Wolf's Trap (The Nick Lupo Series Book 1) Read online

  WOLF’S TRAP

  Book One of the Nick Lupo Series

  By W. D. Gagliani

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2017 W. D. Gagliani

  Original publication by Samhain Publishing – March, 2014

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  W.D. Gagliani is the author of the horror-thrillers Wolf’s Trap (a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award in 2004), Wolf’s Gambit, Wolf’s Bluff, Wolf’s Edge, Wolf’s Cut, Wolf’s Blind, and Savage Nights, plus the novellas Wolf’s Deal and both the original “The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis” and the upcoming Acheron Books version. He has published fiction and nonfiction in numerous anthologies and publications such as Robert Bloch’s Psychos, Fearful Fathoms, Undead Tales, More Monsters From Memphis, The Midnighters Club, Extremes 3: Terror On The High Seas, Extremes 4: Darkest Africa, and others, and early e-zines such as Wicked Karnival, Horrorfind, 1000Delights, Dark Muse, and The Grimoire. His fiction has garnered six Honorable Mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror (one of which, the story “Starbird,” is also part of Amazon’s Story Front program). His book reviews and nonfiction articles have been included in The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Chizine, HorrorWorld, Cemetery Dance, CD Online, The Writer magazine, The Scream Factory, Science Fiction Chronicle, Flesh & Blood, BookPage, Hellnotes, and many others, plus the books Thrillers: The 100 Must Reads, They Bite, and On Writing Horror. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. Additionally, the creative team of W.D. Gagliani & David Benton has published fiction in anthologies such as THE X-FILES: Trust No One, SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror, SNAFU: Wolves at the Door, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13, Zippered Flesh 2, Malpractice, Masters of Unreality, etc., online venues such as The Horror Zine, DeadLines and SplatterpunkZine, plus the Amazon Kindle Worlds Vampire Diaries tie-in “Voracious in Vegas.” Some of their collaborations are available in the collection Mysteries & Mayhem.

  Contact:

  www.wdgagliani.com

  www.facebook.com/wdgagliani

  Twitter: @WDGagliani

  Books and Novellas:

  Wolf’s Trap

  Wolf’s Gambit

  Wolf’s Bluff

  Wolf’s Edge

  Wolf’s Cut

  Wolf’s Blind

  Wolf’s Deal

  Savage Nights

  Shadowplays (Tarkus Press; story collection)

  Mysteries & Mayhem (Tarkus Press; story collection, with David Benton)

  I Was a Seventh Grade Monster Hunter (Tarkus Press; Middle Grade, with David Benton, as A.G. Kent)

  “The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis” (Tarkus Press; novella)

  “Jack Daniels and Associates: Hair of the Dog” (Kindle Worlds Novella; A Jack Daniels / Nick Lupo Thriller)

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  Dedication

  For my mom and Janis, as ever my pillars of love and support; and Toby, the littlest wolf. In memory of my dad, Alda Gagliani, and Aldo DiCorato.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank many of my “writer friends” for their advice and friendship over the years: Don Adams, Maria Alexander, Regina Allen, Jim Argendeli, Mike Arnzen, Raymond Benson, David Benton, Elaine Bergstrom, Hal Bodner, Jay Bonansinga, Steven Booth, Gary A. Braunbeck, Bill Breedlove, Judy Bridges, Maurice Broaddus, Jack Byrne, P.D. Cacek, Michael Calvillo, Mort Castle, John Everson, Louise Fury, Paul Gifford, Sephera Giron, J.F. Gonzalez, Amy Hager, Alice Henderson, Curt Hoffmeister, Brian A. Hopkins, Gerard Houarner, Del Howison, Jonathan Janz, Tina Jens, Gary Jonas, Nanci Kalanta, Brian Keene, A.G. Kent, Don Kinney, J.A. Konrath, Mike Laimo, Ann and Kelly Laymon, Deborah LeBlanc, Jill Lindberg, Jonathan Maberry, Debbi Mack, Lisa Mannetti, Len Maynard, Colum McKnight, Dennis Michel (I still miss you, man!), James A. Moore, Brian Moreland, Bob Morrish, Lisa Morton, Billie Sue Mosiman, Scott Nicholson, Gene O’Neill, John Palisano, Garrett Peck, Adam Pepper, Keith Petersen, Lynnette Phillips, Brian Pinkerton, Judi Rohrig, Gord Rollo, Joel Ross (also taken much too soon), Kristopher Rufty, Martel Sardina, Brett Savory, Harry Shannon, Hunter Shea, Dave Simms, Beecher Smith, Jeff Strand, Tamara Thorne, Robert W. Walker, Deena and Matt Warner, Bob Weinberg, Christopher Welch, C.J. West, Rhonda Wilson, Simon Wood, Mark Worthen (another terrible loss…), Mercedes Murdock Yardley, John Zemler, Mark Zirbel. I’ve met many new friends in the past several years, and I thank all of them, too, including my new colleagues at Samhain Publishing, especially Don D’Auria. Shout out to the hard-working crew of the Starbucks at 8880 S. Howell in Oak Creek, Wisconsin.

  Also, for inspiration: Desmond Bagley, James Blaylock, Robert Bloch, Lawrence Block, Gary A. Braunbeck, Ed Bryant, Ramsey Campbell, Raymond Chandler, Lee Child, Douglas Clegg, Matt Costello, Robert Crais, Larry David, Charles de Lint, Bradley Denton, Philip K. Dick, Barry Eisler, Harlan Ellison, Ian Fleming, Ray Garton, Charles Grant, Carl Hiaasen, Jack Higgins (Harry Patterson), Brian Hodge, Jack Ketchum, Stephen King, Duncan Kyle, Joe R. Lansdale, Richard Laymon, Edward Lee, David Lynch, Alistair MacLean, Richard Matheson, Robert R. McCammon, David Morrell, William F. Nolan, Robert B. Parker, Tom Piccirilli, Tim Powers, Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child, John Sandford, David J. Schow, John Skipp, Michael Slade, Peter Straub, Karl Edward Wagner, Donald E. Westlake, F. Paul Wilson, and so many more who made an indelible mark.

  And the music of: Emerson Lake & Palmer, Yes, Genesis, Marillion and Fish, The Alan Parsons Project (and in memory of Eric Woolfson), Kansas, Pink Floyd, Tangerine Dream, Spock’s Beard, as well as all their individual musicians. Prog lives!

  Author’s Note

  Some license was taken with regard to Milwaukee and Eagle River geography. A list of relevant references can be found at www.wdgagliani.com.

  WOLF’S TRAP

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five />
  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Two

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Cincinnati

  March 2

  He headed for the park again.

  He went just about every day, when the weather was nice, but only once every few weeks did he feel the tingle that told him something special would happen.

  Today he felt the tingle, and he smiled.

  It was warm, but he wore his parka anyway. The mushy ground seemed to spring under his step, still wet from the last snow, but the benches were dry.

  He pulled himself into character, easily enough.

  He was so happy. He was going to see a girl.

  He’d been seeing her every day for a couple of weeks now, and had managed to say hello in his own shy way. And Susan had just as shyly told him her name when he’d pressed her for it a few days before, after she told him she liked to watch him feed squirrels. Maybe it was the way the small, furry rodents climbed all over him, looking for peanuts and corn kernels, that first attracted her to him. Or because he was a nice, quiet person. He dressed well, spoke well, and made her feel safe with his subdued manner.

  And maybe his priest’s collar made her feel even safer.

  When Susan had come up to him that first day, he’d had to admit that she was cute. Just plain, really, with a heavy dose of cute. Brown hair, gray eyes, normal nose (maybe a little bony), and no makeup except lipstick. That had made him perk right up. When she smiled, she was no longer plain.

  He was a smile man, pure and simple.

  And she did smile, seeing all those squirrels waiting their turn to jump up and search through the folds and pockets of the young priest’s parka.

  “I didn’t realize they were so tame,” she had said.

  He pretended to see her for the first time. Oh, yes,” he said, “they’re pretty used to me.”

  When he looked at her, he often looked at just her lips. He did that, he explained, because he was a little deaf, though not enough to require a hearing aid. He told her it helped just to see her lips forming words. It didn’t hurt when the lips he “read” were so stunningly perfect.

  He smiled at her, his priestly smile.

  “They’re so cute,” she said, smiling back.

  He nodded, silent because one chubby squirrel was checking out the top of his head, tiny paws grabbing on to his shoulder. When it was done, it scurried down the back of the parka, and a different fellow climbed up. He put another peanut in his hair.

  “You must be a regular,” she said, and he was happy to see that she wanted to keep talking. So they chatted about squirrels and rabbits and their feeding habits, and he told her that he’d been feeding them every day. He noted that when she smiled her eyes sparkled.

  “Well, I have to get back to work,” she said after a while, real regret apparent in her voice.

  “Where do you work?” he asked. An innocent question.

  She told him a lie and he smiled. “Very nice! Maybe I’ll see you again.”

  “Yes,” she said, “maybe.”

  So he continued going back to the park, his starched collar in place. The next day she didn’t stay long—she had a lunch date—but she said hello and watched him feed a pudgy squirrel. She laughed and called him Piglet. He looked at her as she laughed. She really did feel safe, and that made him happy.

  She didn’t come the next three days, and he wished he had taken her picture. He had a camera in his bag, but it might have been difficult to explain why a priest would want to photograph a pretty girl. So he spent hours sitting in the chilly early-spring sunlight, throwing nuts to the gathered squirrels with little angry gestures.

  She was back the following Monday, calling out a cheery hello that startled him. He looked at her eyes for a second, then her mouth. She smiled; then he smiled, too. The squirrels were insistent, though, and he had to concentrate on the feeding. She took a brown bag out of her spacious purse and sat on the next bench. That was when she first told him her name.

  He told her his name, and she said, “Martin, that’s a nice name.”

  “Father Martin,” he corrected her, “though I’m between parish assignments right now.”

  He fed hungry squirrels, and she ate a sparse lunch, throwing out crumbs that the furry creatures scooped into their tiny mouths. Then, while he watched, she refreshed her bright lipstick before smiling and waving good-bye.

  His hands itched, and he scratched them until they almost bled, the camera lying screaming and unused in his duffel bag. If only he could have planted an excuse, a reason to photograph her.

  But, no, a priest couldn’t get away with it, not this day and age.

  Martin felt a sharp pain behind his eyes. Susan’s face blended into Caroline’s, and he knew that her memory was weighing on him again, causing his vision to blur and his hands to itch. Her loss was the catalyst, the reason for his visits to the park this month, and for his visits to the airport last month. No, it was the moon’s position, he thought, pushing the pinprick pain aside once again.

  He knew it was almost showtime. His great crusade, his life’s work. Everything he’d done up to now was just a warm-up an opener, a prelude. He was ready now— almost ready—to make the blood flow.

  It won’t be long, Caroline, he thought. Not long at all. Now, as he spread peanuts on the bench and called the squirrels, he spied Susan approaching on the path from the parking lot. She was right on time—had her lunch hour planned to the minute—and she waved as he looked up. In one hand she carried one of those colorful reusable lunch sacks, and in the other a clear bag of goodies for the squirrels.

  He smiled and waved, too, and wrestled his bag closer, making sure the flap was closed. He didn’t want her to see his surprise too soon. It was time to move on, and the expectation surged through him like high voltage. He always enjoyed the culmination of his plans. He always enjoyed the moving-on part, and this time he had something even bigger to look forward to.

  He patted the bag. One thing at a time. Finish one series of actions before beginning another.

  He had planned this well. He planned everything well.

  He smiled at the thought of it.

  When he looked up at Susan, he knew that for the first time she could see into and beyond his bland eyes. Past his smile. Into his darkness. She hesitated, her steps first slowing and then coming to a halt.

  It was too late. Understanding crossed her features just as his hand came out of the bag.

  Part One

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Martin

  Milwaukee

  March 17

  After two weeks of watching, carefully noting every coming and every going, Martin Stewart decided it was almost time to begin this new phase of his life. He had let his need build up to an almost intolerable level, to the point where the pain was almost as good as the release he could expect. Indeed, withdrawal was, in this case, as satisfying as fulfillment. But only to a point. Eventually, the waiting would begin to erode the corners of his façade, and he would have
to plan another release.

  He had enjoyed his role as quiet, trustworthy Father Martin the last time. It had somehow seemed to heighten the pleasure of the release to know that someone so outwardly trustworthy could turn out to be so different, so dangerous. There was a certain—he searched for the right word—justness to it all, especially afterward, when he had seen the tiny bloodstains on the white collar. The irony was delicious, almost as delicious as the act itself.

  Martin was pragmatic about his releases. He saw them clearly for what they were. His flesh was inherently weak, and each completed project simply an indication of how weak. That each release was also to be savored merely complicated the mixture, and Martin was nothing if not complicated. He could stand back and observe his actions and behaviors in a completely objective manner, and he was justly proud of this capability. The doctors had noted that it lent Martin a certain tragic flair. Here was a man trapped in the clutches of behavioral urges no one should have to suffer, though he both suffered and enjoyed them, analyzed them, claimed he saw where they careened hopelessly off the normal path, and finally rationalized them as the only possible outlet for his needs.

  Martin kept a journal, much as his sister had always done, even through her psychiatric practice, though his was nowhere as detailed. Still, he reveled in his feelings and emotions, and he tried to outguess the doctors as to the reasons behind his actions. This practice did not stop him from committing actions that he was well aware crossed the line into abnormal, or even—as the doctors pointed out—into the realm of the dangerous. He merely considered each action an experiment, and he wrote down how he felt when he performed the action, even if he was aware of the action’s negative connotations.

  Martin differed from the Stevensen Institute’s other psychopaths in that he was completely aware of his psychopathic tendencies, and in that he enjoyed acting on them to a degree greater than any other patient they had ever entertained. And was there any doubt, the doctors wondered, considering his earlier family life? The files they kept on Martin were full to overflowing, an even dozen folders and packets stretched to the breaking limit and held together with fraying rubber bands. Several accounts of what had transpired in the Stewart home were included, but none were as complete as Martin’s own additions, written in a tiny, precise hand that resembled squiggles until more closely examined, and then became almost overly ornate. Some of Martin’s journal pages were included in the folders. But most pages Martin kept to himself. Martin was very resourceful, and no one on the clinic’s staff would have believed that he had been able to squirrel away several hundred pages of journal entries, besides having shared hundreds more with his various therapists.