The Fear in Yesterday's Rings

by George C. Chesbro

  “Jesus! What the hell—?”

  Harper, dressed in jeans, untied sneakers, and a blue silk blouse that was only half buttoned, was sitting in the front seat on the passenger’s side. Her long gray hair was uncombed, hastily pulled back into a ponytail held in place with a blue ribbon. Her face was still puffy with sleep, but her maroon eyes nonetheless glowed with curiosity—and what might have been a glint of triumph.

  “It looks to me like you forgot to wash your face, Robby,” she said wryly, Stifling a yawn. “Or maybe you’re on your way to a very kinky late night party. I like that dirt all over your face. Nice touch. You look like a very well dressed commando. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to have that nice suit cleaned after the party.”

  I didn’t get into the car. “Harper,” I said with a deep sigh of exasperation, “what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were asleep.”

  “Oh, I know you did. I was—but I’m a light sleeper. I woke up when you took your arm away. When you got up and took your suitcase into the bathroom, I figured you planned to do more than just pee. In fact, I got the notion that you might actually be planning to sneak off somewhere without me. As you see, I can get dressed pretty fast when I have to, especially when I’m afraid I might miss something. I’ve got a dark scarf I can use to cover my hair. Do you want me to rub some dirt on my face and hands?”

  “No, I do not want you to rub dirt on your face and hands. What I want is for you to go back to bed.”

  “And have you slip off without me into the night with dirt on your face and hands? No way. This definitely looks to me like it’s developing into one of those bizarre Mongo Frederickson cases you told me you don’t get involved in any longer. If so, you think I’m going to miss out on all the fun and excitement? Uh-uh.”

  “Harper, this isn’t a game.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she replied evenly. “Robby, I think you fibbed to me earlier. That message from your brother involved more than the fact that he was pissed off because you hadn’t touched base with him, right? He told you something about World Circus that got you into that commando outfit. Right?”

  “This isn’t the time, Harper. Please go back in the room and wait for me.”

  “No, Robby,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “If I can fly you all over the countryside in my plane, then I can go off with you on your post-midnight sojourns.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  She narrowed her eyelids, thrust out her dimpled chin. “Robby, you’re very close to sounding sexist. Not only do I handle poisonous snakes, but I’ve been married four times. You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  “Your husbands didn’t shoot at you, I trust.”

  It was absolutely the wrong thing to say to Harper Rhys-Whitney. Her maroon eyes went wide, glowed even brighter. “Wow. It’s that dangerous, is it?”

  Seeing that there was no sense in arguing with her, I got in the car and started up the engine. “No, it’s not that dangerous,” I said, hoping it was the truth. I put the car into gear, pulled out of the motel parking lot onto the highway, and headed south, back toward the county fairgrounds and the circus. “There’s not going to be any shooting. All I want to do is look around.”

  “What’s this all about, Robby? What did your brother tell you?”

  “Something that makes me suspect people in that circus may be hurting people. That’s what I want to check out; I can’t go home until I do. If they have been hurting people, then I want to try to get proof so that it can be stopped as quickly as possible. If I’m wrong, then all I’ve lost is a little sleep and the cost of having my suit dry-cleaned.”

  “Robby, you haven’t told me a damned thing.”

  “Not now, Harper. Please. It has to do with concentration. To tell you the truth, I already feel more than a little foolish, and I’m going to feel even more foolish if I have to explain why I have to go back to the circus. After I’ve had my look-around, I’ll explain my reasons. Okay?”

  I thought she was going to argue. Instead, she simply said, “All right, Robby. I don’t want to disturb your concentration, because I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  We didn’t talk any more during the remainder of the fifty-mile drive back to the fairgrounds. Something I’d said had seemed to make an impression on my traveling companion, or perhaps a full realization had come to her that I wasn’t outfitted in my very-well-dressed-commando costume for fun and games. I could feel the tension in her. Once, I put my hand in hers, and she squeezed my fingers hard.

  I pulled off the shoulder of the highway a quarter mile from where the darkened circus tents and midway rides stood out against the moon-washed sky like some ancient ruins.

  “If the highway patrol comes by, tell them you stopped to rest for a few minutes. Drive off, and come back here to pick me up in an hour or so.”

  “Robby,” Harper said in a tight voice, “what if something happens to you and you can’t get back?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “But how will I know?”

  “I’ll be back. But, just in case, if I’m not back in two hours—”

  “One hour, Robby. The circus isn’t that big.”

  “Ninety minutes. If I’m not here, call the highway patrol or the county sheriff.”

  “But what are you looking for, Robby? What am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Tell them the person or persons responsible for the so-called werewolf killings travels with the circus, as well as the werewolf itself, and that they should come in to get me in a big hurry.”

  Harper’s mouth dropped open, but before she could say anything I got out of the car, quickly closing the door so as to shut off the interior light, and walked across the highway. I hopped over a steel guardrail, navigated a water-filled ditch, and began running, keeping low, toward the circus.

  I reached the midway, stayed in the moon shadows next to the huge Ferris wheel for two minutes, watching and listening for guards. There didn’t appear to be any, at least not in my immediate vicinity. I made my way past the still rides and shuttered concession stands, angling around toward the penning area at the far side of the Big Top. I was more than a little curious to see what animals, if any, Arlen Zelezian was keeping in his pens or his semis, besides the usual circus menagerie. I was fairly certain Mabel was going to smell me, but I could only hope she wouldn’t cause a fuss; it was definitely not the time for a reprise of our earlier reunion scene.

  As I moved around the perimeter of the Big Top, I noticed a pale sliver of light spilling out into the night from beneath a loose flap. I could think of no reason why a light should be on in the tent in the middle of the night, and it seemed worthwhile investigating. I got down on my belly, crawled under the canvas flap, and found myself beneath a bank of bleachers. There was a single spotlight turned on in the rigging above, and it was shining directly down into the ring. I moved to the aisle between bleacher sections, eased myself up to where I could peer over the seats and get a clear view of what was happening in the ring. When I did, my heart began to pound in my chest.

  Luther, dressed in jeans, brown leather boots, and a gray sweatshirt, was crouched in almost the exact center of the ring. He was facing and talking in low tones that were at once soothing and commanding to a creature that looked like a huge dog or wolf, but which I knew was neither.

  For one thing, this animal had extended canines that Nate Button had never mentioned, saber teeth that reminded me somewhat of the kind of wax vampire fangs children wear at Halloween—except mere was no doubt in my mind that these teeth were very real and very sharp. There was a cage on wheels, its door open, at the far end of the ring, and from the tension exuded by both man and beast, I suspected the creature had just been set free. The animal was about the size of a large mastiff, with a very broad rib cage, but it had the long, spindly legs and enormous paws of a wolf. Its coat was a rusty, buff color, and it had black stripes running lengthwise down its back. There was a thick ruff
around its neck, like a lion’s mane. It had a squarish face, a large muzzle marked by gaping, black leather nostrils, and a predator’s close-set eyes.

  Luther had faced bears and tigers without so much as a stick in his hand, but he now wore a .357 Magnum in a holster strapped around his waist.

  I now regretted even more the fact that I didn’t have a gun as the animal looked away from Luther—toward me.

  The damn thing knew I was there.

  Luther, never taking his eyes off the creature in front of him, slowly straightened up. He removed the Magnum from its holster, cocked the weapon. The animal seemed to be familiar with the gun, and perhaps even had some idea of what it could do; it reacted to the loud click of metal on metal by stepping back a pace and baring its fangs. The enormous saber canines glistened with saliva.

  “All right,” Luther said loudly over his shoulder, still never looking away from the creature in front of him, “bring her in.”

  The backside of the heavyset man with the potbelly and bulbous nose who had been following Harper and me on the midway suddenly emerged from the tunnel leading to the penning area. The rest of him—clad from head to toe in a heavily padded uniform and wearing a baseball catcher’s mask—emerged, and then I could see that he was dragging a heavy, wheeled cage identical to the one already in the ring that had held the first creature. This cage contained a smaller version of the animal standing in the ring—grayer in color, more like a wolf, lacking the heavy ruff, sharply delineated black stripes, and with less pronounced canines. It was a bitch of the species, and she was in heat. Draped over the end of the cage was the soiled khaki safari jacket Nate Button had been wearing.

  The huge buff-colored male stiffened at the sight of the bitch, and a tremor ran through its body, but it did not move from its position. The man with the potbelly glanced nervously in the direction of the male, then quickly stepped around behind the cage holding the female.

  I felt a hand touch my shoulder, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I jumped, but somehow managed to stifle a shout. I wheeled around to find that the hand belonged to Harper, who was standing just behind me.

  She leaned very close to me, whispered, “That’s a lobox, isn’t it? And that’s the jacket that professor was wearing.”

  It was not the time or place for a conversation, whispered or not. I put my finger to my lips and shook my head, then pushed her back and under the bleachers before turning my attention back to the tableau in the dirt ring.

  The creature certainly was a lobox, or something very close to it—as close as Arlen Zelezian was likely to get after a decade or more of teasing and leaching past horrors from present genes, breeding wolves and dogs, matching for tiny retrograde genetic factors, bringing this creature back from extinction by mining the shadowy genetic repositories of its closest modern ancestors. Despite my revulsion at what I was certain Zelezian had opted to do with the creature, I could not help but be impressed. The lobox, this beast with a taste for human flesh that had terrorized early man and perhaps contributed to the Neanderthal’s extinction, was absolutely magnificent.

  The presence of the lobox bitch in estrus continued to have a galvanizing effect on the male; it stood very stiffly, ruff slightly raised, its hide quivering—but it remained where it was. A powerful tribute, I thought, to Luther Zelezian. The trainer, still keeping his eyes fastened on the creature, sidled backward toward the closed cage, ignoring the sudden growling and thrashing of the animal inside it. He took the safari jacket off the top of the cage, dipped a corner of it in the bloody estral fluids at the bottom of the cage, then nodded to the potbellied man, who quickly wheeled the lobox bitch back into the recesses of the tunnel.

  “Kill,” Luther said in an even tone as he casually tossed the soiled jacket off to his left.

  The lobox sprang forward like something shot from a rocket launcher, then leaped high in the air in a stiff-legged manner that reminded me of a fox pouncing. In the brief moments that it arched through the air, I could see long, curved claws—including one at the rear of the footpad—unsheathed, claws that were more like a tiger’s than a wolf’s or dog’s.

  The rear, opposable, claw was exactly where Nate Button had said it would be.

  And then the creature was at the jacket, using its claws to pin the material to the ground while it tore at it with its long, gleaming fangs. Within moments the jacket had been ripped to shreds—just as its owner, the man whose body odor permeated the fabric, would be if and when this animal was released to track him down. Luther had found a most effective technique for priming the killer beast to track and kill a selected victim by using elemental forces—the pleasure, the promise, of sex, combined with a fear of whatever punishment the animal understood to be represented by the gun, probably the ear-shattering report that would result if the Magnum was fired.

  I hoped Nate Button was a long way from the area, but I strongly suspected he was not. The fact that Luther had his jacket, and was using it to prime the lobox, had to mean that the scientist was a captive, or was somewhere within the lobox’s scent range—which Button had indicated might be as much as ten miles, or even more. It meant Button, despite my discouraging remarks, hadn’t given up on his lobox theory. What he had undoubtedly done was to get a map and compare the killing sites with the location of the circus on each date, and then speculated correctly just where a large predator could hide out between killing onslaughts. It was why he had been in the audience earlier in the evening. After the performance he had decided to look around for a “werewolf” and been caught at it. An article of his clothing had been taken from him.

  Just as articles of clothing had been taken from Harper and me. The Zelezians, father and son, were taking no chances.

  “Back,” Luther commanded, and again cocked the hammer of his weapon.

  The lobox hesitated, caught between the frenzy whipped up by his natural instincts, the smell of the estral fluids, and Luther’s training.

  Luther reached around with his left hand to put his index finger in his right ear, aimed the revolver into the dirt, and pulled the trigger. The explosion of the gun reverberated throughout the tent. The animal jumped back, stood for a few moments with its hide quivering, then slowly walked back to the position where it had previously been standing.

  “Sit,” Luther said evenly.

  The animal sat down on its haunches—and once again turned its head to look in our direction. Then it bared its fangs and growled.

  Luther, who had started across the ring to retrieve the shreds of Nate Button’s safari jacket, suddenly stopped, tensed, looked up in the direction of where we were shrouded in darkness.

  The lobox growled again, louder.

  It seemed like an excellent time to beat a hasty retreat; but it was, of course, too late.

  “Here,” Luther commanded. When the lobox’s head turned in his direction, he first pointed out in the darkness, then squatted down and slowly drew a line in the dirt with his finger. “Track! Now!”

  The lobox rose from its haunches, ambled across the ring, jumped over the six-inch-high wooden apron defining the dirt ring, then loped lazily down the sawdust track, heading directly toward us. It definitely did not bode well, I thought.

  “Oh, God,” Harper said in a strangled, thoroughly frightened voice as she grabbed my right arm with both her hands and tried to pull me back down the aisle.

  “No,” I said in as normal a voice as I could manage under the circumstances. I grabbed her wrist, pulled her up beside me. “We can’t outrun it. Don’t move at all, Harper—unless it comes at me. If it does, then get back out under the tent, run like hell, and climb the first tall thing you come to. Otherwise, stay very still.”

  “Robby, I’m—”

  “Don’t move,” I repeated, and then stepped out from the darkness between the bleacher sections into the twilight aura at the edge of the pool of light cast by the arc lamp above the ring. I stood in the center of the sawdust track, hands at my sides, and f
aced the beast coming at me. “All right, Luther,” I continued evenly, “you’ve got me. Call Fido off.”

  “Actually, Frederickson,” Luther said casually, “I’m almost as curious as you are to see what’s going to happen.” He walked across the ring, put one foot up on the apron, rested his left hand on his hip. The hand with the gun was hanging at his side. “We haven’t spent much time at all practicing this particular procedure. It will be interesting to see what the animal does.”

  The lobox kept coming at me at a steady pace, its mouth open. With its gaping nostrils and saber teeth, its facial expression reminded me of something like a loony grin; I would almost have found it amusing if I hadn’t known that this was death’s smile.

  When the animal was about ten paces away, Luther cocked the gun. “Stay!” he commanded.

  The lobox kept coming until it was only five paces away, then abruptly stopped, sat on its haunches, and stared at me with golden eyes with black irises that were bright with intelligence and seemed almost human. Its mouth opened even wider in a kind of yawn, and its pink tongue lolled from its black leather lips. Its huge nostrils quivered slightly, as if it wanted to get a new, improved, sniff of me. Its head was at about a level with mine, and again it struck me how the damn thing almost looked as if it was smiling.

  I tensed as I felt, rather than heard, Harper come up behind me, and a moment later I felt her hands on both my shoulders. I appreciated her courage, her willingness to stand with me in the face of a totally unpredictable creature that could tear us both apart in seconds, but her action wasn’t the thing to do; now, if one of us died, the other was certain to die also. Once, just once, I wished she would do something I asked her to. There was no longer any possibility of escape for her—if there ever had been.