And Marty Coslaw, a lawyer.
Weston felt zero guilt, and breathed a bit easier. But how many criminals and lawyers did Naperville have? Eventually, he'd run out of scumbags to eat. Then what?
He tried the search term "help for real lycanthropy" and, incredibly, got a hit. A single hit, for a website called Shapeshifters Anonymous.
Weston went to the site, and found it to be a home for werewolf jokes. After suffering through a spate of awful puns (Where do werewolves go on vacation? A Howliday Inn!), he had about given up when he noticed a tiny hotlink at the bottom of the page that read, "Real therianthropes click here."
He knew from his lycanthropy reading that therianthropes were humans who morphed into animals. He clicked.
The page took him to another site, which had a black background and only five large cryptic words on it.
THERIANTHROPES MUST VIEW THE SOURCE
Weston stared, wondering what it meant. Which source? The source of their affliction? The source of their food?
On a whim, he Googled "view the source" and came up with a bunch of websites about HTML programming. Then he got it.
View the webpage source.
He went back to the werewolf page, opened his Internet Explorer toolbar, and under the PAGE menu clicked VIEW SOURCE. The HTML and Javascript appeared in a new window. Weston read through the computer language gobbledygook until he came to this:
&ei=xY0_R6 - CZXcigGGoPmBCA"+g}return true};window.gbar ={};(function(){;var g=window.gbar,a,f,h;functionm(b,e,d){b.display=b. display=="block"?"none":"block";b.left=e+"px";b.top=d+"px"}g.tg= function(b){real therianthropes call 1-800-209-7219}
Weston grabbed his phone and dialed with trembling hands.
"Therianthrope hotline, Zela speaking, may I help you?"
"I . . . uh . . . is this for real?"
"Are you a therianthrope, sir?"
"I think so. Is this really a werewolf hotline?"
"Is that what you turn into, sir? A wolf?"
"I have no idea. I black out beforehand, can't remember anything."
"Why do you think you're a therianthrope, sir?"
"I'm finding, um, things, in my, uh, toilet."
"Things like bone fragments, jewelry, eyeglasses, bits of clothing, coins, watches, and keys?"
"How did you know?"
"I'm a therianthrope myself, sir. Can I ask where you currently reside?"
"Naperville. Illinois."
"So I'm assuming you just realized you're the Naperville Ripper we've been hearing about?"
"They were all bad people," Weston said quickly. "I'm not sure about the lawyer, but I can make assumptions."
"We've been following the news. He was a defense attorney, defended child molesters. When given a choice, therianthropes usually prefer the wicked over the good. The creatures inside us find evil tastier."
"That's, uh, good to know. So . . . what are you, exactly? Are you a werewolf, too?"
"I'm a weresquirrel, sir."
"When the full moon rises, you turn into a squirrel?"
"Yes."
"A squirrel with buck teeth with a big fluffy tail?"
"That's the one."
Weston wasn't sure if he was supposed to laugh or not.
"Do you shrink? Or stay full size?"
"Full size."
"And you eat people?"
"No, sir. Not all therianthropes are carnivores."
"So, if you don't mind me asking, what do you do when you change?"
"I hoard nuts."
Weston chose his next words carefully.
"Are they . . . evil nuts?"
"Sir, I'm going to put your sarcasm down to you being on the edge of a nervous breakdown, so I'll ignore it. Are you interested in getting help for your therianthropy?"
"Yes, please. Thank you, Zela."
"Let me check the meeting schedule. Okay, today, at noon, there's an SA meeting at Saint Lucian's church in Schaumburg, approximately ten miles northwest of you. The secret word to gain entry is Talbot."
"What's SA?"
"Shapeshifters Anonymous."
"So I just go there, and they'll let me join them?"
"If you give the secret word. Yes."
"Do I have to bring anything?"
"Donuts are always nice."
"Donuts. I could bring donuts. Will you be there tonight, Zela? I can bring some with peanuts on them."
"That's very thoughtful of you, sir, but I live in New Jersey. And I also think you're kind of a schmuck. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
"No. Thanks, Zela."
"Thanks for calling the hotline."
Weston hung up, ending what was easily the most surreal conversation he ever had in his life. An hour ago, he'd been a normal guy with some odd bowel movements. Now, he was 99 percent sure he was some sort of therianthrope.
But what kind?
He went back to the sofa, picked up some of the hair. Long, grayish, fluffy.
Was he a weresheep?
No. He ate people. Had to be a carnivore of some sort.
So what gray animals ate other animals?
Wolves, obviously. Coyotes. Dogs. Cats. Were elephants carnivores?
The Internet told him they were herbivores, which was a relief. But then Weston thought of another gray carnivore.
Rats.
Weston didn't want to be a wererat. He hated rats. Hoarding nuts was one thing. Swimming in the sewers, eating garbage and feces and dead animals, that was awful. He held his armpit up to his face and sniffed, seeing if he could detect any sort of sewage smell. It seemed okay. Then he checked the time and saw he had two hours to get to the SA meeting. So he hopped in the shower, dressed, and got on his way.
It had snowed during the night, making Naperville seem even more Winter-Wonderlandish. The cold felt good on Weston's bare face. He attributed the slight fever to his condition: Google told him wolves had an average body temperature of 100.5.
His first stop was Dr. Waggoner's, to pick up the silver cross. Weston didn't want to keep it for himself, but it was evidence of a murder, so it was best to get rid of it.
The nurse handed it to him in an envelope.
"Are you going to put it on?" she asked, eyes twinkling.
"Not right now."
But when he stepped outside, he did open the envelope to take a look. It was, indeed, silver. But all of the movies, all the books, said silver killed werewolves. Weston took a deep breath and dumped it into his palm. It didn't burn his skin. Or was that only with vampires?
He was bringing it up to his face, ready to touch it to his tongue, when he remembered where it had been. Besides, it had already passed through his system without killing him. Obviously the legends were wrong.