Free Hemlock Grove by Brian McGreevy

amiably. “I suppose you aren’t by any chance a werewolf, Peter?”
    “Beg pardon?” said Peter. Some of the old tongue’s more imaginative curses flashed behind his eyes.
    “When the moon is full, do you walk in the skin of a wolf?”
    “No sir,” he said. “Ma’am,” he said.
    “Good,” she said. “Now that’s settled.”
    “Could I possibly ask … why, ma’am?”
    “Do you know Christina Wendall?”
    “Yes ma’am,” he said.
    “And you know she was the one who discovered Lisa Willoughby.”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Can you think of any reason she might have to believe you were a werewolf, Peter?”
    Peter thought fast. “Because I told her. Ma’am.”
    “Was there a particular reason you told her?”
    “Well … because she asked.”
    “Was there a particular reason she asked?”
    “My middle and index fingers are the same length.” He held out his hand palm forward. Neck whistled.
    “And this is an attribute of werewolfism?” said Chasseur.
    “I thought it meant you were a lesbian,” said Neck.
    “I believe you’re actually referring to a greater discrepancy between the length of the index and ring fingers in homosexual women indicating higher levels of androgen,” said Chasseur. Back to Peter: “So this means you’re a werewolf.”
    “She seemed to think so, ma’am. But I’m not really an expert on your whole werewolf/lesbian situation.”
    “Then you continue to deny all werewolf allegations?”
    “Yes ma’am. There’s no such thing, ma’am.”
    “And you really believe that, Peter?”
    “I thought it was scientific fact, ma’am.”
    “Proving a negative is a misuse of both the terms science and fact , Peter.”
    He pinched his fingers. “I thought it was just this close to scientific fact, ma’am.”
    She nodded. “Have you ever heard the term clinical lycanthropy , Peter?” she asked. Every time she used his name it was putting a pat of butter on a slice of botulism.
    “No ma’am.”
    “It describes a condition that causes the subject to believe he or she is a werewolf—and act accordingly.”
    “It takes all kinds to make a world, ma’am.”
    “Did you know either Lisa Willoughby or Brooke Bluebell?”
    “No ma’am.”
    “What were you and Roman Godfrey doing at Kilderry Park the night of October second?” demanded Nose.
    “We were catching fireflies, sir.”
    Nose glowered, but a quick glance from the woman censured his natural retaliatory bullying instinct. Peter, who had been in his day a person of interest to an assortment of law enforcement agencies, wondered (among other things) what gave a specialist from the Fish and Wildlife Service such a calmly confident and dexterous technique in the questioning of a human person.
    “Does Roman Godfrey think he’s a werewolf?” said Chasseur.
    “I don’t have his power of attorney,” said Peter.
    “Hazard a guess.”
    “I would guess not.”
    Fetchit began toying with Nose’s shoelace and Nose glared down at the sass from this quarter.
    Peter scooped the cat in his arms.
    “Cat person?” said Chasseur.
    “All creatures great and small, ma’am.” He kissed the cat to rest his case and it squirmed from his grasp, having more pressing things to do than receive freely offered affection.
    After the conclusion of the interview Peter waited until the crunch of the cruiser was well up the lane before going inside, slipping on a sweater, and telling his mother not to wait up. She said to pick up some bread and some cigarettes and to watch himself. He said, “I will.”

 
    A Few Other Adjectives
    Godfrey House was a massive and utilitarian Georgian Colonial that overlooked the river on the summit of the highest hill in town, the province of management, and had the appearance to those below of a squat, blunt, and obscurely disapproving tusk. The property was enclosed on three sides by a forest of red oaks containing a population of occluded and vaguely horned shapes calling a low and sporadic hoo