Full Wolf Moon

by K. L. Nappier

  "I'm the Center Administrator of Tulenar, kid, that's who the hell I am! Get your sergeant!"

  / / / /

  She was back in Shackley's face by nine o'clock, arguing with him from across her desk. Or at least it had been her desk. Now Shackley was sitting behind it and saying to her, "Mrs. Tebbe, regardless of your concerns, the Army and the United States Government are treating the captain's disappearance as a kidnapping. We can only pray he hasn't been murdered."

  "Listen to me. He's not the victim, he's the killer. He's the killer! I've told you what he told me, I've told you what Andrew Takei heard him say and I trusted you with the coroner's report. Mr. Shackley, how could Pierce know Mrs. Tamura's heart was taken? We've never found her body. Only the killer would know that."

  Shackley held up his hand in a one moment, please gesture. "Precisely as you say. We have never found the body. We cannot ascertain the killer did such a thing because we have no physical evidence that it happened. What we do have is the Takei boy claiming Captain Pierce made the statement. A boy who, no doubt, would say anything if he thought it would get him out of jail. Do you expect us to discount Captain Pierce's reputation on the word of a delinquent and your imagination?"

  "This isn't my imagination! At least you could question Pierce."

  Shackley looked weary. "Yes we could, Mrs. Tebbe, if we could find him. But he's gone, and all the evidence suggests foul play."

  "I tell you that blood is not his, it's another victim's."

  "And what victim would that be, Mrs. Tebbe? Who else is missing?"

  "It... it could be Arthur's...the Reverend Arthur Satsugai. He could have been murdered there."

  "Mrs. Tebbe. Listen to yourself."

  Doris realized she was trembling. Taking advantage of her hesitation, Shackley rested his elbows on the desk and tented his hands in front of his chin. "There's an equation of logic I think you will find useful in this case, Mrs. Tebbe. It is loosely referred to as Occam's Razor and, simply put, it states--"

  "Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate."

  Shackley dropped his hands, looking chagrined and little confused.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," Doris said, "don't you know the Razor in Latin? It 'loosely' translates to 'of competing explanations, the simplest should be preferred, provided it takes into account all evidence.'"

  Shackley recovered quickly. "You will have to pardon me if I seemed condescending just now. However, you have just proven my point. Of the two prevailing theories regarding these tragedies, which seems the simplest to you? We have a subversive Enemy National committing unspeakable acts in order to create wide spread panic across our nation's exposed western flank during a time of war. Or the mastermind of the murders is a U.S. Army captain with a sterling record who arbitrarily goes beserk, believing himself to be a werewolf."

  She realized for the first time how absurd she, indeed, sounded to Shackley. She looked at him and managed to see not a stubborn, stuffy bureaucrat, but a man who had not experienced what she had experienced. Who would have no reason to connect the dots of Pierce's past, and the strange murders in the remote deserts of an Indian reservation, to the atrocities at Tulenar. He had not heard some strange Navajo medicine man, long gone now, making uncannily accurate predictions of carnage. He had not lost Arthur so violently.

  He could not possibly believe her. He had no reason to do so.

  Chapter 27

  Disjunction Lake

  Afternoon. Third Night of the Full Moon.

  Disjunction Lake's library was small and solid, a tomb of minimal knowledge squatting in the town square. Its card catalog was sketchy at best, but Doris managed to find two old books on European lore, the largest only three hundred pages, and a tattered copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula.

  It became clear early on that Dracula was the wrong direction. Of the books on European lore, the smaller one centered entirely on Celtic and Irish fairy tales. It didn't occur to her until she pulled the third book across the table toward her to peruse the index. "W". Werewolf.

  There it was, page 137. Doris was keenly aware of the knot in her throat as she turned the leaves, then swallowed bitterly when the section entitled Shape Shifting Myths revealed only a single page on the subject, subtitled Lycanthropy. Still, it offered her something:

  "Lycanthropy (or werewolfism). Myths of lycanthropy have been recorded in Europe, Scandinavia and the North American continent. These tales persist today. Subtleties vary, but the theme remains amazingly common where ever found.

  "The victim becomes a lycanthrope, or werewolf, by surviving the bite of one such creature. Henceforth under each full moon, the victim mutates into a large wolf-like being, fated to slaughter and feed on other humans. Upon the fading of the full moon, the werewolf returns to human form with no knowledge of the carnage he has created.

  "According to some traditions, the werewolf is selective in its choice of victims. In these cases, one or both of the victim's palms (depending on the tradition) is said to be marked with a pentagram, which is a star enclosed within a circle (often associated with the Black Arts). The lycanthrope, in human form, is likewise marked.

  "A savvy victim would be wise to compare his palm to that of a suspected lycanthrope, as only the werewolf and his victim can discern the mark. In some traditions, those gifted with second sight can also see the pentagram. This same savvy victim would then be wise to have handy a weapon crafted of silver, for only a fatal blow with such a weapon can kill the werewolf.

  "Other details and variations on this theme abound. However, these vitals should provide the reader with ample knowledge for his next werewolf hunt."

  Doris clapped the book shut, frustrated with the author's glib manner. The thud echoed up to Mrs. Baker, the librarian, who raised her head in annoyance even though she and Doris were the only people there. Doris closed her strained eyes a moment, and it was then she felt the presence behind her. She shifted in her chair a split second before telling herself not to be ridiculous. But Doris was certain she saw something. A shadow against a wall, cast by a soft globe light, a silhouette with the outline much like a braid or a ponytail, doubled upon itself and bound.

  The shadow was already vanishing behind the far bookshelves by the time Doris stood and moved toward it. Behind the last shelf was a doorway. It was dark beyond. The small sign above it read STACKS. She approached slowly, and realized she was afraid.

  The pale lighting of the main room let Doris glimpse five or six steps leading down into the stacks. She hesitated a moment, then plunged her hand into the dark, hastily tracing her fingers along either wall of the threshold, looking for a light switch. There was none. She was quick to pull her hand back.

  Doris thought of going to Mrs. Baker, to ask her to light the room, but when she walked around so she could see the main desk, the woman wasn't there. Doris turned back to the black doorway, bucked up her nerve and entered.

  Once she stepped out of the feeble, second hand light, Doris was in virtual night. Even after her eyes adjusted, the best she could make out was the monolithic aisles of books, their musty aroma close against her face. Two steps forward and something spidery wisped across her forehead. Doris gasped, but stifled a cry when she realized she must have walked into the light string. Groping outward, she caught it and tugged.

  A gloomy little bulb pushed its glow against the dark, barely aided by the reflective metal cap above it. The aisles were aligned before her and Doris ventured to her right, peering between each until she heard tiny scuttles, sounds like nervous whispering. She snapped to ... but it was just a mouse, its needley claws scratching against abandoned papers on a low, dusty table pushed against a wall.

  The overhanging light she had switched on suddenly wavered and Doris's eyes darted back to it. There! One aisle past the lamp. A shape between the bookshelves. She fixed on it, her heart pounding as she began slowly toward it until she realized her fear could foil success. So she forced herself to stride firmly and quickly and turned into the ais
le...

  It was the librarian. Her gray, stubby pigtail swiveled like a counterweight when she turned toward Doris with a start. "Aa! Heavens to Betsy!"

  Doris felt like an idiot. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

  "Gracious, you practically jumped at me around the shelves!"

  "Yes, I'm sorry. I was...I was reading up on various lore and I...I thought I might find more in the stacks. Is there? More here?"

  Mrs. Baker smiled then, willing to forgive the scare, it seemed, since she was needed. "So you turned the light on. I thought I'd forgotten it this morning."

  "No, that was me."

  "Mm. Well..." Mrs. Baker stepped along in her soft-soled shoes to an aisle near the dusty table. The stacks of this small town library were clearly her territory, rarely visited by the locals, let alone anyone else. She reached up to a second hanging bulb and tugged its string, casting more inadequate light onto the shelves.

  She selected two books and looked at Doris. "North American Indian Legends and Folk Tales of Uncle Remus?"

  "Fine. Thank you," Doris lied, still feeling like a fool. She took the two books and headed for the doorway, but had a sudden inspiration. "This may sound like a strange change of topic, but do you have anything on psychoses?"

  Mrs. Baker didn't so much as blink, producing two thick books from yet another aisle, one written by Freud himself.

  Once inside the main room, Doris abandoned the Uncle Remus tales to peruse the others' indexes, turning to anything that even remotely related to murderers who thought they were werewolves. What she found was precisely that; remotely related.A few pages on the delusions of becoming a wolf, a cat, a hawk. The Indian legends were hardly more than synopses on selected tribes and their lore; far less illuminating than the book with the shape-shifting chapter. She tossed the volumes next to her previous pile and walked out, discouraged.

  / / / /

  The test results from Pierce's residence had arrived at Tulenar while Doris was at the library. There had been three fingerprints clear enough to verify that the bloody smears had not been made by Captain Pierce or Arthur Satsugai. The blood type matched neither of them. The speculation was that Pierce had struggled with and managed to wound his assailant, but apparently not seriously enough to thwart the attacker.

  The press, of course, pounced on this latest catastrophe, but never once hinted at the Japanese insurgent theory, though they were well aware of it by now. The unsubstantiated rumor of an enemy agent murdering not only internees, but also military officers would guarantee a public panic. In such tenuous times, no one in the media was willing to be responsible for that.

  Even so, the headlines were still sensational:

  THIRD TULENAR JAP MURDERED

  LAKESIDE ASSEMBLY C.O. DISAPPEARS! ARMY FEARS FOUL PLAY

  WAS ARMY CAPTAIN ON VERGE OF DISCOVERING TULENAR KILLER

  STRAIN CRACKS THE IRON LADY OF TULENAR

  That one was Doris's personal favorite.

  / / / /

  Arthur Satsugai's body had already been autopsied. Now he was buried quickly. Having made no arrangements in life, he was laid to rest in the camp cemetery, with minimal ceremony. Shackley feared a funeral would be used as an excuse to riot, so he forbade attendance by anyone other than immediate family. That meant, of course, that no one attended, other than the presiding minister, the gravediggers and an authorized witness. Arthur's son and former wife, far away on the east coast, couldn't make it in time. And his brother was cut off, living with the enemy.

  Doris came at night, because what would it have looked like for the Center Administrator to be Arthur's sole visitor, the sole violator of Shackley's edict? She stood before the grave, its freshly turned soil dark in the dusty cemetery. The moon's fullness was waning, but its glow was still brilliant and she felt raw and exposed beneath it. The headstone was the only one in the picket-fenced area set aside for any future dead, the WRA thinking of every contingency during the relocation. Lots of elderly Nationals behind the barbed wire, after all.

  It was a simple stone, clean and neat. And Arthur's. Arthur! Doris fought against the tears. She refused to sink to her knees. She shut her eyes tightly, but this made her woozy, so she opened them and lost against the warm, salty spill. She blinked rapidly, desperate to regain control, but the tears came, blurring the figure that was approaching her from the other side of the headstone.

  "I'm sure he died well, Mrs. Tebbe, if he was as strong in spirit as I've heard."

  She would have swiped at the teltale tracks had the sight of David Alma Curar not shocked her so. She was speechless only a moment. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Looking for you."

  "I told you not to set foot in this camp again."

  He stared into the lopsided face of the moon. "I've been here every First Night of every month. Just ... never at the right place. This is a big camp. With so much fear, there are too many options."

  "Options..."

  "For the beast, Mrs. Tebbe."

  "Don't you start with that again..."

  "You say that as if you still don't believe. But I saw you at the library."

  Like a child caught lying, Doris began to stammer, but Alma Curar interrupted with, "I know where he is."

  "Who?"

  "Maxwell Pierce."

  Doris fell silent.

  "Don't you want to find him? Everyone else does. But only you have been putting together the right clues."

  Her first thought was that they were in on this together, that somehow, he and Pierce were allies. But, no. Why would Alma Curar be tempting her with the captain's whereabouts? Dear God...was she the next victim? Had she been right after all, that night Alma Curar had confronted her at her porch steps? Was he trying to lure her from the camp now? No. This wasn't fitting the pattern.

  "I'm asking you to come with me," the healer said. "It doesn't matter if you believe what's inside him or not. I know of only two people that might put a stop to all this. You're one of them. Please. Come."

  "How can I be sure...?" Doris didn't know how to finish the sentence.

  "If I could give you assurances, I would, Mrs. Tebbe. But you don't know me well enough to accept them. What I can tell you is that this is not a killing night. For now, the danger has lessened."

  Doris shook her head, took one step backward. "This is some sort of wild goose chase."

  Alma Curar lost his calm. "If you would've been paying attention, you'd have realized I've been begging you to come for weeks. Who do you think left those newspapers at your door?"

  "So that was you..."

  "Who did you think? Captain Pierce? He's a strong man, but if he's so strong he could deliberately give you those, he wouldn't need our help. But he does."

  Help? Doris didn't want to help Pierce. She wanted to kill him. She shouldn't tell Alma Curar that, though. He seemed to be some sort of protector for Pierce, only God knew why. Maybe he was the sort who felt sorry for lunatics, no matter how bloodthirsty. A self-appointed advocate.

  But she wanted Maxwell Pierce dead. To kill, she'd have to find him.

  "All right. I'll come."

  / / / /

  Under the moon, Alma Curar's shack was a square, gray wooden skull. In the foothills, where mostly pines grew, this property was obviously no farm and never had been. Doris's breath plumed before her as she stepped from her sedan. The healer had already gotten out of his battered green truck and was walking toward her, the finely crafted silver glinting at his wrists and throat. He spoke as if Doris's thoughts were clearly on her face.

  "I do farm, Mrs. Tebbe, back home. Just not here. I made arrangements with one of the people who supply Mr. Aholt's grocery."

  Doris looked at Alma Curar's dented, rusty truck, took in once again the seedy little clapboard shack. "I guess your low overhead makes that a feasible arrangement."

  It had been a sham. As Doris stood in the midst of this place, she understood that Alma Curar had never come to sell produce to the internees. She said sud
denly, bluntly, "What the hell have you been up to?"

  "I've been hunting, Mrs. Tebbe. But I'm not much of a hunter. I was foolish enough to think I could do this alone. My foolishness has caused too much suffering."

  "So where's Pierce?"

  "Are you prepared?"

  Doris watched him a moment. "Just bring him."

  "No, you'll have to come inside."

  "Oh no. Uh-uh."

  Alma Curar simply turned from Doris, saying as he walked away, "If I were going to kill you, Mrs. Tebbe, we're already remote enough for me to do it right here. It'd be less messy outside, anyway."

  He mounted the single step of the shack, the door creaking as he opened it and he peered in as if to assure a safe entrance. Then he hurried in, leaving the door open. It was up to Doris to follow.