Blood Wolf’s Path - страница 4

“That might work. Let’s try it,” Cocksucker agreed.

Twenty minutes later I entered the room where Fred Johnson was being held. He wasn’t as cocky as during our last meeting. His hands were cuffed and chained to the table, and his feet were in irons. When he saw me, annoyance flashed across his face. I spoke plainly, laying out the situation as I saw it. I knew our conversation was being recorded and that the agent was behind the one-way glass listening to everything.

"I know it was on your orders that my partner was killed, and that an attempt was made on my life when I was going to his grave. You’re gonna burn in hell, you bastard. I know you sent that beast after me to kill me, just like they killed my partner. Don’t bother denying it," I began.

Fred looked at me with hatred and spat out through his thick lips:

"I’ve got nothing left to lose. You killed my brother, you bastard. Enjoy your victory! But you can’t bring your partner back—Hank Sullivan is rotting in his grave."

Fred laughed and went on:

"You can’t bring him back; he just croaked like a stray dog. My brother told me how he killed him with a single blow." Crooked-Dick’s deep-set, angry eyes gleamed.

"So he remembered everything, your brother did – but how? I can’t remember anything after those nights," I said.

Fred realized what I was getting at. His face twisted first in confusion, then in mirth. He brayed like a mare.

"So that’s the deal. Now you’re cursed. And you don’t remember how you killed. Well then, I’ll tell you a secret my brother once shared with me. Control over the wolf doesn’t come immediately… First you have to spend many long moonlit nights in its skin. And when you can’t control yourself, you kill the innocent. That’s all I’ve got. Now get out."

Fred turned away. It was clear the conversation was over.

I walked to the door. It opened.

"Jerry Harrison," Fred Johnson—also known as Crooked-Dick—called after me, "remember: when night falls on the city, the wolf goes hunting."

The door slammed shut.

"What was that about?" the agent asked when we met up again five minutes later.

"Some kind of freaky shit…" I said, wiping sweat from my brow.

"So where did you say your partner is buried?" Cocksucker asked.

"I didn’t say. But he’s buried at Forest Hills Cemetery, in south Boston – off Blue Hills Avenue, then Morton Street."

"Four days ago, out there, Matthew Johnson, Fred Johnson’s brother, was shot dead… He was hit twelve times. Five of the bullets were a silver alloy…"

"Who the hell would bother making bullets like that… and for what…" I muttered, not meeting the agent’s eyes.

"While you two were chatting, I found out who… Your partner. Three months ago he ordered ten boxes from a gunsmith…" Cocksucker said. He was clearly trying to pin me down.

"Hmm… what are you implying, that I shot him?" I looked Cocksucker in the eye. "Yeah, possibly— in self-defense. You just heard Fred say his brother killed Hank and wanted to kill me."

"We’ll be sending your rounds for analysis. And you have to report a killing, even in self-defense—you know the procedure as well as I do," Cocksucker said.

"What killing? It was dark. I was attacked. I fired back, then I looked around: nobody there. What, am I supposed to report every time there’s gunfire in Boston now? I’d be filing paperwork around the clock—wouldn’t be enough paper…"