"I thought of that. What do I do? Call Stanford and tell him he's got to get Bob out of the pound?" Saying it, she was suddenly convulsed with a fit of laughter. Monica watched her, appraisal in her eyes. When it ended, she went back to preparing the coffee.
Kevin became furious. "Don't you dare laugh! This is the worst thing that's ever happened to anybody just about. It's horrible." His hands had become fists, his face pasty gray.
"I'm sorry. Monica's right, I'm in a state of hysteria."
The pot whistled and Monica poured the coffee.
Sipping from her mug, feeling a little stronger, Cindy began to wonder what Monica had found at the library. She was unsure about asking, though. She did not want to hear a hopeless prognosis.
"It is a disease, isn't it?" Kevin did not share Cindy's hesitancy.
"Kevin, I don't know for sure."
Cindy felt cold within. "Is there anything, any information?"
"Cindy, I'm afraid it's a genuine medical miracle."
"A miracle? Gee, thanks, God, thank you so much! How about more miracles? Turn me into a frog, Kevin into a sheep! Miracles are supposed to be good!"
"The whole event defies physics, biology, all understanding."
"No, ma'am," Kevin said. "Not quantum physics, not if you assume subjective reality. Or if the Many Worlds theory is an accurate reflection of the actual situation, then you could even argue that this was inevitable, in one or another universe. Given many worlds, everything that might happen will happen, and each possibility will create its own universe."
Cindy looked at her son, hurting with pride and love. "What actual material did you find, Monica? Anything?"
Monica might have understood Kevin better, because she ignored Cindy's question and flared up at him. "What the devil are you getting at? You're saying that princes do turn into frogs?"
"I'm saying that they could. It might be that we've only recently—say, in the past ten thousand years or so—gained enough imaginative stability to prevent our dreams from coming true. One of the greatest achievements of civilization might well be that it has contained the mind and shorn it of its ability to project into physical reality."
Monica rocked back on her heels, her eyes wide at Kevin's unexpected brilliance. "All I found was folklore, Grimms' fairy tales, Apuleius's account of the wolfman, and medieval superstition. Nothing modem. A couple of movie scripts."
He began noisily sucking the dregs of a box of Hawaiian Punch through the little straw that came with it.
"No scraping bottom," Cindy said automatically.
"If what you say is true, why don't we have more recent incidents?"
He looked at Monica over his box. "Who's to say we don't? The thing is, once people change, they're gone. Maybe there are a lot of them, changed into what they loathed or loved— whatever fascinated them enough. The people that do it might be genetic throwbacks or something."
"They never come back?" Monica winced at her slip even as she asked the cruel question. Kevin and Cindy clung to one another.
"There are no stories," Kevin said quietly.
Monica had to remind herself that this was not speculative. She had seen Robert Duke change. She had seen the slow alteration of the body, had massaged him with her own hands as his skin became soft and dry and fur emerged in clumps and sprays. She had to ask herself the fantastic question, were there others out there like Bob?
It was a fearful thing even to be in the room -where it had happened. The event challenged her most fundamental assumptions about the nature of thought and the boundaries of the mind. What is a concept, or a fantasy? Are there universes filled with the tatters of our fantasies and nightmares, places where we become the shape in the dark?
"You came back to tell us you hadn't found a thing!"
"A lot of people wouldn't have come back at all, not after what I saw. I know what happened here. But I am back."
"Without any idea of how to help."
The bitterness in Cindy's voice gave Monica a brief rattle of anger. She made sure it had subsided, though, before she spoke again. "I cannot offer a cure—not a magic bullet. What I can offer, and I am willing to try this, is theraputic support—"
"Monica, you can't expect him to sit down and have a session with you? Surely, you must see the joke."
"I'm willing to try. Maybe we can get him back to the real world."
"He's in the real world. An uncommon version of it. Isn't that the gist of what you're saying, Kevin?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Well, then maybe I can help him get back into a common version of it."
Tomorrow morning Cindy intended to march up to that pound and extract him by sheer force of argument. Kevin's analysis had helped her immensely, in the sense that it sounded sensible enough to enable her to rest. In what he said there was a thread, however thin, to the understandable.
It was a matter of fighting idea with idea. If she could conceive of a successful outcome, she could move toward it.
"Why don't we call Stanford in the morning," Kevin said, "and tell him that it's a pet they've taken and we want it back? Don't tell him the whole truth."
Monica stroked Cindy's cheek. "Your color's coming back. I like to see that. Do you think you'd like a little something to help you sleep?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"But you will sleep. It's three-thirty, and there's nothing more to be done until morning."
A weariness was there, waiting to receive her. Cindy went back into her own dark bedroom. Was this how widows confronted the first night, looking across the sea of perfect sheets? No, not perfect. There were wrinkles in the middle where she had sat waiting for him earlier, sat like a spider.
She had lashed out at him, struck him. But they had no money. She had to do it, to inject him into the real world, to make him earn something.
How stupid, how arrogant. Now what would she do? Abandon his office and everything in it, for starters. She dropped onto the bed fully clothed. What about money? What about breakfast? And would Stanford work without payment? Didn't they owe him, too?
So many questions.
"Mom, can I stay with you?"
"Sure. There's room—" She had been about to add "on Dad's side," but the words did not come.
She lay in the dark, the huddled form of their child beside her, the talisman. Monica came in and silently held her hand for a time.
She plunged into black, empty sleep.
The ringing of the telephone woke her. At first she thought it was the alarm clock, time to get Kevin off to school. The rhythm of it was what made her come to full attention. Then Kevin was standing with the receiver in his hand, holding it out to her.
"Hello?"
It was a moment, listening to the snide young voice on the other end of the line, before she understood that she was talking to a newspaper reporter. "We understood that you are the owner of a wolf that attacked a Mr. John O'Neill. Would you care to make a comment?"
Her mind cast wildly for something to say. From somewhere she recalled the ritual formula. "No comment."
"I'll be writing that you harbored this wild animal, is that correct?"
"No." Now that she fully understood the implications of this call she was grim with fear. What would happen to Bob now?
"Look, Mrs. Duke, you can save that stuff for the movies."
"Please leave me alone. Don't hurt us."
"I'm just trying to get a story."
"Don't hurt us!"
"Your wolf hurt a man pretty badly. Don't you think that entitles the public to know, at least how long you've had the wolf? And what's its name?"
"We found it on the street," she said miserably. "A week ago."
"Is that all? What street?"
"Fifth Avenue."
"You're kidding, a wolf just walking down Fifth? How did you capture it?"
"We fed it a ham-and-cheese croissant. It was starving." A lump of coldest ice had settled in her gut. This was only going to lead to more tro
uble. "We didn't know it was a wolf until the police came. We had no idea."
Without so much as a good-bye, the reporter hung up. Why not, he had what he wanted. To him other human beings must be no more important that dumb animals.
It was too early to call Stanford, so she contented herself with making a breakfast of oatmeal, orange juice, and tea. Kevin came in and ate. Monica, who had stayed on the couch, stretched and rose, and drank some coffee. In a dull voice Cindy told her about the reporter.
"That's all we need."
"God, what'll it lead to? Poor Bob's going to become a cause celebre."
"We've got to get him out before the story breaks. Have you called your lawyer?"
Cindy glanced at the kitchen clock. She tried his number, although she didn't have much hope at 8:40 in the morning. He surprised her, though, by both being there and answering his own phone.
"Cynthia. How long has it been? A year at least."
"At least that, Stanford. Stanford, we have a problem."
He remained silent.
"We've had our pet wolf confiscated by the city."
The sound that came over the line was like that a man might make on discovering a spider has gotten into his trousers at a funeral: a politely constricted whinny.
"It's in the pound. We want it back."
"A wolf-dog? A breed of dog?"
"No, an actual wolf."
"It's an illegal pet? No permit?"
"We didn't know we needed one. We found it on a street comer."
"You found it, or Bob?"
"Bob."
"Ah, now this begins to make some sense. Bob brought home a wolf and it has been taken away. You want me to have the animal released to your recognizance. But not, I presume, to Bob's."
"Bob is my husband. To both of us."
"Cynthia, do yourself a favor and keep Bob well in the background. Don't let him talk to the police or go to the pound. If anybody asks why, tell them he's indisposed."
Bob had been Stanford's client for many years. He had been in the middle of some unusual capers, such as the matter of the automatic theater seats that folded up around their victims, and that of the blue bread made from seaweed. He had also helped Bob with the FBI when he had tried to set up a series of computer conferences in Bulgaria. It had not occurred to him that the computers he had shipped out ahead of his own departure were proscribed, and that the Bulgarians had agreed to his project simply in order to get them. He wound up losing thirty-one thousand dollar's worth of equipment and narrowly escaping criminal charges. "Don't tell them he's eccentric," Stanford said. "Tell them to call me. I'll explain Bob."
"Bob won't be involved."
"Good. I'll have to look up the ordinance on dangerous pets to see if it's changed, but back a few years ago I had a client who had some trouble about importing a jaguar. As I recall, it was a pretty straightforward matter. The city wouldn't allow it in. New York takes a dim view of dangerous pets. Too crowded."
That sounded bad. She strove to keep the wild rising panic out of her voice. "Could they ship the wolf to another city and let us take possession of it there?"
"Well, we'll see. I'll give the law a look and telephone you back."
"When?"
"Oh, soon. Why?" Suspicion was creeping into his voice. He knew perfectly well that there was more to the story.
"We're afraid they'll hurt him. He's a wonderful creature. We all love him terribly."
"People and their pets. I have my cats. If they were impounded, I'd be beside myself. I'll get to it right away."
Monica had made some instant oatmeal. They ate in silence, drank orange juice and more coffee.
It was agreed that Kevin would not go to school during the family emergency. Cindy ate because she knew she needed strength. She was not hungry.
The telephone rang again. "Is this the home of the wolf lady?"
"No." She hung up. "Another reporter."
It rang yet again. "My name is Rebecca Fontinworth. I represent the Animal Rights League, and I'd like to ask you if you realize just how evil—"
Cindy hung up again. "Stanford, please hurry up!"
His was the next call, and it broke her heart. "As long as the wolf hasn't hurt anybody, I don't see a problem."
"And if it has hurt somebody?"
"Big problem. They'll want to test it for rabies. They'll keep it in quarantine, probably donate it to a zoo. And you'll get a fine, not to mention the inevitable lawsuit. Cynthia?" She could not speak. "Hello? Tell me this isn't the situation. Cynthia?"
"He bit a man."
"Badly?"
"In the foot. Plus the papers are calling."
A sigh. "All right, then we have a problem. I am going to do what I can. You cannot expect me to get the wolf returned to you. The best we can hope for is a nice berth in the zoo. I will try to prevent the animal's being destroyed."
It was hideous. She threw the phone as if the instrument had gotten hot. The man was talking about Bob, about Bob's life! She could hardly breathe, couldn't do more than make an awful sound—"eh, eh, eh"—as her blood thundered and her breath came in raw stutters.
Monica took up the phone. "I'm their psychiatrist."
"You live with them?"
"When I must. And right now I must. I'm camped out in the living room."
"The one I'm most worried about is Bob. Don't let him get involved in this. God knows what will happen."
"Maybe God knows and maybe God doesn't. Try to get the wolf out. As their psychiatric adviser, I'm telling you that this is the best course."
"I can't possibly get it out."
"Try. Do anything. It is important to their sanity, to their very survival." She put down the phone.
"Thank you, Monica. But it's hopeless. I know it's hopeless. He's going to die this insane, stupid, impossible death. Oh, how stupid, how stupid!"
"Mama, we're going to get him out. If we have to spring him, we're going to do it. We can't let Dad just die!"
She thought of last Saturday at the zoo. Was that when it had all started, when that strange wolf had been staring at Bob? He had wanted to leave there, as if he already sensed that something was wrong. And what of the wolf, what had it known? Maybe that wolf—maybe it was somebody, too, and it knew the signs, had seen them in Bob. "The world isn't what we thought," she blurted. "It's completely different!"
"Well, I have to agree now." But Monica looked personally insulted. "Science is a limited view of things."
"Every view is limited. The occult is limited."
Kevin spoke up. "The occult isn't a limited view. It doesn't reject phenomena like science. The trouble with the occult is that it misinterprets everything. Demons, ghosts—"
Monica slammed her hand against the table. "How do we know! At least one thing is true for the three of us. We have had the veils lifted from our eyes, and that is not bad. We know for certain that things are not as they seem. We know that this world is full of dangerous and mysterious powers. That gives us an advantage. And I'll tell you another advantage we have. We know that Bob is inside that creature. He understands English and he has the mind of a human being. If we can get to him, we might be able to spring him."
"We're no SWAT team. How do we get into the place? What do we do?"
"We're both pretty."
Cindy was thunderstruck. "We use—"
"Sex, of course. We seduce."
"You saw those goons?"
"They'll seduce, believe me."
Kevin, who was as prudish as his father, had gone still. He was clutching his spoon, his knuckles streaked red. Cindy reached toward him. For all his brilliance, her son was the most vulnerable human being she had ever known—next to Bob. At least Kevin had inherited his mother's temper, and could use it. Bob had no temper, little anger, no guile.
Sometimes, though, he could see beyond the mountains.
Chapter Ten
THE DOG SLOP BECAME INTERESTING TO BOB AT ABOUT noon. He could well imagine what must be in
it—possibly even the remains of animals that had been gassed. His impression of the Animal Control Foundation was not a bad one. Obviously there were employee abuses here, but the basic situation wasn't intolerable. Too bad young Kevin had never wanted a dog. Had there been dog food in the house, Bob might have been able to identify this by brand—if, indeed, it was a brand and not something made here. Nutrition concerned him. He would have known the cereal, ash and waste content, and the food value.
He sniffed it, and was surprised to discover that his nose could tell him a great deal about what was before him. There was a thick, oozing odor that seemed to congeal in his muzzle: perhaps that was fat. Another odor, slightly gray, almost like wet cement—that was ash. There was some cereal, not much. Then a faint but piercing scent that made his stomach tighten with need. This was the meat, the real food. Then there was bone, and the dense smell of organs. What had they done, dropped dead animals into a hopper and ground them up, then thickened the whole mess with ashes? Was that all there was to making cheap dog food?
He returned to the question of the source of the meat. Certainly it wasn't steak. Dog was probably a good guess. Or maybe bulls, roosters. What if unscrupulous zoos sold their cadavers to dog-food manufacturers? This could be anything. Gorilla. Python.
The smell of the meat went deep into his brain, into lusty new centers. This new, inner self must be the instinct of the wolf he had become. He turned to it, and found confidence mixed with churning fury, a questing, probing mind that was designed to compare and make sense of millions of odors. If he quieted his chattering human thoughts, he was at once connected to this spirit. His nose made sense for him then, and the few odors he could verbally identify expanded by a thousandfold into a nonverbal catalog of great richness.
That wasn't good enough, though. He was a man, and verbal. To use the powers of this new body, he had to break the boundary that existed between its instincts and his familiar mind. He could not abandon his human self to the wolf. And yet there were things in the smells—living, twisting things—that were not connected to human words at all. Call them memories, call them longings, they shot through his body like the very words of creation.
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