The Howling h-1

by Gary Brandner

  Chris shook the thought away. He was not by nature a moody young man, and he did not much like himself when he became gloomy. That was the main reason for spending a weekend in Baja. He would go down by himself, get a small, comfortable hotel room, drink a little tequila, maybe do a little fishing. Or maybe just loaf. He liked to walk among the local people on streets where the tourists didn't go. He smiled in anticipation of tortillas hot from the fire and beans and Mexican chilis washed down with icy Carta Blanca. A weekend in Ensenada had always been effective therapy for Chris. He was in a hurry to be on his way.

  Back in his airy two-level apartment Chris quickly packed his one small travel bag. He pulled on a comfortable old suede jacket and headed for the door. He stopped before going out to take a last look around. This was the day the cleaning lady came, so everything was shipshape — the big mirror polished, the ash trays gleaming, magazines fanned on the coffee table, cushions geometrically arranged on the three-piece sectional sofa. Chris walked over and pushed the magazines into an untidy stack. When he came back he did not want to feel he was walking into a setting for Home magazine.

  He started out the door again, but once more he hesitated. Should he play back the morning telephone calls? What if there was one from his office with some problem or other that would mean further delay? He could ignore the message, of course, but it would bother him all the time he was in Baja. If he never heard the message, he wouldn't feel guilty. And who else but the office would call on a Friday morning?

  No, he could not ignore it. Now that the thought had occurred to him, he would have to play the tape. It shouldn't take long, and then he could leave with a clear conscience. He walked back into the apartment, dropped onto one end of the sofa, and switched on the machine to play back the taped telephone calls.

  The beep sounded, there was a short silence, then a male voice said, "Oh, the hell with it." A hollow click followed, and the rest of the allotted thirty seconds was dial tone. Many people, Chris had found, refused to talk to a machine. He didn't much blame them.

  The machine beeped again. Karyn Beatty's voice came over the tiny speaker, and Chris sat suddenly upright. He was so surprised to hear her voice that the first time through the message did not fully register. Something about being in trouble and a gun and silver bullets. He recycled the tape and played it through a second time, listening carefully.

  It was not a joke. There was no mistaking the urgency in Karyn's voice, and she was not the type to play this kind of joke, anyway. But the message… Load the gun with silver bullets… It was crazy.

  Chris played back the thirty seconds of Karyn a third time, trying to pick up any kind of clue or hidden meaning. As far as he could tell, there was none. He had to assume that she meant exactly what she said. But, silver bullets?

  He played out the rest of the tape to see if there was anything more from Karyn, but the only other call was a reminder from his dentist to come in for a checkup.

  Chris snapped off the machine and sat for a moment frowning in thought. He would go at once to Drago, of course. It was possible that Karyn was imagining some kind of peril — she had certainly acted irrationally the last time he had seen her — but something in the way she spoke told him the danger was real.

  His first impulse was to call the police. But what would he tell them? "My friend's wife is in a little town called Drago and she needs help and says to bring silver bullets." It didn't take much imagination to picture some desk sergeant's response to that. And Karyn must have reasons, or she would have called the authorities herself. He would have to go on his own.

  Bring a gun. That would be no problem since he did own one — a.22-caliber Stoeger automatic patterned after the old German Luger. He had bought it a couple of years before for plinking at cans in the desert, and had not fired it since. It was not a weapon that would knock down a moose, but there was no time to get anything bigger. It would have to do.

  But silver bullets? Where the hell did you go to get silver bullets?

  He had to start somewhere, so he grabbed the fat Los Angeles Yellow Pages and riffled through to Silversmiths. He called the firm with the most impressive ad.

  A young man's voice answered. "Glendenning Silver, good afternoon."

  "Hello," Chris said, feeling foolish, but trying to sound businesslike. "I wonder if you do anything in the way of making bullets?"

  "You said bullets?"

  "That's what I said. Bullets."

  "I think what you want is jewelry. We deal primarily in silverware and plating."

  "I don't mean jewelry bullets, I mean real bullets. Real silver bullets."

  "Perhaps you'd like to speak to our manager, Mr. Roth."

  "I don't have time to play games with your manager. All I want to know is, can you or can you not make me silver bullets?"

  The young man's voice went cold. "We do not make bullets, not gold, not silver, not any kind."

  Chris slammed down the phone and swore at it. All right, silversmiths do not make bullets. Who does make bullets? Try a gunsmith. Back to the Yellow Pages. Chris picked out the K&K Gun Shop. Their ad featured a businesslike revolver and stated that their services included ammunition and reloading. He dialed the number.

  "Yeah?" a gritty voice answered.

  "K&K Gun Shop?"

  "Yeah."

  Might as well get right to it, Chris decided. "Can you make me some silver bullets?"

  "You mean bullets made out of silver?"

  Stay calm. "That's what I mean."

  "Sure."

  Chris stared at the phone. As easy as that.

  "Bring your own silver. I don't stock that. Naturally."

  "I'll bring the silver," Chris said. "Let's see, you're located at…" He read off the Vermont Avenue address from the advertisement.

  "Yeah. I close at six, so if you're comin' in today you better hurry it up."

  "Yes, it has to be today." Chris checked his watch. Jesus, could it be after four already? "I'll try to make it by six, but wait for me if I'm a little late, will you? I'll pay you for any overtime."

  "This ain't a joke, is it?"

  "It's no joke."

  "Okay, but be here as soon as you can."

  "I will."

  Chris hung up and turned quickly back to the Yellow Pages.

  Silver Bullion — See Coin Dlrs… 547

  He flipped the pages quickly and found the Excelsior Coin Co., Gold — Silver — Platinum Coins & Bars Bought & Sold. The address was on Venice Boulevard in Culver City. There was no need to bother with another telephone call. He could save the time by heading straight over there.

  Chris started out the door on the run, then snapped his fingers and turned back. He went into the bedroom and reached up to the high closet shelf for the Stoeger.22. He checked the magazine and chamber to be sure it was empty, then pulled the trigger to test the action. The pistol gave a sharp, satisfying click. He dropped it into a jacket pocket and hurried out to his car.

  It was twenty minutes to five when he pulled into the lot beside the Excelsior Coin Company. The sun was low in the west and turning an angry red. Chris jumped from the car and ran into the building. A clerk looked at him in surprise from behind the counter.

  "I want to buy some silver," Chris said.

  "Yes, sir. Coins or bars?"

  "Bars, I think."

  "In what quantity?"

  "What sizes do they come in?"

  "Most of our bullion transactions are in five-ounce and ten-ounce bars. For anything larger we'd have to — "

  "Those should be large enough. Can I see what they look like?"

  "Certainly." The clerk stepped to the rear of the store and returned in a minute with two ingots of pure silver in the shape of tiny Hershey bars.

  Chris hefted them, one in each hand. How much silver did it take to make a bullet? He said, "How much for the ten-ounce bar?"

  "A single bar is sixty dollars, but if you intend to purchase in volume — "

  "One will
be enough."

  Chris walked over to the cash register to discourage further conversation. He paid for the ingot with his Master Charge card and took it back out to the car.

  The Santa Monica Freeway was clotted with rush-hour traffic. Chris pounded the steering wheel in frustration as all lanes jerked along in an angry dance of flashing tail lights.

  The sky was dark when Chris finally turned off the freeway at the Vermont Avenue exit. The surface street traffic was lighter, and he reached the K&K Gun Shop in a few minutes.

  The inside of the shop smelled of cosmoline, wood polish, and leather. The walls were lined with rifles and shotguns. In a heavy glass case were handguns ranging from tiny Derringers to a cannon-sized.44 magnum. In the back of the shop a chunky man in a T-shirt worked a piece of metal on a lathe.

  "Hello," Chris said. "I called you earlier."

  The man turned off the lathe and looked up. "Oh, yeah, the silver bullets."

  "That's it."

  The gunsmith came around the counter and locked the front door. "Might as well close up," he said. "Won't be no more customers tonight." He pulled an expanding steel lattice across the show window and locked it into place. "Hell of a neighbourhood for a gun shop. Did you bring the silver?"

  Chris fished the ingot out of his pocket.

  "Uh-huh. What caliber bullets you want?"

  Chris showed him the Stoeger. "To fit this."

  "Twenty-two Long Rifle," said the gunsmith. "How many?"

  Chris had not thought about it. The magazine of the Stoeger held eleven. And one in the chamber. Surely that would be enough.

  "Twelve," he said.

  "Jeez, you brought enough metal."

  "Well, use whatever you need."

  "Come on in the back."

  Chris followed the gunsmith into the workroom and watched as he shaved off what looked like very little of the silver bar and put the shavings in a crucible.

  "Is that enough?" Chris asked.

  "Hell, yes. A.22 Long Rifle slug only weighs forty grains."

  "Oh."

  The gunsmith placed the crucible over a gas flame and turned to a shelf behind him to select a mold.

  "How hot does it have to get to melt the silver?" Chris asked.

  "Nine hundred and sixty point five degrees Centigrade," the man said without turning around.

  "You know that by heart?"

  The man turned to face him. "Look, buddy, I didn't go to no fancy college and I don't read a whole lot of books, but guns and ammunition are my business. I'd be a piss-poor gunsmith if I didn't know the melting point of metals."

  "Hey, no offense," Chris said. "I'm impressed, that's all."

  The gunsmith relaxed into a grin. "Don't mind me, I've had a long week." He stuck out a big hand. "My name's Buzz Klinger. Call me Buzz."

  Chris took the offered hand. "Glad to know you, Buzz. I'm Chris Halloran."

  Klinger returned to his work and went about it with the smooth economy of motion that comes with true craftsmanship. Chris stayed out of the way and watched. When the silver shavings had melted, Klinger poured the molten metal into the molds, filling twelve of them exactly.

  "You want regular load or high-power in the cartridges?"

  "Better make it high-power." It occurred to Chris that Buzz Klinger had not asked what he wanted with silver bullets. His respect for the man increased.

  When the silver had cooled in the molds, Klinger mated the twelve slugs to the loaded cartridges and handed them to Chris along with the unused portion of the silver ingot.

  "What do I owe you?" Chris said.

  "Ten bucks will cover it."

  "How about your overtime?"

  "I figured that in already."

  Chris peeled off a bill and handed it to Klinger. "Thanks, Buzz. It was a pleasure watching you work."

  Klinger unlocked the front door and Chris started out.

  "Hey," the gunsmith called as Chris started down the sidewalk.

  Chris turned back.

  "Give my regards to Tonto."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The little house was empty when Karyn returned after her call to Chris Halloran. In a way, she thought, it was just as well that Roy was not there. He had been so strange lately, that it was difficult for her to be around him. The prospect of being alone tonight was not pleasant, but it would be the last night she would spend in Drago.

  She locked the front and back doors and all the windows, making sure the heavy screens on the outside were secure. While she was in the bedroom, Karyn went to the closet and looked through the pairs of shoes, hers and Roys, on the floor. She found one of Roy's white-and-blue Adidas. Just one. No time to dwell on the implications of that now. Roy would have an explanation when he came home.

  Moving to the hall closet, she took out the shotgun. She loaded the weapon and propped it up beside the front door. Against the thing she feared was out there, the shotgun was almost useless, but it was better than nothing.

  Karyn sat down and directed her thoughts to Chris Halloran. Would he come for her? She tried to remember exactly what she had said into the recorder, but the words would not come back. She could only hope that it would not sound too crazy when Chris played it back.

  If he played it back. Karyn knew she could not count on Chris or anyone else to help her tonight. She had only herself.

  With a suddenness that shocked her, the sun dropped behind the mountains and darkness claimed the valley. Karyn turned on every light in the house. She flicked the switch for the outdoor light that illuminated the clearing in front. Nothing happened. A hell of a time, she thought, for the bulb to burn out. She took a good bulb from one of the lamps and opened the door to put it in the outside fixture. Then she saw it was not a burned-out bulb. The old bulb had been smashed, and the metal socket battered out of shape, making it impossible to screw in another bulb. Karyn slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. After a minute she returned the good bulb to the lamp and lit a fire in the fireplace.

  The blank windows, with nothing but the night outside, seemed to Karyn like inward-staring opaque eyes. She drew curtains over the glass.

  She went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, making it twice as strong as she usually did. There would be no sleep tonight. On the counter she found a carton of Roy's cigarettes. She lit one and pulled in the smoke hungrily.

  Soon Karyn found she could not stand it with the curtains closed. Her imagination populated the night with worse horrors than could possibly be there. The moon had come out, so at least she could see a little in the front of the house. The desert wind had not subsided at nightfall, and the boughs of the surrounding trees moved restlessly.

  To keep her mind active Karyn thought about what she would do the next day. Whether Roy came back or not, one way or another she would leave this cursed town. Consider the possibilities. Call from Drago for a taxi to come in from Los Angeles and get her, and damn the expense. If an L.A. taxi would not make the trip, try Pinyon. They must have some sort of taxi service there.

  If she couldn't get a taxi, she would go out on the road and hitchhike. Take the first ride offered in either direction just to get away from Drago.

  If there were no other way, she would take Roy's car and somehow drive the damn thing. She only had to go far enough to get away from Drago. And what did it matter if she damaged the car? It would be a small price to pay for escape.

  Satisfied with this plan, Karyn went into the bedroom and searched through Roy's things until she found the spare set of keys. She tucked them into a pocket and felt better, as though she were already on her way.

  Back in the living room the fire had dwindled. Karyn put on another log and jostled the coals with the poker. New flames sprang up and crackled reassuringly.

  "Karyn!"

  The unexpected sound of her name startled her into dropping the poker. Someone, a man, had called from outside the house. Could it be Chris? But she had heard no car drive up.

  She c
rossed quickly to the window. Roy's Ford was there, gleaming dully in the moonlight. That was all.

  "Karyn!"

  This time she recognized the voice. Roy. Calling her from somewhere outside. Why not at the door?

  "Karyn!"

  There was a throb of pain in the voice. Pain and something more.

  From the edge of the window, standing close to the wall, she looked out to make sure the doorway was clear. From the bookshelf, where Roy had left it, she took the flashlight. Holding it in one hand, she eased the door open just enough to look out.

  "Roy, are you out there?"

  "Help me, Karyn."

  "Where are you? I can't see you."

  "Over here. Come and help me."

  Opening the door a little wider, Karyn swept the brush beyond the clearing with the beam from the flashlight. She moved the light along slowly until it picked out a face, pale against the shadows. Roy's face.

  He was standing partially hidden by a clump of chapparal, looking at her. His expression was tortured. He seemed to strain toward her against invisible bonds.

  Karyn stepped halfway through the doorway. "What is it, Roy? What's wrong?"

  "Oh, Karyn." His voice was a strangled whisper.

  He needed her, and for a moment everything else was forgotten. Karyn left the safety of the house and ran across the clearing toward her husband.

  "No!" The single word was ripped from Roy's throat, then he vanished back into the shadows.

  Karyn turned to run back to the house, then she froze. Standing between her and the door, its shoulders humped, the cruel mouth stretched into a canine grin, was the wolf. The beast's jaws opened and closed. It growled, a sound of unearthly evil.

  Karyn could not get her breath. She stood paralyzed as the wolf came towards her stiff-legged, its eyes never leaving her face.