Glory of the Pack: A Joe the Werewolf Novel
Author: James T. Carpenter
Date: 2022-02-08 08:00:00+00:00
Description: A murdered werewolf. Packs and a business coming to Iowa from Washington state. All are strange events Joe the werewolf, a member of the Werewolf Organization of Fighters or WOOF, must investigate. The murdered werewolf was also a WOOF agent, but he hadn’t told any other agents of his arrival or stayed with a local werewolf, normal werewolf practices. Also, he was shot in the head, rather than dying as he fought, not a typical werewolf death. Human hunt farms, farms created by evil werewolves who like to hunt and kill humans, appear in Iowa and need to be squashed. A pack from Washington state

GLORY OF THE PACK

A Joe the Werewolf Novel

Other Books by James T. Carpenter

Hanged for the Few

Samuel the Vampire Novels

A Limitless Policy

Why I Shouldn’t Work with a Werewolf

My Daze as a Vampire Hunter

Economies of Blood

Zombie Feint

Blood of All Evil

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, events and organizations in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people, events or organizations are purely coincidental.

Cover art by Bethany Fast

Copyright © 2022 James T Carpenter

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 9798786851916 (Print)

Interior design and by booknook.biz

To my family, friends, and co-workers,
My pack

Contents

1: The Pack

2: A Murder Scene

3: A Strange Phone Call

4: Wererats

5: A Company Visit

6: Time with my Pack

7: A Party

8: Visiting with the Packs

9: The Trap

10: The Plan

11: The Evil Farm

12: When Plans Go Awry

13: Oldwell Pack

14: The Gathering

15: Celebration of Life

16: That Ends in Death

17: Pursuit

18: Investigations

19: My Date with Amy

20: The Opening of a New Office

21: An Interview

22: WOOF Pack

23: The Siskel Pack

24: Another Phone Call to Seattle

25: A Meeting of Leaders

26: Follow the Leader

27: A Business Opportunity

28: Massacre

29: Survivors

30: Credit Card Receipts

31: Another Date with Amy

32: A Conversation with a Wererat

33: Another Meeting with Grant

34: Another Meeting of Leaders

35: Evening Activities

36: The Attack

37: Another Wild Ones’ Party

38: Enforcement

39: Bedtime Stories

40: More Murders and Another Call

41: Seattle WOOF Pack Leader

42: A Meeting of WOOF Agents

43: A Meeting of Pack Leaders

44: Witches

45: Donna’s Story

46: A Meeting with Vince

47: The Rescue

48: Another Party

49: The Rebel

50: Prison

51: A Visit with Berrigan

52: Another Celebration of Life

53: Rebellion

54: Attack from the Air

55: Reinforcements

56: Dinner at my Place

57: The End of the Story

About the Author

1

The Pack

A world of black and white. Running on four legs, surrounded by my fellow pack members. Far from city lights. Far from human devices. Running in the dark, lit only by the moon and the stars.

In front is Grant, a large black-furred wolf with white tips on his ears. Our leader and our friend and the largest of us all.

Melvin, a black and white-furred wolf and a scar down his back, follows close behind.

Thelma, his mate and a thin, red-furred wolf, smaller than the other two, runs next to Melvin.

Peter, a brown-furred wolf (like me) with white paws, is next. He is a very large wolf. Some of us are that way. He’s the size of a Great Dane and second in command.

Pauline, Peter’s sister, a brown-furred wolf with red stripes, dashes near her brother. She has a nick on one ear.

Frank, a white-furred wolf with black paws, is next in line. He’s fast, tough, and a lady’s man.

Victor, a gray wolf and almost as big Peter, sprints with the rest.

And me, taking up the rear.

My pack. My friends. My family.

My pack has more members than this, but it’s complicated. As a wolf, all is simple. To run. To hunt. To eat. To rut. To glory in being alive. That’s existence as a wolf.

Dashing through the woods. Through a cornfield. Up a hill. Under bridges. Leaping over streams. Heart pumping. Lungs breathing deeply. Blood pulsing through our legs and bodies.

Grant runs even faster, a burst of speed.

Wanting to keep up, all of us push our bodies harder.

Remember times as a wolf. Fighting Wild Ones. With claws. With teeth. With tactics. Pincer move. Frontal attack. From the side. In an ambush. Barking and howling so loud that we sound like more than we are.

We dash to the top of another hill. Grant stops. We gather around. We howl at the sky. [To glory! To glory!]

All is good with the world. All is right.

We are wolves.

And we live for the glory of the pack.

2

A Murder Scene

The corpse covered in white fur lay on the carpeted floor of the hotel room. A bullet hole in the head indicated the cause of death. The hotel door had been closed and locked when the corpse had been found. Most of the police had come and gone, having searched the room for clues. None of the furniture had been moved since the murder. A suitcase sat open on the cabinet of drawers, but nothing had been removed from it nor had it been rifled through by the intruders who had committed this crime. Despite the police presence, I was here to conduct my own investigation.

I’m Joe Butler. I’m a werewolf. Awesome, huh? I think so. I belong to an organization called the Werewolf Organization Of Fighters or WOOF. Great name. When we’re wolves, we go woof and our group is called that. Highly appropriate if you ask me.

I’m not a police officer, but I am an interested party. The reason this corpse was covered with a thin layer of white fur is because he was a werewolf. When we die, a thin coat of white fur instantly covers our bodies. Human police are mystified by this phenomenon. They stumble on it often enough that we werewolves explain it as a peculiar disease certain humans acquire. We never ever let the police perform an autopsy.

A werewolf shouldn’t die this way. We all should die in battle. Yeah, I know, that’s not always possible. I’ve known more who’ve died of old age than who died in battle. But it’s the principle of the thing.

One police officer, a werewolf like me, was still in the room.

“He was a WOOF agent,” the police officer said.

“Really?” I asked. “Why didn’t he ask to stay with one of us?”

The police officer shrugged.

“You’re sure he’s WOOF?”

The police officer, still wearing blue rubber gloves, knelt by the corpse and pulled down the shirt sleeve above the corpse’s right arm. On his wrist was a tattoo of a stylized “W.”

“He must not have gone undercover much,” I said.

“Sorry, I don’t know much about WOOF,” the police officer replied.

I’d been to murder scenes before, but most of the time the corpse had been ripped apart by a wolf, not simply shot in the head, so examining the corpse had been impossible. Luckily, not this time.

I’d wondered about the “W” tattoo because I didn’t have one. I went undercover enough with Wild Ones that if I had that tattoo, I’d be in a lot of danger. Sure, I like danger as much as any werewolf, but there’s a difference between enjoying danger and risking your life stupidly.

I’m five-eight with a stocky build, shoulder-length brown hair, a bushy beard and mustache and huge eyebrows. I’ve got broad hands with short, stubby fingers. I’m twenty-nine years old. The werewolf police officer also was stocky, but he had black hair spotted with gray and his mustache and beard were mostly gray. Since he was older than me, I gave him some respect, but he was just a police officer and didn’t know all the ways of WOOF.

“He’s from Seattle, Washington,” the officer informed me as he drew the corpse’s billfold from an evidence bag and opened it to his driver’s license.

“Why would he come here?” I asked rhetorically.

Because there were lots more werewolves living in the western states, specifically Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. Wolves are still native in those states, so werewolves can more safely wolf-out and frolic in the woods than we can here in Iowa. Humans would be very curious to see us here while it’d be no big deal in Washington state. I’ve always wanted to visit some werewolves in one of those states, so I could have the fun I know they do.

“Coming here wasn’t a good idea,” the officer observed.

“It was downright idiotic.”

The officer gazed at me quizzically.

I pointed at the corpse. “He’s dead. That’s not a good way to end a visit.”

I looked again at the driver’s license. “Mike Connors” was the name on the license, and the photo certainly looked like our man. He’d been about my age.

“Lots of this doesn’t make sense,” I said. “He came to the area. He didn’t contact WOOF. He stayed in a hotel instead of with a local werewolf. That’s not how we do things.”

“Maybe he was asocial,” the officer volunteered.

A few werewolves are like that. I don’t know any, but I’m very social. I hardly spend a night at home. I’m either with members of my pack or out somewhere being with people.

“It’s not likely a Wild One did this because then he’d be in pieces,” the officer said.

I assented. And that makes it all the more puzzling. Why did he come here?

“Anything interesting in his suitcase?” I asked.

“Nope, just a bunch of clothes. He didn’t even bring a gun with him. I checked. He’s got a permit.”

Stranger and stranger.

“Mind if I look through his belongings and his suitcase?” I asked.

“No, it’s not like we’re going to figure out his murderer any time soon,” the officer answered.

He gave me blue plastic gloves which I put on, then I rifled through his suitcase and didn’t see anything worthy of note. The officer dropped the contents of the bag that contained all Connors had on him at the time of his death on a chest of drawers. A billfold, car keys, the hotel key, and a comb. That was it. I opened his billfold and flipped through it. Besides cash and credit cards, he also had a health insurance card, a few gift cards, and a business card. It read “Berrigan Enterprises” and had a Seattle area phone number and office location.

“Can I take this card?” I inquired.

“Sure, but let us know if it gives any leads into this death.”

“Okay.” Unless this card sends us to Wild Ones. If that happens, I’ll take care of the killers myself.

3

A Strange Phone Call

“That’s it,” I said as I finished my summary of what I’d learned at the murder site to Grant.

“Weird,” he remarked.

We sat at his kitchen table. Often when I began cases, Grant provided a raw meat to keep things sociable, but not today.

“I’ve met his pack leader a few times at WOOF conventions,” Grant continued.

Grant is fifty-one years old. He’s almost six feet tall with huge broad shoulders. He has black shoulder-length hair and a black mustache and beard, brown eyes, a hawk nose, small ears hidden by his hair, and short arms and legs with stubby fingers and toes.

“He’s Lawrence Guthrie and quite respected in WOOF and the werewolf community at large,” my pack leader explained.

We werewolves who never hunt and kill humans are called Friends of Humanity. Wild Ones who do hunt and kill humans call us “pets.” We Friends of Humanity, or FHs, fit into human civilization with our biggest difference being that we only eat meat. With meat available at grocery stores and markets, our life has become much easier, so we don’t need to be looking for livestock to kill and eat. We have jobs and careers similarly to humans. A few of us have special jobs such as mine at WOOF.

Wild Ones also have jobs and live among humanity. They’re different from us FHs because they enjoy to hunt and kill more livestock than we do. In the western states where there are sheep and cattle ranches, the life of a Wild One is easier. Here in Iowa we have hog, turkey, and chicken confinement buildings in which hundreds of whichever sort of livestock is bred. Yeah, I know, animal cruelty at its extreme. We also have a few free-range farms, but the confinements contain by far the most livestock.

Wild Ones also enjoy hunting and killing humans. However, among Wild Ones’ packs they differ as to how much they hunt and kill humans. If a particular pack makes this a weekly affair, we at WOOF find them and take care of them. If a particular pack does it a few times a year, we largely let them be until they change their ways. Humans die and are killed by fellow humans, so if a few disappear each year for unexplained reasons, humans don’t pay much attention. If a lot do, then humans notice.

Ferals are another kind of werewolf. They have lost all sense of humanity and are like wolves of the wild. They travel in packs and when such a pack arrives in town, we know of it right away because many humans are torn apart and eaten as if by wild animals. That’s true because that’s what ferals are. We in WOOF dispose of ferals fast.

“We could contact him,” I suggested. I didn’t think I should since I wasn’t a pack leader, but Grant was, so it would be okay if he did.

“Let’s,” Grant agreed. He pulled out his cell phone, checked a few apps, then dialed the number.

After the first ring, somebody picked up.

“Lawrence Guthrie,” a deep voice greeted.

“Hi, Lawrence,” my pack leader said. “I’m Grant Morris of Central Iowa WOOF. I just had an agent return from the site where your agent Mike Connors was murdered.”

“He’s dead?” Lawrence asked.

“Yep, shot in the head.”

“That’s not what I’d expect.”

“We didn’t either. That’s not the usual way WOOF agents die.”

“No, that’s disturbing.”

“Those were our thoughts,” Grant said. “Why was Connors in Iowa?”

Guthrie didn’t reply right away. When we werewolves are close to one another, often we can tell if the other werewolf is lying. It doesn’t work so well over the phone.

“I didn’t know he was there,” the other pack leader replied.

“What case was he working on?” my pack leader inquired.

“Sorry, that’s on a need to know basis.”

I rolled my eyes. What’s up with Lawrence?

“We need to know if you want us to investigate his death,” Grant said.

“You don’t need to bother,” Guthrie assured us. “I’ll send someone there.”

“It would be more efficient if we did.”

I jumped in. “I was at the murder scene, so I can easily start the investigation.”

Grant stared at me angrily, then said, “That’s Joe Butler, one of my agents, who left the murder scene about half an hour ago. He’s a good agent and can probably break it soon.”

“I said I’ll send someone to handle it,” the other pack leader snapped.

My pack leader frowned. “I believe in WOOF packs working together. There’s no need for you to send someone when we have capable people here.”

“I don’t need to send someone. I want to send someone. Don’t interfere with our business,” Guthrie said harshly.

Grant shook his head and held up his hands in confusion. “All right. Let that agent know we’re willing to help.”

“I’ve gotten that message,” Guthrie said heatedly.

The business card. “Does Connors’ death have anything to do with Berrigan Enterprises?” I asked.

“I’ve had enough of this conversation.” The line went dead.

Grant sighed. “I didn’t expect that hostility. If he’d been a Wild One, I’d have understood, but he’s FH like us.”

I shrugged. “Do you want me to keep investigating?”

“Yes, I do. To hell with Guthrie. Something is going on in Iowa and I want it solved.” Grant smiled. “You know who to contact.”

I certainly did.

4

Wererats

Werewolves are the most common of the werebeasts. We aren’t the only werebeasts, and that’s where the term werebeasts comes from. If there were only werewolves, we wouldn’t need a more generic term. Among the many werebeasts, there are wererats, werebears, werelions, werejaguars, wereleopards, wereboars, and many others. Many of these werebeasts don’t live in the United States and many are confined to Africa, Asia, or South America. Since travel is much easier than even a century ago, those that live in exotic climes are more likely now to head to places other than their native continents. There are probably about one hundred werelions, a few werejaguars and wereleopards, and one werecheetah in the U.S. Of course, there are many werebears of a variety of types such as black, grizzly, and polar. And there are wererats.

Wererats are special in the wereworld. As humans they’re too small to live with humanity because their size would give them away. Most wererats are a foot tall or shorter in height and the proportions of their limbs don’t match the rest of humanity either. So they like to live in deserted houses, subway tunnels, or sewers. Despite their problems in dealing with humanity, wererats are the most gossipy of all the werebeasts. If something strange is going on in wereland, the wererats know the who, the what, the where, the why, and the how. We werewolves don’t understand how wererats get to know so much, and wererats don’t share their sources.

That’s why I paid them a visit.

I parked my black Ford F150 pickup on the street in front of the best-looking house on the block. The house itself was much like the others in the block, a two-story, one-car garage house on a flat lot with a large oak tree in the middle of the front yard, but that’s where the similarities ended.

The lawn itself was always cut at about two inches. It never grew above five. The lawn was free of any weeds, such as dandelions, thistles, crabgrass, and creeping charlie. The neighboring lawns may have had any number of these weeds, but not this lawn. Also, both the sidewalk and driveway were free of any cracks. If a crack would ever appear or the driveway or a segment of the sidewalk would buckle, these flaws were immediately repaired. Sitting in the driveway was a new model black Escalade because the wererats would never have a second-rate vehicle on their driveway. This vehicle was always clean and shiny.

The house itself appeared to newly painted. If there was the least flaking of paint on the trim or the siding, it was immediately re-painted. The windows were sparkling clean with new drapes behind them. If the drapes ever appeared to fade, they were replaced. The roof had bright, black shingles and if any shingles were lost, like the drapes, they were replaced. With all these repairs and painting, humans were often at this house doing their work. They were paid online or by check from either the wererats’ account or one of their benefactors’ accounts. Wererats are a vital part of werebeast society, so if they can’t take care of themselves, wealthy werebeasts quickly step in.

Exiting my car, I walked across the lawn to the front porch. I didn’t ring the doorbell or knock at the door because I’d called prior to coming. I entered the house and found it as clean and brand-new looking inside as it did outside.

Nothing but the best for the wererats.

The entryway had a hardwood floor that glistened in the light. To my right was a living room adorned with leather recliners, an upholstered hide-a-bed, and the largest flat screen television I’d ever seen. To my left was the dining room filled with a mahogany table for twelve with accompanying mahogany chairs. All the walls were newly painted or covered in wallpaper. This house, with its cleanliness and practically new furniture, was ready for an open house, an event that wouldn’t happen as long as the wererats owned the place.

As part of their cover, wererats believe it is better to be in a house that all the neighbors envy than to be in an eyesore about which all the neighbors would complain. And the wererats had the money to pull off such a stunt.

I walked down the hallway past a closed bathroom door. In a previous visit the door had been opened and I’d seen the linoleum floor, the sink vanity, the toilet, and the tub with a shower. All sparkling clean. All appearing to be brand new.

The house was almost silent. I knew this quiet wasn’t always the case, but since I’d called ahead, the wererats were ready for me.

I entered the kitchen which had a sink, a refrigerator, a stove, and a dishwasher, all black metal and the latest models. The wood cabinets were varnished. On the island in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by cushioned stools stood five small men, wearing military attire and equipped with assault rifles that fit them perfectly. Each appeared a bit like one-foot tall dwarves. Also, a small laptop computer sat upon an equally small table. And they make their own. Wererats don’t trust other werebeasts and humans even less.

“Attention,” their commanding officer ordered. He was the small man who was bulkiest but also with the grayest hair.

The other four snapped to erect poses, including Private Donaldson, a slimmer man with red hair and a scraggly beard.

“Hey, General Adams,” I greeted the oldest wererat.

“Joey, good to see you.”

“Guarding the entrance?”

“As always. We knew you were coming, saw you park, and wanted to greet you.”

“If I wasn’t welcome, I know how you’d greet me, too,” I responded.

“We’d shoot you through with bullets,” Donaldson said.

“Shoot you till you’re dead,” another said.

“Hello, Private Donaldson,” I said, ignoring the threats. I’d worked with him on a case before, so I felt a certain affinity toward him.

Donaldson saluted. “Always a pleasure, sir.”

One of the kitchen cabinet doors swung open to reveal missiles about a foot long and another squad of wererats.

“Don’t get too friendly with us,” the commander of this squad said. I recognized Colonel Brown who had a brown beard and mustache and looked much younger than the general. “We have weapons even more powerful than those rifles.”

The general chuckled. “No need to fear, men. Resume your places.”

The kitchen cabinet door swung closed again.

To me, Adams said, “Our missile crew always wants to feel valued.”

“As do all werebeasts,” I acknowledged.

“Go on down,” Adams said. “I’ve informed the others.”

Although this routine was the usual, during this time all the wererats in the basement were making preparations for a giant to visit them. That meant I wouldn’t get to see how the wererats lived when none of us big folk weren’t around. Other werebeasts believe wererats have their own casinos, strip clubs, restaurants, bars, and all kinds of factories to create the small equipment they need to live. But that’s all rumor and wererat myth.

“Thank you for your service,” I said to the general and saluted.

He and his soldiers responded in kind.

Not all werebeasts are greeted by this military contingency. However, I’d worked with the wererats at various times, so they let me have this honor. Spread throughout the house were small patrols of wererats in case humans or other werebeasts came uninvited.

I opened the basement door and proceeded down the steps. A light at the top of the stairs illuminated the staircase. The rest of the basement was hidden by black curtains that surrounded the bottom and sides of the staircase.

As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I pushed aside the black curtain and found I was illuminated by another small lightbulb above me. On the other side of the room another bulb lit a wooden table with a wooden box atop it with a small cushioned chair, almost in the style of a king’s throne in the Middle Ages, atop the box. A small wooden staircase led up one side of the box. A wererat, wearing a pin-striped suit and a bowler hat, sat in this throne and six wererats, similarly attired but also holding the machine guns, stood around him protectively. The wererat in the chair had gray hair protruding under his hat and a gray goatee and mustache.

“Come in, Joey, my boy, come in,” the wererat in the chair invited.

I walked through the darkened room. Although the room was darkened, I saw two closed doors, the hard wood floor, and five rat-sized holes in the walls. How many are looking at me now? A human-sized chair sat about two feet in front of the table where the wererat leader was holding court. I sat down.

“Joey, my boy, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

You might have noticed that the wererats on the first floor acted like soldiers while this wererat and his goons were acting like mobsters. Wererats have their fantasies, and we bigger werebeasts play along if we hope to acquire our information.

“Mr. Santorini, I come seeking information,” I said humbly.

“My boy, my boy, I am always pleased to let others share in my knowledge.”

Two of the wererats in front of him snickered.

“Now, boys, be respectful of our guest.”

“Yes, Mr. Santorini,” the two said simultaneously.

Santorini was happy to give me information because in return I had to grant him a favor. Any favor. I’d done favors for him in the past. Once I’d brought him a big hunk of cheese. Another time, I’d journeyed to a small town in northeastern Iowa to deliver a message. One time I’d had to kill a rogue werewolf. Some larger werebeasts didn’t want to be indebted to wererats so were never able to get information. Grant said to do whatever Santorini wanted because the gossip he gave was that valuable.

“I’ll owe you a favor,” I offered.

“Indeed, you will, my boy.” Santorini leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “What do you seek today?”

“A WOOF agent from the state of Washington was found murdered earlier today. What can you tell me about out-of-town werebeasts that might be connected?”

“My boy, for that you will owe me a large favor. Are you willing?”

“Yes, Mr. Santorini.”

“I don’t have one now, so I’ll contact you later. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, Mr. Santorini.” Wererat bosses enjoy being respected, so I always showed it to them. Today’s information was especially important, so if I had to brownnose to get it, I would. Luckily, for wererats that wasn’t a literal term for them. For other larger werebeasts, it was.

“Well, then. Some packs from Washington state are in Iowa: Nodwick, Butcher, Morton, Siskel, and Oldwell. The Oldwell is more your kind than the other four.” He gazed at me with a wise look in his eyes.

I began to speak, but he raised one hand with the palm toward me. “I’m not finished. Berrigan Enterprises is from the state of Washington, but it has a satellite office in Des Moines that opened a year ago. This company is buying up more property in Iowa. Werebeasts are involved.” He sighed, bit his lower lip, then shrugged. “That is all.”

“My pack and I thank you very much,” I said gratefully.

“Yes, yes, but remember, you owe me a favor.”

I smiled. “I won’t forget.”

And that’s how you get information from a wererat.

5

A Company Visit

Berrigan Enterprises. Its main office was in Seattle, Washington, but about a year ago, it opened a branch office in Des Moines, Iowa. Now it was almost finished constructing a second corporate headquarters in southwestern West Des Moines, once a land of farms, fields, and orchards, now the home of shopping malls, business headquarters, and the trendiest chain restaurants.

With its state of Washington roots, Berrigan Enterprises had lumbering and tech divisions. Vast tracks of wooded wilderness were owned and lumbered. In Seattle, it had an office as well as a factory for the technical goods it supplied in the construction of electronic devices. The CEO of the company was Leonard Berrigan, who’d made a great deal of money since the company had been founded back in the 1970s.

I’d acquired most of this information from the Internet, truly a wonderful invention, both to gain knowledge and to form social contacts. We werewolves never miss an opportunity to learn and to become friends with new people.

I left my pickup parked in the lot of the two-story building that was the branch office of Berrigan Enterprises. I walked into the building to see a receptionist in a circular desk with a neon blue circle around a red “B” on the wall behind her. She was a petite woman wearing a blue dress and with short blonde hair. I carefully sniffed the air. Human, that’s good.

“Hello, I’m Joe Butler of the Heartland Plains Blog. I made appointment to meet with the manager,” I said as I approached.

In my job as a WOOF agent, I have various aliases and job titles I use to accomplish my job. Being a blogger for the Heartland Plains was one of them. There were real werewolves who worked on this blog, so it was easy for me to assume this identity.

“Oh, yes, he’s expecting you,” the receptionist said. “Just a minute.” She picked up her phone, dialed a number, and said, “Mr. Armstrong?” Pause. “Yes, the reporter from the blog is here.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “I’m sure he’ll wait.” She hung up the phone. “One of his assistants will be right down. You may sit if you want.”

Besides the receptionist’s desk, a few cushioned chairs and side tables adorned with business magazines sat in the lobby. An elevator was behind the receptionist’s desk and a balcony on the second floor showed where the elevator went. Looking up, I saw another young woman, a brunette this time, walk swiftly to the elevator, and take the elevator to the ground floor. Even from here, I could make out her scent, too. Another human.

The elevator door opened, and the woman walked around the receptionist’s desk. We shook hands. “Hello, Mr. Butler. I’m Jan Dickenson, an assistant for Mr. Armstrong. Will you come with me?”

“Thank you,” I said.

We took the elevator to the second floor where she led me through a maze of cubicles to a corner office with its door open.

Dickenson indicated the door, then left for a cube nearby. I entered and saw a mock wood cube in this corner office. A six-foot tall man weighing over three hundred pounds, with all of it being muscle, and with a well-trimmed black beard and mustache, stood, walked over to me, and shook my hand. His handshake was strong and powerful. I sniffed him. He’s a werebear. Probably black. And he knows I’m a werewolf. That’s one thing about being able to tell people’s species by their smell. If one werebeast can do it, so can the other.

Will he respond to my questions the same? How can I broach the topic of werewolves?

Armstrong closed the door behind me and walked back around his desk. “Sit,” he ordered as he did the same.

His office overlooked the parking lot and the nearby street. Storage cabinets were along the wall connected to his desk, and two photos of the Northwest wilderness decorated the walls. Photos of his kids and wife, and an award for Employee of the Month were on his desk.

I sat as Armstrong took a seat behind his desk. I pulled out my phone. “Do you mind if I record this?” I asked.

Armstrong laughed. “Of course not. I wouldn’t expect anything else from the press. What did you want to meet about? We’ve been in this area for the last year, so we’re surprised that the press still has any interest in us.”

“Well, you’re constructing a new headquarters,” I said. “That’s certainly news.”

“We’re quite proud of it. It gets us situated more permanently in Iowa.”

“What business opportunities have you been pursuing in Iowa?”

Armstrong gave me a quizzical look. “It’s in all of our literature. I’m surprised you need to ask.”

“Well, I checked out your website and saw that you have lumbering and tech interests in Washington. I didn’t find as much about Iowa.”

The manager sighed. “You’re correct. We need to update certain portions of our webpage.”

“Would you tell me about your future plans for Iowa?” I asked.

“Of course. We have nothing to hide,” Armstrong gave me a big smile. “Iowa offers certain agricultural opportunities that we didn’t have in Washington.”

I waited. When he didn’t continue, I asked, “Such as?”

“We’re most interested in industrial farming such as hog, chicken, and turkey confinements. They’re a highly efficient way of raising livestock, and with our knowledge of technology and lumbering, we feel we can make these operations even more cost effective.”

“So you’re not interested in farming corn or soybeans?”

“Not at this time. Maybe once we’ve been here longer. Also, the Des Moines metro area is quite a hub for financial institutions. We may invest in these types of companies as well.”

“Sounds like you have lots of plans.”

“Oh, we do, we do. I could give you a tour of this building or even the one being constructed, if you’d like.”

I shook my head. “Not at this time. I’m doing a blog on companies making recent entries to Iowa.” I grabbed my phone and stopped recording. “Is it all right if I ask a question off the record?”

“Of course,” Armstrong answered happily.

Let’s see what I can discover. “I know you’re a werebear, and you know I’m a werewolf.”

Armstrong nodded. “Is there a question with that?”

“Yes. Does you company moving here have any deeper implications to werebeasts living in Iowa?”

The werebear laughed softly. “Mr. Butler, I’m a businessman first and a werebeast second. Berrigan Enterprises is simply taking advantage of certain business opportunities.”

Then what do you have to do with the murder of the WOOF agent?

“If that is all, then please contact me if you need more information, and I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions.”

“Yes, I will.”

I stood. My host stood as well and shook my hand after I put away my phone.

“Let me know if I can be of service to you in any way,” he said.

“I will.”

And I left his office. Nothing seemed suspicious, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t.

6

Time with my Pack

My pack was having dinner at the home of Peter’s and Pauline’s parents. They hosted dinners for us at least twice a month and every time was a fun and joyous occasion. Patrick and Patricia had also been WOOF agents until they had retired, but we all considered them fellow agents in the fight against Wild Ones. These two put out a good spread of beef cubes, chicken legs, and lamb chops, all raw, of course. They also gave each of us two bottles of beer with more waiting in the fridge.

Tonight, we were just the WOOF agents in the Des Moines metropolitan area. Des Moines is the capital of Iowa and is surrounded by many suburbs. Grant, Melvin, Thelma, Peter, Pauline, Frank, Victor, and I are the WOOF agents who live in this area, and we gather a few times a week. I have other groups I get together with, but none seem so much like home as the fellow members of my pack. Often, we have WOOF agents from other parts of the state because they’re visiting for work or simply happen to be in town.

But we were meeting as a pack, and that was the important thing.

Packs. That’s how we werewolves organize ourselves. Not all werebeasts organize into packs. But we werewolves are wolves, so it’s in our nature. Wererats have their own system of organization, but they’ve kept it from us. Werebears also gather into groups, but they’re not as intimate as us werewolves. We werewolves are most concerned with our pack and other packs. A group of like-minded individuals.

Packs number from five to forty. Occasionally, there’s one that is almost one hundred or only three. To be a pack, the group must have more than two. Back in the day, everybody in a pack was related by blood and really more an extended family than a pack. Today’s packs, both FHs and Wild Ones, have a group of individuals with a pack leader. Grant is the pack leader of WOOF or, the more traditional name, Barker. (We bark and our pack was named Barker. Clever, don’t you think?)

Packs are organized for a variety of different reasons. My pack is organized because we’re also all members of WOOF. Other reasons why packs form include: they’re cyclist enthusiasts; they love eating bacon; they have red hair; they hunt as a pack; they hunt as individuals; they enjoy skinny-dipping; they all get angry easily. Some are still organized based on ethnic identity: Irish, Mexican, Sicilian, Nordic. In other countries, they more commonly get together because of family relations, but in the United States we’re more individualistic, so when werewolves reach a certain age, they can decide to stay in the pack in which their parents belong or choose another one. I went with the pack my parents were in.

Some packs allow its members to marry and rut with members of other packs. Other packs are very insular and will only rut and marry their own members. These packs inevitably collapse because of being too inbred.

My pack didn’t have that worry because werewolves consciously decide to be WOOF agents. Many in my pack, like Peter and Pauline and me, had parents who were in WOOF. Victor and Frank had joined on their own.

We all sat around the dining room table. Patricia always insisted we pray before the meal, so Grant, being our leader, said one.

“Dear Lord, thank you for gathering us together tonight. Thank you for the day we experienced, our trials, and our triumphs. Give us strength in the fight against evil, a fight which never ends. Watch over those in fear and need. Bless this food to use and us to your service. In Jesus name, we pray.”

The rest of us loudly said, “Amen.”

As we passed around the plates of raw meat, I gazed around the table at the members of my pack, my family, my joy, and my pride.

Patrick, a wrinkled sixty-two-year-old man about five-eleven with a gray beard and mustache and shoulder-length hair, sat at one end of the table. He has brown eyes.

Patricia, a thin, wiry fifty-nine-year-old woman around five-eight with waist-length hair, was at the other end. She has hazel eyes. Whenever we ate at their house, they were the hosts, so they received the places of honor.

On one side of the table sat Grant, Peter, Pauline, and Frank; on the other side, Melvin, Thelma, Victor and me.

Peter is a twenty-five-year-old, six-one, muscular guy with shoulder-length brown hair, mustache and well-trimmed beard. He has green eyes and a narrow nose.

Pauline, much like her brother, is twenty-five years old, six feet tall and muscular with brown hair that flowed freely down to the small her back. She has blue eyes.

Frank is six-ten with blonde hair and many scars covering his body. He’s a bit older than the rest of us at thirty-five, besides Grant, and has been in his fair share of fights.

Melvin is forty-two years old, five-five with broad shoulders and thick arms. He had black hair riddled with gray, and a shaggy beard and mustache.

Thelma is thirty-nine years old, five-six, and bulky. She has shoulder-length red hair that she cuts almost every week to keep it that length. She has green eyes.

Victor is forty-three and five-eleven. He is tough and mean in his human form and even more so as a wolf. He has a short gray hair, also cut very often, a beard and mustache.

“Hey, Joe,” Melvin said. “How’s the case going on the murdered WOOF agent?”

“Not as well as I would like. I haven’t followed up on all the leads the wererats gave me yet.”

“Those wererats are something,” Peter commented.

“Without them, we’d never solve anything,” Pauline added.

“Come now,” Grant scoffed. “You’re all very capable agents. Yes, the wererats help, but who fights the Wild Ones? Who brings rogue werewolves to justice? Who kills off the ferals?”

To Grant’s questions, the rest of us said in unison, “We do.”

We all laughed.

“Okay,” Grant said. “No more talking business.”

“But it’s what we do,” Victor protested. “Killing off Wild Ones.”

The rest of us gave a chorus of assent.

Grant quietly glared at all of us. He turned to Melvin and Thelma. “How are the kids doing?”

Since they were the only two married, they were also the only two who had children, well, at least legitimately. We werewolves are quite promiscuous, so we often have illegitimate children. So far, I’ve been lucky, but I always use a condom. I’ll decide the time and place when I’m going to impregnate a woman.

“Kelly’s doing fine, but she’s got boyfriend problems—” Melvin answered.

“She does not,” Thelma interrupted. “It’s not her fault that two boys have crushes on her.”

“She should just go out with Jeremy. He’s from good werewolf stock and he’s in the Utter pack.”

“The pack does not make a good boyfriend. Jose is a good boy and gentle. He’d be a much better boyfriend. Besides, he treats Carson well,” Thelma countered.

“And how’s Carson?” Victor asked, attempting to change the subject.

“Just fine,” Melvin replied. “He turned into a wolf at school the other day, so we had to make an emergency visit to get him out of the pound.”

“The school sent for animal control?” Pauline inquired.

“Yep. Luckily, they only thought he was a dog instead of wolf,” Thelma said. “So they didn’t put him in a zoo.”

“Sometimes, humans aren’t very observant,” I noted. “But that makes it easier to stay hidden from them.”

We laughed again. We werewolves respect humans, but we also know that if they learn of our existence they might take to hunting us. There are a few groups of werewolf hunters, but they’re less common than vampire hunters. Somehow, we’re less offensive as a race.

I enjoy my times with my pack because these times also are usually the best of my life.

7

A Party

I parked my pickup in the field between Dick and Shirley’s house and the state highway. I’d left my pack behind to attend this party. The field was already full of pickups, SUVs, and a few sedans in rows emanating from the gravel road leading from the highway to the house. We werewolves think our vehicles should be large and full of life like we are. That’s why there were so few sedans.

Exiting my vehicle, I tromped through the grass toward the two-story house with most of its lights on.

Dick and Shirley own a hobby farm southwest of Des Moines. Hobby farms are run by city folk who have the farm but don’t expect it to be their primary source of income. Some have farms for recreational purposes; others to keep horses or other fun livestock. Dick and Shirley operated this farm, so they could have wild parties almost every month far from the city lights and control.

This farm consisted of a house, a barn, and a few other outbuildings, one for horses, another for hogs. Dick and Shirley worked in insurance and banking, respectively.

The party itself was being held in the barn that was converted into a huge reception hall rented by its owners for weddings, funerals, and the occasional high school dance. For those events, they resisted the urge to hunt and kill humans.

I walked by the house and heard howls from some darkened upstairs windows. Those Wild Ones having sex. If they wanted to rut as wolves, they did it in the cornfield on either side of the house because the hosts didn’t want their house totally destroyed. As I walked toward the barn, I passed by a group in a circle shouting at the two wolves fighting within. These werewolves were two packs, one from eastern Iowa and another from western, who always had at least one member of their pack fight another from the other pack. Each wolf was about the size of a St. Bernard. Tradition. That’s us werewolves.

Wild One packs attend parties like Dick and Shirley’s. Many packs stay together all night long. That seems nonsensical to me since you already hang out a lot together, so why would you come to a party like this and not socialize with other packs? Other packs let their members go meet and greet werewolves from different packs. Some even rut with members of other packs. The better to keep a good gene spread in each pack.

Tables covered with all kinds of meat presented in a variety of ways stood around the barn. Ground beef. Meat on the bone. Whole carcasses of animals. Beef cubes. Chicken and turkey legs. Pork in all kinds of cuts. There were also tables with a spread of hard liquor and wine. Nearby were coolers filled with beer. We werewolves love our alcohol.

“Joey!” a werewolf shouted at me.

“Vince!” I yelled back.

Vince Brown is about five-five, very stocky build with broad shoulders, large arms and legs, shoulder-length red hair and a scruffy beard and a mustache. Vince is a tough guy. He can hold his own as a human or a wolf. Vince is my best contact among Wild Ones even though he knows I’m an FH. He doesn’t care because if WOOF does a purge of Wild Ones we leave Vince and our hosts Dick and Shirley out of it. When I visit these parties, Vince always knows I’m on a case because that’s the only time I attend.

We gave each other hugs. Vince stepped back and looked at me.

“Looking good, Joey,” he said.

“You, too, Vince.”

“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the tables of food and drinks.

“Of course,” I agreed.

Vince grabbed a chicken leg, I a few beef cubes. Once we’d disposed of the food, we went to the beverages table, each took a beer, popped the top, and drank it down.

“Ahhh,” we said simultaneously.

“But you’re here for a reason,” Vince deduced.

“Yeah, I am. I’m looking for the Nodwick, Siskel, Morton, or Butcher packs.” I didn’t mention Oldwell because they were FHs like me. They wouldn’t show up at a Wild Ones party.

“You’re lucky. Everybody except the Mortons are here,” Vince said. “Let’s get a little away from this mass of goodness.”

Both of us grabbed an additional beer to enjoy as we went about business.

We walked a little ways out of the busy crowd, so we could watch those line dancing on the dance floor and the various groups of werewolves chattering, arguing, eating, drinking, flirting, and posing between the house and the barn.

“Okay,” Vince said. “A few Nodwicks are over there.” He pointed at a two lean males with scraggly shoulder-length hair and messy beards and mustaches. They wore plaid shirts and blue jeans. “They’re in town because they’ve been hired to do security work at a firm. The rest are out mingling.” I saw four more of the scraggly-haired individuals spread throughout the crowd.

“Good to know,” I said.

Vince pointed out twenty individuals, both male and female and ranging in age from the twenties to the fifties. They all wore purple and blue outfits, but were also spread out among the crowd. “That’s the Siskels. They’re in town for a matter of vengeance.”

“Do you know what they’re avenging?” I asked.

“I talked to a guy named Phillip Barnes.” Vince pointed at a six-two individual with well-groomed brown hair, beard, and mustache. “He was angry and disgusted, and that was even before he told me about their mission of vengeance. Then another guy from his pack snapped at me, and I thought it best to retreat rather than engage.”

“Good move. I’ll remember that.”

Vince motioned toward another ten, both male and female, ranging in age from the teens to the thirties, also mingling with other packs and, in some cases, distributing flyers. “That’s the Butcher pack. They’re in Iowa to make money. They bought a farm, and some of them are sending out text messages and giving away flyers to sell human hunts.”

“Aren’t Dick and Shirley’s enough?” I asked.

“For a few packs. But some packs really enjoy the hunt and kill. Butcher pack is offering them for individual packs for a price.”

“Well, I have to check them out.”

“I thought you’d say that. Planning on joining?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I can gain their confidence another way.”

When I decided not to join any of these packs, that meant I wouldn’t have to fight a member of the pack to get information. I’d have to use my charm and good looks.

8

Visiting with the Packs

I thanked Vince for the information, downed my beer, looked over the three packs again, then walked into the milieu. The Nodwicks sound interesting. I’ll try them first.

I wore a chambray shirt and jeans, so I thought I’d fit right in with them. The two guys were in a conversation with three other males and two females about how the various university teams in Iowa were doing. I’m an Iowa fan. That’s University of Iowa for you people who don’t live in the state. Iowa college football fans fall into two categories: Iowa and Iowa State. It’s Iowa’s black and gold Hawkeyes versus Iowa State’s red and yellow Cyclones.

“I’m amazed you know so much about the team,” I said, interrupting a tall, thin guy with scraggly brown hair and beard.

The seven stared at me.

“Well, you’re from Washington state, aren’t you?” I asked.

The two from the Nodwick pack growled. The werewolves from the other packs snickered.

“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself,” I said. “I’m Joe Butler. Good to meet you.” I held out my hand.

“Marshall Denning,” said the tallest Nodwick. He grabbed my hand and shook it with a firm grip. “Nodwick Pack.”

I shrugged. “I’m a loner, always in search of a pack.” That line is better than saying I’m from the Barker Pack. It’s fairly widespread knowledge in Central Iowa that our pack is also WOOF.

“We’re not looking for anyone,” the guy with messy red hair snarled.

“Justin, don’t be angry,” Marshall said. “We still don’t have many friends here.”

“We don’t need them,” Justin snapped.

I wasn’t sure I liked these Nodwicks. They seemed temperamental, even for werewolves.

A short, stocky guy from another pack grunted, “Not sound logic. We packs need diversity.”

“Okay, that’s true, but not why I’m here. I like to meet people new to our state,” I said. “It’s not as if many people come to Iowa.”

“Washington state always has many newcomers. It’s probably the weather,” Marshall quipped.

Marshall and Justin chuckled.

“What brings you to Iowa?” I asked. Although I found the Nodwicks unpleasant, I still had information to discover.

“We don’t think it’s any of your business,” Justin said.

“All right. I just don’t know many people who’ve come from Washington state,” I said.

“The weather’s better,” Marshall said.

Justin smirked. “Washington state has only one type of weather. Rain. And more rain. Iowa weather at least has clear skies part of the time.”

“There’s fewer people here, too,” Marshall volunteered.

“Marshall, if Joe’s interested, he’ll ask,” Justin said.

“You guys have a lousy temperament,” a guy from another pack observed. He turned to me. “Eddie Nelson.”

Eddie’s someone I can relate to.

“Good to meet you,” I said.

“Same.”

The four other werewolves from other packs introduced themselves as well. Both Marshall and Justin watched this exchange silently.

“By the way, they’re in Iowa because of a business opportunity to work for security for an up-and-coming enterprise,” Eddie told me. “Fun for all. Lots of times the job must be dull, but when they get the chance, violence will come their way.”

Justin growled. Marshall patted his shoulder and whispered in his ear. The angry werewolf sighed.

“I’m always in search of a new job. Does your business have any other security openings?” I asked.

The two Nodwicks glanced at each other.

“Not right now,” Marshall answered.

“It’s time we talk to somebody else,” Justin added.

The two Nodwicks left our small group.

“They really did know quite a bit about the Hawkeyes’ record. Well, at least the men’s football and basketball,” Eddie offered.

“Everybody should notice the women’s teams more,” countered one of the females in the group, giving all of us men a snarl.

None of the males challenged her.

“Nice to meet you all, but I’m still a lone wolf in search of a pack,” I said.

Before I could pull myself away, each of the representatives from the other packs offered me reasons why I should join theirs. Some of their suggestions are not for comfortable human reading. I bid them farewell as I decided I should next check out the Siskels.

I didn’t learn any more about the Nodwicks than what Vince had already told me. Well, I can try another time to learn where they’re employed.

Through the crowd, I spotted Phillip Barnes who was talking to a tall, thin female with blue eyes and straight black hair almost down to her waist. She wore a leopard patterned short-sleeved blouse with a short black pleated skirt. Phillip must not be angry all the time since he’s making the moves on this woman.

I walked over to them.

“…new to the area,” Phillip was saying.

The female gazed at him with interest. Or lust. Many females from different packs come to these parties simply to rut with members from other packs.

“This is the first party I’ve seen you at,” the female replied.

“It’s the first since my pack came to the area. How often do you have them?”

“Usually once a month, but sometimes those damn pets attack some of us, so we need to postpone until the heat is off.” The female said this last bit angrily.

Not among friends. I didn’t care. Often, I’d bedded down with a Wild One female and later convinced her to adopt the ways of Friends of Humanity.

Some humans may think it’s rude of me to disturb Phillip on the make with this female. If so, they don’t understand us werewolves very well. We’re a competitive race in love, war, and about any game. Actually, we werewolves consider it an honor if others vie for our lust or love interest.

I joined these two.

“Joe Butler,” I said.

“Amy Andrews,” the female said.

Phillip eyed me suspiciously then introduced himself as well.

“Phillip’s pack is new to the area,” Amy offered.

The other male smiled and flexed his muscles. “We’re here to right a wrong.”

“I’m a lone wolf in search of a pack,” I said. Before either could reply, I added, “Long story.”

Usually if I say the reason I’m not with a pack is a “long story,” other werewolves shy away from asking about it. We werewolves are patient to a point, but we really do hate when somebody talks on and on, especially if the tale is lengthy and sad as mine was bound to be.

A sympathetic look filled Amy’s eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I shrugged.

“I could see about you joining mine,” she continued. “We can always use new males.” She grinned and licked her lips.

Phillip growled. “Lone wolves are dull. They don’t understand the magic of the pack. My pack is here because another pack wronged us, and we’re here to exact our revenge.”

“Violently?” Amy asked seductively.

“Is there any other way?” Phillip responded.

Amy growled, but not in an angry way. She and Phillip exchanged a long look, and they simultaneously licked their lips.

Female werewolves often get horny at the thought of violence. Violence and sex are so related, it’s only natural.

“It will be a bloody, brutal revenge,” Phillip said quietly. He smiled again and let his teeth grow a bit toward their wolf size.

“Hey, can I get in on it?” I inquired.

The other two turned toward me and snarled. Not the right approach. I’ll have to wait for another time, at least with Phillip.

I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and took out one of my business cards. The card had my cell number, and the business was one of many where I claimed to work. “Here’s my card in case you’re interested in contacting me.” I held it out toward the two Wild Ones.

Phillip curled his nose in disgust.

Amy grabbed the card, dropped it in her small black purse that hung over her shoulder, and gave me a quick smile.

Phillip growled again.

“He’s cute and lonely,” she said defensively. She let her lip curl and reveal slightly extended teeth.

“I’ll be going, but give me a call if you can,” I said quickly and left them behind.

I paused about ten feet away. Phillip and Amy had been about that same distance from a larger mass of werewolves talking or arguing or having a good time. I let my werewolf hearing kick in.

“He’s a jerk,” Phillip said.

“I said he was cute. Now, you, Phillip, are handsome. Tell me more about why your pack is out for revenge.”

The male glanced around, saw me, and lifted a lip to reveal his long canines, not a very covert threat. I’ll catch up with Phillip and Amy later. Or maybe just Amy. She looks like she’d be lots of fun.

I had other concerns. I had yet to contact the Butcher pack who was doing the most offensive crime. Offering more human hunts. That’s not acceptable, and we FHs have to stop those now.

Unlike the Siskels, the Butcher pack wasn’t wearing any pack colors. That’s the way I prefer it. If I’m coming to a party, I want to be me, not anyone associated with a pack. It’s more fun that way. Others are more accepting of you because you’re showing you want to mingle with your fellow werewolves and don’t care how you’re identified.

Even without wearing pack colors, the Butchers were easy to spot because around each of them was a crowd of five or more. Wild Ones enjoy their human hunts.

I walked by a circle of partygoers urging two wolves in a fight, another group having a drinking game with shots of vodka, and some attendees discussing getting together for an orgy after the party before I reached the crowd around a young, spry female distributing flyers for the Butchers’ human hunts.

“…some of the prey are armed,” she was saying.

“Of course they are. We don’t want them to be without limbs,” a tall, muscular man remarked.

The rest of the group laughed.

The Butcher female glared at the crowd. “I meant they’d have weapons. We’ve got some who’ll use swords and others who’ll have firearms.”

“That could make for an entertaining hunt,” another of her audience commented. “I’ll check with my pack to see if they’re interested.”

The man left the crowd, so I squeezed in to get his spot. The Butcher female immediately handed me a flyer.

I quickly read it while she continued with her spiel. The flyer told the location of the farm, the cell phone numbers of a few of the Butcher pack, and the variety of human hunt plans offered.

“Individuals, couples, packs, or multiple packs, all are welcomed at Butcher Farms,” she said.

“Are the prices on the flyers the only ones available?” an older, graying male asked.

The Butcher female shook her head negatively. “No. We can customize a hunt for you or your pack. The flyer shows our standard offerings with their prices, but we’d be more than happy to create a unique hunt just for you. Check out the website on the brochure.”

Between the flyer and the Butcher female’s comments, I’d learned enough. We’ll shut you down fast.

I separated from the group. I’ve acquired what information I can, so it’s time for me to leave.

“Joe, I’m glad you’re still here,” a female voice said behind me.

I turned to see Amy, who gave me a big smile.

“I’m sorry Phillip was such an ass,” she said.

“He’s not in your pack,” I responded.

She stepped closer to me. “Still. You’re a wolf without a pack. The rest of us should help you, not ridicule you.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Amy glanced around. “I have to leave soon, but would you be willing to contact me?” She took my card and a pen out of her purse, wrote a number on the back of the card, and handed it back to me. “Here’s my number.”

“I’ll give you a call,” I promised.

“Do that.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, turned, and left.

A tough-looking male with his hair cut short and his beard and mustache well-trimmed approached me. “You Joe Butler?” he asked.

I replied affirmatively.

“Some people want to see you in among the vehicles.”

Before I could ask, he pointed at the rows of vehicles parked between the house and the highway, specifically to the right of the house. “By the red Ford F350 and the black Escalade.” I saw these two vehicles parked one beside the other.

“Did they say who they were?” I asked.

“None of my business.” Then he walked away.

The situation smelled of a trap, but I didn’t care. I was here to learn what I could and perhaps these werewolves could help.

I walked away from the area lit by the open barn, the tables of food and liquor, and the nearly one hundred werewolves attending the party. I really should leave because the human hunt will begin soon. But I also had to investigate these people who wanted to meet me. I didn’t like the chosen meeting spot. We should be able to meet in a crowd, but if he wants to meet privately, I can do that, too.

I stopped in the large aisle between the row of vehicles to my right and those to my left. The two designated vehicles were to my right. Not far away, some wolves growled. I sniffed the air. Yep, three wolves and all not very far away.

A trap. Damn.

9

The Trap

I knew the locations of my opponents, and I figured they knew where I was, too.

One wolf was to my right between the red Ford F350 and the black Escalade. Another was to my left between a gray Dodge Ram pickup and a blue Suburban. A third was also to my left between the blue Suburban and a black Ford Focus. That’s not a decent werewolf vehicle! And I sensed a fourth wolf on the right slip between the red Escalade and a GMC pickup.

But I’m a WOOF agent. We face danger, and triumph when we can. Let’s see what damage I can do.

I transformed into a wolf.

Wolves all around me. My world filled with their growls and smells.

Smell four wolves. The scent of one is scrambled eggs, dusty basements, and skunk. The scent of the second was scrambled eggs, lettuce, and jasmine. Of the third scrambled eggs, ripe tomatoes, and glass cleaner. Of the fourth wet towels, chlorine, and lilacs in bloom.

First three—same pack.

Fourth—Vince.

Better odds.

Vince between the Escalade and the pickup.

Nearest wolves to my left and right charge. To my right, the wolf has black fur. To my left, dark gray.

I pounce on the black wolf.

Growls and fighting in front of me. Vince must be fighting the third scrambled eggs wolf.

Wolf beneath me rolls over. I back away. Before the black wolf can stand, I jump on him again. Bite and scratch. Bite, bite, bite.

Another wolf dashes up from my left.

Bound off wolf as second wolf attacks. This wolf lands on my attacker, not me. The two roll and tumble, each attacking the other.

In front of me, a wolf whimpers. [I’m hurt. I’m hurt.] This wolf runs away.

Two wolves in front of me scratch and bite and claw at each other. Smell of blood. Smell of triumph.

They stop. Roll on their bellies. Gaze at us.

One jumps toward me. The other at Vince.

We pounce at the same time.

Both sprint past us.

We turn. Jump at them.

I hit. Vince misses.

I knock my wolf to the ground. Bite. Scratch. The other wolf already injured. Bite in areas where already hurt. Roll around on the ground.

Vince and the other wolf tussle. Growls and snarls fill the air.

My opponent is free. Vince separates from his.

Both enemy wolves bleeding.

I howl. [To glory!]

Vince approaches me. He howls. [To glory!]

Our opponents stand and dash away.

I transformed back into my human form. Vince did the same.

“Thanks for the save,” I said.

“No problem. I don’t like to see a friend in trouble.”

“Do you know what pack they belong to?” I asked.

Vince shook his head. “I haven’t smelled any wolves with those scents. Most likely a pack new to town.”

I agreed.

“Do you think you can smell them out during the human hunt?” I asked.

As we talked, a black pickup among the many vehicles started, backed up, and raced out of the vehicles to the gravel road and to the highway.

Vince laughed. “There’s your answer.”

“You’re right about that. By the way, do you know a woman named Amy Andrews?”

We walked back toward the large group of partygoers.

“I haven’t heard of her. Why?” Vince asked.

“She was talking with Phillip Barnes and gave me her number.”

“Then why ask me about her?”

“She acted as if she’d been in town for a while, but Phillip hadn’t been.”

“Could be,” Vince admitted.

We reached the mass of partygoers. Three fights had broken out while we were gone. The people playing the drinking game with vodka were still going strong. I glanced at the house to see Dick and Shirley emerging.

“Looks like the human hunt will begin soon. Time for me to go,” I said.

“Sorry the party didn’t work out so well,” Vince told me.

“I received the cell number of a beautiful woman, so it wasn’t all bad.”

“And gathering information?” asked Vince.

“There’ll always be another party,” I replied.

I hiked toward my pickup.

10

The Plan

We parked the black Suburban along the side of the gravel road. The school bus pulled over behind us. Out in the countryside, we could see the stars. We’d picked tonight for our attack because, based on information on the Butcher pack’s website, they weren’t hosting any human hunts and the moon was a mere sliver in the sky. As it so happened, this night was only the first after Dick and Shirley’s party, so if we succeeded, we’d rescue all the humans and kill the Butcher pack before their money-making enterprise could begin.

I sat in the SUV with six other WOOF agents. Peter and Pauline from the Central Iowa WOOF pack and Tommy, Earl, and Shelly from the Council Bluffs WOOF pack. Victor from Central Iowa and Harold from Council Bluffs were in the school bus.

Tommy is a twenty-one-year-old, six-three, lanky guy with blond hair cut around his head and a blond, scruffy mustache and beard. He has hazel eyes and was anxious for the fight.

Earl is a thirty-five-year-old, short and chubby guy of five-five with bushy shoulder-length red hair, mustache and beard. He has green eyes.

Shelly is a twenty-eight-year-old, five-eleven woman with waist length blonde hair braided so that it wouldn’t cause her problems in the fight to come. She has blue eyes and small features on her face.

Harold is a forty-one year old, fit and muscular guy of five-nine with black and gray hair tied in a bun behind head with brown eyes and large hands and feet.

Earlier I’d said explaining about my pack was complicated. These various WOOF agents illustrate why.

There’s one WOOF pack throughout all of Iowa. Many of us are related, but quite a few aren’t because they simply chose to be in WOOF and weren’t born into it. We’re all in the Barker pack. Packs are named after their founders who may still be alive, but are more likely dead such as Emil Barker, who began our pack in the colonial days of America. My pack’s story is interesting and often fits into important events that have transpired in the history of the United States, but all that is beyond this humble narrative.

But our pack has a complicated existence. The Barker pack has parts of the pack in all the major cities of the state: Iowa City, Des Moines, Davenport, Cedar Rapids, Sioux City, and Council Bluffs. We also have a few members who regularly wander from one small town to another to keep Wild Ones from murdering in these localities.

Since the Butcher farm was located in western Iowa, we thought the only logical thing to do was to involve a few WOOF agents from Council Bluffs. We’d also asked for help from Sioux City, but they said a pack of ferals was terrorizing their city and that was keeping them busy.

Peter was in charge, so he looked over the group.

“We only have six people to rescue the humans and fight the Butcher pack. We’re fairly certain all the pack is on the farm. That’s good because we can kill them all at once. That’s bad since Joe said they number around twenty,” Peter explained.

“No worry. We’ll get them all,” Tommy said.

I wanted to agree. We’re the forces of good, so we should win.

“Yes, we can dispose of them if we operate correctly,” Peter agreed. “We’re not here to capture any of the Butcher pack and hope to rehabilitate them. There’s too many of them and too few of us.” He continued to describe the layout of the farm and its various buildings.

“We believe all or most of the humans are being held in the barn. We’ve sent a few drones overhead and seen people taking food out to the barn, so we believe that must be where the humans are. Although Joe said a few of the humans are proficient with firearms, we believe these weapons to be kept in the house.”

He looked at Tommy then me. “You two will go to the barn and wait until we’ve taken care of the werewolves in the house. Once those in the house have been pacified, we’ll join you at the barn and kill any stragglers still there. We’ll contact Victor and Harold. They’ll bring the bus around and we’ll transport the humans out of there.”

Then Peter added, “Remain in human form except under the most dire circumstances. We can kill more Wild Ones more efficiently if we use our firearms and silver bullets rather than engaging them as wolves.”

A good straightforward attack. I like those. If a plan is too complicated, one or two elements can break down, and the rest of the operation will collapse as well. Also, I agreed with Peter’s warning about wolfing-out. Although being a wolf is fun and natural, at times when you’re outnumbered, wolfing-out is rarely the best strategy.

“Are we good?” Peter asked.

We nodded.

All six of us exited the vehicle then we dashed through the cornfields where the stalks were only about ankle-high and toward the farm controlled by the Butcher pack.

11

The Evil Farm

We stood on a hill overlooking the farm. Despite popular literature, much of the Iowa landscape is not flat. A great deal of it is rolling hills, some with quite steep slopes. This feature makes the countryside excellent for bike riding and is one the special draws of the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa or RAGBRAI for people from around the United States and other countries to come to Iowa for this event. (Iowa is really a fantastic place. If you’ve never been here, you should visit.)

Seeing the farm wasn’t reassuring because Peter hadn’t known certain details when planning our attack. As his reports had indicated, the farm had three buildings: a house, a barn, and a grain silo. A roughly one-hundred-foot-long gravel drive went from the highway to the farmstead. About a dozen vehicles, all of them SUVs or large pickups, were parked in front of the house. Between the house and the barn stood three travel trailers. Lights shown from the inside of the house as well as the three travel trailers.

“Damn,” Peter cursed.

At least twenty Wild Ones. It makes sense they wouldn’t all want to live in the house.

“Okay, here’s the new plan,” our leader explained.

I didn’t like it because Tommy was going to hold a more responsible position. He was young and relatively new as a WOOF agent. In my day, I’d done some stupid things too. My mistakes were caused because I was too impulsive, too prepared to wolf-out. I hoped Tommy wouldn’t make the same mistakes.

We dashed down the hillside to the farm. All of us drew our weapons. I had a Glock pistol filled with silver bullets. The rest had pistols of similar caliber also filled with the deadly silver bullets. I didn’t like the way this operation had to go down. It was to be a massacre. We weren’t taking any captives. We were simply going in for the kill.

I think such a strategy is barbaric. We’re werewolves. We should give our opponents a chance. And, in the best of all circumstances, we should all fight as wolves.

However, based on the Butcher pack’s website for the purchasing hunts, they’d scheduled dozens in the next few days. From that observation, Grant had concluded the Wild Ones had at least twenty humans being held captive, if not more. We had to rescue them. Also, once we wiped out the Wild Ones, we’d have FHs replace them, then proceed to murder all the Wild Ones coming here for a good time.

In order for that plan to work, we had to slaughter the Butcher pack as fast and efficiently as possible. It didn’t mean I had to approve of it.

We slowed as we reached the area between the barn, the house, and the travel trailers. The trailer closest to the house was a black and silver Keystone, the one in the middle a dark green with red trim Coleman, and the one closest to the barn a brown and tan Forest River. Loud raucous music rang out from the Keystone and the Coleman and sounds of an action movie boomed from the Forest River. Although the house was farther away, dance music rang out from it, not quite blanketing the sounds from the trailers.

Peter motioned that he and Pauline would go to the back of the house, Earl and Shelly to the front of the house, Tommy to the Keystone closest to the house and me to the Forest River.

As we separated, I walked close to Tommy.

“Go in and shoot them all in the head. Don’t hesitate,” I ordered.

Tommy growled. “I know my job.”

“Hey, I was young once and killing for the first time in cold blood was difficult.”

“I’m not you.”

He didn’t deny not ever killing anyone in cold blood.

The two of us took our separate paths to our respective travel trailers. The sounds of an action movie continued from my travel trailer. Explosions. Car chases. Gunshots. This movie probably doesn’t have much of a plot, but lots of action. Works for me. All these loud noises would also make my entry less noticeable. I opened the screen door. The inner door remained closed.

I glanced at Peter, who nodded. He’d told Shelly he’d send her a text. Since he’d nodded that meant we all were to attack our respective residences.

I slammed into the inner door and the hinges and lock broke from the force of my body. I turned to gaze down the length of the travel trailer.

Behind me was a door that opened up to a room with a queen-sized bed. To my right was a kitchen along the wall with a counter and cupboards, a refrigerator, stove, sink, and dishwasher. Farther down to my right was a small compartment I guessed to be the bathroom. To my left stood tables and chairs, and a nook with couches all around. Directly in front of me was a wall facing toward the rest and a hall leading to two small bedrooms. On the wall facing me hung the huge flatscreen television from which came the noises of the action movie. On the couches looking toward the television, two people sat, a man in his fifties or sixties with gray hair and the usual mustache and beard, and a woman in her thirties with long black hair flowing halfway down her back. They held each other like lovers. I prefer my lovers to be closer to my age. But when they’re younger and still want to rut me, I’ll gladly comply.

As the couple looked from the television to me, I raised my pistol and fired. Three times into the forehead of the man. Four shots in the face of the female.

I turned toward the door to leave when another person emerged from the bathroom. This man was thick and muscular and had bright red hair. He wore khakis and a sweatshirt.

Even with the thundering noise of the action movie, I could hear this werewolf shout, “Who the hell are you? Why the fuck are you in our place?”

He leaped forward. His body stretched as fur erupted all over it. His arms and legs grew and thinned; his hands and feet molded into paws with sharp claws. His nose and mouth bulged forward creating a muzzle and sharp teeth. His ears slid to the back of his head and became pointed.

A wolf the size of a large St. Bernard flew toward me.

12

When Plans Go Awry

I jumped sideways, smashing through the screen door. I glanced back into the travel trailer to see the wolf staring and snarling at me. He leaped toward me. I hopped up to the roof of the trailer.

A wolf with beige fur dashed through the door of the Keystone trailer. Three werewolves in human form followed. One was a five-nine male, probably weighing two hundred pounds, with long blond hair held back in a ponytail. The second was the blonde female I recognized distributing flyers at the Wild Ones’ party. The third, a five-five female with shoulder-length brown hair, who was a bit chubby. The two females shouted at the wolf, raised pistols, and shot at him. The male quickly did the same with his gun.

No no no no no no, I thought. That must be Tommy. I shook my head. But I have other worries.

The red-furred wolf bounded out of the Forest River on which I was standing. Before this wolf could get its bearings, I raised my pistol and fired. Four bullets hit him in the back of the head. The wolf collapsed to the ground and transformed into a human covered with white fur.

Two people, also armed with pistols, exited from the Coleman travel trailer. Both were males, one with brown hair, the other with black.

They must have heard the gunshots.

The other three Wild Ones shot at Tommy, who now limped away after being hit in one of his rear legs. He whimpered loudly. These Wild Ones walked toward the wounded FH.

“Must be a pet,” the male Wild One from the Keystone said.

“A stupid one,” the blonde female I’d seen distributing flyers agreed.

The brunette female in the group shot Tommy in his right front leg.

As they talked, I re-loaded my pistol. First, I shot the male with brown hair who’d recently exited the Coleman travel trailer. One bullet hit him in the back, the second grazed his ear.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Both he and his companion turned to see me on the Forest River roof. Both aimed their guns at me. I jumped from the roof to the ground behind the Forest River and dashed along the backside of the three trailers. A gunshot echoed behind me. I dove and rolled to the end of the Keystone trailer.

“Stupid pet,” the blonde said again. A gunshot followed.

A wolf whimpered not too far away.

Tommy, help is on the way.

I hopped to the top of the Keystone trailer, saw the wounded brown-haired werewolf standing on the Forest River trailer’s roof, and shot him. This time in the head. He collapsed on the roof. Another gunshot rang behind me.

I leaped off the roof and transformed into a wolf.

Werewolves in human form all nearby. One wounded wolf lying on the ground. From a distance, I could smell him. The scent of wet clothes, lilacs, and motor oil. My pack is different enough we don’t have any familiar smells.

Dash across the open area. Werewolves in human form still standing over wounded Tommy and occasionally shooting him.

Don’t notice me.

Jump on top of the blonde female. Knock her to the ground. Turn and bite the other female. Then dash again and hop over the Coleman trailer.

And I transformed back into human form. The black-haired Wild One ran around to the front of the Coleman trailer. I followed and stopped between the Coleman and the Keystone trailers. I peeked around the corner.

“That pet’s insane,” the black-haired guy from the Coleman trailer said.

“I’ve had it,” the blonde female said.

She shot Tommy in the head three times. He transformed back into a human corpse.

The black-haired guy approached the other three. All four of them glanced back at the Keystone trailer.

“That other pet must’ve fled,” the blond male guessed.

“If he’s smart, he has,” the blonde female agreed.

“He’s destructive,” the black-haired guy said. He motioned at the Forest River where a corpse lay. “My guess is our other companions in that motorhome are dead.”

The back door to the house opened. Peter, Pauline, Earl, and Shelly exited with weapons drawn.

“Look out!” I yelled.

The WOOF agents dove to the ground. Three Wild Ones turned and shot at me. I sprinted around the Coleman trailer as the popping of silenced pistols filled the air. When I reached the front of the trailer, I gazed over the scene. All four Wild Ones lay dead on the ground, three with head wounds and one with multiple shots to the chest. Peter, Pauline, and Shelly stood. Earl sat on the ground with blood seeping from his right leg. I ran across the open area to them.

“Will you be okay?” Peter asked Earl.

Pauline was already near a dead Wild One. She ripped off their clothes and approached Earl. “Let me help bandage you up with this one’s clothes.”

“You have bigger worries,” Earl said. He pointed at Tommy’s corpse and began ripping the Wild One’s clothes to cover his wounds.

The rest of us surrounded the young WOOF agent’s body. Both Shelly and Pauline wiped tears from their eyes. Despite the foolishness I thought of Tommy’s confidence, I still felt pain at his death. Death in battle may be glorious, but it’s still death. And the loss of a fellow WOOF agent is always a tragedy.

Peter cleared his throat. “We’ll have to mourn for Tommy later. Right now, we have to finish our job.” Peter shook his head. “I’m worried a few of this pack might still be around.”

“In the barn?” I asked.

“Yeah, and they probably heard the shots of their pack members,” Peter replied.

Pauline and Shelly walked toward the barn even as Peter and I had this exchange.

“Then let’s kill them,” Shelly said. “They shouldn’t have killed Tommy.”

Peter and I caught up with the two women as they reached the door to the barn. The barn was three stories tall, two stories and a loft, newly painted bright red. When I’d seen other human hunt operations, the Wild Ones had used barns to house their humans, usually on the second floor, so only one or two werewolves were needed to keep their prisoners from escaping. Once I’d seen them use the loft for children. Sick Wild Ones.

A large sliding door was to our right, but we all wanted to take the regular-sized door. Peter and Pauline still had their weapons drawn.

Peter looked at all of us. “Are your weapons fully loaded?”

Because I hadn’t fired since re-loading, I nodded. Shelly and Pauline did as well.

“Then let’s take care of some Wild Ones,” Peter said.

Shelly opened the door. Peter and Pauline entered, quickly followed by Shelly and me.

I didn’t like what I saw at all.

A large wide-open windowless room was in front of us. The floor was bare cement. Above us was a loft, broken only by an open trapdoor without a ladder leading to it. Far more important about ten feet in front of us knelt three rows of blindfolded humans, bound with ropes around their wrists and ankles. Most of the humans appeared to be in their twenties. Probably the best prey for the hunters. They wore shirts and pants, blouses and skirts, long dresses, and a few in pajamas. More importantly, behind these three rows of captives stood two werewolves, one a woman, the other a man. Each held an assault rifle with a bump stock.

“Put your guns down,” the man ordered.

“Or we lay waste to these—” the woman said.

Peter and Pauline both raised their pistols.

“I’ve had fucking enough of this shit!” Peter shouted as he shot the man twice in the chest and once in the head.

Pauline followed suit except her three bullets blew apart the woman’s face.

“Call Victor,” Peter commanded me.

I stepped outside the barn to call our colleagues with the school bus as the other three went about freeing and soothing the captives.

13

Oldwell Pack

I parked my pickup in front of large two-story house on a tiny plot of land with grass dotted with dandelions. A house similar to it stood within ten feet of it, explaining the narrow, small windows on the sides of each of the houses. This house had a three-car garage that matched the three-car driveway to it. This garage took up a good portion of the front of the house. A sidewalk made a trail from the driveway to the front porch This house was painted a bright white; houses around it were painted brown, blue, yellow and purple. Some people like attention. That purple house will get it.

I exited my vehicle and walked up the driveway that was filled with two pickups and two large SUVs. Both pickups were old with rust along the bottom of the doors; the SUVs were also older models.

It was 2 p.m., the soonest I could get around after getting to bed in the early morning hours.

After killing the last of the Wild Ones, we had our companions bring the school bus and SUV to the farm. Shelly and Pauline spoke to most of the captives, told them we were FBI agents, and explained that we’d get them home. Many of the humans were scared, tired, and hungry. We couldn’t do anything about these problems besides return them to their homes. They boarded the school bus with Victor and Harold.

We took Tommy’s corpse in our SUV and returned to Des Moines. When Grant heard the news, he told us we’d have a fitting send-off ceremony and party the next night. Tommy was a Friend of Humanity and WOOF agent. It was the least we could do.

But that left me the afternoon to check more leads concerning the visiting WOOF agent’s death. Since we’d eliminated the Butcher pack, I needed to search elsewhere. I wanted to visit the Oldwell pack because Santorini had indicated they were FHs and might be more amenable to telling me about why the WOOF agent was killed.

I knew the location of the Oldwell pack because Friends of Humanity always informed other FHs if they were coming to their region. We do this partly to let the other packs know there is a visiting pack in town, but most of the time it’s because the local packs have parties for any visiting FHs. We werewolves enjoy partying, so we use any excuse we can make.

I was going to the Oldwell pack ostensibly to invite them to Tommy’s celebration of life tonight. Discovering why the Oldwell pack was in town would be a bonus.

I walked up the driveway to the sidewalk leading to the front door, reached the door, and rang the doorbell. A petite woman with black hair in a bob cut answered the door. She wore shorts and a cut-off t-shirt.

“Yes, what do you want?” she asked.

“I’m Joe Butler of the Barker pack,” I said.

She smiled. “Donna Breeze of the Oldwell pack.”

“I hear you’re new in town. I’d like to talk to you if I could.”

She opened the door and invited me in. “I’m afraid many of our pack are out exploring your fair city,” she said as she led me into the large living room with a wide picture window.

A staircase leading to the second floor was directly in front of the door. A hall next to the stairs led to the kitchen. Opening beyond the large living room was a dining room with a set of table and chairs to seat twelve.

In the living room sat a couch upon which sat three older people: a man who had gray hair down to his shoulders, and a gray mustache and beard; a woman with long white and gray hair that hung almost to her waist; and another woman with long black hair speckled with gray. All three watched five children, ages from four to eight or so I guessed, playing on the floor. They played with action figures, some were people, others animals. The people were hunting the animals.

“Children, would you please play elsewhere?” Donna asked. “We have guests.”

The five children froze in their play and gazed at me with wide eyes.

I waved at them. “Hi, I’m Joe.”

One by one the children introduced themselves to me. The tallest boy who I guessed to be eight years old looked me over. “You a good werewolf or a bad werewolf?” he asked.

Donna laughed. “Eldon, please don’t pester our visitor. Of course, he’s a good werewolf.”

Eldon scrunched his eyes. “He’d better be.” Then he surveyed the other children. “Let’s go to the upstairs.”

“Yeah,” they shouted in chorus and dashed off.

“Children,” the old man murmured.

“Gotta love them,” the woman with gray hair added.

Donna motioned at one of the chairs on either side of the couch. I sat in one, she in the other.

“Russ,” the old man said.

“Paula,” the old woman with gray hair said.

“Selma,” the old woman with black hair speckled with gray said.

“Where are the rest of your pack?” I inquired. “I saw lots of vehicles out front.”

Donna laughed. “Some are in the basement watching sports. Others are out looking for jobs. The rest are exploring your town. It’s different from where we’re from.”

Better get the invitation in before we discuss any more. “Tonight we’re honoring one of our own who fell in combat. Your pack is invited.”

“Celebrations of life are great events,” Russ commented.

“And we’d enjoy getting to know more of the locals,” Selma added.

“Count us in. Where is it being held?” Donna asked.

I gave them that information.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come to Iowa?” I asked.

The three older pack members exchanged looks. Donna chuckled.

“That’s a silly question,” she said.

“The state of Washington is much friendlier to our kind than Iowa. Wolves roam the woods. Iowa hasn’t had wild wolves in a long time,” I explained.

Russ snorted. “Young man, we have good reasons for being here.”

Here it comes.

“We needed a change of scene,” Selma said. “Living in one place for many generations can grow tiresome. We thought the Midwest would be a good place to try, at least for the time being.”

“We’re still adjusting,” Donna told me. “Only a few of the younger members have jobs, but we believe we all will in the next few weeks.”

Russ waved his right hand dismissively. “Thank you, Joe, for the invitation to tonight’s event. At least some of us will see you there.”

“Yes, thank you for your time,” Donna said, standing.

I wanted to ask more questions, but I’d heard enough to know the Oldwell pack, or at least these members weren’t going to tell me anymore. They’ve brought kids and seniors. They must have feared for their lives in Washington.

I let Donna lead me to the door. The three oldsters on the couch waved good-bye. I did the same.

“See you tonight,” I said as I exited through the doorway.

“Indeed, you will,” Donna said and closed the door.

14

The Gathering

I arrived at the party about 10:30 pm. I was early because I wanted to participate in all the festivities. Grant had arranged a big bash to celebrate Tommy’s life as well as to give me plenty of time to talk with the Oldwells and any other werewolves new to town. Despite the occasion, my investigation had to continue.

The party was being held at an FH’s hobby farm about thirty minutes from Des Moines. We have three such hobby farms that host our get-togethers, depending upon the size of the crowd expected. We used this farm for the largest crowds.

This particular farm had two barns that made a U-shaped configuration with the house. One barn had a dance floor set up with strobe lights and a DJ. The second barn was filled with all our food and beverage delicacies, very similar to those at the Wild Ones’ party. A pyre with Tommy’s body upon it sat exactly in the center of the three buildings. Burning our former companion’s body was to be the highlight of the night. The fire would be bright and the flames high. A large hill covered in grass with an orchard on the right and a cornfield on the left rose from the bowl where the house, barns, and pyre sat.

The WOOF packs from all across Iowa were represented. The Sioux City and Council Bluffs packs were especially numerous, although I recognized five from Iowa City, three from Dubuque, seven from Davenport, two from Cedar Rapids, and members from a myriad of small towns. A great number of FHs from the Des Moines area ate at the food table, danced on the dance floor, or sat around talking with each other. Despite the event being to celebrate Tommy’s life, we werewolves always have plenty to talk about, if not simply gossiping about one another.

Werewolves of all ages attended the party. The young kids dashed around and between the barns, often stopping to eat a few beef cubes or a chicken leg before continuing their fun, and many times transforming into young wolves who raced around the buildings even faster. Seniors tended to sit in the grass, watching the actions of our young with admiration. Two or three seniors occasionally fought to show the rest of us that their battle skills were still worth noting. Young mothers and fathers fawned over their babies. Youth, younger than myself and still single, flirted with those of the opposite sex or the same sex. We werewolves didn’t care about an individual’s sexual preference. Not all age groups were invited to many of our parties, but for the sending off of a fellow warrior, all ages were encouraged to attend. I guessed about two hundred were in attendance. Grant had told me the State Pack Leader or SPL of Iowa was to be here as well. I’d seen him a few times but only from a distance.

I saw my poker buddies I played with every Thursday night, my bar pals who trolled for human women in a large country western bar, and my motorcycle friends with whom I made odysseys along the byways of small-town Iowa. As I flitted through the party, I contacted each of these groups, talked of the latest news, and heard funny stories about their own misadventures. I also took time to greet each member of my pack. Our time together wasn’t as good as when the pack was alone, but talking to my pack members was always a pleasure.

Luckily, this party was attended by more than just the regulars. I recognized the Oldwell pack dispersed among the crowd. Although I hadn’t seen them personally, Grant had provided me with a file of their pack with photos and biographies of all their known members.

As I was moving through the crowd and drinking a beer, a man about my size in a checked sweater and blue jeans stepped in front of me. His hair was cut short around his face but had the customary mustache and beard.

“Are you Joe Butler?” he asked.

“I am and I’m pleased to meet you,” I responded. I held out my hand.

He shook it vigorously and with a firm grip. “I’m Bill Douglas. I need to talk to you.”

All around us people talked, laughed, drank, and had a good time. Despite all that noise, I could hear him perfectly because we werewolves have very acute hearing.

“I’m happy to talk,” I said.

“Not here and not now,” Bill almost whispered. “Following the ceremony, meet me,” he paused, glancing over the area, “there.” He pointed at a broken branch on one of the apple trees about halfway up the hill.

“Okay, but I’m sure—”

“Meet me there.” Bill turned and quickly disappeared in the crowd.

Okay, strange, but meeting Bill can’t be any worse than the trap I fell into two nights ago.

I wandered over to one of the tables covered in a variety of meat dishes. I grabbed a beef cube and chewed it up.

A man a little bit taller than me but much more muscular stepped up to me. He had shaggy shoulder-length brown hair, a mustache, and a beard.

“You Joe Butler?” he asked.

He’s part of the Oldwell pack. Maybe I’ll get a break in my case.

“Yes, I am. And you are?” I replied, offering my hand.

He reluctantly took it but gave it a strong handshake, trying to crush my hand. “Orson Downs, Oldwell Pack.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I was at the house you’re renting today. It looks like it can accommodate quite a few people.”

Orson grimaced. “We would prefer if you didn’t visit us again.”

“I was only welcoming you to town and inviting to this occasion.”

“We already knew about this event,” Orson snapped. “We want you to mind your own business.”

“What don’t you want me to know about?” I asked.

The other werewolf growled.

He’s hiding something. I could tell Donna and the others were, too.

“We don’t want you coming by again. Do you understand?” he said ominously.

“Okay, whatever you say. If your pack needs any help, let me know. We at WOOF are here to help packs out of difficult situations.”

Orson growled again, turned, and walked away.

Some people like me; some people don’t. That’s life.

I took another beef cube and scanned the crowd. A woman with waist-length black hair with blue eyes and wearing a white blouse and a tight black leather skirt stood talking to three men, all three very happy to be talking to her.

Amy Andrews. What’s she doing here? I knew the best way to find out.

I strolled through the crowd to their little group. One of the men was telling how he’d made a killing in the stock market. The two others scoffed appropriately.

“Amy, how good to see you again,” I greeted, interrupting the other three.

She turned her blue eyes on me and gave me a big smile. “Why, Joe, I never expected to see you here.”

“I might say the same to you,” I responded.

The other three men fidgeted because they could see Amy and I had a prior acquaintance.

Amy surveyed the others. “You wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, if I had a few moments alone with Joe?”

One of the three snarled, only to receive a nasty stare from the only woman in our group. He dropped his eyes to the ground. The other two gave reluctant consents.

Once Amy and I were alone within the mass of werewolves, I remarked, “You’re looking quite lovely tonight.”

“I always enjoy dressing up for these send-off ceremonies,” she replied. “You’re a bit casual.”

I was since I was wearing corduroys a striped shirt, and a sports jacket. “Yeah, but at these parties I feel I can let my guard down a bit.”

“Well, I believe in dressing up in respect for the fallen,” Amy replied.

“I’ll remember that for my next sending-off.”

“I hope your next one won’t be your own,” she said.

“I’m hard to kill,” I shot back.

“I’ll have to ask some Wild Ones about that.”

“Since you hang out with them, that should be easy,” I said.

“We should be kinder to each other. After all, we’re on the same side.” She smiled. “You were working at the Wild Ones’ party,” she guessed.

“And so were you. You were acting as if you were a local, but you’re from out of state, too,” I said. “By the way, how was your discussion with Phillip Barnes?”

“Productive but not as informative as I had hoped.” She smirked. “You wanted to coax news from him, too.”

“I wouldn’t have interrupted you if I hadn’t. What did you learn?”

Amy glanced around at the various werewolves around us. “I don’t think here is the best place to share that information. After all, spies were at the Wild Ones’ gathering, so we should expect them here as well.”

And you very well could be that spy. “We could take a little walk,” I proposed.

Amy’s forehead creased. “Before the sending-off, that would be rude.”

But Grant wants me to get information so he’d understand. I shook my head. “Yes, you’re correct about that. We don’t want to disrespect the dead.”

“Do you know how he was killed?” she asked.

A vague answer will be good enough. “I hear he was murdered while fighting Wild Ones. If he’d died of natural causes, we wouldn’t need the grand ceremony.”

“The Wild Ones have become quite dangerous,” Amy remarked.

“In Iowa, we haven’t noticed too much of an increase in violence.”

My companion gave me a tight-lipped grin.

“Is it different where you’re from?” I asked.

“That’s for another time,” Amy replied.

A tall, muscular man with shoulder-length gray hair, a well-trimmed beard and mustache and wearing a dark blue suit with a light blue shirt and patterned red, white, and black tie walked into the empty circle that had been left around the pyre and Tommy’s body. He looked toward the sky and howled. The howl was deep and loud, so loud that it broke through all the hundreds of conversations of the attendees.

15

Celebration of Life

A hush fell over the entire crowd. All the children froze and gazed at this man. Singles busy flirting paused to look at him. Young and old alike became quiet and gazed at this man because they knew he deserved great respect.

The man was Aaron Snyder, the SPL of Iowa. More accurately, the SPL of Iowa for the Friends of Humanity. He was known throughout Iowa because he was the leader of us all.

Packs choose their leaders in many different ways: fighting for the honor, participating in various contests, debates, or some activity unique to a certain pack. Wild Ones primarily choose their pack leaders through fights to the death. The traditions of selecting pack leaders vary, but each pack has its own way. In WOOF, our leader has to have combat skills as well as other talents such as stealth and brains needed in WOOF.

The selection process for the SPL differs a bit. An SPL has to be a pack leader, then by election and combat, if necessary, the SPL is chosen. Any SPL I’ve met also has a strength of character and a dominance over any large audience. Snyder was no exception.

The Wild Ones of Iowa had a competing SPL. In the last few generations, FHs and Wild Ones had reached an agreement that we could attack the others’ packs but neither would harm the other group’s SPL.

Snyder scanned the attendees. “Thank you all for coming. We are at this gathering to celebrate the life of Tommy Nelson, a young werewolf still in his prime taken from us in a battle against our evil counterparts.”

At these words, many of the werewolves gazed at the ground or bowed their heads as if in prayer. Some even broke out in tears. These werewolves were probably relatives and friends of Tommy.

“Although this is a solemn occasion, this time is also for the remembrance and joy of Tommy having the fortune to die in combat. The fight against evil never ends, and if we die in that struggle, we gain glory in the eyes of our fellows.” Snyder paused, then he howled loudly again.

All of us joined him in the howl. [To glory! To glory!]

As the howling died, our leader continued, “But it is wrong for me to be the one receiving the attention, for this celebration is about Tommy. All of you who have stories and memories of Tommy that you wish to share, please come forward. Let us devote our time to the life of Tommy Nelson.”

Snyder slipped back into the crowd as ten other individuals came forward. I easily recognized his parents because they both had blond hair and were thin like Tommy. Other people his age also came forward. Even a few children who were no more than ten years old.

Amy sidled closer to me, her large black leather purse bumping against my arm. I caught a whiff of her perfume. A gentle scent only smelled from up close, not doused on to be smelled from many feet away.

“Do you imagine this type of death?” she whispered.

“If need be,” I said quietly back. “To die as a warrior is to die with honor.”

Amy laughed softly. “How true.”

As we’d been talking, Tommy’s father had begun speaking. He told of how Tommy had dreamed of being a WOOF agent and fighting evil. Tommy and his brothers had played WOOF agents and Wild Ones, a game many of us played when we were young, a game in which the Wild Ones schemed to kill humans, but the WOOF agents broke up the plot then all wolfed-out and play fought to the death. Tommy hadn’t been the best student at school because he was always a bit wild. His mother told how helpful Tommy had been even when he’d grown up and moved out. Every week he’d come home to mow the lawn, help rake up leaves, shovel the snow from the driveway, or play with his younger siblings. Tommy’s girlfriend came forward and told how he’d been very special to her. He’d given her roses and candy, but more importantly, had understood that she wanted to be a WOOF agent, too, and encouraged her to do so. Much more was told about Tommy and it’s beyond this narrative to tell it all.

Throughout these many speeches, the speakers often stopped and howled and all the rest of us joined in. We sang martial ballads and songs glorifying the werewolf way of life. Five friends of Tommy transformed into wolves, jumped over the pyre, and dashed around it many times. Finally, after almost two hours, the ceremony was nearly completed.

One of our hosts brought a flaming torch to Tommy’s parents. Both bowed their heads, gazed at the corpse of their son, then his father stuck the torch into one end of the pyre. Flames sprung up around it. His father handed the torch to his mother who walked to the other end of the pyre and stuck the torch in there. She gave the torch to their youngest son, the ten-year old who’d approached and spoken elegantly of the deeds of his older brother. This boy shoved the torch into the center of the pyre and left it there to spread the rest of the flames.

We stood silently as the wood caught fire. To ensure a proper burn, much of the wood had been soaked in kerosene. The flames spread quickly. We all smelled the burning of flesh. The flames surrounded the corpse, and a pillar of smoke rose from the fire.

We watched the fire for almost thirty minutes until only burned hunks of wood remained. Tommy’s corpse was gone. We’d given him as proper a send-off as we could.

People began to talk around us now. For much of the ceremony, Amy had held my arm and nestled against me. Now that it was finished, she pulled away.

“Do you still want to get together?” she asked.

Silly question. “Of course.”

We spent the next few minutes arranging the time and place of our next meeting, or perhaps, more accurately, our first date. I certainly hoped so. Even rutting with her a few times would be worth it.

“I have other things to do before I leave,” she informed me.

“So do I.”

“Until we meet again,” she said.

Before I could reply, she disappeared among the rest of the attendees.

I glanced up at the orchard where the tree had the broken branch. I won’t be caught in a trap this time. Patting my pistol hidden under my jacket, I walked through the dispersing crowd toward my rendezvous point.

16

That Ends in Death

As I wound my way through the dispersing crowd, I stopped and talked briefly to Peter and Pauline about the ceremony. They had been as moved as I had. Both were busy with other affairs, so I was on my own with investigating the murdered WOOF agent. Peter pointed out Grant talking to Aaron Snyder. We agreed that was probably a good thing since our pack leader could update Snyder on our latest cases, especially that we’d disposed of the human hunt farm.

I said good-bye to Peter and Pauline and continued to walk through the crowd.

“Joe, I need to talk to you,” a female voice said behind me.

Turning, I saw Donna Breeze. I smiled.

“Donna, good to see you,” I said.

“It’s good to see you. That was a fantastic ceremony. If I die in battle, I hope I will be worthy of one as good.”

“Dying is battle is great, but I hope to live to an old age,” I replied.

“I wanted to talk to you tonight. My pack is in danger. I didn’t want to talk about this with the elders and children around, but it’s true. We need your help. Another pack has followed us here and threatens our existence.”

Okay, there’s some kind of game being played here. But who is trying to get the best of me, Donna or Orson? And could the other pack be the Siskels?

I like to call things like I see them. “That’s fine, but earlier tonight Orson told me to mind my own business.”

“That’s so like Orson,” Donna said, shaking her head.

“You’re putting me in an awkward situation.”

“I’m sorry, but we need your help.”

“If you need my help, you’ll need to tell me what this is all about. Does it have something to do with the Siskel pack?”

Donna’s face reddened.

That’s a “yes.”

“Before my pack can provide you aid, we need to understand your situation.”

My companion worriedly glanced around the gathering.

Lots of people were still huddled in groups either discussing the ceremony or other matters that concerned them such as kids at home, the job they were going to tomorrow, or their own funeral arrangements. A few were making plans to go out drinking. That’s werewolves for you. Even if we’re provided with free drinks, we value our time at bars.

“I doubt anyone is listening,” I said. “Why would they?”

Donna shook her head. “Forget it,” she snapped. “Orson was right. We’ll handle it on our own.”

She turned and rushed toward our hosts’ house.

Okay, that was not helpful. But it confirmed that the Oldwell pack is afraid of the Siskel pack. Now, to find out why.

But I had other issues myself. Such as having my rendezvous with another person who didn’t want to readily share information.

I left the crowd behind and jogged up the hill. I’d been standing a long time and my body was telling me of its discomfort. A bit of exercise is always good. The jog wasn’t enough to invigorate me, but it helped loosen my leg muscles. Reaching the apple tree with the broken branch, I slowed and walked into the orchard.

The trees were planted in rows ten feet apart. Upon arrival, I’d expected Bill to say something like “Hey, Joe,” or “You over there,” or anything to give me a clue he was in the area. Silence greeted me instead. I surveyed the area. In less than a minute, I saw the corpse lying on the ground. Like the other murder I’d seen earlier in the week someone had shot Bill a once in the head. No sign of a struggle. He didn’t die like a werewolf should either.

I yanked out my cell phone and called Grant.

Two large flashlights, held by Peter and Pauline, illuminated the area where my pack leader and I stood, watching the two police officers do their work. Both were werewolves. One was a regular officer, the other a forensic scientist. We’d had to wait almost forty-five minutes for them to get here. After all, the location was about thirty minutes from Des Moines.

The police officer was the same one who’d been with me at the murder of the Washington state WOOF agent. The forensic scientist had gone over that scene before I’d arrived.

She was good at her work, but not very subtle. She collected what was in our victim’s pockets, then checked all areas of skin readily accessible, including the hole in the skull where the corpse had been shot.

Holding up one of the victim’s wrists, she said, “He’s a WOOF agent.” The “W” on his wrist was visible to all of us.

Grant growled.

“From Seattle?” I asked.

The forensic scientist opened the wallet to examine the identification. “Yes.”

My pack leader looked at me. “And he wanted to meet you?”

“That’s what he said.”

“There’s something very wrong with the WOOF pack in Seattle,” Grant said.

“Especially when it’s visiting Iowa and being murdered,” I added.

I know how I’m going to be spending part of later today. I’ll be checking out Douglas’ hotel room because he probably has one like his associate.

“Go home,” Grant ordered. “You know what you have to do tomorrow.”

I didn’t disagree. Instead, I headed toward my vehicle.

17

Pursuit

I was driving home in my pickup, singing along with the loud country music that filled my cab, and rejoicing in the fact I’d get to sleep in today. Yeah, I know. It was 2:10 a.m. when most humans are sound asleep in their beds. I’m a werewolf. I like the night. I also really enjoy singing with my country music stars, regardless of how late or early in the day it was.

Besides, before I’d left the farm, Grant had called me and said they’d found a hotel key on the victim, Bill Douglas. My pack leader made arrangements for me to meet Officer Hutchins at the hotel around 1 p.m. to investigate. More possible leads in the case. Gotta like it.

But that was later today. This early morning was for enjoying being alive, working on a fascinating case, and having a date with Amy far later today.

Since I’m a good driver, I always check my rearview mirror. I glanced at it again and saw a large black pickup behind me. That pickup has been behind me since almost after I left the farm, and it wasn’t one of the few remaining vehicles at the farm when I left. Better try a few things.

I was still on a two-lane highway and I didn’t see any vehicles in front of me. I sped up. The pickup behind me sped up as well, keeping the same distance from me. I slowed down. Significantly. That pickup should want to pass me. It didn’t. It reduced its speed to match mine. There’s only one logical conclusion.

With that in mind, I also knew what I had to do. I’m not going home, that’s for sure. But I can discover who my pursuers are. Two days ago, someone had attacked me at the Wild Ones’ party. Those following me could be the same.

I continued on my way home and drove nearly twenty minutes before I made it back into town. Rather than taking the fastest route to my house, I drove through the nearly empty streets to a home improvement big box store. This box store was opened twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so whenever anyone suddenly got an idea for home improvement, that person could drive here even at 2:30 a.m.

I pulled into the lot that was nearly deserted. I guessed most of the vehicles belonged to staff and a very few to the people crazy enough to go shopping at this hour of the morning. Or WOOF agents being pursued and not wanting to lead their enemies to their home.

After I parked fairly close to the store, I climbed from my vehicle and watched as the black Dodge Ram parked two rows over and nearly at the back of the lot. So they can cut me off if I try to leave. Good strategy if that’s the plan.

Walking toward the store, I checked for my pistol and the extra cartridges. All my bullets were silver, so given that my opponents were probably werewolves like me, the bullets could do a great deal of damage.

The automatic doors slid open in front of me, and I walked in. I quickly scanned the area. A few cashiers were gathered in the information booth, all of them talking and probably oblivious to any shoppers until the shoppers needed to check out. Directly in front of me, a man was stocking the lightbulb rack. At the other end of the store, two young store employees were pulling a large dolly covered in plastic wrapped boxes.

Time to play the FBI card.

I don’t belong to the FBI, but many WOOF agents do. Many times I’ve acted as if I were FBI to coax information out of unwilling suspects. This time I’d use it to save lives.

I flashed my fake FBI badge and shouted loudly, “I’m FBI. I’m being pursued by dangerous, armed criminals. Please seek shelter or leave the building.”

A few of the employees at the information desk gasped. One took out his cell phone and photographed me. The guy stocking lightbulbs stared at me, shrugged, and continued his work. The two employees with the dolly gazed at me, at their dolly, then ran from sight.

I tried. Grant will understand.

I didn’t have time to make the other employees understand. Instead, I dashed past the employee stocking lightbulbs. This store was filled with metal shelves four feet wide and ten feet long that nearly went to the ceiling. Two of these shelves sat together along the ten-foot-long side. A rolling set of steps was provided for customers wanting items far from the store floor. Most shelves were packed with items, whether they be lightbulbs, air filters, lamps, tools, wood, or almost any item that could be used in home improvement. About forty feet back, to my left and parallel to the front door stood four or five rows of these shelves. To my right, perpendicular to the front of the store, and only ten feet back from the cash registers stood nearly twenty rows, each forty feet long. A huge section of kitchen appliances was farther back in the store. I knew all of this information and knew that could make the hunt more interesting.

I dashed past the employee stocking the lightbulbs and to the back of the first line of shelves that were perpendicular to the front of the store.

Behind me, I heard shouts.

“We’re FBI,” a male voice shouted.

“Yeah, and we mean business,” a female voice yelled.

“Where did the man who just entered go?” a second male voice demanded.

One employee replied that the other guy was FBI and he’d shown ID. Another said the other guy had said these people were dangerous criminals. A gunshot rang out behind me. I doubted my opponents actually killed someone because such a murder could land them in a great deal of trouble.

As this exchange was taking place, I stopped then leaped high in the air, turning as I did so to land on the second to the highest shelf behind me.

“He went that way,” an employee shouted.

“That’s more like it,” the first male voice said.

The sound of running feet filled the store. Bet the rest of the employees went for cover now.

The female voice yelled, “Butler, where are you?”

“Sheryl, shut up. We’re hunting him, not playing hide and go seek,” the second male snapped.

“Go to hell,” the woman snarled.

“We need to kill this agent, not each other,” the first male ordered.

“Yeah, Martin, act like the boss,” Sheryl said sarcastically.

Then I heard nothing except the sound of running feet. I waited and hoped my location was good. I’d chosen it on the belief that people never look up. It never occurs to people that somebody could be hiding above them.

Gazing downward, I saw a man about five-ten with black hair tied in a ponytail and with a black mustache and beard creep out of one of the aisles. He paused. He looked both left and right.

Okay, so you know I’m not easy prey. You’re right.

He glanced behind him.

Where are your companions?

He shrugged, walked stealthily along the ends of the aisles, and kept looking from side to side.

Keep coming.

He crept beneath me and paused at the aisle to my right. I dropped from my location, spun in the air, landed behind him, grabbed his head, and twisted. Crack. My pursuer dropped to the ground, covered in white fur.

One down. Two to go.

I backed into one aisle, staying close to the shelves on the right, and pulled out my pistol. I hadn’t had to use it at the ceremony, but I was glad I’d brought it.

Glancing around the corner of the shelves, I saw a six-foot-tall woman with brown hair flowing down her back and whom I guessed be Sheryl. She glanced my way, then shot at me. I ducked behind the shelves as a bullet swished by me.

I peeked out again. Sheryl stood out in the open, her pistol drawn. I fired around the shelves. The woman shouted in pain.

“What happened?” Martin shouted, not too far away.

“He shot me in the hand.”

“Get back to the truck. I’ll take care of him.”

Peering around the corner again, I saw Sheryl grab her pistol with her unharmed hand and dash down an aisle about ten to the right of mine.

I leaped through the air and rolled behind a row of stoves and dishwashers on display. I crawled next to three stoves.

The sound of running feet came closer. Someone close by breathed heavily.

You’re a werewolf. You should be in better shape. But being in bad shape fit right into my plan.

I grabbed the bottom of the stove in front of me and lifted it as I stood. Ten feet away in front of one of the aisles stood a five-six man with straight red hair, a mustache and a goatee. He stared and pointed a pistol at me. I tossed the stove toward him, but it lobbed to one side and missed him.

“Damn,” I cursed.

Martin laughed. “Butler, you’re a weakling and a fool.”

“Then show me how it’s to be done,” I replied.

He shoved his pistol into a holster at his side, walked to the line of stoves, stooped to the floor, and raised the stove above his head.

“See, Butler, it’s easy,” Martin bragged.

I walked over to within ten feet of the bragging Wild One, grabbed another stove, and lifted it above my head. “I can do that, too.”

“But you can’t toss it worth shit.”

As he threw his stove toward me, I launched mine toward him. I braced my feet and kept my arms out as the two stoves collided in mid-air and bounced back toward each of us. I caught mine and shoved it back through the air. The other stove had smashed against Martin who tottered on his feet. When my stove hit him, both stoves collapsed upon him. Blood, bones, and other pieces of Martin were strewn across the floor. I didn’t even hear any moans.

Not what I wanted. I need to know who’s trying to kill me.

I shoved my pistol into its holster and sprinted through and out of the store only to see the black pickup pulling out of the parking lot. I hurried to my own vehicle to discover a flat tire. Sheryl may be smarter than either of her colleagues.

18

Investigations

I sat in my house with my cell phone in hand. I’d decided the time had come for my investigations to take a different route. So far, my leads had hardly provided me with any clues to either WOOF agent’s murder.

I’d woken up around 11 a.m. with more than enough time to shower, eat a leisurely brunch, catch up on some internet correspondence, and arrive at the hotel to help check out the Douglas’ hotel room. This room had yielded as little information as Connors’ hotel room had. Officer Hutchins told me he was tracking when and where both agents’ credit cards had been used and he’d send me his discoveries to see if I could learn more with this information.

All my tracking of the different packs and talking to people at Berrigan Enterprises had left me with as little knowledge of these two as if I hadn’t done a thing.

Checking out the packs had gotten me attacked twice. I enjoy a fight as much as the next werewolf, but I prefer to be more evenly matched. Early this morning, after I’d found my tire slashed, I’d hurried back into the big box store, told some employees not to touch the corpses and I’d have someone come pick them up, then returned to my pickup where I’d called Grant and informed him of the attack. I’d changed my tire and driven home. I’d gone to sleep a bit later than I’d planned.

Another reason to take a different tact.

I called Mike Connors’ parents first.

“Hello,” a gruff voice answered.

“Hi, I’m Joe Butler, a WOOF agent from Des Moines, Iowa,” I said.

“And why are you calling us?” the gruff voice inquired.

“I’m investigating your son’s death.”

“We were told the Seattle WOOF agents were doing that.”

“They asked me to help out since I’m local,” I said.

“The WOOF pack leader said he’d take care of it.”

“I’m sure he’s working on it, but from the local angle, I could discover more fully if I learned more about your son,” I said. I tried not sound as if I were pleading, but I’m not beyond that. To solve a crime, you often had to go to extraordinary lengths.

“Just a minute,” said the voice I presumed belonged to Mike’s father.

The line went silent. This could go in a variety of ways. I refused to speculate because I’d deal with the outcome and form a new plan from there.

A woman’s voice came on the line. “Hello, I’m Evelyn Conners, Mike’s mother.”

The gruff voice added, “I’m Warren, his father.”

“I’m Joe Butler—”

“We know,” Warren interrupted.

“What do you know about Mike’s death?” Evelyn questioned.

I described the scene at the hotel room where he’d been killed. I didn’t want to this early in the conversation, but if telling them the gruesome details would get them to talk, I thought it was worth a try. Besides, they’d asked.

Neither parent responded for a few moments after I completed. Are they going to hang up? Although I wanted to see if they were still on the phone, I decided not to disturb their silence.

“We’ll be happy to tell you about Mike,” Evelyn said. And she did. She told me about his childhood, his teen years, and everything leading up to becoming a WOOF agent. Similar to many of us, Mike had always wanted to be a WOOF agent. Even as a boy, he’d often picked fights with other werewolves he believed were Wild Ones. He was usually wrong, so he got punished. Occasionally, he was right, but he still got in trouble. He’d been a rambunctious and troublesome youth. Regardless, he’d done well enough in school to go to college then later to take WOOF courses and become an agent.

After hearing all of these stories about Mike, I said, “Then it’s more of a shame that he was murdered the way he was.”

Warren grunted. Evelyn sniffled.

“What can you tell me about his times as a WOOF agent?”

“He enjoyed his early years a lot,” Evelyn said. “He dealt with Wild Ones who set up human hunts, who had human breeding programs, who stole livestock, and who challenged FH packs to kill off those of us who respect humanity…”

Typical WOOF assignments. I’d participated in all of these sorts of cases.

“We think his WOOF leader thought he was doing a good job, too,” Mike’s mother continued. “Twice he received the WOOF Valor Award…”

I’d received that once. I wasn’t jealous because, after all, Mike was dead and I was alive.

“And he did all of these assignments in the Seattle area, so we could see him when he wasn’t on a case,” Evelyn continued.

“We were so proud of him,” Warren added.

“He sounds like he was a good WOOF agent,” I said.

“He was,” Warren confirmed.

Both parents were silent for a moment.

“So did something change more recently?” I asked. Evelyn had implied that question with her talk about his early years.

“More recently, he’s travelled for all of his cases,” Evelyn replied. “He’s been to Oregon, northern California, Idaho, eastern Montana—”

“And he had an assignment in Las Vegas,” Warren interrupted proudly.

“How long has he been doing out of state cases?” I asked.

“At least five years,” Evelyn responded.

“Maybe ten. Time goes by faster than we think,” Warren said.

That’s strange. We always have problems with Wild Ones. I’ve never travelled out of state. “What happened in Washington state so he had to go elsewhere for his work?” I asked.

We shared another moment of silence.

“Everything was going fine here,” Warren said.

“Yes, exactly,” Evelyn agreed.

“So WOOF took care of all the Wild Ones, and they didn’t even pass through your state anymore?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” Warren replied.

“It’s as peaceful as can be here,” Evelyn said.

I wanted to ask them more about this strange phenomenon, but I wasn’t given the opportunity.

“We hope we were helpful,” Warren said.

“Yes, please solve our son’s murder,” Evelyn said.

“We have to go now,” her husband said. “Thanks for your call.”

Then he hung up.

Something is definitely wrong in Washington state.

But I’d have to worry about that later because I had to prepare for my date with Amy.

19

My Date with Amy

I waited to one side of the podium where a hostess stood deciding which patrons she would sit and which would have to wait. Amy and I had agreed to meet at this chain steak restaurant because of its wide selections of meat.

Yeah, I know. We’d both rather eat it raw, but even cooked meat brings pleasure to us werewolves.

In any case, the restaurant was broken into three sections: dining room areas on either side and a bar area complete with multiple televisions showing sports or local network channels in the middle. I’d already told the hostess I was expecting another and we wanted a booth in one of the dining sections. Sounds of people talking, others eating, and wait staff serving echoed around me. The sounds of people having fun, a sound I can admire. Also, even in human form, I smelled the deliciousness of grilled steak. Yum.

I was properly attired. I wore nice slacks, leather shoes, a button-down shirt, and a sports jacket. I thought wearing a full suit would be overdoing it.

Amy walked into the restaurant wearing a black and white dress that wrapped seductively around the contours of her body. She saw and approached me. Once she got close enough, I smelled that whiff of her flowery perfume.

“Joe, I’m so glad you made it,” she said as she gave me a quick hug.

“Hi Amy. I knew you’d be here.”

She looked me up and down. “And you dressed quite well, too. If you’d been wearing a tie, I would’ve thought you were making a play for me.”

“Who says I’m not?” I asked, then added, “That dress brings out your beauty.”

We werewolves believe in complimenting each other often since it is a way of seducing the other sex. Also, we think it is the right thing to do. If someone has a pleasing appearance, we shouldn’t be shy in telling them this truth.

For Amy and me, we both might have been trying to beguile our companion. We might also have had other motives, considering we’d seen each other at both an FH and Wild Ones’ event. I knew I was an FH spying on Wild Ones. I wanted Amy to be the same although she might have been the converse. Doesn’t matter since she’s an attractive woman.

We went to the hostess who seated us in a booth among the other diners.

Many of you humans may wonder why we were so cavalier about sitting with humans all around us as we planned to discuss werewolf business. Besides us werewolves believing in the goodness of humans, we also know that you think we don’t exist, so any strange things we talk about you humans will think we’re discussing a movie or some other fictional work. I know vampires are much more secretive and would never be so bold. They also think all humans are inherently stupid. With that attitude, they should be more open about talking about their matters around you.

When a young waitress brought us menus, we ordered our beverages, Amy a red wine, me a beer. Beer is good anywhere, any time. Even if we’d gone to a much fancier restaurant, I’d still have ordered a beer.

Amy put aside the menu. “No reason to look it over. The choice is obvious.”

I set mine on the table as well. “Definitely.”

We were werewolves. We’d order the biggest piece of meat we could as rare as they would cook it.

“How did you enjoy the ceremony?” I asked.

“Very fitting for a WOOF agent,” Amy replied. “Sorry I had to leave so soon after it was done.”

I shrugged. “We all have business we need to do.”

“Mine was of a more personal nature,” Amy commented.

“We all have personal business, too,” I said, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

We talked for a few minutes about the weather, local sports teams, and our favorite cuts of meat. The waitress returned with our beverages and took our order. I went for the porterhouse steak, Amy for the prime rib. Both of us ordered the biggest cuts of our meat. Neither of us ordered sides. Why waste a good meat meal with vegetables?

After the waitress left, I asked, “How long have you been in town?”

My companion smiled. “I might ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first.”

“Oh, I’ve come and gone from Des Moines often in the last five years,” she said smugly. “And you?”

That’s a lie. We werewolves know our own kind. If she’s WOOF, I know Grant would have introduced us.

“I grew up here and decided to work here, too.”

“It’s a good enough area.”

“I like the Des Moines metropolitan area because we have a big enough population to have some interesting sights and activities, but a small enough population that traffic’s never too bad.” That was the truth. In recent years, traffic had increased, but the number of festivals, concerts, and other fun activities had been on the rise, too.

Amy cocked her head to one side. “To tell the truth, I really haven’t been here too long. If a handsome man would show me around, I’d appreciate it.”

I felt my libido rising as my suspicions increased. That contradicts her earlier statement. Which is the lie? Or does it matter?

I leaned toward her. “If I weren’t so busy right now, I’d be happy to.”

Her hands reached across the table and held mine. Her hands were warm to the touch. Mine probably were too. We werewolves are a warm-blooded folk.

“If you could make some time, I could make it worth your while.” She smiled and licked her lips.

Yeah, I was cautious about her. She likely was a Wild One spy. But she was beautiful and coming on to me. What can a good werewolf do?

“I think we can arrange something,” I said. Then backed away. “But I’d like to know what you discussed with Phillip Barnes first.”

She released my hands and leaned back in her seat. “That’s the way to ruin the mood,” she snapped.

“Sorry, but I’m interested in the fate of the Oldwell pack.”

“If they got themselves in trouble with the Siskels, it’s their own fault.”

“They brought seniors and children. The entire pack must have fled Washington state.”

“As well they should have,” Amy said.

“Are you being protective of Siskel pack?” I asked.

My companion grimaced. “Of course not. Do you want to hear how this feud began?”

“If you’re willing to tell me. If not, I’ll have to find out from other sources.”

Amy leaned toward me again and reached her hands across the table. I put mine up to meet hers. “Will you make it a start to a more interesting time?”

My hands clasped hers.

I smiled. “I think I can provide you with a great deal of pleasure.” And myself as well.

“Then I think I’d be happy to oblige,” Amy said as she leaned even closer to me, and again I smelled her perfume.

She said quietly, “The leader in Washington state was having issues with a particular pack. They weren’t cooperating with a task most of the other packs in the state were doing. The leader said they should. They refused.”

“What weren’t they doing?” I asked barely above a whisper.

Amy smirked. “It doesn’t really matter with the Siskel/Oldwell affair.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Well, it doesn’t,” she snapped and backed away from me.

“All right. All right. I was just curious.”

“Cats are curious and that usually gets them killed.”

That’s an insult. We werewolves don’t like being compared to felines. I need to let her continue. That leader she’s talking about must be a Wild One.

“But what does that have to do with the Siskel and Oldwell packs?” I asked

“A question I’ll be pleased to answer,” Amy replied and grinned again. “This pack fled into the wilderness and there’s plenty of that in the state of Washington. Since the pack had escaped rather than follow what the leader wanted, he desired their punishment. He brought in both the Siskel and Oldwell packs. He told them that this pack had dishonored him and needed to be taught a lesson. He was willing to pay—”

“What happened to the original pack he wanted punished?” I asked.

“They were,” my companion said shortly.

She drank a bit of wine. I took a swig of beer.

“Both packs agreed to take care of that disobedient pack. A few days later the Siskel pack came to the unworthy pack’s hideout and waited for the Oldwell pack to come. The Oldwells never showed. The Siskels attacked and dealt with the naughty pack. In the meantime, the Oldwells had fled the state—”

“So the leader told the Siskels to punish the Oldwells,” I interrupted.

“I suppose he did. Barnes didn’t tell me that. The Siskels lost some members who would have lived if both packs had been fighting together. I don’t think the Siskels are here to please the leader one way or the other. They simply want revenge. They just want to kill all of the Oldwells.”

I didn’t have a good reply to that. The story fit together. Okay, everything except about “the leader.”

Before I could inquire more about this mysterious figure, the waitress came with our dinners. Any self-respecting werewolf doesn’t talk business when food is to be eaten. Also, there’s nothing sexier than watching a woman plow through a huge piece of meat.

Amy and I exchanged looks. First, we’d enjoy our meals. Later, we’d enjoy each other.

20

The Opening of a New Office

The white, blue, and red building was three stories tall and composed of metal, brick, and glass. A large red “B” in a blue circle was on third story façade. A wide semi-circular parking lot surrounded the building, broken by islands of trees and shrubs. Plots of flowers, pine trees, shrubs, and grass lay in front of and on the other sides of the building before the streets that made a not too precise parallelogram around the lot. The street to the south was like a concrete river of seven lanes. To the east sat an empty lot large enough for a hotel complex; to the north and west, modest-sized residential homes. Other large office buildings and their adjacent parking lots were in sight, but far enough away to give the idea of the cornfields that had once filled this area.

That was the physical setting of the opening of Berrigan Enterprises’ new office building in West Des Moines, Iowa. The parking lot was nearly full. All three local news channels had sent their vans and reporters. These reporters and their camera folk stood close to the dignitaries and Berrigan Enterprise officers.

The officers and the state and city dignitaries stood on the flat pavement in front of the double door entrance. A long yellow ribbon tied between the numerous poles that guarded the main entrance from a vehicle racing from the parking lot hung in front of the dignitaries.

Its security staff were positioned directly in front of the building. I recognized that all of these security personnel belonged to Nodwick Pack with Marshall and Justin in prominent positions. All were armed with pistols in holsters.

So this was their new job. Interesting. Why didn’t they want to share?

The city and state dignitaries included the West Des Moines mayor and city council, the Iowa governor and her staff, and a few CEOs from other major local companies. All humans. These officials stood in front of and to the right of the building’s main entrance.

The company officers were placed in front of and to the left of the building’s main entrance. All of them were men. All of them were huge. Six to seven feet tall. Weighing from two hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds. No fat. All muscle. I recognized Frank Armstrong among these large men, all in blue suits, light blue shirts, and ties with different patterns of red, white, and blue. Patriotic? More likely, just using company colors.

One man stood out from all the rest. He was the largest of the all the officers, but he also had a charisma that none of the other officers nor any of the visiting dignitaries had. Leonard Berrigan, the founder of Berrigan Enterprises. He stood seven feet tall and probably weighed three hundred and fifty pounds with broad shoulders and a white speckled red beard and mustache. His hair was trimmed precisely around his head. He had large blue eyes, a large nose, and a smile upon his face. His hands were big enough to palm a basketball, his arms like strong tree limbs. He stood calmly in the crowd. Each of his officers gave him almost a foot of space. Berrigan stood out among his officers, not only for his size but for the dominance he had among them.

And he and all of his officers were werebears. Berrigan, a were grizzly bear. Two other immense officers beside him were also were grizzly bears. The rest were either were black or brown bears except for a pale man in the back who was seven feet tall and was a were polar bear.

A crowd of around three hundred was gathered in the drive that separated the parking lot from the front façade. Most of them wore shirts that indicated they were company employees.

That’s one way to get a big crowd.

I was in my alias mode of being a reporter for the Heartland Plains blog. I was able to stand with the press. I’d also made an appointment to speak with Berrigan later this afternoon after these festivities.

I scanned the crowd again and for a moment believed I saw Amy in the midst of them. I continued to watch and definitely caught sight of her. She wore a white blouse and a tight blue skirt. Her black hair flowed freely down her back.

What’s she doing here?

The governor of Iowa stepped up to the podium and microphone set up behind the yellow ribbon.

“May I please have your attention?” she asked loudly.

The crowd quieted.

“I’d like to thank you all for attending this event. I am Governor Janeen Thompson, and am so glad to be among those here at this opening of this new headquarters for Berrigan Enterprises…”

The governor went on to say what a great occasion this opening was, how having the headquarters of Berrigan Enterprises would aid the economic development of Iowa, and a great deal of other political schmoozing points she could make to keep Berrigan Enterprises interested in its West Des Moines office. The West Des Moines mayor then spoke and said quite a few of the same things but as they applied to the city instead of the state. Frank Armstrong then gave a speech, saying how he was proud he had helped his company become comfortable in a new state, but that Berrigan Enterprises really owed everything to its founder and CEO, Leonard Berrigan. Armstrong proceeded to introduce his boss.

Berrigan strolled to the podium. He gave his audience a piercing stare.

“Greetings to all,” he said. His voice was deep and penetrating. When his eyes momentarily met mine, they gazed into mine as if he could read the depths of my soul. “Most of the important details of this move have been mentioned by other speakers. I feel no need to repeat them. Our decision to open a headquarters, with the idea of moving many major operations to Iowa, has been momentous, for our company and for both the state of Iowa and Washington. Again, already covered.”

He paused and surveyed the crowd. “This event is historical. Because of our move, many things will change, affecting many people and companies. We have established this new headquarters to bring greater glory to our company, this community, and this state.”

That was it. That’s all he said. All the other speakers had talked for at least fifteen minutes a piece, even Armstrong. Here, the man, who had caused all of this to happen, had spoken for maybe sixty seconds.

Regardless, a silence fell over the crowd. A few men and women, dressed in business attire, brought giant scissors to the Iowa Governor, the West Des Moines mayor, and Berrigan. All three approached the yellow ribbon and simultaneously cut it.

Berrigan Enterprises’ new headquarters was open for business.

21

An Interview

I walked into Leonard Berrigan’s corner office on the third floor. Large windows served as two walls, so he could gaze upon the landscape of his new headquarters. The office was located on the southeast corner, so he could see far in the distance 801 Grand, the tallest building in downtown Des Moines. Between his building and downtown stood the assorted box and specialty stores that filled this southwestern part of West Des Moines, a vast residential area, and the other buildings of downtown itself.

Unlike Armstrong’s office, no faux cube was present. A huge maple desk sat in the back toward the window. Wooden bookshelves filled with a variety of literature stood along one of his inner walls. The other inner wall had the door and two three-foot tall oak filing cabinets. Two wooden chairs with leather upholstery were located between his desk and the door. A wooden office chair also with black leather upholstery was behind his desk. A taxidermy wolf, stopped in mid-stride, was frozen in time behind his desk.

“Mr. Butler, so good of you to want to interview me,” Berrigan greeted as he stepped around his desk and met me as I entered the room.

“Mr. Berrigan, it is an honor to be able to talk to you,” I said.

We shook hands with his hand nearly engulfing mine. His grip was firm and almost vicelike on my hand. I tightened my fingers and palm around his as best I could, but he doubtless knew that he was much stronger than me. When I was that close to him, his grizzly bear smell was nearly overpowering.

“Sit,” my host urged as he went behind his desk and sat in his chair.

I followed suit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

After the office opening ceremony and prior to the interview, I’d left the headquarters, eaten lunch at a nearby hamburger joint, gone to the mall, and done some window shopping. Since I represented the smallest press outlet at the ceremony, I received the latest time for an interview. Yeah, I know. I could have done more investigating. Depending upon how this interview went, I could be in the know about other issues that could help my case get solved much earlier.

“Thank you for granting me this discussion,” I said. “Many times our small press outlet is excluded from such occasions.”

“My pleasure. At Berrigan Enterprises, we feel everyone should be entitled to learn about us through whatever means possible. A blog is as good as the local network news as far as we’re concerned.”

“Mr. Berrigan—”

“Please call me Leonard,” he interrupted me. “I prefer to be on a first name basis with members of the press since I feel they are my friends, not my enemies.” He paused. “May I call you Joe?”

I was taken aback by this honesty. Berrigan was the head of a large interstate corporation and wanted to be on a first name basis. Who am I to refuse?

“Of course, that would be fine.”

“What are you interested in discovering about my corporation? I will happily answer all of your questions,” Leonard said.

“I’d like to know why you chose to open a headquarters in West Des Moines and expand your operations to Iowa in general.”

Leonard gladly expounded upon this subject. I recorded the conversation, so it could be used on the Heartland Plains blog. Berrigan was a spirited and exciting speaker in spite of the few words he’d used at the ceremony.

In a similar way to Armstrong, he told me some about their lumber and tech divisions in Washington state and more about their need for diversity and the expansion into industrial farming used in the production of hogs, chicken, and turkeys in Iowa. He also told me that he planned to get into the seed and feed business because, although other industry giants had a large part of this market cornered, he believed that a small, innovative company, especially if it controlled the consumers of such feeds, could be successful as well. He extolled about the huge quantities of hogs, chickens, and turkeys raised in the confinement facilities in Iowa and the promise by the state that upon the purchasing of many such operations Berrigan Enterprises would be able to build a large quantity as well.

I must admit I was impressed. This man knew his business. He even knew about the companies he was buying up as fast as possible. Some people feared monopolies. If they were done with the interests of the public in mind, I didn’t think they offered any harm.

Throughout this part of the interview, I often asked leading questions that Leonard answered openly and honestly. He struck me as a strong individual with integrity.

Leonard didn’t say anything that I thought would endanger werewolf and werebeast society in general in Iowa. But the wererats warned me about this business, and wererats are never wrong.

As we finished our almost hour-long discussion, I grabbed my phone from his desk and turned off the recording.

“Thank you, Leonard, this interview has been very helpful,” I said.

“I’m always glad to inform the press,” my host told me.

I stood to go.

“Sit,” Leonard ordered.

Despite my desires otherwise, I sat. That’s dominance coming into play. I’ve never felt anyone with that strength.

“You’re a werewolf, aren’t you?” he asked.

Of course, since I was able to smell that he was a werebear, he was equally able to smell that I was a werewolf.

“Yes.”

The grizzly werebear smiled. “Tell others of your kind that I welcome a dialogue with them and hope to receive their goodwill at my company’s arrival into the state.” He paused. “You may go.”

I went.

22

WOOF Pack

We met for dinner at Melvin’s and Thelma’s. They hosted get-togethers at least twice a month. Melvin’s father, Rupert, lived with their family, but he hadn’t been a WOOF agent. He’d simply been a corporate lawyer who’d made his way in the human community. Werewolves who live and work among humans are as important to our species as those who dwell only on werewolf issues. Rupert joined us at the table as did their three children: Kelly, Carson, and Tyler. Kelly was a fourteen-year-old with the long blonde hair of her mother and the captivating green eyes of her father. Carson was a ten-year-old with black hair, blue eyes, and already the beginnings of a mustache and beard. We werewolves are a hairy lot. Tyler was a seven-year-old who had needed to be convinced to surrender his wolf form to come to sit at the table.

Our hosts served us raw T-bone steaks. Melvin said meat should be served as close to its original form as possible. He didn’t believe in beef cubes. Chicken legs and thighs, yes. Boneless chicken breasts, no. The rest of us didn’t care. Raw meat was raw meat.

Although I had news I could have reported to Grant about my recent findings in the murdered WOOF agents case, now wasn’t the time. Our pack gatherings were to enjoy each other’s company and to have a good time. Work was fun, but there were times when we needed to think about something else. This evening was one of those times.

We’d said our prayers and were in the thick of our discussion. More accurately, Kelly’s discussion.

“I’m really torn between Jose and Jeremy. Jeremy’s a much bigger wolf, when he is a wolf and can run so fast. Even in human form he’s very quick. He’s the best at track and field—”

“He’s a jerk,” Carson interrupted. “He thinks he’s so big and mighty because his father is a pack leader.”

“Being a pack leader does have a good deal of responsibility,” Grant remarked.

“Yeah, but if you had kids, they wouldn’t make fun of others,” Carson retorted.

Grant didn’t reply to that. He had kids and an ex-wife. She thought his work as a WOOF agent was too dangerous, so she’d divorced him and taken the kids with her. Grant got to see his kids once a month.

But the conversation continued without this exchange of information.

“Jeremy’s awesome,” Tyler offered.

“You might not think so, if you had to play with him more often,” Carson countered.

“He’s not your boyfriend! He’s mine!” Kelly said.

“What about Jose?” Tyler asked.

Kelly smiled. “Ah, Jose. He’s so sweet and kind. He’s tough as a wolf, too, but I think Jeremy could beat the snot out of him.”

“Have they fought?” Carson asked.

“You never know who’s the better wolf in battle until they’ve fought,” Peter agreed.

“They’re young kids,” Rupert said. “Now is the time when they play. Fights are for when they’re older.”

“Hey, it’s never too early to learn to fight,” Victor cut in.

Pauline snorted. “Kelly, how much have you fought? We women are as strong as any men.”

Human females and males weren’t always equal in strength. We werewolves are different, especially in wolf form. Even in human form, females of any age can take on males the same age.

“I don’t think I should have to,” Kelly whined.

“Kelly,” Thelma said soothingly, “you know that isn’t true. You’re in Fight School right now.”

“Well, yeah,” the girl admitted.

“The question is who can you beat,” I said. “Jose or Jeremy?”

Others laughed. I always like a female who can match me in physical conflict. Such prowess often lent itself to times in bed as well.

Kelly smiled. “I’m sure I could beat Jose. I’m not so sure about Jeremy.”

“Or maybe you’d just throw the fight to Jeremy,” Carson challenged.

“I would not!” Kelly shouted. “I’m proud of my fighting.”

“I’ve heard you need work,” Melvin said. “Your mom would be happy to help you. She’s a great fighter.”

“So is Pauline,” Thelma added. “Men are all about brute strength. Although that’s important, it’s strategy and tactics that win the battle.”

“She’s right,” Pauline assented. “Kelly, you must learn how to fight.”

“What if I don’t want to be part of WOOF?” the daughter asked.

“We won’t force you to be,” Melvin assured her. “But you still need to have combat skills.”

“She’s a wimp at fighting,” Carson asserted. “Bet she couldn’t beat me and Tyler.”

Kelly stared at her younger brother. “You’re both less experienced than I am. I could whip you two.”

“No way!” Tyler shouted. “Me and Carson could take you like it was nuthin’.”

“It sounds like we should have a fight after dinner,” Grant stated. “I’d be happy to referee.”

“Don’t need no refs,” Tyler said. “We jus’ fight and the winner’s the one on top.”

“Or ones,” Carson corrected. He winked at his brother.

“I’ll show them,” Kelly bragged.

“After dinner,” Melvin said. He glanced around the table. “You’d all like to see that, wouldn’t you?”

We readily agreed.

“But how are they going to fight?” I asked. “As human or wolf?”

“Wolves,” the boys said simultaneously.

Kelly shrugged. “I don’t care how. I’ll beat them as a human or a wolf.”

“Then wolves it is,” Grant concluded. “All right, after dinner we’ll go outside. You three will wolf-out, and we’ll see who are the better wolves.”

Carson and Tyler began chomping into their steaks as fast as they could. Tyler choked when he hadn’t chewed his meat quite long enough.

“Slow down, Tyler,” Melvin warned. “We don’t want you to get sick before the fight.”

“Yes, Dad,” the boy said meekly.

Ah, times with my pack. Always unforgettable. And tonight I was getting dinner and a show.

23

The Siskel Pack

I parked my pickup in front one of the large houses the Siskel pack had rented in town. The two-story, two-car garage house sat on a hill along with the other houses on that side of the street. A grassy lawn dotted with dandelions separated it from the street without a sidewalk or an easement. Two clean and shiny GMC Sierra pickups and one black Toyota Rav4 SUV sat in the driveway.

After talking with Amy, I knew their problem with the Oldwell pack, and I thought I might be able to convince them such an action wasn’t wise.

But my WOOF pack couldn’t simply attack the Siskel pack. We Friends of Humanity have certain protocols that must followed. These rules are to protect our honor.

In this case, one wolf pack won’t come to the assistance unless certain actions are taken. The pack in trouble must have certain representatives, preferably the pack leader, consult with the other pack leader before the second pack will respond.

An example will explain this situation.

There are three packs: A, B, and C. Pack A did something that made Pack B angry. Pack B has twice the fighting members that Pack A does. Pack C can’t simply come to Pack A’s aid. If Pack C does, Pack A will be humiliated. Shame is a bad thing for us werewolves. For Pack A to get Pack C’s help, preferably the leader of Pack A will meet with the leader of Pack C and share information, specifically why Pack B is angry with Pack A, then Pack A must request help from Pack C. If Pack A doesn’t approach Pack C in this manner, and Pack C still helps, if any in Pack A survive, they all may need to commit suicide to retain their honor.

That’s why I was so insistent that Donna tell me the specifics of the threat by the Siskel pack. Her reluctance to do so and her other pack member explicitly telling me they didn’t want help kept my WOOF pack from being able to come to their aid.

That was another reason why I’d come to visit the Siskels. I didn’t believe the Siskels would aid me in getting WOOF to help the Oldwells. But if someone in Siskel Pack insulted me and I fought them, I might be able to ask for a favor from the pack.

Yeah, in many of my cases with Wild Ones, I’ve infiltrated one or more of their packs. Since I’m investigating the murder of two WOOF agents, I didn’t think that ploy was the best because it might hinder this investigation.

I hopped out of my pickup, walked up the driveway, and to the front door of the house. I rang the doorbell and waited.

The door opened. Phillip Barnes stood in front of me.

“What the fucking hell do you want, Butler?” he demanded.

Wild Ones often have rather vulgar language. Under the right circumstances, so do I.

“Hello, Phillip, nice to see you again,” I replied.

“You didn’t answer my question, pet.”

He must’ve guessed I was an FH. Doesn’t matter.

“Are you trying to insult me?” I asked innocently. Because, if he was, that was an excuse for us to fight.

Phillip’s eyes widened.

Whoops. You really don’t want to fight. Good for you.

“I simply made an observation,” he said quietly.

“But do you know if it’s true?” I asked.

Phillip shook his head. “If you’re a pet, I’m sorry. If you’re not, you sure act like one.”

“Want me—”

“All right, I apologize.”

You really don’t want to fight me. Interesting. Probably best to change the subject.

“Did you have a good time with Amy?” I asked.

Phillip leered at me.

And that’s a resounding “yes.”

“I don’t like to kiss and tell,” he said.

“I do like rut and tell,” I lied. Actually, I love to rut and tell. Yeah, it’s chauvinistic, but we werewolves are proud of our sexual prowess.

Phillip grinned at me. “Yeah, me, too. Amy and I fucked almost all night.”

I could have said the same, but I didn’t want to insult Phillip.

“Sounds like fun. She’s one attractive lady.”

“Oh, ever so much.” He licked his lips.

I sighed. “I haven’t screwed all night for a while, but the last time I did it was an unforgettable experience.”

“It always is for me,” Phillip bragged.

“Occasionally, it’s not for me. You know, when I do it with humans.”

“You’re right. Humans don’t have the stamina of werewolves.”

“That’s why I prefer our kind.” I shook my head. “Hell, any night I can have sex I’m happy even if it isn’t too good.”

“That’s right,” he agreed.

And now we’re friends. Time to change the subject.

“Would you tell me what your pack has against the Oldwells?” I asked.

Phillip backed up a little in shock. I could see him think a moment, then shrug. “You seem to be a good sort. Sure, why not?”

I waited.

“Actually, we don’t have anything against them. If we had our way, we’d be back in Seattle.”

I continued to wait. Come on, Phillip, give it to me.

“No, they insulted The Leader. They knew they were in trouble, so first they fled into the wilderness. Another pack tracked them down for The Leader, but were beat up enough they came back in defeat. The Oldwells fled here. The Leader said ‘go get them,’ so here we are,” he explained.

I could tell that he used a capital “T” and “L” in referring to the leader. Interesting, because when Amy told this story, it was definitely a small case “t” and “l.”

“Why haven’t you attacked them yet?” I asked innocently.

“The Leader is giving them a chance to beg for forgiveness. I think they’ve got about three days left.”

“And if they don’t?” I asked.

Phillip smiled. “Then we kill them all.”

24

Another Phone Call to Seattle

I reported back to Grant. In most cases, a meeting partway through the investigation was a good time. We’d brainstorm. We’d bounce ideas off each other. We’d share observations. All while eating cubes of beef or raw ground beef, chicken, or turkey.

When I arrived at Grant’s after my visit to the Siskels, he wasn’t happy.

We went to his kitchen where he had his usual bowl of beef cubes and two bottles of beer, but he wasn’t enthusiastic.

“Bad news,” he said after we sat. “Three other farms selling human hunts have popped up.”

“That was fast.”

“And disturbing. We’ve never seen three at one time.” He shook his head. “Don’t worry, I have other agents covering them. We’re destroying two and infiltrating the third.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” I always liked that Grant felt confident enough in me to share his plans concerning other agents.

“So, what do you have to report?” he asked, changing the subject.

I told him about my calls to the parents of both WOOF agents. In both cases, the parents had told me in the last few years neither of their sons had worked many assignments actually in Washington state. I was wary after the first call but very suspicious after the second.

“That is strange that neither agent has worked cases in Washington state for the last few years,”

“That’s what I thought. When I tried to get more details both sets of parents shut up.”

“Unusual, too. Parents of WOOF agents normally speak proudly of their children’s work.”

Next, I discussed the event at Berrigan Enterprises and my interview with Leonard.

“He wants to get to know other werebeasts. I don’t see the harm in that,” Grant observed after I’d finished.

“He really meant it. I left right after that. He’s got a very dominant nature.”

Grant shrugged. “He’s a CEO and president of a company. Maybe he wants more of us local werebeasts as employees.”

“Possibly,” I said. “But I have other news.”

Then I told of Amy’s and Phillip’s stories about why the Siskels were threatening the Oldwells.

“Okay, that’s the weirdest bit of news. So both of them referred to this ‘leader?’”

“Yeah. I could tell Amy was using a small letter ‘t’ and ‘l,’ but Phillip was definitely using a capital ‘t’ and ‘l,’” I replied. “A bit like the Nazis, if you ask me. The whole Fuhrer thing and all.”

“I’m glad Hitler wasn’t a werewolf.”

“If he’d been, we’d have taken him out early.”

“That’s true.” Grant took a swig of beer. “Who do you think is telling the truth?”

“I don’t know. Their stories are similar, but the shortness of the Siskels’ tale is convincing.” I quickly ate a beef cube. “I think we need to call the Seattle WOOF leader again.”

“Think it will be productive?” Grant asked.

“He has to know something about this whole Siskel/Oldwell conflict. With FH conflicts, WOOF often gets called in.”

“When only FHs are involved.”

“And sometimes when FHs and Wild Ones are,” I added.

Grant sighed. “Lawrence wasn’t too pleased the last time we called.”

“He should be this time. Two of his agents were murdered here. If he isn’t cooperating, there’s more going on.”

“I agree.” Grant pulled out his cell phone. “Let me do most of the talking.”

“Okay, but if I want to add something, I will.”

“Don’t I know it.” Grant pulled out his cell phone and set it on the table. Again, he dialed Lawrence Guthrie’s number. The phone rang three times.

“Lawrence Guthrie,” a deep voice greeted.

“Hi, Lawrence. This is Grant Morris of the Central Iowa WOOF pack.”

“Hello, Grant,” Lawrence said coldly. “I hope you haven’t been interfering in the investigation of my agent’s death.”

“Are you referring to both agents’ deaths?” Grant inquired.

Lawrence didn’t answer right away. “Yes…of course, that’s what I meant.”

“I investigated a little bit,” I cut in.

“I told you—”

“I called both sets of parents. They said you do an admirable job as WOOF pack leader there.” I told the truth with the first sentence; I lied with the second.

“Glad to hear that,” Lawrence said.

“They also said their sons had been sent out of state for at least the last five years. Has it been that long since you’ve had problems with Wild Ones?” I asked.

Another pause. “Yes, exactly. A little over six years ago, we FHs had a big battle with the Wild Ones, defeated them, and scared the rest out of the state.”

We FHs are good, but not that good. In Iowa, we could never do that because new Wild One packs keep coming in.

“Someday, you’ll have to tell us how you did that,” Grant commented, taking a different approach to Lawrence’s answer.

“Right, of course,” Lawrence said hesitantly. “It’s all in creating the right conflict.”

“There can be a right time to fight, but I never heard of a right conflict,” Grant came back.

“You just have to know how to invent the proper circumstances,” Lawrence said.

Grant scrunched up his face and shook his head. I took my index finger from my right hand and spun it around to the side of my head.

“Actually, we’re calling about something else,” Grant said, changing the subject. ‘The Oldwell pack fled here and the Siskel pack followed vowing to enact vengeance upon them.”

“That happens,” Lawrence said.

“Yeah,” Grant conceded hesitantly. “But supposedly the Oldwells insulted or dishonored ‘the leader’ who now wants them wiped out.”

“Again, that happens,” Lawrence repeated.

Grant gripped the edges of the table with white knuckles.

Not liking that answer.

“But our SPLs rarely interfere with pack affairs. Okay, if multiple packs are about to get into it, they do. Our FH SPL assumes we packs can keep the peace among ourselves.”

“Well, Wild Ones don’t,” Lawrence countered.

I wanted to add, “And you haven’t had any problems with Wild Ones for five or more years,” but I didn’t. Grant’s discomfort was enough.

“But the Siskels say ‘the leader’ is giving the Oldwells a few days to make it right,” Grant commented. “Your FH SPL is in Washington state, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, why would he leave?” Lawrence asked. In the background, furtive whispers echoed. The sound on the phone was muffled as if Lawrence was covering it with his hand.

Grant mouthed the word “odd.” I nodded in agreement.

“Now our Wild Ones’ SPL is in Iowa,” Lawrence added. “Shawn Elgin. He’s been there for about week.”

Grant and I exchanged looks, but we kept our cool. I was glad we weren’t skyping.

“And he might know something about the Siskel/Oldwell conflict?”

“Of course, he’s an SPL, isn’t he?” Lawrence retorted. “Sorry, I have other business to attend to. Let me know if you have any other questions.” And he hung up.

We both downed our beers.

The Wild Ones’ SPL of Washington state is in Iowa. Is he ‘the leader’ Amy and Phillip were talking about?

Grant looked at me. “You know what we have to do.”

I certainly did.

25

A Meeting of Leaders

Grant and I stood in the corner of Aaron Snyder’s living room. We were both armed with pistols filled with silver bullets. Amy and a male werewolf I didn’t recognize were located in the corner to our right. Two other males who I thought I recognized from the Wild Ones’ party stood between the other four of us and back against the wall. Each pair was here to protect their SPL: Grant and I for Snyder, Amy and her companion for Elgin, and the two other males for Walter Newburg, the Iowa Wild Ones’ SPL.

Aaron Snyder had decided to host this meeting at his home. Such a move shows how confident he is in his own, Grant’s, and my fighting ability. All three leaders had about ten of their followers outside of this house in case events swirled out of control inside.

The three leaders sat in cushioned chairs around a coffee table. None of them chose to sit on the couch. Bowls of beef cubes, raw chicken legs, and raw hamburger sat on the table as well as three bottles of beer. None of the leaders had eaten anything or even opened his beer.

At least none of them have opened their beer then left it undrunk. It’s always a shame to waste beer.

Walter Newburg sat in the chair opposite Aaron. Walter was about six feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds, and had gray hair tied in a bun behind his head and a gray mustache and beard. He was older than the other two, but I knew he could still fight. Once a Wild Ones’ SPL became a poor fighter, he was quickly defeated, and usually killed, by the heir apparent. The position of SPL wasn’t hereditary. It was determined solely by fighting and leadership skills.

Shawn Elgin was positioned in a chair between the two Iowa leaders. He was the youngest of the three and also the leanest. He was six-two, only about two hundred pounds and had brown shoulder-length hair, a shaggy beard and a mustache. His face was slim and his green eyes had a concerned look about them.

“Think there’s something strange about Elgin?” Grant whispered as the three leaders sat.

“He seems nervous about this meeting,” I said quietly back.

“That’s not typical SPL behavior,” Grant responded.

Snyder gave us both an authoritative gaze, and we quieted.

“Shawn, I’m glad you were able to meet,” Snyder said.

“Likewise,” Newburg agreed. “I hadn’t heard you were in town. For visiting leaders, we enjoy making special arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Elgin said, “I’ve been busy since I arrived. Yes, let’s talk more after we lose this—” He made a nod toward Snyder.

“Unless you plan on killing some humans, I’ll be perfectly reasonable,” Snyder said.

“Kill humans? Us?” Newburg asked innocently.

His two male guards, Amy, and her companion snickered. Newburg and Elgin snapped a nasty look at all of them.

“Really, I can arrange a small get-together. You should get to know some of the locals,” Newburg said.

“Sounds good,” Elgin conceded. “I have many packs in the area as well.”

Grant shook his head. We’ll have to make sure they don’t kill humans or aren’t the ones who started the human hunt farms now that we’ve disposed of the Butcher pack.

“They’re invited, too,” Newburg said.

“I understand the concerns of hospitality,” Snyder said. “But we do have business to discuss.”

“There is always time for hospitality,” Newburg countered. “Shawn, after this meeting we should talk. I’ll arrange a party for you and your packs. It’ll be fun.”

“I’d enjoy that. My stay here hasn’t been all I’d hoped,” Elgin told him.

“I hope the humans haven’t been making it too difficult for you,” Newburg said.

“No, not that.” Elgin shook his head. “I’ve just had lots of business to take care of.”

“Speaking of which,” Snyder said, cutting into the conversation of the two Wild Ones. “We asked you to come because we have worries about two packs from your state. We thought you’d be able to clear up some misunderstandings.”

“Packs in Washington state rarely have matters that aren’t understandable,” Elgin refuted.

“That’s the way we are,” Newburg said.

That’s a dig at us FHs. How’s our leader going to respond?

“Be that as it may,” Snyder said authoritatively. “Two packs are in Iowa and there’s a disagreement that’s likely to lead to bloodshed.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Newburg said.

Snyder narrowed his eyes. “Are you looking to insult me?” he asked coldly.

“Who, me?” Newburg asked.

“Yes, you,” Snyder replied. “Our packs may have a peaceful arrangement. I would hate that we would lose such a coexistence all because of some controversy between two out of state packs.”

“You wouldn’t,” Newburg dared.

“Try me. It’s been a long time since our two groups have had a major fight, but it can happen,” our leader said.

“Let’s get back to business,” Newburg said, changing the subject.

Elgin laughed softly and gave Newburg a grin.

“About these two packs,” Snyder said, directing his comment to Shawn. “We’ve heard that the Siskels are here to wreak vengeance on the Oldwells for an insult to you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the Washington leader stated.

“A few of our locals have talked to both packs and both made reference to a specific leader,’” Snyder clarified.

Elgin’s eyes widened. “I don’t know where the hell your people get these stories. No leader of any sort had anything to do with the conflict between the Siskels and the Oldwells. It’s a matter of procreation. For a time, Donna Breeze of the Oldwells was rutting with Phillip Barnes of the Siskels. Together they had a child. For the last few years, Donna’s let Phillip see and spend time with his child. About two months ago, she forbade him to see his kid. Two males from the Oldwells even fought Phillip to a stalemate when he demanded to see his kid. All werewolves deserve to spend time with their children. What the Oldwells have done is against werewolf tradition. The Siskels vowed revenge unless Donna changed her ways. The Oldwells fled here. From what I’ve heard, Phillip has reached out to the Oldwells but without results. The Siskels will enact their vengeance soon unless Donna amends her ways.”

Yeah, I know. That story didn’t match any I’d heard. But it was very plausible. Child custody often causes feuds between two packs, especially if one pack is refusing to let the other pack have access. That’s why once children are involved it’s best for the two parents to become members of the same pack. Such ways avoid the conflict Elgin had described.

“Well, thank you for clearing that up,” Snyder said. He glanced at Grant and me, and his eyes flared.

“He’s not happy,” Grant whispered.

“I think I got that,” I said quietly back.

“So now we can arrange our party?” Newburg asked.

Snyder shook his head. “Go right ahead.”

26

Follow the Leader

As I left Snyder’s house and walked toward my pickup, Amy waylaid me.

“Hi,” she greeted.

“Hi, Amy,” I responded.

“Interesting meeting,” she remarked.

“Very,” I agreed. I didn’t want to push her away since she had connections with the Wild Ones’ Washington SPL. Better if I stay friends with her at least until I discover more about what she knows. “Fascinating story about the Oldwells and Siskels.”

Amy didn’t even blush. She smiled. “You’re so clever. We need to talk.”

I grinned. “We sure do.”

“Give me a call, and we can arrange a time.”

“I will.”

She glanced at the grouping of Wild Ones. “I have other things to do.”

“So do I.”

“Call me.” She gave me quick kiss on the cheek, then joined her male companion in the group surrounding Shawn and Walter.

I walked to my pickup, hopped in, and waited for the crowd to disperse.

I watched the Wild Ones talking in the front yard of Snyder’s house, a two-story, three-car-garage house with a wide driveway to match the garage. Three birch trees stood in the center of the front lawn and allowed for the Wild Ones to be on one side and the FHs on the other. The yard was flat but quite large. The occasional dandelion was visible, but not nearly as many as in front of the Oldwell pack’s house.

After the less than successful meeting, Grant had ordered me to follow Shawn Elgin. I was to see whom he met and who came to meet him. We’d both agreed that his story, although highly plausible, was suspicious, especially in relation to the other stories I’d heard about the Siskel/Oldwell feud. I was now of the mind that the Oldwells had to fight and hopefully kill enough Siskels that the Wild Ones’ pack would leave them alone, but I didn’t hold out much hope that the struggle would play out that way.

Ten FH werewolves stood guarding Snyder’s house. If Wild Ones want to take out Snyder, they’ll use the traditional challenge rather than straight assassination. Fighting is more respected than simple murder. I was still glad we were protecting him.

A few of the Wild Ones drifted away from the large group to hop in their vehicles. We’d taken over this residential street with our large pickups and SUVs. A few pickups drove off. Finally, Walter and Shawn separated after giving each other bear hugs. No problems between these guys.

The crowd dispersed to its various vehicles. I watched as Amy and her companion climbed into a large white SUV. She was driving. A take charge woman. I like that.

Shawn hopped into a 350 extended cab black pickup. I memorized its license plate and pulled out as the Washington SPL did the same. Yeah, lots of other vehicles were leaving at the same time. Following Elgin wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d had lots of cases when tracking a suspect played a crucial role. I’m good at my job.

My pursuit began.

Elgin pulled his pickup to the side of the residential street. I’d been following him for about fifteen minutes. Other vehicles had swarmed around his for the first five minutes; a few had kept near during the next five; and my vehicle was the only one for the last five. If he’s trying to lose a tail, he doesn’t know about experienced investigators.

I parked about half a block away and let my super eyesight kick in. I saw Elgin on his cell phone. He talked casually with his caller, then put his cell phone away, and pulled away from the curb. I continued to follow him through the maze of residential streets.

He parked in front of familiar house.

He’s visiting the Siskels. That only makes sense after the meeting.

I rolled down my passenger side window as Elgin climbed from his pickup, walked up the driveway and small sidewalk to the Siskels’ house porch. He rang the doorbell and waited.

“Mr. Elgin,” said a voice I recognized as Phillip’s.

“Phillip,” Elgin greeted.

“Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you.” Elgin glanced around. “I have news.”

I could almost imagine Phillip smiling eagerly. Elgin entered the house.

I was shocked by this scene. This wasn’t normal SPL behavior. They’re the leader of the state. Our SPL usually meets with various pack leader and even tours Iowa so he can make contact with all the packs. All true. But when he wants to meet, werewolves come to him, not the other way around.

I sat in my pickup and waited. I wanted to play loud country music, but on a stake out I have to pay attention. I didn’t even play with my phone.

About ten minutes later, Elgin exited the house, saying over his shoulder, “Thank you for your time.”

“No, thank you,” a female voice shouted from inside.

The door closed. Elgin returned to his own pickup, climbed in, and made another phone call. His doors and windows were closed, so even with my window open and my super werewolf hearing I couldn’t listen in. He finished his call and drove off again.

I followed.

We drove away from this maze of residential streets, got on I-235, exited and entered another maze of residential streets. He pulled into a driveway of a house. Most of these houses were older than where we’d been before. They sat among trees and hills, but most had been remodeled to have at least a two-car attached garage. Two large maple trees stood in the yard. The house had a distinctly Victorian look to it.

I parked about a block away. Again, I lowered my passenger side window and went into super-hearing mode.

Elgin left his vehicle, walked to the house’s front door, and rang the doorbell. The door opened.

“Mr. Elgin, how good of you to visit,” said a voice I recognized as belonging to Marshall Denning.

So he’s visiting the Nodwicks. Could he be talking about their working for Berrigan Enterprises?

“Mr. Denning, I need to speak with you.”

“Please come inside.”

Again, I was thwarted from eavesdropping on their conversation. Again, I waited.

When Elgin left the Nodwicks’ house, nobody wished him good-bye. He simply exited the building, walked to his pickup, climbed in, and made another phone call.

He’s got a pattern. Predictability can be a good thing. Especially for someone tailing him.

We were off again. This time we stayed in the same neighborhood. About twelve minutes later, Elgin pulled into another house’s driveway. This house was on a smaller lot like its neighbors. All were small two-story houses with one-car unattached garages. The yard to this house was filled with dandelions.

Again, I parked about a block away and watched as Elgin left his vehicle, went to the door, rang the doorbell, and waited.

When the door opened, a voice greeted him, “Mr. Elgin, we’re glad you stopped by.”

That’s Sheryl. This house belongs to the pack that attacked me.

I wanted to call Grant and tell him our pack should get here and kill the lot of them. Serves them right for trying to kill me.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. I’m trying to discover facts, not get vengeance. At least not yet.

Elgin made a similar greeting and was invited in.

The afternoon continued as I followed him to three more houses where each time he was greeted warmly. Each time he was invited in. Each time I learned nothing, except the location of the pack’s particular home. He finished off by driving to a hotel which I watched far into the evening.

27

A Business Opportunity

After I finished tailing Shawn Elgin and called Grant with all the details, I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang.

“Hello,” I said amiably. I’m always cheerful on the phone.

“Hi, Joe.”

Vince. What’s he calling me for? We usually only saw each other at Wild Ones’ parties. I didn’t think he wanted too much contact with me because if too many Wild Ones knew, he could lose his credibility with them.

“Hi, Vince. What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“Dick and Shirley contacted me not too long ago,” Vince replied.

I waited.

“They were told that a representative from Washington state wanted to see them about their party operation,” he continued.

“That’s unusual,” I commented.

“Dick was suspicious, so he called me. I think he knows you’re FH and WOOF. He wants you to be close by to hear the conversation.”

“What does he think is happening?” I inquired.

“He didn’t tell me, but if he wants you around, it can’t be good.”

“Maybe he wants me around since I’ve been checking into our friends from the Northwest.”

Vince didn’t know, but he gave me the time we’d meet to go to Dick and Shirley’s.

Vince didn’t think it was wise for my pickup to be seen by this unwelcome visitor, so he gave me a ride. Upon our arrival, we went inside where I had a brief conversation with Dick and Shirley. The discussion was tense since many times after their parties I’d had WOOF kill off most of their guests. The couple was cordial but told me they knew I’d been investigating the packs from Washington state and they believed whatever was about to happen might shed some light on the affair. They also feared that their true werewolf friends might not help them, but my kind might. Then they escorted me to the loft of their barn and left me. I sat, holding my cell phone. Vince called me and left his phone on, so I could hear the restless rustling of Vince, Dick, and Shirley.

This set up could be a trap. But I was ready. I had a pistol filled with silver bullets. Besides, when I wolfed-out, I was a strong wolf.

Over my phone I heard a doorbell ring.

Voices whispered, then Dick agreed to answer the door.

Before he got there, the doorbell rang twice.

The sound of footsteps and the door opening.

“Richard Olsen?” a deep voice asked.

“Yes,” Dick replied hesitantly.

“I’m Larry Niebert. This is Roger Turner.”

“Hey,” a baritone voice said.

“Hello. Nice to meet you,” Dick told them.

“May we come in?” Larry asked.

“Of course, of course. Shirley and I always welcome guests.”

A door closed. The sound of footsteps.

“Who’s this?” Larry demanded.

“May I introduce you to Shirley, my wife, and Vince Brown—” Dick said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Roger greeted.

“Likewise,” Shirley said.

“And who are you?” Larry demanded.

“Like he said, Vince Brown,” Vince said.

“He comes to all of our parties. He gets to know our guests and what they like and don’t like. We consider him an informal partner,” Dick explained hurriedly.

“Does he handle any of your money?” Larry wanted to know.

“No,” Dick replied hesitantly.

“I’m their social relations director. Every good werewolf party organizer needs one,” Vince said defensively.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Roger snapped. “This guy doesn’t matter.”

Someone gave a big sigh. “Tell us about your operation,” Larry commanded.

“There’s not much to tell,” Dick explained. “Both of us have jobs in Des Moines; I’m in finance, Shirley in insurance. We run this farm as a joy and to receive a bit of supplementary income.”

“That may have to change,” Larry said.

“All right,” Dick said hesitantly.

“Continue,” Larry ordered.

“Tell us something relevant,” Roger added.

Dick cleared his throat. “In evenings and on weekends, we rent and provide catering for wedding receptions, family reunions, high school or college dances, and corporate affairs. We usually charge enough so we break even and make a bit of additional income—”

“We don’t care,” Roger cut in.

“Actually, we do,” Larry countered. “But we are specifically interested in your affairs with werewolves.”

“Yes, right. We host parties usually every quarter, but sometimes more than that,” Dick said. “We invite all the packs in Iowa, but normally only closer ones attend. We have a pack from western Iowa and one from eastern Iowa who most times come, but they tend to the exception—”

“How do you fund these affairs?” Larry interrupted.

“We find out in advance which packs plan to attend, and we assess them fifty dollars per pack,” Dick answered. “In most cases, that’s enough for us to break even. In cases where we don’t, we contact the packs again and ask for the money to pay for the party. Most packs usually comply.”

That’s saying something. After all, Dick is talking about Wild Ones who behave more irrationally and chaotically than their FH counterparts. Our party hosts work much the same way. I think such transactions are a werewolf thing. We want to continue having parties and if our hosts lose too much money when having these events, these occasions will cease to be. We werewolves are too social to let that disaster happen.

“That’s enough,” Larry stated. “Also, all of that has to change. First, this is how you’ll handle the werewolf affairs. You will charge a per head fee of ten dollars. All who enter will receive a stamp to show they have paid. Those who come and don’t pay will be expelled, and their packs will be fined twenty dollars a head. We will provide you with people to collect the money and guards to watch for trespassers. After every party, you will send a check for two-thirds of the proceeds to Swine Enterprises, LLC.” He paused. “Give me your cell number and I’ll text or email you the details.”

“I don’t think—” Dick said.

“You will agree,” Roger said sternly.

A moment of silence ensued. Someone gasped.

“We will use force if necessary,” Roger threatened.

“You will also send fifty percent of the proceeds of your other affairs to the same organization,” Larry continued. “Is that clear?”

“What’s your cell number?” Roger asked.

Dick and Shirley each gave their numbers.

“You are no longer invited nor will be a part unless you pay ten dollars each time you come,” Larry ordered, obviously directing the comment toward Vince.

“I can do that,” Vince said quietly.

Larry explained, “As long as you follow our suggestions, no other changes will need to be made. Swine Enterprises LLC will audit your business quarterly, and any payments not properly sent will be collected and assessed an additional twenty-five percent.”

Silence followed this information.

“Good doing business with you,” Roger concluded.

Footsteps. A door opened and closed.

I switched off my cell phone, waited a few minutes while I used my super werewolf hearing to listen as a vehicle drove away, then I climbed from the loft to visit with some very shocked hosts.

28

Massacre

As I pulled my pickup in front of the Oldwell pack’s home, I surveyed the area and didn’t like what I saw. A large open POD and two pickups belonging to the Oldwells sat in their driveway close to the house. A broken wooden table and six dining room chairs lay between the POD and the front door. Two West Des Moines police cars, other pack vehicles, and two black coroners’ vehicles were parked on the street. I stopped my own pickup behind these two black vehicles.

They said it was a massacre.

We werewolves enjoy bloodshed, at least in the heat of battle, but not in the slaughter of innocents. And that’s exactly what this was.

I disliked this scene as much as what I’d heard at Dick and Shirley’s. After the new business associates had left, I’d returned to the house to find Shirley in tears and Dick pacing frantically. They’d informed me that their two visitors had pistols and appeared not afraid to use them. Then they’d given me the name and address of the company where they were to send payment from their operations.

Vince had driven me back to a mall parking lot where I’d left my pickup. Although he could have taken me home, quite a while ago we’d decided we were better off not knowing each other’s addresses. Either FHs or Wild Ones could possibly endanger the other if we knew this information. As we were driving back to town, I’d received a call that I should go to the Oldwells’ residence as soon as possible, so here I was.

I climbed out of my vehicle and walked across the lawn. A police officer stepped through the front door. From her smell, I knew she was a werewolf.

Werewolves better be the only ones here. Affairs like this one could reveal our existence to humankind and that would be bad for them and us. We werewolves would happily live with humans if they knew about us, but humans probably wouldn’t be as tolerant. Prior to our going underground, humans had hunted us.

I stopped in front of the open door where a uniformed police officer met me. She had blue eyes, a round face, and long curly black hair.

“It’s bad in there,” she warned.

“Did they even have a chance?” I asked.

“We’re guessing there were about twenty Oldwells. That’s a lot to live in this house, but some packs enjoy close quarters.”

We werewolves don’t like to criticize another pack’s way of living. We believe in live and let live. Well, some of us do.

She continued, “We think the Siskels attacked with forty or more. So, no, they didn’t have a chance.”

Lots of screaming and yelling, too.

“All right if I go inside?” I asked.

“You’re Joe Butler, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“We were told you were coming. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like this many werewolves being killed,” the officer remarked.

“If it had been a fair fight, I might think it’s okay, but a surprise attack isn’t.”

“Yeah, this definitely wasn’t expected. We guessed it happened early this morning.”

Why did I just hear about it? I’ll have to ask Grant.

I don’t believe in provoking somebody unless I have to, so I ignored the police officer’s last comment and entered the house. The smell of blood, feces, and urine filled the living room/dining room combination. The room was empty of furniture but blood splatters stained the walls and floors and limbs and torsos, all covered in white fur, were spread around the floor as if a grotesque quilt. Quickly scanning the room, I guessed these remains were from six to seven bodies.

Another police officer stood at the entrance to the kitchen. “Officer Reynolds.”

“Joe Butler,” I said.

Gazing around the room, Reynolds said, “The whole house is like this.”

“Everywhere?” I asked.

“Yep,” he responded. “A few other rooms still have furniture. The Siskels destroyed most of the furniture after or as they killed all the Oldwells.”

“They wanted to completely dishonor the Oldwells.”

“They ate some of them as well.”

Gross. Only Wild Ones occasionally engaged in cannibalism. They were wild by their nature and, depending upon the story, this attack had been sanctioned.

“Oh, and all the heads are gone,” the officer added.

Great, they took trophies. So Wild One. We FHs have disagreements among packs, but we try to do everything we can before one pack outrightly attacks another. Wild Ones, not so much. They glory in fighting and killing. If I can swing it, everyone in the Siskel pack will be brutally killed.

I glanced at my feet and saw I was making a trail of bloody footprints.

“Don’t mind that you’re going to track blood. Even the coroners did. They’re upstairs,” Reynolds continued. “Care for a tour?”

I didn’t, but I knew I had to.

Reynolds reluctantly took me around. He showed me the other rooms of the first floor where we saw two coroners examining some of the limbs. We asked about getting our footprints in the blood, and they told us they were okay with that since with so much blood on the floor, we didn’t have any way not to make footprints. Next, he ushered me to the basement. Again, lots of blood, urine smell, some feces, and limbs and torsos of the massacred. Also, the couches were smashed, the flat screen television cracked, a small fridge’s door ripped off, and other furniture so shattered I couldn’t identify it.

My guide took me to the second floor where we saw more of the same. Although I felt nauseated by all the death and destruction, on the second floor my nose kept bothering me. Somewhere something stank. Stank of skunk.

“Do you smell that?” I asked.

“Smell what?”

“The stench. Like dead skunk.”

The officer chuckled. “Yeah, a few others noticed the smell. They think it’s coming from the attic.”

“Do you know the way to the attic?”

Reynolds said he did and led me through the destroyed master bedroom to its walk-in closet and pointed at a board above a frame in the ceiling. “That should get you there.”

I glanced around the closet. None of the clothes were torn and the carpet’s only blood stains was the trail left by our feet.

“Do you think the Siskels made it in here?”

“We theorize by the time they made it to this floor they were in such a killing frenzy that if it wasn’t obvious, they didn’t notice.”

“Like the stench?”

“Yep, like that. When we reached this floor, we noticed it, too,” Reynolds answered. “But there are so many corpses or parts of bodies we could only care about so much.”

I smiled. I respected the police and the coroners, but sometimes you needed a different perspective. Such as mine as a WOOF agent.

I stepped beneath the board within the frame. Then I leaped straight up with my arms and hands directly above me. The board bounced off as I flew into the attic. As I dropped, I grabbed the frame.

And found myself in the stench of dead skunk and with Donna Breeze pointing a shotgun right at my head.

29

Survivors

I sat in my basement across from Donna Breeze. Most of my basement is the classic man-cave with its seventy-inch flat screen television, its long leather sofa, its two leather recliners, and its small fridge filled with beer. Many a weekend my friends and I spent watching sports, drinking beer, and eating raw meat. Very much like human males with the exception of the raw meat.

I also have a corner for my washer and dryer and a sink, but I don’t think about that part unless I’m using it. My guest was using the washer to clean some clothes of the kids she’d brought along with her.

Donna and I sat in silence, and she kept gazing at the floor.

“Tell me what happened,” I repeated.

After discovering Donna in the attic, I’d found she wasn’t alone but had the five children I’d seen the other day while visiting the Oldwells. They all had stunk of skunk. I’d smuggled them out of the house, into my pickup, and to my house where they’d begun cleaning off the stench. Donna had cleaned herself first then left Eldon, that inquisitive lad who’d spoken to me when I’d visited their pack, in charge of the scent-removing of the other children.

“The Siskels attacked,” Donna answered. “Russell shouted we were under attack, and I hurried the children into the attic. Some Oldwells had to survive. Now some have.”

Quite the obvious answer. We werewolves tend to tell the truth, but often the information we omit is just as important.

“It’s the truth,” she said.

I bit my lip. Yes, it’s the truth as far as it goes Let’s try a different tact.

“Is it true that you had an affair with Phillip Barnes in which you gave birth to his child?” I asked.

“What?”

I repeated my question.

“So what if it was?” she replied defiantly.

“Shawn Elgin, leader of the Wild Ones in Washington state, says that’s the reason why the Siskels had a grudge with you.”

“That’s a lie. Yes, we had an affair. Yes, I gave birth to Eldon, but I’ve let Phillip see him any time he wanted to.”

Eldon is her son. That explains a lot.

“You got along well enough with the Siskels in that matter, then,” I concluded.

“We did,” Donna agreed. “They didn’t need to attack us.”

“But they did,” I countered.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She shook her head. “It was horrible. I think these kids could be shocked for life. Eldon said he’d murder every last Siskel. We sat in the attic and heard the slaughter beneath us. Screams. The rampaging of the Siskels. That’s probably what saved us. They were in such a killing frenzy they didn’t notice the smell from the attic or that some of us were missing.” Tears flowed down her face.

I offered her a tissue.

“Thanks.”

“But why did they attack? I heard two different stories concerning a leader and his displeasure with your pack. Was the FH SPL angry with you?”

Donna smirked. “I wish.”

“We tried to contact the FH SPL in Washington state, but the Pack Leaders Council of the state told us we should know better,” I explained.

Both Grant and I agreed that response was strange. We’d met with the Wild Ones’ SPL, so we thought it logical to appeal to the FH SPL.

Donna shook her head. “You really don’t understand what’s happening, do you?”

I rolled my eyes. “We have quite a few mysteries right now. Two WOOF agents from Washington state were murdered here. Your pack fled here and was pursued then attacked by the Siskels. We’ve also had some Wild One party hosts accosted by strangers asking to take over the locals’ operation. We know something is going on, and we want to stop it.”

“I have to see to the children,” Donna said as she stood.

“We have to talk later,” I said

She smiled sadly. “I won’t be able to tell you anything more. You just don’t get it.” She wiped a tear away from her eye. “And you probably won’t until it’s too late.”

If Donna won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll have to learn by other means.

30

Credit Card Receipts

Because Donna wasn’t willing to share the truth, I decided I should proceed with my investigation of the WOOF agent murders. The police had sent me the credit card receipts of both agents both before and during their stay in Iowa. I sat at my dining room table and searched through this information as I heard Donna and the Oldwell children upstairs.

Yeah, I should have checked with Grant before inviting them here. But they couldn’t stay in that house after the massacre.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I spent an hour studying the receipts. I found a few in common and definitely worth researching in person.

“I’m going out. I’ll be back in a few hours,” I shouted.

“Thanks for letting us know,” Donna yelled back. “We’ll keep order while you’re away.”

I rolled my eyes. No, it was the right thing to do to ask them to come here.

I parked my pickup in front of a chain steak restaurant, the same restaurant where I’d had my date with Amy a few days ago and the same restaurant where we were scheduled to meet tonight. Once I get back from my date, I’ll be much happier when dealing with the Oldwells.

Both Mike Connors’ and Bill Douglas’ credit cards had been used at this restaurant on the same night. Douglas’ was larger, so I wondered if he’d eaten or drunk more. Since we’re werewolves, either was a possibility.

Regardless, I arrived mid-afternoon, so I knew the place would be nearly as empty as the parking lot was. Before leaving home, I’d picked up my fake FBI badge because I believed it would carry the authority to get the restaurant staff to cooperate.

I hopped out of my pickup and entered the restaurant. Even in the middle of the day the lights were dimmed around the reception area although the restaurant area was well lit. Whenever I came here alone, I took a booth or table in the bar to watch the flat screen TVs that always had sports shows on.

And I’ll be happy when I break this case wide open. Of course, I’m usually at least a bit happy because I’m a werewolf and very few of us are glum.

The hostess, a young woman wearing a white blouse, a vest, and black slacks, looked up from her board as I entered.

“Table for one?” she asked.

Pulling out my FBI badge, I replied, “Actually, I’m here on business. I’m investigating some murders and two of the victims were dining here on the same night.”

“Oh,” the young hostess murmured.

Another waitress came up behind her. “Table for one?” she asked.

“He’s from the FBI,” the hostess whispered. “He has questions.”

“I’ll be right back with our manager, sir,” the waitress said. She turned and walked quickly to the back of the restaurant.

The hostess and I stood in an awkward silence. A middle-aged man wearing a similar outfit to the hostess walked through the bar to the hostess station.

“You’re from the FBI?” he inquired.

I flashed my badge again. “I’m Joe Butler, and I’m investigating some murders. Both the victims were here on the same night.”

“I’m Harold Robinson, manager,” the man said.

We shook hands, then he invited me into the bar where we sat in one of the empty booths.

“We’re always happy to help our law enforcement officers,” Harold said.

“And we appreciate your help.” I pulled out my cell phone, showed the manager photos of Connors and Douglas, and told him the evening both these agents were at the restaurant.

The manager nodded knowingly. “Ah, I remember these two well. Actually, the party they were with.”

“Tell me all about it,” I urged.

“These two were with a party of twelve. All the men were like these two,” he paused, looked at me and continued, “and like you. Beard, mustache, long hair. All of them also wore suits or sports jackets and ties, so we believed they were good enough people.”

Good, because we werewolves enjoy eating here.

“The party was eight men and four women. All the women were in dresses or blouses and skirts and they all had long, lustrous hair. Our wait staff commented on that because many female waitresses said they’d wished they’d had hair like that. The group was loud and rowdy. Three times I had to stop by the table and ask them to quiet down. They did so grudgingly since they were having a good time. A large man at the head of the table seemed to be in charge, and everybody gave him deference. That didn’t stop them from ordering lots of drinks, mostly beer for the guys and wine for the women.” The manager stopped and chuckled. “They ordered a variety of cuts of meat, but they all ordered them as rare as could be and with the biggest size available.” He shook his head. “They didn’t order any sides either and all the free bread and butter we offered was left on the table uncut.”

“Were they that unforgettable of a group?” I asked.

“My wait staff talked about them for a few days after. They left good tips, too.”

We werewolves feel we should show our appreciation to those who work for us.

I wonder…

I flipped through a few other photos on my phone and found one of Amy and me. I showed it to the manager. “This woman wasn’t among this group, was she?”

The manager nodded. “Yes, she was, and she was flirting with all the males. Especially the male who seemed to be the leader.”

“Do you have credit card records from the other people in the party?” I asked.

“I’ll check.” The manager stood and left me alone.

If I get the names of people in the party, I can track their movements in our area, too. One of them could be the murderer, too. I smiled. Then I can finish off this case and my life will be a lot easier. I shook my head. Well, once I get the Oldwells out of my house.

31

Another Date with Amy

I picked Amy up at the hotel where we’d spent the night following our last date. Although I had her credit card information, I hadn’t had a chance to pass it on to Grant or the police to investigate her whereabouts in the last few weeks. But I was able to check enough to discover that the billing address was in Washington state. I didn’t believe that was a coincidence with all the other inhabitants of that state appearing in Iowa.

On our way to the restaurant we chatted about the weather, the celebration of life we’d attended, and our thoughts about what made a good steak. I parked my pickup in front of the restaurant where we both climbed from it and made our way in. I wore cotton slacks, a sport coat, a button-down shirt, and tie; Amy a floral dress.

Upon entering the restaurant, the hostess looked surprised. I asked for a table for two, and she immediately found us a booth along the windows.

“Do you like to come here?” I asked Amy as we both perused the menu.

She smiled. “Of course. It has some of the best steak in town.”

I wanted to ask her about the other dinner party, but I thought I should give her a bit of slack first.

“Have you been anywhere else?”

“Phillip took me to Fleming’s.”

A much more expensive steakhouse than this chain. I’ll have to remember and take her there next time. Yeah, I know. I wished she wasn’t also dating Phillip. Who will be brutally killed if I have my way.

“Have you been here often since you’ve been in town?” I inquired.

“A few times,” Amy answered without looking up from her menu.

“How long have you been in Iowa?”

Amy gazed at me this time. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you interrogating me?”

I shrugged. “I’m curious is all. We’ve talked about our pasts in a general way, but not the places we’ve been nor the people we’ve been with.”

She smirked. “True,” she said hesitantly.

I waited. Amy looked back down at her menu. “I’m thinking about having the prime rib. Rare, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeated. “Are you planning on answering my question?”

Amy laughed. “Oh, Joe, you’re such a funny guy. We have chemistry and great sex. Why ruin a good thing?”

The sex was very good. I shook my head. “I’m investigating the murders of two WOOF agents from Washington state. You’re from there and have connections there. That makes you a person of interest.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You knew what was going on between the Siskels and the Oldwells. Both packs are from Washington state. When we had the big meeting between the FH and Wild Ones SPLs of Iowa and the Wild One SPL of Washington state, you were with Elgin. You know something about why all these Washington state packs are in Iowa.”

Amy gazed at me silently. “So?” she said.

You’re not going to give me anything. Well, I can play that game, too. “I know you were at this restaurant with Mike Connors, Bill Douglas, and a group of twelve who were all from Washington state. Both Connors and Douglas were murdered. And you’re working with Elgin. I don’t think that’s all coincidence.”

Amy sighed. “You’re probably right.”

“That story you told about the Siskels and Oldwells was different from what either Phillip Barnes or Shawn Elgin said. I want to know what’s going on.”

“You probably do,” Amy said and set down her menu. “Look, we can have a good meal and some good sex after. I’m all for that. You’re an entertaining guy and fantastic in bed. As I said, we have excellent chemistry. I like you as much if not more than any other guy I’ve met here. All of these events are going to shake out. When they do, you’ll understand what I’m doing.”

“What happened at the dinner you had here with Connors and Douglas? There was male who acted like the leader of the group. Who was he? What does that dinner have to do with the murders of the agents?”

“Would it have to have anything to do with their deaths?” Amy asked coyly.

I could see her point. Maybe the dinner was an innocent affair. “No, it wouldn’t. But if it doesn’t, why aren’t you telling me more about it?”

“Joe, give it a break. You’ll understand what’s happening soon enough, and you’ll accept it and be happy with it.” She paused. “Or you’ll die. I won’t be the one to kill you, but I know who will.”

Our waitress came by and gave us our drinks. We both stared at her angrily.

“I’ll give you a few more minutes with your menus,” she said and quickly departed.

“What do you mean by that?” I demanded. “What does Elgin have planned? Isn’t he content with what’s happening in Washington state? Why don’t we hear about the FH SPL in Washington state? Why aren’t WOOF agents dealing with Wild Ones there but are being sent out of state?”

Amy stood. “I don’t need to take this abuse. I thought I could have fun with you. Obviously, I was wrong.”

She stomped out of the restaurant. I gazed after her.

Okay, I guess I won’t have fun tonight.

32

A Conversation with a Wererat

“Joe? Joe?” a voice asked. “You awake?”

I reluctantly opened my eyes. On my nightstand, the digital clock read 2:23.

“We need to talk,” said the foot-tall slightly chubby man with red hair and a scraggly beard standing behind my clock. He wore a camouflage fatigues with an assault rifle over his shoulder.

I sat up. “Private Donaldson, what the hell are you doing here?”

I wasn’t in a good mood after my bad date with Amy. After she’d left me at the restaurant, I’d gone ahead and ordered a large steak, rare, of course, and eaten it quietly and quickly. I’d returned home to find Donna making dinner for her the young Oldwells. The kids looked as if they’d been weeping recently. I guessed they were mourning the loss of others in their pack. Donna had invited me to join them, but I’d gone back to the dining room table to look over more of the credit card receipts of Connors and Douglas until it was time for the children to go to bed.

“We are in a state of emergency,” the private replied.

“What?” I asked. I was still groggy. Although I’d skipped dinner with the Oldwells, they hadn’t been helpful in letting me sleep. Donna was staying in my guest bedroom. The children were in my home office in sleeping bags. Comradery is a great thing to foster among children. I often slept in the same room with my many siblings. We had a great time. We also stayed up until all hours of the night or until our parents finally shouted us into silence. That same scenario played out with the Oldwell kids. I went to bed at around 11:00 but didn’t fall asleep until about 1. I can live on very little sleep, but the private’s interruption still rankled me.

“We are in a state of emergency,” Donaldson repeated.

“You’re wererats. You can get yourself out of any mess.”

The private blushed. “That’s true in most cases. We aren’t able to get out of this situation so easily.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “I’ll need a bit more to go on.”

“Yes, of course.” Donaldson saluted.

I gave a weak salute back. “Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t tell you fully because that would reveal too much about wererat life.”

I sighed. Everybody wants me to help, but nobody wants to tell me what’s going on. “Tell me whatever you can, so I can understand your dilemma.”

“Right, yes. We wererats don’t have packs like many of you other werebeasts. We’re all wererats, and we’re perfectly happy to welcome new wererats in our midst. We keep communication open between all wererats in different cities, states, and countries. That’s partly how we know so much.”

Everybody knew that about wererat life. That’s why we could receive such good information from them, but their actual method of communication between different locales was a mystery.

The private continued, “Because of this fact, we always welcome all to our local habitats. In the last few months, we’ve welcomed about fifty from a variety of places—”

“And most of them happen to be from Washington state.”

Donaldson’s brow wrinkled again. “Yes. How did you know?”

“There’s quite a bit happening in Iowa because of visitors from Washington state.”

“Oh, I see. In any case, we thought nothing of these new arrivals. They participated in all of our wererat activities and made themselves at home. Earlier tonight, five werewolves paid our house a visit. We attacked them since we didn’t know them, but, to our dismay, found our weapons had been sabotaged. Our newcomers have kidnapped Santorini and told us if we don’t cooperate, he will die. We can’t stand for that.”

“Have you surrendered?”

The private shrugged. “I don’t care for that term, but, yes, we gave in to them. They said there is a new leader in town, and we need to pledge our allegiance.”

“Did they say who that leader is?”

“No, and I found that disturbing. We had to take oaths to a leader whom we don’t know the name of and who hasn’t even bothered visiting us. That is not how business is handled with wererats.”

“Have they allowed the rest of your business to proceed normally?”

Donaldson bit his lip. “No, they haven’t. They said we could communicate with our relatives in Washington state but nowhere else.” He sniffed. “That will ruin us. That’s why we know so much because we can communicate with wererats from everywhere. And they want to cash in on all of our favors. All of them. Our leverage over other werebeasts will be gone.”

That last bit was bad because wererats have incurred many favors from all kinds of werebeasts, including me. I didn’t want to cash in my favor yet.

“Five others and I escaped, but we need to rescue our fellows. Will you help us?” the private begged.

“I’ll check with Grant and get back to you. The least we can do is get rid of those werewolves in your house. If they’re your enemies, they’re ours, too.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I have to go now. Have a good night’s sleep.”

He hopped off my nightstand and onto my floor. Before I could catch sight of him again, he’d disappeared.

Okay, I have the Oldwells staying at my house, and I’ve promised to help our local wererats. And I still have some murders I haven’t solved. I shrugged. All in a day’s work.

Then I went back to sleep.

33

Another Meeting with Grant

Grant and I sat at his kitchen table with a bowl of raw chicken legs. We’d exchanged our pleasantries and found out how each of us was. I wasn’t good for many reasons, and my pack leader was curious because normally I swing with the punches quite well. But with my date with Amy going bad, the Oldwells staying at my house, and the wererats under attack, I was worried about how things were going in Iowa.

“Well, I’ll make sure we get more WOOF agents to your house,” Grant said after I’d told of the news of the last few days. “That should help you protect the Oldwells. I’m glad to hear some of them survived.”

“Yeah, so am I. The Siskels took the heads of their victims.”

“Wild Ones, they’re brutal.”

“Yeah, we’d have found some other way to settle the problem.”

“Unless the Siskels were ordered by ‘the leader.’” my pack leader countered.

“But our Wild Ones don’t care much about what their Iowa SPL says. We FHs don’t either. Yeah, sure, we respect them and all and if they want to mediate a dispute, we let them, but they don’t order us around.”

“True. I find it strange you heard two stories about the Siskels and Oldwells that included a leader ordering the Oldwells’ demise, but when we questioned Elgin, he gave us another reason.”

“I checked with Donna about that after they came to my house. She says that she did have Phillip’s child, but she’s allowed Phillip to see the boy whenever he wants.”

Grant grunted. “More contradictory stories. I don’t like it. Somebody’s lying.”

“Yeah, and I told you how I tried to get more information from both Donna and Amy and they both told me I don’t have a clue as to what’s going on.”

“And we don’t.”

“We know something’s happening. I don’t think it’s coincidence that both the wererats and Dick and Shirley have been pressured by werebeasts from Washington state.”

Grant smirked. “I’ve got more bad news on that front. We shut down all the human hunt farms and we’re investigating who owns the land. It’s the same LLC that your Wild One friends are asked to send their money.”

“That’s odd,”

“Oh, it gets better. All the local FH hosts have been similarly harassed into holding parties in the same way as Dick and Shirley and under the same guidelines. The LLC they’re to send money to is different. Actually, each of our three local party hosts is to send it to a different LLC,” Grant explained.

“What are their names?”

“Hog Production Enterprises LLC, The New Swine Company LLC, and Agricultural Production Management LLC.”

“They all have an agricultural bent,” I concluded. “Are they all based in Washington state?”

“Yes, they are, and I don’t like it. They’re all shell companies. We have yet to discover the ultimate owners.” He shook his head. “Regardless, nobody should be telling our hosts how to run their parties and how much to charge.”

“Elgin is in town. He might be coordinating the effort.”

“I think that as well. We also did research on all the different houses he visited and discovered they’re all owned or rented by Wild One packs from Washington state.”

“And to think that the parents of both WOOF agents said they didn’t have any work in their home state,” I commented.

“That’s not true.”

“Unless the FHs are under the control of the Wild Ones. By the way, I passed on the credit card information from the party at the restaurant to both the local police and FBI. I hope to be hearing about the activity of all who attended.”

“Except the leader who somebody else paid for,” Grant added.

“Another weird thing.” I paused. “Unless Elgin isn’t the real leader and this other guy is.”

“No, I don’t think so. From your description it sounds more like a pack get-together than some higher up with the minions. If the second were the case, I’d have expected him to pay.”

“Elgin must be behind all of this. I followed him to all of those different houses.”

“After you did that, I had another agent check his credit card records. He’s been in Iowa for quite some time. He could be responsible for the WOOF agent murders.”

“Yeah, but why was he visiting packs instead of the packs visiting him? That’s not SPL behavior. Snyder always summons people to him, not the other way around. I’ve heard the same about Newburg.”

“Maybe Washington SPLs are different,” Grant suggested.

We both shook our heads.

“Would you check with Snyder about confronting Elgin?” I asked. “Elgin might accidentally reveal something that we can use.”

“If we get nothing, Snyder will be angry. He didn’t like how their last meeting went. We came up looking as if we were idiots.”

We werewolves don’t like to appear that way. Appearing to be morons isn’t honorable and sometimes it’s downright humiliating.

“But I’ll contact him,” Grant said. “I’ve heard he’s worried, especially about somebody telling our hosts what to do.”

“Can I be there?” I asked.

“I’m counting on it.”

34

Another Meeting of Leaders

The leaders were meeting again in Aaron Snyder’s living room. I stood in one corner with Peter and Pauline; three local Wild Ones in another corner; and Amy and two werewolves from Washington state in a third corner. None of us exchanged looks.

This meeting must break something open. Then I remembered the last meeting of these three leaders and its lack of helpfulness.

Neither Elgin nor Newburg were happy to be at this meeting, so unlike the first where they’d seemed to hit it off. Probably the threat to local Wild Ones is getting to Newburg.

As with the other meeting, the three leaders sat in the cushioned chairs around a coffee table where a bowl of untouched beef cubes and three bottles of beer sat. This time Elgin sat in the middle chair with Snyder and Newburg on either side. Elgin leaned back in the chair and took in the room. Although neither of the other two leaders drank or ate, Elgin reached in, grabbed a beef cube, tossed it in his mouth, chewed it up, and swallowed, then he took a big swig of beer.

Prior to this time, the three leaders had exchanged pleasantries. But neither Snyder nor Newburg had brought up the issue that was the reason for the meeting.

Elgin glanced back and forth. “I don’t have anything further to tell you about the Siskel/Oldwell issue.”

“The Siskels attacked and killed all the Oldwells,” Snyder said quietly.

“Then the issue is solved. Good.” He looked at the other two leaders. “Am I free to go?”

“We didn’t ask you hear about that,” Newburg snapped.

Elgin took another swig of beer. “Well, thank you for the food and beverages. Both are excellent.”

Snyder and Newburg glanced at each other.

“We’re here about how werewolves from your state are shaking down our party hosts,” Snyder stated.

Elgin’s eyes widened. “That’s news to me.”

“Didn’t you order them to do that?” Newburg asked.

“Why would I do that? We have our way of handling things in Washington state, and you have your ways here. Why would I change that?” Elgin said innocently.

“They’ve been ordered to send part of their earnings to companies based in your state,” Snyder said.

“And werewolves from your state will be at the parties to make sure our hosts use the correct way to receive payment for entry,” Newburg added. “It’s our people’s business. Nobody should force them to do anything.”

“I agree completely,” Elgin said.

The two Iowa SPLs grunted and leaned back in their chairs. They hadn’t liked Elgin’s answer.

Elgin gazed at the two other leaders. “What? Did you expect me to admit that I have thugs shaking down your party hosts? Even if I were doing that and I’m not, I’m not that stupid.”

“We expect you to tell the truth,” Snyder said.

“Yeah, and if you aren’t doing it, do you know who is?” Newburg demanded.

“I’m from Seattle, but that doesn’t mean I know everything that happens in my state, even in matters concerning werebeasts,” Elgin protested. “If somebody’s shaking your hosts down, you should have people at the next party to put a stop to it. That’s the way to deal with it. You won’t get anywhere harassing good people like me.”

Snyder’s brow furrowed. Newburg frowned.

“Or have your people said they won’t put up with those rules?” Elgin inquired.

“They were threatened,” Newburg said.

“Yes, and we don’t want them to come to harm,” Snyder added.

“Then you’re back to having someone there at the next party to put those Washington staters in line,” Elgin concluded. “We’re werewolves. We aren’t afraid of others threatening us We should rejoice in it because we’ll get a chance to wolf-out and kill the bastards.”

Can’t argue with that. We’ll fight for our honor even if we’re outnumbered.

Amy and her crew snickered.

Snyder and Newburg leaned back in their chairs.

“If that’s all you want to talk about, I’ll eat a few more beef cubes and drink my beer and leave,” Elgin said.

“But you don’t refute it happening,” Newburg challenged.

“I don’t know that it’s occurring. You’re saying it is. You should deal with it.” Elgin grabbed a beef cube and tossed it in his mouth. After he finished eating it, he grabbed his beer and guzzled it. “I’m not taking any more of your abuse. If you want to meet again, have one of your escorts challenge one of mine and we can make a fight of it.”

He stood, nodded at his people, and exited the building, followed by his crew.

The two Iowa SPLs shook their heads.

Another meeting where nothing was accomplished. Unless the fact that Elgin knows nothing is a clue. Many times that’s the best way to bust a case wide open. To look at it from a different view. Unfortunately, right now I couldn’t see what that other perspective had to offer.

35

Evening Activities

Eldon and the four other kids chased each other through my house, upstairs to the second floor, dashing in and out of every bedroom, downstairs then to the basement, stopping in my mancave to momentarily glimpse the game, then racing back upstairs again. Eldon was the oldest at nine years old and the son of Donna and Phillip. His younger companions were Susan, seven, Matt, six, Alex, five, and Lucy four. Lucy always lagged behind the others until she became too tired of it and wolfed-out. Then she kept up fine. The other children also wolfed-out at random moments throughout their trips through my house.

While the kids tore around the house, the adults prepared for dinner. Of course, Donna was there. Peter, Pauline, and Victor from my local WOOF pack also had come to live in my house and Hugo and Autry from Fort Dodge were living with us, too. Hugo was in his twenties with a beard and mustache and black hair that draped over his shoulders unless he had it in a ponytail. Autry, also in her twenties, was a blue-eyed vixen with waist length strawberry blonde hair that she usually kept braided. We had an arsenal of weapons, so each adult and even each kid could have one in hand in case we were attacked.

My house didn’t have sleeping accommodations for all of these people, but we planned for some adults to be awake at all times, fearing the Siskels would learn of the surviving Oldwells and attack. However, this was our first night together, so we were having a large dinner to be shared by all. When the bowls of beef cubes, raw chicken legs, and pork chops sat on the table, all were called to attend.

The kids nearly jumped up and down in their seats.

“Children,” Donna said sternly.

“Yes, Donna,” the kids said in unison.

Donna gazed around the table, then extended her hands. We clasped hands as Donna gave us a quick prayer thanking God for good people and scrumptious food. We gave the prayer a loud “Amen.”

We dug in. As we ate, we also talked. The kids talked of their adventures in my house the last two days. Luckily, Donna was there to keep my furniture and other belongings from getting damaged. We WOOF agents knew we couldn’t talk about the recent murders or the other incursions made by werewolves from Washington state, but we had plenty to say about sports, whether it was the sports teams of Iowa State or University of Iowa or the various high school teams and rivalries. I love sports, so I enjoyed this conversation immensely. Besides, I needed something to take my mind off the problems that had been troubling me the last week or so. We’d find out who murdered the WOOF agents, and we’d keep our people from being bullied by those out-of-staters.

After dinner, most of us adjourned to my mancave where we watched cartoons at the request of the kids. Peter and Pauline stayed on the first floor to survey my yard for any suspicious activity. When bedtime came, Donna dragged the kids upstairs, had them change into their pajamas, and brush their teeth. I volunteered for the duty of telling them a bedtime story.

The kids all lay in sleeping bags we’d scrounged up to sleep in my home office. Sometimes I conducted business here when I was put in charge of a case that required me to contact other WOOF agents or deal with unwholesome human activities. Having a room where you could command respect at home was important. Home offices were important parts of homes where multiple pack members lived together. But for the next few nights, my desk and chair had been pushed against the wall so the kids had enough room for their sleeping bags.

“What’re you going to tell us?” Eldon asked.

I smiled. “It’s the story of the werewolf and the vampire.”

“Bloodsuckers are evil,” Lucy said authoritatively.

“Yes, they can be, Now here’s the story.”

Once upon a time there was a happy werewolf named Harold. The werewolf lived with his wife and two children. They lived in a little cottage by the woods where plenty of game lived for them to hunt and kill. The rest of their pack lived in cottages in the same woods, not too far away. A town was about a day’s travel away. Often Harold visited there and many times he brought game he had killed. His family was so good at hunting animals that more times than not they killed more than they could eat.

One day when Harold was on his way to town, he met a vampire. The vampire was pale, thin, and bald. Harold would have laughed at the vampire, but he knew that was impolite—

“But leeches are rude.” Eldon told us.

“Shhh,” Alex ordered.

I continued.

“Ah, dear sir, how fortunate I am to meet you,” the vampire said.

Harold said, “Meeting a vampire is neither fortunate nor good.”

“Dear sir, please do not look askance at me, for I am only seeking aid.”

“You’re a vampire. You don’t need the aid of a werewolf.”

The vampire laughed. “I theorized you were such. So much the better.”

“I will tear you apart if you threaten me,” Harold warned.

“Such behavior I would expect,” the vampire said. “I am Count Barnabas, far from home but in search of a treasure. Alas, I am afraid I cannot obtain it by myself.”

“What would you give me if I helped you?”

“A great portion of the treasure, so your family and pack could live in luxury.”

Well, Harold couldn’t see anything wrong with that although he was perfectly happy living in his little cottage so close to his pack.

“What do you want me to do?” Harold inquired.

“Close by is a castle guarded by an ogre and inhabited by witches. In its dungeon is the treasure I seek. If you kill the ogre and the witches and lead me to the dungeon, we can share in the treasure.”

Harold shrugged. “I will help, but I will do it in a werewolf way.”

“Whatever way you do it, as long as you succeed, I support it.”

The vampire gave Harold directions to the castle, then Harold wolfed-out and headed home. He visited all the nearby cottages, and the pack gathered. He told of the mission and the prize. The pack agreed it was a good idea and gathered for the trip.

They journeyed through the woods until they came upon the castle. As the vampire had said, a huge ogre stood before the open drawbridge.

“You will not pass,” shouted the ogre.

“Joe, there’s danger outside,” Peter called from the hall.

“Children, we need to you to the basement.”

“But what about Harold?” Lucy whined.

“Another time,” I replied.

The kids climbed from their sleeping bags and followed Peter and me to the basement.

36

The Attack

Once the kids were safely to the basement, I went to a bedroom that looked out over my front yard. Peter was already there with a sniper rifle in hand, standing back from the window. I stepped up to the window and surveyed my front lawn. It was a flat area with about twenty feet to the sidewalk with an easement of about five feet. My pickup was parked on the driveway to the right. Six people stood on my lawn: three women and three men. All six stood calmly with their hands behind their backs as they gazed silently at my house. I recognized Sheryl among them.

“That’s the group,” Peter informed me. “Nobody went to the back of the house.”

“That must mean they want to challenge me to an unfair fight,” I said. “Have they said anything?”

“Not yet,” Peter answered.

Pauline, also carrying a sniper rifle, walked up behind us. “I’d think if the Siskels knew any Oldwells survived they’d have brought more to bring vengeance upon your house.”

“That’s my thinking, too.”

Donna came to the doorway behind us. “Do you think they’re Siskels?”

“No, get to the basement. We have enough to handle this threat,” I ordered.

She disappeared.

A tall male out front shouted, “Butler, get out here. Or are you afraid?”

“I’m going out the front. If the situation gets too out of hand, wolf-out and come around from the back, They might not be playing fair, but we should,” I commanded. “Let Autry and Hugo know they shouldn’t shoot at them under any circumstance.”

“I’ll spread the word,” Pauline said.

Pauline and I walked out of the bedroom door. She headed toward one of the bedrooms in the back of the house. I went down the staircase and to the front door. I opened it and gazed upon the six werewolves who wanted to attack me. One male was taller than myself with bleached blond hair. Another male was shorter and wider than myself. I guessed his width was all muscle. The third male had black hair and was about my height and built. All three females were short and stocky: one brunette, one redhead and one blonde. I could see they worked out as well. The brunette was Sheryl.

“Who dares challenge me?” I shouted.

“Are you asking because you’re afraid of us?” the tallest male inquired.

I smirked. “I’m asking because I want to know whom I’m going to kill.” We werewolves don’t take guff, especially prior to a battle.

“We’re the Mortons,” the blonde woman answered.

The only pack the wererats mentioned that I haven’t met. I smiled. “Why does a pack from Washington state worry about a werewolf from Iowa?”

The taller man laughed. “You’re such a coward. You ask questions instead of fighting.”

“I hardly win the award for cowardice,” I snapped back. “I’m here all by myself and you have six of your pack at my house. I think the cowardice goes to those who fear taking me on one-on-one.”

The tall male stepped forward. “I can kill you on a one-to-one fight.”

“Let’s find out,” I challenged.

Leap off the porch into my front yard.

A wolf with white hair walks toward me. Five humans back up to the sidewalk. Threatening wolf smells of scrambled eggs, wet socks, and red wine.

Growl. [Enemy.]

White wolf growls back. [Enemy.] Barks twice. [Fight, Fight.]

Circle each other. Stare into each other’s eyes. I growl. [Enemy.] Bark once. [Fight.]

White wolf jumps at me. I dodge to one side. Bite him as he passes.

He yelps. [Ouch.]

Face each other. Each pounce. Paws meet. Exchange bites. Feel weakness.

Lots of talk. Little strength.

Push hard. White wolf falls. Snap. Snap. Another two bites on his side.

He rolls over. Jump back. Circle around him.

White wolf howls. [To glory!]

If human, I would laugh. As is, I leap atop him before he stops howling. Push him to the ground. Chomp. Chomp. Two bites on his side

He struggles to rise. Push him on his back. Paws and claws flail. My front paws push his front ones to the ground. His back claws scratch at me. Ignore them.

I growl. [Enemy. Die.]

Growls all around me. Look up from white wolf. Five wolves stand in front of me. All smell of scrambled eggs, the Mortons one common smell. All I see is black and white, so each wolf is a black, white, or a shade of gray.

Quickly survey wolves and smells.

Male with light gray fur smells of motor oil and kerosine.

Male with dark gray fur, rotten eggs and skunk.

Female with black fur, lettuce and jasmine.

Female with black fur and a white face, lilacs and aftershave.

Female with light gray fur, cooked ground beef and raw chicken.

Bite white wolf in the jugular. Jump away. White wolf turns into human form, dead.

Light gray male and black female pounce toward me.

Jump back. Continue to slide toward my house. Growl. [Enemy.] Face these two wolves.

White face female moves to my right side. Dark gray male to my left.

Light gray female leaps over me, lands next to my house.

All five wolves howl. [To glory! To glory!]

Peter appears to my right. Bowls into light gray male and black female.

Pauline dashes from my left. Jumps toward dark gray male.

I pivot and pounce on light gray female. Bite and scratch. Stronger than this female. Push her back toward my house.

Hear growls behind me. White face female is menacing me there.

Jump to one side. White face female lands on light gray female. They bite and claw at each other.

Both pause. Glance up at me.

I back away.

Peter stands between the light gray male who’s bleeding and the black female who’s still unharmed.

Pauline rolls on the ground with the dark gray male. This male whimpers. [I’m hurt. I’m hurt.] Pauline ignores his cries, bites on chest, bites jugular. Blood spurts out.

Light gray male pounces at Peter who dodges to the right.

White face female rushes toward me from behind. I jump to the left.

Dash at light gray female. Land on her, knock her to the ground. She’s already bleeding. I chomp on one front leg. Crack. Broken. Light gray female whimpers. [I’m hurt.]

Hop off her as white face female leaps toward me.

Peter has light gray female on the ground. Both front legs are broken. One of his paws holds down her face. He reaches for her jugular.

Black female pounces toward Peter. I leap and knock her to the ground.

Pauline is now fighting white face female. Seem to be evenly matched. Both are on their hind legs as they bite and scratch at each other.

I run behind white face, stop, chomp down on one hind leg. She falls.

Look around. Two human shaped corpses on the ground.

Pauline bites the jugular of white face as Peter climbs off the dead human form of light gray female.

Black female is gone. Must’ve fled when she knew the fight was lost.

Peter, Pauline and I transformed back into our human forms. We gazed at the five dead bodies covered in white fur lying in my yard. All three of us were covered in scratches, but none were life threatening.

“We killed all except one,” Peter said.

“Yeah, Sheryl. She’s good at survival,” I said.

“She’s better at fleeing,” Pauline observed.

Hugo opened the front door. “I’ve already called the police. Your neighbors already had because of all the howling. Werewolf police are on their way, so we should be able to cover up this incident.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll contact Grant before we take further action against the Mortons.”

37

Another Wild Ones’ Party

I parked my pickup between the house and the state highway with all the SUVs, large pickups, and few sedans as I always did when I arrived at Dick and Shirley’s. I’d arrived at my usual time as well, a little after 11 p.m. since I knew the party would have gotten into full swing. I don’t believe in coming to these events early because I enjoy seeing who is here and what they’re doing. But tonight was different.

In the late morning Vince had called me, telling me that the new “partners” of Dick and Shirley’s business had arranged for the affair tonight. These people had done so without the prior approval of the hosts. They had warned Dick and Shirley the day before, so the hosts could put together the event. Dick and Shirley had been greatly disturbed, but using the funds they had available, they bought supplies and managed to have their place set up for the party. I wondered if the FH hosts would be equally inconvenienced by their new partners.

I climbed from my pickup and saw a large illuminated sign saying “Entrance” at the front door to Dick and Shirley’s house. Must be where the Washington staters want us to enter so we can pay the entrance fee. I didn’t care. I had my routine for these parties and I was sticking with it. Many Wild Ones had to be the same way.

I walked around the house to the backyard. The usual sounds of howling, shouts, and laughter echoed from the house. As I rounded the house and surveyed the back yard where the barn was open and filled with tables covered in booze and cuts of meat and where crowds of people filled the area between the barn and the house, a man wearing a black vest, white shirt, and black pants with a pistol in a holster at his side approached me.

“You didn’t use the proper entrance,” he stated.

“Can there be a proper entrance for a werewolf party?” I asked.

The man frowned. “Yes, there can be and there is. I will accept your admission fee and stamp your hand if you wish to continue.”

“How much?”

“Ten dollars,”

I pulled out my wallet, yanked out a ten, and gave it to him. “Do you also accept credit cards?”

“Inside,” the man said as he grabbed my ten, pocketed it in his vest, and pulled a hand stamp out of a pants pocket.

I let him have my right hand which he stamped. “You’re free to go,” he commanded.

“Thank you,” I said politely. This is just wrong. We’ll have to act in force when this happens at an FH party.

“Enjoy.”

This time I didn’t respond. I walked into the crowded area of the party. I made a quick count and decided at ten dollars a head, our hosts’ partners were making a great deal of money.

As per usual, the two packs, one from eastern Iowa and the other from western Iowa, had one member from each of their packs in a fight. For most parties, these two packs continued these fights up until the time Dick and Shirley had their human hunt. I hoped to avoid that event tonight.

If Dick and Shirley’s new partners let anyone leave before that.

Although the party appeared largely as it always does: groups of people talking together; many dancing on the dance floor in the barn; partygoers drinking beer, wine, and hard liquor as others partook of the feast of raw chicken legs, a raw whole pig, beef cubes, pork chops, and other raw meats; different packs milling together; flirts mingling with the hope that this party would end with sexual as well as violent fun, I felt a certain unease. I couldn’t describe the discord exactly, but I knew something was wrong.

As I walked through the crowds to the tables of booze and food, Vince sidled up beside me.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Hey, Vince.”

Often when we met, we gave each other bear hugs. Parties are a time of celebration, a time to feel free. But not tonight’s affair.

We approached the booze table. Five coolers filled with beer sat beside it. We each grabbed a beer, popped off its top, and guzzled it.

“Beer’s still good,” I said.

“Beer’s always good,” Vince corrected.

As we left the table and bypassed the tables covered in meats, I said quietly. “Something’s off tonight.”

“You feel it, too?” Vince asked.

I scanned the partygoers. I saw beyond them men and women dressed in the vest outfit of the person who’d accosted me. I counted ten of them who seemed to circle the crowd, always glancing around, both beyond the party and within and catching those wanting to leave or enter the party other than through the approved entry.

“They’re all from Washington state,” Vince said to my unasked question. “And they aren’t just patrolling the perimeter.”

Again, I surveyed the crowd and saw another ten in their vest outfits moving among the crowd.

“Are they checking to see if everyone paid their entry fee?” I inquired.

“That’s my guess.”

“That’s wrong.”

Vince smirked. “Yeah, and the packs here know that. Dick and Shirley had hoped to talk to some of the more powerful packs before holding another party. Their partners didn’t give them the chance.”

“If those out-of-staters can control one party, they probably think they can control them all.”

“Good guess, but I’m not going to ask them to find out.”

I didn’t like it. Yeah, I don’t like any Wild Ones’ party, especially with their human hunts, but this behavior was worse. It was control beyond the pack. As werewolves we organize through packs. Yeah, we have the Pack Leadership Councils and our SPL in every state, but they don’t intervene unless something bad is happening. Like now. Neither Snyder nor Newburg would believe this is the way to hold a party.

A female in the vest outfit stopped by us and looked us over. “Are you having a good time, gentlemen?” she asked politely. “Oh, and may I see the back of your hands?”

We both showed the back of our hands. She smiled. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Normally, I check out any female who approaches me. That cold bitch wasn’t even worth flirting with. She didn’t care about me as a male, a werewolf, or a quick lay. She only cared whether I’d paid the entrance fee.

“The vest people are the enforcers,” I deduced after she left us.

“They introduced themselves to us before the party,” Vince said. “They’re a grim group.”

“Because they know what they’re doing is breaking werewolf tradition.”

Vince didn’t have a reply.

After our unpleasant visit with this female, I thought of another female I hadn’t seen so far at the party. Where’s Amy? Again, I scanned the crowd. Women made up at least half the crowd and most were quite attractive. But no Amy.

Not far away from us, five werewolves snapped at an enforcer who was checking them out as well.

“This could boil over into a bloody affair,” I whispered.

The enforcer angrily talked back to the five men. Six more enforcers surrounded the five men who were joined by four women. The eleven enforcers gathered around this group of nine and forced them toward the house.

A silence fell over the party as all stared at this escalating situation.

38

Enforcement

The eleven enforcers and their nine captives stopped about ten feet away from the back door to the house. Dick and Shirley exited followed by a six and a half foot tall, three-hundred-pound man. His skin was pale and his hair, beard, and mustache were white. His eyes were red with anger.

He nodded toward Dick and Shirley.

Dick nervously cleared his throat. “What are you doing with these guests?” he asked timidly.

Although I was interested in the entire encounter, I gazed at the huge man and sniffed the air. He’s a were polar bear. We don’t have those in Iowa. Then I remembered the opening of the Berrigan Enterprises office in West Des Moines and seeing this same man there. What does Berrigan Enterprises have to do with this party?

One enforcer stepped forward. “These people didn’t pay the entrance fee.”

“That is not acceptable,” the were polar bear said.

“That’s why we brought them here,” the same enforcer informed him.

Dick noticed the entire crowd was watching the interaction, and his face paled a bit. The were polar bear smiled, glad to be the center of attention.

“I’m sure this is all a great misunderstanding—” Dick said.

“Like hell it is,” a tall, brown-haired captive retorted. “We’re the Sterling pack. We’ve attended these parties ever since you two first started having them. We’re loyal customers—”

“They gave us the same argument,” the enforcer in charge interrupted.

“Oh, yes, I recognize you,” Dick said. “You’re Ferdinand.”

“Hi, Dick,” Ferdinand greeted. “Hi, Shirley.”

“Hello, Ferdinand. It’s nice that you attended this party,” Shirley said.

“When we heard of this party, we went to your website and paid the usual fee,” Ferdinand said. “Then we arrived and slipped by these enforcers.” He said the word “enforcers” with disgust.

“The invitation told how this party would be different,” the enforcer in charge cut in.

Ferdinand snorted. “We didn’t follow it because it was stupid. That’s not the way parties are done.”

The were polar bear stepped forward. “I’m Mr. Salway. I was the one who set up the new rules, and I attended this party to make sure they were followed.” He motioned at the enforcers. “These are my associates.”

Some of the Sterling pack growled.

Salway glanced at Dick and Shirley. “You two understand the arrangement, don’t you?”

Both hosts nodded.

Salway surveyed the rest of the crowd then shouted, “All of you followed the rules, didn’t you?”

A murmuring went through the crowd. Many glanced around trying to look anywhere but at Salway. Others shuffled their feet. Vince and I continued to watch this intimidation tactic.

“I didn’t hear you,” Salway yelled.

This time some in the crowd said, “Yes,” but the word was said quietly. Most others didn’t respond at all.

“He didn’t hear you,” the enforcers echoed.

Glancing around the crowd, I saw all the enforcers at the perimeter were holding pistols at the crowd. They probably contain silver bullets. Not good.

I joined the crowd as we shouted, “Yes!”

Salway let his gaze fall on the Sterling pack. “Everyone else understood. Why didn’t you?”

“Because it’s unfair,” Ferdinand protested.

“Pay up and we can forget this incident,” Salway ordered.

“Fuck that,” Ferdinand shouted.

He and his pack instantly transformed into wolves. Fur erupted all over their bodies. Their faces stretched into long muzzles, and their legs and arms stretched into narrow legs with claws. Their ears swept back on their heads and became pointed. Tails grew from their buttocks.

At the same time, Salway transformed into a polar bear. Fur popped out over his body. His body expanded like a balloon and grew. His arms thickened as claws sprouted from his fingertips. In only a few seconds, he loomed over the wolves as a nearly six-hundred-pound polar bear.

While these transformations occurred, Dick and Shirley retreated until their backs were against their house. The enforcers spread out, pulled pistols from their holsters, and gave the two warring parties plenty of room.

“The wolves will get them,” Vince whispered.

I didn’t reply. I wanted the Sterling pack to win. I really did. But I’d never fought a bear and didn’t know the best way to do it. Do the Sterlings?

Three wolves immediately pounced toward the bear as the other six spread out in a circle around it. Before the three wolves reached him, the bear slashed the air with his long claws, slicing through two of them. One wolf went through his defenses and bit him, only to be slammed to the ground by one of the bear’s paws. Going limp momentarily, this wolf began to stand. The bear didn’t give it the chance and instead instead raked his long claws across its back.

The two other bloodied wolves slinked back beyond the circle of the other six. The other tried to rise, but the bears stepped on its head, smashing it. Three other wolves jumped from three different directions. We werewolves are fast, but the werebear was faster. He spun around, claws out, cutting into all three wolves before they could break his guard. Two fell back, the third has its head smashed, much like the other dead Sterling.

The still unbloodied three wolves dashed around the bear. Around and around. Then the bear hopped into their circle, directly on top of one wolf as he kicked another and bit into the third. He lifted the one wolf in his mouth. A loud crunch echoed through the crowd. The third wolf leaped toward the bear, only to have the bear’s two paws slap together and his claws rip into the wolf’s chest.

Salway spat out the wolf, took a few steps back, and transformed back into a man. Around him lay five corpses, bloodied human bodies covered in white fur. The other Sterlings transformed back into their bloody human form. One quickly fell to the ground. Salway yanked out a pistol and shot each of the other four in the head. They died instantly.

The enforcers holstered their pistols. I surveyed the crowd and saw the other ten enforcers at the perimeter, resuming their guard duty.

Dick and Shirley stared with large eyes at the carnage. Yeah, they’d had bloodshed before at parties when one pack had taken on another, but usually those had ended with only one or two deaths, not nine.

“Are there any others who haven’t paid?” Salway asked.

About forty people mobbed the enforcers around him.

“I guess we know who’s in charge,” Vince said quietly.

“And it’s not us werewolves,” I replied.

39

Bedtime Stories

I arrived home at about 2 a.m. The party had become more relaxed after the slaughter. Yeah, maybe not so much. We at least didn’t have people around who worried about not paying the ten-dollar admission fee. I was surprised at how many had snuck into the party and wondered if Dick and Shirley had assisted. I couldn’t ask them, and I didn’t want Vince to. We both had reasons for our discretion.

Anyway, the party was a subdued affair although a few fights still broke out. All the pack leaders present kept glancing at Salway who stationed himself close to the back door of the house. Many pack leaders came up and gave him their respect. A new power in town.

When I left the party at about 1:30, there wasn’t any sign that a human hunt was about to commence. None of the guests were too anxious for it either. I wondered if Grant had been able to shut down all the other human hunt farms that had popped up over the state. Why should Dick and Shirley have hunts if Wild Ones could find more personalized hunts across the state?

I parked my pickup in the driveway, crept to the house, quietly unlocked and opened the door, and closed and locked it. Nobody had waited outside to ambush me. All good signs.

Autry was in the living room, keeping watch. She gave me a wave. I responded in kind. Then I quietly climbed the stairs. All was silent.

As I made my way through the upstairs hall, a door opened. Lucy looked up at me.

“Hi, Joe,” she greeted in a whisper.

“Hi, Lucy,” I said as quietly back.

“Would you tell us more of your story?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“We heard you get home. We wanted more of the story.”

I sighed. “Okay, just a bit more.”

Both of us went into the kids’ room where four other sets of eyes gazed at me. I sat among the sleeping bags.

“Where was I?”

“The ogre,” all the kids whispered at the same time.

The ogre was a huge beast. It stood fifteen feet tall, had one large eye, looked like an immense human with ripped muscles, wore only a loincloth, and carried a huge club.

The ogre stood in front of a drawbridge across a fifteen-foot-wide moat that was filled with alligators. Their beady eyes gazed hungrily at the newcomers as the beasts slithered through the dark water.

The drawbridge was ten feet wide, made of wooden planks reinforced by black iron bars, and ended with the entrance to the castle. The portcullis was up. Its shiny black points appeared sharp enough to cut a person or wolf in half. If Harold and his pack could get past the ogre, they could probably enter the castle.

The castle itself loomed up large and well defended. It was a two hundred feet long and nearly as wide. The walls, constructed of large sandstone block, were thirty feet tall and round towers formed the corners. Two towers were on either side of the entrance, and three guards in armor and carrying spears stood on the rampart across the entrance, ready to quickly drop the portcullis and raise the drawbridge. Other soldiers watched from the ramparts over other walls to the structure.

“I dare anyone to challenge me!” the ogre roared.

Harold looked at his pack for volunteers. He wasn’t going to force anyone to fight the ogre, but he hoped that his strongest and brightest would take on this struggle.

And he wasn’t disappointed. The three Sylvester brothers between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight stepped forward. Angus, the oldest, was six feet tall and very muscular. Bernard, the middle son, was only five-five, but was built like a bear. Manfred, the youngest, was slim and tall, almost six and a half feet, and was the cleverest of them all. All three had long black hair and bushy mustaches and beards.

“We’ll meet you in battle,” Angus shouted.

His brothers yelled, “And we’ll destroy you in combat.”

The ogre slapped his huge club in his other hand. “Come and try.”

The three brothers leaped into the air and transformed into wolves, all with black fur. Angus was the largest, Manfred the smallest. But none of them lacked courage.

They dashed at him together, only to have to jump aside as the ogre swung his mammoth club. The three wolves backed up to a safe distance, then the three spread out. Angus stood before the beast, Bernard to the ogre’s right, and Manfred to the left.

This time Angus pounced as Manfred dashed on the ground and Bernard flew through the air toward the drawbridge. The ogre’s club hit Angus, knocking him to the ground, but Manfred was able to slip under the swinging club, bite the ogre on one leg, and dash away. Bernard landed safely on the drawbridge, at least until the ogre pivoted to face him.

Angus, recovered from the blow, jumped onto the ogre’s back. The beast ignored this pain as he swung his club repeatedly at Bernard, causing the wolf to back up on the drawbridge. Manfred dashed forward and repeatedly bit at the ogre’s ankles. The ogre roared, turned quickly, and brought the club down on Manfred’s head, smashing it into the ground. Manfred transformed into a human corpse, covered in white fur.

The ogre spun around with Angus still hanging onto his back and attempting to bite his neck. Bernard charged forward, only to be swept away by the club and flung into the moat where the alligators made a quick meal of the helpless wolf. Having rid himself of his other two opponents, the ogre fell on his back, smushing Angus in the process.

Harold and his pack watched this struggle in fear and awe. They silently looked up at the ogre as he stood again.

“I dare anyone to challenge me!” he shouted again.

This time the Eggen twins stepped forward. Danielle and Leslie, both twenty-five years old, were strong, fighting females with long blonde hair tied in a braid behind them. Although they were twins, Danielle was a bit taller at six-one than Leslie at six feet.

“We challenge to fight you without your club,” Danielle proclaimed.

The ogre laughed and tossed away his club. “I don’t need any weapon to kill the likes of you.”

The beast sank into a crouch with his arms outspread.

The twins transformed into wolves. Harold glanced at the huge club, the size of a small tree. If he and his pack had been vampires, he might have thought one of the fighters might attempt to use the club against the ogre. But werewolves fight with honor. If they said they weren’t going to use weapons, they wouldn’t.

As the ogre stepped forward, the twins circled him just beyond his reach. When the twins were on either side of him, they sped toward him. One of his large hands slapped Leslie, causing her to fly in the air, but Danielle made it through and took a huge bite from one of his legs. She was on the other side of the ogre before he could attack her. Leslie stood next to Danielle as the ogre faced them both.

He laughed. “You werewolves believe you know how to fight. All you really know is how to die.”

Harold hoped the twins wouldn’t be offended and act rashly.

They didn’t. Instead, they separated again, so they were on either side of the ogre. Again, they circled him, then together dashed forward. This time the ogre slapped Danielle so she flew through the air to land safely on some grass as Leslie dashed by and bit one of his legs.

The ogre had various wounds on both of his legs but still stood as if nothing bothered him. As he gazed at his opponents and us, he gave us an evil grin. He backed up so he stood four feet back on the drawbridge.

The two wolves approached slowly. Harold could see that their method of attack wouldn’t work so well with the ogre on the drawbridge. Both wolves gave a deep sigh. Then they charged.

Since they had limited maneuverability, this time each was caught by the sweep of the ogre’s hands. In one swipe, he flung Leslie into the moat; in another, Danielle. Although both wolves valiantly fought the alligators in the moat, their struggles were short and in vain.

The ogre walked off the drawbridge and stood before the pack.

“I dare anyone to challenge me!”

This time Harold stepped forward because he knew why the previous attacks hadn’t succeeded. Both the Sylvester brothers and the Eggen twins had fought as individuals, not as members of a pack. But werewolves are pack animals. The pack is who we are. Harold knew this. He also was aware that this knowledge would help him defeat the large beast.

“I dare,” he said.

The ogre laughed. “You’ve sent three against me, and they lost. You’ve sent two against me, and they died. How do you alone expect to kill me?”

Harold smiled. “Because I am not alone. I am a member of a pack. We are all one and each of us is with the other. I can defeat you with the power of the pack.” He glanced back at his pack who were still standing a safe distance from the ogre and the drawbridge. Many nodded back at him.

As he stood facing the huge beast, he let the power of the pack flow into him. He felt each of the members who were behind them, their fears, their hopes, their eyes looking at him. Part of their strength moved into him like many streams feeding a mighty river. Yet his pack was larger than that. Still in their homes were these warriors’ spouses, children, mothers, and fathers. And from these as well, Harold let their strength flow into his. He was not merely Harold, the husband, father, and pack leader. He was the pack. And the pack was him.

Harold transformed into a wolf, but not just any wolf, but a wolf the size of a Clydesdale horse, a wolf that if he reared up would tower over the very creature that stood in the way of crossing the drawbridge. He howled and the howl shook the wood behind him and caused the alligators to flee to the other side of the castle.

The ogre’s one eye widened. He wasn’t used to fighting something this big, this huge. No, he’d always fought those smaller than himself.

Before he could grab his club, Harold was upon him. The giant wolf’s claws ripped off one, then another of the ogre’s arms. Harold snapped his jaws around the arms and tossed them into the moat. The ogre shrieked in pain. His opponent ended those screams by biting the beast’s head from its torso, then knocked the remaining corpse into the moat. At that moment, three other warriors transformed into wolves, dashed to the drawbridge, leaped in the air, landed on the rampart, and ripped apart the guards there.

Harold turned back into human form and his normal size.

He and the rest of the pack walked into the castle courtyard where three evil witches awaited them.

“What happened next?” Lucy asked.

“Sorry, that’s for another night,” I said. “Now you five go to bed,”

They reluctantly agreed. I went to my own bedroom, changed, and fell fast asleep.

40

More Murders and Another Call

I sat in Grant’s kitchen with his cell phone on the table. We were both unhappy. I’d told him about the Wild Ones’ party the prior night, and he wasn’t pleased about what had happened. He was surprised that one of Berrigan’s vice presidents had been at the party and had been the primary enforcer. Grant didn’t like the fact that the Wild Ones had given in so easy to the enforcers and Salway, and only one pack had put up a fight. “If they’d all attacked the Washingtonians, they could have beaten them,” he said. I agreed.

But we had other reasons to be unhappy. I’d been awakened early this morning to a phone call telling me to go to a murder scene at another hotel room. A triple murder this time. Each was shot in the head execution style like the last two hits we’d seen. Three WOOF agents from Seattle, Washington. Three agents who’d also attended the restaurant gathering with the others from Washington state. The coroner said the time of death was about 3 a.m., probably after the party had broken up.

“Do you think they were among the enforcers?” Grant asked.

“Could be. I only saw two enforcers close up. I didn’t recognize either of them among the corpses.”

“But WOOF agents could have been among the enforcers?” Grant persisted.

“Yeah, they could have been. I don’t think I’d want to ask anyone besides Vince who was attending the party, and we agreed that we’d limit non-party communication until this crisis is past.” I paused. “By the way, Amy wasn’t there.”

“You mentioned that. Do you think it’s significant?”

“I don’t know.” I changed the subject. “We’re going to call Lawrence Guthrie again, aren’t we?”

Grant shook his head. “Of course. I’ve already contacted the FBI, so they’ll ping his cell phone while we’re talking to him.”

“Good,” I said.

“I know your theory, but I think you’re wrong.”

“If my theory is correct, it answers lots of questions we’ve had. The Washington state werebeasts are obviously making a big play for major action in Iowa. That’s why Berrigan Enterprises moved an office here, why Washington state groups are getting involved with our parties here, why Washington state werewolves and wererats have taken over our wererats, and why one of Berrigan’s managers was the chief enforcers at the party last night.”

Grant nodded throughout my explanation. He shrugged. “Okay, let’s call him.” Grant pushed his saved number of Lawrence Guthrie’s cell phone.

The phone rang three times before the Seattle Washington WOOF pack leader picked up.

“Lawrence Guthrie,” he greeted.

“Hi, Lawrence. This is Grant Morris from Central Iowa WOOF.”

The werewolf sighed on the other end of the line. “What do you want now?”

“Three more of your agents in Iowa were shot dead early this morning.”

Lawrence didn’t reply.

“Did you hear me?” Grant asked.

“Of course, I heard you,” Lawrence snapped. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s five agents who’ve been killed in my state. I’m worried about it because maybe my agents could be murdered. All of yours were done in execution style; most in hotel rooms. What’s going on?”

Again, silence.

“Yes, I heard you,” Lawrence said to the unasked question. “I sent my agents to Iowa because of a supposed threat. They haven’t found anything.”

“And that’s why they keep getting killed?”

“There may have been some inter-pack issues. Our agents have had some problems with that,” Lawrence answered.

“One of my agents contacted the parents of two of your dead,” Grant told him. “The parents said all agents are sent out of state because there aren’t any problems with Wild Ones in Washington state.”

Lawrence didn’t reply right away, then he said, “Yes, that’s true.”

“So you don’t have any problems with Wild Ones in Washington?”

“That’s what I said,”

Grant shook his head. “So your agents have more to fear from other agents that Wild Ones?”

“Exactly,” Lawrence confirmed.

I mouthed the words, “That’s whacked.”

Grant nodded in agreement.

“Shouldn’t you be finding which agents are killing other agents?” my pack leader asked.

“We’re working on it,” Lawrence replied.

“Do you have agents in Iowa working on it?”

Again, silence. “Yes, yes, we do,” the other pack leader finally answered.

“Would you give me their names?”

“No, I won’t. It’s a matter between Washington state agents. That’s where it’s going to remain.”

“I have agents who are willing to help,” Grant offered.

“We have it under control.”

“Obviously you don’t. If you did, there wouldn’t have been three more agents murdered early this morning.”

“Mind your own business. When it’s time for you to know, you will.” Lawrence paused. “Trust me on that.”

With these last words, I could almost imagine a malicious smile.

“We want to know now,” my pack leader demanded.

“Then you’re out of luck.” And Lawrence hung up.

Grant looked at me. I pointed at the phone.

My pack leader called the FBI. This time he didn’t leave it on speaker.

“Hello. This is Grant Morris.” He paused. “Yes.” Another pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Give me the address.” Pause. “Are you sure that’s it?” Another pause. “Yes, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll let your pack leader know.”

Grant hung up his phone and gazed at me. “You’re right. Guthrie is in town, and he’s in a house not too far away.”

41

Seattle WOOF Pack Leader

Grant parked his black Dodge Suburban in front of the two-story house where Guthrie’s cell phone was located. Three pickups filled with other Iowa WOOF agents pulled in behind his. My pack leader’s plan was that the two of us would confront Guthrie, and if violence broke out, the additional agents would be available to help us escape or fight. I liked the idea. We were finally on the offensive of a struggle we hadn’t known existed until a few nights ago.

Grant and I climbed from his vehicle as the agents did from the vehicles behind us. My pack leader waved at these agents, and the agents responded in kind.

Only one large white Escalade was parked in the driveway. As we approached, we’d discussed whether other vehicles were parked elsewhere and whether many werewolves were in hiding in the house. We didn’t care. We’d brought along our own backup. Whatever Guthrie had planned, we were ready for it.

On the way over Grant told me, “If we receive the answers both of us think we will, we’ll make arrangements to save the wererats and make sure our next party is not held the same way that Wild Ones’ party was.”

I agreed. I wanted those Washington state werebeasts out of Iowa.

We walked across the lawn with a tall, large oak tree in the center to the two-story house with a one-car garage. This lawn was as spotless of weeds as the wererats’. We stepped up on the porch. I rang to doorbell once. Grant stood in front of the peephole we saw in the double front doors.

We waited.

“Ring the bell again,” Grant ordered.

I did.

The door opened. A five-eight woman with long blonde hair flowing down her back and wearing a sleeveless blouse, slacks, and a pistol in a holster at her side looked out at us.

“We’re here to see Lawrence Guthrie,” Grant announced.

“I’m Felicia Cummings,” the woman said. “And he’s expecting you.”

Grant and I introduced ourselves.

Felicia glanced around us to see the other Iowa agents standing in the lawn and raised her eyebrows. “You’ve come anticipating a fight.”

“We came prepared for a struggle,” Grant corrected.

“Felicia, who’s at the door?” a voice inside the house shouted.

She grimaced, turned, and yelled, “Guests for you.”

“Let them in.”

Felicia huffed in disgust. “Please come in. Lawrence is waiting for you.”

We entered the house to find ourselves in an entryway with a dining room to our right, stairs to the second floor directly in front of us, and a living room with a large picture window to our left. The living room was adorned with a couch, two recliners, a coffee table, and a flat screen television on the far wall. A large man with shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray and nearly all gray mustache and beard, wearing a black button-down cotton shirt and cotton pants, sat in one of the recliners.

He stood. “I’m Lawrence Guthrie.”

Again, Grant and I introduced ourselves. We all shook hands.

“Please sit,” Lawrence invited.

Lawrence and Grant sat in recliners. I took a seat on the couch. Felicia remained standing and positioned herself along a wall opposite Lawrence.

“What can you tell us about the murders of your agents?” Grant asked.

The Washington state pack leader shook his head then looked at me. “I think you know.”

Grant stared at me. “Well?”

“I’m only puzzled by the fact that you’re staying at this house while all of your agents are staying at hotels,” I said.

“I found one to rent,” Lawrence replied to answer one of my concerns. “And I didn’t want my agents too centralized, so I had them stay in hotels.”

Again, Grant gazed at me.

I smiled. “Lawrence is the murderer. When he told us that WOOF agents were killing each other, I knew that had to be the case.”

This time Grant looked at Lawrence, who laughed quietly.

The Washington state pack leader shook his head. “I wish you’d figured out before last night. Three agents might be alive today.”

“It’s good that they’re dead,” Felicia snapped.

“Shut up,” Lawrence commanded.

Felicia smirked.

Lawrence continued, “Yes, I’ve killed all my agents who’ve died here. You would’ve too if you understood the situation.”

“Don’t tell them,” Felicia ordered.

“You’re subordinate, you don’t have a say in the matter,” the Washington state pack leader corrected.

The woman shrugged but let her hand drop to her pistol.

Lawrence sighed.

“Leonard Berrigan took over Washington state ten years ago. He’s always been a successful businessman, but for years he and his werebears just hid among the werebeasts in our state. I don’t know when he decided he should become the leader of all of us.

“First, about fifteen years ago, he coerced all the Wild Ones to follow him. He said strong leadership was needed. Rather than being separated by packs, they must join together. A united front could gain more benefits against FHs and against humanity. Although he made that argument, I think it was more his enforcers, both werewolves and werebears that scared the Wild Ones to follow him.

“As WOOF, we noticed more human hunt lodges were established about fifteen years ago. At the time, we didn’t realize it meant the Wild Ones were united. We kept shutting the lodges down, but new ones kept popping up. We also worked at killing off the most offending Wild One packs, but many times WOOF was wiped out and the evil packs continued.

“Finally, ten years ago, Berrigan met with the FH SPL in Seattle. I think our SPL didn’t concede his position. Our leader didn’t make it out of the meeting.

“Not long after that, Berrigan and his crew took over our FH parties. I know he’s done the same with your Wild One and FH parties, so you know the drill—”

“He had werewolf and werebear enforcers,” I interrupted.

Lawrence smiled. “The werebears only until the proper fear has been instilled in the populace. Once the general population is properly afraid, he’ll use WOOF agents and his own security detail,” he clarified.

“We won’t let him,” Grant snarled.

“Try if you want. We did. We fought against the Wild One infrastructure he set up. None of it worked. WOOF agents kept getting killed. I contacted other WOOF pack leaders from adjoining states. They sent agents only to be killed by the werebears or the werewolves under his control.

“Finally, Berrigan met with WOOF. He gave us three choices: work for him, leave the state, or die. Most of us took the first option. A few took the second but were actually given the third. We had to surrender. Berrigan chose me to be the new WOOF pack leader.

“Once he had WOOF under his control, he met with the other FH pack leaders. He met with the Seattle area pack leaders first. He’d taken many of their children and women hostage, so if the pack leaders didn’t fall into line, members of their packs would die. Regardless, many packs did fight. Either their hostages were killed or the pack was devastated in the battle. Finally, they also surrendered. Within a few months, he had the entire state, both Wild Ones and FHs, under control.

“As a concession, he let some of my WOOF agent work out of state, as long as they promised not to tell anyone else who really controlled our state.”

Lawrence paused. Felicia stared at him through narrow eyes.

“What about Iowa?” Grant inquired.

I wanted to know, too, but I didn’t think it was my place to ask.

“Ah, Iowa. Many of us in Washington state thought it was a fool’s errand. Not Berrigan. Under his leadership, all kinds of werebeasts have increased in number. Many have taken to living in the wilds of our state, out of sight of us and humanity. They also reduced the multiple prey we have in our forests.

“A bigger problem were the expanding populations in urban centers. Although Berrigan sponsors many human hunts, he has them more for entertainment rather than feeding the masses. That’s where Iowa comes in.

“Your state has more livestock than humans. Berrigan figures if he can take over most of these industrial farm centers he can easily supply all the food we need in Washington state. His company has been moving into Iowa for almost three years, but he wasn’t ready for the takeover until recently. He may have coopted your party hosts, but that’s only the beginning. My guess is he’ll do much the same he did in—”

Two gunshots rang out in the room. Two bullets hit Lawrence between the eyes. His limp body collapsed in the recliner as white fur covered his body.

Grant and I gazed across the room at Felicia with her pistol drawn. A huge six foot tall man weighing almost three hundred pounds, all of it muscle, with a black well-trimmed beard and mustache, and wearing a three piece suit, walked out of the kitchen.

“Mr. Butler, how good to see you,” Armstrong greeted. He looked at my pack leader. “And you must be Grant Morris.” He glanced at Felicia. “I agree that Guthrie had said more than enough. Although he didn’t explain how he’d murdered his agents because they didn’t want to comply with the new order.

“He killed Connors because this agent was threatening to leave the state and escape our control. He killed Douglas because Douglas wanted to talk to you, Mr. Butler. And he killed the three agents last night because they had let Iowans go to that party without paying.” The werebear gave me a significant look. “He set the Mortons after you to scare or kill you. They failed in both counts. Since they’re loyal, we kept them alive.”

Grant and I gazed at Armstrong silently.

“Any questions?” the werebear asked. “None. Good.” He pointed at Grant. “Tomorrow, you will bring all WOOF agents from as much of the state as possible to this house for a meeting. We’ll explain the new order of things. Later tomorrow, we’re meeting with all the pack leaders in the area. I expect you and your agents to attend that gathering as well.” He stared at Guthrie’s corpse then at us. “You may go.”

Both of us stood and left the house without comment.

42

A Meeting of WOOF Agents

About thirty WOOF agents packed the living room of the house rented by Lawrence Guthrie. Most of us sat. Some on the couch. Two on the recliners with others on the arms. A few on the other chairs that dotted the room. The majority of us sat on the floor. I was next to Peter, Pauline, and Victor. Grant had wisely advised that not all of the local pack should attend this meeting. Since Felicia had shot Lawrence, we knew these Washington state werebeasts meant business. Berrigan Enterprises was behind it, and from the Wild Ones’ party and the assassination of Guthrie, we knew they weren’t afraid to kill those who didn’t follow their rules. A few Washington state WOOF agents were spread among us.

At one end of the room stood Armstrong, Felicia, Amy, and a few other werewolves. I thought it was significant that only a few werewolves were there with the Berrigan Enterprises executive.

In the front yard, Marshall Denning and his Nodwick pack greeted us and urged us to remain orderly. They’d been commanded to discipline any WOOF agent who caused any problems in this gathering.

Our hosts didn’t provide us with either treats or beverages. This was a business meeting. Even if they had given us food and beverages, I’m not sure I would have been able to eat or drink anything.

As in most group settings, we werebeasts were talking about this meeting, sports, the lack of food and beverages, and any number of assorted topics. I was talking with Peter and Pauline about the Berrigan Enterprises executives and their security team. I wasn’t being too favorable.

Armstrong stepped forward. “It’s time for this meeting to begin,” he said.

A hush fell over the room.

“Thank you all for attending,” Armstrong said. “Since Berrigan Enterprises finished establishing a headquarters in Iowa, I’ve been put in charge of personnel. From this point on, you should consider yourselves unpaid employees of Berrigan Enterprises. For those who follow our rules and commands, great rewards may come. For those who don’t.” He smiled. “I think at least a few of you know that answer, and you should warn your fellow agents so they will know as well.” He nodded at Grant and me.

Grant sat closer to the front. He kept his face impassive, but after our talk on our way home from Lawrence’s murder, I knew his real feelings, and for the time being they concealed hostility.

Amy let her eyes meet mine. She smirked. I kept my face calm.

Armstrong motioned at Grant with his right hand. “Mr. Morris, please join me up here.”

Grant stood and slipped through the crowd. He joined Armstrong at the front of our assembly. The werebear gave him a shoulder hug.

“Mr. Morris will be the local leader of WOOF. He will lead at the local and state level. Yes, I understand you may have other mechanisms in place; however, with the coming of Berrigan Enterprises those institutions are no longer valid. Mr. Morris will report directly to me. If any of his agents misbehave, he will be held responsible.” Armstrong looked from Grant to the rest of us. “Again, I believe you know what that means without me explicitly telling you.”

“We certainly do,” Grant said coldly.

Armstrong smiled. “Now is the time I should tell you what your new assignments will be. Since BE has united all werebeasts, you will no longer worry about the activities of those you call Wild Ones. We are all werebeasts. We will all follow commands and rules as set out by BE.” He paused and scanned the room.

We, as the audience, quietly gazed back.

“For example, we have human hunt farms spread throughout the state. You will let these function without problems. They provide entertainment, specifically for werewolves, although other werebeasts may want to participate. Not only are they good for our primal nature, they are also very profitable. BE always likes to make money.

“Some of you may help in running these enterprises. If werebeasts try to enter these activities without paying, they must be punished.

“Another important function is the policing of parties. If you haven’t heard, BE has informed all the werewolf party facilities how these affairs will be run. Nevertheless, we fear certain werebeasts may want to keep to old traditions. You, as WOOF agents, must be the eyes, ears, judges, and executioners to those who do not obey. Killing someone for disobeying party procedures, including simply not paying, is perfectly acceptable.

“Furthermore, we will consider you our unofficial secret police force. You will watch for any individuals or packs that are dissenting from Berrigan rule. Depending upon the extent of the unrest, you may either take it upon yourself or your group of WOOF agents to discipline the offenders or you may contact me and I will handle the matter. In the case of a large pack causing difficulties, we often will utilize other packs to dispose of the transgressors. We find this method quite effective and efficient. If any of you know what happened between the Oldwell and Siskel packs, you will comprehend how well this system works.”

Armstrong again surveyed the assembly. “Any questions?”

I glanced around the crowd. Under normal circumstances, we would’ve had lots of questions. We’re werebeasts and especially werewolves and we like to talk. We ask about the specifics, the abstract, and the mundane. I’d formed a few inquiries myself, but I didn’t want to look like I wasn’t fully on board with the new world order. Nobody else raised a hand, so everyone must have thought along my same lines.

“Good,” Armstrong said. To Grant, he added, “We’ll take a few minutes to talk together, so you can more fully understand our agenda.”

“Of course,” my pack leader conceded.

Armstrong escorted Grant back toward the kitchen. The rest of us stood, and many quickly departed. I waited as many exited the house. Amy sidled up beside me.

“Hello,” she greeted quietly.

“Hi,” I almost whispered.

“Now, do you understand?” she asked.

I smirked this time. “Definitely.”

“If you cooperate with the new order, you have nothing to fear.”

“Then I’ll have nothing to fear,” I lied.

“That’s good.” Amy smiled. “Because much will depend upon how compliant you Iowa WOOF agents are.”

“Yes, it will. Well, I’d better be going. There’s BE business I need to attend to.”

“Perhaps we can go on another date.”

“I’ll call you,” I lied again.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

I quickly left the house before giving Amy a chance to even kiss me on the cheek.

43

A Meeting of Pack Leaders

I stood in the back of the auditorium with another thirty or so WOOF agents and the Nodwick and Morton packs. I felt sick. The entire affair was nauseating. But I kept up a happy face, and my right hand on the back of my pistol.

I was now among Berrigan Enterprises’ thugs. I’d seen them at the Wild Ones’ party and hadn’t liked them. I disliked them even more after BE had incorporated Iowa WOOF agents into the fold.

This meeting was being held in the Valley High School auditorium, more than large enough for all the pack leaders of Central Iowa and as many from outlying towns as had been able to attend. For those who weren’t able to attend this gathering, Berrigan had planned similar meetings around the state to inform all about his new world order.

In the crowd, I recognized the pack leaders from Central Iowa. I hadn’t been out to many of the smaller towns, but I guessed most of those I didn’t know were from there or were Wild Ones I hadn’t encountered. But I did see many leaders that I knew from Wild One parties. None of the leaders, whether they were FHs or Wild Ones, looked too happy, except for the few I recognized coming from Washington state.

They just want to share the joy of being a subject of Berrigan.

The wererats were missing, but that was because they liked only limited contact with us larger werebeasts.

Five chairs sat to one side on the stage. Besides the chairs, the stage was empty. Berrigan probably has his speech memorized so he doesn’t need a podium. He’d been that way at the opening of his company headquarters in West Des Moines, too.

Amy stood next to me. She wore her lilac-scented perfume. Often her arm had rubbed against mine. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to flirt or not. I wasn’t in the mood.

We have to figure out a way to stop this before we become as subservient as Washington state.

“Joe, this is all for the best,” Amy whispered. “Berrigan is a good and noble ruler. He will bring Iowa werebeasts glory.”

“Of course,” I quietly agreed. Let’s just get this over with.

Amy laughed softly beside me.

Guess I’m not good at hiding sarcasm. I’ll have to practice.

A silence fell over the room as Berrigan followed by five of his executive officers walked on to the stage. The five officers took their seats in the chairs while Berrigan strolled to the center of the stage. Upon reaching it, he scanned the crowd, including us guards behind the back rows or along the auditorium’s edge. He smiled. I felt the same strength of character as when I’d been at the opening of BE’s new headquarters in West Des Moines.

“Welcome, one and all, to this most auspicious of occasions,” Berrigan greeted. “I’m so happy to see that so many of you came. I realize you were given short notice, but all of you must understand the events that are upon us.

“I have been the SPL of werebeasts in Washington state for the last ten years. These years have been highly successful for werebeasts as our population has increased. The reasons for this growth are that packs no longer struggle against packs, except under special circumstances, and that Wild Ones and Friends of Humanity no longer fight and kill each other. All have found a harmonious living under my leadership.

“We werebeasts celebrate our holidays together. We join together in the raising of our children. We stand united against the threat humanity poses to us. We oppose vampires, and they fear our presence because they are divided and vampire fights vampire while we are one unit in opposition to them. All thanks to my leadership.

“Very few dissent against my rule. Those who do learn to pay the cost. Those who don’t live and prosper as do their children and so will their children’s children.

“Our increase in population is why we are interested in Iowa. Iowa has more livestock than humans, making it the perfect place for me to extend my rule. We in Washington state need additional food resources, and Iowa is the state that can provide them for us. My corporation has already made great strides in purchasing the various industrial farms that produce hogs, chickens, and turkeys. If your packs so desire, I will be able to provide them with employment opportunities.”

Berrigan paused and surveyed the crowd. Nobody muttered in the crowd. We guards stood silently.

“Iowa has now been taken under the wing of Berrigan Enterprises. No longer are there Wild Ones and Friends of Humanity. No longer are there werewolves, werebears, and wererats. We are all werebeasts, together under one rule. Mine.”

A man stood up about halfway down in the auditorium and shouted, “You aren’t my leader. Walter New—”

A gunshot rang out through the room, breaking the sound of the man’s shout. He collapsed back onto his seat as white fur covered his body.

I glanced around the auditorium and saw Sheryl from the Morton pack lowering her firearm.

Berrigan smiled again. “Now, if there won’t be any other disturbances, I will give you a few specifics of how life will be under my rule.”

We’ll stop you. But I don’t know how. Yet.

44

Witches

We WOOF agents ate dinner solemnly after the day we had lived through, but the children were excited and happy as usual. Eldon and the others were simply joyous to be alive and to have a place to play. According to Eldon, the five of them had played hide and seek, and he’d been able to find everybody every time they played. Lucy declared the rules were unfair because sometimes the other kids hid in places that were too high for her. The others responded by saying she should have wolfed-out each time she was the seeker. Shouts and outbursts followed. Donna brought peace and quiet after telling about how they’d raced around my house again today and all had enjoyed that activity.

All the merriment of the kids was infectious and soon we all were talking about good times, fierce fights, and fun times at parties. Donna quickly quieted us on this last point, but the kids laughed over it. They’d obviously heard about parties for most of their short lives. Lucy even told about her fourth birthday party. Then all the kids teared up because so many of their pack who’d attended that party were now dead. But Donna cheered up the kids when she brought in some veal cubes. Veal. Tender, luscious meat. Everyone was happy about this delectable.

After dinner, Donna gathered the kids for bed. They watched television for a while, then changed into their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and climbed into bed. I was sitting in the living room with the other adults when Eldon dashed down the stairs.

“Joe, will you tell us more of your story?” he asked.

How could I refuse?

I climbed the stairs with him, walked into the kids’ room, and sat among the sleeping bags.

“The witches, the witches,” the kids chanted in unison.

“That’s right,” I agreed.

Harold and his pack walked into the courtyard. The courtyard was a rectangular shape with the fortress walls and towers on three sides and a massive building that rose into a round tower on the side opposite the drawbridge. A large wooden door with iron bands stood in the wall of this huge structure. Soldiers, holding spears pointed at the intruders and standing on the ramparts, guarded the courtyard.

In the center of the courtyard, three witches chanted over a cauldron filled with a vile putrid green liquid that boiled from the fire beneath. Wearing a black robe, one witch was an old crone with long gray hair, wrinkled skin, and warts on her face. She waved her thin, bony hands over the cauldron. Wearing a gray robe, the second witch was middle-aged and chubby. She had a round face and short, fat fingers. Wearing a white robe, the third witch was young and beautiful. She had long blonde hair, a thin face with piercing blue eyes. Her skin was smooth and unblemished.

Harold bravely approached the witches.

“We wish to pass to find the treasure of this castle,” he proclaimed.

The old witch cackled. The middle-aged witch chortled. The young witch giggled.

“We won’t let you enter that building,” a soldier on the ramparts shouted.

“Neither will we,” the old witch said.

“And we have magic,” the middle-aged witch said.

“You may kill all the soldiers, but you’ll fall to our spells,” the young witch warned.

A few of Harold’s pack muttered worriedly. Even Harold was a bit concerned.

“Come, pack, let’s take on these witches,” Harold ordered.

The young witch walked out in front of the boiling cauldron. She chanted, “When you look upon my bust, you certainly will lose your trust. For your mission will be dust as you break into great lust!”

Immediately, Harold felt an immense need to throw himself at the young witch and have his way with her, but he was strong and knew her spell was a trick.

Other werewolves in his pack weren’t as strong. A young werewolf dashed toward the young witch, threw his arms around her, and gave her a passionate kiss. His body instantaneously burst into flame. The young witch stepped back and smiled.

As other pack members moved toward her, their fellows grabbed them and kept them from advancing upon her.

The young witch stepped back behind the cauldron.

The middle-aged witch took her place. She chanted, “See the flames of the fire. You will find muck and mire. I am surely not a liar, but I am your last desire.”

Again Harold felt the power of her spell. Unlike the young witch where he’d felt a great lust, this time he felt as if this witch would comfort him and take away all of his pain. This witch would protect him as if she were his mother. Harold resisted the urge to go to her.

But again, others in his pack weren’t so strong. Another young werewolf dashed forward and sat cross-legged in front of the witch.

“Please protect me, Mother,” he said. Then his body melted away to be a black spot of tar upon the courtyard stones.

Other werewolves attempted to dash to this witch, but their fellows held them back as well.

The middle-aged witch walked back behind the cauldron.

The old witch took her place. She cackled then chanted, “My old body is such a sight when you see it in the night. There is nothing that is bright. And you will get the biggest fright.”

This spell was the strongest of all. Harold felt his body shudder with fear, but he knew these effects were only from the spell. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Again, others in his pack were not as strong. A few dashed from the courtyard screaming in terror. As they reached the drawbridge, they collapsed and decayed away. Other pack members grabbed the rest and soothed their fears.

As the witches had been doing their spells, the soldiers resumed standing with their spears held at their sides. Harold liked that because that meant the soldiers were no longer ready for battle.

The two other witches began moving around the cauldron to join the old witch. If they all work together, Harold thought, we won’t be able to stop ourselves from falling into their spells. They’ll kill us all.

“The soldiers,” he shouted.

The rest of his pack wolfed-out and pounced upon the unaware guards. The soldiers screamed, but wolves were quick and deadly. Before the young and middle-aged witches could stand next to the old witch, the wolves regained their human forms, grabbed the fallen spears, and threw them at the evil women. Three spears stabbed the young witch, four the middle-aged witch, and five the old witch. The witches fell to the ground and crumbled away like dust.

The rest of Harold’s pack joined him back in the courtyard. Harold led them to the large door on the building and opened it. They gazed into the darkness.

“And that’s where I have to end it tonight,” I said.

The children all whined, but Donna entered the room.

“Joe is right. It’s time for you to go to sleep,” she said.

“But you’ll finish the story, won’t you, Joe?” Eldon asked.

“Yes, on another night.”

“Wait for me outside,” Donna said, then tucked in the children and turned out the lights as I left the room.

After she closed the door, she asked, “Do you really believe in the power of the pack?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then it’s time you heard my story.”

45

Donna’s Story

Donna and I crept down the stairs. Peter stood guard in the living room and nodded at us as we went into the kitchen.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked.

Donna glanced nervously around the room, sighed, then sat down. “No, the thought of telling you about our life prior to Iowa is too disturbing for me to stomach anything.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. I could have used this information days ago, but at least I can learn something now.

I sat across from her. I didn’t say anything because sometimes silence brings answers that questions don’t.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about our situation earlier, but I feared what the Siskels would do.” She shook her head. “And have done. I guess my telling you the truth wouldn’t have changed events at all. I hoped it would because I thought we were being watched—”

“You probably were,” I interrupted.

Donna nodded in agreement.

“Sorry, go ahead,” I said.

“Yeah, well, my reasons were bad and bad results happened.

“Anyway, I think you should know what your life will be like once Berrigan establishes complete control over Iowa. It’s only fair. You’re hiding us from that tyrant, and you may later suffer for it if he ever finds out.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Good, because it’s a risk you definitely have.” She shook her head again. “Before Berrigan, we Friends of Humanity lived in Washington state much like you were. We had our packs. We had our parties. Packs had disputes that we settled. Sometimes through single combat. Sometimes through our SPL. WOOF agents fought Wild Ones if the Wild Ones were killing too many humans. Wild Ones and FHs struggled against each other as we always had. Both the Wild Ones and FHs based all of our social lives on the pack, as every good werewolf should.

“I heard rumors about Berrigan taking over the Wild Ones, but I don’t know anything about that. When our pack had contact with Wild Ones, they became less combative in the years before Berrigan’s conquest of the FHs. We thought the Wild Ones treating us kindly was a good thing, not suspecting there was evil behind it.

“About ten years ago, Berrigan turned his attention to FHs. He began bribing individual FHs to his cause. He has loads of money from his corporation, and he’d inherited a great deal from his parents who were quite wealthy themselves.

“With his bribes, he convinced some werewolves to get their whole pack to back him. If he had enough packs in certain rural areas of the state, he took over the rest by promising them good jobs in the lumber industry. Washington state has a good economy, but it’s more centered in the big cities. Rural America is hurting everywhere.

“Later, he had meetings around the state similar to the ones you had today. He forced his spies to join every pack. Since he had someone to influence or tattle in every pack, all had to acquiesce. Then started our ten years of hell.

“Every pack had to pay taxes to Berrigan’s Wolf United company. If a pack didn’t pay its share for a year, Berrigan broke up the pack and spread them among others. If a pack paid more than its share, he rewarded them with extra free meat. Our pack leaders meet with Berrigan or one of his representatives at least every month to tell of our pack’s activities and report on any dissension.”

“Was there any dissension?” I asked.

Donna smiled. “There were some revolts. Often, two to five packs would gather, determine they were done with Berrigan’s nonsense, and attack either Berrigan or some of his werebear colleagues. Because he had spies everywhere, they were usually discovered. Some were put to death. Others were sent to concentration camps run by Berrigan in the forests to work on lumbering projects. Anyone sent to one of these camps, never returned.

“That’s how Oldwell Pack got in trouble. A few of us had been meeting with dissenters. We were in the process of trying to decide if we should join the cause. Berrigan or one of his subordinates must have discovered our transgression because he told us and Siskel Pack to kill off the members of Wilson Pack, which had been making guerrilla attacks on Berrigan’s operations for a few months. One or two other packs had done the same, but he’d been able to quell them.

“As a pack, we took pride in our warriors, but we didn’t want to fight and kill another pack, especially another pack we’d been in discussions with about a possible revolt. But Berrigan ordered it.

“Siskel Pack showed up and massacred Wilson Pack, but they suffered quite a few losses. The Siskel pack is large, so they could sustain the deaths. That didn’t matter. They told Berrigan of our failure to help.

“By the time that happened, we were fleeing. We stopped in Iowa. We should have gone farther. We didn’t imagine that Berrigan would expand his operations here.”

I nodded. Amy’s account was correct. Why did she tell me the truth? Could she know that some Oldwells survive?

As Donna had been telling me about her pack specifically, tears had flowed down her face. She wiped them with her sleeve.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you the truth up front. I’m sorry I didn’t ask for help. We thought we could handle it—”

“We all believe in the power of the pack.”

“I’m not sure I do now.”

“I still do and most Iowa werebeasts do, too.” I stood up. “Thanks for the information. We can use it as we revolt against Berrigan.”

Donna stood, too. “You’re going to rebel?”

“Damn right. We’re going to succeed, too.”

46

A Meeting with Vince

Vince and I met at a coffeehouse on Ingersoll Avenue. Ingersoll Avenue is a street in Des Moines with local restaurants, taverns, and shops, and very few chain establishments of any type. People gathered here for dates, parties, and other social occasions.

Meeting in a coffeehouse is unusual for werewolves because we tend to meet in sports or meet market bars filled with lots of noise and people. We met at this coffeehouse because it wasn’t a normal hangout for werewolves, and no werebeasts would be around to hear our conversation.

The coffeehouse had the western side filled with a coffee grinder, espresso machines, assorted pastries, and a place for employees to work and eastern side with small tables surrounded by chairs and artwork on the walls by local artists. We cared about none of these features.

Since we were meeting about the situation with Berrigan.

We sat at a table close to the back. I had a black coffee. Vince had an espresso. Neither of us had any of the sweet pastries.

“And that’s what life is like under Berrigan’s rule,” I concluded at the end of the story Donna had told me the night before.

“We feared as much.”

“I’ve called Grant and told him. He says we have to stop Berrigan before he gets too much control over Iowa.”

Vince drank a bit of espresso. “True werewolves are disgusted, too, but we believe Berrigan has only a token force of werewolves in Iowa.”

“I think he has his entire werebear cadre here.”

“No,” Vince countered. “We did some checking with some dissenters in Washington state. Five to ten werebears stayed behind. They didn’t trust the natives if too many werebears came our way.”

“That’s good news for us.”

“Yeah, but we still need a plan. What about your SPL?”

“Snyder said if you were agreeable, we could work together,” I told him.

“Newburg said we could cooperate with you. After all, we have a common enemy.”

I chuckled. “Always the best way to make adversaries friends.”

“We’ve got some ideas about what to do. Do your people?” Vince asked.

“We plan on freeing the wererats. If we can get our wererat network back, we should be able find out more about Berrigan’s plans.”

“We can help.”

“No, we have it under control. Berrigan’s kidnapped Santorini, so the wererats are worried about him.”

“With good reason.”

“Freeing the majority of the wererats should help our cause.”

“That’s a start.” Vince drank a bit of espresso. “As far as I know, he hasn’t bribed too many of our packs yet.”

“That’s good. Grant has WOOF agents checking on our packs. As far as we know, everyone is staying loyal.”

“If anybody isn’t, it’s not like they’ll tell us.”

“We won’t know until we get into a big fight.”

Vince shook his head. “We think that should be avoided. If we use guerrilla tactics around the edges, we can do harm, but they shouldn’t be able to punish us.”

“We’re more inclined to look for a big battle. End it large. End it fast.”

“Do you have any ideas how to cause that?”

“Not yet. We have a party scheduled tomorrow night. We’re not going to let Berrigan’s minions have their way like at your last party.”

“You’re taking on Salway?”

“And killing him if we have our way.”

“Good. We hate that he killed off that pack. We should be able to keep to our traditional ways of holding and paying for parties.”

“We agree.”

Vince laughed. “Too bad our SPLs don’t get along so well.”

“If they talked over this issue, I think they would.”

“Once you rescue the wererats, have them contact us. They should be able to set up a network so we true werewolves and you FHs can coordinate our assault on Berrigan and his allies.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I think it’s time for a pastry to celebrate.”

I agreed, so we went to the counter and bought two: Vince chocolate cake, me cherry pie.

47

The Rescue

Running. Wind in my fur. Other wolves around me. Peter. Pauline. Ellen. Melanie. All dashing through the town. Through the dark night. Stars above. No moon. The moon has yet to rise. The better to surprise the captors.

Running through the nearly deserted streets. See one car. It stops, honks, then we pass. Surprise.

Finally reach a lawn where the grass is cut short. No weeds. The perfect lawn, the envy of all its neighbors. Nearby house newly painted. No chipped paint. No damaged paneling. Beautiful house. It’s home for the wererats. We’re here to rescue you,

Lie down. Want to relax. Can’t. Battle to come.

Five large rats creep through the grass. Red-furred one stops in front of me.

Chitter. Chitter. [We will show you the way in. Stay low.]

Red-furred rat leads the way. Crawl on the ground. First Peter, then Pauline, then me, then Ellen, finally Melanie. To side of house by driveway. Rat pushes a wooden board. Planks move away. Reveal a passage inside.

Rats first. Wolves second.

Captors won’t guess this. Or should have already. Arrogant captors.

Withhold a laugh. Captors stupid like vampires. Funny.

Odor of antiseptic and cleaners. No dust. No mold and mildew. Keep everything perfect. So unwelcome intruders won’t come. Some expected visitors may. For them, FHs and Wild Ones all the same.

Rats stop ahead of us. One rat climbs on another, then third climbs on to second. Pushes against the ceiling above us. Pop. Off goes a panel.

One rat, then the second, then the third, then fourth and fifth. All hop through the opening. We wolves follow.

All crowded in large immaculate bathroom. Some wolves stand in the tub with shower. Others stand on floor between vanity, toilet and tub. No unusual smells because bathroom is so clean.

Outside bathroom hear human voices. Berrigan’s werewolves on guard.

Ha. Won’t they be surprised.

Rats pop panel back in place. Then push open bathroom door.

Dash out. Down the hall to the kitchen.

Two werewolves in human form sit at the kitchen table. Both talking and eating chunks of meat. One looks at us. Other quickly stands.

Rats pounce on faces of both. Both try to get them off.

Peter knocks over sitting one. Chair and werewolf fall to floor. Pauline hops on him. Bites his jugular.

I hit the standing one in the legs. He collapses to the floor. Melanie bites one arm. Ellen his throat.

Blood splatters everywhere. Neither Washingtonian shouts. Rats on their faces.

I walk to the basement door.

Red rat chitters. [No, no. We have another way.]

He leads us out of the bloody kitchen. Back to the antiseptic bathroom. Pop. Door to passage opens again.

Rats climb in. We wolves follow.

Want to talk to Peter. Tell him how clever the wererats are.

But he knows that. We all know that. Wererats are smartest of us werebeasts.

Passage splits in two. Red-furred rat, one other rat, Peter, and Pauline go one way. Three smaller rats, Melanie, Ellen, and I the other. Down a staircase. All inside the wererats’ house. Amazing. Follow to sharp turn, straight passage. A little bit farther.

Rats stop, push against the wall. A panel pops open.

Rats hop through. Melanie, Ellen, and me.

Into large room filled with about sixty people only a foot tall and very stocky. Little people scatter as we land on the floor.

In the middle of the room stand three human-sized creatures. Each one holds a pistol.

Rats attacking certain small people. Melanie and Ellen jump toward the larger creatures. Gunshots ring out. Ellen hit. Whimpers in pain. Melanie hits one creature in the legs. Knocks him to the floor. More little people scatter. I pounce on another large person.

A panel pops out of another wall. Two rats dive to the floor. Two wolves follow.

My opponent grabs my throat, tightens his grip. Rats appear around him. They bite his arms and his face. He screams. Lets go of me.

Swipe claws at my opponent’s hands. Peter and Pauline fighting one large person. Melanie is on the other. Rats leap on the large people. The little people struggle among themselves. Many transform into rats and rat fights rat.

I snap my jaws around my opponent’s neck. Lots of blood. Rats squeal.

Back up. See Melanie’s opponent draw a gun. Ellen, although wounded and bloody, jumps on him. Rats attack him from all sides.

Peter turns into human form. Draws a pistol. Fires. Hits head of person under attack by Melanie, Ellen, and rats.

I transformed back into human form and surveyed the scene.

Ellen lay on the floor, wounded from a gunshot in the chest. Little wererats in human form surrounded her, giving her aid. Three other people, covered in white fur, lay limply on the floor. Peter and Pauline stood over one of them. Melanie by another. Twelve dead foot-high people also decorated the floor. The three soldiers we’d helped were in parade position near Peter and Pauline. Two others held a struggling wererat in human form.

The sides of the room were augmented by wooden levels, each about six inches higher than the others, all around one or two feet square, extending about three to four feet from the walls. Gambling tables, slot machines, dance floors, and bars with tiny bottles and cans covered these areas. The wererats were in the process of tearing down all of these structures and removing them through small holes in the walls. Other wererats worked at deconstructing the wooden levels themselves, by popping panels of wood away from the structure then hauling away these pieces of wood. Ten wererats were pulling a large plastic sheet through one of the holes.

Two huge black curtains hid the staircase leading up to the first floor.

General Adams, wearing his general’s uniform adorned with medals, joined the five soldiers. He looked them over and nodded. “Good job at the rescue. Also, well done at getting help from the werewolves.”

“All in the service of wererats,” Donaldson replied.

Adams smiled at the sight of the captive. “Get the rack,” he ordered.

Some of the wererats helping in tearing down the wererat casino stopped and dashed into a hole in the wall. A few moments later they emerged with foot and a half long rack right out of medieval times. They helped as the soldiers tied the captive’s wrists and ankles to the rack.

Adams stepped up to the rack.

“Isn’t that rather cruel?” I asked.

“You understand nothing about the way of wererats,” the general snapped. He gazed at the captive. “Will you give us the location of Santorini?”

“No,” he spat. “I’m loyal to Berrigan.”

“You are a wererat. You should be loyal to us, not any other werebeast,” Adams stated. “We know you have these devices in your own state. We also know that you’ve used them. They will give you great pain, but keep you alive for as long as we want.”

“I’m loyal to Berrigan. He has done great things for werebeasts.”

Adams sighed. He nodded at the soldier at either end of the rack. Each soldier turned his respective wheel to tighten the ropes.

“I’ll never tell you.”

The general nodded again. Again, each soldier turned his respective wheel.

“You know this is the least we can do to you,” Adams warned. “We will keep you alive and keep torturing you until you give us the answer we want. Come now, surely you know we wererats stick together.”

“That’s not—”

The soldiers tightened the rack again.

By this time, the rest of the room was deserted. All of the signs, except for the current activity, of wererat life had disappeared into the walls.

“Okay, okay,” the captive whined. “But please protect me from Berrigan.”

“Of course we will,” Adams assured him.

“Santorini is in Berrigan’s prison.”

“Where is that?”

“It’s in a complex beneath Berrigan Enterprises’ new headquarters.”

The general frowned. He looked at us werewolves. “We are no longer in need of your services. We’ll figure out how to handle the situation from here.”

“You heard him,” Peter said. “It’s time for us to leave.”

Pauline gestured at the bodies. “What about—”

“We’ll take care of them,” Adams answered. “Please leave. We’ll contact you after Berrigan is taken care of as to our new location.”

I helped Ellen to her feet The five of us werewolves went through the curtain and climbed the stairs. Behind us I heard a few pops.

“Guess that that means they didn’t let their captive live,” I said.

“It’s not for us to judge,” Peter said. “We all know wererat life is unique.”

That it was. I just hoped that our efforts to help the local wererats wouldn’t be forgotten.

48

Another Party

My fellow WOOF agents and I patrolled the FH sponsored party. We were joined by WOOF agents from Washington state, including Amy, who kept within twenty or thirty feet of me at all times. We Iowa agents were stationed around the perimeter of the party. The Washington state agents, except for Amy, and Berrigan’s own security force wandered through the crowds in search of attendees who didn’t have the stamp of proper entrance.

This party followed the strict Berrigan guidelines. All people were required to enter the party through the house where the hosts took the ten-dollar a head price of admittance. Many a werewolf grumbled upon leaving the house. Salway, in his huge glory, stood at the back exit of the house to greet everyone and welcome them to a Berrigan Enterprises’ affair. He wished them well and even directed them toward the barn. Tables covered with a variety of raw meats and alcoholic beverages were set up outside the barn where some participated in dancing or conversation.

Despite all the food and the loud music playing from the barn, the party was subdued. Werewolves were still imbibing liberally and eating happily the food provided. The usual group was line dancing in the barn as others played cards or surfed on the net on their cell phones. The activities seemed normal enough.

I was a werewolf. I knew differently. I could feel the underlying tension.

Amy walked up to me.

“Good party,” she observed.

“Seems to be.”

“I’m glad we’re having one after what happened last night.”

“And what was that?” I asked innocently.

“Your wererats escaped. Berrigan thought he had the situation entirely under control, but the Iowa wererats are now in hiding. Luckily, he still has Santorini.”

“At least some of the wererats are free.”

“Joe!”

I shook my head. “This time you don’t understand.” I walked away from her. If I don’t, I’ll say something I’ll regret. Not now, but later. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself.

I stopped and again surveyed the party of possibly one hundred attendees. The land was flat around the house. Our vehicles were parked between the local highway and the house. This party was held at one of the smaller FH hosts, not the ones who’d held the Celebration of Life only a few weeks ago. Both cornfields and clumps of trees were at least a hundred feet away from the where the party was being held. If somebody tried to approach without paying, they’d be spotted easily since there wasn’t any local cover.

Six people walked a wide circle around the house and approached the party. Peter saw them and nodded to me. Together, we converged upon this party. I instantly recognized they were part of the Weller pack.

“Greetings,” Peter said. “Have you been through the house?”

“This is nonsense,” the leader said. He was a tall man with gray-specked black hair, mustache and beard.

“It may be, but we have to follow the new rules,” I said.

“It’s better for us all if we do,” Peter added.

“Still fucking stupid. The way we had parties before Berrigan worked fine. He shouldn’t have disturbed the order.”

“Until such time as we get out from under his yoke, we have to deal with it,” Peter said.

“Frank, let’s go through the house,” another in the pack said.

Frank sighed, gazed at the party beyond us, then turned and led his group back to the front of the house.

“They aren’t the ones to play out that scenario,” Peter said.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

We both separated and resumed our patrol of the party. I stood for a moment, observing the party.

One of Berrigan’s security personnel made his way through the crowd toward me. I recognized Marshall Denning of Nodwick Pack.

“Joe,” he said.

“Marshall.”

“I saw you and your friend keep those people who hadn’t paid out of the party.”

“We directed them to the front entrance, so they could pay their fees,” I said.

“That’s your job.”

“We know.”

I wished Marshall would get to whatever point he wanted to make. I glanced around the perimeter and the unsettled crowd.

“I saw you talking to Amy,” he said, changing the subject.

“She was talking to me.”

“Same thing.”

I rolled my eyes. “Look, we have a job to do. We should just do it.”

“She’s one of our kind,” Marshall said.

I chuckled. “Then you don’t understand the Berrigan philosophy. There aren’t any true werewolves or Friends of Humanity. We’re all werebeasts together.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, frankly, I don’t. Amy and I had some good times a while back, but don’t worry, I think events have properly separated us.”

“She’s interested in having fun times with me.”

“She also had some enjoyment with Phillip Barnes of Siskel Pack.”

“Then she likes to have fun wherever.”

“And with whomever.” I shrugged. “Make your move on her. I don’t care. We all have lots of partners and that won’t change whether we have our old pack system or Berrigan rules us. She’s fun in bed. I recommend her.”

“I don’t want you to hurt her.”

I laughed. “Then you totally misunderstand the relationship I have with her.”

One of the security force shouted at a partygoer. The other six and some of the Washington state agents surrounded about ten attendees.

“Looks like we have bigger problems than jealousy,” I observed.

Both Marshall and I broke into the crowd to discover what the disturbance was about.

49

The Rebel

Partygoers moved away from the back of the house as the Nodwicks escorted the unruly pack toward Salway. I recognized the scofflaws as the Lodge pack. The crowd grumbled at the disturbance. Attendees gulped their drinks or quickly ate their meat snacks. As Salway stepped from the back of the house, he told those just exiting to return inside. These people immediately followed his advice.

Marshall and I shoved our way through the attendees. If needed, we loudly told them we were part of the security detail. These words caused people to shift out of our way with all due speed. As we made our approach, I glanced over the party and saw Grant at the perimeter with the rest of my local pack gathered around him. They know the plan.

I did, too. We needed this tactic to save Iowa from the tyranny of Berrigan.

I’d seen what had happened at the Wild Ones’ party when similar slackers had been found. We’d agreed that wouldn’t happen with the guests who hadn’t paid at our party. We’d arranged this incident, so we could have our second act of rebellion. The first had been to free the wererats and let their network go to work. This time would be a more open revolt.

Salway gazed angrily at the ten who hadn’t paid. Both men and women were among them. Two were seniors.

“Is it true what I’ve heard?” he asked.

A man in his twenties stared at the werebear defiantly. “So what if it is? This isn’t way to run a party.”

“It’s the only way to run a party,” Salway stated.

The security force around the recalcitrant pack spoke firmly in agreement. Whispers around the rest of the party didn’t.

Marshall and I pushed our way into the semicircle of the security force. We stood next to each other. I pulled my pistol from its holster but let it hang by my side.

Salway surveyed the crowd. He spoke loudly, “Iowa is under Berrigan’s rule. He is a wise and mighty leader. Any of you who’ve seen him realize his greatness. He has united all the werebeasts in Washington state and made us the most populous werebeast state in the United States. Vampires fear him. However, his rule has costs, not the least of which is money. That’s his reason for reaping financial gain from these parties. When you don’t pay at these parties, not only are you not respecting Berrigan, you aren’t respecting your fellow werebeasts.”

The crowd stood in silence. I tightened the grip on my pistol.

He focused on the pack in front of him. “Will you pay your entrance fee as you should?”

The pack leader shook his head. “Why the fuck should we care about Berrigan? We’ve lived in Iowa for a long time without him and had a good life. We don’t need fucking Berrigan to bring us prosperity.”

Salway growled. “You have insulted your leader.”

“Aaron Snyder is our leader,” the defiant man countered.

“Are you challenging me to a fight?” the werebear asked.

“We’re saying this is stupid!” another Lodge pack member spat.

“I explained the situation. Either behave honorably and fight or pay the proper fee,” Salway said.

“Fuck that!” another Lodge pack member yelled.

In unison, the Lodge pack shouted, “Fuck that! Fuck that! Fuck that!”

“Shut up!” Salway roared.

For a moment, silence reigned over the party.

“Will you wolf-out and fight me or have you no honor?” the werebear inquired.

Again, in unison, the Lodge pack chanted, “Fuck that! Fuck that! Fuck that!”

I felt the crowd tense behind me. As I increased my hearing ability, I heard others behind me chant the same words. Be quiet. Be quiet. We don’t want others to be hurt.

When the chanting ceased, Salway scanned the crowd, then stared at the troublemakers. “If you won’t fight or pay, I’ll have to arrest you.”

The Lodge pack laughed.

Marshall stepped forward. “We are setting up various detention facilities. We hoped not to need them in Iowa, but we know at first those in Washington state did not understand the rules as well.”

Shouts of protests came from the crowd. The WOOF agents left the perimeter and shoved their way through.

“They don’t deserve to be arrested,” I said.

All near the house gazed at me.

“They don’t,” I repeated.

“Be quiet,” Marshall whispered over his shoulder.

“Go to hell,” I responded.

“Who are you?” Salway demanded.

“Joe Butler, WOOF agent.”

“You’re worse than these attendees who decided not to pay.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

Salway gave a deep sigh. “You are a trusted associate of Berrigan Enterprises. You are expected to uphold all that Berrigan and his company stand for. You should be honoring your obligation, not siding with rebellious rabble-rousers.”

“Fuck that!” I spat. I raised my pistol and shot Marshall in the head. He collapsed to the ground, covered in white fur.

Curses and exclamations burst around me. I glanced around the party and saw people along the perimeter wolf-out and dash away.

“That is unacceptable!” Salway shouted. He shoved the Lodge pack out of the way and bulldozed toward me.

I took a few steps back as the crowd scattered behind me. I raised my pistol at the werebear.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Salway challenged.

“Watch me.” I shot him in the face four times. With the fourth bullet, he collapsed to the ground. I shot him twice more in the back of his head.

The Nodwicks pounced on me and pushed me to the ground, knocking the pistol out of my hands.

All around me people wolfed-out and fled. The sound of vehicles starting up echoed from the front of the house. Even as the other WOOF agents surrounded me, I saw that almost everyone had left the party.

One of the Nodwicks pointed a pistol at my head. “I should shoot you right now,” he said.

“Wait,” a female voice ordered.

Amy appeared over me. “Stop! Don’t shoot him. That isn’t the way Berrigan would want it done.”

“Salway would’ve killed him,” the Nodwick countered.

“Salway was also a trusted associate of Berrigan. No, we should take Butler and let Berrigan decide what to do with him,” Amy explained.

The Nodwicks stood up around me. Amy offered me her hand. I rejected it.

She shook her head. “Joe, you shouldn’t have done that. You know this can’t end well.”

“We won’t know the end until we get there,” I said and smiled.

50

Prison

I sat in a prison cell beneath Berrigan’s headquarters in West Des Moines. My room was four feet by ten feet. A hard cement slab stuck out from the wall for my bed. An open toilet with a water spigot above it was in the back corner. A neon light was on at all times. A windowless steel door was at one end of the room. Since I’d been brought to this location, nobody had visited me or even pounded on the door to see if I were still alive.

From the party, Amy and the Nodwicks had bound me in rope given them by our party hosts, tossed me in the back of one of the Nodwicks’ pickups, and driven me here. A small metal shed stood among all the plantings around Berrigan’s headquarters. We had hurried to this shed, opened the door, and entered an elevator that had gone down at least two floors before opening to the prison complex. My captors had shoved me down a long concrete hallway, through a steel door, and into a complex of cells, all with closed steel doors. Then we had taken another elevator down another two stories where they had led me to the cell I now occupied.

WOOF had a headquarters in the metro area that has a small prison in its basement floor. It had ten cells, all larger than what I now called home. Similar to my cell, they had lights that were always on. I guessed Berrigan’s complex was almost ten times the size of WOOF’s.

I remembered the headquarters somewhere above me. It was all glass. Large glass windows to view the surrounding terrain. Glass windows revealed the offices of the vice presidents and the various managers. The workers toiling in cubes only about four and a half feet high. Natural light was everywhere. Everyone above me communed with natural light, while I was stuck with only artificial light.

When I’d arrived, they’d taken my wallet, watch, pistol, and cell phone. I still wore the outfit I’d worn at the party, but I wasn’t sure how long that would remain the case. After all, I was in prison. I knew I experienced the passage of time, but I didn’t know exactly how much time passed.

To occupy my time, I paced my cell. Five paces in one direction, five paces in the other. I performed various stretching exercises. I practiced fighting moves. I stretched to the ceiling. I jumped on and off the cement slab. I relaxed, closed my eyes, and slept.

The door finally opened and three Nodwicks, all with metal nightsticks, walked in.

“Hands behind your back,” one ordered.

I complied.

Another Nodwick put silver handcuffs on my wrists. The third watched.

“Let’s go,” the first commanded.

They led me from my cell with one Nodwick in front of me and two behind. The two behind slapped metal nightsticks in their hands. We walked past cell doors on either side of the hall, past the elevator door and to another metal door, which they opened and escorted me through. The room had a metal table and four metal chairs around it. A Nodwick shoved me down on one chair, then the three spread out in the room.

The door opened to reveal Armstrong. He sat in a chair opposite mine.

“Mr. Butler,” he said.

“Mr. Armstrong.”

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“We’ll bury you.”

“Such a statement hardly aids your defense.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

“Good, because it didn’t.”

“I’m telling you the truth. We’ll stop you.”

“I don’t think so. After your little display of defiance last night, we took both Snyder and Newburg into custody. As you may know, we already had Santorini in our prison. We’d hoped the takeover of Iowa would be a peaceful affair, but if you choose to prove difficult, we’ll be happy to comply.”

Bad news. I hope other plans are being made.

“Mr. Butler, it’s quite simple. You only need to say you’ll support Berrigan and his plans, and we’ll release you.”

I glanced around the room. One of the Nodwicks slapped his metal nightstick against an open hand.

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, certainly you can. We don’t intend on torturing you. Our leader has other plans for you that will improve his situation considerably. However, all would be better if you simply surrendered.”

“That’s not the werewolf way.”

“It’s the smart werebeast way, though.”

“I’m not going to be a brown-noser like these Nodwicks.”

The three werewolves growled at me. I growled back.

“Now, now,” Armstrong soothed.

“I’m not in the mood to calm down.”

The werebear sighed. “I have someone else to talk to you. Perhaps after that discussion, you will reconsider.”

He stood and left the room followed by the Nodwicks. The last one exiting said, “We’ll be right outside.”

A moment later, Amy entered the room and sat in the chair opposite me. She wore a white blouse and a pair of black slacks.

“Joe, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

She leaned toward me. “You have to understand. You can’t beat Berrigan. All of your Iowa packs can’t beat him. He and his werebears are smart, strong, and rich. What he can’t dominate, he’ll buy. When we tried to stop him, we only received imprisonment, poverty, and death.”

“That was you. This is us.”

“Joe, I know the pain you must feel. I felt it until I finally gave in to Berrigan’s ways. I had to betray my pack to do it, but my submission saved many friends and other werebeasts. Berrigan is capable of great cruelty, but he believes in a united kingdom of werebeasts. Someday, he could unite the entire United States, maybe the entire North American continent. We would be so powerful. We could vanquish all. We could announce our presence to humans and not have any fear. Berrigan can lead us to greatness.”

I glanced at the table and shook my head. “You betrayed your pack. We live for our packs. You betrayed the WOOF pack in the Seattle area. Guthrie did too when he and your pack came here because he killed WOOF agents after they dared to defy Berrigan. That’s wrong. There aren’t any excuses. You don’t kill or betray members of your pack.”

“Guthrie did what he thought was right. He did what needed to be done,” Amy said coldly.

She doesn’t believe that. She knows she and Guthrie did wrong. I said, “No, he knew what he was doing was wrong. He hated having to kill WOOF agents under his command. He did it out of fear, not out of a sense of right and wrong. He knew what was right. What’s right is to defend your pack. What’s just is to be loyal to your pack. What’s proper is to be proud of your pack.”

“But packs fight and kill each other over minor issues. Packs are divisive. That makes us weak,” Amy protested.

“We’ll work together if we have the right enemy. Berrigan is that enemy. You know it, and I know it. I think you’re afraid of him. Did he hurt someone you cared about? Has he kidnapped someone from your family? Neither matter. What matters is the pack. The pack is above all else.

“I’m in the WOOF pack, so we can’t live all together because that could put us all in danger based on the cases we work. But if we could, we would. Our pack stretches throughout the entire state, and we rejoice whenever we can be together. Many of our pack have children. They may choose a different pack someday, but right now they’re as much WOOF agents as we are. We are pack. We are family. These are true werewolf values. Other werebeasts may have different values, but we need to be true to ours. We need to be true to the pack.”

As I talked, Amy gazed at me impassively. Her eyes never left mine.

“I can see it’s pointless to talk to you.” She stood and opened the door. “Take him back to his cell.”

She left the room, and the Nodwicks came to escort me to my new home.

51

A Visit with Berrigan

I sat in the same chair and in the same room where I’d met with Armstrong and Amy. My hands were in handcuffs, containing silver, behind my back, so I couldn’t break them. One of the Nodwicks stood in the room with me. They’d said I was to have another visitor.

After my last visitors, I’d been returned to my cell where they’d removed the handcuffs and left me alone. I don’t know how long passed before I was escorted out of my cell again. I’d done some of the same activities to entertain myself: pacing the cell, stretching, jumping on and off my cement slab, resting. I’d become hungry but I’d known they wouldn’t feed me. They were keeping me locked up for a reason.

Are Snyder and Newburg getting any better treatment? They should be. They’re SPLs of Iowa. Or they were.

Since I didn’t have any contact with them, I didn’t know. It depended upon what plans Berrigan had for them.

Now, I waited for another visitor.

The door opened, and Berrigan walked in. He wore a three-piece blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. Another Nodwick followed him. As Berrigan sat, the Nodwick closed the door and stood in front of it.

“Mr. Butler, we meet again.”

“I would have preferred a different location.”

“Yes, but we don’t always get what we want.” The werebear shook his head. “I know others have been to see you to tell you what I expect.”

“I won’t cooperate.”

The two Nodwicks snickered. Berrigan simply tapped one of his fingers on the table, and both werewolves snapped to attention.

“You control your subjects well,” I observed.

“They aren’t the subjects I’m concerned with. I’ve ruled Washington state completely for ten years. The werebeasts living there know what to expect and what is required of them.”

“Good for them,” I said sarcastically.

“Mr. Butler, let me explain your situation to you.”

“I don’t need your explanation. I know exactly my situation. I’m being held prisoner in your facility until you create an event where my probable death will help scare Iowa werebeasts to your will. I’ll die before I let that happen.”

“You may receive your wish.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, but we do. I’ve studied your records, Mr. Butler, and they’re quite impressive. You’re quite good at thwarting ‘Wild One’ plans and escapades. You’re also occasionally brutal in doing so. Such as when you killed Marshall Denning. His death wasn’t necessary for your goal, but you disposed of him anyway. And having the nerve to assassinate one of my associates. Salway was a good man and very obedient. He will be missed.” Berrigan straightened his suit.

“In all of those acts, I see a werewolf capable of greatness. I’m willing to offer you a chance to achieve that status. I don’t completely trust your pack leader Grant. He seems to be a good man, but I know he isn’t loyal to me and my cause. However, you could be. I promise you a six-figure salary, free housing, and leadership of the WOOF agents in Iowa. I know you know how Guthrie had to cope. He had to kill some of his own agents. And to answer your unasked question, yes, you would, too, until Iowa is completely under my rule.

“Not only will you live well as one of my commanders. I know about your times with Ms. Andrews. She is a very smart, capable, and attractive female. I’m willing to make her your assistant and let the two of you live however you want. I’m sure she’d be a good breeder. Although you’d be in charge of WOOF agents in Iowa, you could found another pack with Ms. Andrews. The Butler pack. I rather like the sound of it. This is one possible future for you.”

The werebear fidgeted with his tie when I didn’t reply.

“Your second future is to serve as an example to all of the dissenting Iowans. I plan a Celebration of Life for Salway. As many as possible of the Iowa and all the Washington state packs in Iowa will attend. Prior to our celebrating the life and times of Salway, I’ll have a little show presenting the outcomes of resistance. You and your SPLs will be publicly punished. Resistance should fall after that.”

“You mean you’re going to kill me,” I clarified.

“Yes, if you want to be direct about it.”

We sat in silence.

“Your choice is quite simple. Following me brings you responsibility, riches, and status. Not following me gives you death.”

“You already know my choice.”

“Ms. Andrews will be disappointed with you. Since she embarked with me on the conquest of Iowa, she found you to be the strongest of any of the males with whom she’s dealt.”

I didn’t reply.

“Yes, I mean better than Phillip Barnes and far better than Marshall Denning. Before you killed him, he’d had a fling with her, and although she may have enjoyed the sex, since you werewolves do enjoy your rutting, she thought Denning rather shallow. You, on the other hand, are quite good in bed as well as being intelligent and loyal.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

Berrigan sighed. “Furthermore, I know Guthrie sent the Morton pack after you. The ways in which you either thwarted them or killed them were very creative. Another characteristic I want in my leaders.

“You and I would make a great team. Ms. Andrews would add both to your life and your reign as head of your own pack and WOOF in Iowa. The pros outweigh the cons considerably. All I ask is obedience. That should be simple enough.”

We sat in in silence.

“Are you done?” I asked.

“My arguments speak for themselves,” Berrigan replied.

“Then, no, I will never pledge my obedience to you. Death is preferable.”

The werebear shook his head. “What a shame. However, when I was taking over Washington state, I met many a werebeast such as you. They’re all dead now. You can join their ranks.”

“I’ll be proud to.”

Berrigan sighed. “If that is your decision.” He waved his right hand dismissively. “Take him away.”

The two Nodwicks stepped to either side of me and forced me to stand. One opened the door as the other escorted me out. I didn’t look back.

52

Another Celebration of Life

I was taken from my cell at around 10:30 p.m., according to my captors. This time around they didn’t put me in handcuffs, When I’d reached the elevator, Snyder and Newburg were waiting for me with the Nodwicks, who were armed with nightsticks and pistols. One of the Nodwicks carried a cage in which Santorini had sat, still wearing his three-piece pinstripe suite. He wasn’t been pleased. The Nodwicks escorted us up the elevator, down the long passageway, to the elevator to the small shed, and from the shed to an awaiting limousine. The Nodwicks crowded us in the vehicle where Armstrong waited. As we drove to the event, Armstrong gave us another opportunity to let us surrender to Berrigan and his cause. None of us did.

“I’m not important in the scope of things,” I observed.

Snyder shook his head. “Joe, you’re more vital than either Newburg or me. You represent the regular werebeast. Your rebellion is more significant than what either Newburg or I can do.”

Newburg nodded in assent.

Armstrong snorted in derision. “If either of you two pledge loyalty to Berrigan, this event will end quickly and peacefully. His offer is still good. You will retain your positions although you will report to Berrigan. You will attend all the national events acting as the SPLs for Iowa. Your pay will be good, actually better than what you receive now since being SPL is a volunteer position for both of you. It’s a good offer—”

“And you’ve made it before and we’ve refused,” Snyder interrupted.

“We are SPLs of each group and proud to hold the position without being a puppet to somebody else,” Newburg added.

“Elgin finds the position very satisfying,” Armstrong argued.

“Was Elgin the Wild Ones’ SPL prior to Berrigan?” Newburg asked.

“No,” Armstrong answered quietly.

“There’s your answer,” Snyder said.

“If you continue in this refusal, this ceremony won’t end well for you,” Armstrong warned. “The punishment of Butler is only required if you two fail to come through.”

Neither SPL said anything.

Having finished with the werewolves, Armstrong held up the cage with the leader of the wererats. “And how about you, Santorini? Will you pledge your loyalty to Berrigan?”

Santorini laughed. “We wererats are free and independent. I don’t know how you coerced your Washington state wererats to obedience, but we Iowa wererats won’t follow suit.”

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

When we arrived, again the Nodwicks escorted us from the vehicle that had been joined by two other limousines filled with the other werebear staff, including Amy and two other werewolves. We made a parade through the vehicles between the local highway and the house, around the house, to the place of the celebration where nearly five hundred werewolves waited to participate.

We were holding Salway’s celebration of life at the same farm where we’d held Tommy’s only a few weeks before. This farm had the two barns in a U-shaped configuration with the house. Each barn was filled with food and beverages. Neither barn was set up for either dancing or mourning. Very little of the food had been eaten or the alcohol drunk. The attendees, both from Washington state and Iowa, were restless but for different reasons. All knew Berrigan planned to tighten up his control of Iowa werebeasts at this gathering. Although the Washington state werebeasts could have partaken of the food and beverages, when they saw the locals weren’t, they abstained as well.

The pyre with Salway’s body sat exactly in the center between the two open barns, exactly where Tommy’s had been a few weeks before. Burning Salway’s body was to be the highlight of the night. The fire would be bright and the flames high.

The Washington state packs formed a large semi-circle around the pyre since they’d been closest to the deceased. The Iowa Friends of Humanity were on the right behind the Washington state packs, the Iowa Wild Ones were on the left on the large hill that rose from the bowl where the pyre, house, and barns were. On the left side of the hill was a cornfield; on the right an apple orchard.

The Iowa packs were from all over the state from as far away as Sioux City to the west and Bettendorf to the east. These groups contained werewolves in their twenties and thirties, all of fighting age. None of them had children or seniors attending. Almost all of the attendees were armed with pistols with silver bullets.

Berrigan, his crew, and I arrived late, at almost 11 p.m. Our new leader thought it necessary to make an entrance, so everyone would respect his leadership role.

Once we reached the pyre, eight of the werebears made line in front of it, facing the semi-circles of werewolves. Although this event was for all werebeasts, only werewolves were attending, probably much to Berrigan’s disgust. The eight werebears were all vice presidents in Berrigan Enterprises and all wore suits and ties like their boss. Each was huge and probably capable of killing ten or more werewolves as fast as Salway had less than a week ago. I figured they scared the Wild Ones because they’d seen Salway in action. I hoped the FHs properly feared them as well.

Berrigan stood on one side of the pyre. The Nodwicks positioned Snyder and Newburg on the other side with their pack around them in a semi-circle toward the much larger semi-circles of the werewolves attending. One Nodwick opened the cage Santorini was in and released him on a circular elevated table. This Nodwick held a pistol that he kept pointed at the wererat who stood proudly.

I stood behind the pyre and toward our hosts’ house with two Nodwicks with nightsticks on either side. Amy wore a black gown. She stood next to Phillip Barnes in a suit and tie from Siskel Pack and Sheryl in a dark blue gown from Morton Pack. All three of these werewolves were armed with pistols in holsters that didn’t quite fit into their formal attire and stood behind the two SPLs.

The entire area was shaped like an amphitheater, so even the most distant attendees could see the activities around the pyre. Only the closest werewolves from Washington state couldn’t see because of the line of the huge werebears standing in front of the ceremony area.

Berrigan surveyed the group.

“Greetings!” he said loud enough for those way in the back to hear. “I welcome you to the Celebration of Life for Angus Salway, a great polar werebear, and one of my valued assistants.

“Before proceeding with the actual ceremony, we have some business to conduct. You Iowans haven’t been the cooperative werebeasts I expected you to be. I’m very disappointed. As most of you know, my rule promises peace between werebeasts and prosperity for all. Yet you continue to deny my rule the respect it deserves.

“Your wererats are loose and not under my control. I know they didn’t free themselves and once I find who aided in their escape, those evildoers will be properly punished. Don’t consider my words a threat. They are a fact. Anyone who fights against me is destroyed. It was that way in Washington state and will be here.

“Not all of your wererats are out of my control. I have Santorini, their so-called leader.” Berrigan gazed at the attendees. “If there are any wererats out there, surrender now, and your leader will meet no harm.”

When he didn’t receive a response, he continued, “As you can see, I’ve brought your SPLs to this ceremony. I fear many of you may still have misguided loyalty to them. Neither has proven to be satisfied with what my rule will provide for all of you. Neither has given their consent that I’m the ruler of the werebeasts of this state.”

A few cheers broke out in the back part of the crowd. Berrigan growled in disgust. I glanced at the two Nodwicks close to me, and they were watching me closely.

“Such conditions can’t be abided by,” Berrigan continued. “If you as a group pledge your loyalty to me, I will spare their lives. If you don’t, you are aware what must happen.”

The werebear gazed over the audience. “Do you pledge your loyalty to me?”

A silence filled the night.

All those from Washington state shouted, “We do!”

Neither I nor the Iowa werewolves farther back in the crowd said anything.

“Nodwicks,” Berrigan said quietly. “Execute them.”

The Nodwicks behind our two SPLs yanked out pistols, pointed them at the back of our leaders’ heads, and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains burst from our brave leaders. Both Snyder and Newburg collapsed to the ground, dead.

Shouts rang out from the Iowans, both Wild Ones and FHs. As about half the Iowa group pulled out hidden pistols, the other half wolfed-out and charged the Washington state werewolves.

53

Rebellion

The Washington state werewolves responded in kind. About half wolfed-out and dashed toward their attackers as the rest yanked out pistols and shot at Iowa wolves or people. A group of ten Iowa wolves pounced upon three Washington state people as the people attempted to shoot at them. The wolves tore apart the people. Shots from both sides downed both wolves and people. If the fighters were only injured, the people crouched and continued to fire at their opponents, and the wolves continued their onslaught. Groups of wolves clashed. Only the wounded slunk away. The Iowans surged against the wall of Washingtonians.

Although I admired the fight in front of me, I was bothered by what didn’t happen. None of Berrigan’s officers beared-out. The three werewolves in his group didn’t pull out their pistols and shoot at the attacking Iowans or wolf-out. The two Nodwicks close to me took a few steps away, and Berrigan walked up behind me.

“A thrilling sight, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, and we’re winning,” I observed.

“I’m sure you think you’re clever. However, you see that none of my officers nor my werewolf guests are participating in fighting you Iowans.”

I’d already noted that.

“We aren’t worried about our safety because we knew this attack was coming. I wouldn’t have arranged this large group affair unless I knew I’d have control over it. I would be foolish if I hadn’t expected such a reaction. Your people weren’t the only ones who planned for an attack.”

“We’re winning,” I repeated.

Amy approached both of us. “This is such a stupid waste of lives. Joe, your people only had to submit to Berrigan’s rule. It’s really quite simple.”

“Ah, Ms. Andrews, you remember how your people first responded to my rule,” Berrigan said. “They fought valiantly as well, and many lost their lives. They weren’t nearly as organized as these Iowans, but the result was the same.”

Some of the Iowans at the back of the struggle weren’t fighting at all. The wolves paced restlessly. The people shot through the ranks, sometimes to hit a Washingtonian. Five people gathered together at the back of this unsettled group. These five surveyed the scene, and one of them caught my eye. This same woman pointed to either side of the struggle.

They’re going to try a flanking maneuver.

“They should have planned more in advance,” Berrigan remarked. “Because now it’s too late.”

A person appeared on the crest of the hill behind the battle. Five wolves followed. The wolves dashed toward the rear of the Iowa forces. The person aimed his pistol and shot one of the five who’d been plotting in back. Six other groups of wolves crossed the summit of the hill and charged toward the rear of the attacking Iowans. Eight more people joined the first to take potshots at those Iowans in the rear.

After one of the five was shot, the others turned and saw the approaching wolves and people. Shouts rang through the back ranks of the Iowans. Wolves and people looked uphill to see their attackers. Now, the Iowa forces surged in two directions. About a third or more toward those wolves and people moving down the hill and the rest toward those between the Iowans and Berrigan’s little group.

I shook my head. We should have guessed Berrigan would know we’d try this attack. Of course, he’d be prepared.

“You can see how the nature of the battle is changing,” Berrigan explained. “Our reinforcements are the reason my associates and I weren’t worried. You may surrender and keep your life.”

“I can’t believe it’s going to end this way,” I responded.

“You Iowans never had a chance,” Amy said quietly.

In groups of ten or more, wolves poured over the crest of the hill. People dashed over the hilltop, paused, fired a few shots at the Iowans below them, then continued their assault. I counted a hundred as even more became visible.

The Iowans fought both toward the front although with the greater attack coming from the rear, more natives turned in that direction, either as wolves or people, and charged that way to meet the menace. Groups of wolves collided together. Claws and fangs met as some groups attempted to surround others, only to be flanked themselves. Shots rang out as bullets hit people and wolves alike. Many a wolf collapsed to the ground to transform into human form covered in white fur. People also fell when hit either in the head or the heart.

With the rearguard attack, the Washingtonians closer to Berrigan and his select group now pushed against the Iowans instead of the other way around. And still more wolves and people came over the hill.

There must be over two hundred who are attacking us from the rear. Nobody would have predicted that.

“Are you going to let your people kill them all?” I asked.

Berrigan laughed. “Of course not. What good would that do me? My forces will beat yours into submission. Once the Iowans have surrendered, we’ll let the rest live, so they can tell others of my invincibility.”

I felt tears in my eyes. I’d had many experiences as a WOOF agent, but in every one, I’d had hope, hope for a good outcome, hope that we’d triumph over the evil, hope that the evildoers would be punished. As a WOOF agent, I never gave up, never surrendered. As a WOOF agent, I always fought to the end.

I glanced around me. The Nodwicks stood close to the line of BE vice presidents, many of whom were talking among themselves and analyzing the battle happening on the bowl-shaped hillside. Phillip Barnes and Sheryl whispered to each other, and using my werewolf hearing, I heard them flirting and planning for a lustful getaway once this disturbing scene was finished. The Nodwick still stood next to Santorini with his pistol aimed at the wererat.

My fellow Iowans might not be able to make a difference here, but I can. I knew I would die. I knew the werebears and the Nodwicks would rip me apart. But I couldn’t stand idle as my fellow Iowans were dying for the cause of freedom and I simply stood here.

“You know such a move would be foolish,” Berrigan said, guessing at my thoughts.

“Please don’t, Joe,” Amy urged. “You and I can help Berrigan rule and live out our lives as happy werewolves. We can raise children and even begin our own pack. Isn’t that a better alternative than death?”

“No,” I whispered.

54

Attack from the Air

A noise like that of twenty or thirty riding lawn mowers sounded above the growls, howls, snarls, whimpers, and gunshots of the battle in front of us. The combatants were too busy to gaze up in the sky where this noise was coming from. They continued in their tussling, clawing, mauling, and shooting of their opponents.

But I stood with those only watching the battle, so we could gaze into the sky. Small flying vehicles sailed from the left about two hundred feet above the cornfields surrounding us. About fifteen of them were miniature planes about five feet long with seven-foot long wingspans. These planes were in five rows of three. The other fifteen planes, in a Canadian goose formation, were only three feet long with five-foot long wingspans.

The larger planes dove toward the battle until they were only twenty feet above the ground. They raced over the still growing horde of Washingtonians charging over the crest of the hill. When the planes were directly over the onslaught of rushing wolves and people, they shot missiles the size of soda bottles. As the missiles reached the attackers, they exploded, blowing off heads of people, splattering shrapnel into the backs of four or five wolves. Each row dove toward the battle, releasing their missiles and spreading havoc among the Washingtonians. Wounded and dead and people and wolves littered the rear of the Washingtonian lines. While the larger planes were dropping destruction upon the battlefield, the smaller planes circled around overhead.

After the last row had released its missiles, the formation rose into the sky as the smaller planes’ formation dropped toward the battle.

“God damn fucking wererats,” Berrigan snapped.

Fantastic, ingenious wererats!

As the second formation flew only twenty feet above the horde, each each plane strafed the wolves and people. Tiny bullets raked the backs of wolves while they pockmarked peoples’ heads, arms, and legs. Some people stopped and gazed at their attackers only to be blinded by the miniature bullets. Screams broke out from those wounded by the missiles and tiny bullets. After the second formation passed over the Washingtonian horde, it flew in a semi-circle and made another pass. A few people shot bullets at the small planes and hit, but more had their arms and bodies ripped up by the strafing.

When the second formation rose higher, the first formation made another pass, again sending missiles to destroy those beneath.

Armstrong stepped up to Berrigan. “We’ve made some arrangements for this situation.”

“Have them attack now,” the leader commanded.

“I already have,” Armstrong told him.

From out of the nearby orchard to our right, twenty wererats moved five anti-aircraft missile platforms. Each was about two feet tall with foot-long missiles in a foot and a half long, eight-inch high, and one foot wide metal box. A control panel just the right size for a wererat sat behind the missile launcher. One wererat sat at these controls and the four others, armed with small assault rifles, surrounded each platform.

Immediately, they began firing their missiles. A few of the missiles missed, but one missile hit a larger plane in the rear. Its tail burst into flame, but the pilot was able to maintain control and fly beyond the battlefield. Two other missiles smashed into another large plane. Both exploded, and the plane followed suit.

One of the larger planes again making a pass over the battlefield waited until it was almost beyond it, then sent its own missiles toward the anti-aircraft platform. The missile hit one platform, still armed with missiles that burst into a fireball.

Where are the Iowa wererats to take care of those? I glanced at Berrigan and his officers. They’d stopped watching the planes and were again surveying the larger battlefield where the Iowans were still taking more injuries than the Washingtonians.

The sound of a riding lawnmower and flapping wings echoed over the house behind us. I turned as did most others in Berrigan’s group. A helicopter about a foot tall and three feet long flew over the house. It paused about fifteen feet above us then began strafing the werebears and werewolves.

“Stop them,” Berrigan ordered. “Destroy that copter.”

All the Nodwicks besides the two next to me drew their large pistols and shot at the helicopter. It dropped in height and strafed the Nodwick closest to Santorini. The miniature bullets ripped across the werewolf’s head and chest. He raised his pistol directly at the helicopter and fired as Amy, Phillip, and Sheryl did the same. A missile from one of the anti-aircraft batteries hit the tail of the copter, causing it to spin around and around, then crash against the ground near the corner of the house.

Three Nodwicks dashed to their injured pack member.

“Damnit, don’t help me,” he growled. “Find the wererat.”

I looked at the elevated table that had fallen to the ground. Santorini was gone. Even if the wererats in the small helicopter had died, they’d saved their leader.

Iowa wererats will take care of those anti-aircraft batteries. They’ve saved Santorini, so they’re free to attack now. Because our Iowa wererats always played at war games, or at least they’d bragged to me many times they did, I doubted the Washingtonians had done much since the rise of Berrigan. And he says we’re foolish.

I decided the time had come for me to add the chaos. As Berrigan and his werebears watched the action, they discussed the successes or failures of each fighting group. Despite the wererats’ attack, the Washingtonians were still putting great pressure on the Iowans, both in the rear and the front. Amy and her fellow werewolves also were huddled together. I wasn’t sure what they were conversing about nor did I care. The Nodwicks milled around restlessly because I guessed they wanted to participate in the fighting. Justin was leading them now, but many didn’t pay attention when he gave an order. Two stood close to me. However, neither was watching me very closely.

I pounced on one of the Nodwicks, knocking him to the ground and making a grab for the pistol at his side. Two others stepped on either side of me and whacked my back with their nightsticks. I ignored them. The Nodwick I’d attacked attempted to hit me with his nightstick, but one of my hands held his hand to the ground. Although I could grab at his pistol, it was snapped into his holster, and my hand couldn’t quite grab the holster as the Nodwick staved off attacks from his free hand.

A huge hand yanked me away from this mess and tossed me into two waiting Nodwicks. They grabbed both of my arms.

“Now, Mr. Butler,” Armstrong chastised, his hand being what had pulled me from the fray, “we expected better of you.”

“Did we now?” Berrigan asked.

“Let me beat some sense into him,” Justin suggested.

“He knocked me to the ground. Let me,” the Nodwick I’d attacked said.

Berrigan stepped closer to me. “I think I might like the pleasure of punishing this recalcitrant myself.”

I gazed into the werebear’s eyes. He’s afraid. He’s afraid his ploy may not succeed.

As I was staring down my nemesis, I let my spirit fly. I was part of a pack. Right now, I needed the strength of my pack. All the strength it could spare. I flashed through what was happening to each in my pack.

Melvin was in wolf form and fighting three Washingtonians. Two were wounded, the third still fresh and fighting well.

Thelma, in human form, lay on the ground, bleeding from a leg wound. Although she was wounded, she continued shooting her pistol at Washingtonian wolves and people alike. She hit every time, but not every shot was fatal.

Peter and Pauline were in wolf form and both struggling against seven Washingtonians. Peter pounced on the back of one and bit his neck. Pauline knocked another to the ground and snapped her jaws around one of her opponent’s legs and broke it.

Frank was in human form and shooting a pistol as well. He glanced toward the wererat anti-aircraft platforms to see ten wererats in fatigues storm one of them, firing their assault rifles at the guards, then blasting the wererat from the controls. An Iowa wererat quickly took his place. Another person jumped in front of Frank, and he shot this Washingtonian in the face.

Victor was in wolf form, and he and three others were chasing five Washingtonians toward the rear of their formation. Other Washingtonians pounced on them from the side. Victor and his companions spun around to combat this new menace.

Grant was in wolf form and was attacking the Morton pack also in wolf form. He killed one, then another, then another. He was a strong wolf, and the Mortons were wimpy compared to him. He was exacting revenge upon them for the many times they’d tried to kill me.

I felt strength pour into my hungry, tired body. The strength of the pack. I felt my powers increase as I received energy and endurance from each of my fellow pack members. We were a pack. We were one. We were mighty in our union.

Berrigan’s hands balled into fists. He raised one hand to strike me.

55

Reinforcements

Howls from hundreds of wolves rang through the air from between the house and the highway. Wolves of various sizes and colors dashed in a steady stream from both sides of the house. Most sprinted around the barns and up the hillside. Many disappeared in the orchard to the right to reappear to flank the greater mass of Washingtonians further up the hill at the same time others came from the cornfield. Quite a few people jogged along with this mass of wolves. I quickly took a count of the wolves and people I saw dashing around either side of me. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred.

My God. There’s more coming than Berrigan brought.

But not all wolves rushed beyond Berrigan, his werebear officers, and werewolf associates. At least fifty broke off to attack these people.

“Bear-out,” Berrigan ordered.

His associates did so. Fur erupted all over their bodies that grew in size and height. Their hands melded together to make paws with huge claws springing forth. Their nose and mouth elongated as they squished together to form their muzzle with sharp teeth. Three black bears, three brown bears, and three grizzly bears, including Berrigan, spread out to meet the onslaught of wolves. The grizzly bears when they stood on their hind feet were almost eight feet tall and probably weighed six hundred pounds, both the brown and black bears only about six feet tall, weighing five hundred pounds. In either case, they made huge, scary enemies.

Amy, Phillip and Sheryl wolfed-out to meet the attacking wolves and few people with them. The Nodwicks remained in human form around me.

I couldn’t pay attention to any of this activity because I wanted to take care of the Nodwicks before I joined the wolves in their attack of Berrigan and his associates. I yanked my arms free from my two captors then elbowed both of them in the stomach. Justin swung his nightstick toward me. I ducked under the blow and slammed my fist into his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Two other Nodwicks pounced on either side of me with nightsticks. I was fast enough to dodge both of their blows, so they hit each other, one in the face, the other in the chest.

Justin stood again, dropped his nightstick, pulled out his pistol, and aimed it at me. I dove to the ground, grabbed his nightstick, and whacked it against the back of his legs as he shot over me, hitting one of his pack, then fell to the ground backwards. I rolled, stood, and sliced my nightstick at two Nodwicks as I bypassed their blows. My club hit one in the face and the other in the neck.

Our fighting must have been noticed by the reinforcements since three wolves pounced and tore apart one Nodwick as two others knocked another Nodwick to the ground. The remaining Nodwicks dropped their weapons and wolfed-out. Most ignored me and attacked the wolves that were attacking the huge bears.

Justin remained in human form, stood, and raised his pistol. I kicked it out of his hands. We both dove for it, but I was faster, so I grabbed it and shot my opponent in the face. He didn’t get back up.

I stood and quickly surveyed the scene.

On the higher part of the hillside, our reinforcements were slamming the Washingtonians from both sides. Their unexpected attack was paying off. Occasionally, the wererats dove down in their planes and shot a few missiles at the Washingtonians. The smaller squadron of planes had flown elsewhere. A bit up the hillside, the anti-aircraft batteries sat in ruins. Wererats in human and rat form fought each other around these husks.

Closer to me, two groups of wolves had downed and were in the process of killing one black and one brown bear. Wolves charged to attack the grizzlies but each time the grizzlies with the speed and strength that Salway had shown a few nights before wounded or killed their attackers. Even closer, wolves were pouncing on wolves and I guessed the smaller group to be the Nodwicks.

Enough of this shit.

Howls of many wolves. Growls. Snarls. I ignore all because I know what needs to be done.

Strength from my pack still flows through me. I’m a larger wolf than usual.

Good! The better to kill off the rest of the Nodwicks.

Pounce on the backs of the Nodwicks attacking others. Bite. Scratch. Blood spurts from wounds of one wolf, then another as I attack each in turn.

After wounding some, other wolves turn on them and finish them. Turn into humans covered in white fur.

Nearby wolves howl. [To glory! To glory!]

Closest grizzly (must be Berrigan) jumps at us, claws flashing through the air. Slice! Slice! Blood from wounds. I quickly dodge with my extra strength and speed.

Join other wolves in a semi-circle around Berrigan. Other wolves similarly situated around the other two grizzlies. The wolves closest to one brown bear, attack, bring him down, kill him.

Wolves break through the lines behind us. They charge and pounce on unsuspecting bears. Bring down another black bear.

We’re winning. We’re winning.

Wolves pounce at the back of the grizzlies. Berrigan, standing on all four paws, pivots and slashes with his claws. The next grizzly doesn’t see the attack. Wolves jump on his back. He rolls over squashing many wolves into the ground. Others pounce on his stomach. Wolves attack the third grizzly who attacks them in a similar way to Berrigan.

Seeing my nemesis distracted, I charge. Bite one of his legs. His mighty claws slash the air of the space where I’d been. Not there now. He roars in fury. Lumbers after me.

Other wolves dash at him, bite, slash with claws. Berrigan’s fast. Many times he slices them before they get out of reach.

He roars again. Quickly pursues me. I turn. Dash to one side of him as others attack from the front. I bite his side, then around I go. He turns. Roars. Slashes with claws, but misses me again.

A wererat plane dives toward us. As it reaches its lowest height, it shoots a missile at the third grizzly. Explosion of flesh, fur and blood. Wounded grizzly. Wolves close in and kill.

Another taken out. Berrigan pounces at me while I’m not paying attention. I dodge to the right. Massive paw swats me. I dodge to the left. His other paw slaps me. Claws rake my side.

Other wolves backing away. I jump back. Berrigan pounces forward farther than I go back. Slap. Another paw hits me. Whap. Flings me to my back. Berrigan stands on back legs, gazes down at me, laughs as much as a bear can laugh. He drops toward me.

To my right a missile hits the other grizzly. Fur, flesh, and blood fly.

Doesn’t help me.

Berrigan has me. He drops toward me, mouth open, claws ready to slash.

To one side, gunshots ring out. Five. Each hit the huge grizzly’s head. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

I roll to one side as the huge bear collapses to the ground and transforms into a dead human, covered in white fur.

I was in human form again. I pressed my palm against the claw scratches across my side. They were bleeding badly, but I knew they were only skin deep. Lucky me.

Amy with a pistol in hand stood over Berrigan’s corpse. The last grizzly, although bloody and wounded, pounced on her. His claws slashed huge gashes into her side. She fell to the ground. Five other wolves jumped on top of the wounded grizzly, biting and tearing it to bits.

As they killed the final bear, I stood and saw white fur erupt over Amy’s body. I walked to her body as the fighting died off around me. She was a good werewolf after all. I inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. The death of a good werewolf always hit me hard. Amy’s death seemed especially tragic.

A nearby person shouted “Berrigan is dead!”

Others repeated the shout, “Berrigan is dead! Berrigan is dead!”

Many werewolves in human form dropped their pistols and raised their hands. Washington state wolves, seeing their human counterparts surrendering, followed suit. They whimpered at their Iowa attackers who backed off as both turned back into human form. A few Washington state people and wolves continued to fight, but with so many giving up without a struggle, these were soon killed or wounded badly enough that the fighting drew to a close.

Not far away, Donna Breeze stood over a wounded Phillip Barnes. She pointed a pistol at him. “You damn son of a bitch,” she yelled.

She shot him twice in the crotch then three times in the head.

I walked over to her. “So you didn’t get along with him,” I said.

“The fucker wanted to steal my kid,” she spat.

“But you said you’d gotten along and had settled matters with your child.”

“I lied. Not only did he want my kid, he engineered killing most of my pack.”

I surveyed the carnage around me. All eight werebears lay dead upon the ground but ten to twenty dead werewolves were around these corpses. The pyre on which the body of Salway had lain had fallen over. The broken wood covered an even more broken corpse. Wererats in human and rat form were scampering off into the cornfield and orchard. At least two hundred corpses dotted the battlefield.

Grant walked up to Donna and me. He looked at Donna, “I think we have you to thank for our victory.”

I looked from Grant to Donna in puzzlement.

“Those reinforcements we received,” Grant replied to my unasked question. “They came from Washington state. They came to fight for their freedom against Berrigan and his cronies.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Donna explained. “Joe is telling a story to the surviving young Oldwells and it’s all about the how a pack working together could triumph over anything. He said you were going to fight Berrigan and you’d win. I just let some of my friends in Seattle know. They must have spread the word.”

“I hope werebeasts won’t suffer too much in Washington state because of this battle,” Grant said.

Donna laughed. “At the same time we were fighting here, werewolves were planning to take out the werebears remaining in our state. I’m guessing we’ll be free from the werebears’ tyranny, if not now, then very soon.”

Grant gazed over the battlefield. “Victor and Thelma and many others are hurt. I have to call in our medics.”

“We had some of them come along too,” Donna said. “I’ll call ours.”

“Thank you,” I said to Donna.

She gave me a hug. “No, thank you.”

56

Dinner at my Place

The next night, the Oldwell and WOOF packs sat around my living room, eating a grand array of raw meat: pork chops, sirloin steak, chicken wings and legs, a turkey breast cut up into bite-sized pieces. We were celebrating our win of the prior night.

Everybody was here. We had Donna and the kids from the Oldwell pack and the entire greater Des Moines WOOF pack, including Patrick and Patricia, and Melvin’s and Thelma’s kids Kelly, Carson, and Tyler. These kids had gotten along well with the Oldwells’, especially Carson and Eldon. Prior to getting dinner started, the kids, except Kelly, had played at re-enacting the battle and always breaking into cheers when Berrigan and his crew had been vanquished.

Because they had been. Both Grant and Donna had received calls from Washington state, telling them how when we’d been fighting Berrigan forces in Iowa, freedom fighters in Washington state had been attacking his forces there. According to our sources, two werebears had survived but the rest as well as the most loyal werewolf packs had been defeated and mostly killed. The Washingtonians weren’t worried about the werebears coming back and terrorizing them any time soon.

After the battle, medics had sewn up Victor, Thelma, about another hundred survivors, and me. The wererats had found Grant and me and told us Santorini was alive and safe. They also said in the coming days they’d let us know where their new contact house in the Des Moines metro would be located.

As the kids were finally quieting down, Grant spoke loudly, “I think we should pray prior to partaking of this meal.”

“I’m so hungry,” Eldon moaned.

“Me, too,” Carson agreed.

These two had bonded almost as soon as they’d met.

“Boys,” Donna and Thelma said simultaneously.

The two boys giggled, and Tyler joined in.

Then we all bowed our heads.

“Dear Lord,” Grant prayed. “We thank you for granting us victory yesterday over the forces of evil. We thank you for all who survived. Help us as we mourn for all whom we lost. Give us strength and courage to endure the days ahead as we come to grips with this new world you have granted us. Bless this food to our use and us to your service, in Jesus’ name we pray.”

“Amen,” we said loudly.

We passed around the different meat dishes. I chose a pork chop and two chicken legs.

“I’ve got another announcement,” Grant said loudly. “The Celebration of Life for Aaron Snyder will be held on Saturday, and on Sunday, we plan to hold one for about half of the others. A week from Saturday, we’ll have one for the rest.”

“And for Amy?” I asked.

“She’s from Washington state. Some werewolves will celebrate her life there.”

I sighed. I’d wanted to attend hers and to speak about her sacrifice at the end.

Donna, sitting next to me, elbowed me. “You know it’s best. Her family is there. They should be allowed to have a proper celebration for her.”

“I know,” I conceded quietly.

“And the werebears?” Eldon inquired.

Grant smirked. “That’s also for the Washingtonians to determine.”

“’cept us,” Lucy said. “’cause we’re Iowans now.”

“Here, here,” everybody said. We adults grabbed our cans of beer. The children their cans of soda. We all raised our beverages to this good news.

I ate away at my pork chop as others drank beer or dug into their meat.

“One person we should be thankful for is Joe,” Donna said, interrupting our feeding frenzy.

“Yeah, that was incredible,” Peter agreed. “Berrigan had our two SPLs shot, but left you alive. Do you know why?”

I smirked. “He thought Santorini and I didn’t have any power. I think he had plans for us once Salway’s Celebration of Life got started.”

“But it never did,” Pauline said.

“The wererats must not have given the Washingtonians full run of all their facilities,” Victor observed. “Because if they had, the Washingtonians surely would have taken out their planes and helicopters.”

“That could have turned the tide of the battle,” Patrick noted.

“Berrigan’s wererats must have known it was possible,” I cut in. “After all, they did have their anti-aircraft batteries.”

“Enough! Enough!” Grant said loudly. “We don’t need to analyze the battle. It’s time we just celebrate the win.”

“Yay for us!” Eldon shouted.

“Yay for us!” the rest of the kids echoed.

Again, we raised our beverages for a toast.

Sometimes kids understand things better than adults.

57

The End of the Story

Following dinner, Donna was getting the kids ready for bed. The rest of us were sitting around the living room, drinking beer, and discussing what we might say at the two huge Celebrations of Life to come.

Eldon ran down the stairs and to me. “Hey, Joe, will you tell us the rest of the story?”

I’d almost forgotten. “Of course, I will.”

Not long after Eldon dashed up the stairs, I followed. When I walked into the kids’ room, I asked, “Now, where was I?”

“Harold’s pack had defeated the witches and was going to find the treasure,” Lucy said. “What happened next?”

The rest of the kids joined in her chorus.

Harold and his pack gazed into the dark building, but they were werewolves, could easily see in the dark, and weren’t afraid at all. The pack rushed into the building, split up, and explored it extensively. A few also investigated the towers, but they found nothing of interest. Those who checked out the large building discovered a dining room with table and chairs to sit fifty; huge bedrooms containing large canopied beds with huge mattresses; a dance hall for at least three hundred; an armory filled with swords, battle-axes, shields, bucklers, spears, and maces; and small quarters for at least two hundred servants. Harold and his pack grabbed a few weapons but knew they hadn’t found the treasury they and Count Barnabas wanted so badly. Harold ordered the pack to pull on torch receptacles and anything protruding from the wall in the hopes they’d find a secret passage. About an hour later, one of his pack did.

The wall moved aside and revealed a long, curving staircase leading down beneath the castle. Harold hurried into the depths followed by his pack. He led them down a long hallway with only one door at the end. A strong werewolf volunteered to open the door because if it set off a trap, he was willing to meet the threat. He pushed the door open, but nothing happened. Instead, the door opened to a huge chamber filled with the promised treasure.

The werewolves were greeted by piles and piles of gold coins; emeralds, diamonds, rubies and other jewels, many the size of a fist; so many gold objects encrusted with jewels: crowns, armor, scepters, plates, and silverware; chests filled with jewels, and a variety of weapons with gold handles: maces, swords, scimitars, battle-axes; assorted jewelry including rings, necklaces, brooches, earrings, all in gold and adorned with many gems. Harold guessed there to be almost a hundred thousand gold coins alone and ten thousand jewels. The coins and jewels alone would provide money to feed his pack for hundreds of years to come.

Harold and his pack gazed in awe at all of this treasure. Unfortunately, they weren’t to be left to it alone.

Thirty bats flew into the chamber and transformed into vampires with Count Barnabas among them. All of the vampires had swords at their sides. A vampire slammed shut the chamber’s door.

“Harold, you performed excellently,” the count congratulated. “I did not think you would make it this far.”

“We’re werewolves,” Harold replied. “We’re powerful as a pack.”

“I doubt you are powerful enough to stop my group of vampires,” Barnabas countered.

“Then you don’t understand werewolves very well.”

Harold and his pack all reached out and shared the power of each individual as well as the unity of the pack. Everyone became stronger, faster, and smarter. Because individually they might be weak, but as a pack they were as strong as can be.

The vampires pulled out their swords. Immediately, half of the pack wolfed-out and the other half charged the vampires with their weapons. Many vampires dissolved into clouds of mist as others shrank into bat form. For those brave enough to fight the pack legitimately, the werewolves and vampires broke into a huge struggle.

About five wolves chased the bats. The bats flew as high as the ceiling, but the strong wolves were able to leap that high and snap their jaws around the flying bats. The bats melted into ash.

Other werewolves and vampires fought with weapons. Harold and Count Barnabas were among them. Both leaders had swords and their swordplay was intricate. Occasionally, vampires would materialize behind Harold with the intent of killing him. Wolves pounced upon such vampires and chomped them to bits. Neither Harold nor Barnabas gave way in their battle. Harold was so busy fighting he couldn’t see how his pack was doing.

“You will lose,” Barnabas said.

“When we’re a pack, we always win,” Harold retorted.

“But we are vampires and powerful. You are werewolves and stupid.”

That statement showed how little vampires understand us werewolves. We may be many things, but stupid isn’t among them.

“You’re arrogant, selfish, and cold,” Harold said.

“All is better than any characteristic werewolves have.”

Harold noticed that the sound of their swords clashing together was the only sound in the chamber. He wanted to look behind him but knew if he did, Barnabas would kill him. Then six wolves jumped over him and on top of Barnabas. The vampire hadn’t expected it, so the wolves ripped him apart. As he lay bleeding in the treasure, Harold stood over him.

“See? Werewolves as a pack are stronger than an even greater number of vampires.” Then Harold chopped off Barnabas’s head and the vampire melted into ash.

Many werewolves had been wounded or killed, but they’d killed all the vampires.

“It’s time to leave this place. We must bring the wounded and dead, so we can heal or celebrate them accordingly,” Harold ordered.

“What about the treasure?” a werewolf asked.

“We don’t need material treasure. We are werewolves, and we have our pack. Our pack provides all that we need: integrity, love, happiness, pride, purpose, spirituality, and family. If we have all of these, none of this treasure can make us richer.”

So the pack gathered their wounded and dead and left the castle never to return.

I stopped and gazed at the kids who looked at me with wide eyes. “And what is the moral of the story?”

“Everything we do is for the glory of the pack,” Eldon answered.

“That’s right, because the pack is important to us in so many ways, so we should do all we can to help its reputation in the eyes of the world and itself,” I said.

The kids and I shouted, “For the glory of the pack!”

About the Author

James T. Carpenter is the author of six Samuel the Vampire novels, A Limitless Policy, Why I Shouldn’t Work with a Werewolf, My Daze as a Vampire Hunter, Economies of Blood, Zombie Feint, and Blood of All Evil as well as the theological-fantasy Hanged for the Few. This novel is his first Joe the Werewolf novel. Joe the werewolf appears also in Why I Shouldn’t Work with a Werewolf and Zombie Feint.

Carpenter holds a BA in Russian Area Studies from Knox College and works as a senior technical analyst for a regional insurance company in Iowa.

He enjoys travel. Most recently, he has made trips to Israel, Central Europe, Sicily, New Zealand, Argentina, and Chile.

Table of Contents

- Half Title
- Other Books by James T. Carpenter
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Contents
- 1: The Pack
- 2: A Murder Scene
- 3: A Strange Phone Call
- 4: Wererats
- 5: A Company Visit
- 6: Time with my Pack
- 7: A Party
- 8: Visiting with the Packs
- 9: The Trap
- 10: The Plan
- 11: The Evil Farm
- 12: When Plans Go Awry
- 13: Oldwell Pack
- 14: The Gathering
- 15: Celebration of Life
- 16: That Ends in Death
- 17: Pursuit
- 18: Investigations
- 19: My Date with Amy
- 20: The Opening of a New Office
- 21: An Interview
- 22: WOOF Pack
- 23: The Siskel Pack
- 24: Another Phone Call to Seattle
- 25: A Meeting of Leaders
- 26: Follow the Leader
- 27: A Business Opportunity
- 28: Massacre
- 29: Survivors
- 30: Credit Card Receipts
- 31: Another Date with Amy
- 32: A Conversation with a Wererat
- 33: Another Meeting with Grant
- 34: Another Meeting of Leaders
- 35: Evening Activities
- 36: The Attack
- 37: Another Wild Ones’ Party
- 38: Enforcement
- 39: Bedtime Stories
- 40: More Murders and Another Call
- 41: Seattle WOOF Pack Leader
- 42: A Meeting of WOOF Agents
- 43: A Meeting of Pack Leaders
- 44: Witches
- 45: Donna’s Story
- 46: A Meeting with Vince
- 47: The Rescue
- 48: Another Party
- 49: The Rebel
- 50: Prison
- 51: A Visit with Berrigan
- 52: Another Celebration of Life
- 53: Rebellion
- 54: Attack from the Air
- 55: Reinforcements
- 56: Dinner at my Place
- 57: The End of the Story
- About the Author