“Son of a bitch.” Roy mashed the Winston out under his shoe and took off. Milo was already ahead of him, chasing the fleeing figure, who ducked and weaved among the trees.
The runner left the trail and fought through the undergrowth. The two deputies followed. Roy Nevins swore as the thorns clutched at him and mud seeped over the tops of his shoes.
“Halt!” Milo Fernandez called out. “Sheriff’s officers!”
Roy pounded on, the breath wheezing through his open mouth. He fumbled at the leather strap that snapped to the holster over the butt of his .38 police positive. Regulation.
Never could free the damn thing in a hurry. The hell with it. Firing your piece only meant trouble these days. You had to account for every fucking bullet. Nothing in sight to shoot at anyway. He could only catch glimpses of Milo’s back as the young deputy charged after the fleeing figure.
There was a thump of colliding bodies up ahead and a damp thud as they hit the ground. Roy floundered through the brush and almost fell over Milo. The young deputy was applying an armlock to the fugitive, who lay prone on the damp pine needles.
“I got him, Roy.”
“So I see. Suppose you flip him over so we can see what we got.”
Milo warily eased his hold. When the figure on the ground did not move, he grasped a shoulder and turned him over.
“A kid,” Roy said disgustedly.
The face that looked up at the deputies was pale and frightened. Oddly, he seemed not to be breathing hard.
“What’d you take off for?” Deputy Nevins said. The large, frightened eyes flicked from one of the deputies to the other. The boy made no attempt to answer.
“Get up.”
The boy rose to a crouch.
“And don’t think about running anymore. We’re taking a ride into town.”
Nevins took the boy’s arm and raised him to a standing position. The muscles were firm under the smooth flesh. He gestured with his head for Milo to get going. The younger deputy was staring at the boy’s face.
“Let’s go,” Nevins said. “I want to get him back to the car before it gets dark. What’s the matter?”
Milo Fernandez hesitated. “Take a look. There’s something funny about his teeth.”
2
The room on the second floor of La Reina County Hospital was pleasant and bright. Outside the window of the small private room a night bird sang. The boy sat propped in the bed in a half-sitting position. His green eyes skipped around the room as though searching for an escape.
Holly Lang stood at the foot of the bed and smiled down at him. She was tall and supple, with short dark hair and hazel eyes. Her smile was good, and it usually made other people smile in response. But the boy’s expression did not change.
“Well, you look a little better now that you’re all cleaned up,” she said.
The boy’s eyes flicked over her and away.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
No answer.
“A little scared, I guess.” Holly kept her tone soft and conversational. “I don’t blame you. Hospitals can be scary. My name’s Holly. Do you want to tell me yours? It’s all right if you don’t. There’s no hurry.”
The boy’s fingers moved restlessly on the edge of the sheet.
“I’m a kind of a doctor.”
The green eyes met hers for an instant.
“Not the kind that sticks people with needles,” she said quickly. “Mostly, I just talk. And I listen, too, if you want to talk to me.”
The boy turned away and stared through the window at the dark trees. His expression told Holly nothing.
Holly waited, watching his face. “What happened to you out there?” she said, more to herself than to the boy. “What’s haunting you now?”
La Reina County Hospital had more the look of an expensive mountain resort than an institution. It was tucked into the picturesque wooded hillside overlooking the town of Pinyon. Behind it the Tehachapi Mountains rose from gently sloping foothills. The facilities and the equipment at La Reina were excellent, courtesy of the California taxpayers. The same could not be said of the staff.
Somehow La Reina County Hospital had become caught in the backwash of bureaucracy and was known as a haven for medical misfits. Med school graduates from the lower third of their class found a home there. Doctors with a questionable past, nurses with borderline records… these made up the staff at La Reina County.
There were always more beds than patients in residence. The administration lived in fear that during one of the periodic budget battles in Sacramento someone would ask why the hell they needed a hospital down there at all. The funds would be cut off and a lot of people would be out of work. Somehow, the budget checkers in Sacramento kept missing it.
Dr. Hollanda Lang, known to everyone as Holly, did not belong with the staff of misfits. She had passed up a lucrative private practice as a clinical psychologist to work for the state Social Services Department. When people asked her why, she told them she was absolving her liberal guilt. Holly found it embarrassing to admit how deeply she cared about helping people.
And La Reina appealed to her precisely because of its quirky reputation. Her opinion of the medical establishment was not high, and here among the outcasts she found some original thinkers she could relate to. Her one disappointment had been in the lack of challenge in her cases. Until they brought in the boy from the woods.
Holly looked down at the pale boy now, wondering what it would take to communicate with him. In the two hours since he’d been brought in, the boy had not spoken. She had finally gotten the curious onlookers cleared out of the room and felt the boy was at least beginning to relax with her.
There was a sound at the door behind her. She turned, annoyed at the interruption.
Sheriff Gavin Ramsay stuck his head into the room.
“All right if I come in?”
“Could I stop you?”
“Sure. Just say go away.”
Holly felt the muscles tighten at the back of her neck. She knew her aversion to police was an unreasonable throwback to her campus protest days, but she couldn’t help it. “Come on in,” she said.
Ramsay nodded to her. “Thanks, Miss Lang. I’ll make this as short as I can.”
“It’s Doctor.”
“Oh, right. Dr. Lang. Sorry.”
She made herself relax. “That sounded pompous, didn’t it? Shall we try first names? I’m Holly.”
“Gavin,” he said.
Not a bad looking man, Holly decided, if you liked the macho type. Sort of a younger Marlboro Man. She had seen him around Pinyon and thought it was a pity that he had to be a policeman.
“How’s the kid?” he asked.
“Doing well enough.”
“Has he said anything yet?”
Holly looked quickly at the young patient. The green eyes regarded the sheriff warily.
“We’re just getting acquainted,” she said. “So far I’ve done all the talking.”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
The boy seemed to shrink a little in the bed.
“Suppose we step out into the hall,” Holly said.
“Sure.”
She followed Ramsay out through the door and looked up at him when he turned. Holly was five-eight in her stocking feet, and well built. Not many men could make her feel small. Gavin Ramsay could, and she resented it.
“I wish you’d give me some warning before you barge into the room.”
“Sorry. The door was ajar.”
“Well… no harm done, I suppose.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.”
“You must understand it’s part of my job to keep my patient from being disturbed.”
“Fair enough,” Ramsay said, “but you’ve got your job and I’ve got mine.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’ve got a couple of hunters missing and a dead man downstairs in the pathology lab.”
“What ha
s that to do with this boy?”
“I don’t know that there’s any connection, but I want to find out. From the looks of the kid when they brought him in, he was out in the woods for at least three days. That’s about how long our man downstairs has been a corpse.”
“You’re not suggesting that this boy has anything to do with it?”
Ramsay’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Why not, because he’s a minor? Last week a twelve-year-old in East Los Angeles set his mother on fire because she found his heroin stash. A seven-year-old girl in Beverly Hills drowned her baby brother in the swimming pool because he got too much attention. Two boys in Glendale hung a baby girl from a swing set. The boys were six. Want to hear more?”
“No, thank you. I’ll concede that there is no age limit on criminal behavior, but I won’t jump to the conclusion that this boy is guilty of anything.”
“Holly… Dr. Lang… all I want to do is talk to him.” Gavin raised his arms. “See, I didn’t even bring any handcuffs.”
“Well, he isn’t talking yet. He’s had a frightening experience, and it may take a while. Shouldn’t you be trying to find out who he is?”
“I should and I am. I’ve put his description out on the wire. So far he doesn’t fit any missing-boy report.” Gavin looked back over her shoulder into the room. “You will let me know if he says anything?”
“Certainly, Sheriff.”
He started to go, then turned back. “Is there any chance we can get back to using first names?”
She held a stern expression for a moment longer, then relaxed. “What the hell… See you, Gavin.”
“See you, Holly.”
The boy’s eyes followed her as she came back and sat in the chair next to the bed. She smiled at him, studying his face. The two deputies who brought him in had said there was something ‘weird’ in the way he looked. Probably a trick of twilight and their imaginations. Holly saw only a frightened boy of perhaps fourteen. High forehead, straight nose, firm mouth. The eyes were a deep, lustrous green. Certainly nothing there that could be considered ‘weird.’
“Getting sleepy?” she said.
The boy’s head rolled from side to side on the pillow.
A response. The first sign he had given that he understood. Holly kept her voice gentle. “I’ll just sit here for a while, then. If you feel like talking, fine. If not, that’s fine too.”
The boy’s eyes never left her. Holly thought she could see his body relax, just a little, under the hospital sheet and blanket. She picked up a magazine from the bedside table and pretended to read. She did not leave until she was sure the boy was asleep.
End of preview...
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GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III
* * *
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JAMES ROY DALEY’S - TERROR TOWN
~~~~ PROLOGUE: CLOVEN ROCK
The people that lived in Cloven Rock considered the town’s final Monday a beautiful one, like most of the days in the recent weeks. The sun was shining; the air was clean and warm. Flowers bloomed and birds sat among the branches singing songs only birds could understand. Dogs chased master’s Frisbees and people said hello to strangers, not to suggest that thousands of tourists roamed the beachfront or the area that passed as the downtown core. That wasn’t the case; there were only a few. If you asked one of the locals why things were this way, the answer would be simple: Cloven Rock was an inclusive town, an uncomplicated town, a town that didn’t encourage a vacationer crowd even though sightseers would have flocked to it religiously. Many residents thought the town was special and they were right. It was special. It wasn’t a small place trying to be a big place. It was a town without civic uncertainty.
The Yacht Club Swimming Pool, a Cloven Rock favorite, had a full house the day before the town was lost. They also had an open door policy; if you were respectful, courteous, and didn’t pee in the pool, you were welcome anytime. Also on that day, friends sailed the calm waters of Cloven Lake and children built sandcastles on Holbrook Beach. Kids played in Easton Park while the people on the large wooden deck at the Waterfront Café enjoyed the spectacular view. The post office closed early. An ice cream store called Tabby’s Goodies was doing good business and a mile and a half up the road the men and woman working at the Cloven Rock Docks fought for, and won, a fifty-cent raise. Spirits were high at the Docks, and the personnel were getting along just fine. It wasn’t surprising. Nearly half the workforce was related and the other half was considered family.
The Cloven Rock Police Department was not at full strength when things turned ugly. One officer was on vacation, one had gone home due to an illness in the family, and two had the day off. Of the nine remaining officials, only Tony Costantino, Joel Kirkwood, and Mary O’Neill, were on duty when the reports came in. The other four were either at home or on call. Normally this wouldn’t be deemed a problem. Most locals figured a thirteen-person police force was nothing short of overkill anyhow. The Rock hadn’t had a stitch of recorded violence in six years.
The community as a whole didn’t know horror, as most tight-knit communities can understand. It knew long days, family activities, and simple living. It knew Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. It knew family.
But sadly, like all communities, Cloven Rock had its share of tragedy.
2007 was a bad year.
It was the year a local artist named George Gramme had his hands caught in his motorcycle chain while he was working on it. He suffered two broken wrists and lost four of his fingers. He also lost his artistic spirit and the means to keep that spirit alive. In the weeks following, he put his motorcycle up for sale and fell into a state of depression that changed him into a different man.
Two weeks later the town’s senior librarian, Angela Lore, died from cancer on the same day that ‘odd-job’ Martin West fell off a ladder and broke both of his legs while shingling his neighbor’s roof.
2007 was also the year a car accident claimed the lives of three teenagers.
As the story goes, a half dozen youngsters were drinking on the unnamed road surrounding Holbrook’s pond. After several hours of alcohol consumption, the six youths plunked their butts inside two vehicles. In one car, Andrew Cowles and Dean Lee, a pair of borderline delinquents, drove home without incident and arrived safely. The second car, loaded with four of the sweetest kids you’d ever meet, weren’t so lucky. Two brothers, Guy and Henri Lemont, along with May Lewis and Lizzy Backstrom, the youngest of the crew, decided it would be a good idea to take a quick jaunt to Hoppers Gas on the 9th line. But on the way to Hoppers something stepped onto the road causing Guy to swerve left and lose control of the vehicle.
As luck would have it, Stanley Rosenstein, a foreman at the Docks and an all-around good guy, pulled his truck from his driveway the same moment Guy changed lanes.
Guy didn’t see the truck in time. The car clipped Stanley’s front bumper, veered off the road, rolled three times, and slammed into a large maple tree, roof first. The two brothers, Guy and Henri, were killed instantly. May Lewis spent nine days in critical condition before she passed away while her parents and grandparents watched. Lizzy Backstrom escaped with a broken back, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, two broken legs, and wide assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises. Most figured she was lucky to be alive. A few figured she was unlucky to be alive. Once she was able to speak she said a bear stepped in front of the car and Guy swerved to miss it. There weren’t many bears in Cloven Rock so the statement generated a cluster of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. She pushed the inquisition aside, saying, “It might not have been a bear but wasn’t a deer either. I don’t know what it was.”
Two months later, Lizzy broke down in tears, telling her friend Julie Stapleton that a monster the size of a tank stepped in front of Guy’s car and she got a real good look at it. She said the beast seemed like something from another planet and if Guy were alive he’d be the first
to confirm.
Julie, sworn to secrecy, became worried about Lizzy’s mental wellbeing. She thought her friend had brain damage. Of course, Julie’s knowledge on matters concerning the brain could have been written on the on tip of her thumb, but that hardly mattered. She also didn’t know that Stanley Rosenstein––the man driving the pickup that fateful night––had a similar story. If she had known this little noodle of information she may have kept her big mouth shut. Or talked to Lizzy. Either way, that’s not what happened. Instead, Julie betrayed her oath, feeling it was necessary to tell Lizzy’s parents what their daughter was thinking. This forced a confrontation between Mr. and Mrs. Backstrom and Lizzy, who denied everything and never spoke to Julie again. Not ever. And a year later Stanley Rosenstein found himself separated from his wife, in rehab, and in need of psychiatric evaluation.
He thought there were monsters in Cloven Rock.
* * *
There were other tragedies.
Four summers before the heartbreaking car accident Simon Wakefield, the town’s only dentist, drowned in his backyard swimming pool while his wife Leanne talked to her sister not forty feet away. The year before that, faulty wiring caused a fire that burned Stephen Pebbles’ house to the ground. To make matters worse, his insurance expired the week before. Ironically, two weeks later the town was hit with a rainstorm that caused over two million dollars in damages. Stephen was quoted as saying that the rain should have come two weeks sooner; it would have saved his life’s investments.
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