Return of the Wolf Man

by Jeff Rovin

  Willis spread the handkerchief on the young man’s forehead then went to his cubicle and called the hospital. Next he phoned the state barracks. He reported the murder, put out an all points bulletin on Talbot and Caroline, and asked for reinforcements to help with the crash and to fill in for the late David Clyde.

  The words caught in his throat. The late David Clyde.

  Willis also called the coast guard and asked them to seal off La Viuda. If Talbot had been looking for something, there was a good chance he’d go back.

  As Willis waited for the ambulance, he tried not to dwell on his own carelessness, the negligence—no, the outright stupidity—that had cost a good-hearted and dedicated man his life. Willis should have followed his gut that morning and locked Talbot up. But he’d allowed his instincts to be overruled by Dr. Cooke’s endorsement and his own concerns about unlawful arrest. Now his colleague was dead, Stevenson was injured, and God alone knew where Dr. Cooke was.

  God, he told himself, and Lawrence Talbot.

  As Willis heard the siren of the ambulance racing down Roget Road, he rose and opened the equipment locker in the back of his cubicle. He selected a Winchester Model 52 rifle from the rack and made himself a promise. Deputy Trooper David Clyde would not die unavenged.

  EIGHTEEN

  Stephen Banning, Jr., had had it.

  He’d had it with the soaking wet clothes he was wearing. He’d had it with the foul mood he was in. He’d had it with the entire damn day. But most of all he’d had it with the gawkers. The people, mostly teenagers, from LaMirada and the surrounding towns. If they wanted to get closer to a smouldering helicopter, let ’em. If they wanted to ogle at the cooked bodies, they could do that too. If they wanted to pick up burned pieces of metal or plastic or flesh, they could be his guest. Now that the fire was nearly out all the stonemason wanted to do was get home, take a long hot shower, and go to sleep.

  He couldn’t even muster a smile as he walked past one of the volunteer ladies who was serving coffee to the fire fighters. The round-faced, twice-widowed Helen Brown was the elementary school English teacher and a second selectman. If she hadn’t written that article for the newspaper about how LaMirada had to forget its “weird past” and move on—that’s what she called it, a weird past—then he might have gotten to know her better. But he couldn’t go out with that kind of a woman. What the hell would they talk about?

  Helen beamed at him as he passed. “Are you leaving, Mr. Banning?”

  “I am, Helen,” he replied with a tip of his Confederate cap. “I been helpin’ to patch leaky hoses and chase away rubberneckers all night.”

  “You’re a hard-working man,” she said sincerely.

  “I’m a whipped man,” he replied.

  “No doubt. And I thank you for your help, Stephen. This day has been quite an ordeal for all of LaMirada. I’ve been taking notes,” she said, patting her apron. “I want to write something for the paper that will salute the dedication and courage of our fellow citizens.”

  “Now that’s a good idea for a newspaper article,” he said obscurely.

  She continued to smile sweetly, her eyes following him as he shuffled past. “Good night,” she said.

  “ ’Night,” he replied.

  Banning shivered. He liked her but he didn’t trust well-meaning people. They were always trying to impose their sensible views on others. He didn’t want life to be so practical. It needed mystery and awe and a healthy respect for the unknown. Which was another reason Banning had decided to go home. He didn’t want to be there when the volunteer fire fighters and medical technicians from the hospital hauled out whatever was left of that giant. He’d seen him when he was thrashing about and he was a pretty ugly sight then. He couldn’t imagine what it’d look like after sitting in an inferno for the better part of an hour. And one thing he didn’t need were more nightmares. He’d had enough of those growing up in LaMirada.

  Lord God, why are you thinkin’ about this twisted damn creature? Banning asked himself. He trudged up a grassy hill to the paved parking area the beach shared with Waggner Park.

  Yes, Stephen Banning, Jr., had had it. He’d had it with this day, with his fellow LaMiradans, and with monsters.

  He stopped by the door of his new, bright red pickup truck. He reached into the deep pocket of his overalls and withdrew his key ring. He climbed in and started the engine. He rolled down the window—no machine-cooled air for him—and backed away slowly, carefully, as he always did. He drove from the parking lot, which was crowded with the cars of volunteers and oglers. Then he headed down the sloping path to the two-lane road that led back to town. Sticking to the thirty-five m.p.h. speed limit, Banning headed back around the park to LaMirada town center.

  There was blood in the heart of the town. Stephen Banning noticed it because he happened to glance to the left as he drove past the movie theater to see what was playing there. The blood was pooled at the base of a Dumpster beside Mrs. Bally’s Bakery, the only occupied shop in a failed strip mall next to the triplex. The blood flashed briefly in the glow of a streetlamp as he passed.

  “Ohmigod,” he croaked as he put on his directional and pulled over. “Crap. Crap. God Jesus, excuse my Spanish, but why me?”

  His stomach in turmoil, Banning hesitated for a moment. Sucking down a breath, he left the engine running and the door open as he crossed the street. He walked quickly toward the Dumpster. He hoped it wasn’t blood that he’d seen, but jam or pie filling that had leaked from a trash bag.

  It wasn’t jelly. It was Mrs. Bally’s blood. She was lying inside the Dumpster, her throat torn open like the neck of a Jiffy Pop. Muscles and tendons were hanging out and the bones beneath them were snapped and twisted in sickening ways. Her head was inverted, the top of it lying just about where her chin should have been.

  Banning screamed and ran back to the truck, convinced that he was just inches ahead of something that was trying to get him. He slammed the door, opened the glove compartment, fumbled with his cellular phone, and punched in 911. After reporting the crime to Josephine Hutchinson, Banning screamed again and didn’t stop until Trooper Willis had arrived.

  NINETEEN

  To a predator, death has many odors.

  There is the scent of blood, which was what the Wolf Man followed through the trees and fields of Waggner Park. Unlike the blood of the living, which only teases the nostrils, the blood of death fills the nose and lungs and clouds the eyes of those who encounter it. Human death-blood has a fuller, smokier body than that of the lower animals. The blood in his nose, the blood from the woman he’d slain, was such a smell. So was the blood of Dracula, which was unlike any other. Centuries old, it possessed a sour smell all its own. Whereas other blood smells dissipated after only a few minutes, the trail of Dracula lingered. Some predators feared the scent and stayed far away.

  The Wolf Man relished it.

  In addition to blood, there are also the variform smells of dead flesh. Flesh that has putrefied in the earth. Flesh that has been bloated and dissolved by water. Flesh that has been eaten by scavengers or burned by sun or flame.

  Right now the Wolf Man smelled those as well. He stopped under a children’s slide, which was wispy with the odor of young fear. His ears turned forward, he crouched low with one paw between his knees and one outside. He faced the dark sea and sniffed the air in a slow, methodical sweep. The smell of burned flesh came from a smoky area to the south. Humans were there, picking at the pyre. That region did not interest him. There, the dead did not move. The smell of decayed flesh came from an area to the north of that. So did a familiar scent, the distinctive rot of an old foe, the Frankenstein Monster. Dracula’s scent trailed off to that region as well. That was where the Wolf Man had to go.

  Once again, without understanding why, the werewolf set out after Dracula and the Monster. He wasn’t driven by the same predatory urge that had forced him to kill the woman in town. It wasn’t a lust of the fangs and claws. It was something deeper, like a half-r
emembered dream. But it was very powerful and it came on him whenever the vampire or his servants were near.

  The Wolf Man moved from under the slide and crossed a fish-shaped sandbox and padded around a picnic area. Humans were sitting there, looking toward the smouldering mound. They were oblivious to the Wolf Man’s presence as he moved north through the park, following the smell of living death. He passed by a shuttered old building, where a weather-beaten sign hung from two rusted chains: H-O-U-S-E-O-F-H-O-R-R-O-R-S. The smell of fear here was old and rich but it was not what he wanted. He continued following the odor of his quarry. It was almost overpowering as he crept toward a ledge that had been eroded by storm and sea.

  He crouched on the precipice on his palms and on the balls of his feet. His knees were spread and his arms were between them. He stopped, sniffed, and looked at the cove below.

  Dracula and the Monster were about thirty feet below. They were standing on a narrow, horseshoe-shaped section of beach, which was bordered by rocks on the north and south and by the cliff to the east. All around them were smashed rowboats, an old fishing vessel, and driftwood, which was partially swallowed by the sand. The vampire was helping the reluctant Monster toward the sea where a boat was waiting. Only the supernatural eyes of the vampire or one of his minions could have brought it safely through these waters to the cove.

  The werewolf looked at the Monster. The Wolf Man could now see as well as smell that the Monster had suffered fresh injuries. His muscular arms were bare and charred. The bloodless flesh of his face and neck were also badly burned.

  The werewolf’s narrow eyes drifted. There were three others present, just one of whom was alive: a young woman. She was spread on her back across a large boulder. The waves broke against it and splashed over her hands and face, but she didn’t seem to feel it. The Wolf Man looked at her for a long moment. He knew the girl. And something deep inside the Wolf Man reached out to her when he saw her lying helpless with her hands in the water, her unblinking eyes staring at the clear night sky.

  The werewolf swallowed a growl. He did not want the vampire to hear him.

  Then the Wolf Man regarded the other two undead ones. They were a man and a woman. The man was tall, hairless, and dark-skinned, dressed in a white shirt and trousers. He was standing on the deck of the vessel preparing to help the Monster onboard. The Wolf Man had never seen him before. But the other woman, the undead one, was vaguely familiar. He had seen her recently—wasn’t it a night or two before? She had been lying amidst shattered glass outside a castle. She had been Dracula’s bride. Now she was standing near the cliff, hungrily eyeing the young woman on the rocks from a distance.

  The Wolf Man looked back at Dracula. The vampire was standing on the shore, just beyond the breakers, as the dark-skinned man bent to help the Monster up a ramp. As soon as Frankenstein’s creation was onboard, the vampire turned to the bewitched young woman lying on the boulder. His fingers splayed, he extended his right arm. Slowly, like a carnivorous plant closing its petals over an unwary insect, the fingers drooped and moved toward a point below the palm.

  “Come to me,” the vampire commanded.

  Count Dracula’s elbow relaxed slightly. Then it tensed again, throwing his forearm out, the fingers wide open. Once more they closed slowly.

  “Come—to me!”

  The woman raised herself stiffly at the waist. “I am coming . . . Master.” As she sat up, she slid from the rock and stood in the shallow water. After standing hip-deep in the waves for a moment she walked forward, her eyes still wide and gazing ahead.

  “Go on the boat,” Dracula told her.

  “I will . . . go onboard,” the young woman replied. She turned slowly and waded toward the ramp.

  The Wolf Man shook his head violently and made a low guttural sound.

  Dracula’s head snapped toward the cliff. His eyes found the Wolf Man’s perch. The vampire turned his body toward him.

  “Andre,” the vampire said, “get the girl aboard and settle her below! Then sail for home.”

  “At once, Master,” Andre replied.

  With the Frankenstein Monster standing safely on the foredeck, the Marya Islander ran down the ramp. He sidled up to the young woman, put an arm around her waist, and hurried her onto the motor yacht.

  As the Wolf Man watched, Dracula drew his smallsword. His bride looked up from where she stood at the base of the cliff. Her lips rolled away from her upper and lower teeth, baring a pair of small, sharp fangs on top. She made a spitting sound and her fingers curled to claws at her sides.

  It was not in the Wolf Man’s nature to know fear. With a rattling loud cry of his own, the werewolf flung himself from the cliff. He landed between the vampire and his mistress, his powerful legs coiled beneath him. He immediately flung himself at Count Dracula. The fury of the werewolf’s attack sent both creatures spilling into the surf. The Wolf Man managed to stay on top of his prey. Rising on his hands and knees so that his head was above the water, the werewolf pushed the vampire down and held him there. Dracula thrashed to get free but his limbs moved clumsily under the sea, his senses dulled by the water. Growling ferociously, the Wolf Man slid his right hand to Dracula’s neck and pinned it to the sand. With his left hand he grasped the vampire’s wrist and shook it. The Wolf Man wanted to get rid of the deadly silver blade before he turned his attention to Count Dracula’s chest. Before he tried to dig out the vampire’s undying heart.

  The water wouldn’t kill the vampire but the struggle would weaken him. And if he transformed into some other creature, not only would the Wolf Man continue to hold him but Dracula would lose the smallsword. This time, the ancient vampire would not escape.

  The vampire’s face was darkly visible beneath the water, distorted by rage and by the billowing sands. Maddened by Dracula’s defiance, the Wolf Man bellowed and shook his quarry violently. He felt the vampire resist, though Dracula was not his equal. He squeezed the vampire harder in an effort to loosen his grip on the blade.

  The werewolf smelled Dracula’s bride an instant before she struck. He had already half-turned as she grabbed two fistfuls of fur on the back of his head, bent her mouth toward his shoulder, and bit him hard.

  The werewolf released Count Dracula’s throat, reached behind himself, and grabbed his attacker by the neck. Though the Wolf Man’s claws easily penetrated Mornay’s burned and brittle flesh, her teeth remained in his throat.

  No longer pinned to the swirling sands, Dracula shot up from beneath the Wolf Man. Furious, the vampire switched the smallsword to his left hand and tried to push it into the werewolf’s chest. The Wolf Man was forced to release the vampire’s right hand and dive deeper into the water to avoid it. Dripping with seawater, Dracula turned and stalked toward the ramp of his motor yacht and stood beside it.

  Still clinging to the Wolf Man, the lamia continued her tenacious attack. He howled with anger and pain as the smell of his own wet fur filled his nostrils. It reminded him of the last time he and the Lord of the Vampires met in these waters. Dracula escaped him then—the only prey who had ever gotten away.

  The Wolf Man reached over his shoulder with his other hand. He pulled at the vampire bride’s matted hair and writhed violently in the water. But the she-demon held on, hissing her catlike cries while Dracula waited in the darkness. The Wolf Man could literally feel Dracula’s blood warming. The vampire was waiting, anticipating the moment when the werewolf would give him the opportunity to drive the knife through his heart.

  The Wolf Man would not give him the opportunity. He had had enough of these inferior nightwalkers.

  The werewolf roared. The wail echoed through the hollow shells of the boats surrounding them. It was a cry that caused even Count Dracula to straighten and pause, a sustained yell that spoke of decades of animal frustration and anger. As the werewolf roared, he bent over and at the same time tugged hard on the vampire bride. He dragged her from his back, straightened, and for a moment held her above his head. Then he slammed her down hard
on a broken oar still set in the rusted oarlock of an old rowboat. She struck faceup, shrieking as the tough, weathered wood penetrated her back and knifed through her heart. A dark spray accompanied the shaft as it emerged from her left breast. The lamia gasped desperately and wriggled and then pushed at the boat. Though the wreck wobbled from side to side, it didn’t tip over. She was unable to climb off the bloody stake.

  The Wolf Man hunched forward and stepped around the squirming creature. Count Dracula seemed to show no interest in her fate. His eyes were on the werewolf. He held the smallsword before him, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He smiled cruelly, baring his fangs.

  The werewolf growled softly and exposed his own sharp-edged teeth. He circled around the vampire in an effort to get between him and the boat. Following the instructions he’d been given, the dark-skinned man was setting sail.

  The Wolf Man was about to attack when voices came from around the cliff. Dracula heard them too. The sounds of their struggle must have attracted the attention of those on the sandbar.

  With a hiss that became a screech, the vampire turned from the werewolf. Before the Wolf Man could reach him, Count Dracula had spread his cloak and was flapping toward the boat on huge leathery wings. The moon was ahead of him as he flew away, beckoning like flame to a moth.

  The Wolf Man bayed his disappointment at the sky, then looked down. He watched impassively as Sandra Mornay wheezed her last. Then he looked out at the receding boat.

  Accepting the fact that Dracula had escaped him yet again, the werewolf ran toward the inviting shadows of the cliff and hurried to the north just as powerful flashlights poked around the crag from the south.

  TWENTY

  Five-year-old Marilyn Harris had been spending the warm morning searching for wildflowers to give to her grandmother when she stumbled upon the unconscious form of Lawrence Talbot. The big man was sprawled in the tall grasses near the baggage area of the abandoned train terminal.