Tribal Ways. Alex Archer

like that, Ms. Creed. That poor boy was pretty torn up. I don’t reckon he could’ve lasted long regardless of anything you did or didn’t do.”

      “Thanks,” Annja said.

      She drew in a deep breath and tried to ignore the stinging in her eyes. “I was coming out to visit him,” she said. “He was also kind enough to want to consult with me on the dig, even though pre-Columbian North American archaeology is way outside my area of study.”

      “You’re doin’ me a favor, Ms. Creed, by comin’ out here to see me,” he said. “I was needing to interview you, anyway.”

      He put on a pair of heavy-framed reading glasses and moved his mouse around on the pad, peering at a flat-screen monitor set at an angle so as not to intrude between him and a visitor. Aside from an in-box stacked with papers, the only other objects on his desk were a picture of a grinning young and handsome Indian man wearing an Army uniform, a much younger girl, maybe twelve, with pigtails, both built along much more aerodynamic lines than the lieutenant, and another picture of a young man in BDUs and combat gear with a bullet-pocked adobe wall for a backdrop. The soldier held a CAR-4 assault carbine decked out with the usual array of sights and lights. He looked like the same person as the grinning kid in the other photo, only older. Not so much in years, maybe, but still much older, Annja thought.

      “So you work for a television show,” he said.

      “Yes. I’m kind of the resident skeptic—the token voice of reason. I suspect Paul’s superiors hoped that by inviting me out they might put their department in the way of some free publicity.”

      “The anthro department at OU wanted to get on something called Chasing History’s Monsters?”

      She shrugged. “The hope of getting on TV can have a strange effect on people. Even intelligent, well-educated ones.”

      He made a face, took off the glasses and looked at her. “Maybe the monster thing’s actually appropriate now. Is that what brings you to see me, Ms. Creed?”

      “I want to learn everything I can about what happened to my friend,” she said. “Also his colleagues. And the poor man whose property the dig site was on.”

      “Old Eric,” Ten Bears said. “Pretty righteous guy. Did well for himself and his family from leasing natural-gas rights on some of his land out there south of the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge. Always quick to help out a fellow Nation member or crack a joke. Even if he did have lousy taste in ’em.”

      “He was a friend of yours?”

      Ten Bears nodded. “I know a lot of people in our region. Know a whole lot of Indian good old boys like me.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Thanks. Listen, it was a pretty ugly scene out there, Ms. Creed. I’ve worked a lot of homicides over the years. I’ve worked some pretty terrible accident scenes. Never saw anything like that anywhere. I can’t really tell you anything the department hasn’t already released to the media. Tell the truth, I’m sorta glad.”

      He sat back, looking at her. He seemed not unfriendly. Not unkind, in fact. From the laugh lines bracketing his eyes and mouth she guessed he was by nature a pretty decent guy. She also knew that a seasoned homicide investigator wouldn’t hesitate to feign those emotions when he didn’t feel remotely kind or friendly, if it would help advance the case.

      “What’d the decedent tell you?” he asked quietly.

      “He said he was attacked by what, frankly, sounded more like a movie monster than anything in the real world.”

      “You’ve had some experience investigating monsters, I guess,” he said. “What’s your take on that?”

      “Are you serious? I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m not trying to be uncooperative. It just sounds like—a strange question for somebody who seems so no-nonsense to be asking.”

      “I try not to close any possible avenues of inquiry. Especially in a case like this. I’m not giving away any confidential information when I tell you we don’t have a whole lot of ideas on this thing. Not ones that make any sense. So, hey, I’ll at least give a listen to ones that might not seem to make much sense. I don’t believe in werewolves. But if our perp really is a damn werewolf, I want to be there when they pump silver into his veins or whatever they’d use for an execution. Maybe you’d call it putting him to sleep.”

      A strangled squeak of laughter escaped Annja’s lips before she could clap her hand over her mouth. She bent forward in her chair, then straightened.

      “Sorry,” she said. “I’m…not normally like that.”

      “I’m sorry,” Ten Bears said. “Sometimes I’ve got pretty lousy taste in jokes, too. I can see you’re shaken up some. Anybody would be. Nice young woman like you isn’t used to having people up and die right in front of her.”

      She managed to show no reaction to that statement. Unfortunately she was used to having people up and die in front of her. Poor Paul wasn’t even the first ex-lover and friend Annja Creed had seen die. Although she was sure she would never get used to that.

      None of which she wanted to admit to the lead investigator on Comanche County’s most lurid multiple-murder case of modern times.

      The thought helped her compose herself. “This has hit me hard, I must admit,” she said. “I have to ask you to believe me that I’m not going to pieces on you. And I’m determined to find out what happened to those people.”

      “All right,” he said, nodding and drawing it out. His accent was a weird blend of Indian staccato and cowboy drawl, something she wouldn’t have thought was possible. “So, not to be boring or anything, what do you make of what Mr. Stavriakos told you?”

      “I don’t believe in werewolves, either, Lieutenant. Yet I know Paul Stavriakos is—was—a trained scientist, and not what I’d call an impressionable man. Obviously, something terrible and…unusual happened out at the dig site this morning. The suddenness and speed of the attack, the shock of seeing his friends brutally murdered, the terrible emotional impact of having someone attack him in person, the physical injuries he took—none of those things leads to careful observation.

      “The thing is, there are no documented reports of wolf attacks on humans in North America. And I have a hard time imagining any North American animal, no matter how hungry or scared or angry or even rabid, attacking a group of six adult humans, much less being able to kill or mortally wound them all. So I’d have to imagine a very strong man, berserk even, probably wearing a wolf skin or even some kind of costume, was responsible for the attack.”

      She shook her head. “It’s hard for me to imagine what happened no matter what.”

      “I been doing some digging since I got back from interviewing Mr. Stavriakos at the hospital, before you got there,” Ten Bears said. “It turns out there are some pretty well-documented wolf attacks on people. Just a lot of people said there weren’t, and everybody got believing it. But there hasn’t been a wolf seen in Comanche County since the 1890s. And again I’m not giving away much when I tell you that’s how I got it sized up, too.”

      “I understand from the news reports that there have been previous attacks under similar circumstances,” Annja said.

      “Yeah. Two in New Mexico. One out near the Continental Divide between Gallup and Grants, one between Santa Fe and Albuquerque. All of them on archaeological digs, all of them nasty. Mr. Stavriakos’s passing brings the death toll to fifteen. In all three attacks at least one witness survived. They all gave similar details—including that their attacker was either a great big wolf or something that looked like a man-wolf hybrid, like the wolfman from the movie.”

      He paused, frowning. “Along with what you said, the whole notion it’s a single animal with one helluva range, much less three separate animals that suddenly and simultaneously developed a serious taste for archaeologists, strikes me as a lot more far-fetched than it’s being