Then there was a crash of glass, followed by screaming.
Chris stopped talking in the middle of a sentence and sat motionless for a moment. Audrey started violently, spilling tequila down the front of her blouse. Karyn stared at the darkened window. Although the screams were directionless, she was deadly certain that they came from Number 12.
"Jesus!" Audrey said. She stood up, ignoring the spilled drink. "What the hell was that?"
Chris got up and walked to the door. He opened it and stood there listening. The screams had stopped now, and there was the sound of other doors opening and questioning voices. People began running from the main building along the path that led past the cabanas. Chris started out the door.
"Don't go out there," Karyn said.
He looked back at her briefly. "I've got to see what happened."
"Then I'm coming with you," Karyn said.
"You're not going to leave me here alone," Audrey said. She walked unsteadily over and stood next to Chris, clutching his arm possessively.
For a moment Chris hesitated. They could hear voices shouting from down at the end of the row of cabanas. "All right," he said, "well all go. But don't get separated."
The three of them stepped out and joined the people running from the main building. There was no outside lighting along the path, and the only illumination came from the open doors of the other cabanas and several flashlights. At Number 12 the running people came to an abrupt stop. The door stood open. A man reached cautiously inside and snapped on the lights.
There was a gasp from the onlookers, and the crowd took an involuntary step backward. Audrey turned away from Chris and began to retch.
Through the open doorway Karyn caught a glimpse of the bed. Her bed. She saw what appeared to be a pile of bare human limbs on top of it. Everything was splashed a bright, wet crimson. She looked away as Chris gripped her shoulder.
Señor Davila, the hotel manager, rushed up with his thin, pale legs bare under a flannel nightshirt. He began trying simultaneously to calm the guests in English and give orders to the staff in Spanish.
The only word Karyn picked out was policía. Slowly the people began to move back away from the cabana as Davila selected a pair of unhappy kitchen helpers to guard the door.
Half an hour later Karyn, Chris, Audrey, and most of the other guests were gathered in the lobby of the main building. The initial shock had given way to a sort of desperate camaraderie, as with people who have shared, and survived, a disaster. On orders from Señor Davila hot coffee was being dispensed from the kitchen, and the bar, hastily reopened, was doing a booming business.
The clatter of conversation among the guests eased off as two blue and white cars with the markings of the Mazatlán police wheeled up to the front of the hotel with sirens braying.
A short, neat man in a business suit marched in at the head of several uniformed policemen. He directed the officers to their tasks, then talked quietly with Señor Davila while the guests watched with interest. After a minute he stepped to the archway between the lobby and dining room and held up a hand for attention.
"Good evening. I am Sgt. Fulgencio Vasquez of the Mazatlán Police. As you know, there has been a serious tragedy here tonight. Two employees of this hotel have been killed." He paused for a moment while the guests took in this information. "Temporary, I will use the office of Señor Davila, the manager, to do interviews. I will ask that any of you who have knowledge of this crime remain and give your name to my officer. The rest of you may return to your rooms. Please do not leave the hotel before speaking to me. Thank you for the cooperation."
There was a general stirring around among the guests. No one seemed anxious to leave.
Karyn and Chris exchanged a look. Their eyes asked, Shall we tell? and immediately answered, Take care.
There were few volunteers from among the guests to supply information, but most of them stayed around in the lobby and the bar to see what was going to happen. There was a good deal of drinking and nervous laughter as people found their quiet vacation had become an adventure.
A blue city ambulance pulled up outside, and the guests crowded out on the veranda to watch. The bodies of the two victims, strapped onto litters and covered with plastic sheets, were brought up and loaded into the back. The ambulance drove off with lights flashing and siren wailing unnecessarily.
Karyn, Chris, and Audrey sat on a wood and leather sofa on one side of the lobby and watched the others jostle for a look at the departing ambulance.
"They act like it's a holiday of some kind," Karyn said.
"It's a touch of hysteria," Chris said. "What they're saying inside is, "Thank God it happened to somebody else and not me.'"
Karyn shivered. Chris reached over and squeezed her hand.
"I've got a fucking headache that won't quit," Audrey said.
"Do you want to go back to the room?" Chris asked.
"Not by myself, I don't."
"I'll go see if I can get you some aspirin."
Chris started to rise, but sat back down when he saw Sergeant Vasquez coming toward them across the lobby. The policeman stopped before the sofa and nodded politely. He focused his attention on Karyn.
"Mrs. Richter?"
"Yes?"
"I am told it was in your cabana that this unfortunate tragedy took place."
"Yes, it was."
"Will you be good enough to come into the office?"
Karyn looked questioningly at Chris.
He said, "Is it all right if I come along, Sergeant? I'm a friend of Mrs. Richter."
Vasquez's cool brown eyes took in the two of them. "A friend, you say?"
"That's right. We knew each other back in the States."
"Don't mind me," Audrey said. "I'm just passing through."
Vasquez gave her a chilly smile. To Chris he said, "I have no objection if you wish to come."
Chris turned to Audrey. "This shouldn't take too long."
"What the hell, take all the time you want," Audrey said. "I'll be in the bar."
Chris patted her knee and smiled. She turned away. He shrugged and joined Karyn and Sergeant Vasquez as they crossed the lobby to enter the small office tucked in behind the registration desk.
Vasquez put them into hard-backed chairs facing him as he sat behind a small desk. He offered his pack of Mexican cigarettes and took one for himself when they both declined. He inhaled deeply, then leaned forward across the desk and fixed them with a steady brown gaze.
"The two of you were together this evening?"
"That's right," Chris answered. "Miss Vance was with us."
"Ah, yes, the young lady in the lobby."
Chris nodded.
Vasquez regarded him for a moment without expression, then he turned to Karyn.
"Mrs. Richter, do you know of anyone who might want to kill you?"
"Me?"
"The young people were murdered in your room. The lights were out. It is possible that the killer was after you and did not see his mistake until it was too late."
"I just arrived in Mazatlán," Karyn said carefully. "I don't know anyone here, except Mr. Halloran."
"Ah, yes." The policeman switched his attention to Chris. "And you, sir, have you any opinions about this tragedy?"
"I don't know any more than Mrs. Richter," Chris said.
Vasquez held Chris for a long moment with his somber gaze, then turned it on Karyn. When neither of them reacted the sergeant relaxed a little and gave them a cool smile. "It was just a thought. The truth is we are fairly certain who the killer is, but I do not wish to overlook other possibilities."
"You know who did it?" Chris said.
"In a crime of passion such as this, we look first for the husband. In this case we have no husband, but we do have a former lover of the girl. A man given to violent acts, I am told. He worked here at the hotel and was discharged a month ago."
Karyn bit her lip. "Are you certain this was done by a man?"
"It is no
t a woman's crime, señora," said Vasquez.
"That's not what I meant."
"Oh?" The policeman assumed an expression of polite attention.
Karyn felt her face growing warm. She looked to Chris for help, but he gave her only a tiny shake of his head. "I just wondered," she said, "whether it could have been—an animal."
"Impossible," the policeman said at once. "I do not wish to make light of your suggestion, señora, but there is no animal capable of doing what was done to those two young people."
A uniformed policeman entered the office. He looked quickly at Karyn and Chris, then spoke to Vasquez. "Con perdón …"
"Qué?"
The policeman spoke rapidly in Spanish as Vasquez listened and nodded. The man placed an envelope on the desk in front of the sergeant as he spoke. Vasquez opened it and peered inside. From a pocket he produced a pair of tweezers, which he used to withdraw the contents of the envelope. He held it up to the light and examined it, then set it down carefully on the desk. A thick tuft of coarse tan fur. He said something to the man in uniform, who saluted and went out.
"It seems the killer left something behind when he went out the window," said Vasquez. He picked up the tuft of fur again in the tweezers and displayed it proudly, like it was a rare butterfly. "One of the men found this caught on the torn window screen."
Karyn and Chris stared at the bit of fur. Neither of them spoke.
Vasquez smiled thinly at Karyn. "I'm sure it is not what you think, señora. Torn from a fur-lined jacket, I would guess. It will be most helpful when we pick up our man."
Karyn started to speak, but caught a warning glance from Chris, and held back.
"There is something, señora?" said Vasquez.
Karyn shook her head. "No, nothing. Is it all right if we go now?"
"Yes, of course. Thank you both for your time."
They walked out of the manager's office and across the lobby. Most of the guests by this time had drifted off to their rooms.
"We can't let them arrest an innocent man," Karyn said.
"What do you suggest? Going up to Sergeant Vasquez and saying, 'Hey, I think those people were killed by a werewolf who used to be my husband'?"
"Please don't be sarcastic." Chris passed a hand over his brow. "I'm sorry. Getting tired, I guess. But I don't think you have to worry about an innocent man being locked up. Despite what you might have read, the Mexican system of criminal justice is reasonably competent."
"I suppose so," Karyn said wearily. "And you're right. There really is nothing we could do." Without warning she yawned.
"We'd all better get some sleep," Chris said.
"Let's find the manager and arrange for a room for you."
Señor Davila, now fully dressed, but still unshaven, said yes, a room in the main building could be made ready at once for Señora Richter, since a number of guests had suddenly checked out.
As Karyn filled out a new registration card, Chris snapped his fingers.
"Damn, I forgot about Audrey. She's still waiting in the bar."
"You'd better go and get her," Karyn said. "I can handle things from here on."
"I'll see you first thing in the morning," Chris said. He hurried away toward the bar.
Karyn finished signing in for the new room while Señor Davila sent a boy out to see about bringing her things in from Cabana 12. She sat down in a chair in the lobby to wait, and massaged her eyes.
"Señora?"
She looked up, and for a moment could not place the stocky man with the luxuriant moustache who had spoken.
"Luis Zarate?" he said with a rising inflection. "The taxi from the airport yesterday?"
"Oh, yes," Karyn said. She waited for the man to speak.
"If the señora will permit, I think I can be of assistance."
"Thank you, but I won't be needing a taxi tonight."
"No, señora, not a taxi, but you do need help, maybe, I think."
"What do you mean?"
"The young Blanca, and her novio, Roberto, they died tonight, I think, in your place."
"How do you know this?" Karyn asked. She watched the man intently.
"There is much I know. Remember, I told you I have gypsy blood. I know it was no man who killed Roberto and Blanca."
"Who, then?"
"Not who, señora, what. These killings carry the mark of lobombre. The werewolf."
22
IN THE PART OF Mazatlán away from the sparkling beaches and bright new streets was a section of the city called La Ratonera, the rathole. It was a neighborhood where the sightseeing buses never came, and only a foolhardy tourist ventured. The streets were cracked and pitted, the buildings crusted with the filth of decades. Doors were always closed, windows covered. The air was heavy with the smell of human feces and human despair.
From La Ratonera came the used-up prostitutes, the burned-out thieves, the hopeless drunkards and the dying dopers. At night they moved like shadows along the broken streets, in the light of day they shut themselves inside.
Here, in a musty room behind a nameless cantina, Roy Beatty lay face down on the thin mattress of a rusted iron bed. The wallpaper of the room had long ago peeled away to the brown-stained plaster. Vermin scuttled through piles of debris in the corner.
Marcia Lura stood with her arms folded, looking down at Roy. She was oblivious to the squalor around her. The grace of her body and her fierce beauty made her seem an alien being in this lowly place. The green fires in her eyes snapped with suppressed rage.
"You failed again," she said. Her voice was low and vibrant like a taut cello string. "Three times now you have set out to kill, and three times you have blundered. First there was the boy in Seattle. Simple enough, but instead of him, you killed a useless old woman. Then in Los Angeles you had a chance at your Karyn, but you let her get away. And now you have missed her again. After last night she will be more on her guard than ever, and it will be still more difficult for us."
Roy groaned softly where he lay, but did not turn his head to look at her.
"You know that I have to rely on you," Marcia went on. "I would give anything if it were possible for me to make the kill. You know that. And you know why I cannot. I have put all my faith in you, Roy, and you have failed me. Not once, but three times."
"Enough!"
Marcia started, shocked by the unexpected strength in Roy's voice. He sat up in the bed and faced her.
"I don't want to hear any more about failure," he said. "Two young people died last night. Two people who had done you no harm. Nor me. And yet I killed them. With the woman in Seattle, that makes three. Three innocent people I have killed for you."
Marcia's eyes met his, and she slowly recovered her poise. It was Roy who looked away first.
"You killed them for me, did you?" Her voice was dangerously soft. "Just for me. Look at me, Roy. Tell me you did not enjoy the killing. Tell me you did not exult in the power of your muscles as you ripped the throat from the old woman who foolishly stood in your way. Tell me that as you savaged the naked bodies of the couple on the bed that you did not feel a sexual thrill of your own. Can you tell me this?"
Roy's gaze returned to her, but when he spoke much of the power was gone from his voice. "No, I can't deny those things. Because of what I am, the killing excites me. I need it. But because what I used to be, it disgusts me."
Marcia walked to the bed. She sat next to Roy on the threadbare mattress and eased his head down onto her large, firm breasts.
"I know the pain you feel, my Roy," she said. "I understand. As the time passes, the pain will grow less. One day all memories of the man you were—that weak, shallow, ignorant man—will fade to shadows. You will glory in what you are. The strength of the wolf will be your joy, and you will know only joy. Then you and I will truly be together. That is what you want, isn't it, my Roy?"
"Yes." His words were muffled against the silk of her blouse. "That's what I want."
Gently Marcia opened the buttons down the
front of her blouse, freeing her breasts. They glowed pale and smooth in the faint light that filtered into the room. Roy took her nipple into his mouth. She stroked the shaggy blond hair at the back of his head and spoke in a low, caressing tone.
"Our mission here will soon be ended. Time is short for us now because the woman has an ally. Her lover, your one-time friend. We must separate them. Together they are dangerous because they know what they are fighting. They know our strength, and will not be taken by surprise."
She was silent for a moment and pressed Roy's head tight against her. "And worse, they know our weakness."
Roy brushed his lips over the upper curve of her breast and kissed the ivory-smooth throat. He pulled back from her and reached out to touch the silver streak in her hair.
"My poor Marcia," he murmured. "They hurt you so."
The blazing green eyes stared into the past.
"Never will I forget the pain of that silver bullet. There is no pain to compare."
"I promise they will pay for that," Roy said. "I won't fail you again."
Marcia stroked his broad back. Her fingers caressed the smooth, powerful muscles. "I know you won't," she said. "But it will be difficult. They will seek help against us."
"How can we stop them?"
"There are many gypsies in Mazatlán, people who have come down from the mountains. People who remember the old laws. We will spread the word among them. We cannot allow the woman and her lover to arm themselves against us as they did before. We must strike first."
"Will the gypsies help us?"
"We don't need their help. All we will ask of the gypsies is that they give no help to our enemies. They will not deny us that. They will not act against lobombre."
Roy's body tensed, but he began to relax as Marcia used her fingers on him, then her mouth. In a little while there was no more rebellion in him.
23
IN THE MORNING AFTER the bloody business in Cabana 12, the sun had barely cleared the mountains behind the Palacio del Mar, but the grounds and the lobby were alive with people. There were members of the Mazatlán police force along with people from the State of Sinaloa and the Mexican government. The sightseers had not started to arrive yet, since the morning papers were not out with the news.
THE HOWLING II Page 12