Title: In The Shadows Lurk

Author's Note: Slight Supernatural crossover, pre-series for both shows.

December 1995

Peoria, IL

The briefing room filled up slowly, as people trickled in. Some were chatting about the most recent Bears debacle while others just yawned blearily into their coffees.

"DiNozzo! Hey, Tony," Mackowski called out, gesturing to the seat next to him. "Looks like you got here just in time. It's going to be a full house for today's briefing."

"Mac." Tony nodded, looking around. "Wow, everyone's here. Even the bigwigs." He cocked an eyebrow at the brass standing next to the detectives along the far wall. "We got another murder?"

"Most likely. The press is already sniffing around, but then again, they're always trying to find something. Damn vultures." Mac eyed Tony over his coffee. "How the hell are you so bright eyed and cheery today anyway? You had at least as many beers as I did last night."

Tony laughed. "Because, unlike you, I am young and in shape." Tony reached over and slapped Mac's large stomach.

"Are you suggesting I'm old and fat?"

"Well, I would have used the term decrepit, but I was trying to be tactful. Wouldn't want you to hurt your brain trying to figure out my big words or anything."

"Oh yeah, you're the par-a-gon of tact, DiNozzo." Mac over emphasized the word, dragging it out as he shook his head. When Tony laughed, Mac shook his head and drained his coffee. "One of these days, kid. One of these days."

Tony leaned over and rested his head on Mac's shoulder. "You love me," he said, fluttering his eyelashes. "You know it."

"Only when I'm not contemplating killing you."

"And here I thought you said I was the best partner you ever had!"

Mac shoved Tony off and back into his own seat. "That's only 'cause I actually did kill the others."

Tony gasped. "Getting away with murder? You? I don't believe it. Where'd you hide the bodies?"

"Oh, that was easy. I ate them. How'd you think I got so big?" Mac grinned and thumped his chest a few times.

"And here I was blaming all those burgers and fries you inhale during our dinner break every night." Tony smacked himself in the forehead. "Silly me!"

Meanwhile Sergeant Johnson was tapping on the desk, trying to get everyone's attention. "Come on, people," he called out, but it did little to lower the din of the officers around the room. "I haven't got all day!" The taps grew louder and louder and more and more animated; soon his hair was flying back and forth and his taps morphed into him pounding the table. The various officers in the room finally turned towards him, taking their seats or finding a spot along the wall, so he could begin the briefing.

"Finally! All right, before you head out there today here's the things you'll need to know . . . " At first everything he presented was the same as any other day, an overview of recent crimes and possible trends, some photographs of criminals to keep an eye out for, the basics. Tony jotted down the necessary information, but his mind began to wander and his notes about the spate of convenience store robberies soon morphed into a game of tic-tac-toe doodle wars with him being NFL logos and Mac the flags of the world. To be fair his Detroit Lion looked anemic, but Mac's Albania sucked. He was laughing at Mac's cyclops-esque Mauritania when his attention was finally brought back to the front of the room by the sergeant's long winded introduction of Detective Fredericks.

"As most of you, half the city, and all the press are aware, there have been three murders in the warehouses over by the industrial area near the lake in the past two weeks," Fredericks began, "but what we've managed to keep from them so far is that there was another last night. We're still processing the scene, but it doesn't look like we'll be any luckier this time around, so we're going to stick with the increased patrols in that area as our main defense. Keep your eyes out and always stay within sight of your partner - remember - the Jenkins kid was away from his friends for no more than five minutes. This guy moves fast. And radio in anything suspicious. Got it?" Fredericks looked around the room for a few minutes, catching various officers' eyes before waving Johnson back over. "They're all yours."

Johnson pursed his lips, tapped the table twice, and then sighed. "All right, that's all for today then. Be careful out there boys," he added, just like he always did, eliciting the same groans he always did because half the 'boys' on any given day were girls now, but the sarge had been saying that longer than some of them had been alive, so no one minded much; they just headed toward the exits as he shooed them off. "And try to be on time for the briefing tomorrow, eh?" he added, with that hopeful 'I may as well try, even if I know I'm going to be disappointed' tone of his.

Tony leaned over to whisper, "Yeah, like that's ever going to happen. But I suppose he can always live in hope, right, Mac?"

Mac, with one hand on the back of his chair and the other on the table, hefted his bulk out of his chair and got himself standing. "One of these days, he'll get his wish. It'll probably be by accident, like it's daylight savings time or something, and enough of those lazybones forget to switch their clocks."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you forget to do that last year?"

Mac slapped Tony on the back. "You know, a good partner wouldn't be bringing that sort of thing up."

"Well, I figure there's no point in you killing me now, right? Because, seriously, you ate that huge meal while we were watching the game last night, right? And, if you add in the fact that the next round of pizza's on me - thanks to the stupid Bears and their stupid interceptions - and there's only so much even you can really eat, so I'm pretty sure I'm safe for a while."

Mac laughed, a deep rumble that followed them out into the hall. "That is a good point. A very good point. But, tomorrow? I make no promises. Tomorrow, you better watch your step."

"Duly noted. Come on, this time I'm driving."

"No way, kid. I've got seniority."

"Mac-"

Mac cut Tony's pleading off with a quick, "No," using that menacing tone of voice of his that left no room for arguing and vaguely suggested a world of hurt if one attempted to cross it.

Tony sighed dramatically and followed Mac out to their patrol car. "You know I know you're really just a big old teddy bear, right?"

"Oh yeah, my secret's out," Mac grumbled half heartedly, glaring at Tony over the roof of the car, "Now get in."

Six hours, four donuts, two pizzas and a whole lot of coffee later, Mac pulled up to the dark alley between the barber's that never had any customers and the unfortunately named Mexican restaurant "El Kucaracha." Tony was about to launch into his typical spiel about how stupid it was to name a restaurant after a cockroach and if they were going to be that dumb they could at least get the gender and spelling of the word right when Mac shushed him with a punch to the arm.

"You can always just say 'Shut up, Tony' instead of hitting me, you know," Tony muttered morosely as he rubbed his arm. "I think I'm developing a permanent bruise there."

"Shut up, Tony," Mac hissed. "See that?" He pointed at the alley.

"It's an alley. It's dark." He leaned forward and squinted out the window. "What am I looking for?"

"That! The car!"

Tony craned his neck to get a better look. "Oh. There is a car in an alley. Alert the media," he said, wincing as Mac punched him again. "Okay, two quick questions for you then. One, what's so special about this car? And two, why are we whispering?"

Mac sighed. "The second murder, the homeless vic, we drove past there our next shift, remember?" Tony nodded. "That car was there."

Tony raised an eyebrow and looked at Mac. "There's no way you can make out the license plate from here. How do you know it's the same car?"

Mac huffed in response and gestured out the window. "Come on, a 1967 Impala? Here? In this neighborhood? Don't you know anything about cars?"

"Hey, I happen to know quite a bit about cars. In fact, did you know Magnum drove a-"

"Tony?" Mac interrupted, using that menacing tone of voice of his again.

"Yes, Mac?"

"Don't make me eat you."

"No, we don't want that. I wouldn't want to be responsible for giving you heartburn." Tony laughed. "We're not that far from the warehouse district; there can be any number of reasons that a car, which may or may not have been near one of the murder sites, would wind up being parked here. Maybe they're picking up dinner?" Tony looked over and saw the glare Mac was giving him. "Or not…. Okay, I'll go out and get the plate while you call it in."

"No." Mac's reply was abrupt and loud, but Tony had already opened the car door and was halfway out before it registered that Mac had even said anything.

"Come again?" Tony stopped where he was, looking over at Mac, confused. It was an awkward position, one foot on the sidewalk, the other still in the car while trying to support his weight on a weird angle between them, but the sharpness of Mac's voice kept him from moving.

"I said no, kid. You heard Fredericks. No one goes anywhere alone until we catch this guy."

"I don't think he meant out here in the open like this." Tony pointed to the hustle and bustle on the street around there. "I think he meant in the warehouses where this nutcase's been doing the killings."

"But what if he did?" Mac looked up at Tony. "You willing to bet your life on it? 'Cause that's exactly what you'd be doing."

Tony rolled his eyes and stepped out of the car, keeping one hand on the door and put the other on the roof. He leaned in and said, "So you coming or what, old man?"

"Old man, my ass," Mac echoed as he got out of the car, but Tony just laughed, especially when Mac slammed the door with a little more force than necessary.

Tony took a few steps up to the alley before pausing. "You wanna go in first? Keep me safe from the evil killer and his scary car?"

"The way you're going," Mac muttered as he approached, "you'll be lucky I don't shove you at the killer just to get rid of you."

"I heard that."

"I know." Mac walked over and punched Tony in the arm. "Now go risk your life for the greater good of the city and get the license plate. VIN too if you can without being too suspicious."

"You give me all the fun jobs." Tony looked up and down the alley before pulling out his notepad and jotting down the plate number. "Kansas plates, no one around. Although," he stepped closer and lay his hand on the car's hood for a second. "Still a little warm, so it hasn't been here long-" Tony broke off suddenly, tilting his head and freezing where he was.

Mac reacted instantly; he didn't pull his weapon, but his hand was on it, just in case. "DiNozzo?" he hissed.

Tony scanned the alley a few times before gesturing with his head to the street. He waited until Mac nodded and then carefully, but quickly, made his way out of the alley, Mac covering his back until he was clear. Tony kept walking, going straight to their police cruiser.

Mac approached slowly, keeping an eye on the alley; then stood and waited while Tony called in the plates. "Tony?" he called out after a few minutes, when Tony didn't say or do anything except sit there. "Kid? What happened? See something that spooked you?"

"I don't know, Mac. It was weird. I just knew I had to get out of there." Tony was sitting in the driver's seat, door propped open, staring at the sidewalk. "I just, there was, it." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I can't explain it."

Reaching over, Mac placed a hand on Tony's shoulder. "That's your gut talking, kiddo. A good cop always listens to his gut." Tony nodded, but didn't look up so Mac just gave his shoulder and strong squeeze and waited a bit before he said, "Now shove over, I'm the only one that's allowed behind the wheel in this car."

Tony barely grumbled as he moved to the passenger seat. "Plates came back clean. So other than the suspicion that it may have been present at a crime scene after the fact, we got nothing."

"We got my gut saying that car's involved somehow and your gut saying there was something or someone rubbing you the wrong way in that alley. That's not nothing."

"Or, we got some guy who parked his car in a couple of places where we just happened to spot it and some anchovies on that pizza we just ate that are disagreeing with me."

"It's not the pizza, and you know it," Mac grumbled as he started up the car.

"Maybe so, Mac. Maybe so." Tony suppressed a shiver, keeping his eye on the alley as they drove off.

After he got off shift, Tony made his way back to the area they'd been patrolling earlier that day. He'd asked around in the locker room: Hutch and Miller had seen the Impala while on duty outside the do-not-cross tape for yesterday's murder and Annie was fairly sure she saw it two days ago outside the warehouse where the Jenkins kid had been found, although her partner, Gustafson, said they'd seen no such thing and that she should stop flirting. Annie walloped him over the head and told him to quit interrupting and he sighed and started waxing poetic about the good old days.

Tony shook his head, those two had earned the nicknames Sweet Annie and Grumble Gus after all, hadn't they? But, whether or not Annie had seen the car, it was looking more and more likely that Mac's hunch was right, the Impala was involved somehow. He'd gone to Fredericks with his theory, but got no more than a pat on the head before he was shoved out the door. So, Tony decided he was going to look for the Impala himself. Mac would probably be pissed that he was going off on his own, but tonight was the second Wednesday of the month so it was Mac's night with his kids and Tony wasn't going to let some stupid hunch that probably wasn't going to pan out stand in the way of that.

El Kucaracha's alley was empty, other than several dumpsters that were filled with things he'd rather not look at too closely, or smell ever again. There was no sign of the Impala, no clue to where it could have gone, so Tony took off, driving around the area, keeping an eye out.

These were no normal killings. He might not have been on the force long, but he knew that much. Beat cops like him didn't get all the details, but he'd seen enough to know that this wasn't just some psycho slashing up people and ripping out organs for the fun of it. There was something else going on, something that the higher-ups either weren't seeing or weren't passing on. But, people were dying, four so far, and the time between the murders was getting shorter- that meant something, but Tony didn't know what. And it would sure be a feather in his cap if he could figure it out.

He stopped at a gas station for some coffee and then drove around the warehouse district for a bit before deciding to check out the site of the first murder. He didn't think it was all that likely that there would be anything he'd find that the countless other cops who had scoured the area hadn't already discovered, but it was worth a try. And maybe the mysterious Impala would be there; there was some sort of link between the murders and the car. He was sure of it. After driving past to make sure it was deserted, he backtracked and parked three blocks over, on the main road, and made his way back on foot.

The crime scene had been reopened a few days after the murder, and for a little while there were the rubberneckers, those people drawn to misery and violence, but by now it had gone back to being just an old abandoned warehouse, no different than any of the others except for its now slightly notorious history. Flashlight in one hand, coffee in the other, Tony started exploring. No one had come to fix the door, so it stood there, propped up in the doorway on a weird tilt. He wasn't breaking and entering then, there was no breaking anyway if the door was unlocked. Unlocked and open. And as a police officer it was his duty to make sure there was nothing criminal going on inside. Yeah, right.

He shouldered his way past the door and into the office within. The desk had a layer of dust, pigeon crap and god knows what else on it, disturbed in places where people had brushed past on their way to the scene of the crime. Tony, however, noticed something else. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like some sort of symbol had been drawn in the muck at some point in time.

"Now, this is what I'm talking about." He drained his coffee and crushed the empty cup in his hands before tucking into his back pocket as he pulled out a pad and pencil. "Don't want to contaminate the scene, do we?" He'd only just begun to sketch when he heard the deep rumble of an approaching car. Quickly he clicked off the flashlight; he knew it was never a good idea to give away his position.

Tony edged his way back to the door, trying to stay out of sight, but also trying to get a good look at the car as it approached. While he wasn't the expert on cars that Mac apparently was, he was pretty sure that it was the same Impala pulling up in front of the warehouse, which was really good, and really, really bad, all at the same time. He didn't have his gun on him, or his handcuffs. If this person was the killer then he was in way over his head and if that was the case confronting the Impala's owner would be a bad thing. Tony ran a hand through his hair as he looked around the room. There was just enough light to realize he was trapped. He couldn't get out of the building without being seen by whoever was in the car and the door that led out of the office into the warehouse itself was shut, and probably locked. Hearing the car door slam, he made his decision and rushed over to the desk, climbing under it and trying very hard not to think about what might be under there with him; there were no dead rats there, nope, not a one.

The door creaked as someone lifted it, and there was a clunking noise as it was moved to the side, followed by the ratchet of a shotgun being primed. Okay, hiding under the desk was turning out to have been a really good idea, he had no desire to get hit by a shotgun and ending his police career before it had barely had a chance to start. Tony could hear the slight shuffle of someone stepping into the room and had to fight the urge to sneeze at the dirt they kicked up. The person paused right by the desk, their flashlight playing over its surface and there was a scratching sound; Tony assumed they were copying the symbol he'd noticed earlier. Everything was silent for a few minutes and Tony strained to hear what the person was doing.

"Just so you know," a deep voice boomed throughout the room suddenly, startling Tony, causing him to jump and nearly bang his head against the underside of the desk, "you might want to think about skipping the coffee next time you're trying to be stealthy. The smell gives you away." The man tapped the desk a few times before wiping it down, sending dust and muck everywhere. "You also might want to think twice about hunting this thing on your own. It's a good way to get yourself killed. People by themselves, cast out from society, that's its favorite kind of prey." Then, the man walked out, and a minute later Tony heard the Impala start up and take off down the street.

"What the hell?" Tony muttered, crawling out from under the desk. He made a half-hearted attempt at brushing off his jeans before giving up; they were just too dirty. All he was doing was moving the dust around. Clicking the flashlight back on, he took a quick look at the desk. The symbol was gone. And his sketch hadn't been finished. Well, if that wasn't just wonderful. He coughed and cleared his throat, trying to get out the stale taste of dust that covered it. The murder itself had occurred in the warehouse, not this office, but he knew it had been pored over by the crime scene guys and, oddly, he was pretty sure since the Impala guy hadn't been interested in it, then there was nothing to find out there.

Tony edged his way out the door and walked back to his car. On the one hand, his night had been completely wasted. Other than figuring out the Impala's owner was male, he didn't learn a thing about the car or the person who sat behind the wheel, and while he might have stumbled upon a clue in the murders, it slipped through his fingers without him even trying to hold onto it. Overall, not one for the win column. On the other hand, he had realized he was onto something. The symbol, whatever it was, was important. It was tied to the murders, somehow, he just knew it. There was nothing he could do about it. The top third of some bizarre and intricate random symbol was not going to help anyone solve anything. If Mac asked, he was going to say he spent the night by himself in front of the tv nursing a beer. He'd even admit to watching Wheel of Fortune or something equally stupid if he had to. Overall, it would be less embarrassing.

Tony drove over to "Mama Leoni's Fine Donuts," the local cop hang out. It was actually owned by a 300 pound guy named Saul Greenberg, but he gave a discount to the boys in blue, was open twenty four hours a day, and never ran out of coffee, so other than some gentle ribbing, no one bothered him much about the name.

"Tony!" Saul popped his head out from the back. "Where's Mac?"

"I'm not on duty now, Saul. I'm just… all over the place. I needed a place to sit and think for a while. And get some caffeine." Tony slid into the booth in the corner.

"That, I can help you with." Saul slammed a mug in front of Tony and filled it up. "You know where the sugar and creamer's at if you need some." He gave Tony a gentle pat on the shoulder before heading back behind the counter.

Idly stirring in sugar, Tony just starred at the coffee as it circled the mug, following the path of the spoon. He probably should go to Fredericks, or one of the other detectives involved in the case, and tell them what he knew. But, then again, what did he really know? He pulled out his pad and flipped to a new page and wrote:

1) Symbol

There had been some sort of symbol written in the dust in the office next to the site of the first murder. However, it was possible it wasn't related to the killing at all; it might have been there for years, or it could have been added after the murder. Realistically, the only reason he considered it important was because the Impala guy erased it, but that was hardly damning evidence, was it? And maybe the guy had written it in the first place and was now just covering his tracks. Which, didn't make a whole lot of sense since he was pretty sure the guy copied it into a pad himself. Hmm. Tony tapped the pad a few times with his pen and took a sip of coffee.

2) Impala

Okay, the car might not be involved at all. The ability to put it at any of the crime scenes was spotty at best. It could just suffer from a case of wrong place wrong time, although Tony thought that was fairly unlikely. Other than the fact it stood out, a classic car with its out of state plates, up against the rusted out beaters that were usually seen around the warehouses, there wasn't a whole lot that really would constitute as proof of it being involved in the murders. And, so far, as far as he knew, it showed up after the fact; like maybe the person driving it was investigating the deaths, not causing them.

3) Impala's owner

Well, it was a man. And, judging by the sound of the footsteps, not a small one. A man who had a freakishly good sense of smell, at least where coffee was concerned, and apparently owned a shotgun. He wondered if the man had known who was under the desk. If he'd wanted to he could have shot Tony, maybe even killed him. A desk would have made appallingly pathetic cover against that kind of weapon. But instead, the man dismissed him as not being a threat, and even offered advice, of a sort. Which didn't mean he was innocent in all this, it just made the likelihood he was guilty a whole lot smaller.

4) Murderer = Thing?

If the Impala man knew what he was talking about, then these weren't the killings of some psycho, or a gang and their dogs, or any of the other theories that had been bandied about but rather some kind of thing or creature. He specifically referred to the murderer as an 'it.' Some sort of creature, maybe? It's usually creatures that have prey, not people. Even thinking about it the idea seemed ridiculous, but the Impala guy seemed so certain. Like that time he'd gone on a whale watch off Montauk Point, their guide pointed to a fin in the distance, only a speck even with binoculars, and told them how it was a male Pygmy Right Whale and not the more commonly spotted female Minke and how lucky they were to see it.

Of course the Impala guy could have just been messing with him. But, if he was honestly going with his gut here, Tony didn't think that was the case.

"Tony?" His name being called out came as a surprise, he hadn't heard anyone approach, but there was Saul, looming over him with the coffee pot, a look of concern on his face. "Need a refill?"

Belatedly, he realized he'd been tapping his empty coffee mug with his pen. "Oh." He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, thanks."

Saul poured the coffee, took a half step away from the booth and stopped. "Shouldn't you be getting a little shut eye at some point and time tonight?"

"I could ask you the same question. Do you sleep here or what?"

"Hey, I got an excuse for being up this late, I got dough proofing in the back. Wouldn't want to mess with integrity of my donuts now, would you?"

Tony laughed. "Oh, heaven forbid. The guys at the station would kill me. I think some of them live entirely off of your donuts."

"And muffins," Saul pointed out.

"And muffins," Tony conceded.

"And my sticky buns."

Tony started laughing as Saul turned around and smacked himself on the butt. "Hey, I am not going any where near the subject of your sticky buns!" Saul just wiggled his butt a few times in response before sashaying back behind the counter.

Shaking his head, Tony returned his attention to the list he was working on. There was something else the Impala guy was right about, all the victims had been by themselves.

6) Victims always alone when killed

Victim number one had been Michael Sorenson, a.k.a. Micky So-So, a low-level drug dealer that no one missed, let alone mourned. The detectives thought he'd been waiting for a buy when he'd been killed. Despite the violence of the attack, because of the drug connection it hadn't been until the second murder that they realized it was anything more than some sort of ultra-violent gang warfare that they were dealing with.

Victim number two was a John Doe, known only as Pigeon Paul, who routinely bedded down for the night in the abandoned warehouses. But it wasn't until the third victim, Tommy Jenkins, that the public raised the hue and cry and the case became the high profile hell of a red ball. Tommy was sixteen, an honor student, doing some community service project for extra credit. His murder was the worst yet, not only had he been sliced open, his organs removed, but his tongue had been ripped out as well.

The details about the fourth murder and victim were still hush-hush, but from what Tony had been able to piece together, it had the same M.O. as the others. Someone, in this case a city utilities worker checking on a reported gas leak, who was off by himself and attacked so quickly and so viciously there hadn't been a chance to fight back.

The media had been going wild describing what they had dubbed the 'Wolf Pack Killer,' named after an unfortunately made comment by the sanitation worker who found Pigeon Paul the morning after he'd been murdered where, when asked to describe the body, he said it "looked like an entire wolf pack had been at it." How exactly he knew what an attack by wolf pack would look like was never explained, but the name stuck.

Maybe 'Lone Wolf Killer' would have been a better name? Tony shrugged. This was getting him nowhere and he needed to get some sleep before his shift started. "Saul?" he called as he slipped out of the booth, "I'm heading out now. I left a tip on the table." Saul hadn't given him a bill; he rarely charged cops for coffee if they drank it in the shop, he'd always said having them here was good for business; no one would dare rob him if there were cops around. So far, his theory had seemed to pan out. He'd never been robbed and the department seemed determined to eat its weight in donuts as often as possible. A win-win situation. And most of the cops were happy enough to have a welcome place to go for a hot cup of joe any time of day or night that most left a large tip, usually something that would cover the cost of the coffee. Well, at least Tony and Mac always did.

Saul shouted something from the back in response, maybe about apple fritters. Or maybe Tony was just hungry. Or going insane. Either was likely.

He didn't come up with anything to add to his notebook on the ride home, or at the briefing at work before his shift started.

"You okay, Tony?" Mac asked after Sergeant Johnson had sent them off with his typical 'Be careful out there boys' caution. "Not up for tic-tac-toe today? I was all set. I was going to do cuneiform."

"Cuneiform? No. Yes. I mean. Stupid negative questions always confuse me."

Mac just glared. His eyes narrowed. "You look beat. You get any sleep last night?"

"Not much," Tony admitted, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Please don't tell me you spent the night searching for that Impala!"

"Okay, I won't." Tony sidestepped to avoid the inevitable punch to the arm. "Hey, you're the one who pointed it out in the first place!"

"For us to investigate." Mac grabbed Tony and shoved him against the wall. "US. As partners. As a police force. Not for you to go off half-cocked on your own. Didn't you hear a word Fredericks said yesterday? No going off by yourself!" With a shake, and a punch to the shoulder, he released Tony, waggling his finger in his face. "I am not going to your funeral. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear." Tony grinned. "It would ruin your plans to eat me."

"Don't tempt me!" Mac stormed off down the hall. Tony didn't catch up until they were nearly at the patrol car. He didn't say anything, just walked around to the passenger side without even making a halfhearted attempt to be allowed to drive. Mac got in and put the keys in the ignition, but didn't start the car. "You should have told me what you were planning. I'd have gone with you."

"Mac," Tony began, but before he could say anything else Mac turned on the car and gunned the engine, a sure sign he considered the conversation to be over.

Atypically, they rode in silence, other than the chatter over the radio, for the rest of the day. Mac didn't punch Tony in the arm even once; Tony was a little surprised to realize he missed it. It was a good day though, all things considered. They helped with directing traffic after a big pile up on Jefferson, usually it was the worst of the grunt jobs, but the weather was practically balmy for this time of year so they didn't freeze their asses off, and the drivers were polite enough about the detour not to throw stuff or curse at them. Afterwards, when Mac drove them to Mama Leoni's for some coffee, Saul had just started to put out a fresh batch of jelly donuts and he boxed up a half dozen of them to go with the coffee.

"DiNozzo," Mac grabbed Tony's arm after they checked back in the cruiser after the end of their shift. "If you think you got something, anything, go to Fredericks or one of the other detectives. Maybe they already got it, maybe they'll think it's shit, maybe they'll think it's brilliant. But whatever you do, and I mean whatever , you don't go looking for a mass murderer by yourself. You got me?" Practically yelling, Mac was shaking Tony's arm in a grip so tight it hurt.

Tony held up his other hand, almost in a sign of surrender. "Mac," he said, "I have no desire to become someone's chew toy. Present company excepted, of course," he added quickly, trying for a lighter tone.

Mollified, Mac released him. "Okay then. Want to go get a pizza after we change?"

"Sure." Tony grinned. Mac hadn't notice that Tony had deflected the question. All he'd said was he didn't want to get killed, not that he wasn't going to investigate on his own anymore. If the Impala guy was right, they'd be in less danger if they were together, but Tony didn't plan on going after the killer. He was going to go in search of the Impala and its owner and find out what that man knew. And, more importantly, how he knew it. "I suppose I'm paying?"

"Unless you're planning on welching on our deal." Mac punched Tony in the arm as they turned to head to the locker room.

"Welch? Moi? Never! Only, no anchovies. I'm putting my foot down when it comes to anchovies."

"Kids these days," Mac muttered with an overly put-upon sigh. "No sense of taste whatsoever."

"Was that taste or tact?" Tony called over his shoulder as he pushed open the locker room door.

"Both!" Mac exclaimed, and laughed when got a face full of Tony's wadded up shirt. "Hey! Just for that I'm making you pay for the beer too!"

It wasn't until two pizzas and three beers later that Tony was able to get away from Mac, leaving him happily ensconced in his easy chair and tv remote in easy reach. Driving over to the warehouses, Tony kept an eye out for the Impala. He'd asked around in the locker room, carefully, not as to arouse any suspicion from Mac, but no one had seen the car during their shift today. Which meant that either the Impala guy had taken off, which was unlikely, because the murderer was still on the loose, or the guy was playing it safe and made sure to get the hell out of Dodge when there were too many people around to be hunting. And the Impala guy was definitely a hunter. Tony was sure of that.

"Think, think, think!" Tony smacked the steering wheel in frustration twenty minutes later. Driving aimlessly wasn't going to get him anywhere. "I can figure this out. I just got to look at it rationally. Or, as rationally as someone talking to himself can, anyway. If the murderer is looking for another victim, new prey, then he's, it's, whatever, the murderer is going to be as far away from crowds as possible. And if the Impala guy is hunting the murderer then he'll be in the same sort of place. Assuming the Impala guy isn't the murderer, that is. Which, I don't think he is. At least, I'm pretty sure he's not. Okay. Empty warehouses. And the bigger the lot it was sitting on the better." Driving in the direction of the second murder site, he rolled down the windows, despite the cold, hoping to hear the low rumble of the Impala's motor. "But the prey has to be able to get in so that means warehouses with easy access, either no gates or holes in the gates or something like that."

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. A bit of chrome peeking out from behind a stack of pallets. He pulled up slowly. "Yes!" he cheered quietly.

He'd found the Impala.

Parking quickly, Tony grabbed his service weapon out of the glove compartment before slipping out of his car and shutting the door as quietly as he could. He kept the safety on, but the gun in his hand as he walked over to the Impala. It had been there for a while, the engine was already cold. So where was its owner?

He kept up against the wall as he made his way around the perimeter of the warehouse, trying to find a way inside. If the Impala guy got in, he could too. Hopefully, before the crazed murderer thing showed up and tried to kill him. Mac would be really pissed if he let that happen. Lucky for him, a third of the way down there was a broken window. Recently broken, by the looks of it, with several small shards of glass still on the sidewalk. He had to step carefully to avoid having them crunch underfoot , but he was lucky since the window frame had been completely cleared of anything sharp so he was able to climb through without too much difficulty.

There wasn't a lot of light, just enough coming in from the windows to see that there wasn't anything special about the warehouse. Pallets and boxes were stacked against the walls, but there was a layer of dust over everything and the whole place just smelled stale; this place had probably sat abandoned for a couple of months at least. There was a door at the far end, on the other side of the loading ramps. Assuming it lead to an office, Tony headed over to it. Maybe there would be another symbol or some sort of evidence there that he could actually use.

He'd only made it halfway when he heard a low growl. Soft enough at first he wasn't quite sure he'd even heard it, but menacing enough to cause all the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. Pulling out his gun, he stopped and slowly turned around, only to get the briefest glance of something approaching quickly before an arm was coming at him. He tried to dodge out of the way but it still caught him across the ribs with enough power that he lost his grip on his gun as he was thrown into the loading ramps, bouncing off them painfully before landing in a heap on the ground.

There was a clatter as the door he'd seen earlier was thrown open. "You idiot!" someone yelled as they ran past him, priming a shotgun on the move. The creature roared, and Tony pushed himself up in time to see the Impala guy take a blow across the back and practically fly through the air before smashing into a stack of boxes, the shotgun skittering under the pallets to his right.

Spotting his own gun a few feet away, Tony made a run for it. The creature-man-thing didn't even notice, it was too intent on the Impala guy. He dove for it, grabbing his gun and shouting, "Hey, ugly!" The thing turned and snarled at him. It was all teeth and no hair and terrifying.

"Shoot it!" the Impala guy yelled.

Tony opened fire. The first four rounds did nothing, but the next two caused it to waver and after two more it went down. Skirting around where it fell, Tony ran over to the Impala guy, who was struggling to get to his feet. "What the hell was that?

"A wendigo."

"A what? Look, you better stay still. I'll call for an ambulance."

The guy just looked at him like he was nuts. "No need. I'll be fine. Besides, I gotta finish this."

"Are you sure you should get up? You might have broken ribs or a spine injury or something."

"Like I said, I'm fine." He swayed slightly when getting up. Tony quickly reached over and steadied him.

"Hey, at least take it slow." The guy didn't say anything, just shook off Tony's arm and walked back into the office, emerging a second later carrying a gas can. Tony finally asked, "what the hell are you doing?"

"I gotta burn the body."

"Hey, no, wait. You can't. I have to-"

"You have to what?" He grabbed Tony by the shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "Bring all your fancy detectives and captains in? Show them that the 'Wolf Pack Killer' is, in fact, not some psycho nut guy randomly killing people, but rather some sort of creature none of them have ever even seen before?" He grimaced. "It won't wash. You'll have thrown away your career and they'll bandy about whatever story they want."

"So what am I supposed to tell them?"

The guy shrugged. "Nothing. The killings'll stop. The cops'll work their leads until they grow tired of them or some new case comes up and the whole thing will be filed as a cold case."

"And what will you do?" Tony asked as the guy walked past him and started pouring gas over the body.

"I'm a Hunter," he said, emphasizing the word Hunter, as if it were a proper noun. "I'll keep hunting."

Tony looked around at the mess the fight had made. "You do this for a living?"

"Yep."

"You're insane."

"Yep."

"Tony DiNozzo," he offered his hand.

There was a pause, but eventually the man nodded to himself, as if Tony has passed some sort of mental muster and he replied, "John." The resulting handshake was firm and strong. "You probably want to get out of here before this goes up, less chance of any of this coming back on you."

Tony shook his head. "I'm never going to really understand what happened here, am I?"

"Probably not. But you'll sleep better that way."

"I'm not so sure about that." Tony slipped his jacket back on and headed out of the building via the broken window. He was all the way back to his car before he smelled the smoke. His ribs were sore as hell, no doubt he'd have a colorful bruise across most his chest by morning and he was pretty sure he had a good sized lump on his forehead from where he'd smashed into the loading ramp. There was no way he was going to be able to hide either injury from Mac, but what the hell was he going to say? John was right; people like Mac just would never be able to accept the truth, no matter how he tried to explain what happened.

Luckily he knew how to spin a good story. He'd been putting up fronts of one sort or another since he was a kid. He wouldn't have to lie, not exactly, just shift the truth a little. He could do that.