Chapter 5: Patterns
The homeless woman's name was Margaret.
Cole learned this two days later, when the news finally reported her death—the tenth victim officially connected to the waterfront, though the police still weren't calling it a serial case. Margaret Chen, 67, found in the Willamette near the Steel Bridge. Cause of death: drowning. No signs of foul play.
No signs because the signs are supernatural, and nobody's looking for monsters.
He stood in the coffee shop on Quimby, watching the report on the mounted television, and felt the weight of her death settle into his bones. Margaret had been sleeping under the Burnside Bridge when the Skalenzahne found her. Cole had watched the creature drag her away, had seen her wake up screaming, had done absolutely nothing.
Because you couldn't. Because you weren't ready. Because watching her die was the only way to learn how to stop the next one.
The justifications tasted like ash.
"Refill?"
The barista—Heather, according to her nametag—held up the coffee pot with a tired smile.
"Please."
She poured. He paid. The espresso was as good as it had been three days ago, when he'd sat in this same seat planning a surveillance operation that had nearly broken his nerve.
Not this time.
Two nights of observation since witnessing the woge. Two nights of tracking the Skalenzahne's movements, timing his hunts, mapping his patterns. The data was solid now. Undeniable.
Cole pulled out his notebook and reviewed the entries.
Night 4 (Oct 2): Target exits plant at 11:07 PM. Heads north toward Burnside homeless camps. Selects victim at 11:43 PM (male, middle-aged, sleeping alone near overpass). Returns to plant by 1:15 AM. No exit until dawn.
Night 5 (Oct 3): Target exits at 10:52 PM. Same pattern—north toward camps. Selects victim at 11:31 PM (female, elderly, isolated from group). Returns by 12:58 AM. Post-return behavior observed: sits in feeding room for approximately 35 minutes before moving to secondary location.
The pattern was clear. The Skalenzahne hunted every night between 10:30 PM and 1:30 AM. He selected isolated victims—always alone, always sleeping, never anyone who might be missed quickly. He brought them back to the plant, fed, and then entered what looked like a digestive torpor.
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE: TARGET DISPLAYS TYPICAL SKALENZAHNE FEEDING BEHAVIOR. POST-CONSUMPTION LETHARGY CONFIRMED. VULNERABILITY WINDOW: 25-35 MINUTES. RECOMMEND ENGAGEMENT DURING THIS PERIOD.]
Twenty-five to thirty-five minutes. That's my window.
Cole finished his coffee and left.
The hardware store on Sandy Boulevard carried everything he needed. Heavy chain—thirty feet, galvanized steel, rated for industrial use. Two padlocks—keyed alike, heavy-duty. A flashlight with a strobe function. Work gloves.
The cashier was a teenager who looked barely old enough to vote.
"Building something?"
"Securing some equipment."
She didn't ask follow-up questions. Cole paid cash and left with a bag heavy enough to strain his shoulder.
Back at the apartment, he spread his purchases on the floor and visualized the plan.
The Skalenzahne's feeding room was on the ground floor of the plant, accessible through a single door from the main processing area. One entrance, no windows, concrete walls. The creature went there after every hunt, sat in the same spot, and didn't move for half an hour.
Chain the door. Lock him in. Enter through the service hatch on the west side. Force a confrontation on my terms.
It was simple. Simple plans had fewer failure points.
Simple plans also assume the enemy cooperates.
Cole picked up the knife and began practicing again. Stab. Slash. Block. Parry. His grip was solid now—not expert, but competent. The blade moved where he wanted it to move.
[ADVISORY: HOST COMBAT PROFICIENCY REMAINS SUBOPTIMAL. RECOMMEND CAUTION DURING ENGAGEMENT.]
Caution. Right.
He practiced until his forearms burned and his fingers cramped. Then he stretched, ate a sandwich he didn't taste, and practiced again.
Night fell. Cole dressed in dark clothes and loaded his backpack: knife, pepper spray, baton, chain, padlocks, flashlight, rope. Fifteen pounds of improvised murder kit.
Tomorrow night. I'll do it tomorrow night.
The decision felt like relief.
He left the apartment at 10 PM and drove to the waterfront. Same parking spot, same route through the industrial streets, same position behind the shipping containers.
The Skalenzahne emerged at 10:41 PM.
Cole followed at distance.
The creature moved through Portland's shadows like water through cracks—fluid, inevitable, impossible to predict exactly where he'd go next. But the general direction was always the same. North, toward the bridges. Toward the camps where the forgotten people tried to survive another night.
Tonight's victim was a man in his thirties. Thin, bearded, sleeping under a tarp near a heating vent. He never woke up. The Skalenzahne grabbed him by the throat, squeezed once, and dragged the limp body back toward the river like a lion carrying a gazelle.
Cole watched from fifty meters away and did nothing.
Eleven now. Eleven people I've let die.
The weight of it pressed against his chest. He breathed through it, made himself focus on the mission. The man was already dead. Nothing Cole could do would change that. But tomorrow—
Tomorrow I end this.
The Skalenzahne disappeared into the plant. Cole counted to five hundred, then retreated to his car.
At home, he set his alarm for 8 PM. He laid out his equipment with military precision. He sharpened the knife one final time, testing the edge against his thumb until a thin line of blood welled up.
Sharp enough.
Sleep came in fragments—dreams of yellow eyes, dreams of screaming, dreams of his own hands covered in blood that might be his or might be something else's.
He woke at 7:30 PM with the taste of copper in his mouth.
Tonight.
The word echoed in the empty apartment.
Tonight, I become what the system wants me to be. Or I die trying.
Cole showered, dressed, and began loading his backpack.
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