THE HOWLING II

by Gary Brandner

  The old woman returned to staring at the fire. She said nothing.

  "Chris, what's the time?" Karyn said suddenly.

  He glanced at his watch, then strode to the doorway and pulled aside the animal skin. The sun had moved markedly toward the horizon. The valley to the east of the gypsy's cabin was already in shadow.

  "It's time to go," he said.

  Karyn crossed the room and joined him at the doorway. Philina remained sitting on the pile of rags, not looking at them. Chris pulled two bills from his wallet and held them out toward the old woman. She made no move to take the money. Chris laid the bills on the broken chair, and with Karyn beside him left the cabin.

  The journey down the mountain trail was much swifter than coming up. The burros, knowing they were headed home, jogged along at a spine-jarring rate. Still, the sun seemed to plunge ahead of them. By the time they reached the shack of Guillermo the burro-keeper, it was twilight. Behind them the mountain loomed black and forbidding.

  Karyn was vastly relieved to see Luis waiting there for them in his battered taxi. She and Chris quickly dismounted and turned the burros over to Guillermo. They hurried to the car and got in, automatically locking the doors and rolling the windows up tight. Luis gunned the Plymouth down the dirt road toward the highway and the city.

  "We did cut it a little close," Chris said.

  Karyn turned to look out the rear window. "Yes, for a minute there I thought—"

  She left the sentence unfinished, for from somewhere back there in the dark, tangled chaparral came the howling.

  24

  ROY BEATTY CROUCHED in the brash alongside the road and watched as his wife and his friend climbed into the battered taxi. They were not thirty yards away from him. How open they would be at this moment, how vulnerable to the attack of the wolf! Roy looked anxiously off to the west. The sun was almost down, but enough glowing red showed at the horizon to prevent him from changing. Enough to save the lives of these two people. This time.

  The shadows of the twilight lengthened and joined and spread like ink spilled from a bottle until there was darkness. Roy tore the soft cotton shirt from his back. He pulled off the canvas shoes he wore over bare feet, and stepped out of his pants.

  He knelt naked in the fast-chilling night and willed his body to change.

  His muscles bunched and released convulsively. His joints cracked audibly as the bones shifted in their sockets. He fell forward to his hands and knees. His neck arched. There was an instant of blinding pain as the change wracked his body. Then came the exultation. The wild joy of freedom as the great tan wolf took possession of the man.

  The wolf moved silently out from behind the brush. The head turned and the yellow eyes looked off down the rutted dirt road that wound down toward the highway. Far below, the glowing red tail lights of the taxi were still visible. The wolf raised his muzzle to the night sky and howled—a cry of hate and defiance.

  In the enclosure behind the shack of Guillermo, the burros twitched their ears at the sound. They looked up from their grazing and stirred restlessly. In their soft, drowsy eyes was the shadow of fear.

  The door of the cabin opened the width of a hand and Guillermo looked out. He saw nothing in the night, and quickly withdrew. There was the sound of heavy scraping from within as Guillermo moved things against the door to keep out the evil.

  Deep in his throat the wolf growled softly. How futile would be the burro-keeper's attempt to bar the door if the wolf really wanted to get in. Against the werewolf the flimsy shack would offer no more protection than a house of paper. But Guillermo was safe this night. He was of no importance; he knew nothing. But there was another in these mountains who would not be so lucky. One who must learn the price of betrayal. The wolf turned and started up the mountain.

  The fire burned low, and then it died to glowing coals in the cabin of Philina the gypsy. She sat still in the cross-legged position she had been in when the man and the woman were here. The money the man had left lay untouched and unseen on the broken chair. Although the night grew cold, the old woman made no move to rebuild the dying fire. She knew she would not need it.

  She had lived many years, Philina. How many was it? Eighty? Ninety? She could not remember. She did remember that once in the long dead past she had been a young girl. A beautiful, laughing young girl. The bloodless lips of the old woman moved in a faint, bitter smile. How long had it been since anyone might have believed that once she was beautiful? Or young?

  And yet it had been so. In a village near Torrelavega, where the Cantabrian Mountains came down to meet the Bay of Biscay, the young Philina had laughed and danced and sang and flirted with the boys like any Spanish gypsy girl. Then abruptly it had all ended. The gypsies discovered that she had The Gift.

  The Gift! The old woman made a rattling sound in her throat. The Curse would be closer to the truth. The Curse of Prophecy. When it became known that she could read what was in the hands, girlhood was over for Philina. The people either clamored after her, begging for a reading, or they shunned her to avoid one. She no longer had friends. And the young men who courted her wanted only to use her terrible power.

  In the end she had fled from all of them and crossed the ocean to live by herself. She chose the mountains above Mazatlán because it reminded her of her home in Spain, where she had known her only happiness, for such a short time.

  But of course she could not forever conceal The Gift. There were gypsies here, too, and they knew, at once. Philina never went into the city, and she discouraged all who would come to her cabin, but still they sought her out. There were not so many now as in the early years, but still some came, like the two young Americans today. They would be the last.

  The Gift. In how many hands over the years had she read the future? Happiness, grief, riches, pain, births, illness, and death. She had seen it all. To Philina the gypsy, all hands were windows to the future. All hands, save her own. Some merciful power withheld from those cursed with The Gift that one ability that might drive them mad—the ability to read their own futures.

  And yet now Philina knew what lay ahead for her. She knew how short was the time she had left. Minutes. She had read it in the hands of the two young strangers. They had brought her death. They had done so innocently, but they had brought death as surely as though they had plunged a knife into her heart.

  The old woman sighed. She was ready. She had lived a long time, and there was nothing left undone.

  She heard death coming outside. It moved softly through the grass of the clearing before her cabin. Over the years Philina's sight had dimmed, but her ears were as keen as ever. She heard the snuffling sound as death approached. It stopped just outside her doorway, and she could hear the air rush in and out of its powerful lungs. Still the gypsy made no move.

  The hide that covered the doorway was torn away as the wolf burst through. It hesitated a moment, snarling, feet braced on the hard dirt floor. Then it sprang.

  Philina made no attempt to protect herself from the murderous teeth. It would have been no use anyway. She had lived a long time, and she was ready.

  25

  BY THE FOLLOWING morning the news of the double murder had been widely reported, and the Palacio del Mar Hotel had become famous. Sightseers streamed in from Mazatlán, Culiacán, Durango, and even La Paz across the Gulf of California for a look at the "cabana de muerte," as the newspapers were calling Number 12. Taxis came and left in a steady procession, and at least one tour bus had been rerouted to include the Palacio. There were still police on the scene, and along with the reporters and curiosity seekers, they gave a sense of great excitement to the normally quiet hotel. Señor Davila, the manager, apologized profusely to the regular guests for the inconvenience, but he was enterprising enough to hire extra help for the bar and double the size of the souvenir stand in the lobby.

  The dining room that morning was the only part of the hotel that was relatively uncrowded. It was there that Karyn and Chris sat at a small table, tal
king in low, tense voices.

  Chris leaned forward, ignoring the muddy coffee cooling in a cup before him. "If anybody had told me three years ago that one day I would be making plans based on the ravings of a gypsy fortuneteller, I'd have laughed in his face."

  "But it's different now," Karyn said.

  "A lot of things are different now."

  "So what's our next move?"

  "The gypsy said we had a chance if we arm ourselves as we did before."

  "How can we do that, Chris? You don't have a gun here, do you?"

  "No. And for a foreigner, it's just about impossible to get one. Let alone silver bullets. But the only things we have to fight them with is fire and silver. We can't control fire, so it will have to be a silver weapon of some kind. A knife, maybe."

  "Can you get a silver knife?"

  "I've got to. There's not much time. Did you check the calendar?"

  "Yes. Tonight is the full moon."

  "If the gypsy woman was right, and we might as well assume she was, then tonight it all comes to an end."

  "One way or another," Karyn said.

  "Right. One way or another."

  There was an awkward pause. Chris looked at his watch. "I'd better get into town and see about the knife. While I'm gone, it might be best if you stayed in your room."

  "No," Karyn said.

  Chris looked up sharply. "What?"

  "I'm not going to lock myself in like some frightened child. Let me go with you."

  Chris shook his head. "I can move faster alone."

  "All right, but I have to do something besides sit here."

  He saw the look in her eye and relented. "At least don't go off anywhere by yourself."

  "Maybe I'll take the cruise in the glass-bottomed boat. How would that be?"

  "I'd feel a lot easier if you stayed locked in your room."

  "There's nothing to worry about. I'll be with twenty other people. The boat leaves before noon and doesn't stay out more than an hour or so. That will get me back well before dark."

  "I hope I'm back well before dark too," Chris said. "I'll make it as fast as I can. We'll stay together tonight and hope that the gypsy was right—that this will be the end of it."

  "What about Audrey?"

  "I don't have time to worry about Audrey's hurt feelings any more. She'll just have to do the best she can." He pushed away from the table and stood up. "I've got to get started. See you."

  "See you, Chris. Take care of yourself."

  "You too." He squeezed her shoulder and went out, quickly disappearing in the crowd of people in the lobby.

  Audrey was still in bed when Chris returned to the cabana. She lay on her stomach with her head turned to one side. Her skin was pale, and there was a film of perspiration on her forehead. The flesh under her eyes was faintly purple.

  "How do you feel?" Chris asked as he crossed to the closet.

  "Like death. What the hell is that Mexican booze made out of, anyway?"

  "Cactus."

  "I believe it." Groaning, she sat up in bed and watched Chris pull on a jacket. "Where are you going?"

  "Into town."

  "What do we have to do in town?"

  "Not 'we,' me."

  "You're going to leave me here alone again?"

  "That's right."

  Audrey threw back the sheet and got out of bed. She was still wearing the blue bikini panties she hadn't taken off the night before. She stood before Chris swaying slightly. The color surged back into her face.

  "What the hell is going on, anyway?" she demanded. "You invite me to spend a couple of weeks in Mexico with you, then you let me sit around this fucking room drinking this foul Mexican booze while you cozy it up with your old lady friend and go off on mysterious trips and—" Anger rose in her throat and choked off the words.

  "Go back to bed," Chris said without looking at her. "The rest will do you good."

  "Like hell I will. I'm not going to take this shit from you any more."

  Chris turned to face her squarely. "Audrey, you don't have to take anything. Our return tickets to Los Angeles are in the top of my suitcase. You can use yours any time you want to."

  Audrey caught her breath. She moved in quickly and wrapped her arms around him.

  "I'm sorry, Chris, I didn't mean all that. I'm just hung over. I miss you, that's all. I want to be with you."

  He held her for a moment. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't intend it to be this way. Things have come up that I don't have any control over."

  "Can't you tell me about it?"

  "Not now." He pulled away from her gently. "I've got to go."

  Audrey released him. He kissed her lightly and went out.

  Chris walked along in front of the hotel, where the driveway was crowded with vehicles bringing sightseers from Mazatlán. Halfway down the line he spotted the battered Plymouth of Luis Zarate. He hurried over and leaned down at the open window on the driver's side.

  "Luis, can you take me into town?"

  The cab driver looked up, startled. "Oh, señor, buenas días. I was, ah, waiting for a passenger."

  "I'm a passenger." Chris opened the back door and got in. "Let's go."

  Luis sighed heavily and started the noisy engine. He turned the Plymouth around with some difficulty and headed back toward Mazatlán. Chris noted the stiff set of his shoulders.

  "Is anything the matter, Luis?"

  "Matter, señor?"

  "You seem, well, uncomfortable."

  "I have my worries."

  "Yes, well, I guess we all do."

  "Where do you want to go, señor?"

  "I want someone who deals in silver."

  Luis swung around in the seat and looked at him. "Silver?"

  "Yes. I think you know what I need it for."

  "Mazatlán is not a good place for silver. Taxco is much better."

  Chris began to lose patience. "Well, I'm not in Taxco, I'm in Mazatlán. I need a knife made of silver, and I need it now. So take me to a silversmith, or let me get out and I'll find somebody who will."

  Luis turned back to the road. His heavy shoulders rose and fell with another sigh. "Sí, señor."

  They drove on into the city of Mazatlán and along Olas Altas Boulevard, where most of the big hotels and expensive restaurants were built. Luis pulled off on a side street, made another turn, and rolled slowly along a narrow avenue of crowded tourist shops and street vendors. There were art stores with bright bullfight paintings stacked out in front, guitar stores, shops stacked to the roof with wickerware, souvenir stands with red plaster bulls and painted maracas. Along the sidewalk, men and women displayed trays of turquoise jewelry and watches, stacks of sombreros and armloads of serapes.

  Chris muttered to himself as he searched the store fronts for a likely looking sign.

  "You see, señor," said Luis, "in Mazatlán is not so easy to find somebody to make you something of silver."

  "I can't believe that," Chris said. "Keep driving."

  In the next block he spotted a narrow shop with a neatly lettered sign in the window that read: JEWELRY MADE TO ORDER.

  "Stop here," he said.

  Luis double parked in front of the shop and Chris got out.

  "Wait for me," he said.

  On the sidewalk in front of the shop two little boys rushed up to Chris offering to sell him gum or plastic flowers. An old woman huddled under blankets shuffled along, the pavement carrying a basket of withered fruit. She held out a blackened banana toward Chris. He brushed past the old woman and the boys and entered the jewelry store.

  A salesman dressed in a neat dark suit hurried forward to greet him. "Good morning, sir. May I help you?"

  "Possibly." Chris glanced down at the display case. It contained pieces of jewelry that looked to be of good quality. "Do you do work in silver?"

  "Yes, sir. We have a fine craftsman here who will make up any piece to your order. Is it for a gentleman or a lady?"

  "I'm not looking for jewelry," Chris said
.

  "Oh?"

  "What I want is a knife. A knife with a blade of silver."

  The man's eyes clouded. The smile gradually faded away. "A knife," he repeated flatly.

  "That's right. I don't care what kind of a handle it has, but I want the blade to be silver, and I want it about six inches long."

  "That is impossible."

  "Why? If your man is as good as you say working with jewelry, surely he can make a knife blade and fit it to a handle."

  "I am sorry, he does not do that kind of work."

  "Can I talk to him myself?"

  "He is not here. He is sick. He will not be in today. Probably not the rest of the week."

  Chris looked into the eyes of the jewelry salesman. The man's gaze slid away and darted around the room.

  "I'm sure you can buy a knife in any of the souvenir stores along this street."

  "Not the kind I want," Chris said.

  The salesman moved back behind the display case. "I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do for you."

  Chris hesitated for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode out of the store. He marched across the sidewalk to Luis' taxi, and did not see how closely the old woman fruit-vendor watched him. He started to get into the car, but Luis reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

  "I am sorry, señor, I can no longer drive you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have other business."

  Chris started to protest, but Luis started the engine, and the taxi began to edge away. The stocky driver looked back once with a strange sadness in his eyes. "I am sorry, señor. Adiós."

  Luis stepped on the accelerator and the old Plymouth roared up the street. Puzzled, Chris stood looking after the car. Behind him the old lady in the blankets moved with surprising vigor as she entered the jewelry store.

  Chris began to walk down the crowded street. He had a feeling that eyes were following him from all sides, but whenever he turned to look no one was watching him. The difference in Luis Zarate today troubled him. He also wondered about the strange actions of the jewelry salesman. A sense of growing urgency prickled the hair at the back of his neck.