Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  * * *

  He pulled to a stop in front of the cottage.

  The drive was empty, the house gloomy dark in the rain. Before he had approached the front door Sloan arrived with two blue-and-whites, lights flashing.

  Kane and Dr. Foster piled out of Sloan's car with him. Sloan took charge. "You two wait here," he said, indicating Mary and the doctor. "Two of you take the front. Two go around to the rear," he said to the uniformed officers armed with shotguns. "And be careful. Don't get trigger happy, but remember what this guy could be."

  Sloan and Mercanto followed the team to the front door, guns drawn. Standing out of the line of fire, Sloan rapped on the door with the butt of his revolver. "Police, open up. We want to talk to you."

  No sound from the house. Sloan repeated it, no results. One of the uniformed officers hustled around from the rear of the house, rain streaming on his slicker.

  "Lieutenant, there's a bunch of windows on the back. Looks like nobody’s home."

  "Wait here," he said to the team at the front door, and he and Mercanto followed the officer to the rear of the house. They peered in but couldn't make out much because of the darkness inside. "Looks like he’s not here," Sloan said, "and we don't have a search warrant."

  Mercanto stepped forward and smashed one of the windows with his revolver, the sound of the breaking glass loud in the late afternoon. "Looks like we just discovered a burglary in progress. Probable cause."

  Sloan gave him a look of grudging approval. "Okay, Mercanto, go around front and alert the other team so they don't start shooting."

  As he hurried around the side of the house, he heard them entering the house.

  In a moment Sloan came through and let them in, motioning for Mary Kane and Dr. Foster to join him. "He's our man . . ."

  They followed him into the house. In the living room the other team of uniformed officers was standing by the fireplace, staring down. On the mirror above the mantlepiece someone had written in large red letters . . . ABADDON.

  "Search the place," Sloan said. "Now, get a move on."

  As the men began to move about the house, Sloan said, "Come over here."

  Mercanto, Kane and Dr. Foster followed him to the fireplace, and he pointed down at it. There, nestled among the burned logs, was the remains of Catherine Poydras’ arm.

  Dr. Foster backed away to the sofa. Sloan was all business, in his element. "Looks like he wrote it in blood. What do you think it means?"

  "No idea," Mercanto said, staring at the word on the mirror. Dr. Foster spoke up behind them. "It’s from the book of Revelation . . . the Hebrew name for the angel who is the keeper of the keys to the bottomless pit where Satan is to be ultimately imprisoned . . . It helps to know that book when you treat disturbed patients," he said, thinking of Margaret's deep involvement with the man.

  The officers came back then from the other rooms. "Nothing," one of them said.

  Dr. Foster got to his feet. "Margaret Priest is his psychologist. During his treatment he’s become obsessed with her. It’s very possible that's where he’s gone — "

  Sloan turned to Mary Kane. "You stay here with one team. If he comes back you make sure nothing goes wrong with the arrest. We don’t want to blow this case . . ." Looking back at Dr. Foster, he said, "Where will this Margaret Priest be now?"

  "Probably at home, although she could be seeing patients late at her office," he said, and gave them both addresses.

  Sloan told the other team of officers, "You take her office . . . Kane, get on the phone to Spivak and have him meet them there. Mercanto and I will take the house."

  CHAPTER 27

  MARGARET PARKED in front of her house and sat for a moment. Her last appointment had been a group session, which always left her exhausted. Charles' earlier appearance in her office made it worse.

  After he left she had tried to deal with what he had said. At lunch she had even gone so far as to look up the articles on lycanthropy he had mentioned. Even though there was much in them that fit Loring's behavior, at least on the surface, she still was not convinced. She felt she knew the man too well to believe him capable of such . . . well, atrocities.

  Still, it frightened her. She needed to talk to him and called his office. He had not come in today, they said. Then his home, no answer. Should she have given Charles Loring's name? Prove to him she was right? No, it would have been too traumatic for Loring to go through such an interrogation. It could push him over the edge, beyond any help by anybody. . .

  She got out and started for the house, too tired even to hurry in the rain. Adam’s car was across the street. Good, he was home. She didn’t want to be alone. And since what had happened at that party he’d been at least trying to make amends. Not that she had much hope there, but still . . .

  She used her key to open the door, surprised that the house was dark? "Adam? Where are you?" No answer. He must be upstairs, maybe taking a nap. She turned on the hall-table light, hung up her raincoat, started upstairs . . .

  In the study Loring heard her voice and moved out of sight behind the door. He didn’t want to startle her. But he was eager to tell her what he’d done, that with Abaddon’s help he had finally rid himself of his old enemy, that his life now had a purpose as never before . . .

  Upstairs she walked into the bedroom, and even in the darkness saw the bed was empty. Maybe he was in the study, he sometimes took catnaps on the sofa there . . .

  Loring heard her footsteps on the stairs. There was so much to say, to tell her, to prepare her before he gave her eternal life. He was glad for that, but he also didn’t like to think about losing her. He would be lonely, but was still willing to do it for her . . .

  Margaret flipped the switch at the entrance to the study that operated the light on the table at the end of the sofa, and in its glow she saw Adam’s body on the floor.

  The carnage was surreal, and so much so it took time to register before her hands went to her face and she screamed. Loring moved forward now from behind the door. "Margaret, don't . . . it's all right." He kept coming, his arms outstretched. She backed away. "No . . . no . . ." Oh God, Charles, he was — so right. . .

  "Please, Margaret, calm yourself. We have to talk. There are so many things I want to tell you."

  She looked at him, couldn’t stand the sight, blood all over him. Not a word from her . . . at least she knew enough for that.

  He smiled. More a rictus in his blood-smeared face, like the mask she had seen at the museum that night with Adam.

  "It was all part of the Plan," he was saying. "That's why I wanted to talk to you, to make you understand. It was all revealed to me that night after you left my house," he said, his eyes blank, looking more through her than at her.

  "Abaddon came to me and did what you were never able to do. He let me see my past, and future . . ."

  She fought for breath, and the strength to mask her fear. There was no doubt she was to be his next. No escape, nothing to defend herself with.

  Get a grip on yourself. Talk to him, try to reach him. You've got to bring him down, get through to him somehow. Use your skills, what you know. Your life depends on it . . .

  "I don't understand, who is Abaddon?" Get him talking, try to distract and get to him.

  He smiled again, a smile that was terrifying with the unrealness of his eyes. "He’s my angel, Margaret. My Angel Margaret." He was pleased with his cleverness. "He keeps the keys to the bottomless pit."

  She managed to say, "The bottomless pit?"

  At least he made no move toward her as he shook his head. "Yes, where Satan is to be imprisoned, but not until the new Jerusalem. That can’t happen until all those with the mark of the beast are cleansed. That’s what I'm doing, helping to cleanse them. Then Abaddon and I will stand guard over Satan for a thousand years. It's my reward."

  Too clearly, she realized, he thinks when he kills it's in some higher service.

  "Tell me more about Abaddon."

  Loring remembered the comfor
t, the relief he had felt since he surrendered himself. A note of . . . of near-tenderness was detectable in his voice as he said, "He is the changer of men's shapes, he can make men seek death but keep it from them. He is very powerful . . ."

  She noticed the change. It was a step, a small one, but seemingly away from the murderous anger. Abaddon was the changer of men's shapes, he said, and she began to remember what she had read at lunch about lycanthropy . . . "Did he change your shape?"

  He looked across the room to the windows, where he saw the reflection of his face, changed feral in its wolf shape, and was no longer frightened by it, welcomed it . . . "He allowed me to become the wolf, the cleanser of the herd."

  And with the word "wolf" she remembered the picture on his mantelpiece. "Like your friend Wolf, your dog. . ."

  Yes, yes, Margaret understood, and the old feeling of just the two of them alone in her office began to come back to him. Margaret was the only one who had ever even tried to understand what he thought, what he felt. That made what he had to do especially hard, but he knew that was her only way, her only hope for real salvation.

  She noticed his eyes seemed to clear slightly when she asked about his dog. But she knew that one wrong word, one wrong gesture could retrigger him.

  "Tell me what it's like when you're the wolf," she said, trying to let him know that to her he was still human, still Loring. . .

  "Words can't describe it, Margaret. It's beyond . . ." He stopped, the blankness back in his eyes. Then: "At first I was afraid, that’s why I didn't remember, but Abaddon explained it to me."

  "What did he say?"

  He looked down at Adam’s body. "That I was selfish, self-centered, that I was jealous of my mother and even wanted my stepfather to do those things to me. He made me remember, told me it was the first step to redemption. The second was to obey."

  Obviously he was seeing Adam as his stepfather. She must try to keep him from the next transference, seeing her as mother. She pushed away thoughts of the consequences of that. . .

  "You are not selfish, Loring. You’re a good man. Do you think I could care about you, as you know I do, if you weren’t?"

  He looked at her, eyes suddenly sharp. "You're afraid of me, aren't you?"

  Be careful, he goes in and out of reality. Don't lie. "Yes."

  Her reply hurt him. Didn't she understand he was her only hope? He loved her, didn't she know that?

  And then he said it.

  "I know you do, Loring. Let me help you. Sit down, please." Her words sounded like whispers. Could she go on with this charade? She’d better, her life depended on it.

  Loring felt the old pull of emotions. She did care for him, even knowing so many of his secrets. With her he didn't have to be stronger than he was. He looked down at the body on the floor. His enemy was gone.

  "Let’s sit here, like we've done before." If only she could get him to do this simple thing it could mean he was beginning to respond to her.

  Her voice was so soothing, he wanted to capitulate — as soon as his mind formed the word he knew he felt tricked, deceived. He looked up and there it was, twinkling deep in her left eye. The number 13. The mark of the beast.

  Margaret saw the change. Something had gone wrong. Something she said, or something he thought had brought back the anger. She saw his muscles tense. She hurried on to say, "You didn’t want your stepfather to do those things, we both know that."

  The urgency in her tone stopped him for a moment, then he repeated Abaddon’s words. "It was my punishment."

  She was losing him again. "But why? You did nothing to be punished for."

  He shook his head. "Yes, I did. He was right all along."

  "About what?"

  He didn’t want to tell her, he'd never told anyone before.

  "Please help me understand . . ."

  Finally he said, "He was right when he said I killed my father . . . even though he didn’t know it."

  He saw the look on her face, knew he had disappointed her.

  "But that’s all over now. I have my orders, and my redemption."

  He said it proudly.

  Margaret stared in disbelief. There was no end to it, the layer upon layer of horror that made up his life.

  "Surely it was an accident," she said automatically.

  "No." Said in a quiet tone that chilled her. "I was eight. One night he and my mother quarreled, he made her cry. I promised myself he would never make her cry like that again. The next day when we were alone in house I took his gun. I went to his office where he was working and I shot him. Then I put it in his hand. They thought it was suicide."

  He looked down at Adam's, his stepfather’s body. "That's how he made me do it. He knew I was alone in the house with my father that day. He said he would tell the police I killed him and I'd be locked up until I died if I didn't do what he wanted . . . Don't you see the joke? He was right, only he didn’t know it. I thought about killing him, too, a thousand times, but I knew if I did my mother would go out and marry another one like him and it would start all over again. I knew that. It was easier to let it happen. After all, it was my punishment . . ."

  Loring saw the understanding in her face. He had been right to tell her —

  A loud pounding on the front door. "Police, open up."

  Loring looked in the direction of the hallway, knew what was happening. They were trying to stop him from giving Margaret her salvation. He heard Abaddon’s voice . . . "Do it now while there is still time. For her. For yourself . . . It's the only way she can be saved from eternal damnation . . ."

  With a growl he sprang forward, teeth bared, his hands now shaped like gnarled claws, knocking Margaret down, climbing on top of her.

  "Dear God, no!" she screamed, feeling his breath. She twisted under him, fighting, trying to keep his teeth from reaching her throat.

  His hands were squeezing. Everything was becoming a blur. There was a ringing in her ears, a coldness seeping through her. The fight was going out of her as his face came closer Faraway, like down a long tunnel, she heard the door burst open, the sound of running feet, but in her oxygen-deprived brain they no longer mattered.

  Nor did they matter to Loring. The only thing that mattered was his love for Margaret, using his power to protect her from. . .from them. . .

  Mercanto, first in the room, grabbed Loring's hair, jerking his head back before his teeth could find their mark. With visions of Catherine Poydras’s body etched in his mind, he smashed Loring in the face with his pistol until Sloan finally pulled him away from the unconscious body.

  Margaret turned on her side, pulled herself into a fetal position. Charles Foster hurried to her and held her, rocking her like she was a child.

  Loring was manacled and taken away to the psychiatric wing of the Detention Center. Mercanto went along, staying until he saw him sedated and handcuffed to his bed. As he looked at him for the last time, his thoughts went back to Loring's forerunners — Stubbe Peeter and lean Grenier. Even though all that Erin had said about the disease was true, something he rationally understood, it was too much to find sympathy. Not for a man who had done what Loring had done. Fortunately, he thought as he turned to go, that was all up to a judge, not to him. He was just a cop. And never more glad of it.

  EPILOGUE

  DR. FOSTER took Margaret home to his house and kept her there for the next two weeks, staying with her until she began to regain something of her old strength, physically and emotionally.

  It wasn't easy. On the fourth day following her ordeal, in one of her low points, she said, "I’m giving it up, Charles. All those people, dead because I couldn’t handle the case — "

  "Margaret, it’s time we both came down from our pedestals. Me the all-knowing mentor, you the Fallen Doctor. And stop chewing on the guilt. You don’t deserve it, and if you were your patient you'd tell yourself so. What it's really about is the old Creek hubris, pride, and you know what it went before — a fall. You’re too human to be beyond a mistake, a
bad one, I grant you. But you're also too valuable a therapist to run and hide in an orgy of guilt and self-pity."

  "I appreciate what you're saying, Charles, but — "

  "But bullshit. There, a good scientific term. Just about as scientific as our knowledge of the worst of ourselves. We’ve got a lot to learn, but we've no right to stop trying. Sorry, I’m lecturing again, but I can't help it. And you know I’m right about this, or you will once you give yourself a chance to recover . . . from Adam . . . from Loring Weatherby . . ."

  "We'll see," she said, more to appease him than believing.

  * * *

  On the sixth day she dreamed she was walking through a green field filled with tall grass and spring flowers. The day was sunny. She was wearing a spring dress and carrying a straw hat with a wide brim. Near the edge of the field she heard a whimpering sound. When she went to investigate, on the road nearby she saw the body of a large dog. One that had been run over by a car. The whimpering was coming from it. Moving closer, she saw the dog had no face. In its place was Loring Weatherby's face

  * * *

  The sound of the phone woke her and she walked to the door, where she could see Charles. When he hung up he turned to her. "That was Detective Sloan. There’s a problem. I have to go out"

  "About Loring?" The dream returning to her. He nodded. "I'm coming, too," she said

  * * *

  Sloan was waiting for them. An attendant unlocked a series of steel doors, one after another, until they were beside Loring's bed.

  He lay on top of it uncovered, dead, his unseeing eyes staring into space, his teeth still bared. Somehow he had gotten one hand free of its handcuff. No one offered an explanation about how it happened. But he hadn't been able to free the other one. In his desperation, fury, or whatever, he had gnawed it until his teeth had found their mark, ripping out veins and arteries alike, bleeding to death. Like a wolf caught in a trap.

  Written in blood on the wall beside his bed was the word "Margaret".