Warren Murphy: Wolf's Bane

"Gimme," he said, and took the telephone from Ansel, waiting for the other man to leave and close the door behind him. Then, into the cell phone's mouthpiece, he said, "Yeah, who's this?"

"You wouldn't recognize my name," a very average voice replied. "I'm calling for Jean Cuvier."

"Don't rightly recollect that name," Bettencourt replied eventually.

"That's funny," the stranger said. "He sure recognized the boys you sent to waste him. Most of them, at least. You want them back, I'll tell you where to send the garbage truck."

That's all I need, thought Bettencourt. Admit to knowledge of attempted murder on an open line and get myself shipped to Atlanta for conspiracy. No, thank you very much.

"I don't know where you got this number," Bettencourt replied, as cool as he could manage in the circumstances, "but there must be some mistake. Sounds like you need to talk to the police."

That was a nice touch, Bettencourt decided, smiling to himself. He was about to disconnect, but then he heard the stranger speaking almost casually, as if he didn't care if Merle was listening or not.

"If that's the way you want it, fine," he said. "Thing is, Jean wondered if you could get together, maybe work this whole thing out before somebody else gets hurt. But since you never heard of him-" The Cajun's mind was racing, one thought stumbling on another, but he knew it would be madness to admit a link to Cuvier or the hunters in the swamp.

"Can't say I have," he said, "but I could ask around with my people, for the hell of it."

"No, never mind," the stranger said. "I should have gone to the police first thing, as you suggested. They can check out the bodies, see who they worked for, whether they had-"

"But let's suppose one of my people recognized this name ...what was it?"

"Cuvier." The stranger paused and spelled it for him. "First name Jean."

"Where would a person get in touch?" asked Bettencourt, heart stuttering against his ribs.

"Go south of Charles," the stranger said. "You've got an auditorium near Audubon Park, some kind of church revival going on. Across the street, you'll find a little Cajun restaurant, Justine's. The man you don't know will be there at half-past five o'clock."

The line went dead, and Bettencourt switched off the cell phone. He had other calls to make, but not on that instrument. He would reach out for Leon, get the hairy son of a bitch cracking on the job he should have finished long ago. And just in case the loup-garou was losing it, Merle would have backup waiting to complete the contract, maybe take out the wolf man while they were at it, to prevent him squealing later, if he got his leg caught in a trap.

Merle wouldn't lead the team himself, of course; that would be risky. But he would be in the neighborhood, by pure coincidence, to watch the play go down. It would be more fun than the prize fights scheduled out of Vegas that night, running live on HBO.

He set the cell phone beside his plate and called for Ansel, waiting for the fat man to appear. "Yeah, boss?"

"Give me a telephone, a real one this time, and be quick about it, hear?"

LEON WAS SICK of driving to New Orleans. Normally, he made the trek no more than three, four times a year, but this would be his second time within as many days. In his condition-wounded, hurting, weak from loss of blood, still grieving for the brothers he had lost-Leon was in a mood to scorn the summons from Merle Bettencourt, except for one small item.

Vengeance.

Leon hungered for it, had convinced himself that he couldn't survive without inflicting catastrophic payback on his nameless enemies. Without revenge, he was persuaded now, his bloody, aching wounds would never heal. The thought had seemed ridiculous at first, even to Leon, but he had been raised with magic, this and that kind, to imagine that he knew it all.

His wounds weren't as bad as they had first appeared to be, but they still pained him, and he was feeling somewhat light-headed from loss of blood. He had a shotgun pellet in his shoulder, burrowed deep into the flesh, no damage to the bones, apparently, since he could use his arm. Another piece of lead had grazed his biceps, left an ugly, oozing furrow, with flesh and fur peeled back and dangling until he had ripped it free. He didn't know how many pellets from the shotgun blast were buried in his side, but guessed there had to be two or three at least. Again, they had struck nothing vital.

There was no pack with him this time. They were shunning him. Leon had tried to leave the bitch behind, as well, but she was having none of that. The two of them would finish it together, but he didn't know what to expect from her once they had settled with their enemies. He was unfit to lead-that much was obvious-and Leon didn't know if she would stay with him when he was expelled from the pack.

No. He knew. She would stay with the pack. She would gravitate to the new alpha male.

Leon pushed that away and turned to business. He wondered how Merle Bettencourt had traced the enemy so quickly, and it bothered Leon that the Cajun mobster was directing him again. The first tip, sending Leon to Desire House, had been disastrous, and he had never seen his hated adversaries in the swamp, could not have sworn that they were even there. Now, Bettencourt said they were back in the French Quarter, hanging out around some Cajun restaurant.

Leon decided he would have to kill the mobster if his tip proved wrong this time. Three strikes, you're out, he told himself. It would be difficult, of course, but not impossible. A man-or loup-garou-who didn't care if he survived was the most formidable enemy on Earth.

The part about the restaurant made Leon smell an ambush. How could Bettencourt know where his enemies were having supper? And, more to the point, if he did know, why would he summon Leon for the job when he could easily have sent some guns along? It was a fact that Leon owed one body on his contract, but with all that had been going on, it seemed to him that Bettencourt would have preferred to trust his own.

Unless, of course, he planned to kill two birds with the same stone.

He had dispensed with the disguise, since there was still a final night of Mardi Gras ahead, permitting him to travel more or less at will, without the mummy wrappings. It was dark out, sidewalks crowded with a host of drunken revelers whose costumes made the wolf man's normal look seem positively tame. Raw wounds or no, Leon knew he would fit in with the herd and pass unnoticed through their ranks-at least until he found his prey and started raising hell.

He cruised past Justine's, saw no familiar faces from Desire House or the Cajun syndicate, but he was still ahead of schedule. Anyway, Merle Bettencourt could have a hundred gunners on the street disguised for Mardi Gras, and Leon wouldn't pick them out until they pulled their guns and started blasting.

Never mind.

He hadn't come this far, the need for vengeance churning in his gut, to simply turn around and go back home. He needed blood, and wouldn't rest until he tasted someone's, be it Cajun, Yankee, Chinaman or Gypsy witch.

Directly opposite Justine's, an auditorium's marquee displayed a sign for Mission Mardi Gras in foot-high letters. Underneath that cryptic legend hung the name of Reverend Marvin Rockwell. A line of folks waited outside the auditorium to get in, their Sunday-best clothes marking them as a distinct and visible minority in the riotous throng.

Leon dismissed them from his mind. He had no interest in religion, and damn little in the world of men, which had excluded him from birth and thereby canceled any debts he might have owed to a "polite" society. To Leon, all the festive crowd meant was potential cover when he made his move. He found a place to drop the station wagon two blocks from his destination, parked the stolen car and waited for the bitch to make her exit, locked it up and pocketed the keys. Leon couldn't predict if he would ever pass this way again, but just in case, he didn't want to find a bunch of alcoholic elves or gargoyles sprawled out in his vehicle when he was running for his life.