The Howling Trilogy

by Gary Brandner

  “I don’t know why the men didn’t kill me, too,” Malcolm went on. His voice had grown deeper and had a rasp to it.

  His throat must be dry from all the talking, Holly told herself. But his eyebrows… weren’t they heavier now than a moment ago? And she did not remember them growing all the way across the bridge of his nose.

  “The next thing I remember I was running again. I didn’t know if the men were chasing me or not. I just knew I had to get away. I was afraid again, only this time it was even worse than before. It was worse because Jones was dead. He was my friend, and I lost him.”

  “It’s all right to grieve for a friend,” Holly said softly. “It hurts to lose someone, but at one time or another it must happen to all of us. There will be other friends.”

  Malcolm was silent for a minute. Then he spoke again. “I was so tired of running. When the other two men saw me, the ones who brought me here, I didn’t try very hard to get away. I knew they were different from the first two, the ones who killed Jones.”

  “How did you know that, Malcolm?”

  “I could tell by the way they smelled. You know you can smell it when somebody wants to kill you. Or when they’re afraid of you.”

  Holly nodded. She knew the sweat glands emitted a different chemical under the stress of fear, but few humans were equipped with a sense of smell keen enough to recognize it.

  “Excuse me, Malcolm,” she said, standing up. “We don’t need those curtains drawn anymore. Let’s catch what we can of the last of the sunlight.”

  She spread the curtains all the way open, brightening the room with an orange glow from the setting sun. With a reluctance she could not explain, Holly turned to look at the boy in the bed.

  He smiled at her. Just a normal, somewhat thin fourteen-year-old boy. His eyes were a warm green. There were no unusual shadows under the cheekbones. Straight nose, well-formed upper lip. Rather fine, arched eyebrows. Nothing strange here at all. As she had thought, it was a trick of the lighting.

  “The funny thing is,” Malcolm said, “it seems like only a few minutes ago you were going to hypnotize me. But that was morning, and now the sun’s going down.”

  “Sometimes hypnotism plays tricks with time,” Holly said. “A few seconds can stretch into hours. Or the other way around. How do you feel otherwise?”

  “Fine. Tired, though. I feel like I did all that running all over again.”

  “You’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight,” she said. “I’ll have your dinner sent up right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holly gave an unnecessary tuck to the blanket on Malcolm’s bed. She smiled at him and started out of the room.

  “Holly?”

  “Yes?”

  “About Jones. You said it hurt to lose a friend, and it does. And you said there’d be other friends. I wonder… will you be my friend?”

  “I’d like that,” Holly said. “I’d like that a lot. See you.” She slipped out of the room into the corridor and stood for a moment with her back against the wall. She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. Right now she should be feeling quite pleased with herself. In a remarkably short time she had brought the boy out of an apparent catatonic state and restored at least a portion of his memory. Why, then, did she feel this chill of apprehension? There was more to Malcolm’s story. Much more. Holly Lang was not sure she wanted to know it all.

  Enough of that kind of thinking. She had work to do. She turned to start down the corridor and gasped as she almost ran into Gavin Ramsay. The tall sheriff caught her to avoid a collision. He held her for a moment with his strong hands on her shoulders, then released her.

  “I was just on my way to call you,” she said.

  “And I was looking for you.”

  “After you left this morning, Malcolm talked almost nonstop. He told me all about your dead man in the woods.”

  Ramsay nodded. “Jones.”

  “You know?”

  “Your pathologist caught me on the way out of here this morning with my deputy. He told me who the dead man was and how he died.”

  “Then Malcolm isn’t in trouble anymore?”

  “Not with me, he isn’t. But we still don’t know who he is. Did you find out?”

  “Not really.” She hesitated. “I think he’s from Drago.”

  “No kidding.”

  “His memory begins with a fire that destroyed his town.”

  “If he is from Drago, he’ll be the first survivor to turn up,” Ramsay said.

  “You understand I’m not sure. I’ll want to work with him a lot more.”

  “No problem. The Drago business is none of my affair, anyway.”

  “One thing will probably interest you… he remembers the two men who shot Jones.”

  “I know who they are, too, but the boy’s testimony will be important.”

  “Could it wait until tomorrow? He’s pretty tired.”

  “I don’t suppose a day will make any difference.” Gavin rubbed his jaw, bringing a rasp from the stubble of beard.

  “You have any plans for tonight?”

  Holly turned brisk. “I always have plans. Tonight I’m going to write up my reports, go home, take a long bath, grill myself a steak, and watch an old Bogart movie on television.”

  “Let me rephrase the question,” he said. “Will you have dinner with me?”

  “A date? Why, Sheriff, I had no idea…”

  “I hate it when they get cute,” he muttered.

  Holly laughed. “Dinner sounds like fun. But considering the quality of restaurants hereabouts, why don’t you come to my place? I’ve got two of those steaks.”

  “That is an offer I can’t refuse. What kind of wine do you like?”

  “Something dark red and dry. You pick it out. Is eight o’clock all right?”

  “Fine. Where do I show up?”

  “I have a little house in Darnay. Seventy-one Garden Street. I’ll leave the porch light on.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  He winked at her and swung off down the corridor. Holly looked after him for a moment, feeling foolishly lightheaded about the date. She shook herself back into a serious mood and headed for the tiny office where she could type up her notes on today’s session with Malcolm.

  * * *

  Dr. Wayne Pastory stepped quickly back into an alcove when he saw Holly Lang approaching. He had done a good deal of research during the day and had decided on a course of action. Right now the lady doctor was the last person he wanted to see.

  When Holly was safely around a corner in the hallway, Pastory stepped out of the alcove and headed for the stairs. He climbed to the second floor, passed through the glass doors into the administrative wing, and stopped at the reception desk before the office of Dr. Dennis Qualen. After the obligatory banter with Qualen’s matronly receptionist, he was allowed to enter.

  “Ah, Wayne, you caught me on the way out,” said the chief administrator. “I hope this isn’t anything that will take a long time.”

  “No, no, just a few words,” Pastory said. “About the boy in one-oh-eight.”

  Qualen pushed papers around on the polished mahogany desk. “That one. Malcolm Something-or-other, his name seems to be. Our sheriff was just in here talking to me about him.”

  “Oh?” Pastory tensed, hoping his plan had not been derailed.

  “Apparently we are not harboring a juvenile murderer. According to Ramsay, someone else was responsible for the dead man in our basement.”

  “But no one has claimed the boy?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Nor has anyone come forward with an offer to pay his bill. Certain members of our staff seem to be under the impression that we are a charitable institution.”

  “I think I know who you mean,” Pastory said. “My reason for wanting to see you is to suggest a way to get us off the hook.”

  “Oh?” Qualen was interested but noncommittal.

  “As you know, I operate a modest clinic of my own n
orth of here.”

  “Ah, yes, I believe you have spoken of it. I forget… where, exactly, is it located?”

  “My suggestion,” Pastory said, passing quickly over the question, “is that the boy be transferred there. I am quite well equipped to take care of him, and I think the boy will be useful in some important research I’m conducting.”

  “What sort of research?”

  “I’m not really prepared to discuss it at this stage. You understand, sir.”

  Dr. Qualen drew a finger along the aristocratic line of his nose. “What you suggest is not normal procedure.”

  “I realize that, sir,” said Pastory. “But I think in this case it might pay to bend the procedures a bit. For one thing, this will relieve the hospital of additional expense, and I understand the budget is under some scrutiny at Sacramento.”

  “I don’t see how all the necessary arrangements could be made without going through channels.”

  “These things can be expedited, as we both know. The thing is, time is short. I’d like the boy transferred to my place tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Nothing can possibly be accomplished that quickly.”

  Pastory produced a manila folder with a flourish of a magician making a rabbit appear. “To speed things along I went ahead and did the necessary paperwork.”

  “You are in something of a hurry to get on with this, aren’t you?”

  Pastory leaned confidentially forward across the desk.

  “I’ll be frank with you, sir. If my theories about this boy prove out, there will be considerable recognition, acclaim even, that will go beyond the medical community. More than enough recognition for one man.”

  Qualen stiffened. “That sounds unpleasantly like a bribe, Doctor.”

  “Nothing of the sort, sir. But it doesn’t hurt to remember that quite a few of our friends in high places got where they are by finding a way around the normal procedures.”

  Qualen glanced over the multicolored forms. “I’m still not at all sure I can go along with this. It’s highly irregular.”

  “You’ll notice,” Pastory put in, “that I have entered my own name in every case where there is a question of responsibility. Not that I expect any trouble about a routine transfer, but if there should be, it’s on my head.”

  “I see.” Dr. Qualen slipped oh a pair of reading glasses. “Give me a few minutes to look these over. If, as you say, everything is in order, I see no reason why I should delay the transfer of this patient into your care.”

  Pastory smiled. “A good decision, sir. I’m sure it’s in the best interests of everyone concerned.” He leaned back in the chair and waited with a confident smile.

  9

  The beast moved silently through the darkening forest. Small creatures of the night skittered from its path or froze into attitudes of self-protection. The beast padded forward in a balloon of silence as the smaller creatures ceased all sound and movement at its approach.

  But tonight the smaller animals had nothing to fear from the beast. It was intent on other matters. Every few yards the beast would pause and rise manlike on its hind legs, lifting its muzzle to the sky. It would sniff the air––testing, searching. And then, finding the one scent among many, it would drop again to all fours and move on.

  At the crest of the final hill the beast stopped. The coarse fur bristled at the base of its powerful neck. Below lay the sprinkling of lights that were the town of Pinyon. Directly at the bottom of the hill was a large rectangular building with many lights. From the building came a profusion of scents. Some sharp and medicinal, others heavy with death and decay. The scent of humans was powerful. Humans in their sickness. Yet among the confusion of the many odors the beast again picked out the one it sought.

  Moving stealthily on great padded paws, the beast crept down the wooded hillside toward the hospital.

  * * *

  Gavin Ramsay leaned close to the mirror over his bathroom sink and gave his face a critical look. Unsatisfied, he buzzed the electric shaver over his chin for the third time. He had a chin cleft that Elise had always said was cute but that sheltered a tiny ridge of whiskers that were hell to shave off. He tested the area with his fingers and decided it was as smooth as it was ever going to be. He blew out the shaver, splashed on some English Leather, and walked back into his combined living room/bedroom/kitchenette in the Pinyon Inn.

  Gavin’s was the only room at the inn with cooking facilities. He seldom lit the stove, and he used the half-size refrigerator for little more than keeping beer cold. Most of his meals were eaten downstairs in the coffee shop or brought home from one of the fast-food places down the road in Darnay. Still, having a kitchen, however inadequate, made the room seem a little more like home.

  He and Elise had lived in a spacious California ranch house in Darnay until the divorce. The house, like the Camaro, and damn near everything else, had gone to Elise. Gavin had been stunned to find how suddenly cold and calculating his loving bride had turned when she decided the marriage wasn’t going where she wanted it to. While he had stumbled through the proceedings with a nice-guy lawyer whose heart was back in Iowa, she had latched on to a high-powered firm from Los Angeles with half a dozen names on the letterhead. It was no contest.

  But what the hell, it was over now. The last he heard, Elise was in New York dating some hotshot political columnist for the Times. That would suit her. Her father, too. Gavin had been a great disappointment to both of them.

  He pushed open the accordion door on his closet and surveyed the meager wardrobe therein. Two khaki uniforms of the La Reina County Sheriff’s Department. One suit, blue. Two sport coats, gray tweed and camel hair. Three pairs of slacks, gray, blue, and brown. Two neckties, one with stripes, one with little fleurs-de-lis. Assorted shoes.

  These, except for the uniforms, were the clothes he hardly ever wore. His real clothes were in the dresser drawers. Jeans, corduroys, soft cotton shirts, sweaters.

  During the marriage Elise had outfitted him like the rising young politician she hoped he would be. He had had two full closets then of suits, jackets, and pants from the best tailors in Southern California. Gone now, all gone. No, Elise had not taken his clothing, but Gavin had wasted no time giving most of it away when he moved out. It was one thing from his marriage he definitely did not miss.

  For tonight, however, jeans and a sweater simply would not do. Holly Lang was not just another date. His dates had been few since the divorce. Generally, they consisted of a few drinks in a quiet bar, dinner maybe, then off to bed. Neither he nor the women involved had any stake in the relationship beyond an evening’s entertainment. That was the way he wanted it. For some reason he felt differently about Holly.

  He chose the camel hair jacket and gray slacks. Briefly he considered wearing a necktie, but he decided that was too much and settled for a soft blue sport shirt.

  “You look terrific,” he told his image in the mirror. “All ready for the prom.”

  Downstairs he climbed into the old Dodge wagon, shoving the accumulated debris off the seats. He frowned at the coating of dust and wished he had washed it more recently. He would have to remember to park in the shadows.

  He drove the ten miles along the dark highway to Darnay, listening to a golden-oldies rock station from Los Angeles. He had no idea what songs were played, nor did he care. The music was company, that was all.

  Entering Darnay, Gavin stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. He found Holly Lang’s address with no trouble. It was a yellow clapboard bungalow with white shutters, set well back from the quiet street. The lawn was neatly mowed. A row of flowers before the house looked like somebody cared about them. As promised, Holly had left the porch light on.

  She met him at the door, wearing a colorful silk blouse with a soft, dark skirt that followed the smooth curve of her hips. Gavin realized it was the first time he had seen her out of the more severe lady-doctor outfits she wore while working. He decided she looked pretty
damn good, and told her so.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I like your jacket.”

  He held up the bottle of wine for her inspection. “Is this okay?”

  “Perfect. If you want to pull the cork we’ll let it breathe for a while before dinner.”

  They entered through a small living room that she had furnished in shades of brown, gold, and rust. In a dining alcove a table was covered with a white linen spread and set for two, complete with candles and long-stemmed wineglasses.

  He followed her into a sparkling kitchen and managed the corkscrew while Holly bustled about, straightening things that did not need straightening.

  “I don’t exactly know what that ‘letting it breathe’ business is all about,” she said, “but it seems to be part of the ritual.”

  “Like rolling the cork between your fingers and sniffing at it,” he added.

  “And what’s the difference between the aroma and the bouquet?”

  “I didn’t know there was one.”

  At the same time they stopped and looked at each other.

  “We’re babbling, aren’t we?” she said.