Destroyer Destroyer
#9 of Und Des Nachts: Danny the Killer
Claimer: This is the end of this sordid tale. A Requiem for a Gentleman, you could say.
Anyone can read this. I encourage people to puzzle out what this story meant, and what actually happened before I post the epilogue, which will explain everything in short order.
I'd like to thank everyone who came along with me on this weird ride. I'm sorry that it's over now.
For everyone who inspired me, well... You know who you are, you sickos. For everyone who supported me, I question your judgement. Either way, you've both kept me writing, and for that I owe you more than I can properly express with this meager English language. What I've written is by no means perfect, but in writing it, I've discovered a new love, and I have you all to thank for it. Thank you for being just strange enough to stick with me, or inspire me as the case may be. You're all fantastic, wonderous people.
God's mercy on all of you.
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"Don't lie to me." Ian snarled. "You're not in a position to tell me what to do or who I am anymore. So shut your trap, old man."
The wolf laughed, and pulled the phone away from his ear. "You haven't changed at all. I'm surprised they haven't locked you up yet. I watch the news you know- everyone says it's a wolf pack. But I know for a fact it's you. You fucked up little kid."
"You think you have the right to call me fucked up?!"
"I know I have the right."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Ian hated this. He never lost his cool. His voice was cracking with frantic worry. "After what you put me through, you think you can say things like that?"
"What did I put you through?" The wolf barked into the mouthpiece, glaring daggers through the prison glass. "Ask yourself. What exactly did I put you through?" The honesty in his voice was stinging for the wolf. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. None of these facts were adding up.
"You did this to me." His retort was feeble. "You made me what I am."
"Are you talking about Angela?"
"What else would I be talking about?"
The older wolf hesitated, shocked for the first time in eighteen years. He chose his words carefully. "I learned to accept what happened to me. No jury in the world would have convicted you. Are you telling me you haven't come to terms? Are you saying you..." his voice lingered on a single unsaid word.
Ian fell to his knees, clutching his ringing ears.
"You don't remember, do you? All the fighting, all the people you bit? All the doctors who refused to see you after you pissed on their shoes?"
"Shut up!" he said through clenched teeth.
The older wolf rose to his feet, and his voice was like thunder. Ian cowered. "You don't remember at all! God, we tried so hard. Thousands of dollars for therapy, countless hours teaching you how to talk, how to be normal... We should have just put you down."
"Shut up." The smaller lupine whined. "You're a liar."
"I'm a liar? You don't even remember why your mother blew her brains out! Right at the front door. Right in front of you. Christ Ian, right in front of me!"
"Shut up!"
Ian's father was screaming into the mouthpiece now. "Can you blame me for being furious with you? Can you blame me for pinning you against that wall? God, if the police hadn't arrived right then, I would have snapped your neck!"
Ian's world was swimming... he was about to faint. One, one, two, three, five, eight... "Just... shut up..." he whispered.
"... You freak." Ian's father had his paw pressed hard against the glass, staring at his son with a familiar coldness. Ian could feel it.
He hated when people looked at him like that. For moments, the room rang with silence.
"Goodbye, Dad." Ian said. His voice was soft.
"Goodbye, Ian."
He left the police station- he wasn't even sure why he'd wanted to visit his father anyway. Robbie had called the other day and given him some powder, told him to sniff it when he was feeling blue. Why not? Ian was feeling terrible. Maybe he'd go to the mall and pick up a new harmonica. Then he'd feel better.
Here it was. The end.
John stood quietly, staring with vacant eyes at the home of a murderer. The early-morning sun was warm on his back. There was no wind. No clouds.
John had always imagined it would be a kind of hole-in-the-ground, and this wasn't far off: a very small house with chipped red paint, a beaten old wooden porch with a few windows- the curtains were drawn. The door was open just slightly, hanging off its hinges at an irregular angle. Did Ian keep it like that, or was it Reynard's doing? There were tool marks near the keyhole. It looked like a simple lock. Someone had tried a screwdriver, maybe? That would mean Reynard had actually broken in, which meant he wouldn't be buried yet. Ian wouldn't have had time.
Ahh... John was getting distracted. There wasn't time to think about trivial things while his life was on the line. Focus. All he had to do was focus, just for a little bit, and then it could all be over.
A tentative paw felt at his jacket. The hyena gripped the pistol solidly, taking just a few more minutes to steel his nerves in light of the coming storm. Everything was so bizarrely soft today, so numb. It was like swimming in ice water. For all his years as a federal agent, he'd never once used his gun to kill another... person. John wondered if Reynard had felt the same way right before he walked into that house and was, in all likelihood, ripped to shreds. Nah. The hyena thought.No way.
Was Ian even a person still? After all, he'd killed about thirty people, not counting Marnee or Reynard. Putting a bullet in his head was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Goddamn right, it was. Ian was a rabid dog, and what did people do with rabid dogs? His thumb eased the safety off. The click of claw on metal. Stop thinking, John. Stop thinking and do what needs to be done.
His shoes made the wood on the porch creek a little bit. This place was supposed to be abandoned- it should have been the first house they checked. Stupid mistakes. His paw almost caught a splinter easing open the door, and the God-awful squeak its opening made echoed in the little hallway. Flower wallpaper. It was kind of old. John could see it peeling at the corners. The hyena crept like a thief along the wall, easing open a second doorway and slipping inside. Nothing- it was a laundry room.
There lay what was left of Reynard, his glassy eyes staring lifelessly out of what could barely be considered a face. John didn't even look twice. He knew the score. There was a faint trail of blood leading into the laundry room, smeared away by cold red fur. It wasn't a shame at all- a cheap trick that failed. If Reynard got what he deserved, fine. If he didn't, John felt no sympathy for him.
More distraction. Focus, John. Focus or leave. Focus or die.
Nervously, he stretched his neck from the frame of the door, looking out into the dark. From down the hall, he could hear sounds. An old recording maybe? John wasn't familiar with it, but it made his paws clutch the grip of his forty-five tighter all the same. Follow, he thought. Ian is there. Waiting.
Quietly, he stalked the killer, holding his violent intent in his stomach and his eyes. Each step fell like light, silent and reverent. Every breath he held; clutching every moment, every piece of time to his chest as if it would drift away in the motionless air. He was a hyena bound to die, or kill. Like one of his feral kin.
The room was at the end of the hall. For several long moments John stood on the razor's edge. He could see the long shadow of a wolf cast in the light of the morning sun. The music was soft and beautiful, a chorus and an orchestra singing in some language he didn't understand. It soothed his eager blood. There was a pause as the choir drew breath. John turned into the room and leveled his weapon.
"Ian Daniel White." He snarled through clenched fangs.
Ian was sitting on a chair like a statue, silhouetted in the morning. He sat naked and alone, nothing but an iron cross on a chain hanging from his neck, glistening. The wolf had his paw on the volume knob of an old boom-box stereo, adjusting it to the tone and flow of the music. His black triangle ears perked. "Please." He said, raising a single snow-white paw to silence the hyena, hardly bothering to lift his gaze. "Listen to this. The soprano is..." Ian paused in thought. "Angelic."
John stared hard, but found himself unable to speak. What were these words?
_Denn ich wollte gerne hingehen
Mit dem Haufen und mit ihnen..._
What language was that? German? John's grip on the gun tightened. The sights refused to stay still, and John could feel his will to keep the weapon stead slipping away. The soprano soared in passionate despair. Her voice was quivering steel, laid bare before the eyes of God. The hyena's ears folded back as her voice blossomed and fell away, replaced a chorus of angelic female cries. They rushed, falling like a river, then died away.
_Denn ich wollte gerne hingehen
Mit dem Haufen
Und mit ihnen
Wallen zum Hause Gottes._
"Ian!" John barked, beginning to feel frightened out of his mind. Ian turned to him slowly, keeping one ear cocked to the stereo. His eyes were half lidded, as if they weren't seeing anything. Indeed, he saw nothing. Not anymore.
"John." He said. "Can you hear her?"
Ian's voice was only a whisper. "This is... Felix Mendelssohn. Psalm 42, Opus 42. It's beautiful- one of my favorites. I want you to stay with me and enjoy it for a little while."
"Ian White," John's mouth was suddenly dry. He found himself struggling to find the words. "I-I've come to..."
"Please." The wolf said. "Just listen. It isn't very long, and it's particularly beautiful..." He gestured to the window, smiling. "In the morning."
John could barely suppress a growl. There were male voices now, proud and strong.
Der Herr hat des tages verhein seine ge... The white wolf conducted with his paws, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy and calm. John saw the cuts on his leg and shoulder, flesh wounds that still wept red. Reynard had come so close. The muzzle of his weapon dipped a little. Why was it becoming so heavy?
Und des nachts singe ich zu ihm.
John shivered. The melody trailed off, and the voices died. The room rang with silence for a few moments as Ian turned off the stereo and turned to the hyena, lifting himself up straight. Their eyes locked, like gunslingers.
"Der Herr hat des tages verhein seine ge, und des nachts singe ich zu ihm." Ian said, touching the jagged line on his shoulder with a claw. "The Lord has granted me his kindness by day. And by night," The wolf smiled. "I sing to him."
The silence afterward was sickening.
"Alright." Ian said.
John moved like lightning, whipping forward to clutch at the lupine's neck. His paw barely fit around it. "Alright?" he shouted. "Who do you think you are?"
The wolf knocked his paw aside, growling savagely as he swiped the gun from the hyena's grip. John would not be denied. His will was iron. Ian White died today.
There was a crack as the hyena ripped the wolf forward, sending him sputtering to the floor. In an instant he was behind the wolf, his arm caught under Ian's neck, choking him. The hyena pressed his muzzle into a char-black lupine ear. "Who are you, White!?"
The wolf made a strangled wheeze, his body jerking in every direction. The feral animal inside of him was screaming for freedom and blood, and so was he. Rage poured from his mouth and his muscles strained, ripping violent gashes into the floor with his heavy claws. Raw strength cut him free, throwing the hyena to the floor. Ian rose to his feet, coughing into his paw.
"Of course you pick the question I can't answer." He muttered darkly, stalking toward John like a behemoth, his white fur shining crimson in the early light of the sun. The hyena scampered backwards across the floor. Fear filled him- both canines could smell it like rancid meat.
John felt for his gun- it was somewhere. Christ, SHIT, where was it?! Ian was stepping closer and closer, the drool hanging off his jaws in ropes, his yellow eyes ablaze with ravenous sickness. It hurt to look into them, but John would not be denied. His will was iron. Even if he was afraid, Ian White died today. Even if he was afraid. Even if he died himself.
There was thunder and light- a red spray and a howl that split John's concentration in twain. The beast screamed in a high-whining tone, just like a puppy, and it fell. There was a loud smack as Ian hit the floor, tears streaming from his eyes.
Everything went quiet and numb.
His leg, right below the knee cap. The bullet had passed right through, splintering bone and ripping flesh and muscle. The wound was drooling blood all down his fur, and Ian was clutching himself in the fetal position, rocking back and forth. Only the sound of his muted whimpers and John's heavy breathing pervaded the silence.
The hyena stood tentatively, stepping over to Ian. Sound sort of fell away from him as he eased the wolf's body onto his back. The mouth opened up wide, no teeth. Like he was yawning. It had to be a yelp or a scream or something. John stepped on his chest, and then put his weight on, sliding his shoe up. Paws grasped at his leg. He could barely feel them. So quiet, now. He stepped on a killer, put his foot on a killer's neck and stomped once. Twice. No sound. He pressed down, and aimed his gun. The killer squirmed, tried to get him off. It didn't work. Focus John. Losing it, now. Have to focus. Need to focus. Keep the mind alive. Keep it alive, be sharp, and hear. Listen.
John could hear his breathing. He looked down, and there was the wolf, bleeding from his leg. The killer stared, looking up at him with soft blue eyes. He whimpered. "I... I don't..."
The wolf's paw twitched, but it lacked strength. John looked back into Ian's eyes. He was staring at the ceiling with a dead gaze.
"Shut up." John said, easing his weight onto his foot. Ian made a pained, wheezing squeal, his body jerking a little. He put on a little more weight. And a little more. He could feel the neck collapsing below him, spasms rolling through it in a futile attempt to draw air. He leaned in a little more. There was a little bit of a crack. It was getting cold.
The wolf flattened his ears, wheezing.
"I don't even know who I am... I don't want to die this way. Can you understand that?"
John laughed. How could he not? He laughed and laughed, just like a hyena would. He laughed as he stepped down. He laughed as he leaned over. He laughed as he pressed the gun against the wolf's fluttering eyelid.