improbable ‘enemies’ that Philip had found all so probable… and the hanging question about whether Wulf was tied to our tattoo killer.
Another thought struck me about Wulf and Spleen. “You know—” I began.
“I was thinking—” Philip said, almost simultaneously. “Sorry.”
“You go,” I said.
“Ladies first.”
“Fuck that,” I said, and when Philip arched his eyebrow I raised my hand in surrender. “Seriously. Spleen is Wulf’s point of contact. If we can find out when they talked—”
“We could figure out when Wulf rode into town from Birmingham, maybe eliminate him as a suspect?” Philip said. “That’s what I was thinking. But Birmingham’s only a few hours away. If he was our serial killer, he could have gone back easily, killed the blonde, and returned here. Or he could have used an accomplice—”
“But Spleen talked to him several times,” I said. “If we could nail down a window of when he talked to him, we could either eliminate Wulf as the man on the scene in Birmingham or establish that he was AWOL from Atlanta during the last killing.”
Philip shook his head. “Oh, man,” he said, with a huge grin. “Have I mentioned how much fun it is to hang out with you, Dakota?”
My phone beeped. I started to ignore it, but Phil scowled. “What if it’s—”
“Buckhead?” I said, staring at the number.
“Aren’t we in—”
“Lord Buckhead,” I said, pressing it. “Buck, this is Dakota. What can I do you for—”
“I sensed your presence in my stronghold,” Buckhead said. “Come to the Storyteller.”
“The… Storyteller?” I said. It was a statue—the statue of Buckhead, in Buckhead—not more than a block or two away. “But— we have our name in at the Fish Market,” I protested.
“Come quickly, Dakota,” he said. “Or it will be too late.”
“Too late for what? What’s happened, Buck?”
“Your friend Spleen,” Buck said, “was just attacked by a werewolf.”
28. STORYTELLER SQUARE
Phil’s Prius screeched through the knotted traffic of Buckhead. Once, crossing these congested streets at speed would have been impossible—but the block party that was Buckhead was dying, the victim of a hostile business alliance and a colluding City Council that had dialed back bar hours all over the city except at the city-owned boondoggle, ‘Underground’ Atlanta. So now the traffic was thinner, and had occasional gaps that Philip squeezed through expertly, greased by the flashing blue light he’d clamped atop his car.
So in moments we pulled up to “Storyteller Square”, a tiny little triangular park where Roswell forked off Peachtree Road. At the center of the rings of cobblestones that paved the square, a little crowd was gathered, huddled about the metal statue of the Storyteller and his woodland companions. Phil didn’t even bother to get a parking space: he just bumped the Prius up onto the sidewalk, kicked open the door and pulled out his gun.
“What the fuck—”
“Stay in the car, Dakota,” he said.
“Fuck that,” I said, kicking my door open and reaching for the crutches. Then I saw what he saw, and stumbled out of the car without them, limping.
Spleen lay gutted in the center of Storyteller Square, his thin body bleeding out into the concentric cobblestones radiating out from the statue of Buckhead. A ruddy Native American man I instantly recognized as Buck himself squatted over him, cradling his head.
“Black Mayday, Black Mayday,” Philip was saying into the air, approaching with his gun out, but pointed to the ground. “D-E-I asset down. Black Mayday, Black Mayday. I need a medevac at the intersection of Roswell and Peachtree, GPS coordinates—”
The crowd parted in alarm, and Philip flipped a badge out of the breast pocket of his immaculate suit. A beefy man stepped forward, nervous, holding a cell phone. “Thank God, Officer,” he said, bossy yet uncertain. “This—this man came up holding this other man—”
“Thank you, sir,” Philip interrupted, with a quiet voice that just radiated authority. “Remain on the scene and we’ll take a statement. Right now, my associate is injured—let her lean on your shoulder.”
“Sure,” the man said, stepping up beside me. “Ma’am?”
“I’m all right,” I said, but I reached out for his shoulder anyway.
“Where did you find him?” Philip asked with tightly controlled rage, staring down at Buck, gun still out but carefully pointed away from anyone.
“A place you cannot go,” Buck said. He wore the same breeches and loincloth he had before, with keys and a cellphone now on his belt. His human face was rugged but surprisingly young, and his black hair spilled down onto a proud, bare chest covered in only the barest excuse of a