I signaled Clyde and he and I darted for the fence. Once there, we cut north, heading toward the cars. Clyde was as quiet as any cat; I did my best to match his soft tread.
I lost Roman in the gloom, then heard the jangle of the chain-link fence. Clyde and I put on a final burst of speed. I flicked on my flashlight, and the beam captured a man straddling the top of the fence. I raised my gun, glad for the Glock’s seventeen-round capacity. I couldn’t kill Roman, because only he knew where he’d left Lucy. But I sure as hell could make him scream.
“Freeze!” I yelled. “Or I will shoot your ass right now.”
The man went still. As I played the flashlight over him, he turned his head and peered down at us in a way that reminded me of a bird of prey. Our eyes locked, and a spark of terror arced down my spine at the casual cruelty in his eyes. The genial Jack Hurley I’d met yesterday—with his book of poetry and feigned grief—was gone. In his place was a man capable of unspeakable savagery. A broken man who broke everything around him.
I thought of the appetite I’d glimpsed in Hiram. Like father, like son—Roman Quinn was the wolf behind Jack Hurley’s mask.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The man’s heels were snugged into the links and he kept a casual hold on the top rail. He’d slung the rifle over his left shoulder. Lying on the ground on the other side of the fence was a backpack; he must have tossed it over before starting up the fence.
My adrenaline had spiked during the run, and now I shivered with it. “Roman Quinn,” I said. “Or should I call you Jack?”
Roman looked eerily calm, even satisfied; another gratifying day in the killing fields.
“Clever cop.” He nodded his head in acknowledgement. “Roman will do.”
I thought of the paw print Clyde had found near Cohen’s house. The knowledge that this man had been watching Clyde and me, maybe watching Cohen, made the anger rise in my blood like boiling sap. My finger twitched on the trigger. Beside me, Clyde growled.
“Congratulations on figuring out my true name,” Roman said. “That was a tangled web to unweave. You’ve been busy.”
“Not half as busy as you. Killing babies and torturing old women.”
Atop the fence, he shifted ever so slightly. “I’d like to defend myself. But I have more pressing matters.”
“You make one move to escape and I’ll start with your kneecaps.”
“It would be terrible if you missed. One stray bullet and Lucy will die alone. But not forgotten. I’m sure the entire city will turn out to mourn her.”
Keep him talking. “But who will mourn you? Not your father.”
Pain first, then rage. His face flushed with fury. “You want to swoop in and rescue her. Bring little Lucy home so you can live with yourself at night. Isn’t that right, Corporal Parnell? Lucy is just another excuse for you to play the hero.” He shook his head. “Cops and soldiers. How badly you wish to save the unsavable. And how often you fail.”
My finger twitched against the trigger. But I’d noticed his word choice. Lucy will die. Which meant she was still alive. I focused on keeping my voice level. “I know exactly where to hit your spine to make sure you never walk again. And it’s tempting. So get down before I change my mind.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. In the gathering darkness, he looked both insubstantial and frighteningly real. Like a phantom only recently made corporeal.
Then the automatic lights popped on, a brilliant glow against the descending night. The wind shifted, rustling through the trees on the far side of the fence.
“Final warning, Quinn,” I said. “Game over.”
“You’re right about one thing. It is a game. But it’s far from over.” Roman pursed his lips and gave a loud whistle, then grinned at me without humor. “And now the game is about to get interesting. Tell me, Agent Parnell, how fast can you run? And more importantly, which way will you run? I can’t wait to learn who you choose. Will it be Lucy? Or your dog? We grow needlessly attached to our animals, don’t we? Even when they’re little more than tools.”
A low growl rumbled out of the dark. The hair rose on the nape of my neck and my flesh went cold.
The wolf dog.
I aimed for Roman’s left knee and fired just as Clyde darted around me, slamming against my legs and knocking me off balance. My shot went wild, and in that instant, Roman swung his other leg over and leapt from the fence. At the bottom he paused; there was a look on his face of rage mixed with grief before he grabbed his backpack and disappeared into the gloom.
I took a single step after him. But then Clyde growled, and the sound made my knees buckle. I’d never heard that odd cry from him, a snarl full of threat but also terrified. My bowels clenched and sweat popped on my skin.
As if in slow motion, I turned. Clyde was ten feet ahead of me, bouncing on his paws like a prizefighter, his lips slicked back from his teeth, his haunches tight. Seventy pounds of taut muscle and sinewy awareness.
Bounding toward us was a monster out of a children’s tale.
The beast was nearly three feet at the shoulder and broad across the back, with an immense, barrel chest, long legs, and a large snout and ears. I figured it at a hundred pounds or more. Its fur was smoke-gray tipped with black and its eyes glowed green in the artificial lights. It moved in and out of the pools cast by the security lights, hurdling suddenly into sight then vanishing into the shadows.
My hands fumbled with the gun. I screamed at Clyde to get down so I could fire off a round. But no amount of training would make him obey an order to lie down in the face of so great a threat. He lowered his head and his bark was a harsh series of sharp challenges.
The wolf dog disappeared into shadow again, then emerged in midleap.
I screamed as Clyde—an arrow loosed from a string—hurtled forward to meet the animal. The two went down in a rolling tangle of fur and teeth and claws.
“Aus! Aus!” I yelled, racing toward them, trying to get Clyde to break free. “Out!”
The animals fell apart and I raised my gun.
Then they were at it again, a seething mass of fur and muscle so intimately wound I couldn’t tell them apart.
“Damn it, Clyde!” I screamed, my entire body shaking. “Out!”
When the animals separated again, Clyde spun and rushed for the wolf dog’s throat. But the beast skirted sideways, dodging Clyde’s lunge and whirling to bite Clyde’s exposed flank.
Just before the great jaws closed, I fired.
The beast’s forward motion stopped. It turned its head, snapping at the unexpected pain. Clyde danced forward and then back, not closing in, sensing that the game had changed. I fired a second time.
The wolf dog sank to its haunches, then slumped onto its side. The immense eyes went blank.
I dropped to my knees. Clyde sniffed at the wolf dog, prancing in and out of the beast’s range as if daring it to rise. I called him to me; he came, tail wagging. I ran my hands over his body, checking for injuries, my fingers coming back lightly stained with his blood. He licked the tears from my face.