sofa, feeling my eyes relax and widen, I ask, You often sit here in the dark?

It’s peaceful in the dark.

Yeah. I pick up the mug from the floor and drain it in two thirsty swallows. The old woman talks and my mind drifts. The old woman’s murmur is one with the images in my mind.

A dark night. A moon flickering in and out as fast-scudding clouds blow across the sky. A smell of death, the lingering echo of violence. I see the figures silhouetted against the clouds. The bright metallic taste of blood is on my tongue.

Would you kill to protect your brother, Michael?

My attention snaps back into focus. Yes. I am standing over her, no idea how I got there. Does he need protecting?

The menace in my voice doesn’t bother her. Sit down, Michael. I’m no threat to your brother. No threat to anyone now. A deeply buried anger there. I squat beside her. I have a grandson.

He’s in trouble? I settle back on my haunches, relaxing.

Perhaps. The anger is stronger now, although it doesn’t show in her fragile voice or crumpled face. I’m not sure. She cocks her head and stares at me. What would you do if you were too old to protect your family?

I’d be dead.

She keeps her eyes on me for a long moment, then sighs. Perhaps that’s true. But not for me, Michael.

Why do you think your grandson needs someone like me?

Her eyes shift. Perhaps he doesn’t.

We both listen to the silence.

What do you want me to do, Mrs D?

I have money, you know. I’ll pay you. I’m not asking for a freebie.

The colloquialism in the old woman’s cracked, formal voice makes me smile. I nod. I would do it for nothing if she asked, but I respect the desire not to be beholden. We are not family.

She says, I want you to talk to him, find out what’s wrong. Help him if you can.

I nod again, and stand up. You going to tell him to talk to me, or you want it to come from me?

From you. Her voice has lost its crispness. She starts to climb to her feet. I hold up a hand.

What do you want?

She nods at a side-table across the room. There’s a card there. My grandson’s card. And some money. A down payment.

I cross the room and pick up the card. He’s a lawyer? You don’t think he can sort out his own troubles?

You believe the law can solve everyone’s problems? Her voice is dry as sun-bleached bone.

I say, just as aridly, I believe it can usually solve a lawyer’s problems.

She gives a sharp crack of laughter. We have a similar view of lawyers, I see. But no, Richard is too honest for that.

I say nothing, but she gives another crack of laughter and says, He’s young yet. Her eyes narrow. Her voice firms. I value his honesty, Michael.

You want me to protect his ethics? I keep my voice polite.

Her jaw hardens. For a moment I see the woman she was. Perhaps. Her eyes hold mine.

I smile. Let the tension between us melt away. Okay.

Stepping out, the night closes around me. Warmly, comfortingly familiar. I taste the air, relieved to be out of the closed-in stuffiness of the house. Breathing in slowly, I savor the smells, rolling them on my tongue. Smell an echo in the breeze. Imagined? Real? A distinction that doesn’t exist for me. My mind drifts into dream.

We run through the familiar bush, weaving through trees no one else would see, hunting a man long dead.

The smell of death in our mouths.

Chapter 3

It was a familiar scent that recalled me to now. I followed the trail of it until I saw him ahead of me on the street, a slight figure dressed in a tight black skirt and a roomier vinyl jacket, long dark hair loose down its back. He did a good job of looking like a woman, he’d even got the walk down pat. The high-heeled boots helped. He was small for a man, and his hands and feet, often a trannie’s hardest feature to hide, weren’t out of the way for a woman of his size. Of course, he made a bigger woman than he made a man.

I came up beside him. He might look like a woman, but to my nose he smelled unmistakably male, so that was how I thought of him.

He glanced sideways with a practiced smile, then a quite genuine one took its place.

Girl-boy.

He made a face. The heavy make-up was a little smeared. The smell of semen hung over him like a drunk’s nightmare. His eyes were older than the rest of him. I pegged him at not quite twenty. He seemed pleased to see me.

I wish you wouldn’t call me that.

It’s what you are.

Not boy-girl? Arch.

I shook my head. You’re still male, Girl-boy.

He gave a tired smile, but didn’t respond. We walked in silence a while. Around me, the shadows thickened. Girl-boy’s voice, holding that arch tone, pulled me back.

You walking me home, Galahad?

If you want.

He glanced sideways at me. Sighed. It’s been a busy night. He patted his hair absently. I must look a wreck.

Yeah.

He rolled his eyes. Don’t you know what you’re supposed to say when a girl says she’s a wreck?

You’re not a girl.

He sighed again. His depression was almost tangible. I tilted my head inquiringly. Problems?

He shrugged. Nothing you can help me with.

I nodded. A brother came in too close and touched the trannie curiously. I growled softly. My brother grinned at me but moved away. My eyes checked the others.

Girl-boy smiled. I feel like the President, all of you guarding me like this.

I was amused. I was relaxed about letting my brothers hang out with me among the night-people, although otherwise I tried to obey Dave’s rules about not letting my mind drift when I was in public. It did no harm if the people of the night thought I was crazy, in fact it probably helped my reputation. But Girl-boy was the only one who dared refer to the invisible people I saw and sometimes talked to.

Girl-boy thought I was a hero. I’d saved him from a beating once. Maybe more than a beating. He thought so at any rate. Did it matter that I’d done it for my own pleasure? It amused me to have someone stool for me out of gratitude rather than fear.

He chattered non-stop as we walked, but I didn’t listen. There was nothing that mattered to me or mine in what he said.

When we reached his one-room apartment he finally stopped talking, and looked at me questioningly. Time for business.

You ever pose for porn shots?

He froze. Copper tainted the air.

I want to get a line on the local porn industry. The movers and shakers, what sort of stuff’s done locally, that sort of thing. You help me on that?

He nodded slowly. Kicking his high-heeled boots off, he gave a small sigh of relief and flexed his toes, then started peeling off his black tights. His legs were shaved silken-smooth. I’ve done a bit of stuff. He finished undressing and slipped on a silk kimono. Tossing his wig on the dresser, revealing frizzy brown hair, he settled on the bed and began to talk.

* * *

Some of what he told me I understood. More than I wanted to. I understand how sex and violence can twist together into a rope as strong and throttling as any hangman’s noose. I know in my gut the need to feed your desire.

But we would never hurt a child. We would never manipulate their fragile confusion to meet our pleasure.

* * *

The Internet has transformed the pornography industry, and child pornography in particular. But the money is in adult pornography. Most child pornography is passed around among its sick adherents for free.

Because you can’t use cash on the Internet, I supposed. Tricky to require credit cards when your product is illegal. No doubt that would change soon enough. Someone would work out how to get around that, for humans were infinitely cunning when it came to profiting from others’ misery.

But if there’s so much on the net, free, then where would a supplier make a profit?

Girl-boy shrugged. Plenty of people not hooked to the Web. Looking down, he smoothed the heavy silk kimono over his curled legs. His voice dropped. And seeing isn’t the same as doing it.

I frowned. We’re talking pornography, not prostitution.

He looked up, his dark eyes liquid. A sweet black oiliness thickened the air. Two faces of the same coin. My thought or his? If you pay for sex, and then pay for a video of that, is that porn or prostitution?

You tell me.

The hurt was darker now, its weight almost tangible against my skin.

He said, I’ve heard something. About a … service … like that.

Make-your-own-porn, sort of thing?

His dark lips twitched in a half-smile. Yeah, that sort of thing. He looked away, searching visibly for more information, his desire to help me a not-unpleasant lavender tension in the air. I can ask around? Timidity in his tone and scent.

Yeah, that’d be good. I waited a beat. Biggest thing is, I want to know who does work for this guy Short. He stilled like a rabbit catching our