THE HOWLING II

by Gary Brandner

  "No."

  "Somebody killed Zora Stovall's horse!"

  "I don't believe it! That beautiful palomino?"

  "That's not the worst of it. You should see the way it was done. The poor thing's throat and belly was torn right out. There's two policemen over there now. They say they've never seen anything like it. They say it must be some crazy sadist like the one who was cutting up cows out in the valley a few years back."

  Mrs. Oliver glanced worriedly at Karyn.

  "Have they any idea who did it?" Karyn asked.

  "Not really. They say they've got some leads, but the police always say that. It's a terrible mess. They won't let anybody go out near the corral. Poor Zora is all broken up. She loved that horse."

  Karyn had heard enough. She left her mother and Mrs. Gipson looking after her, and went up to her room to begin packing. As she had feared, the wolves of Drago had found her again. There was no doubt in her mind who was responsible for the slaughter of the horse. Now she had to run again.

  Abruptly, Karyn's icy calm fell to pieces. She sat down heavily on the bed and began to cry. She could not go on running like this every time Marcia Lura and Roy caught up with her. There was no way she could escape them. They seemed to have no trouble finding her, and could probably take her any time they chose.

  Karyn got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She dried her eyes and blew her nose lustily into a Kleenex. Stop this, girl, she told herself. It's time to stand and fight. She felt a little better then, but still knew she could not go up against them alone. And it was futile to try to enlist anyone to help her who did not know the horror. In all the world there was just one man who knew, and might help her now. He had once before. Chris Halloran.

  16

  IN THE MORNING Karyn rummaged through her things and found an old address book with Chris Halloran's phone number. At the time, he was living at a singles' complex in Marina Del Rey called the Surf King. She called the three-year-old number from a phone in her parents' kitchen while Mr. and Mrs. Oliver were in another part of the house.

  After a series of clicks a recorded female voice came over the wire: The number you have called is out of service. Please check your directory to be sure you have the correct number, then dial again.

  Karyn followed the recorded instructions and again reached the disembodied voice. She banged down the receiver in frustration. She should have expected it, of course. In Southern California, where businesses, buildings, and people come and go overnight, it was a lot to expect that a telephone number would get the same party after three years.

  There was still the possibility that Chris lived at the same place, but had changed his telephone to an unlisted number. It was, Karyn decided, worth checking out. She could not give up now. She borrowed the car keys from her father and left the house. It was shortly before noon.

  The Buick seemed like an excess of automobile to Karyn after the little Datsun she had driven in Seattle, but it rode smoothly, and the power equipment made it easy to handle. She drove down the San Diego Freeway past Culver City to the Marina turnoff.

  The Surf King Apartments consisted of four interconnected buildings in cream-colored masonry with harmonizing pastel balconies. Karyn parked in an area marked Visitors, and entered the complex through a palm-flanked gateway. She crossed the red adobe central court and passed the Olympic-sized swimming pool where an assortment of young men and women presented their bodies to the sun. They eyed her speculatively from behind their Foster Grants as she walked by. Karyn ignored them and followed a series of arrows past the sauna and the Jacuzzi to the manager's apartment.

  She touched the buzzer, and the door was swept open by a muscular young man with a full black beard, wearing a T-shirt printed with the Coors logo.

  "Hi," he said, "I'm Ron."

  "Hello—" Karyn began.

  "You're really in luck," he said. "I have a vacancy opening up the first of the week. You'll love it. It's a bachelorette, balcony, built-ins, dishwasher, wet bar, sofa makes into a queen-sized bed. Want to take a look?"

  "No, thanks," Karyn told him. "I'm not looking for an apartment."

  Ron's smile dimmed.

  "I'm looking for someone who lives here. At least he used to. His name is Chris Halloran."

  The manager frowned. "Halloran? It doesn't sound familiar, but I've got two hundred units here with people moving in and out all the time. I'll check the list of tenants."

  He sat down at a desk and pulled out several sheets of paper with names typed on them. Many were crossed off and inked over. Ron traced a finger down the columns of names.

  "Nope, sorry. No Halloran."

  "He must have moved," Karyn said. "I know he was living here three years ago."

  "A lot of people come and go in three years," the manager said. "I've only been here four months myself."

  "Could you look it up for me?" Karyn said. "You must have the records."

  "We have 'em, but they're all locked up out in the back."

  Karyn switched on one of her best smiles. "I'd really appreciate it if you could check for me. It's awfully important."

  Without much enthusiasm the young man left Karyn sitting on the sofa that probably opened into a queen-sized bed, and he disappeared into another room. After several minutes he came back carrying a ledger-sized book.

  "You're right," he said, "Christopher Halloran was in 314-C three years ago. Had the place a year, moved out the next April."

  Karyn calculated that Chris had given up his apartment here shortly after their split-up in Las Vegas.

  "What was the forwarding address?" she said.

  Ron scowled down at the ledger. "There isn't any."

  "But there has to be." A note of panic crept into Karyn's voice.

  "Well, there isn't," Ron insisted. "There's no law that says you have to give one. Listen, if you're so hot to find this guy, why don't you hire a detective?"

  Because there's no time, Karyn thought. I need Chris now, today, before something else happens. Before someone else dies.

  "Anything wrong?"

  Karyn realized she had been staring right through the manager. She shook her head and managed a smile. "No, nothing. Thanks for your trouble." She turned to leave.

  "Sure you don't want to just take a look at that bachelorette? We're building tennis courts, and there're parties three nights a week."

  Karyn gave him another small shake of her head and walked on out of the Surf King. The dashboard clock in the Buick told her the day was half gone. She felt a terrible urgency to locate Chris before nightfall.

  Her next stop was Techtron Engineering, in Inglewood, near the airport. She went inside and spoke to the personnel manager in his small, functional office.

  "Chris Halloran left Techtron two years ago," he said.

  Karyn felt a sudden emptiness.

  "He took a long leave of absence, and when he came back he was never quite the same. Restless, sort of. We were all sorry to see him go. Everyone here liked Chris. In the last few weeks here, though, he couldn't settle down to handle the routine parts of his job. Said he needed more freedom. So he quit."

  Afraid of the answer she would get, Karyn asked the question, "Do you know where he went?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Hope flickered again.

  "Chris and another man who worked here at the time, a man named Walter Eckersall, went into partnership and started their own consulting firm. They were a perfect team. Chris supplied the enthusiasm and the creative thinking, and Walt took care of the solid, practical details."

  "Are they still in business?"

  "'Yes, they are. And doing very well, too. We even call them in to do a job for us now and then."

  The personnel man wrote down an address in North Hollywood. Karyn thanked him and hurried out to the Buick. It was mid-afternoon. Time was slipping away.

  The building on Lankershim Boulevard was a low, cinderblock structure with clean lines and a modest sign on the front identifying it as
E & H Engineering Consultants. Karyn scanned the automobiles parked in the diagonal spaces in front of the building, half-hoping to see Chris's bright red Camaro. It was not there. But of course, she told herself, he would have a different car by now.

  Inside, the girl at the reception desk, a chesty brunette, smiled up at her.

  "I'd like to see Mr. Halloran," Karyn said.

  "Mr. Halloran isn't in," the girl said carefully. "Can Mr. Eckersall help you?"

  Karyn's spirits sagged again. Finding someone in real life could be so difficult. In the movies all you did was pick up a phone, and there they were. But in the movies there was always a parking place in front of the bank too. "I'll talk to Mr. Eckersall," she said.

  Walter Eckersall was a tall, loose jointed man with bushy brown hair. He wore black-rimmed plastic glasses and spoke in a voice of surprising gentleness.

  "You had some business with Chris?" he said.

  "Not really," Karyn said. "It's more personal."

  Eckersall's eyes shifted their focus to a far corner of the room. "Chris is taking a little vacation just now. If you're a friend of his, you'll know how he appreciates his leisure."

  "Yes, I know," Karyn said quickly. "Can you tell me where he's gone?"

  Eckersall looked uncomfortable. "Uh, I don't know if I can really, uh—"

  "I should tell you," Karyn said, "that there is no romance involved here. My personal business with Chris has nothing to do with his private life."

  Eckersall gave her a relieved smile. "Sorry. When an attractive lady comes in looking for Chris I sort of assume—well, never mind that. He's down in Mexico now. Staying at a hotel just outside Mazatlán. The Palacia del Mar."

  "Thank you," Karyn said. "And don't worry, you haven't gotten Chris in any trouble."

  "There's one more thing I'd better mention," Eckersall said. "He's not down there alone."

  Karyn hesitated only a moment. "Knowing Chris," she said, "I didn't think he would be."

  Heading back to Brentwood in the late afternoon, Karyn silently cursed the traffic on Sunset Boulevard that slowed her progress. Soon it would be dark, and the night, she knew, belonged to the werewolf.

  By the time she reached her parents' house the sun had slipped down behind the Santa Monica Mountains. Darkness fell like a curtain. Karyn put the car away in the garage, then stood outside and swung down the counterbalanced door. She started for the house. Halfway along the walk to the front door her heart froze.

  A sound.

  Something moving in the bushes.

  Karyn turned for one terrified look. It was just a dark shape. A shadow moving among shadows. But there was no mistaking what it was.

  Karyn fought off the paralysis and ran for the house. Please, God, let the door be unlocked! She banged into the solid oak panel, fumbled a split second for the knob, turned it in her slippery hand and half-fell into the house.

  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, startled, rose from their chairs in the living room. Karyn slammed the heavy door shut and cranked the deadbolt lock into place. Outside something thudded softly against the door. Then there was silence.

  Her mother came quickly toward her. "Karyn, what's the matter?"

  "Is someone out there?" her father said.

  Karyn stood with her back braced against the door and struggled to keep her voice at a normal level. "It's all right. Something startled me for a moment."

  Mrs. Oliver put her hands gently on her daughter's shoulders. Frank Oliver reached for the doorknob.

  "If somebody's bothering you—" he began.

  "No, Daddy, don't go out there!!" Karyn cried. Her father looked at her sharply, and she went on in a quieter tone. "Please, Daddy. For me."

  Reluctantly he drew his hand back.

  "Is the back door locked?" Karyn asked. "And the windows?"

  "Karyn," her father said, "if something's happened, I want to know about it."

  "Frank." Mrs. Oliver's tone caught his attention. "It won't do any harm to make sure the place is locked up. And it will make Karyn feel better."

  Frank Oliver looked from his wife to his daughter. "Well, sure. All right."

  "Could we do it now?" Karyn said. "Right away?"

  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver exchanged a look, then began checking the windows. Karyn hurried through the house and tried the back door. She was relieved to find it locked. After making sure the kitchen windows were secure, she relaxed a little. She knew her mother and father thought they were humoring a somewhat neurotic daughter, but that was all right. Better than taking a chance with the thing that was out there somewhere in the night. The beast was taunting her, Karyn felt. Letting her know it could kill her at almost any time it chose. Well, maybe it would pass up one opportunity too many.

  She drew a deep breath and walked back into the living room to join her parents.

  "Everything's locked up tight," Mrs. Oliver said.

  "And double-checked," Frank Oliver added.

  Karyn hugged her mother, then went over and took hold of her father's hands, "Thank you both," she said, feeling the depth of her love for these people. "You won't have to worry about this after tonight. I'll be leaving tomorrow."

  "Leaving?" said her mother. "I'd hoped you could stay longer. A week or so, at least."

  "I wish I could," Karyn said, "but there's something I have to settle once and for all before I can ever stay anywhere comfortably again."

  She waited. Both of her parents wanted very badly to ask her questions. It showed plainly in their faces. Where was she going? Why? For how long? But, God bless them, they held their questions inside.

  "I promise I'll tell you all about it," she said, "when I come back."

  I'll tell you something, anyway, she thought. Something you can believe.

  When I come back.

  If I come back.

  It was a long and sleepless night, but in the morning she was still alive.

  17

  A FRESH BREEZE flowed in off the Gulf of California, bringing relief to the damp heat of the Mazatlán summer. North of the city, where the tropical forest pushed close to the shoreline, the Palacio del Mar Hotel occupied a half-moon of beach.

  On the stretch of white sand in front of the hotel Chris Halloran lay on a beach blanket. He was propped on his elbows, eyes shaded by a tattered straw hat, as he watched a pretty, auburn-haired girl play in the light surf.

  The Palacio was generally favored by an older, quieter clientele than that favoring the new high-rise resorts which had gone up in the city. Chris liked the older hotel because it felt like Mexico.

  The pastel stucco of the main beach area was not much different from Miami. Beach or Waikiki. At the Palacio you could hear Spanish spoken by the fishermen who came down from the village of Camarón, and you could smell the heady aroma of chiles from the kitchen where the hotel employees ate.

  Two of the employees walked by on the path bordering the stretch of beach where Chris lay. Roberto, a handsome lad of seventeen, carried a tray of iced tea for a couple from Indianapolis who sat up the beach protecting their sunburns under one of the hotel's umbrellas. Dancing along at Roberto's side was Blanca, saucy and pert in her maid's uniform, her arms loaded with fresh towels for the cabanas. The eyes of the boy and girl spoke intimately to each other.

  Ah, young love, thought Chris Halloran as he watched them pass. Had he ever been in love like that? And once you lost it, could you ever get it back?

  At the edge of the water, Audrey Vance stood barely covered by a pink bikini. Her slim, tanned legs were planted apart in the sand. She beckoned for Chris to come and join her.

  Chris smiled at her and waved no thanks. Audrey was an actress who photographed like a dream, but couldn't act her way into a high-school play. Thus, her appearances on various television series were mainly decorative. Chris had enjoyed her enthusiasm during their stay in Mazatlán, but he was beginning to think it was time he went back to work.

  Audrey struck a pouting pose and shook her head at him in exasperation.
Chris tipped the straw hat down over his eyes and lay back on the beach towel.

  A moment later, cool droplets of saltwater splashed on his chest and stomach as Audrey stood over him shaking out her hair.

  "Come on," she said, "swim with me."

  "I'm resting."

  "Shit, you can rest any time. I want somebody to swim with me." She reached down and lifted the hat from his eyes. "Maybe I'll go and ask that beautiful young stud who works around here. That Roberto. I'll bet he'd come swimming with me."

  "He might at that," Chris said, "but you might have a problem with his girlfriend."

  "Come on, Chris, don't be an old fart." She kicked sand across his bare stomach, then ran lightly toward the water, laughing back over her shoulder at him.

  With a sigh Chris pushed himself to his feet and jogged over the sand after the girl. While he was in Los Angeles Chris kept in shape with twice-weekly workouts at the gym, along with tennis and handball. Swimming, however, had never appealed to him. Even when he lived at the marina, he rarely used the swimming pool, and went to the beach only to play volleyball.

  He followed Audrey as she splashed happily into the surf. The water was bathtub warm, and the waves were low and gentle. The girl swam easily ahead of him with long graceful strokes while he tried to keep up with his own windmilling version of the crawl.

  Fifty yards offshore, Audrey stopped and waited for him, treading water. When he splashed up beside her she wrapped her arms and legs around him and gave him a big open-mouthed kiss. They sank together slowly below the surface:

  Chris came up sputtering and blowing as the girl bobbed up like a dolphin beside him.

  "What are you trying to do, drown me?" he said between coughs.

  Audrey tossed the wet hair out of her eyes and laughed at him. Chris tried and failed to hold a stern expression.

  "You're crazy, you know that?" he said.

  She swam over close to him and slipped one hand under the waist band of his trunks. "Have you ever screwed under water?"

  "Sure, lots of times."

  Abruptly the girl's mood changed. She backed off and looked at him. "You've done just every damn thing, haven't you?" Without waiting for a response, she struck out toward the beach.