The Howling Trilogy

by Gary Brandner

  “Wasn’t that King Kong?”

  “Of course. How could I forget?”

  Styles gave the two men a stem glance and they fell silent. Then the showman went on with his pitch, the grandiloquent speech rolling smoothly off his tongue in effortless flowery sentences. After many years in the business, Bateman Styles no longer had to think about what he was saying. The sentences, each with a verbal exclamation point, formed themselves and marched out of his mouth while he thought of other things.

  He wound it up. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment for which we have waited in an agony of growing suspense! I give you… Grolo the Animal Boy!”

  He swept aside the curtain to reveal Malcolm seated on the stool in the confining chimpanzee cage. The boy gazed shyly out at the crowd.

  By this time people knew the routine of the act from the reports of others who had seen it. They launched into the derisive hoots at Malcolm without prompting from Styles.

  “That’s no animal.”

  “Get off the stage, you fake.”

  “He doesn’t even shave yet.”

  “Course not, it’s a girl!”

  “Refund… refund!”

  “Booo!”

  Louis Zeno took no part in the harassment of the boy in the cage. Nor did he pay any attention to Ted Vector, who was fumbling in his camera bag. Something about the boy’s luminous green eyes as they locked on his for a brief moment made the writer acutely uncomfortable.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered to the photographer.

  “Are you crazy? The show hasn’t even started. Take notes or something.”

  As always, when the boy began to change, the jeers of the crowd died abruptly. No matter how prepared they were for what was about to happen, the actual transformation on the small stage never failed to shock.

  “Jesus,” Zeno muttered through clenched teeth.

  “See? See? What did I tell you?” Ted Vector had his camera out of the bag now and was holding it down low where it would be concealed from Bateman Styles.

  The writer was not listening. He was back in the cabin at the moment he entered and saw torn bits of Abe Craddock everywhere. His stomach lurched, and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit.

  “I’ve seen enough,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you going to interview the pitch man or anybody?”

  “Who needs interviews? I can make up the quotes, like I always do. Let’s go.”

  “At least let me get some shots of Grolo. Your story is worth shit without pics.”

  “Well, hurry it up.”

  Zeno tried not to watch what was happening in the small cage, but a terrible fascination kept pulling his eyes back.

  The boy’s face had sprouted a coarse black hair. His body had broadened and stretched and changed its shape with a crackling of bones. He had to bend far over as he clutched the bars to keep from banging his head on the low ceiling.

  The eyes glowed with deep green fire. The teeth… visions of Craddock’s savaged remains swam back up in Zeno’s mind.

  Vector brought the camera up with no further attempt at concealment and began clicking pictures. The creature in the cage caught the tiny sound. The ears pricked and the great head swiveled toward the source. It gave an inhuman growl; the taloned hands gripped the bars and began to bend them apart.

  “You!” Bateman Styles jumped to the center of the stage and stabbed an accusing finger at Ted Vector. “Out! I told you no pictures!”

  “Come on,” Zeno said, tugging at his friend’s arm.

  “Just one more.”

  Click.

  The bars separated. A powerful black-haired arm reached through.

  “Shit, he’s coming out!” someone yelled.

  Styles’ voice rose above the others. “Get that camera out of here before you get somebody killed!”

  Zeno took a firm grip on the photographer’s arm and tugged him back through the tense crowd and out of the tent.

  “I got some great stuff,” he said when they were back out on the midway.

  “Yeah, you almost got us ripped apart, too.”

  “You convinced now?”

  Zeno modulated his voice. “It’s a good trick. Looked real in the dim lights in there.”

  “Bet your ass it looked real. How soon can you have the story written?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. I’ll develop this stuff tonight and we can hand the whole package to Endicott and collect the rest of the bread.” The photographer gazed around the carnival. “You feel like seeing anything else? A couple of the girls in the kootch show aren’t too bad, and they go all the way.”

  “What I feel like,” Zeno told him, “is getting the hell out of here. Now.”

  * * *

  CAGED ANIMAL BOY TERRORIZES CARNIVAL

  The headline sprang out of the copy of National Expo being browsed by the shopper ahead of Holly Lang in the Safeway checkout line. And the picture––a horribly distorted mingling of human and animal features. But the eyes… she knew the eyes. Beyond any doubt, it was Malcolm. Holly snatched her own copy of Expo from the rack and paid for it along with her groceries. She got into her car and drove directly to the sheriff’s office.

  Gavin Ramsay frowned at the half-tone photo in the tabloid. He said, “Are you sure this is Malcolm?”

  “Of course it is. Don’t you see it?”

  “Frankly, no. They do some wild things with makeup these days.”

  “Damn it, Gavin, you’re just being obstinate. You know it’s Malcolm.”

  “Well, there’s a chance.”

  “So let’s go. We’ll find that carnival and get him out of there.”

  “Right now? Just like that?”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, we don’t know how old this photo is or where this”––he scanned Louis Zeno’s story––“Samson Supershow is playing. It doesn’t sound like a very big outfit.”

  “You can find out, can’t you? You’re a cop.”

  “I suppose I can,” Ramsay admitted, “which brings me to my second point. I have a job here, and the taxpayers would probably not approve of me rushing off to do some private business on their time.”

  “I can go,” Holly said. “You don’t have to come along.”

  “Uh-huh. I remember the last time you rushed off to handle things on your own. As I remember, you were in kind of a fix when I got there.”

  “This is different,” she said. “I won’t have a Wayne Pastory to contend with. Chances are these carnival people don’t know what they’ve got. All I’ll do is go to the carnival, find Malcolm, and bring him back.”

  “Assuming that this is Malcolm,” Ramsay said. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

  Holly was flustered for a moment. It was a possibility she had not considered.

  “In that case I’ll… I’ll let him decide for himself. The least I can do is tell him he’s not in any trouble over what happened at Pastory’s.”

  “I don’t want you to get in any trouble either.” She softened her tone. “I promise, Sheriff, if there is the least hint of any rough stuff I’ll come running back for reinforcements. Okay?”

  He could not hold the stern expression, and relaxed into a smile. “Okay, Doctor. Let me see if I can locate this Samson Supershow for you.”

  He made a call to the sheriff’s office in Los Angeles County. A deputy he knew there said he would check with the theatrical booking agencies. Half an hour later the L.A. deputy called back with the information.

  “He says Samson is booked this week in some place called Silverdale over in Inyo County,” Gavin told Holly. “If you want to wait a couple of days, maybe I can arrange to go with you.”

  “Thanks, Gavin, but I don’t want to let any more time go by. It’s been over a year since we last saw Malcolm at the clinic.”

  “Then what difference would a couple more days make?”

  “I just do
n’t want to wait, that’s all.”

  “You will call to let me know what’s happening.”

  “That’s a promise. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.” She came around the desk and gave him a warm, affectionate kiss. “Thanks, Gavin.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She skipped out of the office to her waiting Volkswagen. Ramsay sat watching her, a worried frown on his face.

  * * *

  It had not been a good year for Dr. Wayne Pastory. After the unpleasantness at the clinic and his dismissal from La Reina County Hospital, he had been unable to get a practice started anywhere else. His reputation in the medical community, never the best, had fallen to a new low.

  He was living in Stockton, eking out a living providing uppers and downers to minor league ballplayers. As he pondered his reduced circumstances, Pastory nourished an ever-building rage. His chance for a real breakthrough––a study on an advanced case of genuine lycanthropy––had literally been stolen from him. Those people had had no right to break into his clinic and make it possible for Malcolm to escape. Yet it was he, not they, who suffered the ostracism. The injustice of it ate away at his mind like a steady drip of acid. Someday… someday he would make them all pay. When he saw the picture and story of the “Animal Boy” in the supermarket tabloid, Pastory could have cried out for joy. It was Malcolm. Malcolm as Pastory had seen him when he applied the electrical charges, only further along in the transformation. What must be happening to him now in the hands of some unschooled carnival showman?

  It was an easy matter to learn where the carnival was playing. Wayne Pastory locked up the small apartment that was serving also as his office and headed for the town of Silverdale.

  21

  An authentic carnival, even a rinky-dink outfit like the Samson Supershow, was a new experience for Holly Lang. She had grown up a city girl, and the closest she had come to the carnivals of small towns were theme parks like Disneyland and Magic Mountain. Those had been exciting at the time, but there was always a sense of antiseptic unreality. People dressed in oversized animal costumes. Here in the carnival the sights and smells were real. The people were real. And always just beneath the surface of cotton candy and jangly music there was a sense of danger. Things could happen in a carnival that would never be allowed at Disneyland.

  These thoughts danced in and out of Holly’s mind as she made her way along the sawdust midway. The carnival was an experience she would like to take the time to savor one day, but tonight her entire attention was given to finding Malcolm.

  She had no trouble locating the tent. It was the largest on the grounds, and the crowd outside it was bigger than any of the others. Jungle sounds blared from a loudspeaker that Bateman Styles had recently added.

  As Holly approached, the entrance flap was pulled back and a crowd of people spilled out. Apparently the show had just ended. From their expressions, it appeared the audience had enjoyed themselves.

  Holly frowned up at the huge paintings flanking the entrance. She listened to the comments of a couple who were just coming out.

  “I wonder how they do it,” the woman said. “Search me,” the man answered. “I was watching him like a hawk the whole time and I didn’t see anything funny.”

  “You don’t think it could be real?”

  “Are you kidding? People don’t turn into animals except in the movies.”

  “Yes, but in the movies they can use camera tricks. This wasn’t any picture.”

  “Well, it looked real. I’ll say that.”

  “I know. I thought for a minute he was coming right through the bars.”

  “It’s all part of the act.”

  “Well, I hope so.”

  The couple drifted off toward the food tent. Holly waited until the last of the crowd had come out, then she started toward the entrance.

  She pulled aside the tent flap and was met by a fat man with a red nose. He wore a bright checkered vest and straw hat.

  “Sorry, Miss, the show has just ended. There will be another in one hour. You may buy your ticket now, if you wish, and be guaranteed of getting in.”

  “Are you Mr. Styles?” Holly asked.

  The man’s expression turned guarded. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “We’ve never met. I read the story about you in the National Expo.”

  “Ah, yes, that piece of drivel. Since that was published I don’t even allow a camera into the tent. I would ban writers, too, if there was a way to tell them from other layabouts. How may I be of service to you?”

  “I, er, think I know your… Animal Boy.”

  “Grolo? I hardly think that’s likely, Miss…”

  “Dr. Lang.”

  “Doctor,” Styles amended. “What makes you think you are acquainted with my protégé?”

  “In the first place, his name is Malcolm.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Doctor. I don’t know any Malcolm.”

  “Holly!” The joyful cry came from the rear of the tent. “I thought I recognized your voice.”

  Holly and Bateman Styles turned: Malcolm jumped down from the stage and ran toward them, smiling broadly.

  “You know this lady?” said Styles.

  “It’s all right, Bate,” the boy said. “She’s a friend of mine.”

  As he reached them Malcolm stopped, suddenly shy. Holly opened her arms and he responded with an enthusiastic hug.

  “Malcolm, Malcolm, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for more than a year.”

  “I’ve been a lot of places. Since May I’ve been traveling with Mr. Styles. How did you find me?”

  “A story in the paper.”

  Malcolm frowned. “That one with the awful picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was just a lot of made-up stuff.”

  “I was sure of that,” Holly said, “but I thought it might be you.”

  Styles cleared his throat. “If you will be good enough to excuse me, I have a number of errands to run, and I’m sure you have things to talk about. Malcolm, why don’t we skip the next show and close out with the ten o’clock.”

  “Can we afford it?”

  “Don’t worry about that, my boy; we’re well ahead of the game. A reunion with your friend certainly takes precedence.”

  “Well, thanks, Bate,” Malcolm said.

  “Think nothing of it. I will see you at ten.” He touched the brim of his straw hat. “Good evening, Doctor.”

  Holly nodded to him, and she and Malcolm walked off up the midway arm-in-arm.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have found you at last,” Holly said.

  “So am I,” said the boy.

  “You’ve grown.”

  “I guess so.”

  Holly squeezed his arm. “If you can get your things together, we can leave right away and be back in Pinyon in the morning.”

  Malcolm’s happy expression faded. “Are they looking for me back there because of, you know, what happened at that clinic?”

  “Nobody is looking for you, except to help you, Malcolm. What happened up there at Bear Paw was not your fault. Everybody knows that.”

  “They do?”

  “You have my word for that. You trust me, don’t you, Malcolm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then shall we get started?”

  The boy looked doubtful. “I don’t like to leave Bate just like that.”

  “Why on earth not? The man has been exhibiting you like some kind of a freak.”

  “It’s not that way, Holly. Mr. Styles has been good to me. I was feeling really bad when I met him, and he gave me something to do with my life. Besides…” He hesitated.

  “What is it?” Holly prompted.

  “I am some kind of a freak.”

  Holly came to a stop and turned to face him. She spoke sharply. “Don’t you ever talk that way again, Malcolm. You are… different, through no fault of your own. Some people are born with terrible deformit
ies. They can’t help it either. But you are not a freak. Not something to be put in a cage and shown to a lot of curiosity seekers.”

  “It really isn’t that bad,” Malcolm said. “I don’t even think about the people who come to see me. When I’m up there on the stage I think about… other things.”

  “You don’t want to go on doing it, though, do you?”

  “No, I… I guess not. I’m always afraid that someday I’ll lose control for real.”

  “Then come back with me, Malcolm. Let me try to help you.”

  “Do you think I could ever be… cured, Holly?” His eyes searched her face.

  Holly hesitated before she answered. “I don’t know, Malcolm. I want to be honest with you, and not give you any false hopes. Your case is so different from anything doctors have dealt with that no one can say if there is a cure. One thing I will promise you: I will do everything I can, and so will a lot of other concerned people, to help you in any possible way. Okay?”