THE HOWLING II

by Gary Brandner

  No, he thought as he swam slowly after her, not quite everything. Sometimes, though, it seemed he was trying. Until three years ago he had lived a fairly quiet bachelor life. He raised a little hell on weekends, did his share of womanizing, but on the whole led a life devoid of extreme highs and lows. Then came the urgent call for help from Karyn Beatty. Answering that call had plunged Chris into a night of hell in the mountain village of Drago, and had changed his life forever.

  After the horror of Drago and the fire that destroyed it, there had been the nerve-shattering six months he and Karyn had spent trying to run away from it. When he finally returned to reality he had quit his job and gone into partnership with solid Walt Eckersall, who allowed him to take off two or three months a year. He had moved out of the swinging-singles apartment and rented a house in Benedict Canyon, where he could party when he felt like it and be left alone when he wanted to. When he worked he worked hard, and when he played he went to places like the Kona Coast or Curacao or Mazatlán. Sometimes he went with a woman, sometimes by himself.

  Chris knew that his life-style was designed to help him forget the past. Most of the time it worked, but for some reason he had lately found himself often thinking of Karyn. He had never shaken the nagging guilt he felt for not going to see her at her parents' home after the Las Vegas crack-up.

  What the hell, he told himself for the hundredth time. She got better, didn't she? After the way things ended, seeing him would have done nothing to help her condition. It could easily have made things worse. Chris put his head down in the water and stroked powerfully toward the shore.

  Audrey was waiting for him when he waded up onto the beach. Her momentary irritation was all over.

  "About Goddamn time, slowpoke. I thought I was going to have to swim out and haul you in."

  '"Why do you think I was stalling?" he said.

  "I thought maybe you were daydreaming about some old girlfriend."

  Chris looked at her quickly, but saw she was just kidding. One of those unconscious intuitive flashes women seemed to get. If they ever harnessed that power, he thought, they could rule the world.

  He said, "Do you want to go get some lunch?"

  Audrey lowered her eyes demurely and peeked up at him through thick, moist lashes. "Do I have another choice?"

  "My God, woman, you're insatiable."

  "Damn right, big fella, and you love it. Come on, I'll help you shower off the salt."

  They walked hand in hand up from the beach and along the wide veranda of the old Spanish-style building that was the original hotel. In the early 1960s, six separate cabanas had been built on either side of the main building, following the curve of the beach. Chris and Audrey turned in at Number 7, the nearest to the main building, on the south side.

  An hour and a half later Chris lay face down, naked, on the bed. His face was pressed against the pillow, his body completely relaxed. Audrey moved restlessly around the room, her tanned body glowing in the light from the afternoon sun that filtered between the slats of the bamboo shades.

  "Why do men always want to go to sleep afterwards?" she said.

  "Mmmpff," Chris muttered into the pillow.

  "It always pumps me full of energy. Makes me want to get moving and do things."

  Chris rolled over onto his side and looked at her. "We already did things."

  She dropped into one of the two rattan chairs and stroked herself between the legs. "Good things." She gave him a mischievous look. "I'll bet I could get you interested again."

  He sat up and swung his feet off the bed. "No question about it, but first let's go get some lunch."

  "Okay, spoilsport."

  "Got to keep up my strength, honey. A man my age needs a balanced diet."

  "A man your age," she mocked. "Jesus, thirty-three is really getting up there, isn't it?"

  "Hand me my pants," he said.

  Audrey took a pair of white jeans from the back of the chair where she was sitting and carried them to the bed. As she handed them to Chris, something fell out of the pocket and hit the grass carpet with a tiny thump. Audrey dropped to her knees and looked around on the floor for a moment. Then she reached under the bed and came out with a small silver object. She held it out to Chris in the palm of her hand.

  "What's this?" she said. "I've never seen it before."

  Chris's expression sobered. "It's nothing." He held out his hand. "Here, I'll take it."

  "It looks like a bullet."

  The tiny lump of metal winked up at Chris. It was a bullet, all right. A twenty-two caliber long rifle bullet of pure silver. There had been twelve of them, made to Chris's order by a bemused Los Angeles gunsmith. On the night of the werewolves in Drago, he had fired eleven of them. Karyn had fired the last. Chris had returned just once to the burned-out village, and the bullet had gleamed up at him like an eye from the blackened earth. He had pocketed the bullet and never gone near the place again.

  "It's just a toy," he said to Audrey. "Let's have it."

  "Another secret," Audrey said, sulking. "You never tell me anything really important about yourself."

  "What do you mean, honey? I'm an open book."

  "No, I'm serious. I know that little bullet has some important meaning for you. Why won't you share it with me?"

  "Because it's none of your business."

  Audrey closed her fist around the bullet and marched across the room to the closet, where she began rattling coat hangers irritably. "I'll bet it was a present from that woman."

  "What woman?"

  "The woman. The one you had the hot rocks for and was married to your best friend."

  Chris studied the bare back of the girl as she sorted through the clothes hanging in the closet. Either she was a lot more perceptive than he gave her credit for, or he was talking in his sleep.

  "Get dressed," he said. "I'm hungry."

  As they sat in the hotel dining room awaiting their lunch, the conversation was strained and artificial. It was as though a third person sat unseen at their table, listening.

  18

  THE AIRPORT AT Mazatlán was small by United States standards. Karyn Richter unbuckled her seat belt as the Aeronaves 727 rolled to a stop. From the window by her seat she watched with amazement the number and variety of aircraft landing, taking off, taxiing, waiting, and just sitting there. There were sleek new jets, old DC-3s, corporate Lears, private Cessnas and Pipers, and even a battered old open-cockpit biplane. Karyn could see no pattern to their movements, but she assured herself that somewhere a control tower was directing the traffic. Nevertheless, compared to big, orderly LAX, it was like a downtown intersection on Christmas Eve.

  When the door was opened she joined the other passengers and filed out and down the stairway that had been rolled up to the plane. She crossed the expanse of black tarmac to the terminal building.

  Inside it was hot and crowded. Over the noise of arriving and departing passengers announcements rattled continually over the PA system loudspeakers, first in Spanish, then English. Karyn located the baggage-claim counter and after an hour was finally reunited with her bag. She carried it out of the terminal building and set it down on the sidewalk. The air outside was fresh and cool with a hint of the sea, and she inhaled gratefully.

  "Carry your suitcase, lady?"

  The voice close behind her startled Karyn. She turned to see a tall, pockmarked youth grinning at her through bad teeth. The end of a wooden match protruded from one corner of his mouth.

  "No, thank you," she said, and turned away.

  "Ah, come on, lady, you don' wan' to carry that heavy thin' all by yourself."

  Karyn looked pointedly up the street, trying to ignore him.

  "I'm real strong. I can carry anythin' you got. Wan' to see my muscle?"

  "I don't need anything carried." She tried to keep the apprehension from showing in her voice.

  The youth picked up her bag and backed off, hefting it. "See? It's not too heavy for me."

  "Please," Kary
n said, trying to sound authoritative, "put that down. It belongs to me."

  "Ah, lady, you don' wan' to talk like that."

  "Ay, chico!" A deep male voice snapped off the words like a whip. The startled boy looked over Karyn's shoulder, and she turned too to see who had spoken.

  A square-bodied man with an enormous Zapata moustache glared at the boy. He spoke in hard-edged street Spanish, punctuating his words by jabbing a finger down at the sidewalk.

  The boy's insolent grin fell away. He set the bag down at Karyn's feet and started to back off.

  The stranger spoke again in Spanish. His voice was soft, but the words were unmistakably a command.

  The boy's eyes shifted over to Karyn. "I'm sorry, lady," he muttered, then slipped away into the crowd coming out of the building.

  "Permit me to offer apology for my city, señora," said the man with the moustache. "That boy was a rufían, a bad one. We are not all like him. There are many good people in Mazatlán."

  "I'm sure there are," Karyn said. "Thank you."

  The man gestured toward a mud-spattered, ten-year-old Plymouth parked at the curb. The white painted letters TAXI were barely visible on the door under a coating of dirt. "The taxi of Luis Zarate is at your service, señora. Also guide service, if you desire."

  "Well—I could use a taxi," Karyn said. "Can you take me to the Palacio del Mar Hotel?"

  "Con mucho gusto, señora," said Luis Zarate. With a flourish he swept open the rear door of the Plymouth and gestured Karyn inside. He carried her bag to the rear and put it in the trunk, which he closed by tying the lid to the bumper with a frayed length of electric cord.

  "The Palacio is a beautiful hotel," he said when he was in position behind the wheel. "It is old and comfortable, and not so big that they forget about you."

  "That's nice," Karyn said, without really listening.

  Luis started the car and they pulled away from the curb with a grinding of gears and the roar of an unmuffled engine. As he drove, Luis proudly pointed out the sights of the city—the twin golden spires of the cathedral, the old Farol lighthouse looming off-shore, the busy fishing docks—until he sensed that Karyn was not paying attention.

  "The señora is troubled?" he said.

  Karyn looked up sharply. "What's that?"

  Luis Zarate's dark, liquid eyes regarded her seriously from the rear-view mirror. "Forgive me, señora, I do not mean to speak out of my place. But I am a gypsy, comprende, and through my blood I have a gift for knowing when someone is in trouble."

  "Really?" Karyn said. "You're a gypsy?"

  Luis' eyes twinkled at her. "Well, a little bit. My great-grandmother on my mother's side was said to be a gypsy. Anyway, it talkes only a little such blood to make you a gypsy, no?"

  "I suppose so," Karyn said, smiling.

  They drove on in silence for a mile before the taxi driver spoke again. "The señora is visiting Mazatlán all alone?"

  Karyn answered carefully. "No, I—I'm meeting a friend at the hotel."

  "It is well. Mazatlán is a beautiful city, and visitors are welcome, but as you have seen, there are bad people here as there are in all cities. It is not wise for a lady to travel too much alone." He was silent for a moment, then added, "You will be here long?"

  "I don't know," Karyn said. "Not very."

  "Forgive me," said Luis with a little shrug. "I ask too many questions. I jus' thought maybe the señora could use a guide. Someone who will charge you a fair price, and who knows Mazatlán and the jungles and hills behind the city like the lines in his own hand."

  Karyn could not suppress a smile. "Someone like Luis Zarate?"

  "Sí, señora. Forgive my boast, but it is the truth."

  "I appreciate the offer," Karyn said, "but I don't think I'll be doing much sightseeing."

  "Eh, bien, you will keep Luis Zarate in mind, yes?"

  "Yes," Karyn told him, "I will."

  Luis drove on out of the city and along a stretch where tree branches with broad green leaves overhung the road on both sides. They turned back toward the sea then and followed the lip of a bluff for a short distance before starting down to the crescent of beach belonging to the Palacio del Mar. Karyn was pleased by the symmetry of the white main building with its red-tiled roof and the cabanas, like miniature copies, extending in a curved row on either side like arms embracing the beach.

  As Luis drove along the roadway skirting the beach Karyn looked for Chris Halloran, but did not see him. The closer she came, the more her nerves jumped. There were so many questions. What would be his reaction to seeing her? Would he reject her? Was it fair for her to come back into his life bringing a horror that was no longer his concern? For a moment Karyn had a wild impulse to order the taxi around and head back to the airport. But then where would she go? There was no place left. There was no one else to go to.

  "Señora?"

  At the sound of the driver's voice, Karyn realized they had come to a stop before the hotel's wide Spanish-style veranda.

  Luis jumped out and opened the door for her with another flourish. He retrieved her bag from the tied-down trunk and followed as Karyn walked up the steps and into the tiled lobby of the old hotel. She crossed to the registration desk, where a light-complexioned man with a high arched nose watched her with a small professional smile. A metal plate on the counter before him spelled out in raised letters: J. Davila, Manager.

  "Good afternoon, señora," he said.

  Karyn nodded to acknowledge the greeting. "I'm looking for a gentleman I understand is registered here. Mr. Halloran."

  A shadow flickered across the manager's eyes. "Ah, yes, Señor Halloran. You are—a relative?"

  "No, I'm a friend. If he's registered here, I'd like to see him, please."

  Señor Davila checked his registration cards in a businesslike, manner. He pulled one of the cards out of the file and examined it. "Yes, Mr. Halloran is one of our guests."

  "May I have his room number?"

  "He is registered in Cabana Number 7."

  "Thank you. Is there a phone I can use to call him?"

  "I am sorry, there are no telephones in the cabanas."

  "Then if you'll show me where it is, I'll go and find him myself."

  "Ah, but that would be of no use. Señor Halloran is not in his cabana now."

  Karyn's temper began to fray. "Well, where is he? I came here to see Mr. Halloran, and I don't have time to waste."

  Luis Zarate stepped up to the desk. "Permit me, señora," he said, then spoke briefly in Spanish to the man at the desk. When he had finished, the hotel manager turned to Karyn with an apologetic smile.

  "Señor Halloran is presently at lunch in our dining room," he said.

  "Thank you," Karyn said coolly. "Now if you will just tell me where the dining room is—"

  Davila looked uncomfortable. "I am obliged to tell the señora that Señor Halloran is not lunching alone."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, so he has a girl with him. It makes no difference to me. What did you think—that I was his wife?"

  "One is never sure," said Davila. The relief was evident in his expression. "Permit me to show you to the dining room, señora."

  "Do you wish me to wait?" asked Luis.

  "No," Karyn said, "I don't think so." She paid the fare and added a generous tip.

  "Muchas gracias," said the taxi driver. "You will not forget, if you need any form of assistance while you are in Mazatlán, no one is better prepared to deliver than Luis Zarate."

  "I won't forget," Karyn assured him. Luis deposited her bag behind the registration desk and walked back out the entrance. Davila came around the desk and Karyn followed him out through the lobby and beneath an archway into the dining room.

  It was a big bright room with sunlight streaming in through tall windows along one wall. The tables were widely spaced, covered with clean white linen and set with gleaming silver.

  It took Karyn only a moment to find Chris. He hadn't changed much, she thought. Still the sam
e firm features, the unruly brown hair, and as always a deep tan. He was a touch more serious around the eyes, maybe. But who wouldn't be, after two years?

  Chris was seated facing Karyn, but not looking in her direction. On the near side of the table sat a girl with long, shiny auburn hair. From the way the girl sat erect and held her head cocked to one side, Karyn could tell she was young and lively. Karyn was surprised at the pang of jealousy.

  The hotel manager started to lead the way across the room to Chris's table.

  "Never mind," Karyn said. "I see him."

  She walked alone toward the table. When she was ten feet away Chris looked up and saw her. Ever since she had left Los Angeles, Karyn had tried to prepare for this moment when she and Chris Halloran faced each other again after two years apart. However, she was not ready for the montage of memories, good and bad, that flashed across her mind. Chris's face reflected many of the same emotions she felt, with the added shock of seeing her so unexpectedly. He sat frozen for a moment, then rose from his chair.

  "Karyn. What—what a surprise."

  "Hello, Chris."

  "It's been a while."

  "Yes. It has."

  They stood for a moment looking at each other, with a thousand things to say, and nothing that could be said.

  The girl sitting at the table set her water glass down with a distinct thump. Chris looked down suddenly, as though surprised at finding her there.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Karyn, this is Audrey Vance. Audrey, an old friend of mine, Karyn Beatty."

  "It's Karyn Richter now."

  "Oh. I see. Excuse me."

  Audrey looked up from her chair with a dazzling smile. She ran her eyes over Karyn appraisingly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Richter. I haven't met many of Chris's old friends."

  Karyn wondered if she detected a faint emphasis on old. "Please call me Karyn," she said.

  Chris glanced warily from one woman to the other. "Have you had lunch, Karyn?" he said quickly. "'Won't you join us?"

  "Yes, please do," said Audrey.

  "I ate on the plane," Karyn said, "but I could use a cup of coffee."