In the city he could not live off the land, so he learned stealing and all the tricks and skills of the street boys.
It was an ugly existence, but he survived. Moving on, always moving so he would not become well known in any one place. He moved from the cities to the smaller towns and through the countryside, taking a bus when he had money, hitching rides when he didn’t. Surviving. Searching. He knew somewhere his destiny waited. He would find it, or it would find him. There was no escape.
* * *
In La Reina County the sensation faded slowly into yesterday’s news. For a few weeks there were reports of ‘werewolf’ sightings, but they turned out to be somebody’s dog or a tree or an unfortunate bearded hiker. The hunt continued for the sadistic killer, but official opinion was that he had left the area. The search spread beyond county and state boundaries. The hunt for the killer was based on the description of the mild-looking man who had been seen entering Dr. Qualen’s office. It was the best lead they had. As for Malcolm, a runaway boy held a low priority.
For a time writer Louis Zeno was held as a possible suspect in the Pinyon killings, but he was never considered seriously. When he was released, Zeno hurried back to Los Angeles and went to bed for a week. When he emerged, Zeno avoided all discussion of Pinyon, Abe Craddock, and what he had found in the isolated cabin. He still planned one day to write that book, but for the present he was content to crank out articles about two-headed calves and movie stars’ romantic problems.
Dr. Wayne Pastory was questioned at length when he returned to his isolated clinic to find a dead assistant, a missing patient, and a sheriff and lady doctor waiting for him outside. However, his transfer of Malcolm from the hospital in Pinyon to his clinic had been handled according to the rules, and there was no crime he could be charged with. Nevertheless, the new administrative chief at the hospital, replacing the late Dr. Qualen, made it clear that Pastory was no longer welcome there in any capacity.
There were changes, too, in the office of the La Reina County Sheriff. Milo Fernandez finished up his training tour and returned to school to study police science. His next assignment would be at some larger jurisdiction than La Reina County, but it could hardly be as exciting. Milo left with regret, and with good wishes from all.
Roy Nevins, having had a taste of real excitement for the first time since his early days in Oakland, had second thoughts about retiring. The law would allow him to stay an additional five years. He sold the idea to his wife by pointing out that the pension would be bigger. The real reason was that Roy Nevins, past fifty, had found a pride in his profession. He had started watching his diet and running and had lost so much weight that he had to buy a whole new set of uniforms. It was money he was glad to spend.
Gavin Ramsay watched the departure of one deputy and the transformation of the other with, respectively, regret and pride. The investigation of the local killings had largely been taken over by other agencies as the search for the killer widened, and it was the old routine again in the sheriff’s office. Given Roy’s new dedication to the job, one deputy was enough to handle the workload.
The sheriff found himself for the first time in months with spare time. Fortunately, he had a place to spend it––with Dr. Holly Lang. It was natural that they should be together because of the terrible secret they shared. As they had promised each other, neither had spoken of the nature of the beast that destroyed the brutish Kruger in Pastory’s clinic.
There were people around who would be only too ready to embrace the idea of werewolves in their midst. But they were the same people who believed in little men from outer space and went to flying saucer conventions. Their support could only hinder the very personal search of the sheriff and the doctor.
They did make one attempt. On a morning about a month after their return, Gavin had said, “I know one man who would believe us.”
“I thought we agreed that kooks were out,” Holly said. “This guy is no kook. He knows about these things, and he might be able to help us.”
“Then by all means, let’s give him a try.”
They went together to Ken Dowd’s shop, The Spirit World, in Darnay. Ramsay was disappointed to see the shades drawn and a CLOSED sign taped to the glass on the inside of the door. He and Holly went into the neighboring leather goods store to inquire about the owner.
“Ken Dowd?” the young clerk repeated. “He closed up about three weeks ago. He made a bundle during the werewolf boom, then locked the store and split. Wish I could have had a piece of his business at the time.”
“Do you know where he went?” Ramsay asked.
“Back east somewhere is all I know. Cape Cod or something like that. Him and his wife. Told me he was going into the antique business. Something that couldn’t possibly scare anybody, he said. Maybe he hasn’t checked the price of antiques.”
“You have no address for him?”
“No. You might try the real estate company that’s selling the store for him.”
Ramsay thanked the young man and he and Holly left the shop.
Back out on the street, he turned to her with a shrug. “I don’t think it’s worth chasing him to Cape Cod. You got any suggestions?”
“Afraid not. But we’ve got to keep looking, Gavin. I’d feel we were abandoning Malcolm if we gave up.”
“Hey, nobody said anything about giving up. I thought Ken Dowd might help us from the, well, occult end. We missed him, but we can sure as hell keep looking. I told you we were in this together, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. All the way, you said.”
“And all the way I meant. Let’s go.”
* * *
Ramsay received hundreds of pictures from police agencies all over the country. Pictures of boys––delinquents, runaways, pickups, strays. He and Holly spent hours going over them. Many resembled Malcolm in one small way or another, but Malcolm himself was not among them.
One evening at Holly’s little house, after a session with a new batch of photos from the police chief of Seattle, Ramsay shoved the pile of glossy prints aside irritably.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I’m sick and tired of looking at pictures of young boys,” he said.
Holly laid a hand on his knee. “I know it’s boring, but it’s one thing we can do.”
“Well, I’m beginning to feel like a damned pedophile.”
“Are you going to sulk now?”
“Sulk, hell. It’s been half a year.”
“You said––”
“I know, I know, and I’m not backing out on you. I understand how important Malcolm is to you, and I’m willing to make every reasonable effort to find him. But do you realize how much time we’re spending looking for a boy who could be anywhere in the Western Hemisphere by now? Or dead?”
“Malcolm is alive,” Holly said stubbornly. “I know he is. I can feel it.”
“Okay, so he’s alive. He’s becoming an obsession with you. We can’t even go to the movies without Malcolm sitting there between us.”
Holly’s cheeks showed pink spots of anger. She took her hand away from Gavin’s knee. “Oh, is that so? I don’t remember a lot of complaining from you last night about the bed being too crowded.”
“Last night was fine,” Gavin admitted. “But those times are getting to be mighty rare. We started out with what I thought was a pretty good sex life. Lately it’s Malcolm this and Malcolm that, and we’re lucky to have an uninterrupted twenty minutes for fooling around.”
Holly stood up abruptly from the couch. Gavin scrambled to his feet to face her.
She said, “If you want out, Sheriff, you’ve got it. Thank you very much for sticking it out this long. I’ll handle it myself from here on. Goodnight.”
“If that’s the way you want it, goodnight!” he said, and stomped out the door.
Ramsay had stomped all the way down the walk to his car and had his hand on the door handle when he stopped. Asshole, he told himself. He squared his shoulders, t
urned, and walked back up the path to Holly’s little house. As he reached for the bell the door opened in his face.
“They always come back,” she said.
“You’re too smart for your own good, lady. Want to look at the pictures some more?”
“Not tonight,” she said.
“Want to go to bed?”
“Try me.”
He gently closed the door behind them.
18
The weeks passed.
And the months.
Malcolm wandered up and down the long, diverse state of California. He had been in and out of cities, towns, villages; crossed mountains and desert. Several times he had ventured near the state line. He had looked across into Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona, but he had not crossed the line. Although he was a young man without roots, he still felt that it was in California that he would find what was waiting for him. It had all begun for him in this state, and he sensed that this was where it would end.
Once, during the winter when he was seeking warmth where he could find it, Malcolm did travel a short distance into Mexico. He had looked hard at the verdant hills below Tijuana and felt the presence there of others like himself. Yet they were not his own people, the survivors of Drago. He had no doubt now that there were survivors. Many times he had heard the howling in the night––calling him. Though his body yearned to answer their call, he fought against it. He was not ready.
Despite the vagabond life, Malcolm’s body filled out over the year. He grew stronger. His shoulders broadened out and his shoulders expanded. Such work as he was able to find helped harden him. His muscles were supple, his hands rough and callused. Although he took a boyish pride in his more manly appearance, there were new problems.
In the dim outlaw world he was forced to live in, physical conflict was common. Malcolm had seen men fight to the death over a bottle of wine. In the early days he had often been challenged by the boys and men he met in his travels. Every time, although his body ached to respond, he had backed away from a fight. He would suffer any humiliation to avoid combat.
They laughed at him and called him a coward. The taunts did not bother him, nor the name. He sensed how swiftly and terribly he might destroy these people if he yielded to violent emotions. Their name for him then would be far worse than coward.
More frequently as the weeks passed Malcolm felt his body strain to change its shape when some passion gripped him. The urge to let go was powerful, but Malcolm continued to fight it. By intense effort of will he had so far resisted the full change, but he knew the day would come when he could resist no longer. He could only hope by then he would know what to do.
While his body grew strong, the unsettled life took its toll on the young man’s emotions. On a cloudless afternoon in late spring he felt he had hit bottom. He rested that day in the Inyo hills and thought about bringing his painful life to an end. But he did not even know how to do that. With his education cut off by the fire at Drago he understood very little of his kind. There were three ways, it was said, that they could be destroyed––silver, fire, and a third, which was never mentioned. Had one of their people ever killed himself? Was such an act possible? Malcolm had no way of knowing.
Suddenly he tensed, cocked his head, and listened. Faint, but unmistakable, there came a cry of mingled pain and fear. Malcolm tested the air, determined the direction from which the cry came, and climbed swiftly up the grassy slope.
The cries ceased as he drew near. Malcolm knew that the creature in pain sensed his approach and feared him. He moved on cautiously, guided by his sense of smell.
Behind a patch of scrub oak he found it––a young coyote, hardly more than a pup. Its forepaw was caught in a trap.
Memories flooded back to Malcolm of his own anguish on that night more than a year ago when his ankle had been crushed by the trap. He knelt beside the coyote pup, his eyes filling with tears. He reached his hand out tentatively, palm up, to show the creature he meant no harm.
The trapped coyote sniffed at his fingers. Its lip drew back in an instinctive snarl, but it made no attempt to bite him. Very gently Malcolm touched its muzzle. His fingers stroked the gray-brown fur of the head between the velvety, pointed ears. The young coyote shivered under his touch.
“Easy, little guy,” the boy said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The pup whined softly.
“I know how you feel. Believe me, I do.”
The coyote looked up at him with cautious eyes. Its shivering quieted.
“That’s the boy,” Malcolm said, speaking in a slow, soothing tone. “Now let’s see how bad you’re hurt.”
He moved the pup gently to get a better look at the damage done by the trap. With relief he saw it was not the bone-crushing kind that had caught him in the woods outside Pinyon. This was the legal, non-maiming trap designed to catch and hold, but not to do serious injury.
“You’re a lucky fella,” Malcolm said. “I know you probably don’t think so, and it’s no fun to be caught in any kind of a trap, but believe me, you could have it a lot worse.”
He slipped his fingers between the smooth jaws of the trap and pulled against the spring. Was there no place, he wondered, where a wild creature could be left alone?
Down in the valley he had seen a flock of sheep. He supposed the rancher had set out the traps to protect his flock. Malcolm could not fault the man for that. At least the man had used this less destructive trap, and he had not resorted to poison. Still, a lamb was natural prey for the coyote. Where was the right or wrong of it all?
Slowly Malcolm forced the jaws open. The young coyote drew back the injured paw but did not try to get away. Malcolm ran gentle fingers along the leg that had been caught.
“Nothing’s broken. Your foot will be sore for a while, but like I told you, it could be a lot worse.”
The coyote tested its weight on the paw, raised it quickly, then tried again.
“See, it works all right,” Malcolm said. “You can get along back to your family now.”
The pup looked up at the boy, then lowered its head and butted gently against his leg. Malcolm scratched the coyote behind one ear.
“I wish I could keep you with me, little fella,” he said. “It would be nice to have somebody to talk to. And we’ve got something in common, haven’t we?”
The little coyote licked his hand. Malcolm drew it away. “But it can’t work that way, so don’t get all friendly with me. First thing you know I’ll be giving you a name.”
From behind him, Malcolm heard a soft growl. He turned and saw a female coyote standing with her legs braced, the fur bristling on the back of her neck.
He looked back at the pup. “I think your mama’s here.” The young coyote’s eyes flicked from Malcolm to the female, then back to Malcolm.
“Go on,” Malcolm said. “You know where you belong.”
The pup hesitated a moment longer, then trotted, limping slightly, to join the female. The two of them were quickly lost from view in the scrub oak.
“I wish,” said Malcolm to the empty hillside, “that I knew where I belonged.”
He sank down on a mossy spot sheltered by a boulder and began to weep. Malcolm was not much given to crying, but there, alone and isolated, he gave himself up to the feeling of despair.
And as he wept his body began the spasms of the shape change. He could feel his downy beard growing thicker and coarser. He tasted blood as the long teeth pushed out through his gums. Because no one was around to see, this time Malcolm did not try to fight it. He was weary, and it had been a long, very long day.
* * *
It had been a long day, too, for Bateman Styles. It had, for that matter, been a long several years for Bateman Styles. A carnival showman, he was an outdated man scraping out a living in an outdated profession.
Until this year, however, he had managed somehow to find a spot every summer, even though it was with progressively smaller carnivals. In recent years he had fronted for a kootch show, an
all-takers wrestler, a shooting gallery, funhouse, ring-toss, wheel of fortune, and finally a freak-tent. This year he had barely made it with the broken-down Samson Supershow. Or so he thought until early that afternoon when he was summoned to the Airstream Trailer of Samson himself, otherwise known as Jackie Moskowitz, former midget.
Styles had a premonition when the kid who ran the Ferris wheel told him the boss wanted to see him. It was the day before they were to open in Silverdale, and Bateman knew his freaks were at best a borderline attraction. But what the hell, he reminded himself, the Samson Supershow was not Barnum & Bailey, and Silverdale, California, was not San Francisco. Or even Eureka.
Even in its boom days Silverdale had never been much more than a last watering hole for travelers coming down through the Inyo pass and heading for some insane reason into Death Valley. Today it did not even show on many maps. When pressed for a location, residents would say it was five miles from Wheeler. If that reference drew a blank look they would admit the town was fifteen miles out of Lone Pine. Anybody who did not know Lone Pine deserved no further explanation.
A far cry from the old days, Bateman Styles reflected as he tramped across the dusty field to Moskowitz’s trailer.
When he was a boy––Lord, that was fifty years ago––carnivals had played towns throughout the South, the West, and the Midwest without slowing down for nine months of the year. In those days the carnival was a big attraction in the towns, and even in cities of fifty thousand or so population. Even with the Depression, people found dimes to spend riding the Octopus or trying to win a Kewpie doll.
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