The Wolfen by Whitley Strieber

surprises. Obviously he wasn’t completely convinced that his quick closing of the case had been wise. With Neff and Wilson apparently still assigned to it he could keep them from uncovering embarrassing new evidence and also cover himself if that happened some other way, because he could always say that the department had kept a special team active on the case the whole time. He didn’t want the case reopened, but if it was he was prepared.
    For him it was a very economical solution to a problem. For Neff and Wilson it was agony—they didn’t know where they stood and neither did anybody else. This meant that they could get nothing done. The resources of Manhattan South were not theirs to use—except for a dingy office. And the Brooklyn Division considered them off its roster. So they had only each other, and whatever help they could get outside the department.
    It wasn’t going to be enough, that had become very clear.
    Underwood was polite, when Wilson finally got through. He set a meeting for three o’clock and didn’t even ask what it was about And why should he—he knew that there could be only two topics of conversation. Either they wanted to reopen the DiFalco case or they wanted to be reassigned. And he had one simple answer for both questions. It was no.
    “We’ve got a couple of hours, we might as well go up to Chinatown for lunch.”
    Wilson glanced out the window. “Looks like plenty of people in the streets. I guess we can go.”
    They took a cab. Despite the crowds it seemed the safest thing to do. Pell Street, the center of Chinatown, was cheerfully crowded. They left the cab, Becky feeling a little more at ease, Wilson nervously studying the fire escapes and alleyways. Becky chose a restaurant that was neither familiar from her courting days with Dick nor one of the dingy chop suey parlors Wilson would have selected. He liked to eat lunch for under two dollars. And when he was treating he would go even cheaper unless his victim was very alert.
    Becky was very alert. During lunch they spoke little because he was pouting at the cost. Or at least that was what she assumed until he finally did speak. “I wonder what it’ll feel like.”
    “What in the world makes you say something like that!”
    “Nothing. Just thinking is all.” She saw that he was ashen. In his left hand he held his napkin pressed against the middle of his chest as if he was stopping a wound. “I can’t get that damn claw out of my mind.” Now his lips drew back across his teeth, sweat popped out on his cheeks and forehead. “I just keep thinking of it snagging my shirt, grabbing at me. God knows you couldn’t do a thing once something like that was in you.”
    “Now wait a minute. Just listen to me. You’re getting scared. I don’t blame you, George, but you can’t afford it. You cannot afford to get scared! We can’t let that happen to us. They’ll move right in if it does. I’ve got a feeling the only thing that’s kept them from doing it before is the fact that we haven’t been scared.”
    He smiled his familiar sickly smile.
    “Don’t do that, I expect you to take me seriously. Listen to me—without you I haven’t got any hope at all.” Her own words surprised her. How deeply did she mean that? As deep as her very life came the instant answer. “We’ll get through this.”
    “How?”
    It was an innocent enough question, but under the circumstances it exposed a weakness she wished wasn’t there.
    “However the hell we can. Now shut up and let me finish my lunch in peace.”
    They ate mechanically. To Becky the food tasted like metal. She wanted desperately to turn around, to see whether the doorway behind her led to the kitchen or to the basement. For Wilson’s sake, though, she did not. There was no sense compounding his fear with her own.
    “Maybe that claw is what we need. When the Chief sees it maybe he’ll figure things more our way.”
    “I didn’t even remember to ask Ferguson to bring the