Kitty and the Midnight Hour

doing. But the niceties of legal technicalities were slipping away. Four women had been murdered. A werewolf had done it. Someone had to stop him.

Cormac's cell phone beeped. It was jammed into the ashtray, near the stick shift. He grabbed the hands- free wire dangling from it and stuck the earpiece into his ear. It took about six rings. So that was why he always took so long to answer.

'Yeah.' He waited a minute, then said, 'Just a minute.' He covered the mouthpiece part of the wire with his hand. 'It's Hardin. She wants to know if I know how to get hold of you. She wants to talk to you about tonight's show. I guess she was listening.'

'Should I tell her?'

'What's the saying? It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.'

He was right. She'd just get in the way. 'I'll call her back when it's all over.'

Cormac uncovered the wire. 'Detective? I'll have to get back to you on that… What am I doing? Driving… Yeah, I'll keep in touch.' He pulled the wire out of his ear, smirking. 'She's an optimist,' he said. 'That's her problem.'

The address was northeast, in a neighborhood of dilapidated houses on the edge of a region of industrial warehouses, oil refineries, and train tracks. It might have been a nice place once, maybe fifty years ago. A few big, old trees lurked in many of the yards. But they were dead, their branches broken, and the yards themselves were overgrown with weeds. The streetlights were all out, but the wash of the sodium floodlights from the warehouses reached here, sickly and orange.

As we pulled onto the street, Cormac turned off the Jeep's headlights and crawled ahead.

'There it is,' he said, pointing to a bungalow set back from the road. A fifty-year-old house, maybe three or four rooms. It used to be white, but the paint was peeling, chipping, streaking; the wood of the siding was split and falling apart. Half the shingles were gone.

I rolled down the window. The air smelled of tar, gasoline, concrete. There was some wildness, even here: rats, raccoons, feral cats. This was a dried-up, unpleasant place. The pack never came here. Why would we, when we had hills and forest, true wilderness, so close by? That was one of the things I liked about Denver: It had all the benefits of a city, but forest and mountains were a short drive away. Why would any wolf—were- or otherwise—want to stay in this desolation? If he didn't have any place else to go, I supposed.

Then how had he gotten here in the first place? Werewolves weren't born, they were made. Someone had made him, then left him to fend for himself, and he came here.

Or someone put him here to keep him out of the way, where he wouldn't be found, because the pack never came here. That meant… did Carl know about this guy? If not Carl, then who?

'You okay?' Cormac said. 'You look like you just ate a lemon.'

'I don't like the way this place smells.'

He smiled, but the expression was wry, unfriendly. 'Neither do I.'

We stepped out of the Jeep. Cormac reached into the back and pulled out a belt holster with his handgun. He strapped it on, then retrieved a rifle. He slung another belt, this one with a heavy pouch attached to it, over his shoulder. I didn't want to know what was in there. We closed the doors quietly and approached the house.

I whispered, 'Let me go first. Get the scent, make sure he's the same guy. He might freak out if he sees you first.'

'All right,' he said, but sounded skeptical. 'Just give the word, and I'll come in shooting.'

Why didn't that make me feel better?

I walked a little faster, moving ahead. A light shone in horizontal lines through the blinds over the front window of the house. I tilted my head, listening. A voice sounded inside, low and scratchy—a radio, tuned to KNOB. The show had been over only a half an hour or so. I reached the walkway and followed it to the front door. Cormac was a couple of steps behind me. I tried to look through the front window, but the slatted blinds were mostly closed.

I put my hand on the knob, turned it. It was unlocked. I took my hand away. I didn't want to surprise anyone inside. So I knocked.

Cormac stepped off the walkway and stood against the wall of the house, out of sight of the door. And, by chance, downwind of the door. Or maybe not by chance.

I waited forever. Well, for a long time. I didn't want to go into that house. But no one answered. Maybe he'd left. Maybe he was out killing someone. If I went in, at least I would get a scent. I'd know if it was the same guy I'd smelled at the murder sites.

I opened the door and went inside.

The hardwood floor of the front room was scarred and pitted, like a dozen generations of furniture had been moved back and forth across it, and several swarms of children had been raised on it. But that was long ago, in someone else's life. An old TV sat on the floor in one corner. The radio was on top of it. It might have been Rodney, the night DJ, calling the last set. A sofa that would have looked at home on the porch of a frat house sat in the middle of the floor. Wasn't much else there. A box overflowing with trash occupied another corner. The walls were bare of decoration, stained splotchy brown and yellow. I wondered what this guy did for a living. If anything. There was no evidence of a life here. Just a place, sad, decayed, and temporary.

I took a deep breath through my nose.

I didn't identify the smell so much as I flashed on the scene. The blood. The victim's body, splayed across the alley. People say scent is tied to memory. What does that mean for a werewolf, whose sense of smell is so acute? The memory sparked vividly, all the sights and sounds and other smells that I'd imprinted along with the scent of the werewolf, the murderer. My stomach turned with the same nausea.

Straight ahead, a hall led to the rest of the house, probably kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. A sudden gush of water ran through the house's pipes. A toilet flushing. A door opened and closed. A man emerged into the hallway and walked toward me.

He wore a plain white T-shirt and faded jeans. He was tall, built like a construction worker, thick arms, broad chest. He had a crew cut that was growing out, a beard that was a couple of days unshaven. He was barefoot. He smelled the same as the room, close and ripe.

He stopped when he saw me. His nostrils flared, taking in scent like a werewolf would. His hands clenched. Glaring, he moved toward me, stalking like a predator.

I stood straight, careful not to flinch, not to show any weakness that his wolf would take as an invitation to attack.

I said, 'Are you James?'

Again he stopped, as if he'd hit a wall. His brow furrowed, his face showing confusion. 'What did you say?'

It was him. That voice, low and strained, close to breaking. 'James. Are you James?'

He squinted harder, like he was trying to bring me into focus. Then his eyes grew wide.

'You're her. Kitty.' He closed the distance between us, and I thought he was going to pounce on me with a bear hug, but he halted a step away—I didn't quite flinch. He was gesturing with his hands like he was pleading. 'I'm such a big fan!'

'Thanks,' I said weakly. I should have yelled. Just yelled and ducked as Cormac came storming through the door, guns blazing. But James had stunned me.

James didn't ask the questions I would have asked a celebrity who happened to show up at my house, like how did you find me, why are you here. He acted like he didn't find this strange at all, like this sort of occurrence was a natural part of the life he'd made for himself. The kind of life where he constantly made calls to late-night talk radio shows.

He slouched, ducking in front of me like he was bowing. He had to stoop to make himself shorter than I. That was what he was doing, showing submission, one wolf to another. He kept turning his gaze away. His instincts were taking over.

I stared. Not a dominant, I'm-a-bigger-wolf-than-you stare. More like a bewildered, disturbed stare. What was I supposed to do with him? I didn't want him touching me, but he was inching closer, like he was going to start pawing me, rubbing me, the way a subordinate wolf would to the one he'd identified as the alpha. I stepped back.

He cringed, pulling his arms close to his body, his eyes sad and hurt. 'You don't understand,' he said. 'This…