Return of the Wolf Man

by Jeff Rovin

  “I’m on my way,” Clyde said. He punched the radio off and came from behind the desk. “You two heard that?”

  Caroline and Stevenson both nodded. The woman stepped closer.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said. “You may need a doctor—”

  “Thanks,” Clyde said, “but Benson and old Doc Aubert are both from the hospital and they’ve probably got their own people on the job. I appreciate the thought, though.”

  “How many people are usually onboard?” Stevenson asked.

  “LifeSaver flies with a crew of three,” he said. He went to the door, got his wide-brimmed hat from the coatrack, and pushed it on his head. “And when he left before, the chief told me they had one patient.”

  “Which patient?” Caroline asked. A chill crept down her arms. The helicopter had been on her island.

  “A big fellah,” Clyde said. “Must’ve been the one you and Talbot saw.”

  “Was he . . . still alive?”

  “They weren’t clear about that when they found him,” Clyde answered. “I’ll let you know when I can. Tom, would you lock the door behind me? I don’t want anyone coming in and seeing Mr. Talbot.”

  “Understood,” Stevenson said.

  Clyde yanked open the door. As he did he stepped back, surprised. Caroline was also startled.

  A man was standing in the doorway. He stood slightly over six feet tall and was dressed in formal attire. He had an aristocratic bearing, a pasty complexion, and the most compelling eyes Caroline had ever seen. There was something at once sensual and very cold about them. She found it difficult to look away.

  “Good evening,” said the newcomer, bowing his head slightly. His accent was Central European, his diction exquisite. “May I . . . enter?”

  Behind them, the Wolf Man suddenly grew quiet. For the first time Caroline could hear the sirens in the distance. Then, after a moment, the werewolf became even more agitated than before.

  “I’m afraid this office is off-limits just now, sir,” said Clyde. “Unless it’s an emergency I’m going to have to ask you to come back later.”

  “I overheard you say there is a doctor present,” the newcomer persisted. “Might I come in and have a word with her?”

  “Mister,” the officer said impatiently, “as you can hear we’ve got a violent criminal in there. I can’t let anyone in right now. But if you’d care to come back or else call the state barracks—”

  “But I know that wild man,” the newcomer said casually. “His name is Lawrence Talbot and he is one of the children of the night—a werewolf.”

  His pronouncement gave Caroline a small shock. It drew her from his dark eyes, from the soothing sound of his voice.

  “You know about Talbot?” Caroline said.

  “A great deal,” the visitor continued affably. “May I please come in?”

  The dark eyes were on Caroline. She felt herself hooked and being drawn into them again.

  “Yes,” she heard herself say slowly. “Yes, please come in.”

  “Hold on, mister,” Clyde said angrily, “I don’t know who you are but I’ve got to leave and so do—”

  “Oh, forgive my manners,” the newcomer said as he stepped in. He continued to stare at Caroline. “I am—Dracula.”

  Once again Caroline snapped from the strange hold of the visitor’s eyes. “Count Dracula?”

  “Yes,” said the newcomer.

  Clyde fired her a glance. “You know him?”

  “I know of him,” she said. She continued to look into the vampire’s eyes. Now they seemed to grow red and everything around them blurred. She felt her face tingle, the electricity traveling quickly down to her neck, to her throat. She tried to speak again but couldn’t as the tingling filled her head and shoulders, at once freezing her flesh and warming her blood. Within moments she was oblivious to everything but Dracula’s eyes—and his voice.

  She tried to move.

  Stay, he commanded, though not with words.

  “Yes, Master,” Caroline heard herself saying.

  Clyde was still looking at her. “What’d you say, Dr. Cooke?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

  The deputy trooper stepped over to the newcomer. Inside, Caroline was hoping that he would step between them. He didn’t. It was the last thing she remembered thinking . . .

  “Mister,” Deputy Clyde said, “something very weird’s going on here and I want to know what it is.”

  Dracula looked at him. He didn’t answer. Instead, the vampire reached his right arm across his own waist and sunk it into the folds of his cloak. A moment later he withdrew his ancient smallsword and slashed backward, cutting the officer’s subclavian artery and up through the trachea and esophagus. Clyde fell to the floor, clutching under his chin and gurgling as blood cascaded from the wide, gaping wound. At the same time the vampire’s left hand snapped out. His pale fingers tightened around Stevenson’s throat. The attorney gagged as he struggled in vain to pry the vampire’s hand free.

  Across the room the Wolf Man rocked the cell more violently. Flakes and then shards of ceiling plaster fell on the green tile floor.

  The vampire glared at the werewolf and hissed. Still looking at him, Dracula dropped Stevenson to the floor and stalked slowly toward the prison. His shoulders were hunched, the smallsword dripped blood at his side. He held his left hand in front of him; the thumb and first two fingers were extended, hooked slightly and taut. The last two fingers were curled like the talons of a bat.

  “You would like to reach me, wouldn’t you—Talbot?” The vampire snarled after pronouncing the hated name.

  The werewolf thrust his shaggy arms through the bars.

  The vampire stopped just short of the outstretched and trembling claws. “You would like to finish the job you began a half century ago, Talbot,” Dracula said. “But that will not happen.”

  The Wolf Man splayed his fingers, withdrew his arm, and thrust them through again. Then he shook the bars once more. The top of the prison cell was now entirely exposed. Reaching up, the Wolf Man placed his feet against the door and rattled his prison violently. The bars were solid where they were welded to the iron crosspiece on top. Just below that they began to wobble.

  Dracula looked up. The vampire’s brow bent in the middle and he frowned deeply. “You are still strong, Talbot. You might have gotten free.” He looked at the werewolf. “Might have, were I to let you live.” The vampire approached the cell slowly. He turned the smallsword in his hand so that the silver-coated blade was pointing outward. “You want to die, Talbot, don’t you?”

  The werewolf roared hotly.

  “You’ve always wanted that. And I want to help you.”

  The Wolf Man dropped from the bars. He stumbled as he landed on the broken cot and smacked it violently aside. He reached for Dracula. As he did, the vampire vaulted toward him. With the skill of a one-time cavalier, he slipped the sword point through the bars toward the Wolf Man’s chest.

  Like the wolf, the werewolf can smell prey up to four miles away. Both creatures can track a scent that has been exposed to rain, wind, and sun. In close quarters, they can sense that an enemy is about to become active by the smell of sweat, the increase in body heat, the intake of air.

  Dracula jumped toward the cell, brandishing his blade in his right hand. As he did, the scent of his perspiration preceded him. A moment before the vampire reached the bars, the Wolf Man smelled the blood-rich vapors. He moved to the side and was out of the way as the blade plunged through. Snatching Dracula’s extended arm, his claws digging deep into the dead flesh, the werewolf pulled him toward the prison.

  Acting with the supernatural reflexes of his kind, the vampire grabbed a bar with his left hand and locked his elbow. Stiff and unyielding, the arm kept him from being drawn toward the cell.

  Still holding the vampire’s sword-arm waist-high, the werewolf swung under it and faced Dracula. The vampire screamed as the werewolf reached out with his free hand and grabbed hi
s enemy’s left shoulder. Then he stood. The two infernal creatures stood face to face, snarling ferociously.

  Twisting his captured right hand, the vampire turned the smallsword toward the werewolf’s side. Slowly, laboriously, Dracula edged the slender blade toward the white shirt. When the Wolf Man felt the prick between his lower ribs, he released the vampire’s sword-arm. Dracula quickly withdrew it. Just as quickly the Wolf Man reached out and grabbed the vampire’s wrist. The sword was twisted in such a way now that Dracula could not slip the hand out from between the bars.

  “You will release me!” the vampire roared.

  The Wolf Man leaned his muzzle forward and roared back, defying Dracula’s steely gaze and imperious voice.

  Held tightly by the left shoulder and right forearm, Dracula struggled for a moment before he was forced to drop the smallsword. He managed to wrench his hand backward just enough to wrap his powerful fingers around the bars. The werewolf grabbed his other shoulder and now had both of them. As Dracula pushed against the bars with both arms, the Wolf Man braced his strong feet against the base of the cell. As hard as the vampire strained to get away, the Wolf Man struggled just as hard to hold him.

  And then, pulled from the outside and pushed from the inside, the two bars between them suddenly snapped free at the bottom.

  Startled, the Wolf Man released his captive. Dracula staggered back and then darted forward again with supernatural speed, making a hasty grab for the smallsword. At the same time the Wolf Man threw himself against the two broken bars. Both bars blew across the room as the werewolf hit them. Free of his prison, he lunged at Dracula just as the vampire retrieved his blade.

  The Wolf Man stopped as Dracula spun on him, the smallsword pointing ahead. For a long moment the two denizens of the night stood facing one another, crouching three yards apart.

  “I will not pit my strength against yours,” said the vampire. He began backing away, toward Caroline. “Your raw power is greater than mine.” Then, in one swift and fluid movement the vampire returned the smallsword to its sheath, spun, and swept the mesmerized Caroline into his arms. Sinking low at the knees, he sprang toward the recessed window on the wall above the outside of the cell. The vampire landed solidly on the ledge, facing the window. He paused there and turned to look back at the Wolf Man.

  “We will meet again, Talbot. Very soon.”

  With that, Dracula turned and smashed through the window. The Wolf Man leapt after him but failed to reach the ledge. As the vampire vanished into the night, the werewolf continued to throw himself at the window. He finally managed to get a handhold, though by the time he achieved the window and looked into the alley the vampire was gone.

  Leaning forward on his strong fingertips and rising to the balls of his feet, the Wolf Man sniffed the air. The vampire’s scent had been diluted by the night wind and by the smell of the sea. But the werewolf located it, snaking off to the west. Turning his face skyward, the Wolf Man bayed his melancholy, territorial cry. Then he jumped into the alley and crept toward the street.

  The vampire was undead, his blood unsuitable. Even if he could locate Dracula, the werewolf would still have to feed. Padding off in the shadows, his nose working constantly, the Wolf Man sought the scent of living prey.

  SEVENTEEN

  Trooper Matt Willis had never seen anything like it.

  The crash itself was horrible, but he’d seen plenty of those when he manned a gun on a Huey Cobra in Vietnam. No, what ticked him off were the ghouls who’d gathered to watch the fire and take pictures for their scrapbooks and turn the accident into the season’s social event. Willis directed several volunteers to keep people away from the scene, while exhausted fire fighters fresh from La Viuda were brought to the cove to battle the blaze. One of LaMirada’s two ambulances was standing by, though the dour crew was not optimistic about finding their coworkers or the patient alive.

  Willis was also annoyed that the always-reliable Clyde hadn’t arrived yet. Willis had first phoned the deputy trooper nearly a half hour ago. Since then, he’d tried to reach him on the field radio twice. When the calls weren’t returned, Willis went to his squad car, which was parked on a beach just south of the sandbar. He dropped heavily into the driver’s seat and used the car phone to call the office.

  The service picked up after six rings. “State troopers’ line.”

  “Evening, Ms. Hutchinson—”

  “Hello, Trooper Willis.”

  “I’m looking for Clyde,” he said. “Have you heard from him?”

  “Not a word, Matt. Not since he called this morning to ask me how I enjoyed my date with him. It was uneventful, in case you were wondering.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Hutchinson. I meant to ask but it’s been a very busy day.”

  “I know,” she said. “Come on over—I’ve got some leftover pizza.”

  “Maybe later. Listen, if you hear from Clyde would you please have him call me.”

  “I will, sir,” she said.

  Willis thanked her and hung up. His annoyance shaded to concern. Deputy Trooper Clyde could have walked here in the time since he’d first called. Willis rang the officer’s apartment, though he couldn’t think of a reason why Clyde would have gone there. The answering machine picked up after two rings and Willis replaced the handset. He absently dug at a worn hole in his belt while wondering where Clyde could be. If the deputy had been called out on an emergency, he would have radioed Willis or at least informed Ms. Hutchinson. Clyde wasn’t a drinker. He didn’t play the lottery and in any case was the sort of diligent worker who would have shown up if he’d won a couple million bucks. Even if his sick old mother had died, he’d have phoned on the way to her apartment. All Willis could think of was that the deputy had had a car accident.

  Willis stood and looked out at a clutch of volunteers who were working crowd control. “Mr. Bevan! Billy Bevan!”

  Seventy-three-year-old Billy Bevan turned. He acknowledged Willis with a wave and jogged over. The tall, fit former state trooper had been keeping a bunch of teenagers with lavender hair, baggy shorts, and camcorders away from the inferno. As soon as Bevan had left them, the teenagers moved closer.

  “I swear, Matt,” Bevan grumbled, “they’re as dumb as they were when you were in school.”

  “No, Mr. Bevan,” Willis said. “Dumber. Our heads were empty but theirs are stuffed with crap.” Willis took one last look down the sloping two-lane road that led from town. Clyde wasn’t on it. “Look, I’m going to run back to the office to see where my deputy is. Would you mind running the show here?”

  “Not at all,” Bevan said, throwing off a little salute. “You need a break?”

  “No,” Willis said. “I need to find Deputy Clyde.”

  “Maybe he stopped by to see Josephine Hutchinson.” Bevan winked. “I hear he’s sweet on her.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s where Clyde’s gone,” Willis replied. “Just hold down the fort. I’ll be back as soon as I find him.”

  “Will do,” Bevan said.

  Willis got back in his car and drove along the most direct route to the cove, the way the deputy would have come. There was some early evening traffic, mostly around the Venezuelan Volcano Club, the town’s one remaining hot spot, and the nearby Lewton Cinema, which showed low-budget exploitation films. Otherwise the roads were empty. There was no Clyde and no sign of a crack-up.

  Seven minutes later Willis was at the town hall walking briskly through its empty, echoing corridors. Clyde’s patrol car had been in the parking lot and the trooper knew for certain now that something was wrong. He also had a feeling that Lawrence Talbot was behind whatever it was.

  You’re a freakin’ jerk for leaving them alone here, he reproached himself. Talbot is nuts. He said he burned up the Tombs while he was fighting a monster built from dead bodies. He claims to be someone who was born around the turn of the century. He was vouched for by a woman who—Willis’s instincts told him—had never met the man before she came to LaMirada
.

  What Talbot looked and smelled like to Willis was an escaped criminal, one with an agenda. All day long the trooper had quietly been running checks on the whereabouts of Dr. Cooke’s family and friends. Using insurance records, he’d also had the records officer in Naples look into the backgrounds of her patients. He wanted to make sure that none of them had a record. The scenario he’d worked out in his head was that Talbot and a partner or two might have stashed loot in the castle years ago. Or maybe they’d heard that there was some kind of treasure there, buried in the cellar. Now Caroline was being forced to help them find it. If she double-crossed them, someone died.

  The trooper slowed when he saw that the office door was open and the light was on. Clyde never left it open, even when he was there. Willis unholstered his .38 and held the gun beside his face, barrel up. He edged along the wall. When he reached the office and stuck his head inside, Willis no longer entertained the idea that Talbot was a criminal. The man was criminally insane.

  Clyde was lying just inside the doorway. His throat was cut wide open and his gun was holstered. Clyde was a four-time Collier County Quick Draw Contest winner. Whatever had happened here had happened suddenly. Willis didn’t bother to check for a pulse. Most of Clyde’s blood was on the outside, spread in a thick sheet beneath him. The trooper stepped around the dark pool and saw Tom Stevenson. The attorney was lying on his side near Clyde’s desk. His clothes were soaked from the overturned water cooler but there was no blood. Willis hurried over and knelt beside him. There were ugly bruises under his jaw but his pulse was strong.

  Willis holstered his gun, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped up some of the water. He wrung it out over the attorney’s face.

  “Tom! Wake up!”

  The attorney moaned. Willis slapped his check lightly.

  “Tom! I need you, dammit! C’mon!”

  Stevenson moaned again but didn’t move or open his eyes. Taking a closer look at the bruises, Willis began to wonder if his neck had been broken. That six-foot-four sonofabitch Talbot was probably strong enough to do something like that.