"Its legs were huge!" Kelly said.
"Yeah, and so were its arms," Joe said. "And they were long. Its hands, paws, whatever, were big."
"What did it do after it killed Mr. Samuels?" Allen asked.
"That's when it changed back into a man," Joe said.
"You watched it change?"
Joe and Kelly nodded.
"What was it like? I mean, was it like the special effects in a movie?"
Joe and Kelly glanced at each other and shrugged. "Kinda," Joe said. "But..."
"It's hard to explain," Kelly said. "It was as if . .
"I guess it was kinda like that," Joe said. "He just started ... changin'. He sorta hunched down and ... you could just see him changin'. That's all there was to it."
Allen let this sink in. He didn't believe that what Joe and Kelly saw were simple hallucinations. They had seen something; exactly what, Allen didn't know.
"What happened after it changed? What did you see?"
"A man," Kelly said. "A naked man just standing there."
"What did he look like?"
They told him, and this time Allen actually heard more than what Officer Lansdale told him. The naked man was of medium height, perhaps five foot seven inches tall with a lean, but muscular physique. He had shoulder-length brown hair.
"What about facial features," Allen asked. "Could you tell from that far away?"
"He looked like a good-looking man," Kelly said. "He had ... I don't know ... fine features. He might have had a light beard."
"So he had a nice face," Allen said.
They both nodded.
Allen looked out across the lake, his mind tracking on what he had to do.
"I have a partner who is an artist. If you give me an exact description of the man you saw and I tape it and have him do up a sketch, could you ID him?"
Joe and Kelly nodded. "You bet," Joe said.
"Do any of you have access to a fax machine?"
"I do at work," Kelly said.
"Great." Allen removed a business card and a pen from his shirt pocket. "Let me have it."
Kelly gave him the number and Allen pocketed the card and pen after jotting it down. "Okay," he said. "So he changed into a man. Then what?"
"He just sort of stood there for a minute," Joe said. "It was kinda windy that night, and he just sorta stood there, looking around. Then he headed into the woods by the cabin."
"And you didn't see him after that?" Allen didn't want to venture that if it wasn't for the wind, the man-or werewolf-might have caught their scent and come after them.
"Hell no!" Kelly exclaimed. "We got the hell out of there."
Allen nodded and looked back out across the lake at the cabin. Animal Control had conducted a thorough search of the woods surrounding the cabin and had found no traces of anything suspicious. There had been a few animal tracks of indeterminate origin, but the park ranger determined that they were from a bear. "How do I get to the cabin from here?" Allen asked.
"Head back down this road, make a left and make another left at the first road," Joe said. "It'll be a private road; should take you right up to it."
Allen nodded. "Great." He turned to Joe and Kelly to shake their hands. "Thank you for your help. I really appreciate it."
"So you believe us, then?" Joe asked. He still looked amazed that Allen believed them.
"Why shouldn't I? You're telling the truth, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah."
"Then, I believe you." Allen headed toward his rental car and opened the driver's side door. "I wouldn't want to check out the cabin if I didn't believe you."
"You gonna check the cabin out?"
"Yep." He got into the car and Joe and Kelly headed to the Mustang. "I'll call if I need anything else," he said, smiling. "Thank you for your help."
Joe and Kelly waved and Allen waved in return as he pulled away.
As he headed down the road his mind raced with a thousand questions. There had been no trace of mountain lions in Silverado Canyon when Martin John had been savagely mauled. Ditto on the Hollywood Hills case. The bears caught and autopsied in Texas showed no signs that any of them had attacked and partially consumed Mr. Samuels-hell, judging from the man's wounds, it appeared Mr. Samuels wasn't eaten by whatever had killed him anyway. He was mauled horribly, yes, but eaten? Joe and Kelly said that whatever it was that had killed him had changed into a person, then had disappeared into the woods.
Allen's mind went back to the old Hammer Horror films he had watched as a kid. Maybe the werewolf, or whatever the hell it was, had gone off into the woods to hunt out Joe and Kelly, he thought. Maybe it had sensed them and they had narrowly escaped their own deaths that night. Between the time they had left the area and the time the first patrol car arrived at the site, a full forty minutes had passed. Surely that was enough time for whatever it was that had killed Mr. Samuels to disappear. In fact, it could have disappeared when it heard the sirens. Didn't animals hear better than humans?
Allen made a left on the highway, his mind racing. The case at hand was dragging him in. This was some really weird shit here. Probably the weirdest he had ever been involved in, and he was determined to find out what was behind it.
Thinking of werewolves, Allen made a left at the next road, which was marked with a sign that read PRIVATE.
Chapter Fourteen
Mark never bothered to register for the fall semester at Orange Coast College. He had other thoughts on his mind.
Namely dealing with the curse of the moon, which was more ravaging to his body and soul now than it was when it had first reared its ugly head nine years ago.
Mark could feel his anger running hot in his veins. It was something that told him to lay low that nudged him into declining next semester's classes. He told his guidance counselor that a family emergency was going to keep him out of state for the rest of the year, but that he would be back in touch by December to register for spring. In reality, Mark couldn't go back to school because he knew that he would be a miserable failure this semester. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on his studies. All his thoughts would be on Bernard Roberts and whether or not his plan was working.
Goddamn him!
Luckily, a day position opened up in Computer Operations and he took it. It was the same job he was doing now, just the day shift. This left his nights free and from September through December, during the full moon, he headed off to his customary remote spots to let the curse run free. He was always able to maintain some semblance of control, although it was harder now to resist the urge to give in to his blood lust. He satiated his hunger with the natural California wildlife: He took down a fallow deer in September, a mountain lion in October, rabbits in November, and another deer in December. During those four months he kept in contact with Bernard, who provided him with updates on the developments of the investigations, which had fizzled to nothing. He also scanned the local papers, keeping his eyes peeled to anything that might give him a cause for alarm. As always, there was nothing.
When the full moon occurred on work nights Mark would run with the curse, then revert back to his human state in the early hours of the morning. He would drive home, catch two hours of sleep before waking up at seven-thirty to shower and change for work. At least he didn't have to worry about keeping the curse bottled inside. He could let it out, let it ravage and plunder.
He could feed it.
During the three months of working during the day he didn't see Bernard at all; the executive was aware of his new work schedule, but he didn't go out of his way to see Mark, which was fine. Instead they communicated once every two weeks through prearranged phone calls at various public pay phones. Each time, Bernard had nothing to report.
"Everything is going great," he told Mark in November. "The move to merge is on hold until the new fiscal year, which is January. Then the board reconvenes and will vote again. If the vote is to merge, we'll have to take down the chief board member."
Mark hoped it didn't
come to that, but he kept that to himself. "Whatever you want me to do," he had said. "Just give me the word." He had grown with ease into his relationship with Bernard; he might hate the man, might want to kill him with his bare hands, but for now he had to survive. In order to survive, he had to play this game Bernard's way. That meant catering to him, making him feel that Mark was on his side, that he was doing everything he was told to do.
In the meantime, Mark was trying to think of a way to end this destructive, symbiotic relationship.
In late October he sat in his car in the vast parking lot of Free State's corporate offices waiting for Bernard to stroll out the front door. He was a good hundred yards away, but he could see the executive perfectly. He watched as Bernard strolled, briefcase in hand, to his black Mercedes, got in and closed the door, then pulled away from his parking space. Mark followed him at a very safe distance.
Bernard had no idea he was being followed.
Mark wasn't surprised when the executive headed into Newport Beach. Free State's offices were in Costa Mesa, right down the street from South Coast Plaza and Crystal Court Shopping Center, favorite shopping spots for the upper echelons of Newport. Mark stayed a safe distance from Bernard and relied mainly on scent and sight to guide him to Bernard Roberts's hum ble abode, a nice, sprawling ranch home tucked in the hills overlooking the ocean.
Mark parked down the street and turned off the engine. He sat in his car, watching the house. He could very well come back at a very late hour-say, two a.m.-gain entry into the home and end it all by slashing the executive's throat while he slept, but there were things to think about. Was his house rigged with a silent alarm, or even worse, guard dogs?
Shortly after the third hit, Mark realized that he couldn't will the change to come over him like he normally could during nights that the moon wasn't waxing. If he still had that ability, it would be simple to just change, head into the house, and kill Bernard. He was fairly confident that being shot by silver bullets would have the same effect on him as being shot by regular bullets-he had actually touched a piece of silver over the summer to see what the reaction would be, and was relieved to find that there was none. Which meant the silver bullet theory was simply that-a theory based on myth. That still didn't put his mind at ease regarding firearms in general. He had never had to face a gun before; he didn't want to have to face one now just to see if the old myths were correct.
So he drove home, furious with himself for his fear of crossing that line, angry with himself at giving up so easily. As the weeks went on the anger subsided; there was really nothing he could do. Best case scenario was that he would kill Bernard somehow and get away with it, but knowing Bernard, the executive had already laid some kind of incriminating evidence that would point directly at him should Bernard meet his fate in foul play. Without knowing one hundred percent, Mark couldn't go through with it. The worst case scenario-of course-was being shot and killed by Bernard.
He began to drink more at night, especially as October bled into November and then into December. Especially when the moon waxed.
Perhaps the only positive aspect of his new work schedule was his social life. Prior to working days, his social life was severely limited. He had a nodding acquaintance with a few guys from Charlie'sa local bar and grill he frequented-and on occasion he met women with whom he would have brief flings. Working days opened him up to socializing with more people, since now he was interacting more with his co-workers than before. Within a few weeks of his new work schedule he was being invited out to after-work happy hours at various nightspots with them.
He began to accept the invitations in October.
By November he had fallen in with a group of closely-knit guys at work who hung out together at work, and on Friday nights after work. Mark enjoyed their company; they were roughly his age, most of them were single, and they liked the same music, sports, and movies. They would take breaks together, talk about the news, sports, wherever their muse took them. Friday nights they would go out to various sports bars, drink beer, and have a good time.
In early December Mark trudged along to a new sports bar with the group-Baxter's in Costa Mesa-and he knew right from the start that he shouldn't have gone. He was in a dour mood and as he sat at the bar, barely paying attention to the conversation around him, he realized he was in a funk. Next month was January, the start of the new fiscal year. He would discover his fate then, whether he would continue in the slump he was in now, or resume his killing spree.
Other people from various departments of Free State had found out about their happy-hour excursions and had invited themselves along. Mark had only been dimly aware of them, and he recognized a few as he sat at the bar. They were laughing and talking to each other as if they had known each other for years. Mark was bored, felt out of place, and was just about to leave when a woman next to him said, "They bore you, too, huh? Welcome to the club."
Mark turned to her. An attractive blonde in a business suit that clung to her curves smiled at him and lit a cigarette. A glass of wine sat within easy reach. Mark recognized her face vaguely, but couldn't place it. "Why do you think I'm bored?" he asked.
"You've been sitting there the past half hour just staring at the mirror behind the bar," she said, smiling. Mark smiled back. Her makeup was artfully applied, her lips red. The top three buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned to reveal deep cleavage. Suddenly Mark recognized her as Bernard Roberts's secretary.
Mark smiled back. Just play it cool, he thought. Pretend you don't recognize her. "Yeah, I guess I am a little bored," he said. What the hell does she want? Did Bernard send her here to spy on me?
"I don't blame you," she said, looking around the bar. "Sometimes these places just suck the life right out of you."
"Yeah, they do." Mark finished his beer and was just about to politely excuse himself when she reached out and lightly touched his arm.
"Let me buy you another drink," she said.
"Thanks, but really, I've-"
"It just got interesting," she said. Her blue eyes were penetrating, entrancing. Mark felt drawn to them. She smiled at him, then turned to the bartender. "One more of what he's having and another glass of wine."
That really put him on the spot. Mark remained seated and tried to think of something to say that would be polite and extract him from Baxter's pronto. Since starting his new shift, he had heard from the guys he worked with that Bernard's secretary had a reputation as a woman who had fucked her way up the corporate ladder. In the five years she had been employed with Free State, she had held six secretarial posts, and each one was a loftier position than the one before. All of the bosses she'd worked for were men, all of whom bestowed jewelry and other gifts upon her. Mark had dismissed the rumors because at the time he didn't care. Now that she was sitting here next to him trying to start a conversation, he remembered the rumors and tried to figure out what she wanted from him. For all he knew she could be sincere in wanting company.
"You work in the Computer Room, right?" she asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Yeah," Mark answered as the bartender brought their drinks. "In the tape library."
She smiled. "I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself." She held out her hand. "I'm Carol Emrich."
"Mark Wiseman." He shook her hand. Her skin was cool and soft.
"How long have you been with Free State?"
"Four years."
"Really!" She raised her eyebrows in surprise and took a drag. "I've never seen you before."
"I used to work the swing shift. I just started days a few months ago."
"That explains it. Do you like days better?"
"It has its advantages, but then so does working nights."
He sipped his drink and talked with her. As the conversation wound on he found that Carol wasn't at all like she had been made out to be; she was a nice, witty, warm person. She seemed interested in hearing about what he did in his job, but it didn't sound suspicious. After five minutes of talking to her h
e could sense that she hadn't been sent to Baxter's to spy on him. He could tell by her demeanor, by her body language, by the way she spoke and moved.
Spying on him for Bernard Roberts was obviously the furthest thing from her mind. What appeared to be first and foremost on her mind was wondering what Mark would be like in bed.
Part of the benefit that came with Mark's curse was being able to read people's emotions and needs. Like a dog that could sense fear in a person, it could also sense sexual arousal in the opposite sex of its species, relying primarily on scent. Likewise, Mark could not only sense fear in other people, he could sense a wide range of other emotions and scents in them as well, including sexual desire.
The way Carol Emrich spoke and reacted to Mark as they talked at the bar told him that she was attracted to him.
Mark's first thought was one of paranoia: Bernard had set her up to seduce him to get some kind of information from him. But the more he thought about that, the sillier it sounded. If Bernard wanted information from him, he would simply hire his private investigator goon to do some snooping. He wouldn't send his secretary in to flirt with him. Which took his mind on another track-
How much did Carol know about her boss's personal life?
Mark shifted gears; he went from bored disinterest, to interest. He asked her what she did at Free State and when she told him that she was Bernard's secretary he feigned surprise.
"Wow! So you sit up there in that nice office all day, huh? Must be nice."
"It has its benefits."
"I bet."
"But it's not all fun and glamour, either. Trust me." She took another drag off her cigarette and looked at the mirror behind the bar. Mark regarded her from his position at the bar and noted that she really was attractive. Even if she did wear too much makeup.
"What's Bernard Roberts like?" Mark asked, innocently.
Carol turned to him. "You really want to know?" Her tone of voice and expression conveyed that Bernard Roberts was a subject matter that wasn't worth discussing.
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