The Howling III h-3

by Gary Brandner

  He winked at her and swung off down the corridor. Holly looked after him for a moment, feeling foolishly lightheaded about the date. She shook herself back into a serious mood, and headed for the tiny office where could type up her notes on today's session with Malcolm.

  * * *

  Dr Wayne Pastory stepped quickly back into an alcove when he saw Holly Lang approaching. He had done a good deal of research during the day, and had decided on a course of action. Right now the lady doctor was the last person he wanted to see.

  When Holly was safely around a corner in the hallway, Pastory stepped out of the alcove and headed for the stairs. He climbed to the second floor, passed through the glass doors into the administrative wing and stopped at the reception desk before the office of Dr Dennis Qualen. After the obligatory banter with Qualen's matronly receptionist he was allowed to enter.

  "Ah, Wayne, you caught me on the way out," said the chief administrator. "I hope this isn't anything that will take along time."

  "No, no, just a few words," Pastory said. "About the boy in 108."

  Qualen pushed papers around on the polished mahogany desk. "That one. Malcolm Something-or-other his name seems to be. Our sheriff was just in here talking to me about him."

  "Oh?" Pastory tensed, hoping his plan had not been derailed.

  "Apparently we are not harbouring a juvenile murderer.

  According to Ramsay, someone else was responsible for the dead man in our basement."

  "But no one has claimed the boy?"

  "Unfortunately, no. Nor has anyone come forward with an offer to pay his bill. Certain members of our staff seem to be under the impression that we are a charitable institution."

  "I think I know who you mean," Pastory said. "My reason for wanting to see you is to suggest a way to get us off the hook."

  "Oh?" Qualen was interested but noncommittal.

  "As you know, I operate a modest clinic of my own north of here."

  "Ah, yes, I believe you have spoken of it. I forget — where, exactly, is it located?"

  "My suggestion," Pastory said, passing quickly over the question, "is that the boy be transferred there. I am quite well equipped to take care of him, and I think the boy will be useful in some important research I'm conducting."

  "What sort of research?"

  "I'm not really prepared to discuss it at this stage. You understand, sir."

  Dr Qualen drew a finger along the aristrocratic line of his nose. "What you suggest is not normal procedure."

  "I realize that, sir," said Pastory. "But I think in this case it might pay to bend the procedures a bit. For one thing, this will relieve the hospital of additional expense, and I understand the budget is under some scrutiny at Sacramento."

  "I don't see how all the necessary arrangements could be made without going through channels."

  "These things can be expedited, as we both know. The thing is, time is short. I'd like the boy transferred to my place tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? Nothing can possibly be accomplished that quickly."

  Pastory produced a manila folder with the flourish of a magician making a rabbit appear. "To speed things along I went ahead and did the necessary paperwork."

  "You are in something of a hurry to get on with this, aren't you."

  Pastory leaned confidentially forward across the desk. "I'll be frank with you, sir. If my theories about this boy prove out, there will be considerable recognition, acclaim even, that will go beyond the medical community. More than enough recognition for one man."

  Qualen stiffened. "That sounds unpleasantly like a bribe, Doctor."

  "Nothing of the sort, sir. But it doesn't hurt to remember that quite a few of our friends in high places got where they are by finding a way around the normal procedures."

  Qualen glanced over the multicoloured forms. "I'm still not at all sure I can go along with this. It's highly irregular."

  "You'll notice," Pastory put in, "that I have entered my own name in every case where there is a question of responsibility. Not that I expect any trouble about a routine transfer, but if there should be, it's on my head."

  "I see." Dr Qualen slipped on a pair of reading glasses. "Give me a few minutes to look these over. If, as you say, everything is in order, I see no reason why I should delay the transfer of this patient into your care."

  Pastory smiled. "A good decision, sir. I'm sure it's in the best interests of everyone concerned." He leaned back in the chair and waited with a confident smile.

  Chapter Nine

  The beast moved silently through the darkening forest. Small creatures of the night skittered from its path or froze into attitudes of self-protection. The beast padded forward in a balloon of silence as the smaller creatures ceased all sound and movement at its approach.

  But tonight the smaller animals had nothing to fear from the beast. It was intent on other matters. Every few yards the beast would pause and rise manlike on its hind legs, lifting its muzzle to the sky. It would sniff the air — testing, searching — and then, finding the one scent among many, it would drop again to all fours and move on.

  At the crest of the final hill the beast stopped. The coarse fur bristled at the base of its powerful neck. Below lay the sprinkling of lights that were the town of Pinyon. Directly at the bottom of the hill was a large rectangular building with many lights. From the building came a profusion of scents. Some sharp and medicinal, others heavy with death and decay. The scent of humans was powerful. Humans in their sickness. Yet among the confusion of the many odours the beast again picked out the one it sought.

  Moving stealthily on great padded paws, the beast crept down the wooded hillside toward the hospital.

  * * *

  Gavin Ramsay leaned close to the mirror over his bathroom sink and gave his face a critical look. Unsatisfied, he buzzed the electric shaver over his chin for the third time. He had a chin cleft that Elise had always said was cute, but which sheltered a tiny ridge of whiskers that were hell to shave off. He tested the area with his fingers and decided it was as smooth as it was ever going to be. He blew out the shaver, splashed on some English Leather, and walked back into his combined living room-bedroom-kitchenette in the Pinyon Inn.

  Gavin's was the only room at the Inn with cooking facilities. He seldom lit the stove, and used the half-size refrigerator for little more than keeping beer cold. Most of his meals were eaten downstairs in the coffee shop, or brought home from one of the fast-food places down the road in Darnay. Still, having a kitchen, however inadequate, made the room seem a little more like home.

  He and Elise had lived in a spacious California ranch-house in Darnay until the divorce. The house, like the Camaro, and damn near everything else, had gone to Elise. Gavin had been stunned to find how suddenly cold and calculating his loving bride had turned when she decided the marriage wasn't going where she wanted it to. While he had stumbled through the proceedings with a nice-guy lawyer whose heart was back in Iowa, she had latched on to a high-powered firm from Los Angeles with half a dozen names on the letterhead. It was no contest.

  But what the hell, it was over now. The last he heard Elise was in New York dating some hotshot political columnist for the Times. That would suit her. Her father too. Gavin had been a great disappointment to both of them.

  He pushed open the accordion door on his closet and surveyed the meagre wardrobe therein. Two khaki uniforms of the La Reina County sheriffs department. One blue suit. Two sports coats, grey tweed and camel's hair. Three pairs of slacks: grey, blue, and brown. Two neckties: one with stripes; one with little fleurs-de-lis. Assorted shoes.

  These, except for the uniforms, were the clothes he hardly ever wore. His real clothes were in the dresser drawers. Jeans, corduroys, soft cotton shirts, and sweaters.

  During the marriage Elise had outfitted him like the rising young politician she hoped he would be. He had two full closets then of suits, jackets, and trousers from the best tailors in southern California. Gone now, all gone. No, Elise h
ad not taken his clothing, but Gavin wasted no time giving most of it away when he moved out. It was one thing from his marriage he definitely did not miss.

  For tonight, however, jeans and a sweater simply would not do. Holly Lang was not just another date. His dates had been few since the divorce. Generally, they consisted of a few drinks in a quiet bar, dinner maybe, then off to bed. Neither he nor the women involved had any stake in the relationship beyond an evening's entertainment. That was the way he wanted it. For some reason he felt differently about Holly.

  He chose the camel's hair jacket and grey slacks. Briefly he considered wearing a necktie, but decided that was too much, and settled for a soft blue sports shirt.

  "You look terrific," he told his image in the mirror. "All ready for the prom."

  Downstairs he climbed into the old Dodge wagon, shoving the accumulated debris off the seats. He frowned at the coating of dust and wished he had washed it more recently. He would have to remember to park in the shadows.

  He drove the ten miles along the dark highway to Darnay listening to a golden-oldies rock station from Los Angeles. He had no idea what songs were played, nor did he care. The music was company, that was all.

  Entering Darnay, Gavin stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. He found Holly Lang's address with no trouble. It was a yellow clapboard bungalow with white shutters, set well back from the quiet street. The lawn was neatly mowed. A row of flowers before the house looked like somebody cared about them. As promised, Holly had left the porch light on.

  She met him at the door wearing a colourful silk blouse with a soft, dark skirt that followed the smooth curve of her hips. Gavin realized it was the first time he had seen her out of the more severe lady-doctor outfits she wore while working. He decided she looked pretty damn good, and told her so.

  "Thank you," she said. "I like your jacket."

  He held up the bottle of wine for her inspection. "Is this okay?"

  "Perfect. If you want to pull the cork we'll let it breathe for a while before dinner."

  They entered through a small living room that she had furnished in shades of brown, gold, and rust. In a dining alcove a table was covered with a white linen spread and set for two, complete with candles and long-stemmed wine glasses.

  He followed her into a sparkling kitchen and managed the corkscrew while Holly bustled about straightening things that did not need straightening.

  "I don't exactly know what that "letting it breathe" business is all about," she said, "but it seems to be part of the ritual."

  "Like rolling the cork between your fingers and sniffing at it," he added.

  "And what's the difference between the aroma and the bouquet?"

  "I didn't know there was one."

  At the same time they stopped and looked at each other.

  "We're babbling, aren't we," she said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "We're both adults, we've been in the company of the opposite sex before, so there's no excuse for mindless social chatter, is there?"

  "None at all."

  "Whew. With that out of the way, would you like a drink before I throw on the steaks?"

  "I'd love one."

  "I have vodka, Scotch, bourbon and gin. I can make a pretty good martini."

  "Scotch will be fine."

  "Do you like anything in it?"

  "Ice."

  She made his drink and a vodka and tonic for herself. They carried them into the living room and sat on the sofa with the drinks before them on a hatch-cover coffee table. Some easy cocktail jazz was playing on the stereo unit. Gavin could not tell if it was a record or the radio.

  "Do you ever hear from your wife?" she asked suddenly.

  For a moment he was startled into silence, then he laughed. "Ex-wife," he amended. "You sure know how to break the ice."

  "If we're going to start dating, we ought to know about each other, don't you think?"

  "Are we going to start dating?"

  "I think we have, don't you?"

  "Apparently."

  He sipped at the Scotch. It was good, heavy stuff; not one of the lightweights with pretty labels and no flavour. "No, I never hear from Elise. Ours was not one of those friendly divorces you hear about. Now and then I hear about her from mutual friends. They mean well, but I'd just as soon they wouldn't bother."

  "You sound bitter."

  He considered for a moment. "If I do, that's something I've got to fix. Bitter people are no fun to have around, and I certainly don't want to be one. They pollute the atmosphere like sour meat. I don't hate Elise. I am not down on humanity, or women, or even the institution of marriage. I got gouged in the divorce, but I guess that was mostly to soothe my wife's pride. Elise never lost anything in her life, and if I was going to get away, she was going to be sure I didn't take much with me."

  "I saw her several times when you both lived in Darnay. She's a beautiful woman."

  "There's no denying that," he said. "She's also intelligent, witty, and ambitious. Who invited her tonight, anyway?"

  Holly coloured, then smiled at him. "I have been asking a lot of questions, haven't I? It's only fair that you have a turn. Is there anything you want to know about me?"

  "Plenty, but I'll let it come out in the normal course of events."

  "I've never been married," she volunteered. "That's not the stigma for a woman in her late twenties that it used to be. Still, there were three whole years that it was always on my mind."

  "Not any more?"

  "Not the way it was. I had this relationship, you see. He was a doctor. Psychoanalyst, actually. Beautifully handsome, clever, and always in command. He was the only man I saw for those three years."

  "But no marriage?"

  "There was a small hitch. Bob already had a wife. He was going to leave her, though, just as soon as the time was right. Sure he was. I wasn't really so naive that I believed that, but I wanted it to be true so bad that I hung around three years."

  "All over now?"

  "Yup. It just about killed me the first time I refused to see him. The second time was easier, and the third. After that he didn't try any more. I understand he now has a lady lawyer from San Francisco waiting for him to leave the Mrs."

  "Bob's loss is the world's gain."

  "Thanks. I wasn't fishing, but a compliment is always welcome."

  Gavin pulled in a deep breath and let it out. "I hope the therapy session is over now so we can get on with acting silly."

  "Right. Do you want another drink, or should I start throwing dinner together?"

  Gavin rattled the ice cubes in his glass. "I'm still working on this one. I hope you're not going to ask for help. Pulling corks and opening cans is the extent of my kitchen talent."

  "Mister Macho," she said. "I'll bet you're good at moving furniture."

  "Want to feel my biceps?"

  "Maybe later. You can come out with me and watch if you want to."

  "Sure. I might even learn something."

  Gavin found a spot to stand where he was out of the way and watched with honest admiration as Holly moved efficiently about the kitchen. She tossed together a salad of fresh greens, checked the broccoli she had steaming, and switched the oven on to Broil. She sprinkled some kind of seasoning on a pair of thick New York steaks.

  "How do you like yours?" she asked.

  "Rare."

  "Good. Me too."

  Miraculously, she got everything on the table at the same time. Gavin poured the wine and they sat down.

  The salad was crisp and not overdressed, the steak was beautifully rare, and even the broccoli, not Gavin's favourite vegetable, was tender and tasty in a light cheese sauce. Conversation ranged over likes and dislikes in food, favourite television shows, the weather, local events, and came to rest finally on the boy who lay in Room 108 at La Reina County Hospital.

  "He's a strange one," Holly said. "I don't think he even knows everything about himself."

  "Are yo
u talking about the Drago business?"

  "Partly that." She studied Gavin's face in the candlelight. "You don't believe the stories they tell about Drago, do you?"

  "Werewolves? You've got to be kidding."

  "You might be a little more open-minded."

  "Okay, I'll try. Let's see, when the moon is full they sprout hair and fangs and go around biting people." He pretended to concentrate. "It's no use. I keep seeing Little Red Riding Hood."

  Holly sighed. "The All-American skeptic. Where do you think the story of Little Red Riding Hood came from?"

  "The Brothers Grimm?"

  "It is based on old legends. Lots of fairy tales are. Ever hear of Peter Stump? Clauda Jamprost? Jacques Bocquet?"

  "No, no, and no."

  "They were documented werewolves of the sixteenth century."

  "Documented, eh? By who, Walt Disney?"

  Holly's eyes flashed a danger signal. "If you don't mind, this isn't something I feel like kidding about."

  "I'm sorry. You've been doing some homework, haven't you."

  "Yes, I have, and I'd like to be able to talk to somebody about it without a lot of cheap jokes."

  Gavin held up his hands. "Okay. No more wisecracks. If this is important to you, I'd like to understand and talk about it with some intelligence. But it will take a little time. Let me do some homework of my own, okay?"

  "Okay." After a moment Holly relaxed and sipped at her wine.

  "Just one question before we drop it for the night," he said.

  "Ask away."

  "Do you think our boy Malcolm is a werewolf?"

  She frowned. "I'm not ready to go that far. I think he may be afflicted with some form of lycanthropy. I want to know more about him."

  "I'll do what I can to help if you want me on the team," Gavin said.

  She held up her wine glass in silent assent. They clinked in a toast and drank to the partnership.

  It was past midnight when Gavin set his coffee cup gently down on the table. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together.

  "I'd better be pushing off," he said. "Work day tomorrow."

  "Right," she said. "Me too."

  He stood up.