Jackson Taggart had the stink of it on him. Since she had become the receptionist for Aggie McPherson she had seen a lot of people come through the office: Rich and poor, desperate and cool, some smart enough to realize they needed Aggie’s help, others there by just dumb luck.  Whoever they were, though, Gladys had developed a sense for those who were on the threshold, whether it was because they were in danger, actively dying, or someone close to them died recently.

Gladys wasn’t yet sure which Aggie’s 11:00, Mr. Taggart, was but he was rank with it. And Jackson Taggart, a handsome mahogany-skinned man with curly hair buzzed short enough it didn’t reach the collar of his shopworn suit, looked like he was in fine health.  He sat in the waiting room, knotting and unknotting his long, tapered fingers.

The intercom on Gladys’ desk buzzed. Aggie’s voice came though in a crackle that Gladys found satisfying in a way that computers never would be. “Gladys, would you come in and empty my ashtray?”

At hearing this, Mr. Taggart looked up at Gladys who smiled. Aggie’s silly code phrase always made her smile, and always puzzled prospective clients. She excused herself and glided into Aggie’s office, Mr. Taggart gasping slightly behind her.  Gladys rolled her eyes. She knew that she was a handsome woman, and she always made sure she was dressed her best when working, but the reaction was a bit much.

Aggie was behind her desk, no ashtray in sight, the city spread out through a window behind her in a view Aggie never seemed to admire.  Instead, she was admiring Gladys in a way that Gladys never knew quite what to make of. Aggie was an odd one herself, hair cropped short into a well coiffed bob, dressed in a natty suit (a grey seersucker today), a brightly shined shoe up on the desk, tying it up with small, quick hands that ended in brightly polished nails.

With no preamble, her boss asked, “What do you think?”

“He’s a very good-looking. For a negro.”

“Gladys,” Aggie eyed her receptionist, “I’ve told you. No one uses that word anymore.”

“Well, his suit says he doesn’t have money. Or not much.”

“You know what I mean.”

Gladys ran her finger along the edge of the desk as she considered. “He’s not the usual type.”

“What do you mean?”

Gladys waved towards the waiting room, towards the door that was its entrance, with pebbled glass that read, Aggie McPherson, Spectral Analysis. “Whatever his problem is, I don’t think we’re dealing with the usual thing.”

Aggie cocked a plucked eyebrow at her assistant. “You don’t think he’s haunted?”

Gladys gave a small, musical laugh, the same laugh that had caused a millionaire to propose to her once at a champagne ball. It died quickly, though, as she said, “Oh, he’s haunted alright.”

Aggie stared at her confidante for a moment, absorbing her words, then stood up out of her chair so quickly it slid away from her desk. With equal alacrity she straightened herself, buttoned her jacket and smoothed her tie, eyes bright with what Gladys recognized as curiosity. “Show him in.”

Gladys, always happy to see her boss engaged, walked to her office door, opened it, and invited Mr. Taggart in. After a moment’s hesitation Mr. Taggart entered, eyes moving between Gladys and Aggie, his long fingers playing at their tips as if he might have been holding a hat by its brim. He gave a very quiet, “Hello.”

Aggie grinned, a kind and bright smile Gladys knew was designed to set people at ease. She wondered if her boss knew that sometimes it had the opposite effect.

Aggie gestured to a chair across from her desk, inviting her potential client to sit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You come to us by referral. And I’m always interested in meeting friends of Mr. Xiangzi, even when they aren’t future clients.”

“Thank you for seeing me.” Taggart eyes kept moving, not maintaining Aggie’s steady eye contact. “I think I’m in some trouble that you might be able to help me with?”

“I’m certain we can,” Aggie’s smile brightened with a confidence that was as real as anything else about her. “What’s the issue?”

“I may,” Taggart paused, and Gladys saw a pain rise up in his eyes that was so unmistakeable that she thought the man might run out of the room. Then an anger set itself into his face, and he growled out the next words. “I may have killed someone.”

Even in an office that was accustomed to strange circumstances, that statement froze the room. Carefully, as if approaching a dangerous animal, Aggie said, “Mr. Taggart, if you’ve been involved in a homicide, I would seek legal counsel. Immediately.”

Taggart barked a laugh at that. “I would if I knew who was responsible.”

Aggie glanced at Gladys as if to confirm the oddities that were layering onto themselves, then back to Taggart, asking, “I thought you just said –”

“I know what I just said.” The unexpected anger in Taggart’s voice set Gladys to nervously watching her boss, but he calmed himself quickly and continued. “But I don’t know exactly what happened.”

Aggie leaned forward, putting her elbows on her desk. “Why don’t you tell us what you do know.”

“Did you hear what happened to United Flight 247?”

Gladys knew her boss didn’t much keep up with everyday news, so was surprised when she responded, “It crashed, didn’t it? Went down south of the City.”

“That’s right.” Taggart paused, then rushed to, “I was on it.”

Aggie blinked away her confusion. Her response was an understandable, “I don’t understand.”

“I was on the flight.”

“And you’re here now…how?”

“I survived the crash.” Taggart blinked. “I may have caused the crash.”

Aggie frowned. “Mr. Taggart, I’ve helped many people in a lot of odd situations, so I want you to understand it’s not that I don’t believe you. But I am going to need more of an explanation.”

Taggart raised a hand from his lap and, like a piece of legerdemain, his elegant, tapered fingers had become covered in short, bristling fur, elongated into savage claws that he twisted around with a dexterity that belied theirbestial state.  “I come from a long line of loup-garou, Ms. McPherson.”

As if Taggart had announced the time they would be having dinner together, Aggie asked, “Werewolves?”

“That’s a little rudimentary, but yes.” Taggart dropped his hand into his lap and, aside from a distinct redness from his eyes, was once again just a man sitting in a room. “I’ve had control of it ever since I was a boy. Mostly through grooming.”

“Grooming?” Aggie’s tone was neutral, which Gladys knew put it her near the border of hostility.

Taggart smiled, red now coloring his cheeks. “It’s less to do with personal hygiene then discipline. It was a bit like a seminary. My family helped organize it.”

Aggie glanced at the sole picture on her desk, then said, “The family you were on your way to see?”

It was Taggart’s turn to blink. “How did you know?” 

Aggie smiled and crinkled up her button nose. “Lucky guess.”

Taggart cleared his throat. “Well, yes I’d been having some impulse control issues of late, so I wanted to visit and do some bonding. Settle back into old routines.”

“And on the airplane…?”

Gladys watched Taggart’s blush become a crimson wave of shame from under his skin as he lowered his chin. He gripped his voice with a tight control. “I remember getting on the plane, it lifting off, there was a bell or a chime –” 

“The one that notifies the crew when the craft reaches cruising altitude?” Gladys had never been on an airplane before, but couldn’t imagine the beast that belonged to Taggart’s hand being caught in such a contained space.

“I think so. But I don’t remember much after that. Just…flashes.” Taggart raised his head and Gladys could see tears in his eyes. She had seen a lot of men cry, had caused some of it, and she recognized that these were genuine. “I think I killed everyone.”

Without pause, Aggie added, “Or at least caused enough chaos that the flight crashed.”

“I –,” Taggart blinked back his tears. “Yes. I’m not sure.”

“You must have incredible regenerative powers if you survived.” Aggie stared at Taggart with unconcealed fascination. Under the lens of that curiosity, Taggart stumbled his way through an affirmative response until Gladys cleared her throat. Reminded of her own humanity, Aggie softened her expression. “How did you get back?”

“The crash didn’t happen far from the City. I came to before emergency services arrived, though, and I –” Taggart paused, shrugged, “made my escape, I suppose. I transformed and made my way back to the city. No one pays much attention to a dog.”

“And what did you say when the police called on you?”

Taggart’s eyes became clear with alarm. “How did you know the police visited me?”

Aggie smiled, not unkindly, but a bit patronizing. “Your name would be on the passenger roster, Mr. Taggart. If you weren’t found among the dead, someone would surely contact you.”

Taggart smiled, a bit sheepishly, relieved to see the obvious now. “I told them that I had checked in, but had to abandon the flight because of a last minute emergency.”

“And they believed you?”

“So far.”

Aggie looked at Gladys. “Well, that certainly explains why the authorities have been so hush-hush about this. The black box must be a –” Aggie paused. The empathy Gladys loved in her kept her from saying more than, “It must be very chaotic.”

That empathy hardened with necessity. “Mr. Taggart, you mentioned having trouble of late. Are you certain you didn’t lose control?”

“Yes,” Taggart’s reply was tinged with desperation. “There are obvious environmental contributors that can make it difficult, but I haven’t been lost control since I was a boy.”

Aggie leaned back in her chair and eyes to the ceiling. “The crash was on the 5^th. That was a gibbous moon.” She snapped back to Taggart. “Nothing special there.”

“No. But I’ve gotten the feeling I’ve been,” Taggart paused. “Observed of late. Like something is testing my boundaries.”

“Why do you suspect this?”

Taggart shrugged. “An over-developed survival mechanism. There’s more than one type of wolf that’s been hunted to extinction.”

Without letting that concept hang in the air too long, Aggie moved to, “What do you do for a living, Mr. Taggart?”

“I’m a priest.”

Gladys knew her boss’ opinion on priests, reverends, and cleric of all stripes, so was pleased that Aggie managed to keep her tone neutral in her reply. “I’m sorry?”

Taggart, smiled, accustomed to the reaction. “I’m the head of a church, near Island Park. It’s a small congregation, mostly of people who have trouble finding acceptance in conventional spaces.”

“Fellow lycanthropes?”

“I don’t always ask, but there are a few. But almost all are of a dual nature, people who are uncertain as to where they belong in society.” Taggart paused and appraised Aggie in a way that Gladys was used to seeing her boss stare at people. “You might come visit us some time.”

Aggie smiled in return. Out of all the expressions and smiles that Gladys had catalogued of her boss’, this hard, tiny grin was her least favorite. “I’d like that very much. In fact, I’ll have to insist. I may have to ask some of them uncomfortable questions.”

Taggart bowed his head, then spoke quietly. “I understand. But please be sensitive to the fact that many of my congregation are people on the outside.”

“If you don’t mean fellow lycanthropes, Mr. Taggart, what do you mean?”

For the first time since the conversation began, Taggart matched the steadiness of Aggie’s gaze. “The disenfranchised. People who can’t go elsewhere because they’re told they love the wrong person, that they can’t be what they are, that to live or to even exist as they are is a sin.”

After a slow moment, Aggie nodded. “That must be very difficult.”

“Yes. I only ask you be aware of that.”

“And do they know of your…condition?” Gladys wasn’t sure that was the best word for Aggie to have chosen, but couldn’t think of a better one either.

Taggart’s eyes dropped again, fingertips coming together. “A few. But not many.”

Aggie nodded again and stood up. “I understand. Gladys will get your information on the way out, including the address of your residence and church. I’ll try to be discrete.” Aggie took a hand out of her blazer pocket to reach across the desk to Mr. Taggart.

Before taking her hand, Taggart asked, “What about payment? Terms?”

“You run a non-profit, Mr. Taggart. We’ll come to terms when I have a better idea of what that means in your case.”

Mr. Taggart, clearly not a stranger to the cynicism of the world, smiled and took Aggie’s hand. “Thank you.” Without letting go, he added, “And thank you for not pulling your pistol when I did my little magic trick.”

It was Aggie’s turn to smile. “Smelled the gun grease?”

“It’s very distinct.”

Aggie’s smiled drolly. “Don’t worry. It’s not loaded with silver bullets.”

Taggart released Aggie’s hand. “Do you believe in the silver bullet, Miss McPherson?”

Aggie flicked her eyes to the ceiling as if considering the ephemeral. “I don’t know.” She brought them down again and Gladys could tell by the priest’s subtle change of expression he had noted their unusual color. “Should I?”

Taggart only widened his smile and touched a finger to his brow, as if in salute. “Now that would be telling. Goodbye, Miss McPherson.”

“Aggie. No one calls me Miss anything.”

Taggart bowed his head in deference to the preference. “Goodbye Aggie.”

“See you soon.”

To read the next chapter, go here.

See the author’s published work here.

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