A Pack of Two 4 (Patreon)

Lycanthrope (noun) – A sufferer of Cantrell’s Disease. Lycanthropes display enhanced strength, speed, and healing ability. Some claim to have heightened senses. All Lycanthropes change into a nonhuman, wolf-like state during the full moon (see Werewolves). Governments that tolerate Lycanthropes within their borders frequently imprison or tranquilize Lycanthropes for this period. At present, there is no remaining government body that tolerates unregistered Lycanthropes. Public knowledge of the Lycanthrope coincides with the onset of the Werewars and the revelation of the existence of vampires. This event is popularly known as Open Coffin.

***

Wagner grimaced to himself. He didn’t like to think of how it would end—his father tucked away in bed, riding out the failure of his organs one by one with a pretty British nurse to keep him comfortable. It wasn’t that he liked the thought of the man being alive. It wasn’t that he wanted him dead either. He didn’t know how he felt. His mind whirled around when he considered it, like he was playing a slot machine that never gave him a payout, only took more and more quarters.

He didn’t think there’d be some grand revelation when the final moment came. What would it change? A father gone from absent to deceased. He supposed he just didn’t like waiting so long for something that would mean so little.

He wished Hannah had rubbed his shoulders.

Wagner made a beeline for the duffel he’d packed by the door, three days ago. There was no way he was going to put together his essentials after the Kennel. “I gotta get to work.”

“They make you work after a Change? The way I hear it, it’s like… giving birth to yourself.”

Wagner winced at the thought. “It’s not. Sometimes you don’t even… I don’t want to get into it.”

Nonetheless, Hannah followed him while he collected his jacket from the hall closet. “Right, right, you don’t transform if you aren’t in the moonlight, but if you aren’t in the moonlight at least once, it’s bad somehow?”

“Something like that.” Straightening the collar of the jacket he’d put on, Wagner noticed she was staring at him. “Do I look alright?”

She went through a whole pantomime of smoothing out her scrubs. “Yes. Very alright. Better than I do, look at me, I should dress up nicer. This is a nice neighborhood. I don’t look like I should be even mowing the lawn here.”

“You look fine,” he assured her. “And even if you don’t, you cook good.”

“I told you, that’s like me calling you unamerican. It’s an insult!”

Wagner gave her a light laugh and headed out the door. Walked from the porch to the driveway, where he pitched his bag into the open window of his car. He reached inside to unzip a pouch it in and brought out his badge. Ran his thumb over it, the gold plating over the tin oval, as he carried it to the Pruitt house.

This was one of the better ones on the street, with grass so green it could’ve been radioactive. Wagner took care to avoid it, walking along the sidewalk and up the driveway to get to the front door. To protect and serve, he told himself. To protect and serve.

The scent paused at the welcome mat, trail broken up by the closed door, but he could tell it continued on inside. He had known it would. Wagner gave the door a cop knock. Hard bangs, impossible to ignore, but too polite to break the door down. For now.

“Police officer! Open up, please!”

He heard feet shuffling his way, a bathrobe fluttering with passage through the air before it was tied together. The door opened up and he saw the man of the house, Edward Pruitt. A man who’d recently hit fifty, his hair half white, his belly just staying on its side of his waistband. Well off enough that he could afford to live here, sleep in late—maybe get hairplugs if he got divorced and really had to date around again.

Wagner badged him. “Bob Wagner, LAPD. I have reason to believe there’s a criminal on the premises. Do I have permission to search your home?”

“A criminal? What do you—”

“Sir, please keep your voice down.” Wagner looked past Pruitt. He had a good view of the kitchen, Mrs. Pruitt in a housecoat. Her own hair dyed; Wagner could smell the chemicals. She hadn’t put on perfume yet. “That your wife?”

“Yes—”

“Is there anyone else in the house?”

“My son, he’s up in his room.” Pruitt turned to call him; Wagner put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll get him. I want you and your wife to wait outside. Safer that way.”

Pruitt was gesturing for Mrs. Pruitt to go outside with him when Wagner went in the house. Nice place. Needlepoint on the walls. Other little things that women bought when they had a place to put the little things they bought. Not messy. Wagner thought most family homes were messy. Neat freaks were something single people were. But maybe it was just the kinds of homes he got called out to.

Up the stairs. An entertainment room. The shutters closed and the lights off. Little glints off the great television idol that the couches and loveseats faced. Wagner bypassed it into a hallway. Open door—bathroom. Closed door—who knows? Closed door with music playing behind it. Son’s room.

The trail led there.

Wagner knocked.

The door opened.

The boy was thirteen. You could count the hairs on his chin. Wagner could probably also count how many days it’d been since he’d washed his shirt. Some grunge thing. In a year, he’d either grow out of it or try and make a career out of it. Wagner hoped he grew out of it. Kid didn’t have the face to be a guitar god. Maybe a drummer.

“Ethan, right?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Wagner badged him. “LAPD. I’m placing you under arrest for vandalism—” Hand on the boy’s shoulder to control him, Wagner faced him into the wall and collected his arms behind his back. “You have the right to remain silent…”

“Dude, what the hell are you doing? I didn’t vandalize—”

“Dude,” Wagner interrupted. “I can smell the spray paint. Can’s in your closet.” He cuffed him. “You knew that about mutts, right? That they have a sense of smell?”

With Ethan cuffed, he collected the spray paint canister in an evidence bag. Ethan just stood there, like he was in shock at all that was happening. Wagner could smell a few drops of piss in his boxers. He finished giving him his Miranda rights on the way down the steps. Ethan didn’t resist until they got outside and he saw his parents.

Everyone talked at once. Ethan cried out for his mom; she called his name. Mr. Pruitt rushed up to Wagner and demanded to know what was going on.

Wagner held up the spray paint, then pointed to his garage. “Congratulations. Your son’s an artist.”

“So you’re arresting him?” Mrs. Pruitt howled. “He’s a minor!”

“That’s good. His record will be sealed once he turns eighteen.” Wagner clapped Ethan on the shoulder. “You can still get that job at Best Buy, no prob.”

“Wait a minute, now, wait a minute—” Pruitt placed himself in Wagner’s path.

“Sir, move out of the way. You can pick him up once he’s been processed. They’ll call you once you can post bail.”

“Bail, Jesus--!”

“The judge might release him on his own recognizance.” Wagner looked to Ethan. “Are you in the Boy Scouts? They like that sorta thing. Extracurriculars.”

“That’s your house, right? You’re the… the wronged party, so to speak?” Pruitt said.

Wagner pushed Ethan past him. “It’s my father’s house. But I am staying there. And I liked the paintjob the way it was.”

“But you don’t have to press charges, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Wagner said, still marching Ethan across the street to his car.

“Officer, officer please.” Mrs. Pruitt, struggling to keep up on stubby legs. “My Ethan’s a good boy. He’s never acted out like this before.”

“He picked a helluva first time. Misdemeanor vandalism is up to a year in jail, court fines, restitution, counseling, two years’ mandatory driver’s license suspension…”

“I can’t drive!?” Ethan squeaked, his voice cracking.

“Officer, please, he’s starting high school!”

“He can start reform school.”

Wagner piled Ethan into the backseat of his car, slammed the door on him, then faced the parents.

“Look. I’ve got a ten-hour shift. If the paint’s cleaned up by the time I’m back, I’ll drop the charges. Until then, I think a little time to consider his actions will do him good, don’t you?”

Mr. Pruitt swallowed. “I’ll see about… washing that off.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Wagner said.

“Doesn’t he even get to buckle up?” Mrs. Pruitt wailed.

“I’ll drive slow on the way to the station.”