Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

Fresh Meat Alan Gordon

Alan is the author of the Fools’ Guild Mysteries, published by St. Martin’s Minotaur Books, continuing the adventures of Theophilos, a thirteenth-century jester. Titles in the series include Thirteenth Night (now available from Crum Creek Press), Jester Leaps In, A Death in the Venetian uarter, The Widow of Jerusalem, An Antic Disposition, The Lark’s Lament, The Moneylender of Toulouse, and the upcoming The Parisian Prodigal. Alan sold his first short story to Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine in 1990. Since then, he’s had numerous mystery, fantasy, and science fiction stories in Hitchcock, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine , Asimov’s Science Fiction, and several anthologies. By day, Alan is a criminal defense attorney with the Legal Aid Society of New York, with over a hundred trials to his credit. He lives in New York City with his wife, Judy Downer, an editor, and son, Robert. He is a graduate of Swarthmore College, where he received the William Plumer Potter Award for Fiction, and the University of Chicago Law School.

“Your order’s ready, Mister Lehrmann,” called Bert, emerging from the back room wiping his hands on a bloody towel. “Two sides of beef, so fresh they were mooing yesterday.”

“Thanks, Bert,” said Lehrmann. “That should keep us through the twenty-sixth. Okay if I bring the van around back?”

“No problem, Mister L,” said Bert. “What are you doing for Christmas? Family coming over?”

“I’m expecting some tonight. Maybe.”

“That’s nice,” said Bert. “Nothing like having family on Christmas Eve. Let’s see, you just paid me for the month, so we’ll put this on your tab for January, okay?”

“Works for me,” said Lehrmann, signing the proffered receipt. His nose crinkled happily as he scanned the display case.

“Those lamb chops look good,” he said. “Maybe I should get the dogs a treat for Christmas. Got a lamb you haven’t cut up yet?”

“Sure thing,” said Bert, adding it to the invoice.

Lehrmann stepped outside to where the cargo van was parked, the LEHRMANN’S GUARD DOGS ad on both sides. He pulled it around to the loading dock where Bert was already waiting with the beef and lamb on a dolly.

“Those dogs eat better than most people,” commented Bert as Lehrmann hauled the meat into the van. “Not that I’m complaining to my best customer. You really think they should get fresh, raw meat every day?”

“Part of their training,” said Lehrmann. “The bloodier, the better. Brings out the hunter in them.”

“Sure wouldn’t want to run into one of your puppies on the job,” said Bert.

“You really wouldn’t,” said Lehrmann, slamming the rear doors shut. “See you Monday, Bert. Have a good Christmas.”

Lehrmann raised and trained his dogs in a converted warehouse ten miles out of town, not far from the woods. A large, white sign marked the turnoff onto the farm road that led to it. The Spinellis came in at two for their last training session with Waldo. They were a family of four, living in one of the McMansions in the new development. The Doberman sensed them before he could even see them, and started baying a greeting.

“Waldo, hush,” Lehrmann said to the dog, and he quieted down immediately. Lehrmann opened the cage and attached the lead to Waldo’s collar, then brought him out to the training pit while the other dogs watched with professional interest.

“Afternoon, folks,” he said. “Everyone ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” said Mr. Spinelli nervously.

“Hi, Waldo,” said Sally, the fearless eleven-year-old, and Waldo wagged his tail. Sandy, her little brother, watched from behind her, his thumb in his mouth.

“You can hang out for a few minutes while I get my padding on,” said Lehrmann. “Here.”

He tossed the reward bag to Mr. Spinelli, and the lead to Mrs. Spinelli, who gave a quick whistle. Waldo immediately sat at her feet.

“Good dog,” she said, patting his head.

Lehrmann strapped the quilted padding over his arms and torso, then faced them.

“Any time,” he said.

“Waldo, come,” commanded Mr. Spinelli, unclipping the lead from the dog’s collar, and the dog followed him as he walked around. “Good dog. Waldo, perimeter.”

Waldo ran around the edge of the pit.

“Waldo, here,” said Mrs. Spinelli. The dog made a beeline for her. She looked at Lehrmann. “Are you sure about this?”

“Go ahead,” smiled Lehrmann.

“Waldo, arm,” she said, pointing at Lehrmann.

Waldo turned into a snarling, speeding set of teeth, hurtling toward Lehrmann. The dog leapt, and his jaws closed around the padding on the trainer’s shoulder.

“Waldo, here,” said Mr, Spinelli.

The dog relinquished his hold immediately and returned to the family.

“Good dog,” said Mr. Spinelli.

“Don’t forget the meat, Daddy,” said Sally.

“Good dog,” repeated Mr. Spinelli, handing him a chunk of beef from the reward bag.

Waldo wolfed it down.

“Dog biscuits won’t do?” asked Spinelli as Lehrmann stripped off the padding.

“You want to keep him on your side, make it fresh meat,” said Lehrmann. “You do want to keep him on your side, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Spinelli.

“You’ve invested time and money to get not just a guardian, but a companion and a friend,” said Lehrmann, coming forward to rub Waldo’s neck. “A long time ago, dogs found us, and learned how to protect us. In exchange, we learned how to feed them, and we fed them well. Co-evolution. Any dog can be trained to attack strangers, but a great dog, like Waldo here, won’t be attacking strangers. He will be defending you, because you’re his family and he loves you. Remember that.”

“We will,” promised Mr. Spinelli.

“Let me get him his new collar,” said Lehrmann. “Waldo, come.”

Waldo swallowed the last of his food, and followed Lehrmann to his office in back. The trainer took out a thick, black leather collar and put it around the dog’s neck. Waldo looked at him attentively.

“Sorry you can’t be here for Christmas, Waldo,” said Lehrmann. “But you get to spend it with your new family. They are good people, and they will treat you well. Make me proud.”

The dog nodded, and Lehrmann planted a quick kiss on the top of his head.

“Here’s your Christmas dog,” Lehrmann said as he brought Waldo back out.

“And here you are,” said Mr. Spinelli, handing him a check.

“We’ll bring him back for visits,” said Mrs. Spinelli.

“I’d like that,” said Lehrmann. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Waldo woofed at him once as they took him to their car.

“Merry Christmas!” cried the children.

Lehrmann waved, then closed the door and turned back to the rest of the dogs. They looked at him in anticipation.

“Playtime,” he called, pressing a switch on the wall, and the doors all swung open at once.

The dogs burst out of the cages and charged madly into the pit, racing and colliding with each other. There was a mad pileup at one end as several skidded into the padding on the curve, launching a number of wrestling matches. As they played, Lehrmann went methodically through the cages, cleaning each thoroughly. Then he went into the walk-in refrigerator and hauled out one of the sides of beef. Using an electric butcher’s saw, he hacked it into dog-sized portions. He laid them out in individual bowls, then came back out to the arena.

“Chow!” he called, and the dogs abandoned their melee and raced to their cages. He closed the doors, then began distributing the bowls.

While the dogs ate, Lehrmann hauled out an artificial Christmas tree and began stringing lights over its branches.

From the woods at the rear of the warehouse, a man watched through a pair of binoculars, catching glimpses of Lehrmann as he passed by the windows, his arms full of wreaths and ribbons.

“Very festive,” muttered the man.

He was wearing a ribbed black sweater that was fine for the Georgia winter, along with black jeans and boots. A ski cap covered his hair, but his chin and jaw were covered with a matted, gray beard. His legs were thick and powerful.

He had been keeping his vigil from the woods the entire day, making sure that Lehrmann would be alone tonight. He had watched the Spinellis leave, knowing they were the last customers before Christmas, and smiled. His palms itched. He wiped them briefly on his sweater, then scratched the right one with the corner of his belt buckle. He looked through the binoculars again. Lehrmann was hanging a wreath on each of the dogs’ cages.

“Very festive indeed,” said the man.

The dogs made this one a challenge. He couldn’t risk breaking into the warehouse and planting any bugs. He had used a combination of a long-range listening device that bounced an infrared beam off the windows, and a monitor that picked up any nearby cell phone signals. The arrangement still left gaps in the sound. And any time one of the damn dogs started barking, the infrared could have been a flashlight for all the dialogue he was picking up.

Lehrmann was unfolding a six-foot cardboard Santa Claus and hanging it on a wall.

“Now, that one is just plain tacky,” said the watcher.

The cell phone monitor chirped. He squatted down and turned the volume up.

Lehrmann picked up his cell phone from his desk.

“Lehrmann’s Guard Dogs,” he said.

“Hi, Sam,” said a familiar voice, and he clutched the phone hard for a moment. “You still there?”

“Hello, Mona,” he said.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Sam,” she said. “I thought you might like some company.”

“I’ve got company,” he said.

“You know what I mean,” said Mona. “Dogs don’t count.”

“Man’s best friend,” said Lehrmann. “Didn’t you know that?”

“Only when the man has no woman,” said Mona. “You’re in Georgia, Sam. Not Alaska. Georgia. A man in Georgia doesn’t need to spend the only Christmas Eve of the year with a bunch of dogs.”

“You been drinking, Mona?”

“It’s going to be a beautiful night,” she continued. “Crisp and clear, with a full moon. A full moon on Christmas Eve, Sam. That doesn’t happen that often. Maybe we’ll see Santa’s sleigh flying across it. Yes, I have been drinking, Sam. I’m alone in Georgia on Christmas Eve, and I’m drinking. Can’t I come over? You shouldn’t be alone with a bunch of dogs.”

“Dogs are loyal, Mona,” he said. He wished immediately that he hadn’t.

She was silent. He thought for a moment that she had broken the connection, but then he heard her crying.

“How’s Nicky?” he asked, awkwardly changing the subject.

“Nicky’s a great, big, warm, wonderful pal,” she said. “I am going to cuddle with Nicky tonight. I could be with you, roasting marshmallows in the fire . . .”

“I don’t have a fireplace,” he said.

“Please let me back into your life, Sam,” she said softly. “You can’t shut me out forever.”

“Good night, Mona,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

He broke the connection.

The man in the woods checked his watch, then glanced up at the sky. The sun was nearing the horizon. It would be an hour until nightfall. He looked through his binoculars to see Lehrmann sitting disconsolately at the desk, staring at his cell phone, then turning it off.

“Poor Sam,” said the watcher. “Full moon and empty arms.”

An alarm signal went off, and Carson, a five-year-old German shepherd, looked up.

“Easy, boy,” said Lehrmann. “Still got an hour. Plenty of time. Finish your dinner.”

The dog went back to his meal, but kept glancing up at the windows.

She was drinking early today, thought Lehrmann. God knows that the holidays will do that to a person. Hell, he was all shook up from a two-minute conversation with her, and he was the sober one.

“Hell of a time to call, Carson,” he said, and the dog grimaced sympathetically.

Lehrmann thought back to when she’d first walked through his front door. What was it, three years ago? Three and a month. It was mid-November, and he was training a Rottweiler, a ten-month-old female.

The woman was slim, brunette, and built like a runner. Her clothes were carefully casual in a way only large amounts of money could accomplish. She had ruby drops dangling from each ear, with more strung along a gold necklace that plunged between her breasts.

He was playing tug-of-war with the Rottweiler, using a broomstick wrapped in several layers of cloth. The dog had clamped on tight, and was digging its claws into the mat, trying to pull the broomstick out of Lehrmann’s hands. She looked like she might succeed. The woman leaned forward, resting her hands on the wall of the pit, and watched.

“Here!” Lehrmann said suddenly.

The Rottweiler looked up at him, but refused to relinquish the broomstick.

“Here!” Lehrmann commanded her again.

The dog reluctantly let go, and moved to sit by Lehrmann’s right foot. She stayed there, a resentful glare on her face.

“Good girl,” Lehrmann praised her, and he handed her a small piece of beef. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“If I’m not interrupting,” said the woman, smiling. “Is that raw beef?”

“It is,” said Lehrmann.

“Then you won’t mind if I don’t shake hands just yet,” she said.

“I have been known to wash them on occasion,” said Lehrmann. “Give me a minute. You could shake the dog’s paw while you’re waiting.”

“Will she do that without attacking me?” asked the woman.

“She won’t attack unless she’s told to,” said Lehrmann. “At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“I’ll chance it,” said the woman, coming into the pit. She squatted down to face the dog. “Hello. My name is Mona Havelka. What’s yours?”

“This is Nicky,” said Lehrmann. “Nicky, shake.”

The Rottweiler immediately held out a paw, and Mona shook it.

“Very pleased to meet you, Nicky,” she said.

“Here, give her this,” said Lehrmann, holding up a piece of beef.

Mona took it and held it out for Nicky, who took it carefully from her, then licked her hand.

“No point in standing on ceremony now,” said Mona, holding her hand out to Lehrmann. “Are you the owner?”

“Sam Lehrmann,” he said, shaking it. “Pleased to meet you. Let me show you where to wash up.”

He escorted her to a washbasin in a tool room in back and tossed her a bar of soap.

“Guests first,” he said, turning on the taps. “Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

“A gentleman,” she said, scrubbing her hands thoroughly. “And such a romantic spot, too.”

“You’d be surprised,” he grinned as she handed him the soap. “So, how may I help you?”

“I came to see a man about a dog,” she said as he washed up.

“I’m the man,” he said. “What kind of dog have you got in mind?”

“Someone to protect me when I’m sleeping.”

“Apartment or house?”

“A town house,” she said. “In town.”

“You looking for something with more bark or more bite?” he asked as they walked back into the main room.

She looked at him, and the smile left her eyes.

“I want a bark that will put the fear of God into anyone stupid enough to break in,” she said. “And a bite that will send anyone stupid enough to ignore the bark straight to Hell.”

He rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger, and pondered her request for a moment.

“I have this really vicious dachshund that might fit the bill,” he said.

She stared at him in disbelief.

“No, seriously, I’ve been trying to get rid of the little bastard for years,” he continued, his nose crinkling for an instant.

“An attack dachshund,” she said, starting to laugh.

“Well, pretty much an ankle biter,” he conceded. “But let him get a running start, and that baby will take out a decent chunk of thigh.”

“Really,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s the element of surprise,” he explained. “Gets them every time.”

“Be serious now,” she said.

“All right,” he said, opening the gate to the pit. “Nicky, here.”

The Rottweiler bounded up and sat before them expectantly. Lehrmann looked into the dog’s eyes, then back at Mona’s.

“This one,” he said. “This one is your dog.”

Lehrmann went back into the refrigerator, removed the lamb, and placed it on the butcher block. Then he took the saw and simply cut it in half. He put one part back in the refrigerator, then carried the other to a large empty cage set back from the others and placed it inside. He made sure there was plenty of water, then went back to his office, where Carson was waiting, idly scratching his ear with his hind paw.

“You done?” Lehrmann asked.

The dog nodded. Lehrmann let the dog out of the office, then went around the building, checking the locks.

“How did you get to be so good with dogs?” she asked him one night as they lay in bed together. Nicky was downstairs, exiled to her dog bed as usual when he stayed the night.

“I grew up with them,” he said. “And when I started raising them, they grew up with me. We just got to know each other better than most humans and dogs do.”

“But the training,” she persisted. “They respond to you like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“Something in my voice, I guess,” he said. “I probably have all these auditory cues I use without even being aware of it.”

“And they pick up on them,” she said. “Maybe you’ve gotten it all wrong. Maybe the dogs are the ones who trained you, not the other way around.”

“Could be,” he said, letting his fingers trail gently down the curve of her body. “I never thought of it like that before.”

He let his hand wander and explore, and she arched her back.

“How did you get to be so good with me?” she gasped, and he drew her to him in response.

“We’re tight,” he said to Carson as he punched in the numbers on the last lock and pulled the door shut. “Carson, patrol.”

The dog began loping about the building.

The watcher pulled out his cell phone and pressed a single button.

“Did you get the security code?” he asked quietly.

“Affirmative.”

“Good,” said the watcher.

He broke the connection and waited impatiently. He had been spending the day in a state of forced calm, but now, with the moment so close, he was nervous, jumpy. You would think that the killing urge would die out over the years, he thought. That the rage would gradually fade given time. Time that heals all wounds. A laughable notion in his case. With each kill, the wound seemed to rip open more, the bloodlust increased, and the only thing he could think about was the next one. Maybe Lehrmann would satisfy the urge for a while. He thought he might. Lehrmann was going to be a good one. Lehrmann was his Christmas gift to himself.

Edwards lay prone in a cornfield, watching the front of the warehouse until he saw Lehrmann go back inside. Then he crawled backward through the dried stalks until he could get to a crouching position unobserved. Still staying low, he scuttled to the rear of a barn where the surveillance van was parked. He tapped twice, then three times, on the side door. It slid open, and he clambered inside.

Kenner was behind the wheel. Hidalgo was in the back, monitoring the police radio.

“Any of that coffee left?” asked Edwards.

“In the pot,” said Hidalgo. “Make it quick. It’s almost time.”

Edwards poured himself a cup, threw in three sugars and some creamer, and stirred it. He drank it in two gulps, then began putting on the padding.

“Did you guys ever feel like we work for a crazy person?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” said Kenner. “Then I see my paycheck and the feeling goes away.”

“And he’s not so crazy,” said Hidalgo.

“What makes you think so?” asked Edwards, tightening the straps to make sure nothing crucial was exposed.

“Because he’s making you go in first,” explained Hidalgo.

“You got a point,” said Edwards. “Ever feel like I’ve become a crazy person?”

“That we do,” said Kenner, checking his watch, then his gun.

Lehrmann went back to the large cage and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. He stripped off his clothes and hung them from a pair of hooks. Then he took off his watch and placed it on a table so that it faced the cage. He checked the timer on the lock, then stepped inside and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged.

Carson came by and sat in front of the cage.

“It’s locked,” said Lehrmann, shaking the bars to prove it. “Thanks for checking, buddy. I’m good.”

The dog woofed once, then resumed his patrolling.

The clanging of the cage echoed through the watcher’s earpiece. He smiled.

“Next,” he said softly.

At the Spinelli house, Waldo made a thorough inspection of every room. Then he heard a whistle, and galloped down the stairs to the front hallway.

Sally was waiting for him with his leash.

“Time for your walk, Waldo,” she said, clipping it to his collar. “Mom? I’m taking Waldo for a walk around the block.”

“Sweetie, it’s getting dark,” called her mother from the kitchen. “Don’t be too long.”

“Ah, come on, hon,” said her husband. “Think who’s with her. She’ll be the safest girl in the neighborhood. Take your time, kiddo. Show Waldo who’s friendly and where the weirdos are.”

“’Kay, ’bye,” she called, leading him out the front door.

Lehrmann looked through the bars at his watch. Five minutes. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the cage and took deep slow breaths. He held his hands out at his sides, palms up.

Outside the windows, the sky turned to night.

“Om,” he chanted. “Om.”

The change always started inside his chest as his rib cage expanded. The surrounding muscles resisted for a moment, then began to stretch and re-form to accommodate the larger shape.

“Om,” he continued. “Om.”

It spread up through his shoulders and neck, and down through his pelvis as the bones shifted, making crackling noises like twigs popping on a fire. The hair was sprouting now, thick, coarse, and gray.

“Om,” he said, clinging to the sound, concentrating all of his being in the chant.

The arms and legs were at it now, the claws bursting through his fingers and toes. That pain was always the worst. The chant was coming out hoarsely. He was choking on it, but forced it out. Then came the jaws thrusting forward, the teeth, the fangs.

The mind.

“Om,” he whimpered.

He wanted to howl.

Just one howl.

What harm could one little howl do?

Let it out.

“Om!” he shouted.

He took a deep breath.

“Om,” he chanted. “Om.”

He sensed the other dogs watching him down the row of cages. Fascinated. Envious.

His heartbeat slowed back to normal. Whatever the hell that was.

Carson came by and sat, looking at him.

“I’m good, buddy,” said Lehrmann. “Want to hand me the remote? Let’s see what’s on cable tonight.”

Carson went over to the table where the remote control sat next to the watch. He picked it up gently with his teeth and brought it over to the cage where the werewolf sat, scratching his back. He put it on the floor, then nudged it between the bars with his nose.

“Thanks, buddy,” said Lehrmann, picking it up and turning on the monitor mounted on the wall outside. He tore off a chunk of the lamb carcass and shoved it through the bars to the dog. Carson grabbed it and went back on patrol.

The usual Christmas fare. Repeats of specials he had seen dozens of times before. He flipped through them. There was the Island of Misfit Toys, and Linus wrapping his blanket to shore up that pathetic little tree. He growled with displeasure and turned it off.

“Oh, I love this one!” she cried. “Best ‘Christmas Carol’ ever!”

They were cuddling on the couch downstairs, a bowl of popcorn and a pitcher of bourbon-laced eggnog on the coffee table. Nicky was curled up on the far end, forcing them together. He wondered if that was her intent.

“The Mister Magoo one was the best,” said Lehrmann.

“Never saw that one,” she said.

“They used to show it when I was a kid,” he said. “The Ghost of Christmas Future scared the crap out of me.”

“That’s no surprise,” she said. “The future always scares you.”

He looked at her.

“Where did that come from?” he asked.

“Oh, come off it, Sam,” she said. “It’s Christmas Eve. Our third together. Only we’re not completely together, are we?”

“I’m over here most nights, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but I’m a greedy little bitch, Sam,” she said. “I want them all. Where were you Tuesday night?”

“I was home.”

“Now, that’s simply a lie,” she said. “I called you at home, and you didn’t answer. And when I drove by, no one was there.”

“Wait, Tuesday. You’re right, I wasn’t home. I was at the warehouse most of the night. Waldo wasn’t feeling well. He’s this new Doberman puppy, and—”

“I called your cell, Sam.”

“Battery was dead. I forgot to recharge it.”

“And I went by the warehouse, Sam.”

He was silent for a moment.

“You did,” he said.

“I most certainly did,” she said. “There was a light on, but no one answered the door.”

“I may have dozed off,” he said. “I’m surprised Carson didn’t start barking. He must have known it was you.”

“You know,” she drawled. “I bet if Carson could speak, he could tell a lie way better than any drinking buddy ever could.”

“I don’t have drinking buddies,” he said.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

“Why are you doing this tonight of all nights?”

“Because I am tired of being with a man who won’t be with me, Sam Lehrmann,” she said. “I am tired of you keeping secrets from me. I can’t live with a man who keeps secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“That is true. But I want you to trust me with yours, Sam. I want to know that you trust me.”

He took his hands and placed them on her shoulders.

“There are things about me that no one can know about,” he said.

“I do understand the concept of secrets, Sam,” she said sharply. “I don’t care if you’re an escaped convict, or practice vivisection on hitchhikers, or you’re a Mets fan. I just want to know the truth.”

“I’m not a Mets fan,” he said. “I’m not a convict, and I almost never practice vivisection on hitchhikers.”

“Tuesday night, Sam. I want to know where you were.”

“I was at the warehouse, Mona, and that’s God’s own truth for you.”

“Alone?”

“Just me and the dogs. Not another human being around.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he said.

“You concern me,” she said.

“I love you and I trust you,” he said. “Now, I am asking you to trust me when I tell you that there is something about me that I cannot possibly talk about with you, or with anyone else. But it doesn’t affect how I feel toward you, or—”

“Get out,” she said wearily.

“What?”

“Get out, go away, don’t come back,” she said. “Get out of my house, get out of my life. I don’t have many good years left, Sam, and I am sure as hell not going to waste them on you. Get out.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Mona,” he protested.

“There is no more room at this inn, Sam,” she said. “And there ain’t no manger waiting for you in back. Get out. And if you run into the Three Wise Men, ask them why they think they’re so smart when they ain’t got any women in their lives.”

He stood up, walked to the door, then looked back at the woman and the dog on the couch. The dog was looking at him. The woman wasn’t.

“You take good care of her, Nicky,” he said.

The dog nodded. He left.

It was just as well, he thought. Stupid of him to even try. But it had lasted longer than he could have hoped, and he was beginning to dream of having . . .

Having what? A normal life?

Sure. That could happen.

The watcher met his men in front of the warehouse. Edwards waddled forward, his hands now encased in a pair of thick leather gloves. Hidalgo punched in the security code on the keypad while Kenner stood with his gun at the ready. The light on the keypad turned from red to green. Edwards took a deep breath, turned the knob, and went through the door.

Carson was on him before he had gone two steps, ripping through the padding on his right leg like it was made of crepe paper. Kenner leaned through the door, sighted carefully, and pulled the trigger once. Carson whined for a second, then went limp.

Edwards looked down at his leg. Blood was seeping through it.

“Damn,” he said admiringly. “That’s one sumbitch of a dog.”

The watcher came in as the others fanned out around him, weapons at the ready. He nodded in satisfaction.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Arnie, the dachshund at the end, sensed them first, and let out a furious bark that set off those dogs that were awake and woke the ones that weren’t. The combined bays, howls, yips, and snarls echoed off the metal roof of the warehouse at a deafening level.

Lehrmann was on his feet, his paws clapped over his ears.

“Everyone be quiet!” he roared.

The dogs ceased immediately, except for the dachshund.

“Arnie, will you please shut up?” said Lehrmann.

Arnie trailed off after one last token woof of protest.

“Thank you, Mister Lehrmann,” said the watcher, strolling into view. His men spread out behind him, their guns pointed at Lehrmann’s cage.

“What did you do to Carson?” asked Lehrmann.

“He’s asleep,” said the watcher. “Unharmed, but asleep. Unlike my man, who is somewhat harmed but very much awake. I trust that Carson had all of his shots?”

“Yeah,” said Lehrmann. “I’m gonna have to get him more if he bit one of you guys.”

“Cute,” said the watcher. “Why do you call him Carson?”

“I named him for Johnny,” said Lehrmann, standing toward the rear of his cage with his arms folded. “He’s my late-night dog.”

“How do you do it?” asked the man. “How do you get through the change so calmly?”

“What’s it to you?” asked Lehrmann.

“Curiosity,” said the man. “Werewolves are a hobby of mine.”

“Meditation, relaxation techniques,” said Lehrmann. “Nothing fancy. You just set your mind to it.”

“Yet you keep yourself caged. Why?”

“First hour is always rough,” said Lehrmann. “Just a precaution.”

“Yes, I’ve watched you go through it for a couple of months, now,” said the man, pulling out a small notebook. “The timer is set to release you at precisely one hour after sunset. Then you usually watch television until midnight, then go to sleep. Fascinating life you lead.”

“Keeps me out of trouble,” said Lehrmann, glancing through the bars at the watch on the table.

“Don’t bother,” said the man. “You still have half an hour until the lock opens. I’m surprised you don’t have a backup switch for emergencies.”

“That’s Carson’s job,” said Lehrmann.

“Unfortunate,” said the man.

“Yeah, I’ve got to figure out something better,” said Lehrmann. “Never figured on the backup needing a backup. So, you gonna tell me who you are?”

The watcher smiled.

“I’m the Bogeyman,” he said.

A German shepherd named Max was making the rounds at the factory where he lived. He looked up suddenly, then loped to a small hole in the chain-link fence that only he knew about. He wriggled through quickly, then galloped off into the night.

Sally and Waldo were three blocks from her house when he became agitated and strained against the leash, nearly pulling her off her feet.

“Waldo, come!” she said.

He looked at her resentfully.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He whined. She squatted to look into his eyes. She studied them for a long time, then reached down to unclip his leash.

“All right, but you have to come back soon,” she said. “I don’t want either of us to get into trouble.”

Mona stood at the doorway of her town house, a tumbler in her hand and Nicky by her side. She looked up at the full moon and shivered.

“Go to him,” she whispered to Nicky, and the dog took off down the street.

“You got a name, Bogeyman?” asked Lehrmann.

“That’s Mister Bogeyman to you,” said the watcher. “Or you can call me Taylor.”

“That your real name, Taylor?”

“It is.”

“Well, Mister Taylor, how about you letting me know what you’re doing here. I am assuming this isn’t a social call.”

“I have come to kill you, Sam,” said Taylor, taking a tranquilizer gun handed to him by Hidalgo.

“Then I would prefer you call me Mister Lehrmann,” said Lehrmann. “I don’t fancy being on a first name basis with you at the moment.”

“Fair enough,” said Taylor.

“There is the question of why,” said Lehrmann. “You one of those guys who is sexually impotent and only gets off on killing werewolves?”

“Are there many of those?” asked Taylor curiously.

“You hear things,” said Lehrmann.

“No doubt,” said Taylor. “No, this is a little tradition of mine this time of year. The last full moon before Christmas, I hunt and kill one werewolf.”

“Wouldn’t it be more fun if you stuck with the mistletoe and a little caroling?” suggested Lehrmann. “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and all that?”

“My sister was killed by a werewolf,” said Taylor. “Christmas Eve, twenty-two years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lehrmann. “You know it wasn’t me.”

“But I don’t know that,” said Taylor. “Not that it matters, not that I care. Even if you’re not the one who killed my sister, you probably got some blood on your paws somewhere along the line, even with your nifty little yoga techniques.”

“Most of us don’t kill humans,” said Lehrmann. “Unlike humans.”

“Nevertheless, one of you did,” said Taylor. “And she was very dear to me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, I truly am,” said Lehrmann.

“Are you about to beg for your life?” asked Taylor.

“Would it do me any good?” asked Lehrmann. “Has it ever done anyone any good?”

“Not so far,” said Taylor. “But there’s always a first time.”

“Yeah, well, in that case, fuck you,” said Lehrmann.

Taylor pointed the tranquilizer gun through the bars and shot him in the leg.

“Ow,” said Lehrmann, staring down at the dart. He pulled it out and threw it on the floor. “So the plan is you tranquilize me and then hunt me down?”

“No, the plan is I kill you slowly,” said Taylor. “How does the leg feel?”

“Like it has a needle stuck in it, you fuck,” said Lehrmann. “You better hope that shit works fast, because if I’m—”

He stopped as the burning sensation kicked in.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” observed Taylor. “At least, I hope it does.”

“What was in the needle?” asked Lehrmann, his heart racing.

“A sizable dose of aconite,” said Taylor. “The pain is nasty, but then comes the numbness.”

“Aconite,” repeated Lehrmann.

“From the plant Aconitum vulparia,” said Taylor, watching him intently. “Commonly known as—”

“Yellow wolfsbane,” said Lehrmann.

“Of course you would be familiar with it,” continued Taylor. “Folklore says that it’s fatal to werewolves. The truth is, it’s fatal to pretty much everybody. Nasty little neurotoxin in a pretty yellow flower that will kill you even if you only pick it up barehanded. I grow my own. Very carefully.”

“How long does it take?” asked Lehrmann.

“The amount you just absorbed will kill a man in about an hour,” said Taylor. “From my experience, and I can’t say that I have a large enough sample to conclude this scientifically, about ninety minutes to two hours to kill a werewolf, depending on the strength of the werewolf.”

“That gate opens long before that,” said Lehrmann. “And I am pretty damn strong.”

“A daunting prospect if you could walk,” said Taylor.

The werewolf sagged to one knee.

“The literature describes the sensation as numbness spreading through the body, eventually stopping the heart,” said Taylor. “The symptoms are said to be fairly unpleasant. Again, in my experience, that is a gross understatement. Werewolves seem to be particularly susceptible to it. And the best part—do you want to know the best part?”

“Not really,” said Lehrmann.

“The best part is that you will be conscious until the very end.”

“You bastard,” muttered Lehrmann, trying to stand and failing.

“What is lovely about this particular kill is that the full moon fell on Christmas Eve again,” said Taylor. “Only the second time that’s happened since my sister’s death, given the vagaries of the lunar cycle and the solar calendar. In honor of the holiday, I thought I should make this one special.”

“Lucky me,” said Lehrmann.

“No doubt, the irony of being helpless in a building full of guard dogs has already struck you,” said Taylor.

“Sure has,” said Lehrmann.

“Such beautiful animals,” said Taylor. “And you treat them so well. I thought that we would give them a little Christmas treat.”

Hidalgo and Edwards carried in the butcher’s block and the electric saw. They placed it by Taylor, then stood back, weapons at the ready.

“Once you are sufficiently paralyzed,” said Taylor, “I am going to take this dandy little saw of yours and chop you into dog food, piece by piece. And you will be conscious until the moment your heart stops. You had better pray that it stops quickly. Then I am going to feed you to your own dogs. Mind you, the aconite in your bloodstream isn’t going to do them any good, but that’s the risk with fresh meat.”

“You sick fuck!” shouted Lehrmann.

“You are going to be the death of the creatures you love most dearly in the world,” said Taylor, squatting to see him better. “More than that pathetic lush who wasted herself on you.”

Boss?

Lehrmann almost didn’t sense it.

Boss?

Nicky? he thought.

There was a dissonance of thoughts, then Nicky hushed the others.

Me, Max, and some new dog, says he just got placed today.

Waldo.

“Mister Lehrmann, are you still with us?” asked Taylor.

Lehrmann moaned in pain.

“Not as strong as he thought,” commented Edwards.

Boss, how many are there?

Four, thought Lehrmann.

We can take them. They left the door open.

No. They’re armed.

Others will be here. One hour, maybe less.

I don’t have an hour, thought Lehrmann.

The lock beeped and clicked, and the gate swung open. He tried to lurch forward, but neither leg was working.

“It’s reached the lower spine, and it’s working its way up,” said Taylor. “Give him a few minutes. He can still swing those arms.”

“Suits me fine,” said Edwards. “I already got one bite tonight.”

Too bad the gate was working so well, thought Lehrmann. If it had jammed, at least the other dogs would have been spared their last meal.

The other dogs.

Nicky, do you know where the switch to the cages is?

No. That was put in after I left.

I do, thought Waldo.

Can you reach it?

Outside the door, the Rottweiler and the German shepherd looked at the Doberman. He bared his teeth.

Taylor looked at his watch.

“We should start now,” he said. “I don’t want him to die without feeling it.”

He looked down at the werewolf, who was breathing hard.

“Mister Lehrmann,” he called. “Please don’t struggle when we pick you up. You may be strong, but we outnumber you.”

“Other way around,” gasped Lehrmann.

Waldo shot across the arena, gathered himself, and leapt, crashing into the switch on the wall, then falling in a heap on the floor. The doors to the cages sprung open. There was a brief moment while everyone was silent and looking at each other.

“Playtime,” said Lehrmann.

For all the pent-up rage and primal savagery of the pack, it was Arnie the dachshund who was the first out of his cage, baying and scampering on his short legs as hard as he could. The others took his cue and crashed into the room ahead of him. Of the four men, only Hidalgo managed to get a shot off before a pit bull clamped down on his wrist. The gun fell from his hand as he screamed.

A minute later, the hand fell from his arm.

The dogs piled on top of the four men, clawing and gouging whatever they could reach. Arnie, the last in, jumped as high as he could and sank his teeth into Taylor’s thigh. The watcher, staggering under the weight of five dogs, uttered a piercing shriek, then fell.

Nicky came in, surveyed the scene, then came over to where Lehrmann lay on the floor. She looked into his eyes, then licked his paw.

“Nice to see you, too,” he said. “Is everyone okay?”

Waldo’s a little woozy from jumping into the wall. He’s a good dog. I like him.

“Tell Max to get him home,” he said. “Then help me get to the tool room.”

She ran off, and he started to drag himself across the floor with his arms. Nicky came back, saw him, and gave a quick bark. Several of the larger dogs separated themselves from the carnage and ran to help. Together, they pushed the werewolf along the floor until he was inside the tool room. He tried to pull himself up, then collapsed.

Mona drove her Prius extremely carefully. She worried that she might be driving too carefully, a sure tip-off to any patrolling cop that she was anything but sober.

Somehow, she made it to the farm road without inflicting any damage. As she turned on to it, her headlights picked up a pair of dogs loping toward her. She stopped the car and stared. A German shepherd and a somewhat dazed Doberman looked back at her. The Doberman bared his teeth. Then she could have sworn that the German shepherd recognized her. He growled softly, and the two dogs resumed their journey past her.

She drove on until she reached the warehouse. The front door was open. A strange cargo van was parked in front. She reached under her glove compartment and grabbed her gun. She got out of her car and walked quietly to the door. She listened for a moment, then stepped inside.

Immediately she was ringed by a pack of snarling dogs, many with their teeth and muzzles bloody, but before any of them could make a move, a familiar bark greeted her.

“Nicky!” she cried, and the Rottweiler bounded up to her.

The rest of the pack ceased their menacing and trotted back into the other room.

“Nicky, where’s Sam?” she asked.

The dog whined and ran to the entrance to the tool room. She ran after her, looked inside, and screamed.

There was a wolf lying on the floor—no, larger than a wolf, larger than the biggest wolf who ever lived, with fangs that were bared and claws that could slice through tree trunks, and she raised her gun and was about to shoot when it rolled its eyes in her direction and whimpered.

“Sam,” she cried out, dropping the gun and throwing herself down to hold him tight.

“Mona,” he breathed hoarsely. “Medicine cabinet. Box labeled ATROPINE.”

She leapt to her feet and flung open the cabinet. The box was on the lower shelf. She opened it and saw three syringes, their needles capped.

“How many and where?” she asked, kneeling to hear him.

“Two,” he gasped. “Right in the heart. Then wait five minutes and give me the third if there’s no response.”

“Your heart,” she said, feeling the matted fur on his chest.

“Same place it always was,” he said. “Don’t hit a rib.”

She pulled the cap off the first needle and felt along his ribs under the chest until she located the gap. She took a breath, then jabbed the needle deep into his chest and pressed the plunger until it could go no farther. He grunted with pain. She removed it, repeated the process with the second, then leaned down and wrapped her arms around him.

“What if the third one doesn’t work?” she asked.

“Then I’m dead,” he whispered.

Sally was standing on the spot where Waldo left her, his lead in her hand. She gave a cry of relief when she saw him, then stopped when she saw the German shepherd by his side. Waldo came up and sat by her feet.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded, still groggy. She looked at the other dog.

“Are you a friend of his?” she asked.

The dog nodded.

“Did Mister Lehrmann train you?” she asked.

The dog nodded again.

“My name is Sally,” she said. “Very nice to meet you.”

The dog nodded once more, looked at Waldo, then ran off.

“Merry Christmas!” she called after him. She clipped the lead onto the Doberman’s collar and went home.

“Ahh!” he cried.

“Sam, do you need the third injection?” she asked.

“Just pain,” he gasped. “Pain’s a good sign. Means the nerves are coming back.”

He made a fist several times.

“Help me sit up,” he asked.

She reached her arms around his body and pulled.

“God, you’re heavy,” she said, wrestling him to a sitting position against the wall.

“I think it’s going to be okay,” he said. “My heartbeat sounds good.”

“But you’re a werewolf,” she said.

“Atropine doesn’t cure that.”

“But you’re a werewolf,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“What the hell just happened? What was the atropine for?”

“Antidote for aconite,” he said. “I always keep it around for special occasions like this.”

“What the hell is aconite?”

“It’s a poison,” he said. “Word got around that someone’s been going after us—”

“Us? There are more?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You got that right.”

“So anyway, I got some atropine just in case some nut job decided to throw some wolfsbane in my direction. And that’s pretty much what happened.”

“Wolfsbane,” she said, confused. “Wait. Where is the nut job? There’s a van outside—”

She jumped up, grabbed her gun, and charged back out.

“Mona!” he called after her. “Don’t go in there!”

She appeared in the doorway a minute later, the blood draining from her face, the gun dangling limply at her side.

“I’m going to go outside and be sick for a while,” she said numbly. “You wait here.”

By the time she came back, he was breathing easily and bending his knees.

“I brought some eggnog,” she said. “And some marshmallows. Do werewolves eat marshmallows?”

“Don’t see why not,” he said.

He pulled himself to his feet and staggered a little.

“How did you know I was in trouble?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” she said. “Nicky knew somehow. Dog telegraph, I suppose.”

“How did you know to let her go to me?” he asked.

She looked into his eyes. Still Sam’s eyes.

“I guess I responded to her auditory cues,” said Mona. “That happens in a close relationship.”

He took her hand between his paws and pressed it to his chest.

“So, this is the big secret,” she said as they walked together out of the tool room. “All those nights you avoided me were when the moon was full. I never picked up on the pattern.”

“Didn’t see any way of telling you,” he said.

“All things considered, that’s understandable,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand it at the time.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. “I think a little forgiveness is in order. Both ways.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Dogs, playtime’s over!” he called.

They came up to him, and he knelt before them.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you all.”

Tails thumped on the floor.

“Dogs, cages,” he said, and they turned and went to their beds. He pressed the switch, and the cages closed.

“What are you going to do about those men?” she asked, rubbing Nicky’s neck.

“I’ll put what’s left of them into their van, and drive it down to the old quarry pond,” he said. “I should be able to sink it in there.”

“Won’t you be leaving fingerprints?”

He held up his paws.

“I don’t have fingerprints right now,” he said. “And if they find a hair, they’ll just think it was a wolf.”

“Want me to mop up while you’re gone?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll do that tomorrow.”

“Hell of a way to spend Christmas Day.”

“Could have been a whole lot worse,” he said. “You get a fire going outside.”

“A fire?”

“For the marshmallows.”

“Hey, Mister Lehrmann,” said Bert as Sam came in. “How was your Christmas? Did your family make it over?”

“Yes, they did, Bert,” said Lehrmann. “Everything worked out fine.”

“And did the dogs enjoy their Christmas lamb?”

“They did,” said Lehrmann. “I’m sure they would thank you if they knew how. It’s like I said, Bert. There’s nothing like fresh meat for a dog.”