Watcher: Based on the Apocalypse (World of Darkness : Werewolf)

by Charles L. Grant

  A werewolf moon hung over the valley, but there were still too many places for shadows to hide.

  Branches creaked in the passing of a slow wind; a scrap of paper trembled in the gutter; a dog barked nervously, yipped, and fell silent, the blare of a distant freight train sounded dull, sounded hollow.

  The single flap of night-black wings.

  The not quite audible step of something large on dying grass.

  October night, with a hint of frost and blood.

  Polly Logan wasn’t scared. She liked to walk through the middle of the night. She had friends, lots of friends, and they wouldn’t let anything hurt her. The only thing was, they didn’t like it when she left the house for a walk. Not after sunset, anyway. Certainly not alone.

  But she wasn’t scared.

  The town of Lookout Mountain was too small to have bad people who would want to do bad things to someone like her. It was a pretty town. A nice town, high enough above the world that she could almost touch the sky. Not at all like Chattanooga, sprawled down there in the valley, at the base of Lookout Mountain itself. It was too big, that city; too many wide streets and too many dark streets, too many people moving around all at once. It made her nervous, and she didn’t like to go there, not even to the doctor who took care of her and kept her well.

  Except when they took her to the aquarium, that is. That part was fun, and she never got tired of it. You ride up to the top of a real long, shiny escalator, then walk down and around, down and around, with so many fish, so many colors, and the gentle sound of running water all around her all the time.

  That was fun.

  This was fun.

  Walking along the street, listening to the night, watching the stars and the werewolf moon.

  Not that she really believed in werewolves.

  She knew she wasn’t as smart as most people, but she also knew she wasn’t a little girl anymore either. She was a big girl, nearly twenty-five, practically a woman, and big girls who were practically women didn’t believe in werewolves and vampires and ghosts and big hairy monsters who lived in the bottom of the Tennessee River.

  They just weren’t so.

  Just ahead, on the corner not far from her destination, a flock of autumn leaves swirled in the light sifting from the streetlamps. She watched the spinning colors, and giggled when they darted toward her suddenly. She used her hands to bat them away from her face, turning with them, giggling, until they all fell down.

  “Fun,” she whispered, and plucked a stray leaf from her long blond hair. It was perfect, not a rip in it, so she tucked it into her down parka, reminding herself to show it to Miss Doris in the morning.

  After she had her visit with Kyle.

  A blush touched her cheeks, and she swiped a finger across them as if to brush the blush away.

  Kyle.

  She shivered with pleasure, and quickened her step.

  This was fun.

  It didn’t matter that all the houses she passed were either dark or only had a single light burning over the front door; it didn’t matter that the only sounds she heard were her footsteps on the pavement, and the soft sigh of her breathing.

  This was fun.

  It was nearly Halloween, and it was fun.

  She turned the corner, smiling broadly to herself, once in a while sweeping a hand over her face to push the hair away.

  “You’ll come to see me, won’t you?” he had asked just that afternoon, smiling so hard his face squinched up, and all she could see were his lips and his freckles: “It’s a pain being all alone, you know? Why don’t you stop by, and I’ll give you a private tour.”

  Too surprised and shy to speak aloud, she had nodded so hard she nearly made herself dizzy, and ran all the way back to the house, where she sat in her room and stared at all the pictures of the animals she had drawn, waiting for them to tell her what to do. To tell her it was okay.

  A long time ago, Miss Doris had said, “Don’t you ever speak to strange men, you hear me, child? They’ll take advantage of you, poor thing, and you won’t even know it. A strange man tries to speak to you, touch you, you come straight home and tell me right away, and I’ll see to it he never speaks to young girls again.”

  Miss Doris said that a lot.

  Polly always nodded, too, and swore she would never, ever let anyone she didn’t know touch her or speak to her, unless Miss Doris said it was all right first. She may not be very smart, but like Miss Doris always said, she wasn’t stupid either.

  But Kyle, he was different. She didn’t know why, exactly, but he was.

  He worked at the little park where the town stopped at the end of the mountain, sometimes in the daytime and sometimes in the nighttime. He wore a uniform, just like Officer Zielke did, even though he wasn’t a real policeman. He helped the tourist people who came from all over to look at the Civil War monument, or to look down at Chattanooga and take lots of pictures, or who wanted to know how many states they could see from the bluff on a real clear day.

  He was kind. Really kind. And he never, ever tried to touch her. Never, ever made fun of her.

  Not like the kids in her school. The one she went to before she came to live with Miss Doris, that is.

  Polly, Polly,

  Oh good Polly,

  Ain’t it true

  You’re off your trolley?

  That wasn’t fun.

  That had made her cry.

  Kyle didn’t make her cry. He made her laugh. He made her cheeks feel all warm and her tummy all cozy. He once bought her an ice cream cone, and gave her his handkerchief when the cone started to melt all over her fingers.

  Polly, won’t you come and visit me tonight?

  She ducked her head and hurried on, counting her footsteps, thinking about Kyle and how he lived in his very own castle and how she might live in a castle, too, one day. Why, she might even be called a—

  “Polly Logan, my heavens, what on earth are you doing, young lady?”

  She jumped, a hand darting to her throat to stop a scream, when a round, little man stepped out from behind a thick, tall hedge He didn’t have much hair, and what he did have was pure white. His coat was long, his hands gloved, and behind him on a leash was a tiny dog that looked all hair and legs.

  “Oh, Mr. Abbott, you scared me!”

  Baines Abbott grinned an apology. “I’m sorry, dear, but I didn’t expect to see anyone out this late. Hush, Beau,” he snapped at the dog, who hadn’t done anything but growl a little. “Dog thinks he’s a giant sometimes. Polly, does Miss Doris know you’re out so late?”

  “Yes, sir, she sure does.” She nodded vigorously. “I’m just taking my … my evening constitutional.”

  He laughed silently. “Polly, you are truly something else, do you know that?” He looked quickly side to side and gave her a wink and a silly pretend scowl. “Okay, young lady, I won’t tell. But only if you promise me you’ll get yourself home right away, you hear? Little lady like you ought to be in bed this time of night.” He squinted at the sky and tilted his head. “Besides, it looks like there’s some weather coming.” He sniffed. “Rain or snow, I can’t tell.”

  She looked as well, and saw a silver-edged cloud cut the huge moon in half.

  “Home, Polly,” Mr. Abbott said gently. “Go home.”

  She nodded, promised him she’d just go around the next corner, and head straight back for her bed, cross her heart and hope to die.

  Beau barked, once.

  Abbott hushed him, laughed, and walked away quickly, the terrier scampering to keep up.

  Oh, my, Polly thought; oh, my.r />
  Her heart slammed against her chest, her lungs worked double-time, and suddenly her knees didn’t want to work anymore.

  That big, old moon wasn’t very pretty anymore.

  Maybe Mr. Abbott was right. Maybe she ought to turn right around and go back home before Miss Doris found out she was gone. She would apologize to Kyle first thing tomorrow, and he would understand. He always understood. He certainly wouldn’t be mad. He wouldn’t want her caught out in a storm.

  Polly, Polly.

  Moonlight faded.

  The wind kicked, and the leaves didn’t tickle anymore.

  She frowned in indecision as she looked over her shoulder, biting down softly on her lower lip. She only had one more corner to turn, though; just one more corner. She could run real fast, tell Kyle she had to go home, and run back, and nobody would ever know she’d been gone.

  The short street was empty.

  One car was parked at the curb, its windshield like a narrow, black eye.

  All the houses were dark, not even a porch light, not even a glow from the handful of small shops.

  Not even the lights of Chattanooga reflected in the sky.

  Something had changed.

  Now that Mr. Abbott and Beau had gone, the night was somehow different.

  It was the same wind, and the same leaves dancing, and the same stars, and the same buildings there always were … but it was all different, too.

  It wasn’t nice anymore.

  I’m not scared, she told herself.

  Polly, Polly.

  I am not scared.

  She ran to the corner and looked down the street. Empty. Dark.

  When the blacktop ended, the castle began, fieldstone and high, higher still with turrets on either side of Point Park’s high arched entrance. It was dimly lighted, and the light stained the stone with shadows, making the black iron gate beneath the arch look solid. She didn’t know why, until she realized all the lights in the small park beyond were out.

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  If Kyle was there, why were the lights out? If Kyle wasn’t there, why hadn’t he told her?

  She walked closer, very slowly, biting softly on her lower lip.

  This was kind of like that night last summer, when she had seen the pretty light in the sky. She really was scared then, because it was sun-bright and almost green, and it moved very fast over the mountain, too fast for her to follow. At first she thought that maybe she had imagined it, like Miss Doris tells her that she imagines lots of things. But it came back a few minutes later, and it was lower, and although she couldn’t see what made it, she had a bad feeling. She had a bad feeling that whoever was in the thing that made the light was in big trouble.

  Then it disappeared.

  Just like that, it disappeared.

  And just like that, before she could breathe again, there was a really bright light, this one all orange and blue and green and yellow, and a loud noise that nearly knocked her to the ground.

  And then it was dark again.

  And no one had believed her when she told them she’d seen a light.

  Other people had seen it and told the television and the newspapers about it, too, but no one had believed her.

  They hardly ever did.

  Now they wouldn’t believe her when she told them that the lights in the park were all out. They weren’t supposed to be; Kyle was supposed to keep them on all the time.

  Her eyes widened.

  Maybe he’s hurt.

  She walked faster.

  Maybe he fell down when the lights went out, and now maybe he’s hurt.

  She almost ran, a tear blinding one eye, the wind nudging her, leaves suddenly lunging out of the trees to tangle in her hair and scratch at her face.

  She nearly collided with the gate, stopping herself just in time by grabbing the bars.

  “Kyle?” Very quietly; she didn’t want to get into trouble.

  No answer.

  “It’s Polly.” Very quietly; she didn’t want to get caught.

  There were no lights, but she could see the trees anyway from the oddly muted glow of the city hidden below. Dark holes in the night, and boulders and trees along the rim of the bluff.

  “Kyle?”

  She heard a noise: a snuffling, and a low growl.

  Her mouth opened; she couldn’t say his name again.

  Then something reached through the bars and grabbed her ankle. She yelled, and fell onto her rump, kicking and screaming, until her ankle was free. Kicking again and crying until she saw the hand, its fingers curled and trembling hard.

  “Polly.”

  Until she saw Kyle’s face, pressed against the bars.

  “Polly … please.”

  It was red.

  Sometimes, when he was alone, he liked to call himself Lon Chaney, the Man of a Thousand Faces.

  Not that he had a thousand faces, or even a couple of dozen, for that matter. But it felt like it. A touch here, a mustache there, once in a while a hairpiece, and he was, as always, someone else.

  It didn’t take much. People seldom saw what they thought they did.

  What he did have, however, was a thousand names.

  For a while, back at the beginning, he had tried to keep track of them, just for the hell of it. He gave up after five years; the list had grown too long. Now he let the others do it, to make sure there were no duplications. He had enough trouble as it was keeping in mind the name he had now. A hazard of the game; like playing six roles in a play simultaneously, you have to make sure you react to all the right cues, or you’ll be exposed for the fraud you are.

  All of them.

  “You know,” he said to the man on the other end of the line, “just once I’d like to be John Smith, you know what I mean? Or Harry Truman.”

  There was no response.

  The man sighed and shook his head. It was a good thing he liked his job, because the people on the other end didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Especially when it came to something like this.

  “Mr. Blanchard,” his caller said. A mild scolding, and a suggestion to get on with it.

  Miles Blanchard rolled his eyes at the empty motel room, and picked up a tumbler from the scarred nightstand. The Southern Comfort—no ice, that would be a crime—tasted good. He made sure his caller heard him drinking.

  “Mr. Blanchard.”

  “I know, Mr. Crimmins, I know, I know.” Wearily he swung his legs onto the bed, toed off his shoes, and settled himself against the headboard.

  The room was in twilight; the drapes were closed; the only light was from a lamp on a table beside the bolted-to-the-dresser television. No sounds in the corridor. No traffic outside save for the occasional arrival of a bus at the depot next door.

  It was well after midnight.

  “The girl’s name is Polly Logan. She’s a retard—”

  “Mr. Blanchard!”

  Blanchard ignored him. “—who’s living with a woman named Doris Maurin. It’s a foster care thing mixed in with a halfway house for loonies or something. The kid has no family. She can stay on her own if she has to—and apparently she will one of these days—but she’s been in and out of institutions all her life what with one thing and another, but mostly because of the no family thing. She’s only been out of this last one for fourteen months. The Maurin woman is supposed to get her used to the outside. Help her get a job to pay rent, stuff like that.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  “Nope. A bruise on her ass when she fell, that’s all. A couple of scrapes on her hands. Nobody knows why she was at the park in the first place. She’s not talking to anyone. She just sits in her room and draws pictures of her favorite animals or something.”

  “Have you seen them? The pictures?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “Do so, Mr. Blanchard.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The drapes fluttered as a draft slipped through the win
dow frame, a touch of November that made the room seem darker, and smaller.

  “Continue.”

  Blanchard shifted. “Apparently the Gellman guy tried to grab her leg or something when she got there, and that’s what knocked her over. Scared her half to death. He was already mostly dead, and he was absolutely dead by the time the paramedics got there. A neighbor walking his dog called them when he heard the girl screaming.”

  “Who was this neighbor?”

  “A guy named Baines Abbott. He runs a gift shop up on the mountain. Tourist stuff mostly. The Civil War, things like that.”

  “What does he know?”

  “That Gellman’s dead, that’s all. He’s a harmless old coot. For now.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Blanchard. Did this Gellman say anything to the girl?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “No blood.” He grinned at the ceiling.

  “Mr. Blanchard …”

  “Yeah, yeah, right, I’m sorry.” He took another drink and stared at the tips of his black socks. “Simply put, he bled to death from several deep gashes—one across the chest, one across the throat, a couple across the gut. He was attacked on a path just inside the entrance, according to the local M.E., and dropped pretty much right away. Evidently, he crawled to the gate, probably trying to get some help, lust bad luck the kid showed up when she did.”

  “I wouldn’t call that bad luck, Mr. Blanchard.”

  “I meant for the kid.”

  “I see.”

  Blanchard grinned again, drank again. He had never met the man who called himself Terrence Crimmins, and frankly never wanted to. Twisting the guy’s tail long-distance was one thing; face-to-face would be something else again. He had no illusions about the man’s power, or the danger he represented. Blanchard was perfectly satisfied receiving his instructions, and his payments, via intermediaries or the mail. Or, on special occasions like this, over the phone.

  Crimmins was the only man Miles Blanchard had ever feared.

  He glanced at the black box that cradled the original receiver, at the quartet of tiny red bulbs that glowed steadily on the side, an indication that the scrambler was in charge and hadn’t been breached.