The Howling Trilogy

by Gary Brandner

  “Thanks a lot,” she muttered after the disappearing cab.

  She drew a deep breath and told herself to be calm and consider her circumstances. A ride back to the city was now out of the question. In the late afternoon, it was doubtful whether she could make it back to the highway and civilization before nightfall. When night came she did not want to be alone.

  Riding a burro, she could reach the gypsy’s cabin before dark, barring mishap. Chris would be at the cabin, according to his message, so that seemed the safest way to go.

  She walked back around to the rear of the shack where the burros were kept. She found a pile of old blankets, folded one, and placed it over the back of a burro. She opened the gate to the pen, led the animal out, and closed the gate behind her. She climbed on the burro, urged it forward, and with some reluctance the animal started up the trail.

  As she rode, the shadow that preceded her up the mountain grew ever longer. It was a constant reminder of the coming night, and of all the horrors that the night could bring.

  Karyn pulled her mind away from those thoughts. She thought instead about Chris and herself and what their futures would be. It would not be a future together––they had tried that once and it had been disastrous. Besides, she had a husband and a little boy to go back to when this business was finished. And what about Chris? Would he go back to Audrey? Or a series of Audreys? Somehow Karyn did not think so. She had seen, these past few days, a maturity in Chris which had been lacking in him before. She hoped with all her heart that he would find happiness.

  With agonizing slowness the little burro plodded up the trail. They passed the spring where she and Chris had stopped to rest the last time. No time for resting now. She clucked in the burro’s ear and urged it onward.

  The shadows closed in fast, and the sun was red and angry on the western horizon when they finally reached the crest where the gypsy Philina had her cabin. The crude log building looked like blessed sanctuary to Karyn. There was no sign of life, but as before, smoke trailed out of the hole in the roof.

  Why, she wondered, was Chris not outside to greet her? Maybe he was inside talking to Philina and hadn’t heard the burro come up.

  Karyn dismounted and walked toward the door of the cabin. Her steps slowed as she sensed something different here. The doorway was uncovered, that was it. The animal hide that had hung there before was gone. Cautiously, she approached and peered into the cabin. A flickering red-orange light from the fire-pit danced over the interior walls. She stopped just outside the doorway.

  “Chris? Is anybody there?”

  All at once she knew it was wrong. It was all wrong. The cabin did not look right. The burro-keeper should have been down below; the message from Chris rang false. Everything was wrong, and she’d realized it too late. She started to back away. One step. Then another.

  Before Karyn could take a third step, a slim, strong arm encircled her throat, clamping her windpipe in the crook of the elbow. She fought to scream, but no sound could escape. She clawed at the arm that was cutting off her breath, but she could not move it.

  The world began to go dark. Karyn felt the strength ebbing from her like blood from a severed vein. Red flashes of fireworks burst somewhere behind her eyes. A roaring like the wind filled her ears.

  Then blackness.

  29

  For Chris Halloran, the run through the dreary back streets of Mazatlán began to take on the quality of a nightmare. It was as though all other living things had been snatched from the face of the earth. The only sound was the thud and scuff of his feet on the pavement.

  After many blocks he spotted a taxi parked at the curb. The cab was empty, but from a nearby doorway came the sound of recorded music. Chris pushed aside a curtain hanging over the doorway and walked in.

  It was a dim, musty cantina, stale with cigarette smoke and old chilies. A thirty-year-old jukebox played a tragic Mexican ballad. Along the bar sat several men in faded, mismatched clothing. Their eyes slid over Chris without expression. At a table in the rear, two women, heavily made up for the approaching evening, sat nursing glasses of tequila. They turned their professional smiles on him, but their eyes were empty of hope.

  Chris paid no attention to the customers. He leaned on the unvarnished bar and spoke to the man in shirtsleeves who stood behind it.

  “Hay cochero aquí?”

  The proprietor did not speak, but looked down the bar. One of the customers, a thin man with moles on his cheek, spoke up. “I am the owner of the taxi.”

  “Will you take me to the Palacio del Mar?”

  The man turned lazily back to the bar. “Sure. When I finish my drink.”

  Chris took a step toward him. His eyes glittered dangerously. “Take me now.”

  The unmistakable menace in Chris’s voice got through. “Si, Señor.” the driver said automatically. In a gulp he downed what was left in his glass and walked quickly with Chris out to the cab. He drove well and swiftly, and they pulled up in front of the hotel fifteen minutes later.

  The crowd at the Palacio del Mar had increased since that morning. Sightseers wandered about snapping pictures and talking in excited voices about “la cabana de la muerte.”

  Chris paid off the driver and hurried up the steps, across the veranda, and into the lobby. Señor Davila, the manager, was at his post behind the desk. He was relating, with dramatic emphasis, the events of the bloody night to a small, attentive group of tourists.

  Chris pushed to the front of the group and got Davila’s attention. “Ring Mrs. Richter’s room,” he said.

  Reluctantly the manager turned away from his audience long enough to operate the key that would ring the telephone in Karyn’s room. He rang several times, then turned to Chris with an apologetic shrug.

  “Señora Richter does not answer.”

  “She must be there,” Chris insisted. “What time did the cruise boat get back?”

  “About noon.”

  “Have you seen Mrs. Richter since then?”

  “I-I don’t remember.”

  “Well, think about it.” Chris leaned on the desk and glared at Davila.

  The manager chewed his lip nervously. “Ah, yes, I recall now. She did stop by the desk to ask if there were any messages. I told her there were none, and she went up to her room.”

  “Did she go out again after that?”

  “I could not say. Please understand, Señor. This has been a very busy day. I could not see everyone that comes and goes.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Chris. He spun away from the desk and stalked back through the lobby.

  Where the devil could she be, he wondered. He walked quickly through the busy bar and the dining room, scanning the faces. Karyn was in neither place.

  It did not seem likely she would be on the beach. It was too late in the afternoon for sunbathing. Still, it was a possibility. Chris ran out of the building and down across the crescent of sand to the water’s edge. He jogged along the tideline, checking the few people who were in the water and on the beach. No Karyn.

  Chris did not like it. Karyn knew he would come looking for her. If she was not going to be easy to find, she would have left a message for him at the desk. Something was definitely wrong.

  He stood at the edge of the beach and tried to think of possibilities. Maybe Audrey knew something. Chris loped back across the beach to his cabana. The blinds were down; the door was locked. Chris banged his fist against the panel until Audrey opened up. Her eyes were not quite in focus, and she swayed slightly as she opened the door. Chris could smell liquor on her breath.

  “Nice of you to drop by,” she said with heavy sarcasm.

  Chris pushed past her into the room. The air was stale in the gloom. He walked to the window and snapped up the blind, letting in the afternoon sun.

  “Have you seen Karyn?” he said.

  “Your lady love? Fuck, no. Why would I see her?”

  “I don’t have time for bullshit, Audrey. Just give me straight answers.”
>
  “You don’t have time for much of anything these days, do you, lover boy?”

  Audrey knew something. Chris could see it in her eyes. “I’m asking you again, have you seen Karyn? Do you know where she is?”

  “Find her yourself, lover boy. A bitch in heat like that one, it shouldn’t be hard for you to––”

  Chris hit her. A hard, open-handed blow across the side of the face. Audrey staggered backward several steps. She put a hand to her reddening cheek. Tears squeezed out of her eyes.

  “Now let’s talk.” Chris said.

  Audrey hiccupped and shook her head. Chris moved toward her, and she began to talk.

  “I saw her. She… she’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. I just gave her a message, then she went out.”

  “What message?” Chris said. It was an effort to keep from screaming at her.

  “There was a woman here. She said to tell Karyn you wanted her to come and meet you. That’s all.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  Audrey’s eyes fell away from his, and her voice softened. “I don’t know her name. Very pretty. Tall, green eyes, black hair with a streak of white.”

  Chris ground his teeth. With unerring instinct, Marcia Lura had found the weak point in their defenses. Audrey. Speaking very softly, he said, “Where was Karyn supposed to meet me?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Audrey, you’ll remember or I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

  “It was something about a gypsy. The gypsy’s cabin.”

  Chris swore under his breath. If Karyn had been lured up into those mountains, there was no way she could get back before dark. She would be easy prey for the werewolves, and out of reach of help.

  “Didn’t she question you when you told her that?” he demanded.

  “I-I gave her something of yours so she’d believe the message came from you.”

  “What did you give her?”

  “That little lump of silver you always carried around. The one that looked like a bullet.”

  Chris’s hand went to his pocket. Things had happened so fast the last few days, he hadn’t even noticed the bullet was missing. He whirled and started toward the door. He yanked it open, then turned back.

  “I’m going out now, Audrey. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but when I come back I don’t want to see you here.” He went out and slammed the door without waiting for a reply.

  The taxi he had come in was gone, but there was another just turning around in front of the hotel and heading back toward Mazatlán. Chris ran toward the car.

  “Taxi! Hey, taxi!”

  The driver, with a full load of passengers, ignored him. Chris stood in the roadway cursing after the departing cab.

  “Señor?”

  The voice close behind him made Chris stare. He turned to see Luis Zarate nervously fingering the zipper of his jacket.

  “Luis!”

  “I came looking for you, Señor. I should not have left you today in the city. I am very ashamed.”

  “Never mind that,” Chris said, “I need you now. They’ve tricked Karyn into going to the gypsy’s cabin. I’ve got to go after her.”

  A stricken look came over Luis.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The gypsy, Señor. Philina. Ella está muerte.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Si, Señor.” With a shake of his head, Luis returned to English. “The word was spread today among the gypsies and the people of the streets. Philina is dead, and anyone who helps the gringos will follow her. They will know the vengeance of lobombre.”

  “That’s why the salesman in the jewelry store acted so funny this morning.”

  Luis nodded.

  “And that’s why you left me there on the street.”

  “Yes, but now I am ashamed. My poor taxi is at your service.”

  “Then let’s go. Take me to your cousin’s place, the one with the burros.”

  “Mucho gusto, Señor, mucho gusto!”

  They roared out of the hotel compound in the old Plymouth and up the highway toward Mazatlán. Luis swerved expertly onto the narrow rutted road leading into the foothills. The car bounced and rattled and seemed at times about to fly to pieces, but Luis never let up on the accelerator. When they reached the shack of Guillermo the burro keeper Chris jumped out and hit the ground running. Luis followed close behind him.

  Chris hammered on the door, but received no response from within.

  “Where could he be?” Chris demanded.

  Luis stepped forward. “Permit me, Señor.” He put his mouth close to the door, and in a voice of thunder shouted, “Guillermo! Nombre de Dios, abre la porta.”

  After a moment there was the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor inside. The door opened a crack, and Guillermo’s one good eye peered out.

  “What do you want?”

  “Has the woman been here?” Chris said. “The woman who came with me last time?”

  “She was here.”

  “When?” Chris’s question snapped like a whip.

  “Two, three hours ago.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She said nothing. I did not open the door.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? What’s the matter with you?”

  The eye squinted out at Chris from the crack in the door. “There is evil and death in the mountains. It is a time for a poor man like me to stay behind doors.”

  “Well, where did she go?”

  “She took one of my burros and started up the trail.”

  “Give me a burro,” Chris said. “Quickly. I have to go after her.”

  “I do not think you can help her now.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think. What about that burro?”

  “Go to the back and take one yourself, Señor. It will be ten dollars for yours and the lady’s.”

  Chris started to say something, changed his mind. He pulled a bill from his wallet, tossed it at the crack in the door, and started around the shack.

  In the pen he found a sturdy-looking burro and led him around to the front. Luis Zarate was standing there by the Plymouth.

  “I would go with you, Señor,” said Luis. “But I have both a wife and a mother who depend on me. And the truth is that I am not a very brave man.”

  “That’s all right, Luis. From here on it’s my fight. What do I owe you for the ride?”

  “No charge. Señor.”

  “Thanks.” Chris climbed on the burros back and urged the animal up the trail.

  “Buena suerte, Señor,” Luis called after him. “Vaya con Dios.”

  He would need more than luck this time, Chris thought as the burro jogged toward the mountains. Maybe even the company of God would not be enough. He rode upward into the gathering darkness.

  30

  The pain came back first. Pain in her throat. In the instant before she regained consciousness, Karyn was a little girl again. She was lying on a high, white bed in the hospital, and the doctor had just taken her tonsils out. In a moment she would open her eyes and her mother would be there. And Daddy. And they would let her eat all the ice cream she wanted, and before long the pain would go away.

  Karyn tried to reach up with a hand and touch her throat where it hurt. But the hand would not move. Her lungs heaved, pulling in air, but it did not have the sharp, clean smell of the hospital. The roughness against her back was no bed.

  She forced her eyes open. No loving faces looked down on her. It took only a moment for her to realize where she was. In the gypsy’s cabin. The light from the fire pit cast grotesque shadows throughout the room. Karyn was sitting in the chair with no back. Her ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, her wrists tightly bound behind her. The roughness against her back was the log wall of the cabin.

  She turned her head. It hurt her throat when she moved. Beside her was the pile of old rags where Philina the gypsy had sat talkin
g to her and Chris such a little while ago. Beyond the rags she could see another torn bundle. Only the clawed hand, lying limp and palm up, told her that it had once been human.

  Karyn looked away quickly. Through the open doorway the world outside was in deepening twilight. Someone stepped between her and the doorway. A tall, slim silhouette with flowing black hair that was shot through with silver.

  “Marcia!” Karyn’s voice was a rasping whisper.

  “I see you remember me. I’m glad. You will have much time for remembering in the hours before dawn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to hurt you, Karyn. I’m going to hurt you very badly.”

  Karyn squinted in the darkness, trying to get a better look at the woman. “Why? Why are you doing this? Why are you persecuting me? You took my husband from me back in Drago. What more do you want?” She broke off as the effort of talking hurt her throat too much.

  Marcia took a step toward her. The fire pit lay between them. The tall woman knelt so the light of the fire shone full on her face, “You want to know why, do you? Then look!”

  She raised a hand to her forehead and ran long fingers through the white streak in her midnight hair. “This is why. I have this mark to remind me of the night you put the gun inches from my head and fired. I will never forget the agony of that moment and the long months that followed. In those months, Karyn, I thought of you above all else. I have lived for just one thing––to give you some measure of the pain I felt. And finally to see you die.”