A Very Hirsute Young Man

After school Peter lay shirtless in the hammock, idly listening to his iPod and stroking the dark hair under his navel. He felt uncharacteristic stirrings of remorse. Of course it would be the nobler thing to offer the upir some kind of support, but Peter was generally suspicious of his nobler impulses. And though he regretted the pain this vargulf was causing, and would continue to in all likelihood before its inevitable self-termination, pain was as much a part of this life as the summer and the winter and the rain, and there was no greater asshole than the one who believed you can cure it. That you ought to. Peter did not consider himself a defeatist, but Nicolae had taught him not to scratch where it doesn’t itch, and he had a highly evolved sense of what was and was not his problem.

He heard the sound of tires on the gravel lane and looked up to see the approach of a sheriff’s cruiser. He removed the headphones and got up as it parked in the drive and Neck and Nose emerged from the car, followed by a petite black woman in jeans and a turtleneck. Not a cop. She appeared as blandly unwelcome as a juvie shrink or any of the social workers who were no stranger to the Rumanceks’ door. But there are frogs deadlier than sharks and she smelled no less sweet than a brewing storm like trouble.

“Peter Rumancek?” said Nose.

“Hello, officers,” said Peter in a friendly voice loud enough for Lynda to hear inside and dispose of anything better disposed of.

“Having a nice nap there, young Peter?” said Neck. “Yes sir,” said Peter.

“That’s the life, nice little afternoon nappy-poo, isn’t it, Pete?” “Yes sir.”

“Well, we’ll try not to take up too much of your time here. Just a little word, if it’s not imposing.” He drew out the syllable pose in a faux British intonation.

“Yes sir.”

The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. Peter was below average height for his age, and she barely came to his chin. She glanced at his torso.

“You’re a very hirsute young man, aren’t you?” she said. “You’d have to tell me what hirsute means, ma’am,” said Peter.

There was a flush inside and then Lynda appeared in the doorway. Peter glanced over and gave a discreet head shake not to worry. Yet.

“It means, forgive me for saying so, furry,” she said.

“Oh. Guilty, ma’am. We Rumanceks generate very healthy amounts of testosterone.” Neck snickered.

“That’s good,” she said. “Peter, my name is Dr. Chasseur, and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

“Well gee, ma’am, I didn’t realize I was that hairy.” Neck guffawed.

“No, no,” said Chasseur. “I just … well, hello.”

Fetchit was rubbing up against her ankles with amorous insistence. She lowered to his haunches and scratched his ears.

She looked up at Peter from the crouch. “I’m here regarding the animal attacks.” Peter’s balls twitched.

“Any theories yourself on that score?” she said. “No ma’am. But I’ve heard some good ones.”

“I bet you have.” She rose and regarded him amiably. “I suppose you aren’t by any chance a werewolf, Peter?”

“Beg pardon?” said Peter. Some of the old tongue’s more imaginative curses flashed behind his eyes. “When the moon is full, do you walk in the skin of a wolf?”

“No sir,” he said. “Ma’am,” he said. “Good,” she said. “Now that’s settled.” “Could I possibly ask … why, ma’am?” “Do you know Christina Wendall?” “Yes ma’am,” he said.

“And you know she was the one who discovered Lisa Willoughby.” “Yes ma’am.”

“Can you think of any reason she might have to believe you were a werewolf, Peter?” Peter thought fast. “Because I told her. Ma’am.”

“Was there a particular reason you told her?” “Well … because she asked.”

“Was there a particular reason she asked?”

“My middle and index fingers are the same length.” He held out his hand palm forward. Neck whistled. “And this is an attribute of werewolfism?” said Chasseur.

“I thought it meant you were a lesbian,” said Neck.

“I believe you’re actually referring to a greater discrepancy between the length of the index and ring fingers in homosexual women indicating higher levels of androgen,” said Chasseur. Back to Peter: “So this means you’re a werewolf.”

“She seemed to think so, ma’am. But I’m not really an expert on your whole werewolf/lesbian situation.”

“Then you continue to deny all werewolf allegations?” “Yes ma’am. There’s no such thing, ma’am.”

“And you really believe that, Peter?” “I thought it was scientific fact, ma’am.”

“Proving a negative is a misuse of both the terms science and fact, Peter.”

He pinched his fingers. “I thought it was just this close to scientific fact, ma’am.”

She nodded. “Have you ever heard the term clinical lycanthropy, Peter?” she asked. Every time she used his name it was putting a pat of butter on a slice of botulism.

“No ma’am.”

“It describes a condition that causes the subject to believe he or she is a werewolf—and act accordingly.”

“It takes all kinds to make a world, ma’am.”

“Did you know either Lisa Willoughby or Brooke Bluebell?” “No ma’am.”

“What were you and Roman Godfrey doing at Kilderry Park the night of October second?” demanded Nose.

“We were catching fireflies, sir.”

Nose glowered, but a quick glance from the woman censured his natural retaliatory bullying instinct. Peter, who had been in his day a person of interest to an assortment of law enforcement agencies, wondered (among other things) what gave a specialist from the Fish and Wildlife Service such a calmly confident and dexterous technique in the questioning of a human person.

“Does Roman Godfrey think he’s a werewolf?” said Chasseur. “I don’t have his power of attorney,” said Peter.

“Hazard a guess.” “I would guess not.”

Fetchit began toying with Nose’s shoelace and Nose glared down at the sass from this quarter. Peter scooped the cat in his arms.

“Cat person?” said Chasseur.

“All creatures great and small, ma’am.” He kissed the cat to rest his case and it squirmed from his grasp, having more pressing things to do than receive freely offered affection.

After the conclusion of the interview Peter waited until the crunch of the cruiser was well up the lane before going inside, slipping on a sweater, and telling his mother not to wait up. She said to pick up some bread and some cigarettes and to watch himself. He said, “I will.”

Date: 2016-01-05; view: 641