(fic) The Hunted - Prologue - PSoH
Dec. 2nd, 2007 01:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yellowhordeDisclaimer: I don’t own Petshop of Horrors and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write
Pairing: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Alternate Universe
Rating: R
Warning: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations, Hermaphrodite!D
Title: The Hunted
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for NaNoWriMo 2007
August, 2018
Los Angeles, California
The black, old fashioned rotary dialed telephone jangled, startling Chris Orcot, who had been bent over a pile of paperwork strewn over his normally neat desktop. It wasn’t an antique telephone, just one of those replicas that seemed to be so popular at the moment, but it looked and felt just like the old ones his father had been so fond of when he had been a little boy. It’s solid weight as he hefted the receiver and wedged it between his shoulder and his ear was a touch of home that helped calm his frazzling nerves.
“Orcot, here,” He said using his best professional voice, the one that he was told made women melt into helpless puddles of goo. He hurriedly began stuffing his collection of newspaper and magazine article clippings into a bulging manila folder that had definitely seen better days.
“Chris? Is that you?”
Chris sat up straighter at this voice, “Mom? Yeah, it’s me,” he continued in his normal, off-the-job voice. “What’s up?”
The woman on the phone wasn’t his biological mother, but the next best thing since he had never known his real mother. His mother’s sister had raised him as her own since he was seven and had earned both the title and respect, as far as he was concerned. He hadn’t really spoken to her since accepting his FBI position in Los Angeles and now, hearing her voice over thousands of miles of telephone lines for the first time in months, made him realize how much he missed her.
“Chris…” She trailed off, uncertain.
“Is Dad okay?” He asked suddenly as a horrible thought occurred to him. “He hasn’t had another stroke, has he?”
“No, your dad’s fine, dear, and driving me crazy,” She laughed lightly, but it sounded forced. “The sooner he gets back to work, the better. If he walks his muddy feet over my freshly mopped floor one more time, they’re going to have to haul me away for murder.”
“That’s good. I mean, that he’s fine, not that he’s walking on your clean floors.” He opened the lower desk drawer and set the file among a stack of others, each identical save for the name and filing number. Then he pushed the door closed. The silence on the line seemed to stretch out into eternity.
“They’ve reached a verdict, Chris,” she finally said. “The jurors, that is. And it’s all over the television and radio.” There was another short, uncomfortable pause but before Chris could rush to fill it in, she continued, “I just thought you’d like to know.”
So that’s what this is all about, he thought and felt a familiar, heavy stone settle onto his heart.
He’d been so busy with his caseload that he had almost forgotten. ‘Almost’ being the operative word. Somehow it was always in there, buzzing around the back of his head like a mosquito. There hadn’t been any real way to forget about the whole thing because it was all that anyone had been talking about for months. It was all over the news, the talk shows, the radio, and, of course, the internet. The whole country was up in arms about the case, almost literally. Discussions had become so heated that many work places had banned all discussions of the case until everything was decided after several incidents of employees brawling over a difference in opinion had put several people in the hospital with substantial injuries.
It was one of the most controversial cases of the year, the decade. Hell, it was the most talked about case of the twenty-first century. And it didn’t get much more sensational than this. Celebrity crime waves and sex scandals just couldn’t compete with real life werewolves duking it out with the legal system in order to win the right to live their lives free, without having to suffer from the institutionalization and sterilization that was forced upon them ‘for their own good’ by a rational society in the throes of superstition and fear.
Personally, Chris was all for equal rights for all United States citizens, even those that sprouted fur once a month during the full moon. His mother on the other hand… well, she had her own views and opinions about the matter. This difference of opinions was one of the reasons they had been so distant to each other these last few months. That distance wasn’t simply caused by the fact that Chris had accepted a West Coast assignment with the Federal Bureau of Investigations and everything to do with their clashing opinions over the moral, ethical and legal matters that were being hammered out in the halls of the United States District Court for the District of California.
“Yeah, thanks for letting me know.” He wanted to say more, but he didn’t know how to dance around their differences over this case. In the end, it was just easier to let it go without comment.
I guess I’m just as stubborn as my big brother, Chris thought with a sad half-smile.
“Look, I’ve got to go now, Chris. I’ve got to drive your father to his doctor’s appointment. I just… I thought you’d want to know one way or the other. Lord knows you’ve been busy since flying out to Los Angeles. Getting settled into your new apartment, and your new job with the FBI… I just wanted to let you know that I really do understand how important this case is to you.”
Chris almost smiled at her last statement. It was the closest she had ever come to mentioning the whole root of the matter. They had tiptoed around that issue for over twenty years now and that admittance could only be her small way of saying that she still cared. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could hope for. Maybe someday they would see eye to eye on the matter. Or at least be able to talk about their differences like rational human beings instead of screaming at each other like a couple of immature teenagers.
“Thanks. And I promise to give you guys a ring once things settle down here a bit, okay?”
“I – we’d – like that, dear. This old place just isn’t the same without you, you know.”
“Okay, I love you. I’ve got to go. Bye.”
Chris hung up the phone gently once his mother had disconnected turned his head to stare at a small framed photograph on the corner of his desk. It was a picture of his dad – his real dad – and his older brother, Leon. They had been sitting in the cheap seats at Dodger Stadium that warm July day back in 1998, cheering on their team as they battled the San Diego Padres. Dad and Leon drank beer and ate hotdogs and hurled insults and popcorn whenever they didn’t agree with the umpire’s call, which happened quite a bit, especially when the Dodgers were losing as they had been that day. If he remembered correctly – and he did – the Dodgers had lost to the Padres 3-6.
The picture was just a tiniest bit out of focus and off center, but that was only because he had been holding his disposable Kodak Max Outdoor Camera while trying to juggle his Pepsi and popcorn. He hadn’t meant to take a picture, but he was later glad that he had gotten the shot, accident or no. It was still a pretty good picture despite its compositional flaws, and, as the last photograph that would ever be taken with them all together as a family, it held a special meaning for him.
Leon, where are you now? He wondered, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. Are you happy? Safe? Are you even still alive?
Chris stood and stretched mightily, putting his mother out of his mind with some difficulty, mentally banishing her to the dungeon of his mind. Then he stepped out of his small cubicle and walked along the corridors, making his way to the employee’s break room. When he reached the security doors – there were security doors everywhere nowadays. You needed a personal identification and a key card to get into the freaking bathroom, for Christ’s sake - he dug his wallet out of his back pocket, removed his personal electronic key, and swiped it through the sensor lock on the door. There were three lights above the slot and when the middle one flashed green, he heard the deadbolt disengage. Only then was he able to push down on the door handle and let himself in.
The employee break room was a rather small, stuffy room with a full-size refrigerator/freezer, a soda vending machine – currently empty according to all the flashing red lights near each soda selection – and a few cheap folding tables with equally cheap folding chairs clustered around them. The counter that ran along the far wall sported a small stainless steel sink, a broken coffee maker and, not one, but two microwaves, one stacked on top of the other. Chris guessed it was designed that way to make the process of heating frozen dinners and leftovers more streamline, but the whole set up looked a bit top heavy and clumsy.
The piece de resistance was a twenty-seven inch colored television mounted high up in the corner of the room.
It wasn’t much to look at, but then again, it didn’t have to be. Most of the agents he knew went out to eat during their lunch hours and those that didn’t either ordered in from nearby shops – deli, pizza and Chinese were some of the more popular choices followed closely by fast food joints and Mexican - or brown bagged it. Most agents preferred to eat their meals at their desks, anyway, usually sitting in front of their computers or going over whatever cases they were working on at the time, all the while chatting on their cell phones with friends and loved ones. Indeed, they were the very models of efficient multi-tasking, if you could overlook the occasional splotch of ketchup on written reports, silk ties, or suit lapels.
The one obvious advantage of never having anyone actually use the break room was that no one using it meant it wasn’t a horrible mess. The second was that there wasn’t anyone hogging the television. There was nothing worse in Chris’ mind than trying to enjoy a good peanut butter, jelly and cheese sandwich and being forced to listen while one of his co-workers was watching The Young and the Restless or some other boring soap opera.
It wouldn’t be so bad if they would watch it with the volume at a reasonable, ear-safe level, okay, no it would be just as bad, but at least his ears wouldn’t be ringing by the time he went back to his desk because they always had to turn the volume up to the maximum setting as if they were deaf old biddies getting their daily fix.
Grateful that the break room was deserted, he made a bee-line to the television. Ignoring the remote control that lay on the chair under the wall-mounted television set, which was really just there to accommodate all the really short people, he reached up and jabbed the ‘on’ button with the tip of his index finger. The Young and the Restless popped on the screen with all its melodramatic glory. Pulling a face, he flipped through the dozen of cable channels until he found CNN.
An older, refined anchorman with dark, salt-and-pepper hair and gold tinted wire framed glasses stared out toward the camera. His voice was rich and reassuring, and his unsmiling face was somber. His name was Daniel Lewis and he had been delivering the news for as long as Chris could remember.
“For you viewers that might have just tuned in, there has been a verdict made on the landmark case of Baxter vs. the State of California, otherwise known as Fletcher’s Law in deference to Margaret Fletcher, the lawyer who is representing Kenneth Baxter, who is herself the biological mother of a lycanthrope.”
Chris reached behind him, pulled one of the cheap metal seats over to him, and then sat down, his eyes riveted to the television. Now this made for interesting television viewing. Who needed soap operas when real life was naturally full of such interesting and dramatic stories?
For centuries, Chris knew, Mankind had believed that there were only two ways a human could become werewolves. The victim was either cursed by an evil witch, or they had survived a werewolf attack. Many other whimsical beliefs existed, like the one that claimed that any person falling asleep under the light of the full moon would become a werewolf, but many people pooh-poohed such ideas as frivolous nonsense.
There had been many documented cases of humans that had been bitten by werewolves turning into werewolves themselves. According to all the ancient text, very few humans actually survived the initial attack and even fewer still survived their first full moon transformations because their bodies would almost literally tear themselves apart in the attempt to changing from human to wolf.
Most rational minds dismissed the idea of witches and curses, but many medical experts throughout the centuries agreed that Lycanthropy was nothing more than an extreme version of rabies – an extremely dangerous and fatal form of rabies, but rabies nonetheless. As scientific knowledge increased, it was deduced that some sort of virus was present in the nerves and saliva of a symptomatic rabid animal, most likely a wolf or other dog-like creature, and passed to the victim via a bite. If the victim survived the attack, it was observed that they would become exceptionally aggressive, were prone to attacking without provocation, and exhibited otherwise uncharacteristic behavior like intermittent insanity, which was believed to be related to the phases of the moon.
It wasn’t until the second half of the twentieth century that scientists discovered that lycanthropy wasn’t merely a blood-born disease that could be transmitted from person to person much in the way that a rabid dog could infect a human being when its saliva was introduced into the blood when its teeth broke the skin. To their horror they found that it was a hereditary genetic disorder, much like Hemophilia, a sex-linked disorder that manifested itself almost entirely in males, though it was the mothers of affected sons that transmitted the disorder to them genetically. Females, it was discovered, were almost exclusively asymptomatic carriers of the Lycanthropy disorder, meaning that they carried the abnormal gene of a recessive genetic disorder, but displayed no symptoms. It was deduced that they could have inherited it from either their mother or father.
Popular media, like the ruthless jackals they were, got wind of the news and resulting panic. They had a field day making and promoting a slew of B grade werewolf and monster flicks, books and comics that portrayed those who suffered from lycanthropy as mindless killing machines. One of the most famous movies, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, which was one of Chris’ favorite werewolf movies of the era, depicted the main character, Tony Rivers, who was played by Michael Landon, as a troubled teenager that had sought help through hypnotherapy. Unfortunately for him, his evil doctor used him for regression experiments that transform him into a rampaging werewolf. It was cheesy as hell, but ultimately entertaining, at least for people who liked those sorts of movies.
Needless to say, when this shocking discovery was eventually leaked to the public it caused no small amount of panic, especially among young expecting mothers. Hundreds if not thousands of women flocked to their physicians, demanding to have their blood tested. No doubt, their fears must have been very lucrative for the medical profession for the tests were prohibitively expensive. Fortunately, for most of them, their fears were ungrounded because it was later discovered that less than one percent of the female population carried the Lycanthropy disorder.
Those very few women that had actually been diagnosed as being asymptomatic carriers for the Lycanthropy disorder had some hard decisions to make, especially if they wanted children or were currently pregnant. Some decided that they’d rather not have children rather than risk giving birth to a monster, while others chose to take the risk and secretly prayed that they gave birth to girls rather than boys because the full disorder only manifested itself in males. There were also a few who opted to terminate their pregnancies, which was a dangerous choice to make because at that time prior to the controversial court ruling of Roe vs. Wade, as many as five thousand American women died annually as a direct result of unsafe abortions that they either preformed on themselves, or for which they had paid unscrupulous physicians or “back-alley butchers” to perform the illegal procedure.
Chris knew that his own mother, whom he had never met because she had died while giving birth to him, had had her blood tested for the disorder when she was pregnant with his older brother, Leon. The test results had come back negative, but from what he knew of her actions later in life, he suspected that she would have carried her pregnancy to full term even if she had be diagnosed as a carrier for the disorder. From all accounts, she was an exceptionally warm hearted and tolerant individual. He often wished he had had a chance to meet her himself, but it had not been meant to be. Though, despite her strong anti-werewolf tendencies, he felt that his mother, his biological mother’s sister, shared many of his own mother’s more admirable character traits.
“As you can see,” Daniel Lewis continued, “Hundreds of Los Angelinos have gathered at the foot of the new federal court house downtown to either show their support or to criticize the jury’s decision, which will be revealed in just a few moments time.”
The camera angle changed to a live feed at the before mentioned courthouse and it was a scene of barely restrained chaos. Men and women representing every age, race, political and economic level had swarmed to the foot of the courthouse and security was tight. A line of police officers stood at grim attention behind portable crowd control barriers. Death threats had been made against the jurors, Margaret Fletcher, and her client, Kenneth Baxter and city officials weren’t willing to take any risks that made lead to another riot like the one that had devastated the city in the spring of 1992.
“We now turn you over to our anchorwoman, Lisa Crabbe, our representative at the courthouse. Lisa, how are things doing there?”
Lisa Crabbe was the typical California girl, tall, slender, with blond hair and large blue eyes. She offered a blindingly white smile as the camera focused on her. “Things are tense here, Daniel, as you can well imagine. There have been death threats made, but the police seem to have everything under control for the time being.”
One hand went to her ear piece and she lowered her head slightly, listening intently over the loud murmurings of the crowd. She looked like she had just bitten into a particularly tart lemon.
“Yes, yes, this just in, ladies and gentlemen! The California Supreme Court has just ruled that it is unconstitutional for the state to confine those who suffer from Lycanthropy Disorder, either those born with the disease or individuals that contracted the disease as a direct result of a werewolf attack, more commonly known as werewolves, to state run institutions or other similar facilities if they have been proved to be non-dangerous and capable of living by themselves, or with the aid of a responsible family member or friends.”
The reporter paused for a moment, unable to continue as her statement produced a crushing wave of noise, from cheers and exclamations of joy to boos, jeers, and shouts of rage. Banners for both sides were waved and their creative slogans ran the gamut from peaceful and supportive to out and out hatred. Chris counted over ten ‘Werewolves are People, Too!’ signs and over two dozen signs with the old standby slogan, ‘The Only Good Werewolf is a DEAD Werewolf!’
The din died down slightly and Lisa Crabbe continued, her smile firmly in place even though Chris had read several news articles in which she had stated that she was strictly anti-werewolf. How difficult must it be for her, and others who shared her views, to stomach the fact that a bunch of mangy subhuman animals - their words, not his - had just been released from what essentially boiled down to forced captivity? Or, at least that was the case now in the state of California. Other states would no doubt soon follow this landmark decision. It must have been a bitter blow, but though one battle had been won, the war for werewolf equality was far from over.
“As you may or may not know,” the reporter continued, and her brilliant smile seemed to show signs of cracking, so fiercely was she trying to hold on to it, “there is still no cure for Lycanthropy Disorder, but through medical advances through recent years, it can now be controlled to some extent by the combined efforts of medications, counseling, and therapy, much in the same way that Diabetes can now be controlled. And now, back to you, Daniel.”
“Thank you, Lisa.” Daniel Lewis returned his eyes to the camera and smiled warmly. There was nothing fake or strained about his smile and his posture was alert, but relaxed.
“As our viewing audience may know, Kenneth Baxter had been held for fifteen years in the California State Hospital for Werewolves in Rosamond, due to needs of ‘care, maintenance, and treatment’ for his medical condition.” The screen behind him showed the picture of a gaunt middle aged man with thick black hair and hollow blue eyes – the famous, or infamous depending on what social circles you traveled in, Kenneth Baxter.
“This summer, Baxter filed a lawsuit against the hospital and staff members claiming that they had robbed him of his constitutional rights, by confining him against his will. He then sought the counseling of the well-known advocate for werewolf rights, Margaret Fletcher.”
Once more the screen behind changed to add a striking slender woman with auburn hair swept up into a stylish French twist. Her eyes were a cool blue and her very posture screamed determination. Having given birth to a child with full-blown Lycanthropy Disorder, she had a special understanding of just what those inflicted individuals had to endure on an every day basis.
“Werewolves are not the monsters portrayed in the horror movies,” she insisted to the group of reporters swarming around her and her client as they were leaving the building via the back entrance. “They are not intermittently evil. They are human beings just like you and me. The only difference is that they suffer from the side effects of a disease much like diabetes and alcoholism. And, thanks to new advances in modern medicine, those who suffer from Lycanthropy Disorder will be able to control their symptoms and lead normal, active lives without the fear, hatred, and unimaginable prejudice that they have had to endure for so many years.”
While Chris wanted to believe that such a future was possible for the werewolves, he had to admit that he thought Margaret Fletcher was being more than a bit idealistic. Even if such a possible future existed, it would take longer than their lifetimes to see it brought about.
“Baxter's troubles,” Daniel Lewis continued, “began with his institutionalization in 2003 – when he was just 25 - after he was attacked by a werewolf and subsequently became one upon the next full moon. He was committed to the State Hospital for Werewolves in Rosamond, California later that same year.”
Once more the screen changed and this time the picture was of a rather severe-looking four story brick building surrounded by electrical fences, an addition, Chris knew, that had been added after a patient, Joshua Fletcher, Margaret Fletcher’s werewolf son, had escaped the hospital in the autumn of 1998.
“Baxter spent the next fifteen years as a patient; though he did not receive any treatment during his confinement. At the time of his commitment, the only acceptable way to treat a patient with lycanthropy was to put him in an institution that specialized in the care and keeping of werewolves. As you can see from the bars on the windows, the security checkpoints, and the electrical fence, it is basically just a glorified prison. All of his requests to be placed in a half-way house were denied.”
Several years later, in 2007, the FDA approved of a new drug and therapy regiment that would help control a lycanthrope’s cognitive powers while in the werewolf form thus making him, at least theoretically, less dangerous because he would find it easier to control his baser instincts. Though available, the State Hospital declined to offer such treatments to their patients.”
“We will now take you back to the courthouse, where emotions are still running pretty high. Lisa?”
Once more, Lisa Crabbe appeared onscreen amid a rather large crowd of onlookers. Judging from the anti-werewolf banners being waved and the hateful slogans printed on their tee-shirts, she had decided to interview those who were like-minded with her previous statements recorded in the papers and seen on their anti-werewolf hate sites. The people crowding around her were all obviously angry, their frowns and red faces being a dead giveaway.
“So, tell me, sir. What do you think of this latest development?”
At perfect ease amongst such displays of anger and hatred, Lisa pushed a microphone toward a tall, muscular man with a dark mop of curly hair pulled back from his face in a shaggy ponytail. His stained tee-shirt bore the slogan, “Save Human Rights for the Humans”.
The man took hold of the microphone and directed his baleful gaze directly toward the camera and the viewing audience. “I don’t care what the Supreme Court of California says, as far as I’m concerned, werewolves are nothing but freaking animals. Always have been, always will be. They’re dangerous and worse, have the human ability to tell right from wrong. Don’t give me that crap that they can’t control themselves when they Change, because I don’t buy it. I don’t buy it at all.”
There were yells of agreement and encouragement from the assembled rabble, but the man, obviously their leader, ignored them and continued his tirade.
“That mongrel and his bitch can take their case all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States of America for all the good it will do them. I tell you what, I see a werewolf, and law or no law, and I’m going to blow it away with my shotgun. It’s that simple.”
The reporter put on what was, at least as far as Chris was concerned, an obviously false air of concern and asked with sickeningly insincerity, “But what about their werewolf rights, sir? They may be animals, but it’s still illegal to just go out and shoot them. After all, we aren’t barbarians.”
The man snorted contemptuously. “What about my rights to protect myself, my family and my property? California still has the Stand Your Ground laws, doesn’t it? That gives me the right to defense me and mine and my property when attacked by those evil fu-“ Here the word was bleeped out, but it would have been obvious to any ten year old what he had said, “-Without fear of prosecution or civil lawsuits.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Lisa said with a smile. “But what if the werewolf in question was in animal form?”
“If werewolves are allowed to roam the streets in animal form, how is your average Joe supposed to know whether they had been taking their anti-werewolf pills? Huh? There’s no way to know for certain. Their animals for Christ’s sake! They have no self control or awareness while in that form. They can’t make rational choices, and they’re compelled by an irresistible hunger to attack any living thing with a substantial and sometimes exclusionary preference for humans, because we’re easy pickings to those beasts. Passing a law to protect them is like ringing the freaking dinner bell!”
Lisa Crabbe unconsciously nodded her head with every point the man made. Her expression was one of rapt adoration. He was obviously preaching to the choir - she’d heard it all before and agreed with everything the man was saying.
Chris, on the other hand, felt angry and sick at hearing the man’s tirade. His hands, resting on the tops of his thighs, curled into fists.
“And let’s not forget for one minute that those critters are contagious! One bite is all it takes. If you’re lucky you’ll die during the attack, or, if you’re not lucky, you go all furry during the next full moon, that is, if your body doesn’t tear itself to bits in the attempt. Either way, you’re totally screwed!”
Again the gathered believers shouted their agreement. ‘Hallelujah’s and ‘Praise the Lord’s were heard. Unable to watch anymore, Chris stood up, so angry his legs were shaking.
“So, the next time I see one of those freaks, I’m getting my shotgun and bagging myself a werewolf. And that’s all there is to it. It’s survival of the fittest, plain and simple. Because, and I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the only good werewolf is a dead werewolf!”
With a vicious jab, Chris turned off the television. “Asshole,” he muttered angrily under his breath.
He ran his hands through his hair, aware that they were shaking. Anger whipped through his body like a tempest. Knowing he had to get out of the office for a little while and cool down, he stormed out of the break room. It took more effort than was pretty to not slam the door behind him, but he somehow managed to let it close without any added effort on his part.
His stomach grumbling brought his mind back to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He’d been too caught up in work to take lunch and that news broadcast had temporarily taken his mind off his stomach. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it’s almost two o’clock.
“Maybe I’ll just go out and grab something to eat,” he mused aloud. He thought longingly of his peanut butter, jelly and cheese sandwich in its plastic baggie in the break room’s refrigerator, but he decided that he needed something a little more filling. Plus, he wasn’t in any mood to return to the break room. If he did, he just might put a fist through the television screen. Never a good idea, that.
Letting his stomach be his guide, he decided that he would clock out and leave a bit early in order to enjoy the weather and have a decent meal for once. Besides, he was heartily sick of peanut butter but the moving company had lost his pots and pans during the cross-country move which meant it was either that or frozen dinners. At least until he had enough free time to go shopping.
Set in his course, he reached his desk just in time to hear some of his fellow agents talking. Fortunately, the topic of conversations had nothing to do with werewolves or the recent court decision.
He glanced through the entrance to his cubicle and saw an agent with blond hair, white shirt, red tie, and gray slacks speaking to a dark haired agent with white shirt, vest and black slacks. The blond haired agent’s name was Randy something-or-other but he drew a blank on the other man’s name. What was it? D… it began with the letter D. Drake? Daniel? Darek? David! Yes, that’s what it was. Shaking his head and smiling, Chris reached for his jacket hanging over the back of his seat.
He saw David hand Randy a manila envelope. Randy accepted it, glanced at its contents, and then exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Another one?”
“Yeah,” David grunted, “the victim’s a young male, twenty-two years of age.” He lowered his voice in a conspirator’s stage-whisper that nonetheless managed to carry clear across the room to where Chris stood. “And like the others he had recently paid a visit to a pet shop in Chinatown.”
Chris whirled around as the information from the other related cases poured into his head. It couldn’t be, could it? He slung his jacket over his shoulder, and rushed for the door, exclaiming over his shoulder by way of explanation, “This one’s mine!”
Randy and David started at this sudden show of enthusiasm, and Randy called after him, “Huh? Hey, Orcot! Wait!”
But Chris is out the door and hurrying down the hall. He reached the elevator and pushed the down button, bouncing on his toes impatiently while he waited for the car to arrive and the doors to open. “Come on, come on,” he mumbled under his breath and pushed the button again, knowing that it wouldn’t make the elevator move any faster, but not knowing what else to do to contain his excitement.
Finally the elevator arrived and it was fortunately empty. He entered and jabbed the lobby button with one finger. Miraculously, the elevator managed to go down the seventeen flights without stopping once, for which Chris was profoundly grateful for. Once the doors opened and he rushed out into the lobby.
The interior of the building on ground level was more formal than the offices that took up the upper stories. There were white walls with floor to ceiling windows and light gray marble tiles that had the reflective surface of cool water. The designers had probably thought that the décor gave off an air of sophistication and of modernization, but to Chris, it was impersonal and cold.
Like a man on a mission, he walked across the floor, his footsteps uncomfortably loud in the cool silence. The receptionist, a young woman by the name of Judy, looked up at him over the rim of her reading glasses and smiled, the only warmth in the whole place. He smiled back, he just couldn’t help it. She was an attractive woman, with long, wavy blond hair she kept pulled up in a French twist.
“Hey, Judy, could you get me the directions to the Chinatown address we have on file for that strange pet shop?” He asked, “The one related to all those accidents.” He drew finger quotes in the air on the last word, even though he thought it was entirely possible that all those deaths really had been accidents. If you get me there without having to get onto the highways, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Chris,” Rudy replied cheerfully. “Just give me a second to bring up the information.”
Though Chris had lived in Los Angeles for the first seven years of his life, he had been a passenger all that time, not the driver and he wasn’t one hundred percent sure he could find the shop without getting lost. When he had been accepted into the FBI he had made the request to be moved to Los Angeles, California, but he hadn’t been here long enough to feel comfortable navigating the streets without some idea of where he was going.
Besides, Chinatown was a big place and parking might be a problem, especially during the day, a popular time for tourists to visit.
Judy looked up the information on and printed out the information for him. “Here you go, sweetie,” She handed him several printouts and he smiled, taking no offense at her calling him ‘sweetie’. There wasn’t anything especially personal in it, as she called practically everyone that. She was just an extremely friendly woman.
“Thanks, Judy,” He leans over the desk and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She giggles and blushed clear to her roots. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll be back later. If anyone comes looking for me, just tell them to call my cell.” Chris said, holding up the printout in a farewell salute.
He stepped out into the oppressive heat and wished, not for the first time, that they didn’t keep the interior of the building so cold. Before he reached his car, there is sweat beading his brow and he felt it trickling along his flesh only to pool in the swale of his lower back. He unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Smiling to himself, he started the car, slipped on his shades and then he was off. He didn’t turn on the air conditioner. For now, he let the hot wind whip around him as he made his way down the crowded streets, one arm on the steering wheel, the other resting casually out the open window.
While waiting on a red light, Chris studied the directions Judy had given him. According to the trip from the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard to Bamboo Lane in Chinatown should only take about nineteen minutes if he opted to use the highways. But, after listening to a traffic update that announced that traffic had slowed to a two-mile an hour crawl on I-10 W toward Santa Monica near Santa Anita Avenue because of a car pile up, he decided it would be best to avoid the highways if at all possible.
He set the first printout aside and looked at the other one Judy had given him, the one that would help him avoid all of the highways. Taking this route would take him thirty-five minutes instead of nineteen, but he would be arriving at his destination in a more relaxed state of mind.
After making a quick stop at a fantastic pastry shop practically next door to the Federal building, he made his way back onto Wilshire Boulevard and headed east toward Veteran Avenue. He flicked off the radio and inserted one of his favorite CDs instead. His stomach growled again as the scent of the pastries wafted to his nose. But he resisted the temptation to indulge. They were a part of his master plan, and he was hungry enough that he would probably end up eating them all before he arrived and then where would he be?
Half an hour later, relaxed and singing along enthusiastically with the music, he turned onto North Broadway and eventually found an empty parking spot within reasonable walking distance to the pet shop’s address. He got out, making sure he locked the door, and grabbed the pastries from the front seat before bumping the driver’s side door closed with his hip. After getting his bearings on where he was at, he made his way southwest along North Broadway until he came to Bamboo Lane.
The main streets running through what was sometimes called the new Chinatown were Broadway, Spring Street and Hill Street. The Broadway side of Chinatown was usually packed with tourists that gathered to eat at the myriad Chinese restaurants and spend their hard earned tourist dollars at the many of the more exotic souvenir shops. But there weren’t nearly as many tourists in this area and for that he was glad. It gave him a chance to look around without having to crane his head above a bustling crowd.
Though he was anxious to meet the owner of the mysterious pet shop, Chris took his time walking, opening his senses to fully enjoy the sights, sounds and scents of the area. He knew that, because of the stylized exotic atmosphere, this section of Chinatown was very popular for on-site movie filming. One movie that always came to mind was Rush Hour with Jackie Chan, one of his favorite all-time movies. It beat out I Was a Teenage Werewolf hands down.
Although he was technically a resident Los Angelino, at the moment he felt more like a wide-eyed tourist transported to an entirely different world, one of beauty and mystery, A place where magic wasn’t the slight of hand tricks and misdirection of an onstage performer, but something real and as wonderful as it could be scary.
The outside appearance of the shop was just the way he remembered it and, taking a deep breath, he made his way down the steps and to the front door. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the wood and said in a strong, commanding voice, “This is the FBI! Open up! I have some questions for you!”
After a few moments he hear a soft reply from behind the door, “If they’re about that poor man’s accident, then there is nothing more to discuss.”
Chris cleared his throat nervously and continued in a much quieter voice, “They’re not. They’re about your father, actually.”
There was silence for a moment. Chris had a moment to wonder if he had said something wrong, but then he heard the voice say, “Father isn’t here right now.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Chris said, and held out the box pastries, not sure if the voice could see them or not, then continued hopefully, “I brought him some cherry tarts.”
This was greeted by another silence, shorter than the first. The door opened slowly and a beautiful man emerged from behind the door. His black hair was pulled back from his face to reveal a pale face and a pair of the most beautiful eyes Chris had ever seen. There was something familiar about them and it took a moment to realize they were a lot like Leon’s. With a start, he realized that he was staring and tore his eyes away as heat flooded his face, prelude to a blush.
“Well, we can’t have those go to waste,” the young man murmured. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, I would.” Chris replied and blew out his breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The young man led him to the parlor and gestured toward a chair. “Please have a seat,” He disappeared and then reappeared a few moments later pushing a tea cart. He served tea to first tea Chris first, and then himself. He deftly arranged the cherry tarts on a glass dish and offered the dish to Chris, who thanked him and helped himself to a cherry tart. He took a bite and it was wonderful.
“And how may I help you…” He trailed off, apparently unsure how to address his visitor.
“Agent Chris Orcot,” He supplied, offering his hand to the other man, “You can just call me Chris.”
“Pleased to meet you… Chris.” The other man hesitated for a moment before using his given name, and his smile indicated that he wasn’t entirely certain if it was proper to do so under the current situation. He hesitantly took Chris’ hand. “I am Count-“
“D, yes, I know. Don’t worry,” Chris reassured, “I’m not here on official business. I meant what I said – I really would like to talk to you about your father.”
He set his tea cup down carefully on the saucer and turned his body so he was looking directly at Count D’s son.
“But first, I want to tell you a story. It’s not a fairy tale or piece of fiction, though it may sound like one at times. Everything I’m about to tell you really happened and though you may not believe that by the time I’m through, I swear God that every single word is true.”
D leaned forward slightly, his facial expression one of expectation. Chris could discern no doubt or disbelief in either his facial expression or body language. He didn’t know how much of this story, if any, the other man knew, so he began as all other stories did, that is, at the beginning.
“I want to tell you a story,” Chris began, “It’s a story about many things, but mostly it’s one about love… and obsession.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 01
Pairing: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Alternate Universe
Rating: R
Warning: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations, Hermaphrodite!D
Title: The Hunted
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for NaNoWriMo 2007
August, 2018
Los Angeles, California
The black, old fashioned rotary dialed telephone jangled, startling Chris Orcot, who had been bent over a pile of paperwork strewn over his normally neat desktop. It wasn’t an antique telephone, just one of those replicas that seemed to be so popular at the moment, but it looked and felt just like the old ones his father had been so fond of when he had been a little boy. It’s solid weight as he hefted the receiver and wedged it between his shoulder and his ear was a touch of home that helped calm his frazzling nerves.
“Orcot, here,” He said using his best professional voice, the one that he was told made women melt into helpless puddles of goo. He hurriedly began stuffing his collection of newspaper and magazine article clippings into a bulging manila folder that had definitely seen better days.
“Chris? Is that you?”
Chris sat up straighter at this voice, “Mom? Yeah, it’s me,” he continued in his normal, off-the-job voice. “What’s up?”
The woman on the phone wasn’t his biological mother, but the next best thing since he had never known his real mother. His mother’s sister had raised him as her own since he was seven and had earned both the title and respect, as far as he was concerned. He hadn’t really spoken to her since accepting his FBI position in Los Angeles and now, hearing her voice over thousands of miles of telephone lines for the first time in months, made him realize how much he missed her.
“Chris…” She trailed off, uncertain.
“Is Dad okay?” He asked suddenly as a horrible thought occurred to him. “He hasn’t had another stroke, has he?”
“No, your dad’s fine, dear, and driving me crazy,” She laughed lightly, but it sounded forced. “The sooner he gets back to work, the better. If he walks his muddy feet over my freshly mopped floor one more time, they’re going to have to haul me away for murder.”
“That’s good. I mean, that he’s fine, not that he’s walking on your clean floors.” He opened the lower desk drawer and set the file among a stack of others, each identical save for the name and filing number. Then he pushed the door closed. The silence on the line seemed to stretch out into eternity.
“They’ve reached a verdict, Chris,” she finally said. “The jurors, that is. And it’s all over the television and radio.” There was another short, uncomfortable pause but before Chris could rush to fill it in, she continued, “I just thought you’d like to know.”
So that’s what this is all about, he thought and felt a familiar, heavy stone settle onto his heart.
He’d been so busy with his caseload that he had almost forgotten. ‘Almost’ being the operative word. Somehow it was always in there, buzzing around the back of his head like a mosquito. There hadn’t been any real way to forget about the whole thing because it was all that anyone had been talking about for months. It was all over the news, the talk shows, the radio, and, of course, the internet. The whole country was up in arms about the case, almost literally. Discussions had become so heated that many work places had banned all discussions of the case until everything was decided after several incidents of employees brawling over a difference in opinion had put several people in the hospital with substantial injuries.
It was one of the most controversial cases of the year, the decade. Hell, it was the most talked about case of the twenty-first century. And it didn’t get much more sensational than this. Celebrity crime waves and sex scandals just couldn’t compete with real life werewolves duking it out with the legal system in order to win the right to live their lives free, without having to suffer from the institutionalization and sterilization that was forced upon them ‘for their own good’ by a rational society in the throes of superstition and fear.
Personally, Chris was all for equal rights for all United States citizens, even those that sprouted fur once a month during the full moon. His mother on the other hand… well, she had her own views and opinions about the matter. This difference of opinions was one of the reasons they had been so distant to each other these last few months. That distance wasn’t simply caused by the fact that Chris had accepted a West Coast assignment with the Federal Bureau of Investigations and everything to do with their clashing opinions over the moral, ethical and legal matters that were being hammered out in the halls of the United States District Court for the District of California.
“Yeah, thanks for letting me know.” He wanted to say more, but he didn’t know how to dance around their differences over this case. In the end, it was just easier to let it go without comment.
I guess I’m just as stubborn as my big brother, Chris thought with a sad half-smile.
“Look, I’ve got to go now, Chris. I’ve got to drive your father to his doctor’s appointment. I just… I thought you’d want to know one way or the other. Lord knows you’ve been busy since flying out to Los Angeles. Getting settled into your new apartment, and your new job with the FBI… I just wanted to let you know that I really do understand how important this case is to you.”
Chris almost smiled at her last statement. It was the closest she had ever come to mentioning the whole root of the matter. They had tiptoed around that issue for over twenty years now and that admittance could only be her small way of saying that she still cared. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could hope for. Maybe someday they would see eye to eye on the matter. Or at least be able to talk about their differences like rational human beings instead of screaming at each other like a couple of immature teenagers.
“Thanks. And I promise to give you guys a ring once things settle down here a bit, okay?”
“I – we’d – like that, dear. This old place just isn’t the same without you, you know.”
“Okay, I love you. I’ve got to go. Bye.”
Chris hung up the phone gently once his mother had disconnected turned his head to stare at a small framed photograph on the corner of his desk. It was a picture of his dad – his real dad – and his older brother, Leon. They had been sitting in the cheap seats at Dodger Stadium that warm July day back in 1998, cheering on their team as they battled the San Diego Padres. Dad and Leon drank beer and ate hotdogs and hurled insults and popcorn whenever they didn’t agree with the umpire’s call, which happened quite a bit, especially when the Dodgers were losing as they had been that day. If he remembered correctly – and he did – the Dodgers had lost to the Padres 3-6.
The picture was just a tiniest bit out of focus and off center, but that was only because he had been holding his disposable Kodak Max Outdoor Camera while trying to juggle his Pepsi and popcorn. He hadn’t meant to take a picture, but he was later glad that he had gotten the shot, accident or no. It was still a pretty good picture despite its compositional flaws, and, as the last photograph that would ever be taken with them all together as a family, it held a special meaning for him.
Leon, where are you now? He wondered, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. Are you happy? Safe? Are you even still alive?
Chris stood and stretched mightily, putting his mother out of his mind with some difficulty, mentally banishing her to the dungeon of his mind. Then he stepped out of his small cubicle and walked along the corridors, making his way to the employee’s break room. When he reached the security doors – there were security doors everywhere nowadays. You needed a personal identification and a key card to get into the freaking bathroom, for Christ’s sake - he dug his wallet out of his back pocket, removed his personal electronic key, and swiped it through the sensor lock on the door. There were three lights above the slot and when the middle one flashed green, he heard the deadbolt disengage. Only then was he able to push down on the door handle and let himself in.
The employee break room was a rather small, stuffy room with a full-size refrigerator/freezer, a soda vending machine – currently empty according to all the flashing red lights near each soda selection – and a few cheap folding tables with equally cheap folding chairs clustered around them. The counter that ran along the far wall sported a small stainless steel sink, a broken coffee maker and, not one, but two microwaves, one stacked on top of the other. Chris guessed it was designed that way to make the process of heating frozen dinners and leftovers more streamline, but the whole set up looked a bit top heavy and clumsy.
The piece de resistance was a twenty-seven inch colored television mounted high up in the corner of the room.
It wasn’t much to look at, but then again, it didn’t have to be. Most of the agents he knew went out to eat during their lunch hours and those that didn’t either ordered in from nearby shops – deli, pizza and Chinese were some of the more popular choices followed closely by fast food joints and Mexican - or brown bagged it. Most agents preferred to eat their meals at their desks, anyway, usually sitting in front of their computers or going over whatever cases they were working on at the time, all the while chatting on their cell phones with friends and loved ones. Indeed, they were the very models of efficient multi-tasking, if you could overlook the occasional splotch of ketchup on written reports, silk ties, or suit lapels.
The one obvious advantage of never having anyone actually use the break room was that no one using it meant it wasn’t a horrible mess. The second was that there wasn’t anyone hogging the television. There was nothing worse in Chris’ mind than trying to enjoy a good peanut butter, jelly and cheese sandwich and being forced to listen while one of his co-workers was watching The Young and the Restless or some other boring soap opera.
It wouldn’t be so bad if they would watch it with the volume at a reasonable, ear-safe level, okay, no it would be just as bad, but at least his ears wouldn’t be ringing by the time he went back to his desk because they always had to turn the volume up to the maximum setting as if they were deaf old biddies getting their daily fix.
Grateful that the break room was deserted, he made a bee-line to the television. Ignoring the remote control that lay on the chair under the wall-mounted television set, which was really just there to accommodate all the really short people, he reached up and jabbed the ‘on’ button with the tip of his index finger. The Young and the Restless popped on the screen with all its melodramatic glory. Pulling a face, he flipped through the dozen of cable channels until he found CNN.
An older, refined anchorman with dark, salt-and-pepper hair and gold tinted wire framed glasses stared out toward the camera. His voice was rich and reassuring, and his unsmiling face was somber. His name was Daniel Lewis and he had been delivering the news for as long as Chris could remember.
“For you viewers that might have just tuned in, there has been a verdict made on the landmark case of Baxter vs. the State of California, otherwise known as Fletcher’s Law in deference to Margaret Fletcher, the lawyer who is representing Kenneth Baxter, who is herself the biological mother of a lycanthrope.”
Chris reached behind him, pulled one of the cheap metal seats over to him, and then sat down, his eyes riveted to the television. Now this made for interesting television viewing. Who needed soap operas when real life was naturally full of such interesting and dramatic stories?
For centuries, Chris knew, Mankind had believed that there were only two ways a human could become werewolves. The victim was either cursed by an evil witch, or they had survived a werewolf attack. Many other whimsical beliefs existed, like the one that claimed that any person falling asleep under the light of the full moon would become a werewolf, but many people pooh-poohed such ideas as frivolous nonsense.
There had been many documented cases of humans that had been bitten by werewolves turning into werewolves themselves. According to all the ancient text, very few humans actually survived the initial attack and even fewer still survived their first full moon transformations because their bodies would almost literally tear themselves apart in the attempt to changing from human to wolf.
Most rational minds dismissed the idea of witches and curses, but many medical experts throughout the centuries agreed that Lycanthropy was nothing more than an extreme version of rabies – an extremely dangerous and fatal form of rabies, but rabies nonetheless. As scientific knowledge increased, it was deduced that some sort of virus was present in the nerves and saliva of a symptomatic rabid animal, most likely a wolf or other dog-like creature, and passed to the victim via a bite. If the victim survived the attack, it was observed that they would become exceptionally aggressive, were prone to attacking without provocation, and exhibited otherwise uncharacteristic behavior like intermittent insanity, which was believed to be related to the phases of the moon.
It wasn’t until the second half of the twentieth century that scientists discovered that lycanthropy wasn’t merely a blood-born disease that could be transmitted from person to person much in the way that a rabid dog could infect a human being when its saliva was introduced into the blood when its teeth broke the skin. To their horror they found that it was a hereditary genetic disorder, much like Hemophilia, a sex-linked disorder that manifested itself almost entirely in males, though it was the mothers of affected sons that transmitted the disorder to them genetically. Females, it was discovered, were almost exclusively asymptomatic carriers of the Lycanthropy disorder, meaning that they carried the abnormal gene of a recessive genetic disorder, but displayed no symptoms. It was deduced that they could have inherited it from either their mother or father.
Popular media, like the ruthless jackals they were, got wind of the news and resulting panic. They had a field day making and promoting a slew of B grade werewolf and monster flicks, books and comics that portrayed those who suffered from lycanthropy as mindless killing machines. One of the most famous movies, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, which was one of Chris’ favorite werewolf movies of the era, depicted the main character, Tony Rivers, who was played by Michael Landon, as a troubled teenager that had sought help through hypnotherapy. Unfortunately for him, his evil doctor used him for regression experiments that transform him into a rampaging werewolf. It was cheesy as hell, but ultimately entertaining, at least for people who liked those sorts of movies.
Needless to say, when this shocking discovery was eventually leaked to the public it caused no small amount of panic, especially among young expecting mothers. Hundreds if not thousands of women flocked to their physicians, demanding to have their blood tested. No doubt, their fears must have been very lucrative for the medical profession for the tests were prohibitively expensive. Fortunately, for most of them, their fears were ungrounded because it was later discovered that less than one percent of the female population carried the Lycanthropy disorder.
Those very few women that had actually been diagnosed as being asymptomatic carriers for the Lycanthropy disorder had some hard decisions to make, especially if they wanted children or were currently pregnant. Some decided that they’d rather not have children rather than risk giving birth to a monster, while others chose to take the risk and secretly prayed that they gave birth to girls rather than boys because the full disorder only manifested itself in males. There were also a few who opted to terminate their pregnancies, which was a dangerous choice to make because at that time prior to the controversial court ruling of Roe vs. Wade, as many as five thousand American women died annually as a direct result of unsafe abortions that they either preformed on themselves, or for which they had paid unscrupulous physicians or “back-alley butchers” to perform the illegal procedure.
Chris knew that his own mother, whom he had never met because she had died while giving birth to him, had had her blood tested for the disorder when she was pregnant with his older brother, Leon. The test results had come back negative, but from what he knew of her actions later in life, he suspected that she would have carried her pregnancy to full term even if she had be diagnosed as a carrier for the disorder. From all accounts, she was an exceptionally warm hearted and tolerant individual. He often wished he had had a chance to meet her himself, but it had not been meant to be. Though, despite her strong anti-werewolf tendencies, he felt that his mother, his biological mother’s sister, shared many of his own mother’s more admirable character traits.
“As you can see,” Daniel Lewis continued, “Hundreds of Los Angelinos have gathered at the foot of the new federal court house downtown to either show their support or to criticize the jury’s decision, which will be revealed in just a few moments time.”
The camera angle changed to a live feed at the before mentioned courthouse and it was a scene of barely restrained chaos. Men and women representing every age, race, political and economic level had swarmed to the foot of the courthouse and security was tight. A line of police officers stood at grim attention behind portable crowd control barriers. Death threats had been made against the jurors, Margaret Fletcher, and her client, Kenneth Baxter and city officials weren’t willing to take any risks that made lead to another riot like the one that had devastated the city in the spring of 1992.
“We now turn you over to our anchorwoman, Lisa Crabbe, our representative at the courthouse. Lisa, how are things doing there?”
Lisa Crabbe was the typical California girl, tall, slender, with blond hair and large blue eyes. She offered a blindingly white smile as the camera focused on her. “Things are tense here, Daniel, as you can well imagine. There have been death threats made, but the police seem to have everything under control for the time being.”
One hand went to her ear piece and she lowered her head slightly, listening intently over the loud murmurings of the crowd. She looked like she had just bitten into a particularly tart lemon.
“Yes, yes, this just in, ladies and gentlemen! The California Supreme Court has just ruled that it is unconstitutional for the state to confine those who suffer from Lycanthropy Disorder, either those born with the disease or individuals that contracted the disease as a direct result of a werewolf attack, more commonly known as werewolves, to state run institutions or other similar facilities if they have been proved to be non-dangerous and capable of living by themselves, or with the aid of a responsible family member or friends.”
The reporter paused for a moment, unable to continue as her statement produced a crushing wave of noise, from cheers and exclamations of joy to boos, jeers, and shouts of rage. Banners for both sides were waved and their creative slogans ran the gamut from peaceful and supportive to out and out hatred. Chris counted over ten ‘Werewolves are People, Too!’ signs and over two dozen signs with the old standby slogan, ‘The Only Good Werewolf is a DEAD Werewolf!’
The din died down slightly and Lisa Crabbe continued, her smile firmly in place even though Chris had read several news articles in which she had stated that she was strictly anti-werewolf. How difficult must it be for her, and others who shared her views, to stomach the fact that a bunch of mangy subhuman animals - their words, not his - had just been released from what essentially boiled down to forced captivity? Or, at least that was the case now in the state of California. Other states would no doubt soon follow this landmark decision. It must have been a bitter blow, but though one battle had been won, the war for werewolf equality was far from over.
“As you may or may not know,” the reporter continued, and her brilliant smile seemed to show signs of cracking, so fiercely was she trying to hold on to it, “there is still no cure for Lycanthropy Disorder, but through medical advances through recent years, it can now be controlled to some extent by the combined efforts of medications, counseling, and therapy, much in the same way that Diabetes can now be controlled. And now, back to you, Daniel.”
“Thank you, Lisa.” Daniel Lewis returned his eyes to the camera and smiled warmly. There was nothing fake or strained about his smile and his posture was alert, but relaxed.
“As our viewing audience may know, Kenneth Baxter had been held for fifteen years in the California State Hospital for Werewolves in Rosamond, due to needs of ‘care, maintenance, and treatment’ for his medical condition.” The screen behind him showed the picture of a gaunt middle aged man with thick black hair and hollow blue eyes – the famous, or infamous depending on what social circles you traveled in, Kenneth Baxter.
“This summer, Baxter filed a lawsuit against the hospital and staff members claiming that they had robbed him of his constitutional rights, by confining him against his will. He then sought the counseling of the well-known advocate for werewolf rights, Margaret Fletcher.”
Once more the screen behind changed to add a striking slender woman with auburn hair swept up into a stylish French twist. Her eyes were a cool blue and her very posture screamed determination. Having given birth to a child with full-blown Lycanthropy Disorder, she had a special understanding of just what those inflicted individuals had to endure on an every day basis.
“Werewolves are not the monsters portrayed in the horror movies,” she insisted to the group of reporters swarming around her and her client as they were leaving the building via the back entrance. “They are not intermittently evil. They are human beings just like you and me. The only difference is that they suffer from the side effects of a disease much like diabetes and alcoholism. And, thanks to new advances in modern medicine, those who suffer from Lycanthropy Disorder will be able to control their symptoms and lead normal, active lives without the fear, hatred, and unimaginable prejudice that they have had to endure for so many years.”
While Chris wanted to believe that such a future was possible for the werewolves, he had to admit that he thought Margaret Fletcher was being more than a bit idealistic. Even if such a possible future existed, it would take longer than their lifetimes to see it brought about.
“Baxter's troubles,” Daniel Lewis continued, “began with his institutionalization in 2003 – when he was just 25 - after he was attacked by a werewolf and subsequently became one upon the next full moon. He was committed to the State Hospital for Werewolves in Rosamond, California later that same year.”
Once more the screen changed and this time the picture was of a rather severe-looking four story brick building surrounded by electrical fences, an addition, Chris knew, that had been added after a patient, Joshua Fletcher, Margaret Fletcher’s werewolf son, had escaped the hospital in the autumn of 1998.
“Baxter spent the next fifteen years as a patient; though he did not receive any treatment during his confinement. At the time of his commitment, the only acceptable way to treat a patient with lycanthropy was to put him in an institution that specialized in the care and keeping of werewolves. As you can see from the bars on the windows, the security checkpoints, and the electrical fence, it is basically just a glorified prison. All of his requests to be placed in a half-way house were denied.”
Several years later, in 2007, the FDA approved of a new drug and therapy regiment that would help control a lycanthrope’s cognitive powers while in the werewolf form thus making him, at least theoretically, less dangerous because he would find it easier to control his baser instincts. Though available, the State Hospital declined to offer such treatments to their patients.”
“We will now take you back to the courthouse, where emotions are still running pretty high. Lisa?”
Once more, Lisa Crabbe appeared onscreen amid a rather large crowd of onlookers. Judging from the anti-werewolf banners being waved and the hateful slogans printed on their tee-shirts, she had decided to interview those who were like-minded with her previous statements recorded in the papers and seen on their anti-werewolf hate sites. The people crowding around her were all obviously angry, their frowns and red faces being a dead giveaway.
“So, tell me, sir. What do you think of this latest development?”
At perfect ease amongst such displays of anger and hatred, Lisa pushed a microphone toward a tall, muscular man with a dark mop of curly hair pulled back from his face in a shaggy ponytail. His stained tee-shirt bore the slogan, “Save Human Rights for the Humans”.
The man took hold of the microphone and directed his baleful gaze directly toward the camera and the viewing audience. “I don’t care what the Supreme Court of California says, as far as I’m concerned, werewolves are nothing but freaking animals. Always have been, always will be. They’re dangerous and worse, have the human ability to tell right from wrong. Don’t give me that crap that they can’t control themselves when they Change, because I don’t buy it. I don’t buy it at all.”
There were yells of agreement and encouragement from the assembled rabble, but the man, obviously their leader, ignored them and continued his tirade.
“That mongrel and his bitch can take their case all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States of America for all the good it will do them. I tell you what, I see a werewolf, and law or no law, and I’m going to blow it away with my shotgun. It’s that simple.”
The reporter put on what was, at least as far as Chris was concerned, an obviously false air of concern and asked with sickeningly insincerity, “But what about their werewolf rights, sir? They may be animals, but it’s still illegal to just go out and shoot them. After all, we aren’t barbarians.”
The man snorted contemptuously. “What about my rights to protect myself, my family and my property? California still has the Stand Your Ground laws, doesn’t it? That gives me the right to defense me and mine and my property when attacked by those evil fu-“ Here the word was bleeped out, but it would have been obvious to any ten year old what he had said, “-Without fear of prosecution or civil lawsuits.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Lisa said with a smile. “But what if the werewolf in question was in animal form?”
“If werewolves are allowed to roam the streets in animal form, how is your average Joe supposed to know whether they had been taking their anti-werewolf pills? Huh? There’s no way to know for certain. Their animals for Christ’s sake! They have no self control or awareness while in that form. They can’t make rational choices, and they’re compelled by an irresistible hunger to attack any living thing with a substantial and sometimes exclusionary preference for humans, because we’re easy pickings to those beasts. Passing a law to protect them is like ringing the freaking dinner bell!”
Lisa Crabbe unconsciously nodded her head with every point the man made. Her expression was one of rapt adoration. He was obviously preaching to the choir - she’d heard it all before and agreed with everything the man was saying.
Chris, on the other hand, felt angry and sick at hearing the man’s tirade. His hands, resting on the tops of his thighs, curled into fists.
“And let’s not forget for one minute that those critters are contagious! One bite is all it takes. If you’re lucky you’ll die during the attack, or, if you’re not lucky, you go all furry during the next full moon, that is, if your body doesn’t tear itself to bits in the attempt. Either way, you’re totally screwed!”
Again the gathered believers shouted their agreement. ‘Hallelujah’s and ‘Praise the Lord’s were heard. Unable to watch anymore, Chris stood up, so angry his legs were shaking.
“So, the next time I see one of those freaks, I’m getting my shotgun and bagging myself a werewolf. And that’s all there is to it. It’s survival of the fittest, plain and simple. Because, and I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the only good werewolf is a dead werewolf!”
With a vicious jab, Chris turned off the television. “Asshole,” he muttered angrily under his breath.
He ran his hands through his hair, aware that they were shaking. Anger whipped through his body like a tempest. Knowing he had to get out of the office for a little while and cool down, he stormed out of the break room. It took more effort than was pretty to not slam the door behind him, but he somehow managed to let it close without any added effort on his part.
His stomach grumbling brought his mind back to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He’d been too caught up in work to take lunch and that news broadcast had temporarily taken his mind off his stomach. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it’s almost two o’clock.
“Maybe I’ll just go out and grab something to eat,” he mused aloud. He thought longingly of his peanut butter, jelly and cheese sandwich in its plastic baggie in the break room’s refrigerator, but he decided that he needed something a little more filling. Plus, he wasn’t in any mood to return to the break room. If he did, he just might put a fist through the television screen. Never a good idea, that.
Letting his stomach be his guide, he decided that he would clock out and leave a bit early in order to enjoy the weather and have a decent meal for once. Besides, he was heartily sick of peanut butter but the moving company had lost his pots and pans during the cross-country move which meant it was either that or frozen dinners. At least until he had enough free time to go shopping.
Set in his course, he reached his desk just in time to hear some of his fellow agents talking. Fortunately, the topic of conversations had nothing to do with werewolves or the recent court decision.
He glanced through the entrance to his cubicle and saw an agent with blond hair, white shirt, red tie, and gray slacks speaking to a dark haired agent with white shirt, vest and black slacks. The blond haired agent’s name was Randy something-or-other but he drew a blank on the other man’s name. What was it? D… it began with the letter D. Drake? Daniel? Darek? David! Yes, that’s what it was. Shaking his head and smiling, Chris reached for his jacket hanging over the back of his seat.
He saw David hand Randy a manila envelope. Randy accepted it, glanced at its contents, and then exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Another one?”
“Yeah,” David grunted, “the victim’s a young male, twenty-two years of age.” He lowered his voice in a conspirator’s stage-whisper that nonetheless managed to carry clear across the room to where Chris stood. “And like the others he had recently paid a visit to a pet shop in Chinatown.”
Chris whirled around as the information from the other related cases poured into his head. It couldn’t be, could it? He slung his jacket over his shoulder, and rushed for the door, exclaiming over his shoulder by way of explanation, “This one’s mine!”
Randy and David started at this sudden show of enthusiasm, and Randy called after him, “Huh? Hey, Orcot! Wait!”
But Chris is out the door and hurrying down the hall. He reached the elevator and pushed the down button, bouncing on his toes impatiently while he waited for the car to arrive and the doors to open. “Come on, come on,” he mumbled under his breath and pushed the button again, knowing that it wouldn’t make the elevator move any faster, but not knowing what else to do to contain his excitement.
Finally the elevator arrived and it was fortunately empty. He entered and jabbed the lobby button with one finger. Miraculously, the elevator managed to go down the seventeen flights without stopping once, for which Chris was profoundly grateful for. Once the doors opened and he rushed out into the lobby.
The interior of the building on ground level was more formal than the offices that took up the upper stories. There were white walls with floor to ceiling windows and light gray marble tiles that had the reflective surface of cool water. The designers had probably thought that the décor gave off an air of sophistication and of modernization, but to Chris, it was impersonal and cold.
Like a man on a mission, he walked across the floor, his footsteps uncomfortably loud in the cool silence. The receptionist, a young woman by the name of Judy, looked up at him over the rim of her reading glasses and smiled, the only warmth in the whole place. He smiled back, he just couldn’t help it. She was an attractive woman, with long, wavy blond hair she kept pulled up in a French twist.
“Hey, Judy, could you get me the directions to the Chinatown address we have on file for that strange pet shop?” He asked, “The one related to all those accidents.” He drew finger quotes in the air on the last word, even though he thought it was entirely possible that all those deaths really had been accidents. If you get me there without having to get onto the highways, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Chris,” Rudy replied cheerfully. “Just give me a second to bring up the information.”
Though Chris had lived in Los Angeles for the first seven years of his life, he had been a passenger all that time, not the driver and he wasn’t one hundred percent sure he could find the shop without getting lost. When he had been accepted into the FBI he had made the request to be moved to Los Angeles, California, but he hadn’t been here long enough to feel comfortable navigating the streets without some idea of where he was going.
Besides, Chinatown was a big place and parking might be a problem, especially during the day, a popular time for tourists to visit.
Judy looked up the information on and printed out the information for him. “Here you go, sweetie,” She handed him several printouts and he smiled, taking no offense at her calling him ‘sweetie’. There wasn’t anything especially personal in it, as she called practically everyone that. She was just an extremely friendly woman.
“Thanks, Judy,” He leans over the desk and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She giggles and blushed clear to her roots. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll be back later. If anyone comes looking for me, just tell them to call my cell.” Chris said, holding up the printout in a farewell salute.
He stepped out into the oppressive heat and wished, not for the first time, that they didn’t keep the interior of the building so cold. Before he reached his car, there is sweat beading his brow and he felt it trickling along his flesh only to pool in the swale of his lower back. He unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Smiling to himself, he started the car, slipped on his shades and then he was off. He didn’t turn on the air conditioner. For now, he let the hot wind whip around him as he made his way down the crowded streets, one arm on the steering wheel, the other resting casually out the open window.
While waiting on a red light, Chris studied the directions Judy had given him. According to the trip from the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard to Bamboo Lane in Chinatown should only take about nineteen minutes if he opted to use the highways. But, after listening to a traffic update that announced that traffic had slowed to a two-mile an hour crawl on I-10 W toward Santa Monica near Santa Anita Avenue because of a car pile up, he decided it would be best to avoid the highways if at all possible.
He set the first printout aside and looked at the other one Judy had given him, the one that would help him avoid all of the highways. Taking this route would take him thirty-five minutes instead of nineteen, but he would be arriving at his destination in a more relaxed state of mind.
After making a quick stop at a fantastic pastry shop practically next door to the Federal building, he made his way back onto Wilshire Boulevard and headed east toward Veteran Avenue. He flicked off the radio and inserted one of his favorite CDs instead. His stomach growled again as the scent of the pastries wafted to his nose. But he resisted the temptation to indulge. They were a part of his master plan, and he was hungry enough that he would probably end up eating them all before he arrived and then where would he be?
Half an hour later, relaxed and singing along enthusiastically with the music, he turned onto North Broadway and eventually found an empty parking spot within reasonable walking distance to the pet shop’s address. He got out, making sure he locked the door, and grabbed the pastries from the front seat before bumping the driver’s side door closed with his hip. After getting his bearings on where he was at, he made his way southwest along North Broadway until he came to Bamboo Lane.
The main streets running through what was sometimes called the new Chinatown were Broadway, Spring Street and Hill Street. The Broadway side of Chinatown was usually packed with tourists that gathered to eat at the myriad Chinese restaurants and spend their hard earned tourist dollars at the many of the more exotic souvenir shops. But there weren’t nearly as many tourists in this area and for that he was glad. It gave him a chance to look around without having to crane his head above a bustling crowd.
Though he was anxious to meet the owner of the mysterious pet shop, Chris took his time walking, opening his senses to fully enjoy the sights, sounds and scents of the area. He knew that, because of the stylized exotic atmosphere, this section of Chinatown was very popular for on-site movie filming. One movie that always came to mind was Rush Hour with Jackie Chan, one of his favorite all-time movies. It beat out I Was a Teenage Werewolf hands down.
Although he was technically a resident Los Angelino, at the moment he felt more like a wide-eyed tourist transported to an entirely different world, one of beauty and mystery, A place where magic wasn’t the slight of hand tricks and misdirection of an onstage performer, but something real and as wonderful as it could be scary.
The outside appearance of the shop was just the way he remembered it and, taking a deep breath, he made his way down the steps and to the front door. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the wood and said in a strong, commanding voice, “This is the FBI! Open up! I have some questions for you!”
After a few moments he hear a soft reply from behind the door, “If they’re about that poor man’s accident, then there is nothing more to discuss.”
Chris cleared his throat nervously and continued in a much quieter voice, “They’re not. They’re about your father, actually.”
There was silence for a moment. Chris had a moment to wonder if he had said something wrong, but then he heard the voice say, “Father isn’t here right now.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Chris said, and held out the box pastries, not sure if the voice could see them or not, then continued hopefully, “I brought him some cherry tarts.”
This was greeted by another silence, shorter than the first. The door opened slowly and a beautiful man emerged from behind the door. His black hair was pulled back from his face to reveal a pale face and a pair of the most beautiful eyes Chris had ever seen. There was something familiar about them and it took a moment to realize they were a lot like Leon’s. With a start, he realized that he was staring and tore his eyes away as heat flooded his face, prelude to a blush.
“Well, we can’t have those go to waste,” the young man murmured. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, I would.” Chris replied and blew out his breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The young man led him to the parlor and gestured toward a chair. “Please have a seat,” He disappeared and then reappeared a few moments later pushing a tea cart. He served tea to first tea Chris first, and then himself. He deftly arranged the cherry tarts on a glass dish and offered the dish to Chris, who thanked him and helped himself to a cherry tart. He took a bite and it was wonderful.
“And how may I help you…” He trailed off, apparently unsure how to address his visitor.
“Agent Chris Orcot,” He supplied, offering his hand to the other man, “You can just call me Chris.”
“Pleased to meet you… Chris.” The other man hesitated for a moment before using his given name, and his smile indicated that he wasn’t entirely certain if it was proper to do so under the current situation. He hesitantly took Chris’ hand. “I am Count-“
“D, yes, I know. Don’t worry,” Chris reassured, “I’m not here on official business. I meant what I said – I really would like to talk to you about your father.”
He set his tea cup down carefully on the saucer and turned his body so he was looking directly at Count D’s son.
“But first, I want to tell you a story. It’s not a fairy tale or piece of fiction, though it may sound like one at times. Everything I’m about to tell you really happened and though you may not believe that by the time I’m through, I swear God that every single word is true.”
D leaned forward slightly, his facial expression one of expectation. Chris could discern no doubt or disbelief in either his facial expression or body language. He didn’t know how much of this story, if any, the other man knew, so he began as all other stories did, that is, at the beginning.
“I want to tell you a story,” Chris began, “It’s a story about many things, but mostly it’s one about love… and obsession.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 01
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Date: 2008-02-25 04:30 pm (UTC)