by Rick Hautala
“My performance in the classroom has been just fine,” Bob said, forcing himself to remain cool. “But there have been things going on in this town that have, have me concerned. For one this, this wild dog or whatever. There have been four unexplained deaths in this town, and that bothers me.”
“I don’t see how that affects your teaching,” Summers said dryly.
“Because one of them was a student of mine,” Bob said, his anger flaring. “That bothers me! I’m not just a teacher, I’m a member of this community, and these recent deaths have me greatly concerned.”
“Indeed,” Summers said, shaking his head and clicking his tongue. “These deaths are horrible, but I would think that it would not affect your job.”
“It’s not affecting my job!” Bob said, trying hard not to shout. “I would just like to help, if I could.”
“A fine sentiment, indeed, but I think you’d be best off leaving this matter to those people whose job it is to deal with it. You were hired to teach English, not to get involved in other peoples’ responsibilities. This—” Again he tapped the manila folder. “This tells me that you are not doing the job you were hired to do.”
Bob leaned forward and was about to reply when his eye caught an edge of a piece of paper that was sticking out of the folder. It looked like a photocopied newspaper clipping.
That bastard does know, he thought. He’s toying with me.
“Where did—” he started to say, but then cut himself off. He knew immediately that Thurston must have given those clippings to Summers. He slumped back in his chair feeling defeated.
“I think a word to the wise is sufficient, don’t you?” Summers said softly, his voice like oil. He rose and extended a hand to Bob. As they shook, Summers added, “My advice to you, Bob, is that you concentrate a little more on your job and let other people handle this, this problem in town.”
“Sure, sure,” Bob said, as he turned and headed for the door. “I’ll do better in class.” He left without closing the door behind him.
.VI.
Bob drove with one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting lightly on the gearshift. Lisa’s hands were clasped in her lap. She had said all of two words since he had picked her up after work.
The car was having trouble making the grade of the cemetery hill. The spark plugs misfired, and Bob had to downshift to make the rise. He looked over and saw that Lisa was biting her lower lip.
“That’s all you heard?” Bob asked as they drove alongside the cemetery.
“Uh-huh.”
“After Granger left Seavey’s house last night, he hasn’t been seen or heard from,” he said. It was more a statement than a question. They came to the intersection and, instead of turning left on Old Jepson’s Road, Bob went straight, up the Bartlett Road.
“That’s all I know,” Lisa said distantly.
“Christ! You know what I think.”
Lisa’s gaze remained fixed on the road.
Bob sighed. “And what the hell is Thurston doing about it? Sitting on his hands?”
“Bob,”
“Huh! He probably sees this as his chance to become police chief.”
“Bob!”
“Well,” he grunted. The sun had set, and purple clouds were closing in on the bright bands of light in the western sky. Cold shadows reached across the road, turning snowbanks deep blue. Lisa shivered, so Bob turned up the heat in the car.
After a moment, Bob said, “You know, this is Thurston’s big chance. Maybe he will wear the star.”
Lisa flared. “Bob! I really don’t think you’re being fair. Just because he—”
“He blackmailed me! That’s what he did. He told Summers about those charges. I know he did. I’m telling you, Lisa, he’s a lot more devious than you realize, or will admit.” He didn’t dare look at Lisa, so he kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy road.
“He’s just doing his job, Bob,” Lisa said mildly. “He has to check out any angles there are.”
“Hmmmmp.” After a moment of silence, Bob pointed up to the sky off to the right. “Look. The moon’s full tonight.” A large silver disc had just risen above the horizon. A cold, pale face.
“Come on, Bob. Don’t start that.” There was an edge in her voice that told him she was still afraid to consider that possibility.
“Granger is missing!” Bob said emphatically. “The only thing is, I was hoping that once Julie was gone, things wouldn’t happen.”
“Bob, please! Drop it!”
“You don’t think this is all pretty strange? Her house burns down. She’s nowhere to be found. And now Granger’s missing.”
“Yes, I think it’s strange,” Lisa snapped. “But I still just can’t accept your idea that it’s a werewolf killing these people. I mean, come on!” Her teeth ran over her lower lip.
Bob snorted and drove in silence.
“Did you get all your homework graded?” Lisa asked after a moment.
Bob shook his head. “No, I didn’t. It always seems so much easier to leave it until Sunday night. I do my best under pressure,” he concluded with a tight laugh.
They drove along the twisting turns of Bartlett Road. The car had stopped backfiring and was now humming smoothly as it took the bumps in the road with a pleasant sway. Bob snapped on the headlights, and this made it look as though they were driving down a long, twisting, snow-covered tube.
“Have you had supper?” Bob asked, when a low rumble in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The little chat he had had with Summers had ruined his appetite, but now he felt it returning.
“Not yet,” Lisa replied.
“Well, let’s drive out to that restaurant, Horsefeathers. I’ve heard it’s supposed to be pretty good. Then we could find a bar with a band and do a bit of dancing.”
Lisa didn’t answer.
“What d’yah say?”
“I, I really don’t feel like it.” Lisa kept her eyes averted. They had come to the end of Bartlett Road and stopped at the intersection of Route 43. Bob backed the car into a cleared-out space beside the road.
“Hey, Bob. I don’t want to be a spoilsport. I just don’t feel like eating out, that’s all,” Lisa said apologetically.
“Sure. Sure. It’s OK by me,” Bob said. He jockeyed the car around and headed back down Bartlett Road.
“Well, we don’t have to call it a night,” Lisa said. “I don’t want to ruin your evening.”
“Ruin my weekend. Hey. It’s OK. I just thought that a little something different might, might, I don’t know, loosen us up a bit, that’s all.”
“We don’t have to go right back,” Lisa said. “I wouldn’t mind driving around for a bit. There. There’s the turnoff for the Loop Road.” She brightened up as she pointed at the turn coming up on the left. “Let’s take the long way around going back, at least.”
Without reply, Bob snapped the steering wheel to the left and turned onto Farthling’s Loop Road.
.VII.
Doc Stetson carefully folded his glasses and slipped them into his breast pocket behind a row of multi-colored pens. He shifted his eyes from the blood-stained sheet that covered his examination table to the two men who stood in his office doorway. He rapped the clipboard he was holding with his knuckle and then dropped it onto his desk. He looked back at the mounded shape of Roy Granger’s body.
“Well,” he said, sounding tired, “that’s it. Same thing. That wild dog killed him.”
Thurston and Seavey exchanged anxious glances. Thurston said, “You said that both of them found him, right?”
Doc nodded as he sat down in his chair and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. “Yes. They were driving out on the Loop Road when they found his cruiser. They stopped and looked around and found him. Of course, I didn’t ask too many questions. I wanted to get the preliminary examination done right away.”
“We’ll be wantin’ to get statements from them, huh?” Seavey asked, looking at Thurston.
<
br /> “Of course we will,” Thurston snapped. Then he locked eyes with the doctor. “But Mrs. Carter said that she was with Wentworth the whole time?”
“Yes, yes,” Stetson muttered. He took the clipboard and stared vacantly at the report. “It’s difficult to get an exact time of death, but I can place it roughly at sometime early this morning. He’s been dead at least twelve hours for sure. Once we do the full autopsy, we’ll know more exactly what the time of death was.”
Seavey shifted closer to Thurston and whispered in his ear, “You know, Rick, this means you’re police chief, at least until a new one’s appointed by the town council.”
Thurston grunted. “Yeah. I guess so.” He was still watching Stetson, who was writing something on the report.
“You haven’t been out to the scene yet, have you?” Stetson asked.
“Just briefly. We’re heading out there now, if you don’t need us. Can you drop a copy of that report off at the office in the morning?”
“First thing,” Stetson answered, not looking up from his writing. “And you guys be careful going out there now, for Christ’s sake. That animal’s probably still around.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be careful,” Seavey said. Then both men departed, leaving Stetson alone with the body of his friend.
The doctor sat for a long time, staring blankly at the sheet-draped form. His fingers tapped steadily on the autopsy report on his clipboard. It was the worst form he had ever had to fill out. In all his thirty-odd years as a physician in Cooper Falls, he had never been more shaken by a death, never.
Must be getting on in years, he thought. Seeing the mutilated body of Roy Granger, one of his closest friends, stretched out on his shiny aluminum examination table had sounded the death rattle in his own ears.
Horrible! Horrible way to die!
“I can finish tomorrow,” he whispered, sliding the clipboard back onto his desk. He let out a hissing sigh and reached to snap off his desk light. Just before he did, his eyes rested on another report that was on the desk.
Feeling a vague shudder in his stomach, Stetson picked up the report and scanned it for what must have been the tenth time that day. He had gotten it from North Conway General Hospital that morning.
It was a simple blood test for a patient of his: Ned Simmons. He had been admitted overnight on Wednesday, two days ago. Upon admittance, the patient’s hematocrit had been low: thirty percent. Stetson had decided to prescribe an iron supplement for the boy and take another blood test in a few weeks to see how it was working.
The following morning, though, Ned had seemed quite rested, had lost most of the pallor in his face, and was anxious to be released. What was curious was that, when the hematocrit was repeated that morning, it came out forty-five percent: high, if anything. That was more than unusual. But after a quick check, Ned was released Thursday afternoon with a clean bill of health.
There was no way Doc Stetson could account for such a dramatic change in the patient’s hemoglobin count. Blood composition just could not change that fast. The only thing Stetson could think of was that the first test had been a lab error. It had happened before.
He took the report on Ned Simmons and placed it back on the desk, beside the autopsy report on Roy Granger. He clicked off his desk light, made sure the front door was locked, and left his office. It had been a long day, full of pain and confusion.
.VIII.
“I don’t know about you,” Bob said, “but I sure could use a stiff drink right about now.” He swung his front door open and stepped back to let Lisa enter. Before he followed her in, he glanced back over his shoulder at the jagged line of trees that ringed his back yard. Stars winked in the cold sky. Silence swept over him like a chill wind.
When he got inside, he hung his coat in the hall closet. Lisa was already crinkling up newspaper to start a fire in the fireplace. He watched her work for a moment and then went into the kitchen for two glasses and a bottle of Cutty Sark. When he returned with two tall drinks, the flames were already licking up through the sticks Lisa had piled up.
“Where’d you learn to make a fire?” Bob asked.
“Girl Scouts,” Lisa said, reaching for the offered drink. “Thanks. How’d you mix it?”
“Straight,” Bob replied, taking a sip and pursing his lips. He stared at the rising flames. He felt vacant, washed, drained.
“That’s a pretty deep frown you’ve got,” Lisa said. “Try not to think about it, OK?”
“Yeah,” Bob answered, unable to push away the mental image of Roy Granger dead and partially eaten. He sat down beside Lisa and started rubbing her shoulders. She sat still for a moment, then leaned forward and placed a larger log on the bed of snapping kindling.
“Don’t you think we should contact someone? The F.B.I. or something?” Her voice was wire tight.
“What could they do?” Bob asked.
“I don’t know,” Lisa said emphatically, “but something’s got to be done. People are being killed!” Her voice almost broke.
“I know,” Bob replied coolly. “Every month people die. It just happens to be on the night of the full moon.”
“Something’s got to be done,” Lisa repeated.
“I know Thurston and Seavey and the other men have been trying,” Bob said. “But they won’t succeed. I know they won’t, not until they—”
“Bob, please. I don’t want to hear about any werewolves.” She leaned forward and threw two more logs onto the blaze.
“I see you took my suggestion, though,” Bob said smugly.
“Huh?”
“The cross. You’re wearing a cross,” he said, pointing to the small crucifix that dangled from her neck. Lisa reached to her throat and grabbed the cross. She twisted it around, letting the silver reflect the light from the fire.
“I, I wear my cross a lot,” she said, sounding defensive.
Bob snorted and, leaning his head back, took a deep swig of whisky. He gasped and then put the drink down between his legs.
“You better take it easy with that stuff. I am going to need a ride home a little later.”
Bob started to stand up, grunting from the effort. “Not necessarily,” he said with a laugh, and then went into the kitchen to refill his glass.
“So,” he shouted from the kitchen, “I guess Thurston got the job as police chief, at least for a while.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“I can hardly wait,” Bob said, laughing. “His first official act will probably be to organize a posse to tar and feather me. Maybe burn me at the stake. Child molester! Accused rapist!”
“Don’t talk like that, not even joking,” Lisa said, sounding hurt. “You’re being silly.”
“I sure hope so,” Bob said, leaving the kitchen and turning off the lights before he sat down. “I sure as hell hope so.”
“What is it between you two, anyway?” Lisa asked.
Bob held up his whisky glass and studied the flames through the amber liquid before answering. “I really can’t say, for sure. I just know that, from my point of view, I’ve never liked the guy, not since I first saw him. There’s just something about him that rubs me the wrong way.”
“Must be that he feels the same,” Lisa said.
Bob noticed that she hadn’t taken a sip of her drink, and he gestured at it.
“I mean,” Lisa said, “why in the heck would he give those newspaper articles to Summers and threaten your job? It’s almost like he has an axe to grind or something.”
Bob shrugged. “I don’t know. I never crossed him, not that I know of, anyway. I’m not worried,” he concluded, and then took another long drink.
“You should be,” Lisa said worriedly. She shifted closer to him and placed her hand on his leg. She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. “But I believe you.”
Bob smiled, trying still to force the image of Roy Granger from his mind as he held Lisa close to him.
“What was that?” Lisa asked suddenly, pulling away from him
and looking around. Her eyes were wide and glistening in the fire light.
“Just the sound of my little heart going pitter-pat pitter-pat,” Bob said good-naturedly.
“I heard something!”
“I didn’t,” Bob said, trying to pull her close again.
“No! I swear I heard something!”
“Will you just calm down? God! It’ just the—”
This time, Bob heard it too, a low gritty sound, like someone scraping. It came from the darkness of the kitchen. Bob sprang to his feet and stared into the darkness as the sound was repeated. “I don’t think the mice in the walls have hammers and saws,” he said, fighting the tension.
“I think it’s at the door,” Lisa whispered hoarsely. “Is it locked?”
“I can’t remember,” Bob said, taking a cautious step toward the kitchen.
Both of them jumped when they heard a heavy thud followed by rapid scratching at the door. Bob edged his way into the kitchen and peered down the short hallway that led to the door. The shade was pulled but, faintly, he could see a shadow, a silhouette on the curtain.
“Christ,” he whispered, his eyes trying to distinguish the shape. The only thing he was sure of was that it was not human.
He jumped with a start when Lisa put her hand on his shoulder from behind. He hadn’t heard her come up close. They exchanged nervous looks and listened to the snuffing sound outside the door. Bob took another few tentative steps closer to the door.
“Do you have a gun in the house?” Lisa whispered harshly.
“No I don’t, dammit!”
The sniffing and scratching sound got louder, and then the door began to rattle. Bob flattened against the wall and cautiously inched his way forward. His breath caught in his throat like a wad of phlegm. Hand shaking, he reached out for the curtain drawstring. He was afraid for a moment that he would be unable to grasp the string, his hand was shaking so badly. But he took it, held his breath, and snapped the shade.
The shade flipped up, fluttering noisily, but the sound was drowned out by Lisa’s ear-piercing scream. Staring at them through the pane of glass was a huge wolf. Its eyes burned with cold, evil green fire. It pressed its nose against the glass and snarled viciously. A circle of fog blossomed on the glass from the animal’s heated breath.
