Night Howl

by Andrew Neiderman

  “There’s probably a phone in that house,” Gerson said.

  “You can’t go in there. The police have posted it,” Qwen said.

  “We’re just goin’ to make a phone call.”

  “Trackin’ an animal through the woods is one thing, but breakin’ into houses . . .”

  “Nobody’s asking you to do it,” Gerson said.

  “I’ve got to get to a phone,” Kevin said. “No one expected he’d be out in population and have contact with people.”

  “Looks like it might be more than contact,” Qwen said.

  “That’s why I got to get to a phone. Can you get in there, Gerson?”

  “No problem.” He headed for the back door.

  “Will Maggie go on?” Ann asked Qwen. “Maybe the dog went back into the forest.”

  “She can go on, miss. The question is, do I want to?”

  “Look,” Kevin said. He stopped as Gerson drove his shoulder against the back door of the house and smashed it open. “Let me talk to the director. There might be more money in it for you.”

  “I got a feeling money’s not gonna make that much difference now,” Qwen said.

  “They’ll pay for the damage to the house, don’t worry about that,” Ann said.

  “I ain’t worried about that, miss.”

  He watched Kevin and her follow Gerson in and then he started for the house, himself. He had just reached the back porch steps when he heard the voices and the noise in the nearby woods. He turned to see the policeman and a group of volunteers from the fire department come out of the forest. One of the patrolmen had his gun drawn.

  “Hold it,” he commanded. “Who the hell are you?”

  Qwen dropped his rifle quickly and sat down on the step to wait with Maggie as they all approached. He turned to look into the house and then smiled to himself.

  Ain’t they gonna be surprised? he thought.

  12

  WITH MAGGIE CURLED up at his feet, Qwen sat on the hard wooden bench in the lobby of the Fallsburg Police Station. The burly chief of police, his forearm now in a cast, and the district attorney had taken Ann, Kevin, and Gerson into the chief’s office and left Qwen to wait out here. He had anticipated being called in to join them, but it had been nearly half an hour and no one had sent for him.

  Back at Ken Strasser’s farmhouse, Qwen had remained outside, too, while the policemen had gone in to confront Gerson Fishman and the two scientists. Not long afterward, two patrol cars were brought up to the house and they were all taken to the station. Qwen was a little surprised that no one had asked him anything.

  When he started to talk in the car, Kevin nudged him.

  “Just let us handle this,” he said.

  “I intend to,” Qwen said, but when he was left by himself at the station, he began to wonder just how they were handling it. Questioning the dispatcher, he learned the full extent of what the dog had done. He was growing restless and getting ready to demand to know what was happening when two men in business suits, looking like federal agents, arrived and joined the group in the chief’s office. The dispatcher had sent out for coffee and sandwiches. Qwen was given something to eat, but his impatience was intensifying. More “agent types” arrived. Some radio and newspaper reporters appeared but were kept outside the station. Maggie grew restless and Qwen demanded the dispatcher to interrupt whatever was going on inside to tell Kevin that Qwen had to see him. A few moments later, Qwen was taken to a small room, reserved for questioning suspects. He waited for a little more than ten minutes before Kevin finally joined him.

  “Sorry you were kept waiting so long,” he said. He closed the door behind him and Qwen was a little surprised at their privacy and Kevin’s calm. Weren’t they in trouble?

  “Well, what the hell’s goin’ on? People comin’ and goin’ . . . I got the full story on what the dog has done.”

  “I know. It’s terrible. Ann’s taking it hard. She feels responsible.”

  “Maybe she is. Maybe you all are.”

  Kevin looked up at him sharply. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and came out with an envelope.

  “This was just delivered for you,” he said and handed it to Qwen. He opened it and took out the neatly folded wad of money. “Dr. Bronstein decided you performed your services as requested.”

  “I don’t get it. We didn’t catch him yet.”

  Kevin didn’t reply. Then he held his hand out. “Thanks for everything. There’s a car and driver out front to take you back to your truck.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  “No, but they will.”

  “I don’t feel as though I earned the money,” Qwen said.

  “The people who have to pay you feel otherwise. No sense arguing with them.”

  “No one wants to talk to me to know about trackin’ the creature?”

  “They feel confident,” Kevin said. “You know, bringing in the pro’s. Not that you’re not one,” he added quickly.

  “I was all right until the animal did some real damage, is that it?”

  “Something like that. I don’t know. Look, I’ve got to get back in there. Dr. Bronstein has arranged everything for you. Good luck and thanks again,” Kevin said. “The car’s right outside. Oh, and you’d better not get involved with those reporters. A statement’s being prepared for them. It’s best the—”

  “Pro’s handle it. I know.”

  Kevin smiled. “So long,” he said and walked out.

  Qwen looked down at the money in his hand. “Jesus, Maggie,” he said. The dog sniffed at it. “Yeah, something stinks all right,” he said.

  When he got back out to the station lobby, the dispatcher was waiting for him.

  “It’s the unmarked dark blue car right out front,” he said. Qwen nodded.

  The moment he opened the door, the reporters, gathered around their vehicles, turned his way. Some started in his direction, but the dispatcher at his side put his hand up. There were groans and complaints, but no one bothered him. He went directly to the vehicle and opened the back door.

  “Hop in, Maggie,” he commanded. But his dog cringed and growled. Qwen bent down and looked in.

  “You’d think your dog would know me by now,” Gerson Fishman said. Qwen didn’t move. “Come on, we gotta get back.”

  “In, Maggie,” Qwen commanded with more authority. Maggie got into the back seat and curled up on the floor as far away from Fishman as she could get. Qwen stepped over her and sat down, closing the door behind him. The driver, one of the men in a business suit, didn’t even look back. The car started away.

  “How can they do without a man of your importance?” Qwen asked, but his sarcasm was lost on the big security man.

  “They got me doin’ all kinds of things, trapper. It comes with the territory.”

  Maggie began to growl again, but it was a low, steady, motorlike sound that was barely audible. For Qwen it was enough. He put his rifle beside him on the seat and looked ahead at the oncoming darkness. Fishman lit a cigarette and rolled the window down to throw out the match. He sat back and stared ahead like a man being taken to his execution.

  “Nobody really knows what’s goin’ on, do they?” Qwen said.

  “The people who hafta know, know,” Gerson replied. “Whaddya care? You got paid, didn’t ya?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure for what.”

  “Money’s money.”

  “Not all the time,” Qwen said.

  Fishman laughed. “Give me whatever you don’t think is right,” he said. Qwen looked at the driver, who still hadn’t turned around or said anything.

  They continued on out of the hamlet and rode steadily toward the highway that would get them back to the institute the quickest way. The traffic was light, and for long periods of time they were alone on the road.

  “Hey,” Fishman called to the driver. “Don’t this vehicle have a radio?”

  The driver said nothing. He leaned over and turned on the radio, tuning in quickly to a loud
rock station. Fishman didn’t mind and the driver seemed oblivious to everything. The music bothered Maggie. She lowered her head between her paws as though to block it out.

  “What’s everyone, deaf in here?” Qwen asked.

  “What’s that?” Fishman laughed.

  Qwen knew the road. He had been on it many times before. He was familiar with the billboards and the signs. They came to a long stretch between communities. Houses could only be seen in the distance. The driver looked into his rearview mirror. There were no cars behind them or oncoming. He reached up and adjusted the mirror while slowing down at the same time. Qwen understood it to be some kind of signal.

  He knew there was a side road just ahead, so he anticipated the turnoff. Just before it happened, Fishman reached in under his jacket. Qwen, just as quietly and as unobtrusively, put his finger around the trigger of his rifle and let the barrel fall across his lap. The moment the car came to a stop, Qwen saw Fishman’s hand emerge with the pistol in it.

  There was no mental debate, no indecision about what he would do. A life in nature had taught him the validity of instinct. For many animals in the wild, a moment’s hesitation was the difference between saving themselves and sudden death. They didn’t have the luxury of philosophizing; that was a privilege only the truly civilized enjoyed, and Qwen understood that he wasn’t in a civilized environment at this time, not by any stretch of the imagination.

  He lifted the barrel of his rifle just as Gerson brought the pistol around. Qwen squeezed the trigger. His bullet struck Fishman in the forehead and ripped through the brain before settling against the skullbone. At the same time, the driver spun around with what looked to be a thirty-eight special in his right hand. Qwen brought the stock of his rifle up in a swift, swinging motion and caught the hand and the pistol squarely, sending the gun flying into the door window. Maggie was up, growling. She leapt into the front seat as Qwen reached over the slumping body of the dead security man and grasped the driver under the chin. He pulled the man’s head back as hard as he could and brought his rifle barrel across the man’s adam’s apple, seized both sides of the gun, and pulled it up. The driver gagged. Satisfied that the man was incapacitated, Qwen reduced the pressure and brought the rifle barrel back, placing the end against the driver’s head.

  “Open that door slowly,” he commanded, “and step out. Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  The man coughed and gasped to get back his breath, but he reached for the handle. Maggie remained close to him on the seat, her teeth flashing. The driver stepped out of the car and Qwen climbed over the seat to get to the wheel.

  “Tell whoever it is you work for that now they have two wild animals on the loose. Only, this one can talk,” he added and closed the door. Then he turned the car around and went back to the main highway to chauffeur the corpse of Gerson Fishman back to the institute. He wanted to leave this car and get his truck.

  He went only halfway up the side road that led to the secret complex and got out of the car. Something told him that it would be better to go the rest of the distance on foot, keeping to the shadows. Maggie sensed the need to be surreptitious. She kept close to his feet and moved as silently as Qwen.

  When he got close to the complex, he crouched in the brush and studied the scene. There were two security guards at the gate and another one of those men dressed in a business suit. They spoke in low murmurs but it was obvious to Qwen that they were interested in what was going to come up the road.

  Looking all the way to the right, he noted that his truck wasn’t where he had left it. It occurred to him that if his demise had been as well planned out as he now imagined, the truck, of course, would have been disposed of, too. It was better for them if all traces of his involvement with the institute were erased.

  He went back to the car and considered his options. Once the driver got in contact with his superiors, they were sure to send people to Qwen’s home. He had to go somewhere where he would be safe for a while, so he could think and make some decisions. He certainly couldn’t use the vehicle much longer; it was too easily identified. He decided to leave it where it was and head into the forest. There was enough moonlight for him to make his way.

  He would go east to old Sam Cohen’s shack. The old coot had been a friend of his father’s and lived just the way his own father had lived fifty years ago. There was no running water, no electricity, and no indoor bathroom facilties. To Qwen it was as though the old man camped out year-round. He was sure Sam was a little senile.

  Looking back one more time before disappearing among the trees, he thought about Gerson Fishman, dead in the backseat of the car. He didn’t have any regrets about it; it had been either kill—or be killed. He just wondered how he would explain his side once they’d had a chance to rearrange the facts.

  And then he realized wherein his hope lay—once people discovered what kind of creature these people had created, they would understand what kind of people they were and would give credence to his explanation. How ironic, he thought as he broke out into a trot, that his fate might very well be tied in with the dog’s fate.

  And like the dog, he thought of ways to throw off the same pursuers and put distance between himself and the institute that loomed behind him like a nightmare remembered from a sleep of madness.

  The state police called Harry Michaels at home to let him know that Sid Kaufman was less than an hour from the hospital. He had asked them to call because he felt that he should be there to greet the man. Of course, Jenny bawled him out for it.

  “You’ve got a fractured forearm, you’ve been through more hell in one day than you’ve been for an entire career, and you want to get up and go out again. It’s almost midnight, Harry.”

  “I know, but that man’s goin’ to have a lot of questions.”

  “Do they have to be answered tonight?”

  “I feel a little responsible,” he said. He rose from the couch where he had fallen asleep in his clothes while watching the late news. Jenny had made him hot milk and had remained at his side, sitting in the old soft-cushioned chair, his chair, the chair she had threatened a hundred times to donate to the dump. Tonight she enjoyed sitting in it; she enjoyed the feel of its worn material and the weakness in its springs. It symbolized her husband, a part of him that was worn but precious; tarnished with age and use but as valuable as a youthful memory. For the first time in a long time, she felt the fragility of their lives. From the moment she had learned of all the terrible events, she hadn’t stopped shivering inside. She did a good job of hiding it, covering it with her shell of sarcastic wit. Even so, she sensed that Harry saw through her. He was just playing along for both their sakes.

  “Good lord, Harry, how the hell are you responsible for this?”

  “I should have paid more attention to the stories Sid Kaufman told me.”

  “What stories? His son’s dreams about a dog, and his wife imagining their dog came back to life?”

  “It wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t someone’s imagination.”

  “You sent patrols up there, you went there yourself.”

  “I sensed something was wrong. I felt it, dammit,” he said.

  “You know Harry, you should have been a rabbi or even a priest. You have the personality and the mentality for it.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll be asleep. I shoulda gone to sleep an hour ago.”

  “I’m just going up to the hospital and back,” he said, answering her unspoken question.

  “I’m not interested. And besides, I don’t believe you.”

  “Jenny, if you saw those children—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about it,” she said quickly. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m not waitin’ up for you, Harry Michaels.”

  “Good.”

  “How can you drive with that arm like that?” she asked as he went to the door.

  “It’s no problem.”

  “My mother warned me about you. S
he told me not to trust a man with bushy eyebrows.”

  “Your father had bushy eyebrows.”

  “That’s how she knew.”

  He left his laughter behind him, but on the way to the hospital, he made a firm decision about himself. He decided that he would give it a couple of weeks and then inform the town board that he intended to retire as soon as they had determined a replacement for him. He told himself that he was doing it for Jenny, but in his heart he knew that he was tired. His time had come.

  Sid Kaufman arrived at the hospital only fifteen minutes after Harry did. He knew the man had been traveling fast. At this late hour, there were few non-hospital personnel around. Lights had been turned down low and a quiet, subdued mood prevailed. He and one of the men on the hospital’s security staff had a conversation carried out in low tones.

  But Sid Kaufman’s entrance shattered the mellow atmosphere. He rushed in, exhausted from the drive, his face filled with anger and anxiety. Before he even reached the receptionist at the front desk, he demanded to know his wife’s whereabouts. Harry moved forward to greet him.

  “Mr. Kaufman. I’ll take you to her.”

  “Chief. How is she?”

  “She’s all right, she’s all right.”

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “It’s part of it all. I’ll explain as we go up. She’s on the fifth floor.”

  “ICU?”

  “Yeah.”

  They stopped at the elevator and Sid straightened his posture.

  “I’m here. No more bullshit. What happened?”

  They got into the elevator and Michaels pushed the button.

  “The dog got into the house and attacked her. He came at her more like a bull than a dog, striking her in the ribs with his head. He cracked her rib and ... the rib punctured a lung. They call it pneumothorax. I’m not trying to impress you with big words. I just wanted to remember everything right.”

  The elevator stopped at the fifth floor.

  “What are they doing now?”