Blood Work Page 6

  Chapter 7

  I dropped Roberts at his apartment building and then dithered about in Myer for a while, ending up paying an average mortgage payment for a new watch. It was a Rolex, though, and had a compass, light-up display and the highest quality shock resistant technology you can get. A must for any vampire hunter. Then I spent the rest of my money paying for the parking. On my way out of town, I had second thoughts and turned around and went back to see Jacob.

  Jacob Whyte owns a bookshop on Edward Street, down at the Botanical Gardens end. Vogon Books is squeezed in between a boutique bar and a beautician. It specialises in ‘genre’ and ‘illustrated’ novels. Science fiction and comics for those who aren’t up with the parlance. Its usual customer is someone who’s pasty but isn’t a vampire, wears clothes ten years out of fashion but isn’t a ghoul, knows loads of useless trivia but isn’t a troll, and knows immediately the origin of the name ‘Vogon’. Sometimes, seriously cool people go in there too. I’m one of the latter. Jacob had to tell me about the Vogons.

  It’s a long, narrow place and kept rather gloomy, you know, to enhance the atmosphere. There were two guys loitering in between the shelves, near a bunch of books with fur-bikini clad, buff warrior-women on the covers. I grinned at them on the way past. They eyed me with wary suspicion usually reserved to inbred hillbillies watching a douche and his impossibly perky girlfriend roll up to their ramshackle hut in a car with a flat tyre.

  “Hey, Matt,” Jacob greeted me. He was a narrow man. Narrow of body, narrow of face, but thankfully, not narrow of mind. You could tell because he had no hair to cover it. At my best guess, he was pushing forty and might still live with his parents. He didn’t look up from reading the comic… eh, illustrated novel, on his counter. “Your book hasn’t come in yet. I’ll call when it does.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just wondering if you had any word of…” I paused and checked on the two guys in the store. They were standing together, heads close as they whispered furiously. “Any new players in town. I took down a mob on the Goldie last night, at Surf Wars.”

  That got his attention. He shoved his glasses up his nose and also made sure we weren’t going to be overheard. “Not heard a thing. What clan were they?”

  “They weren’t displaying any flavours. Too young. Not a psychic compulsion amongst them.”

  “Whoa, that makes them, what, younger than a month? Fresh meat.”

  I leaned on the counter and looked at his comic. Some new superhero type character I had no hope of recognising. Ooh, half-naked girl. No. Don’t get distracted, Matt.

  “Very fresh. Whoever turned them left them out on the street. Barry at Surf Wars told me that they had been terrorising his joint for a couple of nights. They nearly went postal on a bunch of kids last night. Me and Merce took them out.”

  “Any collateral damage?” Jacob reached under the counter and brought out a black leather-bound book. He flipped it open and began scanning the entries rapidly.

  “Nothing an industrial-sized mop couldn’t handle. Barry might not sleep easy for a couple of weeks, but he’ll recover.”

  Jacob nodded absently, poring over pages of his neat handwriting. The few people in Brisbane who were savvy to the world of the supernatural had a touchstone in Jacob. He was kind of our score keeper.

  “Hmm, there have been reports of Blues, Reds and Yellows. A possible sighting of a Green, but that’s under suspicion.”

  “Why?”

  Shoving his glasses up his nose, Jacob said, “I made that sighting. I was pissed at the time.”

  “Ah. Star Trek marathon?”

  Jacob smirked. “Zena. I got so lucky.”

  I laughed. “Good for you. But we have no real way of determining what clan they were. If no one has reported any new activity there, maybe it was a one-off.”

  “Maybe.”

  Yeah, and there was more chance of me getting lucky before Jacob again.

  I walked away. “Call me if you hear anything.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  I was almost at the door when Jacob called out.

  “Matt! Nearly forgot. There was a guy in here looking for you yesterday.”

  The two customers perked up, looking between me and Jacob. I walked back past them with the urge to play Whack A Mole. I resisted. My therapist would have been pleased.

  “Not a regular?” I asked.

  “No. Some bloke I’ve never seen before. He knew about you though. Didn’t come out and say anything definite, but, I could tell. He’s in the know. An older gentleman. Bit odd, but you’re no sparkling gem of normalcy, either.”

  “We’re talking Alec Guinness Kenobi, then?”

  “No. Very British though. Old world air about him.”

  “Maybe Van Helsing.”

  “You wish. He just came in, asked if I knew you and where to find you. Very reluctant to answer any of my questions.”

  “But the thing is, did you answer any of his?”

  “Of course not. What do you take me for?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” I waved at the shop around me then escaped before he could reply.

  Some gung-ho parking officer had ticketed me. I shoved the fine in the glove compartment and pulled out. Who would be asking for me by name that Jacob didn’t know? My social life had gone the way of the dodo years ago and the sum total of my human interaction these days was Roberts, the occasional client, Jacob and once a month, my therapist. Not a healthy circle of friends on anyone’s measuring stick.

  I swung onto the Riverside Express and headed for the Inner City Bypass, wondering who Mystery Man might be. I didn’t have any English relatives, hadn’t entered any sweepstakes and certainly hadn’t left behind any Van Helsing wannabes thirsting for vengeance.

  The phone rang. When I say rang, I mean it played a snippet of someone singing a dirty Christmas Carol. Damn Roberts! He was always messing with my stuff like this, knowing I didn’t have the tech-savvy to fix it.

  I answered. “You’ve reached Night Call Incorporated. We’re sorry to inform you that the office is currently doing a little better than the speed limit so you’re gonna hafta make it quick. Go.”

  “Mr Hawkins.”

  Ah, fuck it. “Hey, Dr Campbell, how’s things?”

  “Oh, you know how it is. Some client doesn’t show up for his appointment, doesn’t call, so I’m actually running ahead of schedule today.” My court-appointed therapist could be a droll fellow.

  “On the bright side, it’s a win for your other patients, isn’t it?”

  “I like your glass half-full attitude, Mr Hawkins. But I doubt Judge Miklovich would. This is the second appointment you’ve missed.”

  I winced. “Um, I meant to call and rearrange, honestly. I had a tough night last night and got a little distracted by…” By watching my vampire break herself against the bars of the cage I imprisoned her in. Boy oh boy, wouldn’t Campbell have a ball with that one. “Stuff.”

  “A tough night? Anything I should know about?”

  “Oh, you’d be pleased. I found a safe and controlled way of letting off some steam.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Paintball. Had a ripping good time.”

  “But tough.”

  The man didn’t miss a beat. He was probably recording this to analyse in our next session.

  “Teenagers. I swear they’re breeding them with a X-Box control in one hand and a water balloon in the other these days.”

  There was a speculative pause. “And who won the game?”

  Now there was a loaded question if ever there was one.

  “It’s not about who wins the game, good doctor, but who had the most fun.”

  Campbell vented a small, weary sigh. “Of course, Mr Hawkins. I have an appointment free on Monday. It’s yours. Show up and I’ll mark it down as a rescheduling and Judge Miklovich need never know.”

  Wow. I wouldn’t have picked Campbell for a rule bender. “Appreciate that, doc. And I did mean to call yo
u.”

  “Yes, I know you did. I’ll see you on Monday, eleven a.m.”

  He hung up before I could say anything.

  I was just hitting Kingsford Smith Drive when the phone rang again. What can I say? I’m popular. I answered and gave the same spiel as before.

  “Mr Hawkins?”

  The voice was male and probably not at an age where he could look back on puberty with a fond smile and manic gleam in his eye.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Tony Rollins. I got your card off a guy at the Fringe Bar.”

  In one sense, Roberts was the front man of my business, Night Call. When you have an unconventional business, it pays to be a bit unconventional in advertising, too. I’d given Roberts a wad of business cards so when he’s out at his real job—hanging off bars, giving out freebie drinks, chatting up the chicks—and he hears any talk about weird shit, he hands out a card. It works pretty darn well. I mean, I’m not on the streets and, with a bit of a stretch, got a new whiz-bang watch. He was pretty good now at picking the genuine deals, but sometimes he let a few doozies through. I have no doubt he does it on purpose, and hearing the nervous tremor in this kid’s voice, I got the feeling that this was one of those times.

  “How can I help you?” I asked, wondering what sort of impossible terror he had imagined up.

  “Well, it’s my dog,” he began.

  When nothing immediately followed, I prompted him with, “What about it?”

  “I think… I think he’s a werewolf.”

  Okay. I eased the car to a stop at a red light, taking a moment to think that one through. “Your dog is a werewolf?”

  “Yeah.”

  I had a fleeting and slightly disturbing image of some pimply faced kid waking up in the middle of the night to find a naked man curled up on the end of his bed instead of his faithful, drooling dog.

  “How long have you had this dog?”

  “Four years, since he was a pup. He’s a ridgeback cross Irish wolfhound and usually a very good dog, very gentle.”

  Ridgeback cross Irish wolfhound. That would be more than enough dog for anyone, even without throwing in a hefty dose of manic werewolf. But, thankfully, this was an open and closed case.

  “You’ve had this dog from when it was a puppy,” I said gently, accelerating as the light turned green. “And when you say you suspect werewolf, I take it you don’t mean he’s a human who turns into a wolf once a month?”

  “No. He’s a dog, yes, but around the full moon, he starts to act weirdly. He gets aggressive and snappy, and if he even smells another dog, he goes fucking ballistic. It only started about six months back. We’d been having this barbeque and Bubba –”

  My surprised laugh cut him off. “Bubba?”

  “Don’t blame me, my sister named him. He’s giant black dog. He should be called Terminator or Diablo or something, but no. She liked Bubba.”

  Poor kid. “My condolences. Please continue.”

  “So, this night, Bub got out of the yard and the next thing we know, he’s in this big barny with another dog. No one saw it, but we heard it. I thought the other dog was killing him, but Bub came back all cut and beat up.” Tony laid down a bit of significance silence, then continued in a low, portentous tone. “It was on the full moon. Since then, around the full moon, he’s been different. Jumpy, upset, stressed. And yeah, he goes after other dogs.”

  My initial thoughts confirmed, I said, “I don’t think your dog is a werewolf. That’s not how weres of any sort work. There are a heap of different mechanisms that can bring about the change; curses, infection, genetics, psychosis. But it always shifts a human to animal form. Never an animal to animal. ’Cause what’s the point in that?”

  “But if it’s an infection –”

  “Junior, there’s very few infectious agents that can jump species.”

  “A curse.”

  “Bubba got any mortal enemies? That sort of curse takes some effort. It’s not usually employed as a practical joke.”

  Tony made some noncommittal noises. I could almost see him blushing and scuffing the toe of a shoe against the ground.

  “My best advice is for you to take him to a vet. Get him checked out for every behaviour-altering disease there is. Chances are, that’s all that’s happened.”

  “But we did! We took him ages ago and it all came back negative. He’s perfectly healthy.”

  “Physically, maybe. But perhaps the attack by the other dog has left some sort of post-traumatic stress syndrome deal on your dog.”

  There was a short length of sceptical silence. “Isn’t that a human condition?”

  “So’s becoming a werewolf,” I replied dryly.

  More silence, more sad than anything else. “Okay, I guess you’re right. You’re the professional, right?”

  “Damn straight.” But I was already regretting the defeated tone in his voice. “Look, I’ll do a bit of research, okay. Maybe I’ve missed something.”

  The kid muttered a relieved sound. “Thank you so much. I can’t pay you much, but I have some money saved up for a car. It’s yours.”

  Ah crap. I ground my teeth against the impulse, lost the battle in a spectacular explosion of pity and compassion and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll make it pro bono. How does that sound?”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  “No problem.” It wasn’t. I’d seen the cheque Barry had written out last night. Roberts was a royal pain, no doubt, but he could bullshit with the best of them. And because I wanted to cover my arse, I added, “But keep a close eye on the flea factory. Keep him restrained, don’t let him out of the yard and don’t give him any raw meat. If, and I’m stressing the if, your mutt is infected with the were virus, blood will instigate a full-on change.”

  “Full-on change? But he’s been acting weird already.”

  “No, what you’ve described so far is a dog acting peculiar around the full moon, not real werewolf behaviour. You’d know if he went fully wolf on you. So, no raw meat, and if he so much as twitches in the wrong direction, you get your family out of there.”

  “You think he might…?” There was an audible gulp.

  “Better to be safe than sorry, kid.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sure. Thanks again.”

  I checked the phone to make sure I had a number. “I can get you on this number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll call you when I’ve Yoda’d this one out.”

  He laughed and I cut him off.

  Poor kid. A dog turning into a werewolf? De-lu-sion-al. Of course, I would be going through the lore on were-creatures tonight. After all, I had said I would.

  I flew up onto the Gateway and pointed the nose of the Monaro for home and cursed Roberts.