The Howling III h-3 Read online

  As he buttoned up the shirt and tucked it down into the trousers, he heard Styles warming up to his spiel out in front.

  "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, tonight and tomorrow are absolutely the last and final opportunity you will have to see the ninth wonder of the world! The sensational what-is-it that people all over the country are talking about! The inimitable, the incomprehensible, the indescribable… Grolo the Animal Boy!"

  Malcolm smiled. Over the weeks he had built a real affection for the showman, and he sensed that Styles liked him too. In other circumstances he would be glad to stay with the carnival as long as Bate wanted him, but his future was too uncertain. What they were doing might be just a fun-scary show to the marks, but Malcolm knew they were playing a deadly dangerous game.

  "Yes, my friends," Styles continued out in front, "tonight and tomorrow are absolutely and irrevocably the farewell appearances of the Animal Boy! Never again on this continent or any other will you have the opportunity to see this amazing metamorphosis! Therefore, my friends, since you will be witnessing something no one will ever see again, the admission for tonight and tomorrow's shows will of necessity be slightly higher, a still very reasonable five dollars! And if any of you think you can get a better buy today for five dollars, please tell me and I'll go with you!"

  Malcolm heard the crowd laugh with Styles and he knew the showman had them in his pocket. He was glad that Bateman would make a few extra dollars these last two days. It would be partial repayment for the happy time this summer that Styles had given him.

  He finished dressing and entered the old chimpanzee cage. Styles had talked about getting a more elaborate cage, but had not got around to it. Malcolm had developed a feeling almost of affection for the cage. The door in the back was never locked, of course, and when the power of the beast flowed through his body he could have easily ripped it apart. The marks did not know this, of course.

  He sat on the stool and listened to the babble of voices beyond the curtain as the crowd streamed in.

  When the tent was full Bateman slipped in through the rear and winked at Malcolm. "Everything all right, lad?"

  "Everything's fine, Bate."

  "Good. Let's give "em their five dollars" worth."

  Styles stepped through the curtain for his introductory speech. He was in masterful form, and he had the marks howling for action even before the curtain was pulled aside. Malcolm smiled happily.

  "And now the moment for which we have all waited…" Styles intoned.

  "And paid our five dollars for," somebody in the crowd added.

  "I give you, for the very last time, in his farewell appearance… Grolo the Animal Boy!"

  He pulled back the curtain and Malcolm assumed the puzzled and rather embarrassed look he had perfected over the summer. He sat on the stool, hands folded in his lap, and tried not to smile as he thought about rejoining Holly Lang.

  "Well, what's the matter, Grolo, off your feed tonight?" Bateman said in his tone of mock anger. "Surely this is not what the good people paid to see."

  The crowd joined in enthusiastically.

  "Yah, what a phoney!"

  "Do something, stupid!"

  "What is it, a wax dummy?"

  "Give us our money back!"

  "Look, he's even smiling!"

  Malcolm left the stool and walked in a crouch to the front of the cage. There he clutched the bars as he always did and stared out at the people hurling insults at him. He tried, as he had taught himself, to summon up the hateful, painful things that had been done to him in the past. But tonight, try as he might, all he could think about was going back with Holly and maybe… just maybe rinding a cure that would make him normal, like other boys.

  After several minutes of no action the tone of the crowd changed. Where the insults and jeers had been good-natured, a part of the act, they began to turn ugly as Malcolm stood gazing out over their heads with a half-smile on his face.

  "Come on, we haven't got all night!"

  "What's the matter with him? I though he was supposed to change into an animal."

  "Hell, he's not doing anything!"

  "We've been robbed!"

  "Come on," a burly tattooed man yelled, "let's pull him out of there and make him do something!"

  Bateman Styles, who had been watching Malcolm anxiously, turned quickly to the crowd when he heard the last comment.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very sorry, but the Animal Boy is not feeling well tonight. He will be unable to perform."

  "Bull! It's part of the act."

  "I assure you, young man, this is an unscheduled interruption. If you will kindly file out, I will personally hand each and every one of you a pass to tomorrow's show."

  "Pass, hell, what if there ain't no show tomorrow?"

  The crowd shifted, looking as though it might advance on the stage.

  Styles said quickly, "You're absolutely right. Your money will be refunded out in front, each and every dollar will be returned with my sincerest regrets."

  "You can stuff your regrets," somebody said, "just give us our money."

  The crowd laughed, and the ugly moment was passed. They trooped out of the tent and Styles followed with the cash box. As he passed through the entrance flap he turned for a long, sad look at Malcolm, then continued outside to return the money.

  When the showman returned Malcolm had left the cage and was sitting slumped in a wooden chair behind the curtain.

  "I let you down, Bate," he said. "I'm sorry."

  "Nonsense, my boy, nonsense," boomed Styles. "You could no more help yourself than I could jump over the ferris wheel."

  "I tried. Really I did."

  Bateman pulled the stool out of the cage and sat next to him. "I know that, Malcolm, and I think I know why it didn't work. You're happy, aren't you."

  "Well, yeah, I guess so."

  "Of course you are. I could see it in your eyes when you came out and saw that Dr Lang tonight. You like her a lot, don't you."

  Malcolm nodded. "Holly was a friend when I needed one. Like you, Bate."

  "Thank you, my boy, I appreciate being included in that company. However, as they say, sometimes friends must part, and I guess this is the time for you and me, right?"

  Malcolm swallowed hard. "I guess it is. Holly's a doctor, and she's going to try to cure me. Make me normal."

  "Unquestionably a worthwhile endeavour."

  "If it works out, and I'm just like everybody else, I'd be no good to you, would I."

  "Utter nonsense, my boy. You are a natural for the carnival life. Anytime you want to come back, just look up Bateman Styles and we'll work something out."

  "Sure, Bate. Thanks."

  Styles lit a Camel and coughed into a handkerchief. "I'd better go clean up out front. Will you be staying in the trailer tonight?"

  "If it's all right. Then I'll leave tomorrow with Holly."

  "Of course it's all right. I may be in a bit late myself. I'll try not to wake you."

  Styles pushed through the curtain and eased himself down off the stage. He started for the front of the tent, slowing down when he saw a man standing in the entrance flap.

  "Sorry, bud, the show's over. No more shows tonight."

  "I know," the man said, "I saw the last one."

  "What's the problem? Didn't you get your money back?"

  "I don't want my money back. I have a proposition for you."

  Styles looked more closely at the man. He was not big, but he was wiry and seemed charged with nervous energy. His hair was slicked back, his eyes bright and a little too close together.

  "What kind of a proposition?"

  "First let me introduce myself. I am Dr Wayne Pastory."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It seemed to be his day for meeting doctors, Bateman Styles decided. The first had taken away his livelihood, now this one was offering him a proposition. Holly Lang appeared to be authentic, but Bateman was inclined to be sceptical about Wayne Pastory. He had known too many self-p
roclaimed "doctors" who used the title as part of a scam. And this wiry man had the over-intense look of somebody not playing with a full deck.

  "You say you have a proposition, Dr Pastory," Styles said carefully.

  "Yes, I think it might be of some interest to you. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

  "Right here is as good a place as any."

  Pastory looked back doubtfully at the entrance. "We won't be disturbed?"

  "There won't be anybody coming in," Styles told him. "The rest of the shows have been cancelled."

  "Ah, yes, so I understand. That rather undercuts your income, I would guess."

  "You could say that."

  "Perhaps I can make that a little easier for you." He looked quickly at Styles. "I don't know what your relationship has been with this, er, Animal Boy, but I assume he is of no further use to you."

  "The relationship has been a professional one," Styles said slowly. "And no, it doesn't look like we'll be performing again."

  "All right, here's my proposition — I'll take him off your hands."

  "Off my hands," Styles repeated.

  "Exactly. We both understand he has no future with you. Oh, I expect to compensate you, of course, but inasmuch as he is worth nothing to you now, I wouldn't think we'll have to do a lot of haggling over the price."

  "No, I wouldn't think so," Styles agreed. He tilted his head to one side and stared down into Pastory's bright little eyes. "May I ask, Doctor, precisely what your interest is in the Animal Boy?"

  "I don't see as that is of any importance to our transaction."

  "Call it curiosity."

  Pastory sighed and spoke rapidly, like a man who knows he is talking over his listener's head. "I am a researcher in psychobiology. The, er, phenomenon of the boy's physical change is of great interest in my field. I want to complete a series of experiments that will shed greater light on his condition."

  "And maybe make you a few dollars?"

  "I am a researcher, Mr Styles. Monetary gain is not important to me."

  "Ah, yes, of course. Forgive me."

  Pastory nodded brusquely. His eyes flicked hungrily up to the curtained stage.

  "But as you saw tonight," Styles continued, "this phenomenon, as you call it, is not so reliable."

  "There are laboratory methods of triggering the process," Pastory said. "Shall we get down to business?"

  "I'd like to hear more about these laboratory methods," said Styles.

  "I don't think they would be of much interest to you. Highly technical, you understand."

  "That so? What makes you think these methods of yours will work?"

  "Because they have before." Pastory was losing patience. "I assure you it is nothing you could duplicate here. The boy was in my care for a short period about a year ago and I was making significant progress until an interruption by outsiders brought my experiment to an end."

  "What a shame," Styles commented.

  "Yes, yes, but that's not important now. I can pick up where I left off. How does a hundred dollars sound for transferring the boy to me."

  "A hundred dollars. My, my." Styles rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

  "I'll make it two hundred just because I am eager to resume my work with the boy."

  "You must be."

  "That's cash, of course."

  "Oh, of course."

  Pastory reached for his wallet. He opened it and slipped out four fifty-dollar bills. He was careful not to let Styles see how much more he was carrying.

  Bateman took the money. "Ah, yes, two hundred United States dollars." He held the bills up one at a time to the light bulb that was suspended from the top of the tent. He grasped them by the edged and snapped them out. "Crisp new currency, yes, indeed."

  "The money is quite genuine," Pastory said. "Can I see the boy now?"

  * * *

  Even from behind the curtain Malcolm recognized the voice of Wayne Pastory immediately. He felt that his past was catching up with him from all directions.

  He parted the curtain just a crack and peered out into the tent. The sight of the doctor made him shiver with remembered terrors.

  As the conversation continued between Pastory and Bateman Styles, Malcolm's high spirits of a short time ago plummeted. The showman, his friend, was actually dickering to sell him out. Malcolm felt a sob rise in his chest. He forced it back. His vision blurred as tears squeezed into his eyes.

  He let the curtain close and sank slowly to his knees. His face was feverish, yet his body shook with a chill. He felt the muscular spasms that preceded the change. He ground his teeth and fought for control.

  Be reasonable, he told himself. He couldn't blame Bateman for taking a few dollars from Pastory. Malcolm knew he would never go back to that hateful clinic anyway. Holly was waiting for him. Why did it matter to him what kind of a deal Bateman made with Pastory? His body jerked convulsively.

  * * *

  "Do we have a deal?" Pastory said.

  Styles continued to hold the bills in both hands. "Let me be sure I understand," said Styles. "You are offering me two hundred dollars for the boy. I take the money and you take Malcolm."

  "Yes, yes, can we get on with it?" The doctor looked at his watch. "My time is limited."

  "Yes, well, so is mine. So let me tell you without further palaver what you can do with your two hundred dollars. You can take these bills, roll them up, and stuff them one at a time up your ass."

  Pastory blinked. He stared at the showman. "I don't think I understand what you're saying."

  "I don't know how I can make it any plainer."

  "Is is a matter of more money?"

  "It is a matter of you getting the hell out of my sight. So you're a doctor. Good for you. I'm a carny. Been one all my life. I'll tell you something about carnival people, Doctor, we have a code of our own, and we try to live by it. Sure, we may work a scam here and there: put pictures out in front of attractions we don't have inside; weight the milk bottles so they won't tip over. But there are some things we do not do. We don't sell human beings. Not for two hundred lousy dollars. Not for any price. Now get the hell out of my tent."

  Styles let the four fifty-dollar bills nutter to the dirt floor. Pastory stared at him for a moment, then bent to pick them up. When he straightened again his face was mottled with anger.

  "You don't know what you're doing. Malcolm is not just another boy. He is a unique specimen of active lycanthropy. I want him."

  "Get out of here," Styles said. "I can't stand to look at you."

  Pastory reached out and seized the lapels of Styles's brightly checked coat. "Damn you, old man, you can't do this to me. I want that boy. I will have him!"

  Styles opened his mouth to shout, and Pastory's fingers moved up to clamp around his throat, shutting off his air. The smaller man squeezed. The tendons stood out like cables in his forearms.

  Styles's eyes bulged. His face turned an unhealthy bluish colour. He scrabbled ineffectually trying to pry loose Pastory's fingers. He staggered backwards, Pastory following, until the smaller man's grip was broken.

  Styles pulled in a wheezing breath. He gave a strangled cough, clutched at his chest, and staggered into one of the tent supports, making the canvas shiver. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell heavily to the dirt floor, his chest heaving. Pastory came over and stared down at him. Styles's body bucked once, twice, then lay still.

  Pastory looked quickly toward the entrance to the tent. Assured that no one had heard the short scuffle, he ran to the stage at the far end, mounted it, and pulled aside the curtain.

  The hate-filled face that glared up at him from the crouching figure only faintly resembled the boy Malcolm. The muzzle was pushed well forward, the eyes slanted and deep green, the ears pointed and cocked. The black upper lip curled back to show the outsized killing teeth. It growled.

  Pastory spread his hands as one does with a strange dog to show he carried no weapon. He advanced slowly.

  "It's all right, Malcolm. No
one is going to hurt you. You remember me, don't you? I'm your friend. You know that. I'm going to take you back with me to where no one will hurt you again."

  Another growl. The creature drew back slightly. The shoulders and deep chest were covered with coarse hair. The clothing he had been wearing hung in tatters.

  Pastory could barely contain his excitement. This was the furthest along in the change he had yet seen the boy. He ached to get Malcolm back to the laboratory. This time there would be no bungling Kruger to mess things up.

  "Come along now," he said, putting just the right note of authority into his voice. "There is nothing more for you here. Your place is with me."

  The answering growl this time was deeper. The teeth seemed to have grown.

  For the first time, Pastory felt a small doubt about his ability to control the boy. He took a step back. "I'm here to help you, Malcolm. Now stop this foolishness and come along."

  The attack was so swift that Pastory had no time to cry out. From the crouching position on the floor Malcolm sprang at him. The flashing teeth seized him by the throat, the powerful jaws clamped together. Pastory felt the hot splash of blood down the front of himself. He screamed, but all that came from his gaping mouth was a soft bubbling sound. He had a last impression of the hot, snorting breath of the beast on his face, then the life drained out of him.

  The beast, with its jaws still clamped on the man's throat, worried him the way a dog does a rabbit. Blood spattered the wooden floor of the stage, the velvet curtain, the canvas of the tent, and the cage. Finally he dropped Pastory's pale and broken body with a thump.

  He came through the curtain, and in two long bounds was at the side of the still figure of Bateman Styles. The muzzle poked down close to the showman's livid face and snuffled questioningly. There was no answer from Styles. No movement, no breath, no heartbeat.

  The beast whirled from the body of the showman and ran out through the opening in the rear of the tent. Outside he lifted his bloody muzzle to the night sky and he howled.

  It was a sound Malcolm had heard many times from others in the night. He howled again — a long, ululating cry of loneliness and rage and despair. From up in the distant hills, faint but unmistakeable, came an answer.