“I’ll do it.”
“Good. That’s the spirit I like to hear.” The doctor went out. The door closed soundlessly behind him. There was a whispered click of the lock. Malcolm turned the knob just to be sure. It was locked, all right.
He tried on some of the clothes from the bureau. Everything was a size or so too big, but not so much that it mattered. And it did feel good to be wearing real clothes again.
When he was dressed Malcolm sat down on the bed and waited. In a few minutes Pastory came back in bringing a mug of some hot brown liquid. There was another man with him. The other man was big, with a barrel chest and thick neck and bristly black hair. His lips were thick and set in a permanent sneer. He smelled bad. Malcolm recognized the smell from the morning he was taken from the hospital. Was it only this morning? Whatever they shot him up with had messed up his sense of time.
Pastory handed him the mug. “Drink this. It’s full of vitamins and other good things.”
Malcolm drank. It tasted like a heavy beef broth. Not too bad.
“Later on you can have solid food, but I think for now we’d better stick to liquids.”
“How long am I going to be here?”
“That depends.” He pulled the door all the way open. “Come along now.”
“What are you going to do?”
Pastory dropped the fake pleasant expression he’d been wearing. “I haven’t time to explain every little thing to you. Kruger, bring him along.”
The big man grabbed Malcolm by the shoulder and dug his thumb into a nerve there.
“Hey!” the boy protested.
“The doctor wants you to come along.” Kruger had a high singsong voice that did not fit with his size. He pulled Malcolm to his feet and propelled him out the door.
He was taken along a short hallway and into another room, larger than the one where he had awakened. A skylight in the ceiling made it very bright. There were shelves on the walls holding all manner of bottles, vials, beakers, and jars. Some of them contained liquids or powders; others were empty. Along one side of the room was a counter with a stainless steel sink and a little gas burner. All along the counter there was a cluster of instruments and equipment that meant nothing to Malcolm.
In the center of the room was a high, narrow table, padded, with tough leather straps riveted to the sides. Under the table was a complicated system of gears so it could be tilted in any direction.
“This is a laboratory,” Malcolm said.
“Very good,” Pastory said, as though to an apt pupil. “Would you like to jump up on the table there?”
“No.”
“I think, my boy, we had better understand how things are run around here. When I make a suggestion, it is not really a suggestion. It is an order. And when I give an order, you obey. That way we will all get along much better. Now get up on that table.”
Malcolm felt his face growing hot. His shoulder still hurt where Kruger had dug into the nerve. He walked to the table, turned around, and gave a little jump so he was sitting on it.
“That’s the idea,” Pastory said. “Now lie back, please.”
“What for?”
Pastory snapped his head at the big man who was standing by eagerly. “Kruger!”
Before Malcolm knew what was happening, Kruger had pushed him down flat on his back and had buckled a strap around one of his wrists. He flailed out with his free hand.
“Cut it out!” he yelled.
Kruger drew back a massive arm and cracked the back of his hand against Malcolm’s cheek. Malcolm tasted blood. His eyesight blurred for a moment and there seemed to be an edge of fire around everything. There was a strange growling sound in his ears, and Malcolm was surprised to realize it came from his own throat.
Pastory hurried over to the table. “Did you see that? Wonderful! Get the other hand strapped down, Kruger. And his feet. Quickly!”
As the doctor peered down on him Malcolm’s flash of anger drained away, to be replaced by a numb feeling of hopelessness.
“There, he’s changing back now,” Pastory said. “But did you see it, Kruger? Did you see what happened to his face?”
“It looked funny there for a minute. Like his teeth were too big for his mouth, or something.”
“Or something!” Pastory repeated. He leaned very close to Malcolm, took his chin in one hand, and turned his head this way and that. His breath had a minty smell.
“Are you all right now, Malcolm?” he asked.
“I want to get up.”
“In time, my boy. In time. Tell me what you felt just then, when you tried to get at Kruger.”
“I-I was mad. He shouldn’t have hit me.”
“No, you’re quite right. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”
Pastory walked back to the counter and began to write furiously in a hardbound notebook. He spoke more to himself than to the others in the room. “It appears that anger triggers the change. I wonder if other powerful emotions will have the same effect. We will have to look into that.”
He returned to the table. “Open your mouth, please.”
Malcolm hesitated.
“It’s only a thermometer. See? All I want to do is take your temperature. Now open, please.”
Reluctantly Malcolm obeyed, and the doctor slipped the glass tube expertly under his tongue.
“I am going to take a sample of your blood now. A very small bit, Malcolm. You’ll never miss it.”
The boy watched as Pastory inserted the hollow needle into a vein on the inside of his elbow and drew crimson fluid up into the cylinder.
“There now.” The doctor withdrew the needle and taped a wad of cotton over the tiny hole it left. He took the thermometer out of Malcolm’s mouth and examined it. “A touch above normal. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“Can I get up now?” Malcolm said.
“Very soon, my boy. There is just one more shot now, one that will relax you and make you feel good. Then we’ll get you up and get you something to eat.”
Pastory gave him the needle in the shoulder, then backed away, looking very pleased with himself. “You just relax for a minute or so, Malcolm. I want to go and check some references. If you need anything, just tell Kruger here. Okay?”
Malcolm rolled his head to look at the doctor, but he did not answer. A heavy feeling was spreading through his body. He did not want to do much of anything.
As soon as Pastory went out and closed the door, Kruger came over and stared down into the boy’s face. The man’s heavy features were twisted in open hostility.
“You’d better not do anything like that to me again,” he said.
“Didn’t do anything.” It was an effort for Malcolm to get the words out.
“You know what I’m talking about. That thing you did with your face and your teeth. I don’t care what the doctor says. You’d better behave or I’ll hurt you.”
The big man talked to him some more, but Malcolm floated off to a warm, cozy place where the words made no sense.
After that, time had little meaning for Malcolm. He knew he was being measured and weighed, prodded and pricked, tested, retested, fed, and purged. He did not care about any of it. Sometimes he would be left alone and Kruger would be there. The big man glowered at him constantly and made threats, but Malcolm had no energy to respond.
The worst part was when he was strapped to the table. Then Pastory would do things to him that he didn’t like to think about. Things with little electric wires and such. Sometimes the doctor made it very cold in the laboratory, sometimes unbearably hot. He was always writing in his book, looking very excited. With the drug in him, Malcolm couldn’t care.
Then Dr. Pastory made a mistake with one of the shots he regularly gave Malcolm. The boy moved his arm just as the needle went in, and the drug squirted harmlessly onto his sleeve. So intent was Pastory on watching Malcolm’s face that he did not see. When he went away Malcolm could feel himself growing steadily stronger and more alert.
> Later that night––or maybe it was day, Malcolm could never be sure––Kruger came into his room. The boy saw him but pretended to be asleep.
“You awake?” Kruger demanded. “Yeah, I can see you are. Come on, it’s time to get you up and get you dressed.” He started toward the boy.
“Don’t touch me,” Malcolm said. “Keep away.”
“Listen, you don’t tell me what to do and what not to do. Maybe you need to be reminded of who’s boss around here.” Kruger lumbered over to the bed, reached down, and seized Malcolm’s wrist.
A dull anger pushed its way into the boy’s clearing mind, but he still did not have the strength to pull away.
Gripping Malcolm’s wrist with one hand, Kruger pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket with the other. He snapped on the flame and brought it slowly up under the boy’s palm.
The sensation of heat quickly grew into pain. It brought back terrible memories of a night of flames and screaming and the stench of burning flesh. The flesh of his people.
In a sudden convulsive movement, Malcolm snapped his head to one side and clamped his teeth on the hairy wrist of the man who held him. The skin broke easily, and he worked his jaws from side to side, biting through the tougher muscle meat. His tongue felt the slick, ropy tendons through the taste of blood.
Kruger’s scream shattered around his head like breaking glass. The cigarette lighter dropped to the floor. Malcolm bit down harder, finding a wild joy in the sensation of sinking his teeth into living flesh.
“Kruger!” The shout came from Dr. Pastory, who had run into the room in response to the big man’s cry.
“Get him off me!” Kruger shrieked, trying to pull his arm free.
Malcolm, eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy, bit down all the harder. He felt bones grind against his teeth.
There was a short, sharp stab in the back of his neck, and Malcolm recognized it as the jab of a needle. Instantly he lost feeling in his face. His jaw muscles slackened and Kruger pulled his lacerated arm free.
“Look what that little son of a bitch did to me! Look at my arm! I’ll kill the little bastard!”
“Shut up, Kruger.”
Malcolm watched dully as Dr. Pastory pulled his assistant away and looked at his arm.
“He took quite a chunk out of you,” Pastory said.
“Damn near bit through the bone. Will it get infected or anything?”
“I’ll dress it for you in a minute. What I want to know is, what did you do to provoke him?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do nothing.”
Pastory stooped and picked something off the floor. “What’s this?”
“My lighter. I-I must have dropped it.”
“Don’t lie to me, Kruger. Don’t ever lie to me. You know all I have to do is say the word to have you put back in the bad place.”
“Please don’t, Doctor. I was just fooling around. I didn’t mean to do anything to him.”
“Get out of here. Go to the laboratory and I’ll come in and take a look at that bite. It may even turn out to be helpful to me.”
Cradling his injured arm, Kruger left them alone.
Pastory came over and touched Malcolm’s face. The anesthetic had left him without any feeling there, but Malcolm could see the doctor poking at the flesh and muttering to himself.
“Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Malcolm, you are going to make me a very rich and famous man. We have a lot of work to do in the next few days, but then we’ll start reaping the rewards. And don’t you worry, my boy. I’ll take very, very good care of you.”
Malcolm sank back on the narrow bed. All the anger was gone. All he felt now was an icy despair. He was ready to give up and die, except for one thing. He still held in his mouth the delicious taste of Kruger’s blood.
13
Sheriff Gavin Ramsay of La Reina County had moments during the next few days when he seriously questioned his choice of career. The investigation of Dr. Dennis Qualen’s murder was not going well. It was, in fact, going very badly.
The search of the surrounding hills turned up nothing. The only flurry of excitement had come when one of the searchers shot another in the foot. After that the fun was out of the whole thing. The volunteers had gone back to their jobs. The helicopters had returned to their home counties or their TV station heliports. Only a few men from the State Forestry Service now combed the woods, doing mostly cleanup and repair of the damage to the environment done by the searchers.
The detailed pathology report had arrived from Dr. Underwood and had done nothing to lift Ramsay’s spirits. The wounds that had killed Qualen were definitely identified as having been made by teeth. Unfortunately, they were not the teeth of any animal known to exist on the face of the earth. The traces of saliva were no more helpful, falling somewhere on the spectrograph between human and canine.
While the sheriff suffered, the media had a field day. Every man, woman, and reasonably articulate child in Pinyon had been interviewed at least once. Deputies Nevins and Fernandez became media heroes, the first to his delight, the latter with some embarrassment. All the old horror stories of Drago were dug up and embellished until La Reina County was presented to the rest of the nation as a sort of Southern California Transylvania, where no one walked out of doors at night.
Most galling to Ramsay was the fact that Abe Craddock had been bailed out by one of the supermarket tabloids and was being kept in seclusion while his personal eyewitness story was being ghostwritten for the paper. Rumor had Craddock collecting a comfortable five-figure price for his lurid recollections of the thing that had eaten his buddy.
And, in fact, a pall of fear had descended over the tiny mountain town. Blinds were drawn, shutters reinforced, doors double-locked at night where before no one had bothered with so much as a hook and eye. Nightly patronage at the Pinyon Inn dwindled to a few hardcore regulars who drank little and talked in guarded tones. They came and left in pairs or groups. No one wanted to be alone.
The tiny library was immediately denuded of all books touching on werewolves, vampires, witches, or anything remotely occult. Then the librarian refused to stay there alone any longer and the doors were locked.
The happiest man in the county was Ken Dowd, whose Darnay occult shop, The Spirit World, emptied its shelves of all manner of charms and talismans that might protect the bearer from whatever evil lurked in the woods.
Nor was the occult dealer the only beneficiary of the werewolf boom. The Light of the World Christian Store, also in Darnay, had a run on crucifixes from customers who did not know Calvary from the Seventh Cavalry. The Light of the World people had to reorder crosses on a rush basis from a religious supply firm in Los Angeles, and still they could barely meet the demand.
Bibles were also a hot item in La Reina County, with King James topping the list, but even the updated versions were outselling the newest Garfield book. Enterprising roadside peddlers appeared with pictures and statuettes representing Jesus, Mary, and a variety of saints, and were doing fine business until local authorities clamped down. From outward appearances, La Reina County was the scene of the greatest Christian revival since Billy Graham filled the L.A. Coliseum.
As if all this were not enough to add gray hairs to the head of Sheriff Ramsay, Holly Lang was after him continually to devote more of his efforts to locating the missing boy, Malcolm. The sheriff was trying to maintain an expression of gentle concern on an early morning several days after the killing as Holly stood across the desk from him, gesticulating angrily.
“Damn it, Gavin, that weasel Pastory is keeping him somewhere,” she insisted. For a moment Ramsay thought she was going to pound on the desk, but she brought herself under control. “Why aren’t you doing something? Why aren’t you looking for him? You’re supposed to be the sheriff.”
“Comments from the public are always welcome,” Ramsay said. “Maybe you will be kind enough to suggest where I might look.”
“That’s just it. I’ve talked to everybody at the hosp
ital, and nobody knows where this mysterious clinic of Pastory’s is, or if it even exists.”
“Ah, then you see part of my problem.”
“Problem, hell. I want to hear solutions from you.”
“I am doing the best I can, Holly,” Gavin said with all the patience he could muster. “I have a want out on Pastory as a material witness. His relatives, of which there seem to be very few, deny all knowledge of his whereabouts.” He pulled a sheet of paper from an overflowing basket on his desk. “To quote his brother Kyle in Boise, Idaho, ‘I don’t know where the S.O.B. is and I don’t give a damn.’ His clinic is not listed with the California Medical Association or any other group that I’ve been able to turn up.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“Right now I am doing what I can to find the killer of Dr. Dennis Qualen.”
“So, are you making any progress?”
“I have before me reports of all killings in the western United States during the past five years that were in any way similar to that of Dr. Qualen.”
“And?”
“And you’d be surprised how many people are ripped to pieces. When I eliminate the chain saws and the axes and the certified mad dogs and the circus maulings and one farmer in Oregon who seems to have been eaten by his pigs, do you know what’s left?”
“Please tell me,” Holly said.
The Howling Trilogy Page 47
