Johnny Lycan & the Anubis Disk (The Werewolf PI Book 1) by Wayne Turmel

Author:Wayne Turmel [Turmel, Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2020-11-18T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

12 days to the full moon- waxing crescent.

After a few days of calling around, it seemed Cromwell’s best contact wasn’t at Homeland, but the Centers for Disease Control, which explained why I stood in the middle of Bill’s kitchen in a full-blown regulation hazmat suit. In true Chicago fashion, my buddy had a guy who had a guy who, in turn, knew a costume guy for one of the tv shows that filmed here. Two phone calls, a bottle of Glenlivet, and a drive to a warehouse on the Southside, and here I was walking an imaginary runway.

“Not bad. Can you breathe in that thing?” Bill asked.

I could, but visibility was iffy, and things would get awfully sticky—literally. Good thing it was November instead of August. Those damned suits were way heavier than they look on television.

In two days, we’d drop a dime on Nasrallah. If I played my cards right, I’d sneak in with all the other responders, just another scary-looking yellow blob trying to save the world from death and disease.

On the table sat a metal camera case covered in brand new hazmat decals. I’d put the disk in there once I found it and waltz out.

Cromwell, the devious old bastard, saved me from myself. The original plan, if you can call it that, was to call Homeland Security or Immigration. A rich Egyptian would make a lovely target for the anti-terrorist types, and I could rush in with the raiding team. But there would be way too many guns involved. Plus, getting caught impersonating an ICE agent would be a net negative for my personal liberty situation. A couple of calls set me up with a timetable, a close-enough-to-official CDC name badge, and the name of a lawyer—untraceable back to him—in case things went pear-shaped. Teamwork makes the dream work.

“You look like a giant Minion. Real heroic.” Meaghan O’Rourke’s bratty voice chimed in.

The blonde sat at the kitchen table across from Gramma for the second night in a row, a brand-new deck of tarot cards spread out between them.

“Pay attention, kid. Now, what card did I turn up?” Gramma asked.

Watching thought the foggy plastic face-shield, it was difficult to determine what was going on, but it looked like the old Gypsy was teaching the younger girl how to read fortunes.

Meaghan groaned. “Fine. The Fool. So what, that makes me an idiot?”

“I didn’t say a word,” Bill sniped from the other side of the kitchen. His distaste for the girl’s presence was palpable, and his grandmother’s mysterious affection for her didn’t help his mood.

The old woman pointed a bony finger at her grandson. “You shut up. You…” she said to Meaghan, “pay attention. Depending on the mark, the Fool either means a traveler or someone who doesn’t know they’re in danger. See how he’s carrying a pack and looks like he’s about to step off a cliff? You say something like, ‘you’re going on a trip,’ and if they are it blows their mind.

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