10 minutes later you're driving through the heart of the city, communicating with Rusty via cell phone. He's busy working away at the computer databases.
"Well Rusty? Anything you could find on Tommy Atwell?"
"Still searching. What do you think?"
"He's out at night and comes back with torn, bloody clothes--probably torn when her growing boy gets a canine hormone overdoes. I'd say Mrs.Atwell's litle boy has been transforming into a big hairy beastie, and I'm not just talking about puberty."
"I've found something Marcia. Overall, the Atwell's have been one of the town's most respected families. But every few generations there seems to be a black sheep in the family. The last one, Roy Atwell, was shot to death by the police in 1939. They'd had reports of a serial killer roaming the streets, killing and mutilating bums and raping--and then killing--call girls. The police heard a woman scream, then ran into a dark alley that she'd pointed into. One of them got spooked and accidentally fired. Next thing they knew a naked 18 year old man staggered out of the alley and fell on his face."
"So it's genetic. That explains why I didn't detect any lycanthropic traces in Mrs. Atwell. It's on the father's side. The werewolf gene must be recessive. It skips a generation or two. Her son's just turned 18 too."
"Yup. If you go back 60 years there's the story of Ezra Atwell, shot by a farmer who thought he'd seen a wolf. D'you think Mrs. Atwell was lying to us?"
"I think she had an inkling of the truth, but not all of it. I'm using my telepathic radar to try and pinpoint traces of any semi-lupine minds in the area. Have there been any reports of werewolves in the area?"
"Come to think of it, the police reports have had a weird trend recently. In the country several farmers have complained about lost wildstock. But that was weeks ago. Now there are reports of missing bums. And apparently all the streetwalkers are scared stiff. The police have been trying to keep a lid on all this, but I've got contacts in the department. Apparently the city council is trying to keep the whole thing secret."
"Hmmm.."
You stop your car outside a run-down night-club. You've caught a trace, a very faint one. You drive closer to the building and park by the curb. Now the trace is definite but not overly strong--the werewolves haven't transformed yet.
"Okay Rusty. I've found 'em."
You see a tough looking gang of bangers crowded around the back entrance of the nightclub. This area is ghetto all the way, but these people aren't the werewolves. But the bangers are in a heated exchange with what look like a group of preppies. They're decked out in school uniforms--slacks, jackets and so. These are the monsters.
"That's funny. The guys with the werewolf trace all look like they come from the same posh private school."
"What's their uniform like?" asks Rusty.
"Dark blue blazers, gray pants and blue ties."
"It's St.Alban's. The swankiest school in the state. Only for bluebloods and sons of the elite. People send their kids from all over the country to it. It's just outside town. But why on earth do all the werewolves come from the same school?"
"I think I know why," you say grimly.
Then you see a tall, lanky boy in the center of the group. Like all the boys, he has thick black hair. But unlike the rest, who are screaming insults and making threatening gestures, this boy has an innocent, angelic face, with cool blue eyes and a friendly smile. Tommy doesn't need to look threatening. Judging by the way the others flank him, he's obviously an alpha male.
You unlock your seatbelt and open the door.
"I'm going for him Rusty." You're about to shut off the phone.
"Marcia. Be careful."
You nod, and remove something from the glove compartment before shutting the door and walking toward the werewolves. You see Tommy turn his angel's head and glimpse you, and feel his strong, feral aura. You hand moves inside your coat, and feels the object you took from the glove compartment. The object is smooth and metallic. It shoots silver bullets.
"Tommy!" you shout.