John Levitt - Unleashed

I couldn’t answer any of these questions, and Eli and Victor hadn’t been much better at coming up with a logical theory. Maybe it was time for a visit to someone who might be able to provide them-if he felt like it. Rolf. He wasn’t much for answering questions unless there was something in it for him, but he owed me. I’d helped him out when he was worried about Richard Cory-or at least I’d tried. Rolf was unpredictable; he might ignore my questions, but he might just as easily decide to answer them simply because it was a full moon on a Tuesday.

I called Sherwood and asked if she’d mind coming along. I was interested to see what her take would be about Rolf-I didn’t trust him much, although he’d never actually crossed me. Yet. And he had a fondness for good-looking women; that much was obvious by the way he’d reacted to Campbell. It might help make him more amenable, and every little edge helped.

I picked up Sherwood a little after dark and we headed down to his stomping grounds under the Bay Bridge. To Rolf, that was home. I think he was psychically drawn to the bridge, which was a good thing. It meant I didn’t have to search the city every time I wanted to talk with him. Of course, for all I knew he had a cell phone. It wouldn’t have surprised me.

The street in front was all parked up, but I found a spot a couple of blocks away. When we reached the gate I could see the faint glow of a small fire way in the back of the site, next to one of the massive bridge support pylons. I could barely make out three figures crouched around the fire. So Rolf had company. I didn’t want to go through the whole drill of climbing over the new gate, and I didn’t want to come up on the group unexpectedly in any case. Rolf was used to me, but his friends might not be.

I found a corner of the new wire mesh fence where the bottom didn’t quite meet the ground and pried it up a fraction, giving Lou just enough room to wriggle through.

“Tell Rolf he’s got company,” I said. “And be careful of those other guys.”

Lou gave a quick tail wag and was off. He didn’t look worried.

“Who exactly is this guy?” Sherwood asked.

“He used to be a practitioner, just like you or me. But over time, for reasons that Eli seems to get, but I don’t quite understand, he changed into something less human, something more like a magical creature.”

“You mean, like an Ifrit?”

“Not exactly. More like an archetype of some magical being-the stuff legends are made of. It’s something that’s been going on for years, centuries, probably. People eventually noticed, and made up folk tales about what they saw. Werewolves. Vampires. The fey. Rolf has friends even less human than he is. And there are still others, ones who have passed entirely over. They can be dangerous-I ran into a few of them last year.

“So you’re essentially saying that such things as vampires are real?”

“No, but there must be former practitioners who have taken on some of those characteristics. I’ve haven’t seen anything that matches up with a vampire yet, though. I don’t think I’d care to meet one, either.”

Sherwood looked skeptical, especially when Rolf strolled over to the gate, looking remarkably like any other homeless man. Lou wasn’t with him.

“Where’s Lou?” I asked.

“He’s fine. Hanging out by the fire.” He gave Sherwood the once-over. “You’ve brought another lady friend, I see.”

“This is Sherwood.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. The rescued damsel.”

Once again, Rolf seemed to know an awful lot about my life. He did his little trick with the lock again and swung open the gate. He bowed low in an exaggerated fashion, sweeping one hand out to the side. Then he turned and walked back toward the fire.

Lou was sitting close to the flames, staring intently into them. On the opposite side, Richard Cory sat on an overturned plastic bucket, looking incongruously elegant. Lou gave a start as we came up, backed away from the fire, and shook himself as if he’d just come out of a rainstorm.

Right outside of the range of the fire’s glow stood a third figure, blending into the shadows and piles of broken concrete rubble. I could see him only out of the corner of my eye; whenever I tried to focus on him my eyes played tricks on me and his figure vanished. Rolf followed my gaze and chuckled in that deep way he has.

“Kind of hard to see, ain’t he? It’s just as well, believe me.” He picked up a long narrow board and poked at the fire. “I don’t suppose this is just a social visit. What’s on your mind tonight?”

“The usual. I’ve got a couple of questions. I thought you might have a couple of answers.”

“Could be. You got something to trade?”

“You owe me,” I reminded him. “You asked me to find Richard, remember?”

“And did you?”

“Well, no, but that’s hardly the point. You asked; I tried. Got myself into a bit of trouble over it, I might add.” Rolf thought for a moment before nodding.

“Fair enough, I guess. Okay, ask away.” I told him about my encounter with the redheaded practitioner and the beast in Glen Park. “What I can’t figure out is the connection between the two and why he chose the aspect of the murdered boy,” I said. “What do you think?” Rolf looked at me with an expression that was hard to read.

“I think you’ve wasted a question,” he said. “It doesn’t take any special talent or knowledge to answer that one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it a minute. You have a practitioner that’s taken on the aspect of one of the victims, right? Which indicates first of all that he was involved in the murder, and second, that he can alter his appearance. You follow him, and he vanishes. Suddenly, a creature springs out at you. You don’t see the connection?”

“You mean he was able to transform himself into that creature?” Rolf let out an exaggerated sigh.

“You’re not getting it. There was no practitioner. There’s only the creature, the one who killed all those people. It’s a shape-shifter; it took on the persona of its victim, that’s all, and then reverted back to its natural self when it got you alone.”

“Oh.”

“A shape-shifter? How can that be? Does that mean it could imitate anyone?” Sherwood asked. “Even one of us?”

“I don’t know. I know it can take on the aspect of its victim, but I don’t think it can imitate just anyone, at least not as successfully.” He pointed at Richard Cory, who was blithely paying us no attention at all. “I’m sure Richard could tell you. He knows all about such things. But he doesn’t talk to people anymore. Ever since he came back from his time with the Wendigo, as you call it, he barely talks at all, even to me.” He smiled, showing teeth as usual. “And by the way, it isn’t a Wendigo, not a real one. If it had been a real one, you wouldn’t have come back.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks for pointing me in that direction, then.”

“Maybe Richard will talk to me,” said Sherwood. Rolf started to shake his head, then looked at her closely.

“You know, he just might. There’s something different about you. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there.” I’d been thinking much the same thing myself, ever since her return. “Just remember, he’s not all there these days. And don’t look in his eyes-that can be a disturbing experience.”

Sherwood walked around the fire and squatted down on her heels next to Richard. He ignored her, but then she started talking in a low voice, almost whispering. I instinctively leaned forward to try to hear what she was saying; her voice was oddly compelling, almost like the Wendigo’s. Richard Cory turned his head as if seeing her for the first time and answered in a low, mellifluous tone that rose slightly at the end, clearly asking a question.