Dark of the Moon
© 2024 by Walter Reimer and E.O. Costello

Thumbnail art by  Pashtelle


Sixteen



NEW ALPHA CHOSEN

By Peter Walshe

A group of representatives from all the werewolf packs throughout the United States gathered at a restaurant here in New York City yesterday, and after a few hours of discussion over dinner they selected Mr. Ralph Akelewicz, of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania as their new Alpha.

Mr. Akelewicz, a teacher in his early 50s, is a devoted family man with two children and is the head of the local teachers union in the City of Brotherly Love. After his selection, this reporter was invited to talk with him about what he sees as the issues between werewolves and other members of society throughout the country.

“My predecessor, John Terhune,” Mr. Akelewicz said, “worked for peace and for greater acceptance of werewolves in society. He had a dream of a global organization, like the United Nations, that could arbitrate disputes between us and hopefully resolve the bitter aftereffects of the War.”

When asked whether the arrests of two Russian werewolves in connection with the Terhune murder would deter him, Mr. Akelewicz replied, “The death of Franklin Roosevelt didn’t deter us from winning the war. Whether we have fur or not, we’re Americans, and there’s nothing we can’t do together.”


***


It was close to midnight before Phil drove me and the photographer back to the W-T&S, and I was glad to get away from Gino’s. While I had been talking with Mr. Akelewicz, werewolves would come up to shake my hand or slap me on the back, congratulating me on my hard work and my efforts to “get the word out.”

I was feeling pretty sore by the end of the night.

The new Alpha promised me another interview after the funeral but added that it would be a few days or more before he could sit down with me for any length of time. That made sense to me. He had a lot of work to do.


***


The morning of the funeral was cool and sunny, which wasn’t usual for autumn in New York. I put on my best suit and hailed a cab to take me to Holy Trinity. I met the photographer there and he took a few pictures while I jotted down notes about who was there and what was going on.

I had to take quite a few notes. The Lieutenant Governor and Deputy Mayor were there, seated behind the Terhune family and discussing something in low tones. The widow, in black with a black veil obscuring her features, sat with her sons and daughter. The oldest son, the new alpha of his family, sat tight-lipped and stoic.

Ralph Akelewicz, the new Alpha, was sitting across the aisle from the family along with a good number of other prominent werewolves. He gave me a smile and a nod when he caught sight of me.

Because of the prominent people, the news, and the size of the crowd, you would expect a police presence. I counted about a dozen cops in uniform positioned around the church, with a few directing traffic as cars pulled up and let someone out. There were a number of burly-looking guys in dark suits walking around, and I guessed they were either werewolves or a show of respect from the Five Families.

The guest of honor’s casket was in front of the altar, draped in an American flag. A small biography posted near the guestbook reminded people that John Terhune had been a staff officer in the US Army during the First World War and would be buried with military honors.

Promptly at ten o’clock the choir began to sing The Church’s One Foundation, and I retreated to the foyer. The Times and Herald Tribune had sent reporters, more to work the society angle than cover the actual funeral. They had no beef with me, so we talked quietly while the service went on.

“You seen Armbruster around?” I asked after some talk about the weather and who had shown up. There was one Catholic bishop attending, but he wasn’t up by the altar.

The Herald Trib’s guy chuckled. “They could have invited Armbruster to the reception, but they'd have to count the spoons.”

“Or pay off some little kid to fur up and pee on his trouser leg,” the Times guy added, and for a while we were trying hard not to laugh.

I glanced at a small copy of the order of service as the choir started singing another hymn. There’d be a litany, verses from the Bible, and a lot of prayer. Communion would be offered, but I wouldn’t be participating in that, obviously; besides, I had Mass to attend that evening.

The service moved along, and as the last Communion hymn ended, I slipped inside the sanctuary.

The pastor stepped up to his lectern and raised his hands. “Let us commend John David Terhune to the mercy of God, our Maker and Redeemer,” he said.

“Into Your hands, O Merciful Savior, we commend your servant John David. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech You, a sheep of Your own fold, a lamb of Your own flock, a sinner of Your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of Your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.” He lowered his arms, and I suppressed a smile at the idea of a werewolf being referred to as a sheep.

The congregation all said, “Amen,” and I stepped back outside quickly as the organ started playing A Mighty Fortress.

I had to blow my nose.

When I stepped back into the sanctuary, the organ was playing something I couldn’t quite catch, and six guys – all in Army uniforms, and all Shifted werewolves – came in, shouldered the casket, and started down the aisle. It was followed by the Terhune family and the rest of the congregation.

I ducked back outside quickly, collected my photographer, and made sure he was set up to get good shots of the casket being brought out to the hearse that had pulled up to the curb.

The cops on the sidewalk saluted as Terhune was brought out, and the family gathered by the hearse as the casket was put into the hearse before moving to the line of limousines and cars that had pulled in.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned. “Phil?” I asked. He was in a gray suit, with a black armband.

“Hiya, Pete,” he said. He looked past me. “Sad day.”

“Yeah.” I crossed myself.

“You going to the graveside?” I nodded and he asked, “You two need a lift?”

I glanced at the photographer and back to Phil. “If you’re offering, sure.”


***


Phil didn’t just get us to Green-Wood Cemetery. He got us there before the funeral procession arrived, which was great because it gave the photographer to find the best places to get his shots. The immediate family, in a big swanky Cadillac limo, trailed the hearse and led the rest of the mourners.

Of course, there was a police presence, along with some non-Shifted weres nosing about.

Compared to the funeral service, this didn’t take very long. The immediate family took seats in a couple rows beside the casket, with the widow at the head of a long receiving line to meet quite a few of the alphas and other dignitaries who had made the trip.

A priest said a final prayer, and a few people flinched as a seven-man team of riflemen fired a salute. The honor guard folded the flag on the coffin, with their sergeant offering it Mrs. Terhune. She hugged it to her chest briefly, her oldest son resting a hand on her shoulder in support and reassurance. Taps was played by an Army bugler.

When the salute was over all of the werewolves stood, Shifted, and a long, drawn-out and melancholy howl was raised. The disconsolate sound drifted across the cemetery, and the ceremony was done.


***


Phil refused to accept any money for getting me and the photographer back to the paper. I got out of the car and asked him through the open driver’s side window, “This is still on someone’s tab?”

He gave me a broad grin and nodded. “Guy never said how long I was supposed to drive you around.”

I matched his grin. “Could you take me back to my apartment, and then maybe up to Brooklyn?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” and I went inside to get my story written.

I got it done in record time and made a couple phone calls before the editor and I agreed on the story, and it was sent down to the print shop.

Phil grinned at me. “That was fast.”

“Well, I’m motivated,” and I filled him in on what was planned as I got into the cab.

His grin widened as he pulled away from the curb. “So, taking a werewolf gal to meet the folks, huh?”

“Yeah. Already met her family, the night I got shot at.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I read about that. You had a close call; those guys were playing for keeps.”

“Not anymore, hopefully.”

“Amen, Brother. Thinking of getting hitched?”

I chuckled. “We haven’t started dating yet.”

He shot me a glance through the rear-view mirror as he navigated through traffic. “But you’re thinking about it.”

I figured he could likely smell it. “Yeah.” We both started laughing. “You married, Phil?”

“Yeah. Wife, two kids. This job’s a windfall for us - ”

“Glad to hear it.”

“ – So I plan on milking it for all it’s worth,” Phil finished with a short laugh.

We got to my building, and George was waiting just inside. “You’re in a hurry,” he said, matching my run up the stairs.

“Yeah. Got to get cleaned up and changed.”

“On the run?”

“No, a date, dumbass,” I said as I fished my key out of my pants. “My ride’s waiting downstairs.” George frowned and I added, “He’s a were like you. Hired by the Terhunes for the day.”

George whistled. “So me, Jack, and Wally can knock it off for the night?”

“Yeah,” I said as I opened the door. I closed it before he could say anything else, or crack a joke. I was in a hurry.


***


Mary’s mother answered the door and I said, “Hello, Mrs. O’Donovan.”

“Peter,” she said as she let me in. “Mary will be out shortly.” She led me into the living room where the man of the house lay stretched out on the sofa, a newspaper – the World-Telegram&Sun, of course – draped over his face. She touched a finger to her lips, and I nodded. “Tom?”

“Hmmp,” came from under the paper.

“Peter’s here.”

“Mmph.” A hand reached up and moved the paper aside before Tom sat up. “Good afternoon, Peter.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“So, a first date?”

I shook my head. “We’re going to meet with my parents and go to Mass first, and then dinner at their place.” Both parents nodded at that. “So it’s not an actual date. There’s plenty of time for that.” More nods, with approving smiles.

A door opened just then, and Mary stepped out with a sweater tucked under her arm. “Oh! Hi, Pete.”

“Mary. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” She kissed her mother and father on the cheek. “I’ll be back - ?” and she glanced at me.

I did some quick arithmetic. “About eleven.”

Tom gave me a look before nodding, and I left with his daughter.


***


When we arrived at my parent’s place in Woodlawn, Phil glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m afraid I can’t hang around, Pete.”

“Run out of time?”

“My wife will be getting dinner ready.” He offered a hand through the open driver’s window. “Have fun.”

I took his hand. “Thanks a lot, Phil,” and I waved as he put the cab in gear and he drove off.

“Nice guy,” Mary said as I turned toward her. “You didn’t pay him.”

“He was hired by someone to drive me around today,” I said.

“Nice. So, um, how are you getting me home?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“I’ll think of something, Ma’am,” I said before I led her toward Walshe’s Auto Repair, just a short distance away. Mom and Dad live over the shop.

I let us in with my copy of their key and called out, “Mom? Dad? We’re here!” My parents are both redheads, like me; Mom’s hair is a little darker, and gray hair’s starting to outnumber red on Dad. “Mom, Dad, this is Mary O’Donovan. Mary, this is Catherine and John Walshe.”

“We’re pleased to meet you, my dear,” Mom said, taking Mary’s hands in hers and smiling.

Dad stubbed out his cigarette. “Sorry, I heard that werewolves don’t like smoking.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Walshe,” Mary said.

“John? Could you bring out the car? Mass will be starting soon,” Mom said.

Dad drives a ’37 Plymouth that he keeps in good condition. Being a mechanic, you’d expect that, and we headed over to Saint Barnabas’.

Mass was over quickly, and we hurried back to have dinner. Mom had a pot roast on low, and she’d worried a little that it would get dried out or burn. She needn’t have worried; the pot roast was so tender you could cut it with a fork, and it was served with vegetables and mashed potatoes.

A few times during dinner, I felt Mary’s hand covering mine under the table.





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