4

Two in the morning was, almost without exception, a purely dead time of virtually no activity in Arredondo County. Like most small communities, the bulk of its spread out and agricultural populace was in bed early, and options for nightlife were practically nil. The bar closed at two, which was why that time was the start of the dead silent period between the cessation of alcoholic availability, and the sunrise jam of traffic. For a five-hour period the only people to be expected on the road were drunks, and cops. And in order for the first responders to continue working, they relied, as in all municipalities, on a support network of specialists to keep everything from their engines to their computers running. At night the disptachers were the only workers who normally kept a lonely and dull vigil over the town and its peace officers.

The dispatch center was a small room, built into the second story of the municipal center and, since the attack, fortified against intrusion both from the outside and the stairs that led up to it. That was how the wolf had gotten to the two dispatchers it had killed in 2007. Their photographs now sat on an unoccupied area of the wall, looking down on Dawn Kirtchwiller and Ruby Holloway on yet another glacier slow night. The two women divided their attention between their phones and their computers; both wishing they were somewhere else. Having personnel on duty at night almost always proved to be an extraneous requirement, and both doubted that any important work would go on at this witching hour.

Kirtchwiller’s first instinct when she heard the ringing was annoyance. It was not surprising to receive an emergency call so early in the morning, it was simply not expected. Often the calls were from terrified or enraged family members, informing the dispatchers that a husband, or brother, or cousin was home from the bar again, stone drunk and belligerent. Or a headache, unending for the previous twenty-four hours, was, now that the firefighters were asleep, suddenly unbearable. Kirtchwiller had heard them all, and she was almost indifferent as she answered the phone. She noted that the call was plotting to Blackland High School, but thought little of it. Cell phone tracking was rarely precise. “911, what is your emergency?”

The open line was silent, without even the sound of breathing.

“911, hello, what is your emergency?” She was becoming very annoyed now. Even if she had nothing better to do, she did not appreciate having her time wasted. She tried eliciting a response again.

Someone laughed on the other end, a muffled, sarcastic chuckle. She heard voices in the background, but could make out no words. The laughter drowned now in the sound of something growling, a grunting and contentious noise that was low, animalistic, and finally, enraged. It built to a crescendo that forced Kirtchwiller to snatch her headset off. The cord ripped from the jack, and the sound flooded the room. Holloway turned, eyes wide at the alien sonic intrusion. The howl died off back into the grunting and writhing anger, and it was possible to make out a female scream in the periphery.

Kirtchwiller cut the call off, steadied her hands as best as possible, and replaced the headset. She immediately called for a unit to check the school.

Gilberto Rodriguez was the closest unit when Kirtchwiller snapped fully awake and went freezer cold. He was driving slow through the town, checking businesses and idly staring at the empty streets when the call went out on the radio. “204.”

“204,” he sighed, already seeing the location on his computer, and knowing that he would be sent.

“Blackland High School. 10 Lima. Open line 911 call dropped. Check area.”

“Motherfucker!” he shouted into the night. “10-4,” he responded more civilly. Rodriguez was alone. Evans and Rialto were the only two-person unit working, and that was merely by virtue of Rialto being on training. Rodriguez had been hired at the same time as Larston. He was new, and still less than comfortable with riding alone. He was also uncomfortable with the school. It petrified him when the older deputies had taken him out to the unhallowed ground to look over it. It was said to be haunted, and Rodriguez was not interested in confirming that notion.

He rode once around the school, listening through the lowered window of his Charger. There was no sound, no sign of life. He slow rolled by the cafeteria and glanced through the large windows. It was then that he almost swore he saw figures, silhouetted and looking out at him. He looked away, focused his gaze forward, and tried once more to spot anyone outside the dark, deep gray exterior of the building. He looked to his right, at the stand of trees beyond the sports fields, and thought he saw a canine form, crouched at the edge, stalking his movement. “Fuck this,” he muttered. He accelerated, not much, but enough to put him back on the pavement almost immediately. He got onto the road back to the town and sped off without looking back. He never saw the girl at the school entrance, illuminated in dim amber light by the one lonely bulb at the door. She watched him in silence, her head turning like a robot, following his car away from the scene.