The captain took one look at the door, then at the stuff on the tables. He sucked at his teeth and swore under his breath. He lifted something off the
table and showed it to me.
"Look familiar?"
It was a primitive bone flute; the last time I'd seen anything like it was back in Siberia, and it hadn't belonged to a wolf.
"We need Watkins up here, right now," the cap said.
As if in reply, the sound of a truck horn pierced the air, insistent and frantic.