“I’ll ask one more time,” shouted the man. “Where is Ulysses Mathewson?”
No-one answered.
“Come-on people, it’s not that hard, just tell me where he is!”
“Maybe they’d be more inclined to respond if you weren't waving the gun around, friend,” Drake said in his most diplomatic tone.
The man looked as though he were about to retort when a voice called from the balcony on the second floor.
“I’m Ulysses Mathewson.”
Immediately, the man swung around and aimed his shotgun at the smiling, portly, pinstripe wearing, grey haired gentleman, who was leaning heavily on a cane.
“I am in charge here,” he said. “If you have a problem, you can bring it up with me, not these poor people. My apologies for taking so long to get here, I have a deep vein thrombosis, making it difficult to get anywhere quickly.”
The man smiled grimly.
“You know why I'm here, Mathewson. I'm taking you back to Yellowstone, right now.”
The curator’s friendly grin didn't waver.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted. “Now, if you put down the gun, we can go back to my office and discuss this like the grown adults we are."
“Not on your life,” replied the younger man, racking a shell into the Mossberg. Before the man could do anything, Drake snatched the gun from his grasp and emptied the rounds onto the carpet. Something about them caught his attention and he turned to the man.
“These bullets are made silver.”
“Yes,” confirmed the man. “Ulysses Mathewson is a werewolf…”
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