Much of what he learned in the papers, Bernard had told him freely. Free State Insurance Corporation was in the midst of being merged with another, larger, national corporation. The deal was a mere three weeks from FTC approval, after which the deal would go through immediately. All it required was a majority vote from the Board of Directors, all of whom had already said on record that they were voting for the merger. As Mark read through the stories chronicling the new business deal, he realized what this meant for Bernard Roberts. When the two corporations merged, there would no longer be a need for a CEO of Free State; instead, the board of both corporations would hire a new executive staff to oversee the operations of the huge conglomerate. Which meant that Bernard Roberts would be out of a job.
So he was telling me the truth on that part, Mark thought as he leafed through an edition of the Wall Street Journal. He was at the Westminster Public Library and it was nearing two p.m. Big fucking deal? Why worry about being let go with his position? With his experience and track record he could easily go to another corporation. He's a corporate headhunter's wet dream.
Maybe it wasn't as easy as he thought it would be for a man of his professional stature to gain another similar position. After all, it wasn't like CEO posi- lions were a dime a dozen like, say, secretaries or file clerks. They were most likely the scarcest, hardest jobs to get, and maybe this was the reason why he was so freaked out over this takeover.
He's got to make a lot of money, though, Mark thought. So he gets laid off and it takes him a year or so to find another corporate job. Wouldn't you think with all the money he makes he'd be able to float for awhile until he found another job?
Not necessarily. He could be living way above his means. There was that saying he had heard somewhere which opined, "the more money you make, the more you spend." With Bernard's salary, he was probably able to enjoy the good life: nice cars, a fancy home, vacations in five-star hotels, all of which cost major bucks. The elimination of his job and the high salary that went with it would surely change his lifestyle. Maybe he was addicted to the lifestyle and didn't want to give it up.
Whatever it was, he was gunning to remain in his position. And sitting here thinking about what motivated Bernard wasn't going to do much in solving Mark's own problem. He didn't want to kill anybody, but he didn't want to be on Bernard's hit list, either. And as the week wore on he realized that Bernard was playing this game smarter than he thought he was.
In the past couple of days Mark noticed that he was being followed. It was a feeling he had, a heightening of the senses. A normal person probably wouldn't have noticed, but because of Mark's extrasensory abilities he was able to pick out his pursuer. The afternoon he spent researching Free State's cor porate takeover at the Westminster Public Library, he had finally gotten a good look at the guy tailing him. He was in his early forties, dressed casually in jeans and a green polo shirt, with slightly balding blond hair. He was sitting at a table directly above the lounge area of the library, perusing a book. When Mark got in his car and backed it out of the parking space he noticed the man get into a blue sedan. As he pulled out onto Talbert, heading east toward Fountain Valley, he saw the sedan three cars behind him, not going too fast and not going too slow.
If Mark tried something the guy would call Bernard. And depending on what this guy really was and represented-a private detective? A professional hit man?-one of two things would happen. Either the guy would be ordered to kill Mark immediately, or Bernard would come over and do the job himself. Mark got the impression that even if he were to head onto the southbound 405 Freeway and make a run for Mexico, the guy would be on his tail; he would be pursued relentlessly until he was caught.
What the hell am I gonna do? Mark thought as he headed toward his apartment. What the hell am I gonna do?
It was the morning of the full moon.
Mark had the evening off and was expecting a phone call at a public phone booth in Huntington Beach shortly before nightfall.
He picked the phone up on the first ring. "Hello."
"There's not much time," Bernard said, his voice calm and controlled. "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Good. Martin John owns a home in Silverado Canyon. You have the address. He's one of the main driving forces behind getting the board to vote on making this merger go through. With him gone, we're at first base. Now listen carefully: He has a habit of sitting out on his back deck at night watching the stars. He's an amateur astronomer. Has a big telescope on the back deck. You get me?"
"Yes." Mark shivered. The sun was beginning to set and a cold breeze blew in from the ocean. Spring might be bleeding into summer, but twilight along the beach was always so goddamn cold. He wanted to get in the car and get to his destination before the change started taking effect.
"Last week there was a mountain lion sighted in the area," Bernard continued. "They never caught it. A private security company patrols the neighborhood he lives in, so you'll have to park your car in the parking lot of a large strip mall in Aliso Viejo. From there, if you head into the hills behind the Lucky Supermarket, you'll reach his home. You can't miss it. It's white with black trim, and his back deck has floodlights that he sometimes puts on a dimmer. And there's the telescope. You'll have to enter the grounds through the back hills. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"When you are finished I don't care what you do, so long as you aren't discovered and you retain no traces of him. I will call you tomorrow night. Here's the time, location and the number I'll call you at." Bernard rattled them off and Mark jotted them down on a piece of scrap paper. "Don't screw up," Bernard said and hung up.
Mark slowly replaced the receiver. A gust of wind blew suddenly, lifting his hair. His mouth felt dry and tingly and his face itched, the first signs of the coming of the change. He had about an hour before it started getting obvious. He got into his car, turned around, and headed toward Aliso Viejo.
He reached his destination safely and made it behind the Lucky Supermarket without being seen. He ducked into some bushes just as his skin started to itch and grow warm. He quickly slid out of his clothes and once he was naked he edged out of the bush and looked up at the sky.
The moon was a white, glowing ball. One look and Mark felt the change come so suddenly that even if he had tried to rein it in he would have failed. He bit back a scream and managed a throatwrenching wail as the muscles along his back rippled, contorting his spine. His face was hot and burning as his nose and jaw began pulsing outward into a lupine snout. His body suddenly erupted into a fireball of pain as his body was transformed, thick black hair sprouting over his body, his face, his arms and legs. His fingers and toes were white-hot lances of agony as the skin split to allow for razor-sharp claws to erupt; likewise his gums split open, blood staining his mouth as his teeth became razor-sharp fangs in a drooling maw of sharp, canine teeth.
As the transformation reached its climax, Mark tipped his head to the newly risen moon and howled.
His senses were heightened a thousandfold. He could smell rabbit droppings and the skin of a newly shed rattlesnake. Far back at the mini-mall he could hear people talking as they trudged slowly from their cars. He could taste the aroma of their sweat as they shopped and clamored and lifted squalling babies into car seats. Mark turned his face to the hills, his nostrils flaring at the vast scents that drifted through the air: tumbleweed, sycamore, gravel, rodent and lizard. There were no large carnivores in this part of South Orange County; if there had been a mountain lion in the area, it had long departed. He could barely smell it and the scent he did pick up was five days old at least. He was safe.
He knew that Martin John wasn't outside even as he began making his way through the shrubbery toward the hill that led to the house. He could sense that Martin was inside the house, but if Bernard was right he would be venturing outside any moment. Mark was feeling his memory slip as his bestial side continued to push his consciousness deep into the recesses of his mind. For the most par
t, he was barely aware of his experiences during the change; it was like being a passenger in a car, unable to do anything as the driver sped down the highway, taking twisting turns at deadly speed. At the height of the evening he would be virtually powerless most of the time, but he would still be able to exert some form of control-primarily over the hunt itself.
The thing he had no control of whatsoever was the change itself and the hunger that came with it. The hunger for fresh meat.
He quickly scampered up the hill. He was now deep in Silverado Canyon, and the comfy veneers of civilization lay a quarter of a mile behind him. He was aware that sound would carry in this desolate part of South Orange County, so he had to make this quick.
He crept slowly up the embankment. When he reached the top he paused and sniffed the air. Martin John was still in the house. Slowly, he climbed to the top of the hill and crouched behind the wroughtiron fence that was the only barrier between the property and the canyon below. All was clear. With a quick, sleek leap, Mark scaled the fence and crouched silently in a corner of the deck. Now all he had to do was wait.
He didn't have to wait long. Five minutes later the sliding-glass door screeched open and Martin John stepped out onto the back deck.
He was exactly as depicted in the photograph: late forties, trim build, salt and pepper hair, dressed in a billowy white shirt open at the chest to reveal a gold necklace, wearing a pair of tan shorts that fell to his knees, his feet clad in white socks and tennis shoes. He paused for a moment at the sliding-glass door, his tan features tilted up to the sky to survey the constellations. Then he padded out toward the telescope.
Mark's nostrils had been flaring the whole time, picking up the man's scent. It was heavily masked with cologne, which grated at the back of his throat, but underneath it was the taste of old, but lean, meat. The scent overpowered him, tripping his bloodlust, and he sprang from the corner of the property where he had been lurking and lunged straight at Martin.
Martin John didn't know what hit him; Mark's lunge was precise, quiet, and quick. He slammed into Martin from his right side, his jaws moving quickly to clamp down on the older man's throat and sever his larynx. Hot blood spurted in his mouth and down his throat as he brought Martin down, and he twisted his head to snap his prey's neck.
Mark paused, Martin's throat in his jaws, his blood pooling on the concrete below him. Mark's ears twitched at the night sounds: crickets chirruping, the soft susurration of the wind whistling down the canyon, the hoot of an owl, the rustle of squirrels at the bottom of the canyon. There were no sounds coming from within the house. He was safe.
He dropped Martin's corpse where it lay and sniffed it. The aroma of fresh blood reawakened his senses. Before he could rein in his hunger he felt himself wallow in it, tearing into the body like the ravenous beast he was.
He became fully aware again seven hours later. He didn't know where he was. He was still in his lycanthropic state and he was crouched over a small stream washing his face with his large, hairy paws.
He felt his human side awaken and his body shook with the suddenness of it. His heartbeat quickened and he panted, calming himself. He knew from experience that whenever his wolf side took over that he was safe; even though his human part had lost control, the wolf side would be on guard at all times. When his human side became aware again, it was always a shock to the senses.
It was still dark out and the moon was now falling in the western sky. It was probably sometime between four and five in the morning. He dipped his head and drank greedily from the stream, washing away the taste of blood and human flesh from his mouth. When he had drunk his fill he stood up and surveyed the area he was in.
The terrain was desolate with rugged hills. Judging from the sparse shrubbery and trees, he was near the Santa Ana Mountain Range. He hadn't strayed far from the Silverado Canyon area, then. He looked for the moon, found it, and tried to mentally track where he had started out this evening. Martin John's home was on the northeast side of Aliso Viejo. Therefore if he headed west, he should be able to get a better handle on where he was and make plans to reach his car before daylight.
It took him close to an hour of trudging through the brush and brambles of the desolate area before he started getting into a thicker wooded area. He climbed a slight crest and when he reached the top he picked up a slight breeze. He sniffed the air; it was far off, but unmistakable. It was the scent of man. He wasn't far off the beaten track at all.
Twenty minutes later he reached a wooded ravine and then he knew where he was. He was a quarter of a mile from the canyon that opened up into Aliso Viejo. His ears were finely tuned to the slightest sound that might be carrying from the canyon. His eyesight and sense of smell helped him maneuver his way toward civilization. A moment later he reached the wooded area and the shrubbery where he had left his clothes. He crouched behind the brush and waited, his breathing calm and even. He could make out the empty parking lot of the minimall. His car was the only vehicle left amid a vast blacktop.
He felt himself slowly returning to normal and he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. It was always like this when the change was particularly sudden and brutal; he became aware of himself when he was still in his bestial self, and over the next hour as his human awareness returned, he would slowly revert back to his natural, human state. He felt himself physically revert now. The pain involved in the physical transformation wasn't nearly as agonizing as it was when the change to the wolf side suddenly gripped him, but it was still there. He gritted his teeth and concentrated, willing the pain down as his snout and jaw receded, his muscles shrank, the thick hair along his face and body slowly retreated back into his skin. Toward the end of the change his skin erupted in a painful itching, and it was then that he knew he was nearing the completion.
Five minutes later he was standing naked in the brush, looking at the parking lot from a safe distance. He looked down at his nude form, lifted his now normal hands to his face. There were specks of blood on his palms and under his fingernails. He looked down at his chest where Martin John's blood still stained it. Stooping down quickly, he donned his clothes, his mind already racing on what he was going to do next.
Once he was dressed he casually made his way down the embankment and headed toward the parking lot. While he had lost the heightened awareness of his senses, they were still more highly tuned than a normal human's; he could sense that the parking lot and the stores that comprised the mini-mall were devoid of human life.
He sighed in relief when he reached his car. He quickly looked around, unlocked the door and slid inside. He started the car and let the engine warm up a moment before putting it in gear and driving away.
He was northbound on Interstate 5 when the shakes hit him.
It started gradually and quickly accelerated as he drove north. He felt a sob break loose from deep inside and then he almost lost control; his limbs were shaking so badly he could barely control the steering wheel. He choked back another cry and tried to pull himself together, but it was hard. He was so overcome with emotion that the only thing he wanted to do was pull over and bawl like a baby.
Fighting to keep the tears inside, he drove home carefully, being cautious to observe all traffic laws; if a cop pulled him over now he was really finished. The fifteen-minute drive felt like it took him an hour. When he made it back to his apartment complex, the sun was beginning to rise in the east. He pulled into his parking space and slid out of the car quickly, slamming the door behind him. He raced up the steps to his apartment and let himself in, locked the door and then he finally let it out, sobbing hoarsely and uncontrollably. It was a long time before he was able to pull himself back together, but when he did he was glad that the first part of this terrible nightmare was over.
Chapter Eight
The ringing of the telephone woke him from what had been a sound sleep.
He groped for the phone, picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Turn on the TV," Bernard said. "You
made the five o'clock news. Channel two." He hung up.
Mark lay with the receiver clutched in his hand, the hum of the dial tone ringing in his ear. He groaned, reached over to the nightstand to replace the receiver, then got out of bed and padded to the dark living room.
He picked up the remote control and turned the television on. He switched over to channel two and sank into his sofa just as the Evening News was beginning.
Bernard Roberts was right. He was on the news.
The lead story was what the newscaster was calling a "vicious animal attack in South Orange County." Mark watched with a sense of detachment. Aliso Viejo resident Martin John had been found on the back deck of his home by his cleaning lady late this morning. Police had initially treated it as a homicide, but due to the vicious nature of the slaying, along with certain physical evidence, Animal Control officers had been called in. The slaying was now being unofficially attributed to a wild animal, possibly a mountain lion.
"Residents of this remote section of Aliso Viejo reported seeing a mountain lion last week," the newscaster recited in mote fashion. She was blonde and professionally dressed in a pair of blue slacks and a cream-colored blouse. "Animal Control officers tried tracking the cat, but have been unsuccessful so far. An autopsy will hopefully determine what kind of animal killed Mr. John."
When the segment ended, Mark glanced at the clock. He had a five-thirty rendezvous with Bernard Roberts at a public phone booth in Fountain Valley. He went to the bathroom and quickly cleaned up, then donned a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, socks and sneakers, and was out the door.
He got to the phone booth at the Chevron gas station on the corner of Brookhurst and Talbert one minute before rendezvous time. When the phone rang he picked it up.
"Mark here," he said.
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