Read Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown Page 14

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  Captain Jermaine Mitchell heard his computer ding, put three rounds in the head of the paper target, and left the firing range for the relative quiet of his desk. One new email awaited him.

  Dear Sir,

  Approximately one week ago I sent you a hair sample from a creature I believe to be the Beast of Gévaudan. Last night a sheep was killed. I am convinced that the Beast of Gévaudan was involved. Please help; there is little time before the trail goes cold.

  Eagerly awaiting your response,

  Detective Constable James Paddington.

  “Detective, is it now?” Mitchell asked. “It was only constable a week ago. You need to keep your story straight… James.” Mitchell moved the cursor over Delete, then hesitated. It had been a while since they’d had a case, even a meritless one like this. “McGregor! Do you have the results from that animal hair?”

  “Yeah. Actually, it’s a bit… odd.”

  Odd was good. Mitchell released the mouse, then turned to the firing range, shouted, “Skylar, cease fire a minute!” and nodded to McGregor when his ears had stopped ringing.

  “The hair’s from a Canus Lupus, a common wolf, which is surprising.”

  “Why is common surprising?” Mitchell asked.

  “Because wolves have been extinct in Britain for five hundred years.”

  “Hardly supernatural, though.”

  “There’s more.” The scientist settled on a chair and spoke in a single increasingly annoyed breath. “There were high levels of oestradiol – understandable if the bitch is in heat – but there’s no indication of ovulation; the progesterone level is too low for mating season but the oestrogen’s too high for it not to be; and that’s not even mentioning the melatonin level, which doesn’t make the slightest sense.”

  Mitchell waited for the doctor to catch his breath before asking, “You got all that from one hair?”

  McGregor’s eyes darted to the firing range and back. “I don’t get out much.”

  “So what does that tell us?” Mitchell asked. “Perhaps using words grunts like me understand.”

  “That…” McGregor struggled for words. “This creature is impossible. She’s almost definitely a common wolf, but she produces eggs too often and sheds her endometrium, which only apes do. So she’s either a new species or one very sick wolf.”

  “An uncommon wolf?” Mitchell said. He felt seven pairs of eyes watching him, hoping he’d greenlight a mission. What the hell; they were going stir-crazy here. “Gear and guns! Wheels up in two hours!” he shouted.

  McGregor pushed the glasses up his nose and followed Mitchell toward the armoury. Mitchell plucked a rifle from the rack. “Something else, doctor?”

  “One other thing,” McGregor said. “The hair had some chemical residue.”

  “Pesticides? Fertilisers?” Mitchell sighted along the L85. This felt good: the preparation, the anticipation that preceded the inevitable letdown of another hoax or mistake.

  “Traces of both, but…” McGregor winced. “…there are other chemicals whose presence could only be intentional and the contact… vigorous.”

  Mitchell squared his frame and pronounced each word slowly, enunciating clearly so McGregor couldn’t feign incomprehension at Mitchell’s northern, Lancashire accent. “What… chemical… doctor?”

  McGregor ran out of excuses and sagged. “Pantene Pro-V Protect and Repair… sir.”