Title: The Darkness Within
Author: Mrs. Fish
Email address: mrs_fish@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Pairings: None, really; Sk/K implied
Warnings: Graphic violence, language
Spoilers: None
Status: Completed
Date: 3/19/04
Archive: No; link okay. Do not forward to any other lists or archive without permission.
Series/Sequel: No

Summary: "In my dreams, I see... I saw terrible... violent images that... scared the living daylights out of me. These things are a part of me. I can't deny that, but... maybe... maybe they didn't come from me."

Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Ten Thirteen Productions, Fox, Chris Carter or others is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story.

Notes 1: I'm really not sure where this came from. Then again, perhaps watching Underworld every day for two weeks had something to do with it.

Notes 2: Sincere thanks to Ursula and AmazonX for beta.

I feel him inside me, and I know that he is hungry. He whispers to me. He says: What you do is not murder. It is instinct. Survival. These creatures are not your kind.

I know what he says is true, and I know that I can't stop until it's over, that it's out of control, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear. I ask him: Don't they have a right to survival too?

And he says: Hush. Listen to your blood.

Arlington, VA
7:47 a.m.

Most people were still asleep, locked into forgetfulness. As Special Agent John Doggett stepped from the car and crossed the pavement -- early morning frost crackling beneath his feet -- he glanced up at curtained windows and felt a stab of envy so acute he had to deep breathe it away.

An hour ago he'd been wrenched from his own warm and welcome oblivion by the telephone ringing. Even as his hand groped from beneath the covers, he'd felt the chill of the morning settling on his skin, seeping into his bones.

It was Assistant Director Skinner. "We've got another one, on North Lynn Street. Less than a mile from where Genevieve Colton was killed."

Fuck, thought Doggett, and murmured something in reply before dropping the receiver none too gently back into its cradle. He quickly washed and dressed and toasted a Pop Tart, which he ate in the car on the way over.

Despite his hasty ablutions, he was still uncomfortably aware that he must look how he felt, which was like several kinds of shit. All the uniformed officers were courteous and respectful, as was the agent standing outside the high wooden doors of Red Hill Lumber Company. However the instant Doggett set foot inside the yard, Skinner shot him the kind of look he might normally reserve for some smelly old indigent who'd just wandered in off the street looking for a hand out.

Skinner offered a brisk, "Good morning," a small balloon of white breath curling away from his face. Even as Doggett was mustering a response, Skinner was striding toward a large yellow plastic construction at the end of the yard, calling over his shoulder, "Victim is in here."

Doggett sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He started after Skinner, acutely aware of his colleagues' stares as he traversed the length of the yard.

Skinner held the flap of the incident tent open as Doggett approached. The killer's work was several hours old. The girl's exposed innards had long ago stopped steaming.

"Careful," Skinner said, placing a restraining hand on Doggett's arm and nodding down at the floor. Doggett paused, following Skinner's gaze. He'd been about to trample a piece of the girl underfoot, he realized; some unrecognizable gobbet of bloodied flesh, torn from the body and now ringed in yellow chalk. Despite the bitterly cold October morning, the inside of the tent was oppressively warm and smelled like an abattoir.

"Do we know who she is?" Doggett asked, narrowing his eyes against the red glare of the girl's blood.

"We're not sure. The killer took her face again as you can see. But we think she's a 23-year old waitress named Lisa Jameson. She was reported missing by her boyfriend just before one a.m. after failing to return from her seven to eleven shift at Denny's. She rode the bus to and from work and normally got home around quarter to twelve."

"Anythin on the boyfriend?" Doggett continued. His head felt thick with the smell of blood.

"Nothing; he's one of ours -- a trainee at Quantico. He and Miss Jameson have lived together for the past two years"

"Any reason for not reporting her disappearance before one a.m.?"

"The call was logged at oh-oh-fifty-one. He said he fell asleep reading."

"Hmm..." Doggett turned his attention back to the girl. From the waist upwards she had been ripped open, just like the others. All that identified her as human were the out-flung arms and legs and the blood-matted brown hair. Her fingernails were long and painted as red as her blood. On her left wrist was a thin gold chain-link bracelet and a watch.

"I assume this is just like the others? No obvious motive? No sign of robbery or sexual assault?"

"None. Whoever did this apparently just likes killing young women."

Doggett frowned; he was finding it hard to concentrate. What he wouldn't give for a cup of good, strong black coffee to kick start his cells into life, or preferably another hour's sleep.

"Are you alright, Agent Doggett?" Skinner asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

Doggett was aware of people turning to look at him. He turned his frown into a scowl of annoyance.

"Perfectly, thank you. I was just thinkin." Doggett glared at Skinner a moment longer, then turned his attention to Agent Scully, who'd been examining the body.

"Mornin, Agent Scully. Anything useful?"

"Same M.O. as the others, of course, which means she could have died from any one of a number of injuries. It appears -- just like the others -- that the killer came at her in a frenzy, rendered her unconscious and probably even killed her before she had a chance to fight back. Whoever did this has tremendous strength. I only wish I could determine what type of weapon or weapons he uses."

"Any new ideas?"

Scully frowned. "Not really. As before, the injuries are ragged, so it isn't a blade, unless it's a very jagged, very uneven one. If pushed, I'd guess that he's using something like a rake head, but much sturdier, much more compact, more lethal. It might be worth checking locally whether anyone's had some kind of metal claw or unusual tool built recently. I know it's a long shot, but..." She shrugged.

"And the killer didn't leave anything behind? No hairs, no footprints, no stray buttons with bits of thread attached?"

Scully shook her head. "Nothing at all, which again is unusual, although as I said, the girl died before she could fight back.'

"Okay." Doggett sighed. "Hopefully you'll find somethin when you do the post-mortem." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dab beads of sweat from his forehead. He then quietly exited the incident tent.

Doggett breathed in the icy air for a moment and watched the uniformed officers scouring the yard, searching painstakingly for evidence. They looked as though they were helping a colleague search for a lost contact lens. The thought prompted a snigger, which Doggett barely managed to stifle. He saw Skinner looking at him curiously and made an over-elaborate show of clearing his throat as he attempted to pull his thoughts together.

"Who found the body?" Doggett asked.

"The manager, Ralph Konetzski, at 6:15 a.m. He's already given his statement. You might want to track down the driver of the bus Miss Jameson would have caught last night and as many of the passengers as you can, and find out what you can from them?"

"I do know how to run an investigation, AD Skinner," Doggett growled, then turned sharply and headed for his car.

I admit to him that I'm scared. I ask: Will it hurt?

He moves inside me. Pain is nothing, he says. Think of it as life. As re-birth. Who would not die for that?

His words confuse me. I feel so tired. How much longer? I ask him. How much longer before it's over?

Not long, he whispers, not long now. Do you not remember?

No, I tell him. No, I remember nothing.

He whispers inside me: It is strange how one forgets.

Skinner switched off the computer and pushed himself back in his seat. His spine cracked; his shoulders felt as if someone were pressing down on them from above. He looked at his watch and groaned. Eleven-fifteen. He'd told Alex he'd try to be home by ten. He reached for the phone and punched in Alex's cell number.

"You're late," Alex said, although there was no anger in his voice.

"I'm sorry... I've been tied up reviewing paperwork and time just got away from me."

"You're working the case, aren't you? I thought Doggett was on it."

"He is, but... I'm worried about him, Alex. He showed up an hour after everyone else this morning looking like something the cat dragged in. He's on edge, but keeps insisting nothing's wrong."

"Maybe he just needs to get laid."

Skinner smiled. "That's a distinct possibility, but I'll be damned if I suggest it to him. Look, I'm shutting things down now. I should be home in about fifteen minutes."

"I'll be waiting, Walt."

Skinner sat with his hand on the phone for a minute or so after putting it down and wondered what was really going on with Doggett. He seemed to be stumbling through much of the investigation as if sleepwalking. That wasn't the Doggett that he knew. If he were seriously ill.... Shit, he'd just have to wait and see. It wasn't as if Doggett was the only one working the case. They had a whole task force on it. If things didn't improve, he could always put someone else in as lead investigator.

The AD let his gaze wander to the incident board set up on the far side of the meeting room. It covered the whole of one wall and was intended to inspire his colleagues to greater efforts, to harry them into catching the bastard who'd reduced a quiet community into a dark arena of terror, hostility and suspicion. Skinner found it hard to believe that even now, even after what had happened, even after repeated police warnings that young women should not go out alone at night, there were still those who ignored their advice; who seemed to hold the blinkered view that violent death happened to other people, or who insisted that no man, no matter how much of a maniac he was, was going to dictate where they could and couldn't go.

Five women. All young, all pretty, all torn apart in quiet dark places in the dead of night without, it seemed, even having time to scream or raise so much as a finger in defense. Their celluloid faces gazed back at Skinner from the incident board, their frozen smiles turning seemingly more mocking each day. If there was any chink in the killer's armor at all -- whom local and now national newspapers had gleefully dubbed 'The Wolfman' -- it was that his blood-lust seemed to be increasing; the gaps between his murders were getting less and less. It was surely only a matter of time before the sheer frenzy of his desires led to him making a mistake. But how many more women would be killed in the meantime? How many more photographs would have to be tacked to the incident board?

Skinner groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Despite the caffeine still buzzing in the back of his skull, he felt utterly wasted. The building was quiet, the meeting room in semi-darkness. He lifted his jacket from the back of his chair and yawned so hugely that his jawbone cracked.

The phone rang. Probably Alex telling him to hurry up or he'd come down there and drag him out of the building. He picked up the receiver.

"Skinner."

The man on the other end of the line either had laryngitis or was disguising his voice.

"I need to see you," he rasped.

Instinctively Skinner thought: This is it. A shudder of anticipation passed through him. He shed his fatigue like snake skin and was all at once alert.

"What about?" he asked tentatively, wishing there was someone in the office with him who he could mime at to trace the call.

"No time for... games," hissed the caller, sounding as though he was in pain, as though he was finding it difficult to talk. "I want you to meet me. I... I want you to come alone. Don't bring anyone with you, otherwise... otherwise your last chance... will be gone."

Skinner felt a pulse beating in his throat, but his voice was steady. "Why should I want to meet you at all?" he asked.

The caller groaned as if in pain. When he next spoke his voice was weaker than ever, almost inaudible. "You've been... looking for me... I'm the Wolfman. I killed another one tonight. I want it to be the... last one. The last one ever."

The pulse was really hammering now. Skinner swallowed. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"I tear them open... from stomach to throat," the caller wheezed. "I take their faces."

Skinner went cold. That information hadn't appeared in the papers. "Why do you want to meet with me?"

"Need to talk to you. Need you to... to..." The voice trailed off.

"You know I can't meet you alone," Skinner said.

"Has to be. Alone... or not at all. No tricks. I'll know. Please believe me..."

Skinner thought hard, and in the end said, "Okay. Where do you want to me?"

"Old Union Terminal... Be there in... ten minutes. If you're not, I'll know you've... arranged reinforcements, and your... last chance will... be gone..."

There was a clatter and a buzz.

"Wait!" cried Skinner, but he was already speaking to a dead line.

I feel him growing inside me, stretching me. I feel myself dwindling. He pleads with me, howls at me, curses me, but I remain silent in the hope I can preserve my strength.

We are the same, he tells me. Soon we shall be renewed. Together we may seem divided, but divided we will come together.

I try not to listen to him, but his words are part of me. I cannot block them out.

Finally I react. I say to him: There will be no more killing. Six lives for my one cannot be justified.

It is the price of survival, he says.

The station had been abandoned back in the mid-seventies. Oddly, however, the station building had never been pulled down or even converted into offices or shops, but instead had fallen into disrepair over the years, becoming prey to vandals, weeds and harsh weather. Situated at the edge of a fairly new industrial park, it was a lonely place, retaining a sense of sad nostalgia by day and an atmosphere of brooding eeriness when darkness set in.

The pulse in Skinner's throat was still beating ten minutes after speaking with the man who claimed to be the Wolfman, and quickened as he pulled into the station parking lot, which was rutted and infested with clumps of spiny grass. The car headlights lurched over a long rectangular building with crumbling, grime-blackened stonework, boarded windows and doors, sagging drainpipes and rusting light fixtures. When Skinner stopped the car and turned the headlights off, these details winked out as if only the light had created them. Now the terrain was simpler, albeit instantly more treacherous. Beneath a night sky freckled with stars, the building had become a block of impenetrable darkness.

For a minute or so, the AD remained in his car, breathing long and deep, clenching and unclenching his hands. Calm down, he urged himself silently, and began to chant the instruction in his head like a mantra. There was no stopping the adrenalin surging through his body, but he wanted to be controlling it as much as possible when he went in there. If the killer was going to be waiting for him, as he had promised, then the next half hour or so would almost certainly be the most crucial of his career.

At last he was ready. He opened the door and stepped out into a biting cold wind. His legs were shaking, but not too much. He swallowed to control the roiling in his stomach as he reached into his overcoat pocket and removed a flashlight, which he turned on after a moment's hesitation. Holding the flashlight made him feel conspicuous, but Skinner reasoned that if the killer was here, then he could hardly expect him to be unaware of his arrival.

The flashlight beam ballooning before him, Skinner walked through a stone arch into the body of the station, past the cobweb-strewn ticket windows and deserted newspaper stall on his right, which was now nothing more than an empty black space. His senses were so attuned that grit seemed to detonate beneath his feet; his breath, slow and steady, seemed to fill the air around him as though it was it was the building that was breathing. The inside of the station was like a black tunnel containing many crevices in which a killer might hide. Shadows seemed to loll and nod just beyond the range of his flashlight as he walked forward. Skinner's head moved from side to side as if jerked by his flickering eyes.

Ahead, no more than twelve paces away, he could see the turnstile of the ticket barrier that led to what had been the Southbound platform. A faint gleam of starlight was shining through from the platform itself, and this, together with the light from his flashlight, illuminated a shimmering swathe of unbroken cobweb stretching across the narrow gap. Skinner realized immediately that the killer couldn't have come this way. If he had, then the curtain of cobweb would have been hanging in shreds. So what did that mean? Either the killer was leading him on a wild goose chase or he'd reached the station by following the line of the old track, much of which was now overgrown. Or -- third possibility -- he was lying in wait for Skinner between here and turnstile, or was even now creeping up behind him, having watched him enter the station from some unseen vantage point.

Though these thoughts hardly reassured him, it felt almost comforting to be thinking like a policeman again. As he spun around to check behind him, Skinner thought that perhaps it was about time he acted like one too and announced his presence, rather than creeping about like a victim in a cheap horror movie.

"This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI," he called, his voice booming around him. "I'm here as we arranged. Show yourself."

There was no reply, only the fading echoes of his own voice which sounded reassuringly authoritative. After a moment, he tried again.

"If you don't show yourself, I'll be forced to call for reinforcements. It's your choice."

Ten long seconds passed, and Skinner was beginning to wonder whether this would prove to be a dead end after all, when a black shape appeared beyond the ticket barrier, blotting out the starlight.

Skinner swallowed. He suddenly seemed aware of the rhythm of his blood pulsing through his body. He shone his flashlight at the figure, but it flinched back as if afraid.

"Stay where I can see you," Skinner called.

The figure spoke. Its hoarse whisper seemed contained within the mist that curled from its mouth. "Turn... off.... the light."

Skinner hesitated, then did as requested. He gave himself a moment to readjust to the darkness, then moved towards the turnstile beyond which the black bulk of the figure was waiting.

"Move back," he ordered as he reached the turnstile and put out a hand to claw some of the cobwebs aside. The figure complied, shuffling back towards the edge of the platform.

Skinner pushed at the turnstile. It was still from years of disuse, and squealed as if in pain as he struggled with it. It gave inch by inch and at last he was through and standing on the platform, grimy shreds of cobweb clinging to his overcoat. The figure was maybe twelve yards away, facing him, poised at the edge of the platform beside the overgrown track. The figure's face was indistinct with shadows, masked by a constant swirl of white breath. For a moment, Skinner and figure stood facing each other like gunslingers.

At last Skinner said, "Well, I'm here. What now?"

A shudder seemed to pass through the figure as if it was drawing itself together. It was breathing stertorously, almost panting. "We don't... have much... time," it rasped.

"Are you ill?" asked Skinner.

The figure made a wheezing, gulping sound that could have been anything from amusement to an articulation of pain. "I'm..." It seemed to grope for a suitable phrase."...changing," it said at last.

Without knowing why, Skinner thought of a caterpillar pupating into a butterfly. He shuddered. "Changing into what?"

The figure groaned. "Rebirth... Renewal... Regeneration..."

The three R's, Skinner thought crazily, and stammered, "I don't know what you mean."

"Listen to me... so little time... I'm not like you... I'm not... human."

"Of course you're not," Skinner said soothingly.

"Listen to me!" The response was momentarily energized by fury before the voice dwindled to a croak once more. "Forty year cycle... then renewal... preceded by instinct to feed... to take blood... life energies... identities... Can't control change... Too much killing... But no more... no more..." The figure moaned, made a gulping sound, then sagged as though about to faint.

"Look," Skinner started, "you're hurt or ill. Come with me. I'll get you to a hospital."

"No," the figure whispered, "no hospital." It seemed to make a supreme effort and straightened up. Its voice was little more than a hoarse whisper now. "I don't want... to go on," it said. "Don't you understand, Skinner? I have so... little time. I want you to help me... help me stop it all... happening again."

Skinner had come here prepared to listen to what the man had to say, but all he was hearing was gibberish. He wondered whether the man really was as crazy and as hurt as he appeared or whether it was a ploy to catch him off guard. It wasn't uncommon for killers to pretend to be weaker than they actually were or incapacitated in some way. Latching onto the last thing the man had said, he asked, "How can I help you to stop it?"

The asthmatic wheeze of the man's breath certainly sounded genuine. "I want you... to kill me. Can't do it... myself. He won't let me. Too much... control now. Almost through. Quickly!..."

"Kill you!" Skinner exclaimed, and then forced his voice back to calmness. "You know I can't do that. It's against the law. But look, if you come with me, I can get you help. You can talk to people about your problem. Professional people. They'll help you."

The figure gave a gurgling roar of frustration. "No, Skinner... listen to me... I'm not human... If you don't... kill me, the cycle will... complete itself... Mind will... repair damaged thoughts... renew... survival instinct... and then I won't... want to die. And in forty... years the... killings will... start again... You must... do it now... Skinner... while I'm... willing... Gasoline... under bench... matches... do it now... soon... too late..."

The croak became a slur and the figure collapsed. Skinner took two instinctive steps forward, then stopped. The figure was lying motionless on the edge of the platform, but how could Skinner be sure that he wasn't being duped? He imagined himself bending over the figure, the man's eyes snapping open, his hand --- clutching whatever hideous weapon he used to kill his victims with -- whipping round to take his face off. He closed his eyes briefly and shuddered, then switched on the flashlight and directed it at the prone figure.

The man was lying on his back, his head and left arm hanging over the edge of the platform. If he had really fainted, then it was lucky he hadn't fallen off the platform to the tracks. Or maybe it wasn't so lucky; at least if he'd fallen down there, Skinner would have had a territorial advantage over him. He remembered what the man had said about gasoline and turned to shine his flashlight at the nearest dilapidated bench.

He was surprised to see that there was indeed a gas can beneath it, a slim yellow box of safety matches propped up by its side. But was this evidence that the man really wanted to die as he'd claimed or was he just being thorough? Were the gas can and matches simply designed to persuade Skinner to lower his guard even further?

Skinner paused for a moment, thoughts racing through his mind. Why had the killer requested this meeting with him specifically? If the killer had simply wanted to kill him, then surely there were better ways of going about it. Buy why should the killer want to kill him? Because he was working the case? Because he feared that Skinner was coming close to catching him? Could there be any truth in the killer's claim that he wanted to die at Skinner's hand? The AD found that hard to accept. If the killer was so desperate to die, why didn't he just kill himself? Skinner tried to recall what the man had said -- something about he wouldn't let him because he had too much control. What did that mean? Who could the killer be talking about? A brother, a father, a lover, an accomplice? Or perhaps it was simply another facet of the man's personality, the part of him that made him kill.

Skinner realized he was venturing into tin pot psychology country here, but maybe the man was suffering from some type of multiple personality disorder and the passive, guilt-ridden side of him was dominant at the moment and wanted to end it all before the violent side reasserted itself. Perhaps he'd called Skinner because he'd seen him on the news and identified him as a potential ally against the dark side of himself, or as an authority figure, someone on who he could rely, on whom he could shift his responsibility.

But what about all the other stuff about not being human and about having to kill in forty year cycles to renew himself? That was something out of the X-Files. Mulder would have had a field day with this guy.

Sensing a vague flicker of movement to his right, Skinner turned his head. Far away, approaching silently along the track, he saw a number of dark bobbing shapes, hunched over in an attempt to blend in with the darkness. He looked left, and saw more hunched shapes approaching from the other side. Relief washed over him. The SWAT team was here, and sooner than he thought they'd be.

Skinner waved, but got no response. They were still too far away. It would take them five or ten minutes to reach the station. Nevertheless there wasn't much that could go wrong now.

Just then the figure groaned, began to move its limbs freely, to raise its head. Skinner pulled his handgun. "Don't move!" he ordered. "I've got a gun pointing at you and reinforcements on the way. I'm placing you under arrest for the murders of Janice Metzger, Genevieve Colton, Lisa Jameson, Theresa Fitzsimmons, and D'Shay Hughes." Skinner read the figure his rights, then stood waiting.

The man, as though still too dazed to hear, raised his head and squinted directly into the beam of Skinner's flashlight, allowing the AD to see his face for the first time.

It was the face of a man in his late teens or early twenties, and seeing it had a strange effect on Skinner. For a second or two he experienced an acute sense of dislocation, almost of shock. He felt certain he'd never seen this man before, and yet at the same time he looked strikingly familiar.

The man smiled, shook his head and spoke, and this time there was no trace of tiredness or suffering or desperation in his voice at all. He spoke in a clear, strong voice, his tone almost conversational.

"You lied to me, Walt," he said. "I should have known, shouldn't I? You've always been a model law enforcement agent, always played everythin strictly by the book."

This time it was shock that jolted through Skinner. Suddenly everything seemed to fall sickeningly into place. But it was impossible. Impossible!

"Doggett?" he asked.

The man who looked and sounded like a younger, more vibrant version of Special Agent John Doggett laughed.

"Startin to get it now, are you, Walt?"

Skinner's arms were shaking, the gun jittering in his right hand, the flashlight beam wavering over Doggett's impossibly young face. His voice was a dry croak. "Get what?" he asked stupidly.

The approaching marksmen were still too far away to be of any use as the rejuvenated Doggett said, "Watch."

Lit by the unflinching glare of white light from Skinner's flashlight, the man's face began to change. The features flowed like oil, altered before Skinner's disbelieving gaze, and then altered again, and again. It took Skinner a moment to identify what he was seeing, and then all at once, with awful clarity, it struck him: it was a shifting montage of the faces of the Wolfman's murder victims.

The flashlight slipped from Skinner's nerveless fingers and smashed on the floor, mercifully plunging the killer's writhing features into darkness. Skinner staggered back two paces, gripped his gun in both hands to avoid dropping that too and leveled it at the killer. His voice was shrill with terror, the words accompanied by ragged gouts of vapor. "What the fucking hell are you?" he screeched.

Doggett's voice was almost sympathetic. "I did tell you I wasn't human, didn't I, Walt? Actually, the name that the newspapers came up with for me was uncannily accurate when you think about it, though to be honest I'm not one of a species as such. If anythin, I suppose you'd say I'm a sort of... sophisticated chameleon, able to blend into my surroundings, integrate myself into any situation."

"Where are you from?" Skinner demanded.

Doggett pursed his lips, shrugged. "I'm not from anywhere. I've always been here, on this planet I mean. I've lived here longer than mankind, longer than I can even remember. I move around a lot. I take whatever shape seems appropriate at the time."

"Why are you here?" Skinner asked, the words catching in his dry throat.

"Because I like it. I like human beings, I like being one, thinking like one, living amongst them. There's no great purpose to my existence, Walt. I'm just surviving, like you. Like everyone."

"Not like those girls you killed."

"Ah, no. Look, I'm sorry about that, really I am. Would it help if I told you the killings were instinctive, that I don't actually have much control over what I do? No, I don't really suppose it would, and I can't blame you for thinking badly of me. What can I say? Every so often it happens. I need to kill to renew myself. Sorry." Doggett's shoulders rose in a sheepish shrug; it was like the gesture a schoolboy might make who'd been caught putting frogs in his teacher's desk. Skinner saw Doggett's head turning left and right, imagined him looking along the track. "Your reinforcements are getting awfully close," the shape-shifter said. "I think I've overstayed my welcome here. It's time I was movin on."

He sat up. Skinner snarled, "Stay where you are, you bastard! You're not going anywhere!"

Doggett said mildly, "Look, let's call it quits, eh, Walt? I became a policeman as a sort of trade in for what I knew was coming later. Over the years I've stopped lots of other people gettin hurt, gettin killed. I think I've paid my dues."

"Don't fucking move!" Skinner repeated, his voice hoarse, fierce, verging on panic. "If you do, I swear I'll blast your fucking head off!"

"Clint Eastwood, right?" Doggett stood up.

"I said don't move!"

"Goodbye, Walt," Doggett said and took a step forward.

Skinner pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. When the din and the smog of his breath had cleared, he saw Doggett still standing there, apparently unharmed.

"Don't you know it takes silver bullets to kill a Wolfman?" Doggett said apologetically.

"I hit you," Skinner said in a high, wavering, almost petulant voice. "I know I hit you."

"You did, but I'm afraid it would take a massive disruption of my cells to destroy me, hence the gasoline and matches earlier. I self heal from localized wounds almost instantaneously."

"But you wanted to die," Skinner cried, his gun arm drooping.

"That was before. A period of confusion, of weakness caused by the change. That's all forgotten now."

Because of the gunshots, Skinner's reinforcements were now racing down the track towards them, their leaders barking orders. The group on the right were no more than thirty yards away.

Doggett gave them a quick, though casual, glance. "Time to go," he said. "Goodbye, Walt. You and Alex have a nice life."

Before Skinner's astonished eyes, Doggett's body ran like oil once more. It seemed to hunch and darken, clothes splitting beneath broadening shoulders and bulging legs, falling away like the pieces of a discarded chrysalis. Just for an instant Skinner glimpsed what must have been the creature that had torn the girls apart. He saw muscles rippling beneath a shaggy pelt, teeth and eyes flashing like knives. Then Doggett's body seemed to compress, to rush towards a dark point in its center. Suddenly, instead of a man or a beast there was a dark bird, a crow perhaps, which rose flapping into the sky and was quickly swallowed by the night.

The first of the SWAT team climbed up onto the platform and ran towards Skinner, assault rifle held diagonally across his body, barrel pointing upwards.

His head whipping this way and that, he shouted, "Where is he? AD Skinner? Where's our man?"

Skinner, unable to answer, could only gaze up at the sky.

The end.

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